A pair of call girls stood ahead on the corner waiting for the light to change. They were dressed in latex dresses, perched on platform shoes, and their hairstyles were teased and high. One was smoking, one was receiving her next assignment over her cell phone. Truitt reached up and pulled the cords that allowed the air brake to remain inflated. With the air brakes disabled, he dropped to the ground like a rock. He just managed to windmill his feet before touching the sidewalk, and he ran along until he could regain balance and slow his forward movement. He was only five feet from the two ladies when he managed to slow to a walk.
“Evening, ladies,” Truitt said, “nice night for a stroll.”
Farther to his rear, a red SUV with the Dreamworld logo was pulling out of the driveway of the hotel. The security guard driving stomped on the gas and the tires chirped on the pavement.
At just that moment, Gunderson and Pilston pulled alongside in the Jeep.
“Get in,” Gunderson shouted.
Truitt climbed onto the running board then up into the rear of the Jeep. As soon as Truitt was in back. Gunderson hit the gas and raced up the Strip. Truitt’s bag was sitting on the seat next to him. He unzipped it and reached inside, pulling out a metal box.
“We’re being followed,” Gunderson shouted to the rear of the Jeep.
“I noticed that,” Truitt said. “When I tell you to, place the Jeep in neutral and shut off the engine.”
“Got it,” Gunderson said.
They were racing along at ninety miles an hour but the red SUV was gaining. Truitt swiveled around on the rear bench seat and pointed the box at the SUV’s grille.
“Now,” he yelled.
Gunderson placed the Jeep in neutral and twisted the key off. The lights went dark, and the power steering ceased to operate, making the Jeep hard to steer. Gunderson was wrestling to keep it on the road. Truitt flipped a toggle switch on the box. A signal was sent out into the ether that fried the electrical control box on any vehicles that were operating nearby. The lights on the red SUV went dark and it started slowing. A few cabs that were on the road nearby also ground to a stop.
“Okay,” Truitt yelled, “you can start her up again.”
Gunderson twisted the key and the Jeep roared to life. He slid it into gear again and regained control. “Where to?” he shouted to Truitt.
“Do you two have your bags?”
“We just showered at the hotel,” Pilston said. “We left our bags on the plane.”
“To the airport then,” Truitt said. “We’d better get out of Vegas.”
MAX HANLEY STOOD alongside the computer in Michael Halpert’s office on board the Oregon. The two men were staring at the screen intently.
“Then it cut off,” Halpert said.
“How much data did we retrieve?” Hanley asked.
“I’ll have to go through it all,” Halpert said, “but it looks like a lot.”
“Start analyzing it,” Hanley said quickly, “and report back to me as soon as you find anything of value.”
Just then Hanley’s communicator beeped and Stone’s voice came over the speaker.
“Sir,” Stone said, “I just received word from the Gulfstream that they are departing Las Vegas.”
“I’ll be right there,” Hanley said into the microphone.
Hanley made his way quickly along the passageway then opened the door to the control room. Stone was sitting in front of the monitors; he turned as Hanley entered, then pointed at the screen. A map of the western United States was displayed with a flashing red light marking the position of the Gulfstream. The jet was just about to cross over Lake Mead heading east. Right then Hanley’s telephone rang, and he walked over to his console and answered it.
“Hanley.”
“Did you receive the computer files?” Truitt asked.
“We got some,” Hanley said. “Halpert’s analyzing them now. It looked like the transmission was stopped midstream—did you run into problems?”
“The target returned when I was doing the download,” Truitt said over the noise from the Gulfstream’s jet engines. “He probably broke the connection.”
“That also means that he knows someone might be on to him.”
“Exactly,” Truitt said.
“What else have you got?”
Truitt reached into his jacket on the seat across the aisle and removed the photographs he had stolen from Hickman’s office. He turned on the fax machine that was attached to the air phone and started to scan them into memory.
“I’m sending you some photographs,” Truitt said.
“Who are they?” Hanley asked.
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
31
“ DAMN RIGHT IT’Sa problem,” the president said to Langston Overholt.
An hour earlier the British prime minister had informed the president that they had discovered a Greek ship captain with radiation burns at a location less than fifty miles from downtown London. As the president and Overholt spoke, the secure lines between the two countries were still burning with a flurry of transmissions.
“We’ve been working with the Russians as well as the Corporation to recover the weapon,” Overholt said, “but it got into England anyway.”
“Is that what you’d like me to tell our closest ally?” the president asked. “That we tried, but no cigar?”
“No, sir,” Overholt said.
“Well, if whoever is behind this mates the nuke with the meteorite, London and the surrounding area is going to be turned into a wasteland. And whatever you think you might be able to argue about the nuke, the meteorite is ourscrewup.”
“I understand, sir,” Overholt said.
The president rose from his chair in the Oval Office. “Listen to me carefully,” he said in a voice tinged with anger, “I want results, and I want them now.”
Overholt stood. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Then he made his way to the door.
“CABRILLO’S STILL TRACKING the meteorite,” Hanley told Overholt over the secure line, “at least according to our helicopter pilot who phoned in a few minutes ago.”
“The president is up in arms,” Overholt said.
“Hey,” Hanley said, “don’t blame us—the British jets were late to the party. If they’d arrived on time, the meteorite would be secure right now.”
“The last communication the British sent mentioned that they had forced the Cessna down at Inverness and were preparing to search the plane.”
“They won’t find anything,” Hanley said. “Our pilot said he and Cabrillo saw the pilot of the Cessna drop the package out the side.”
“Why hasn’t Cabrillo telephoned in,” Overholt said, “so we can coordinate help?”
“That, Mr. Overholt, is a question I cannot answer.”
“You’ll let me know as soon as you speak to him?”
“Yes, sir,” Hanley said as the telephone went dead.
THE MG TC rode like a buckboard wagon filled with grain. The thin tires, lever-action shocks and ancient suspension were no match for a modern sports car. Cabrillo was in fourth gear with the engine wound to her highest RPM and the old car was only doing a little over seventy miles an hour. Holding the wood-rimmed wheel with one hand, he slapped the side of his satellite telephone again.
Nothing. It might have been the landing—despite his best efforts to protect the device, it had hit the dashboard when they finally touched down. It might be the power supply—satellite telephones burned through power like a fat man’s air-conditioning during a Phoenix summer. Whatever the case, Cabrillo could not get the green light to come on.