“Make the call. Hurry.”
“Area 51 doesn’t exist.”
“Trust me. Get someone as high up as possible. There’s a launch code. I’ll tell it to them. One of their drones is on its way to Mexico. They need to shoot it down.”
I turn back to Charlene. “Hang in there. Help’s on the way.”
She opens her eyes.
Oh, yes.
Yes.
She nods slightly.
“I love you,” I tell her.
“You too.” Her voice is barely a whisper. But she’s conscious. She’s talking.
She winces in pain, and I ease back a little from the pressure I’m putting on her leg, but I still try to press hard enough to keep the bleeding under control.
I give Agent Ratchford the code, he writes it down and makes another call, then says, “You’re not gonna believe this.” He’s staring at his cell. “But the Undersecretary of Defense wants to talk to you.”
I reach out to take the phone from him, but he shakes his head. “No. I mean in person. She’s at the Arête. She wants to know how you found out those codes.”
That might take a little explaining.
The thought brings to mind what Akinsanya had said: that it wasn’t his timeline, that it was the timeline of the person he reported to.
The drug lords? The cartel who was supposed to take delivery of the drone?
Who knows. I’ll figure that out later. Right now we just need to get help to Charlene.
Agent Ratchford informs me that the military is tracking the drone, but it doesn’t look like it’s heading to Mexico.
Maybe the codes weren’t correct.
Or maybe you didn’t remember them exactly.
Possibly, but I’m pretty sure I got them right.
They were erased, then rewritten.
He changed them. Turnisen did.
I evaluate that as I call for one of the security personnel to get a key for the handcuffs shackling Charlene to the wheelchair. He scours the dead police officer’s pockets, comes up with one. They’re standardized locks, the key works, and I free her.
Clive Fridell arrives and speaks with his security team, then sends them out to find tubs. They fill them with water and rescue as many piranhas as they can. One of the men retrieves my Morgan Dollar for me.
At last the paramedics show up and help Charlene onto a gurney. I fill them in on what I know. Someone has turned the house lights on, and I can see a couple of the Arête security staff in the back of the auditorium. One of them has the semiautomatic rifle that was firing at the stage. It’s attached to a pivoting turret. The other guy is holding what looks like a robotic arm.
A robotic arm?
Undersecretary of Defense Oriana Williamson strides up to me as I’m walking beside Charlene’s gurney on our way to the ambulance.
“Mr. Banks, I want you to tell me how you found out the launch codes to an experimental aircraft test at a top-secret military installation.”
“I’m on my way to the hospital. I’ll tell you when we get there.” That would at least give me a little time to try to figure out what to say.
I climb in beside Charlene, the paramedics close the door, and we take off for Fuller Medical Center.
The Only Honest Profession
Calista knew she was dying.
She could tell by the look on the EMTs’ faces as they tried to figure out how to help her.
She could tell by the sharp pains in her chest, the way it was getting harder and harder to breathe.
Yes.
She could tell.
She was not going to remain young.
And she was not going to grow old.
Memories of all the crimes she’d been a part of passed through her head.
The murders she’d committed.
The pain she’d caused.
She’d told Derek that all he thought of was himself, but it had been the same for her.
You’re no different.
Yes you are!
No.
No, you’re not.
If love meant making sacrifices for another person, she’d never genuinely loved anyone.
Regret swept over her.
Calista had never been a big believer in God, but now she realized that he had every right to be mad at her, every right to punish her.
Though weak and getting weaker, she told the EMTs about what happened in sublevel 4 at Plyotech Cybernetics’ R&D facility.
As Calista Hendrix died, she did what she could to help others live.
Charlene is quiet. The paramedics are bent over her.
I have no idea how I’ll explain to the undersecretary how I knew the codes without lying through my teeth or getting Xavier and myself into a heap of trouble — Charlene, Fionna, and Fred as well, since we were all involved in getting the access to Groom Lake.
That’s what I think through as I ride in the ambulance next to the woman I love.
Word comes through the radio up front that Dr. Turnisen has been admitted and is in stable condition. I don’t know what happened to him, and when I ask the paramedics about it, they tell me quietly that they heard he’d been tortured.
Doctors are waiting for us at Fuller Medical Center and take over for the paramedics, wheeling Charlene immediately toward an operating room. The medics tell me her vitals are stable, but I can sense a hesitation to assure me that she’ll be alright.
While we were en route, Xavier had called Fionna to tell her what was going on, and now he waits in the lobby for her and her kids while the undersecretary leads me to an exam room where we can talk in private.
She closes the door.
“The codes that you gave to Agent Ratchford were verified coordinates for a UAV the military is testing. You told us it was headed toward Mexico, but the coordinates just sent the vehicle to the desert south of here. I want to know how you found out about that code, why you thought it would send our drone to a Mexican drug cartel, and how you came to know it by heart.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’m a patient woman.” So far I haven’t exactly gotten that sense, but this isn’t the time to argue.
Here goes nothing. “Akinsanya told me.”
“What?”
“He showed it to me to verify it. He assumed I had the real one from a USB drive that my friend Emilio had with him when he was murdered in the Philippines.”
“You’re going to have to talk me through that.”
I do.
“And you’re saying that Akinsanya showed it to you. Where? Was it written down?”
“He had his people send me a text, but then one of his men destroyed my cell phone. As far as I know, whatever remains of it is still at the Arête.”
“And you memorized the code just by looking at it?”
“I’m pretty good at memorizing things.”
“Prove it.”
Too bad I don’t have a deck of cards with me. “Write down a list of random numbers. I’ll show you.”
“How many?”
“Thirty.”
“Thirty?”
“Yes.”
It goes well.
I remember my conversation with Charlene yesterday when I’d referred to Karl Germain’s saying: “Magic is the only honest profession. A magician promises to deceive you and he does.”
There are times to keep secrets and times to tell the truth.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” the undersecretary asks me.
Magic is the only honest profession.
“Would you believe it if I told you I snuck onto Area 51 and found those codes in a top-secret underground research facility?”