The helicopter arced toward them, flying in fast.
Derek turned. “I don’t know anybody named Fallon. I thought I recognized the voice. But you tell me, Pilcher? Am I crazy? Am I losing it? Is the stress too much for me? I thought I recognized the voice, but the guy it belongs to has been dead for over a decade. Still want to know his name? It isn’t Fallon. But you tell me. Does the FBI want to waste time chasing after a phantom that could be a figment of my imagination?”
Pilcher stepped back. “You’re bullshitting me.”
“No, I’m not.”
The two men locked eyes. Pilcher finally said, “What else? What does Fallon mean to you?”
Derek shook his head. “I wonder if we misunderstood. The guy who said that had what sounded like a German accent. Or Russian. Czech. Something Slavik, at least as much as we can tell with the shitty sound reproduction. Maybe the FBI lab can clear it up. They’re good at that sort of thing.”
The red, blue and white helicopter, an Agusta MH-68A, nicknamed the Mako, was settling down in the Scully’s backyard fifty yards from where they stood.
Shouting to be heard over the roar of the chopper, Pilcher said, “Who’s Fallon?”
Derek leaned closer. “I thought he said Fallen.”
Pilcher looked puzzled.
“You know,” Derek shouted. “Like Fallen Angel.”
Pilcher’s expression changed to that of a man who had taken a step off a tall cliff.
He thinks I’m crazy for sure now, Derek thought.
“Fallen Angel?” Pilcher said. “You’re insane!”
“Fallen Angel,” Derek repeated. “You know. Weren’t you ever in Sunday School? Lucifer. The Devil.”
It was the same Coast Guard crew who had picked him up on the Chesapeake Bay. The Texan grabbed the backpack and helped Derek in. Derek settled into one of the seats.
Cynthia Black, the pilot, said, “How’s the end of the world coming?”
Derek gave her a thumb’s-up. “Let’s go.”
The chopper rose quickly into the air. The Texan said, “Your kayak’s back on your boat. Sweet, both The Salacious Sally and the kayak.”
“Glad you like it.” He ignored them, put the earphones back over his ears.
“Doctor.”
He looked at the Texan. “Yeah?”
“Can you tell us what’s going on? This is… pretty irregular.”
He shook his head. “I wish I could. But…” He shrugged, considering the three. “It’s bad. Really bad.”
Derek settled back in the seat, buckled up, and closed his eyes. A career in the military had taught him how to catch a nap when the opportunity appeared, and he decided to take it. With Gregorian chants in his ears, he quickly dozed off for the short flight from Baltimore to Washington, D.C. He woke up as they were coming in toward the Pentagon. He noted that the roads were clogged with cars. He glanced around, as he almost always did when flying into D.C., looking for the Washington Monument and the Capitol, the usual suspects.
The chopper descended toward the Pentagon helicopter pad.
Derek was met by a young and efficient Army officer in dress whites. He grabbed the duffel bag and led Derek at a crouching run toward the Pentagon entrance. “Staff Sergeant Stanley O’Reilly, sir. I’m to get you to a secure communication room and then provide you with everything you need.”
“Good. I could use a bite to eat, Mountain Dew and the complete file of a Special Forces officer I served with in the Gulf War. Captain Richard Coffee.”
“Serial number, sir?”
“I don’t know. But the time frame should narrow it down.”
“Yes sir. This way, sir.”
They confiscated his sidearm and went through his bags, but he was quickly led to a secure communications room, a small bland office probably wrapped in copper to eliminate the possibility of radio eavesdropping. It contained a desk on which was an STU, or secure telephone unit. Everybody who used them called them stew phones. O’Reilly said, “I’ll be back soon. Any food preference, sir?”
“Some sort of sandwich, turkey preferably, on rye with lettuce, no tomato. And an apple. Yeah. An apple. Thanks.”
“Yes sir. And Mountain Dew.”
“Yeah, better make it two. I’m going to need the caffeine.”
O’Reilly supplied a key for the phone’s encryption lock and left, closing the door behind him.
The stew phone looked like any other phone except for the lock and an LCD panel. Derek unlocked the phone and called Dalton. When Dalton answered, Derek told him he was ready to go. He pushed a button and the LCD screen read: GOING SECURE.
Silence for maybe thirty seconds. Then the LCD read: US GOVERNMENT SECRET and Dalton said, “O-kay — Der-ek — Fill — us — in.”
The scrambler on the stew phones, even the newer models, distorted voices, especially if the callers talked too fast. Dalton and Derek were old hands at stew phones and knew from experience to talk slowly and deliberately.
Derek filled in his boss, knowing that J.J., the Secretary, was also listening in.
“Your recommendation?” Dalton said.
“The FBI’s already on it in a major way, Pilcher and Spigotta. They’ve got different styles, but they both seem sharp, especially Pilcher. HMRU’s already on the facility, and the Rid’s involved. Get with them, they’ll know what to do. Bring in the CDC if you can get it through their heads that this is a possible major incident in BW, not a public health emergency. They can be a little slow about that, though maybe they’ve learned something from the anthrax attacks and SARS.”
“Good. Stay on top of things. Continue to coordinate.”
Derek hesitated. “Sir. I’m going to pursue what is possibly a tangent.” He explained about recognizing the voice on the tape recording.
There was a long silence on the stew phone. Dalton said, “Are you feeling all right, Derek?”
“I’m standing on the edge of Armageddon here, Sam. How the fuck am I supposed to be feeling?”
Suddenly the voice on the phone was that of General James Johnston, the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. “Do you think the FBI and USAMRIID can handle both the routine investigation and any containment procedures?”
“Yes sir. They know their job and I believe, especially now that Rid’s involved, are aware of the potential problems.”
“Fine then. You investigate this hunch you have, but keep in touch with the Bureau and The Institute. I’ve been at war with you, son, and I trust your instincts.”
There was a knock at the door and Derek opened it to reveal Sergeant O’Reilly standing there with a plastic tray bearing a turkey sandwich, an apple and two cans of Mountain Dew. “If you’re done with your phone call, sir, we’ve got an empty office for you to use. Someone will be bringing you the file in a few minutes.”
“Great.” Derek took the tray and followed O’Reilly through what seemed to be a mile of corridors. He had spent a year at the Pentagon writing position papers on biological warfare. He hadn’t cared for the environment, although he’d enjoyed the almost academic nature of brainstorming biowarfare scenarios and creating war game simulations for the military to test out. But in all his time there he had never gotten the hang of the Pentagon floor plan.
O’Reilly led him into another bare office, this one without a secure phone. It smelled of fresh paint and contained only a desk, two chairs, a regular telephone and a bank of filing cabinets he assumed were empty.
“Enjoy your food, sir, and if you need anything, please contact me.” He handed Derek a card with his pager, telephone, fax and e-mail address on it before leaving. Derek put his earphones back on and ate his dinner, glancing at his watch repeatedly, wondering when the file on Richard Coffee was going to arrive. He was halfway through his apple when there was a knock on the door.