Extinction Machine

Chapter Fifty-eight

The Warehouse

Sunday, October 20, 10:45 a.m.

“Talk to me, Bug,” said Church in a voice that was getting harsher by the minute.

“I can’t break through the jammer, boss. Joe’s going to have to get to a landline or a computer with a cable. Whoever these bastards are, they’re killing the air.”

“Is Joe all right?” asked Rudy, but before Church could reply his phone rang.

Church frowned at the name on the screen display. He hit a button to mute Bug and held up a finger for Rudy to remain silent as he answered the call. “Yes, General,” he said. He listened for a moment. “Yes, you can send me a coded video. I’m in a secure location.”

Church hit a few keys on his laptop and watched a video file, but he did not turn the laptop so Rudy could see it. Church plugged earbuds into the speaker jack and listened in silence as he watched.

Rudy crossed his legs and sat back as he studied Church’s face. After two years he was still trying to catalog the man’s reactions. They were very subtle and generally too well hidden to read at all. Once in a while, though, that iron control slipped.

He watched it slip now, and he wondered which of the day’s crises was unfastening the bolts on that legendary calm.

“General…,” said Church after the video was done, “tell me everything you know about this.”

The conversation was mostly one-sided, with the general doing most of the talking. As Church had not put it on speaker there was little more than a few soft encouraging grunts to go on. That, and a gradual change in Church’s body language. The man slowly straightened as if his body was being pulled into a posture of terrible tension. The hand holding the phone was white-knuckle tight. The other hand lay on the desk and Mr. Church slowly opened it, pressing the palm and splayed fingers flat and pressing them against the polished wood.

“General,” said Church, “there is a high probability that this incident relates to what’s happening in Washington right now, and to other matters currently unfolding. You will need to speak with General Croft for further information. He will inform you of today’s … developments. Speak to no one else about this. Detain everyone who was there and confiscate all cell phones. No, I don’t care who they are. This matter supersedes all other concerns. Lock it down, General. Do it now.”

Church closed the phone and set it down on the desk. He removed his tinted glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“I’m almost afraid to ask what that was about,” said Rudy.

Before he answered, Church removed a pocket handkerchief and cleaned his glasses. He kept his eyes down, focused on the phone as he did so, and Rudy knew that Church was unwilling to let anyone see his eyes without the barrier of the tinted lenses.

He put the glasses on, took a long breath and breathed it out through his nostrils.

“That was Major General Armand Schmidt,” said Church. “He’s in charge of the stealth aircraft program out at Dugway along with his aide, Colonel Betty Snider.”

Rudy nodded. “I believe I met him at a State Department dinner. I took him to be a highly competent officer.”

“He is, and he’s not prone to hysteria. However, today they were doing a mock combat test of the Locust FB-119, advanced-design stealth fighter-bomber.”

He turned his laptop around, pulled the earbuds from the jack and replayed the video. When it was over, Rudy found that he could not speak. He tried, but he simply could not articulate his reaction to what he’d just seen.

“What do you think, Doctor?”

Rudy found his tongue. “Is this … is this … I mean, this can’t be real … Can it?”

Church did not bother to answer.

Of course it was real.

Rudy felt as if the floor was dropping away from under him. His hands were ice cold and his mouth was dry.

“What is happening?” he asked.

Church looked at him and said, plainly and frankly, “I don’t know.”