Neutron Force. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ carefully at strategic spots around the office were a dozen more Secret Service agents. These men openly wore body armor and were carrying a wide assortment of deadly weapons.

      Off by himself in one corner was an Air Force colonel carrying a steel briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. In Washington slang that was the Football, the portable computer console used to activate the hellish nuclear arsenal of the United States. The colonel’s job was to carry the briefcase for the President, and to guard it with his life. No matter how peaceful the world was, the colonel was never more than fifty feet away from the President, day or night.

      “Sir,” Brognola said as a greeting.

      “Good to see you, Hal.” The President rose from behind his desk and offered his hand.

      Respectfully, Brognola advanced and they shook. “Always glad to be of service, sir,” he stated, releasing the grip.

      “Sit down, old friend.” The President sighed. “We have a major problem, and time is short. Very short.”

      “How can my people help?” Brognola asked, leaning back in the chair. The fabric was warm. Somebody else had just been conferring with the President only moments ago.

      “Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to leave us for a few minutes?” the President asked politely, glancing at the armed agents about the office.

      The Secret Service agents showed no emotion.

      “This is a Code Moonfire situation,” the President added.

      Inhaling deeply, the chief Secret Service agent nodded. “We’ll be right outside, sir,” he said, leading the others out through a side door.

      As they departed, Brognola caught a glimpse through the next room, a large concrete-lined area filled with crates of MRE food packs, and a small emergency medical station. Many weapons hung on the unpainted walls.

      “Are we at war?” Brognola frowned, loosening his necktie.

      “If only it was that simple,” the President said, sitting again. “What do you know about neutron weapons?”

      “Weapons? I thought there was only the neutron bomb,” the big Fed stated carefully, rubbing his jaw.

      “Originally, yes,” the President said.

      “But you suspect different?”

      “Judge for yourself.” The Man slid a sealed envelope across the desk.

      The dossier was covered with stamps from DOD, NORAD, SAC, FBI, CIA, NSA and Homeland. Hail, hail, the gang’s all here, Brognola thought. Breaking the seal with his thumb, he lifted out the red-striped papers inside, the edges immediately turning brown from contact with his fingers. A Level 10 document. For the President’s eyes only.

      Reviewing the reports, Brognola skimmed the photos of the crashed 747 on a rocky beach, and concentrated on the autopsy reports. There was one for every passenger and crew member, including a couple for the bomb-sniffing German shepherd dogs that had been traveling in the pressurized hold.

      As Brognola read the detailed analysis, the President rose to pour himself a coffee after his guest had declined. Sipping his drink, the President looked out the windows at the artificial horizon and impatiently waited. He desperately hoped that Brognola would have a different conclusion from the one that everybody in his cabinet had arrived at less than an hour ago.

      Lowering the last page, the big Fed inhaled deeply, then let the breath out slowly. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered. There were no bruises on the corpses. None. The dead passengers were laid out in a neat row on steel tables. Their clothing had been removed, and the bright halogen lights revealed every detail of the broken and twisted bodies in unforgiving clarity. No bruising meant the people had been dead before the aircraft hit the ground.

      “When did the autopilot engage?” he asked, frowning.

      “According to the black box,” the President said, “somewhere over western Pennsylvania.”

      “Did the escorts report anything out of the ordinary in the vicinity?”

      “Nothing unusual was reported until the 747 failed to start making course corrections over New York state. After that, they tried for a radio contact, then did a flyby and finally got a visual of the dead bodies on the flight deck.”

      “And then what, sir?”

      “They followed the plane, trying to contact anybody on board via the flight deck radio, cell phones, air phones, e-mail, pagers, you name it. Strategic Air Command and NORAD were still trying when the aircraft crashed into an escarpment just outside the town of Bouctouche along the Richibucto River in New Brunswick, Canada.”

      Brognola suppressed a whistle. Pennsylvania to Canada was a long ride on autopilot. He checked the photographs of the bodies again. “Not much fire damage,” he noted thoughtfully. “The fuel tanks must have been bone dry.”

      “That’s hardly surprising, since the original destination was Boston,” the President said. “The aircraft was supposed to be dropping off the director of special projects to talk with me about a new weapon.”

      Brognola raised an eyebrow. “A neutron weapon?”

      “See for yourself,” the President said, lifting a slim laptop and passing it over.

      Raising the lid, Brognola saw the machine was ready to play. He hit Enter and the video file began. The screen showed three different sections of the 747, the people laughing, sleeping and playing cards. A handsome Secret Service agent was chatting with a female flight attendant, and apparently the redhead liked what he was saying. Sitting all by himself, a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit was typing on a laptop. That could be the leak right there, Brognola observed. Aside from that, everything seemed normal.

      But suddenly a flight attendant carrying a tray of sandwiches opened the hatch to the flight deck and fell dead. Almost immediately afterward, so did everybody else.

      Watching closely, Brognola studied the bodies, then tapped the fast-forward button and went through several hours. Nobody stirred. Then there came a whining sound that rapidly built in volume, everything shook, loose items went flying, arms and legs of the dead people flopping around loosely. Then there came a horrible crunching noise. The picture went wild, more shaking, bodies lying on the deck were tossed about like rag dolls. There was more noise, a flash of fire, a metallic thunder and then blackness.

      It was distasteful, but the big Fed ran the video one more time and turned the volume all the way up. The man rushing out of the lavatory seemed to be shouting something. But his back was turned away from the video camera, and the clatter of falling dishes garbled his words.

      “The natural assumption is that whomever did this got the itinerary wrong, and thought I was on board,” the President said, shifting in his chair.

      “But you suspect otherwise?” the big Fed asked.

      “Yes.”

      “I’ll assume the Secret Service and Homeland Security have ruled out food poisoning and nerve gas—no, skip that.” Brognola massaged a temple. Not even the best neurological agent could sweep an entire plane of people dead at the same time, along with the dogs in the hold. A massive electrical shock СКАЧАТЬ