“What?”
“One of the people on the passenger manifest is missing. Report was filed with the police three days ago.”
“Which one?”
“Kid by the name of David Phelps, goes by the name of Davey.”
Bane found his brief profile. David Phelps. Age 15. Address …
A numbness grabbed Bane’s spine and a dull throb found his temples. The senses lying on the very edge on his brain, senses that had kept him alive in a hundred steaming jungles and a hundred more impossible situations, snapped on, alerting him.
Alerting him to what?
“Missing persons report says the kid never made it home after the plane landed,” Harry was saying. “That stuck out. I figured you’d want to know.”
“Thanks,” Bane said distantly. “It’s as good a place to start my check as any.”
“I figured there might be a connection,” Harry said, studying Bane closely.
Connection … The word stuck in Bane’s head. Everything was connected here, tied up tighter than a drum. The Bat had given him a list of people on board a plane Jake Del Gennio claimed had disappeared. Then Jake had disappeared, and now the Bat had stolen a computer program locked away quite possibly by the people behind it all. Bane could smell danger here thick as barbecue smoke, and all at once he regretted dragging the Bat into the whole mess.
“Watch your back, Harry,” he offered lamely, rising with the computer print-outs tucked under his arm.
“Watch yours too, Winter Man,” the Bat told him.
Chapter Twelve
Colonel Chilgers left for Washington by private jet as soon as his meeting with Teke and Metzencroy was completed. He had an appointment to see the President and two of his advisers to discuss, unbeknownst to them, the final stage of Vortex. The discussion, Chilgers felt certain, was merely a formality. He knew the way they thought. They would accept his proposal, perhaps even embrace it.
Everything seemed to be falling into place. Trench would have Davey Phelps delivered by tomorrow, and he was bringing Scalia in to deal with Joshua Bane. Still, there was Metzencroy to worry about, but Chilgers felt confident he could handle the professor.
The limousine deposited him at a side entrance to the White House so he could avoid the press — Chilgers loathed publicity — and he was ushered immediately through the long, wide corridors into the reception area where he waited briefly while the President was informed of his arrival. When the President’s chief aide finally led him into the Oval Office, Chilgers noted the presence of the other two men he had been expecting: Secretary of Defense, George Brandenberg; and director of the Pentagon’s Department for Clandestine Operations (DCO), Arthur Jorgenson.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Colonel,” the President said, rising behind his desk. Chilgers noticed a velvet chair had been placed between Brandenberg’s and Jorgenson’s. “I appreciate your promptness.”
Chilgers took the President’s outstretched hand. “A way of life for me, Mr. President.” And he sat down gracefully, eyes darting between Jorgenson and Brandenberg, sizing them up. Brandenberg was a military man all the way — no problem there. Jorgenson, though, was another matter. DCO was a nonpolitical branch, so its director could address the President any way he saw fit. In fact, Chilgers knew this was the reason the president often turned to Jorgenson. It would not be so easy to convince him of the necessity of the project he called Placebo.
“I’ve read your report,” the President began. “In fact, we all have.”
“Just a summary, Mr. President,” Chilgers offered, “of ongoing discussions that have been taking place for some time.”
“I must say the results are rather distressing.”
“Unfortunately.”
“That hardly speaks well of our multibillion dollar defense and retaliatory systems.”
“The systems are fine, sir. The problems, potentially, lie with the people manning them.”
“So I read,” the President said grimly.
Chilgers shrugged, burying a smile inside. Brandenberg and Jorgenson exchanged nods as they took the discussion in passively. They were here for later counsel, not direct participation, Chilgers realized, and thus would not stand as immediate obstacles in his path. He had only the President to convince. Still, Jorgenson worried him. The short, stout, silver-haired man ran DCO as neatly as Chilgers ran COBRA. Jorgenson was a detail man who explored all tangents before proceeding with anything. A committed skeptic, and worse, an incorruptible, nonpartisan one.
Chilgers met Jorgenson’s eyes. No reaction. The man was a pro.
“We can deal with the people,” Chilgers told the President, grabbing the offensive. “There are ways of exploring exactly how deep the problem extends.”
“I read that too,” the President commented. Then his features grew taut. “But I’m not convinced Project Placebo is the way to proceed. The measures are quite drastic.”
“So is the problem.”
“We’re all in agreement on that point, Colonel.”
“But at different levels, I’m afraid. I’m strictly a systems man, Mr. President. I know how to make weapons work and how to stop them.” Here, Chilgers almost turned his attention to Jorgenson and Brandenberg but there was no reason to drag them into the discussion or to antagonize them. “COBRA began developing the present Red Flag alert system a dozen years and three administrations ago. We have studied all potential problems relating to it and our fears have been made known to you.”
“Concerns, you mean,” from Brandenberg.
Chilgers held back another smile. “No, I mean fears and that’s what I meant by levels of agreement. We all agree on the problem. The issue is how far do we go to correct it.”
“And I say Project Placebo might be going too far,” insisted Jorgenson, taking the President’s side.
“Perhaps.” Chilgers shifted in his chair. Jorgenson was pressuring him. The colonel worked best under pressure. “But let us consider the fact that of all our land-based retaliatory and defense systems, only one percent have ever been proven effective in a real and clear sense of activation. That leaves ninety-nine as an uncertain commodity.”
“There are tests—”
Chilgers cut Brandenberg off. “Which prove nothing, nor do drills. Games, gentlemen,” he said, speaking to all three of them. “Nothing but games. The simple fact is that our procedures remain untested in a true high pressure situation. We have no way of knowing if our people will respond totally and unequivocally to orders, or if they’ll follow procedures precisely and surely.” Now, back to the President. “Project Placebo will give us our first accurate answers to these questions.”
The President nodded slowly, tracing the line of his jaw and chin with his fingers. “Colonel Chilgers, I want you to briefly sum up the essence of Project Placebo.”
Chilgers hesitated just for an instant. “Basically, that we ‘create’ the impression of all-out war for one of our missile installations and carefully chart their performance and reaction up to and including the point at which they are given the launch code. The human factor, Mr. President, is the one unknown present in an otherwise flawless system. And until we’ve tested it fully, under no circumstances can we maintain total confidence in our abilities.”
“It’s all computerized, though,” advanced the President.
“Only up to a point, sir. The buttons still have to be pressed, a whole series of them, and the slightest foul-up triggers the abort feature and we’ll have to start all over again. We’re talking about seconds here, but in the event of a Soviet strike, seconds might be all we have.”