Spiders from the Shadows

NINE


Raven Rock (Site R), Underground Military Complex, Southern Pennsylvania


James Davies, FBI Director of the legitimate government of the United States, walked toward the presidential office suite. He took a quick breath, his heart pounding. Too many people were up ahead of him. Someone was bound to see the drone! It couldn’t get into the compound unobserved with so many people standing there, and the batteries were only good for a couple of hours. Once the batteries were gone, the drone was useless. He had to find a way to get it inside the compound now!

For a moment he wished that he had waited to drop the drone, but, looking ahead of him, he knew that wouldn’t have worked. The instructions they had agreed on had been correct. Deploy the drone before you get into the presidential office suite. There will be far too many people once you’re inside. You’ll be surrounded, and they will see it when you drop it. Either that or the metal detectors will detect it. Wait until you’re as close as you can get, then deploy it just outside the door.

His mind raced. Only four steps to the door. The Army officers watched him carefully, two men he didn’t recognize. Behind them, there was a security wall and reception desk, then a wide and beautifully furnished hallway that led to the president’s den, all protected behind a metal scanner. A red sign had been posted near the doorway:

STOP

PRESIDENTIAL SECURITY AREA

USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED

DO NOT PROCEED UNTIL INSTRUCTED

It was easy to pick out the two Secret Service agents behind the glass walls. Others were there as well, not seen, but watching. Even here in Raven Rock, the barrier between the open corridor and the president was as impenetrable as steel.

One of the Army officers, a thin-haired colonel, pushed the door back a little further and stepped across the threshold to meet the unwanted intruder. He didn’t extend his hand to James to shake it, but reached out for his arm the way an irritated father would reach for a wayward son. “Mr. Davies,” he greeted simply, “come with me.”

Without waiting for an answer, the colonel nodded at the two Marines who had escorted Davies down. “We got him,” the colonel said.

The Marines stopped at the door, releasing Davies’ arms.

James shot another look back. The fly had disappeared. Somewhere along the ceiling? He didn’t know.

He had to give them time to fly the drone through the open door and inside the presidential compound without being noticed. But he didn’t know how!

Only one idea came to mind. He turned toward the colonel. The bald man reached out again for his arm. James pulled his arm back defensively and stepped angrily to the side. The colonel gestured impatiently for him to come and James hesitated, then moved gingerly forward, then suddenly tripped. Falling, James slammed his head into the side of the glass door. Bulletproof, the heavy glass didn’t break but left a painful dent against his forehead, which immediately started to bleed.

The colonel looked down at him lying in the open doorway. The men on the other side of the glass turned instantly at the sound of the crash. For a moment no one moved; then one of the Marines stepped back and reached down to James. James took the Marine’s hand and pulled himself up, his other hand at his head, a smear of blood seeping through his pressed fingers. “I’m sorry. I guess I tripped on something. I’ve been feeling dizzy . . . .”

The other Marine reached into his uniform pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and flipped it toward James. James thanked him and pressed the handkerchief against his forehead. The Marine steadied James while he wiped the blood away. The colonel released the two Marines with a determined nod. The Marines stepped back, turned around, and started walking down the hall.

Handkerchief still pressed painfully against his forehead, James followed the colonel into the presidential suite.

Behind him, the glass door closed on its smooth, pneumatic hinges.

James glanced back.

Had the drone made it into the presidential office suite? He didn’t know. But whether it had or not, there wasn’t anything more that he could do.





Offutt Air Force Base, Headquarters, U.S. Strategic Command, Eight Miles South of Omaha, Nebraska


“Go, GO, GO!” the second technician screamed. “The door is closing!”

The drone pilot looked intent, his eyes squinting in concentration, glistening drops of sweat collecting on his forehead. His hands were shaking, his lips so tight they were almost white, every ounce of mental energy focused on controlling the tiny drone. Enormously unstable, slow to respond, inherently unbalanced, with a high center of gravity and an unfathomable weight-to-lift ratio, not to mention the fact that the thing was at the mercy of every draft from every air vent or passing breeze, it took incredible energy and concentration to keep the miniscule drone from rolling over and flopping on the floor.

The technician pilot ignored his comrade’s shouted warnings. There could have been an earthquake at his feet, an explosion in the command centn.