The Paris Option - Страница 80

He said, "We're as ready as we can be, considering all our satellites and other communications are down, and our command codes compromised. We've been working around the clock, and ten hours more than that, to bring everything back online and change our codes." He hesitated. "But I'm not sure it'll really help. With what the DNA machine can do, even our latest encryptions will likely be broken, and we'll be out of commission again in minutes, perhaps seconds." He glanced at his fellow commanders. "Our one advantage is our new covert, experimental antimissile defense system. Since they don't know we have it, that may be enough." The admiral glanced at his fellow flag officers. "If the attack is going to be by missile."

The president nodded. "Based on what the DNA computer can do, and what little we know of the terrorists, it's most likely."

Air Force chief of staff Bruce Kelly's voice was decisive as he agreed, "No single ICBM from anywhere is going to get through the new antimissile system. I guarantee it."

"You're sure they don't know we have it?"

Around the packed room, the Joint Chiefs and the DCI nodded affirmative.

Admiral Brose answered for them all: "We're certain, Mr. President."

"Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?" the president said. He smiled around the silent room, but no one looked him in the eyes.

Chateau la Rouge, France

In the windowless armory at the top of the castle, where chain mail coats hung next to empty suits of armor, Dr. Emile Chambord raised his head and listened. There was gunfire outside. What was happening? Was someone shooting at the castle? The noise was muffled by the thick walls, but still, it was unmistakable.

Abruptly, the computer screen in front of him went blank.

Hurriedly he made adjustments and regained control. The prototype had never been easy to keep steady, and it had been drifting under his fingers. Twice he'd had a lock on the command codes of the old Soviet missile that General La Porte had selected, still in its silo thousands of miles away, and twice he had lost the codes as the temperamental apparatus of optical cables and gel packs destabilized. He needed every ounce of concentration and dexterity to do the job, and the nerve-racking gunfire did not help.

Was it growing louder? Coming closer? Who could it be? Maybe it was that Colonel Smith with American and English soldiers.

Worried, he glanced up at his favorite print, which he had hung above his desk. There was the beaten Napoleon and the remnants of the pride of France, marching back from Moscow only to be beaten again, this time by the English jackals who were lying in wait. He had bought the print as a young man and kept it with him, a reminder of how great his country had once been. For him, everything had changed with his wife's death. Everything but his devotion to France. Everything became the future of France.

He decided the gunfire might be coming from the Crescent Shield, here to rescue Mauritania. But maybe this time they would really steal the molecular computer and kidnap him as well.

He shrugged. It did not matter. They were all too late.

As he returned to his work, the door opened. Roland la Porte ducked his imposing body and entered. "Is the missile programmed?" he demanded. He straightened up, and his large size and personality seemed to fill the room. He was dressed casually in pleated trousers, a good Breton shirt, and a safari jacket. His black boots were polished to a high shine, and his dark, thick hair was smoothed back.

"Don't rush me," Chambord said, irritated. "That gunfire makes me nervous. Who is it?"

"Our old Islamic friends, the Crescent Shield. They're of no consequence. Bonnard and the Legionnaires will beat them off, and then we'll use the Islamics' dead bodies to help guarantee that it's they who're blamed and hunted. It's too bad you were interrupted before you could launch their strike against Israel. That would've provided additional cover for us."

Chambord said nothing. Both knew there had not been time to move their whole operation from Algeria, regroup, and send the missile against Jerusalem. Not when the attack against the United States was the primary goal. Everything must be wrapped up now, so La Porte could spend Sunday making phone calls to solidify support for the EU council vote on Monday.

Chambord was having problems. This was when he could have used Zellerbach's expertise. "The codes are more difficult to break into than the missile I reprogrammed for Mauritania;" he complained. "This missile is as old, but its codes are new—"

General La Porte interrupted, "Put that aside for the moment. I have another assignment for you."

Chambord glanced at his watch. "We have only a half hour! I have to time the Russian satellite precisely to keep my window small. It's no easy matter to open communications to the satellite so I can do its work."

"Plenty of time for your miraculous machine, Doctor. I came to tell you that the Americans have a secret, experimental antimissile defense system. I didn't expect them to deploy it, but I've just learned they've brought it online. It hasn't been approved, but I know it's had success in tests. We can't risk the possibility it'll work, or that our project will fail. You must shut down this new antimissile system, as you have all their other defenses."

"How do you know so much?"

"We all spy on each other, even supposed allies," La Porte said with a shrug. "There are no friends among nations, only interests."

Up on the bare battlements, moonlight reflected off the walls of the castle proper and made the stone walkway along the top seem to flow with a river of blood. Through the mirage, Jon, Randi, and Peter scouted quickly. Marty went with Peter. There were two other sentries on top, and they were quickly dispatched, then the four rendezvoused.

Holding one of the FAMAS assault rifles he had picked up, Peter said simply, "Nothing."

Jon and Randi reported the same. "It's twenty-two minutes to midnight," Randi added. "So little time."

They sped to the long, dark curving stairwell that seemed to drop into dark infinity. Behind them, Marty hung back, a twin of Ranch's HK MP5K in both hands as if he were clinging to it for dear life. His gaze darted nervously.

"The Legionnaires are busy at the entrance," Jon told them. "That's why there aren't any more up here. We've got four stories and the towers to search. Let's split up. We can each take a floor. If anyone needs help, use the walkie-talkies."

"That's dangerous, Jon. Dividing our force," Randi objected.

"I know, but right now losing time is more dangerous. Mart?"

"I'll go with Peter."

Jon nodded. "Take the ground floor. I'll do the second, and Randi the third. We'll meet at the top. Let's go."

They ran down the spiral stone staircase, Peter and Marty leading. Randi peeled off, then Jon.

On the bottom floor, Peter slipped into the corridor first, Marty following. Dim electric lights were spaced widely apart and did little to dispel the dark. There were a few doors on both sides, all set into recesses in the thick walls. Marty opened each door carefully, while Peter waited, weapon up. They found no one. There was no furniture in the first rooms, an indication that at least part of the enormous historic castle was permanently unused.

"You have any idea how much it costs to heat one of these medieval monsters?" Peter whispered rhetorically.

Marty did not believe in rhetorical questions. "No, but if I had a computer, I'd calculate it in seconds." He freed one hand from his heavy rifle and snapped his fingers.

Peter snorted, and they continued their search. Occasionally, the noise of rapid bursts of gunfire penetrated the castle, and it seemed to them that another assault had occurred outside. Then there would be a period of silence, followed by more sporadic shots. In here, it was difficult to tell where the battle was and impossible to know whether there was an outcome, or what it was.

At last, having seen no signs of Dr. Chambord, his DNA machine, General La Porte, or Captain Bonnard, and ducking into rooms to avoid the few sentries patrolling the corridors, they ran back up to the top floor, where Jon and Randi joined them.

The quartet was moving down the hall, checking doors, when two soldiers rounded a corner and almost collided with them. The Frenchmen grabbed their assault rifles off their shoulders in seconds. While Marty stumbled back, his menacing submachine gun ready in case the soldiers broke loose, Randi and Jon swarmed the first one to the floor, and Peter was all over the second with his Fairbairn-Sykes stiletto. There was a sharp gasp, a silenced and muffled pistol report, and neither renegade French soldier moved again.

Marty swallowed hard, gulping air. He detested violence, but his round, gentle face was resolute as he guarded the corridor while the others dragged the corpses into an empty room. The door closed, and the foursome hurried on until Jon, who was in the lead now, stopped at a corner and raised a silencing hand.

He gestured to the others. They padded forward and stopped. Ahead a single sentry was posted outside the usual iron-reinforced wood door, lounging lazily against the stone wall, smoking a cigarette. His gaze was aimed away from them, focused on the door that it appeared he was guarding. Dressed in casual civilian clothes, he wore army boots and a dark green beret pulled down on the left side. His FAMAS assault rifle was slung over his shoulder. All of this indicated he was another French Legionnaire.