The Paris Option - Страница 82

As strings of apparently unintelligible numbers, symbols, and letters filled his screen, Dr. Chambord battled to reprogram the old Soviet missile in the far-away Arctic taiga. He did not understand why he was having so much trouble, why the codes were new.

"We should've stayed with the first missile you chose, General," he said over his shoulder to La Porte, who sat behind him against the far wall. Two soldiers stood guard on either side of the general. "That missile was as simple to break into as the one the Shield wanted to send against Jerusalem. But this one's codes are different, more difficult. Actually, cutting edge."

"You must find a way, Doctor," the general insisted. "Immediately."

Dr. Chambord did not bother to nod. His fingers continued to pound the keyboard. At last, he stopped and worriedly studied the screen. With relief, he announced, "All right. There. It's done. One reprogrammed ICBM. Aimed, ready, and timed to launch automatically at midnight."

He had started to turn toward La Porte, but he stopped as if suddenly paralyzed. He frowned, and, almost in slow motion, his gaze returned to his monitor again. Tormented by fear, he touched a few keys and watched the answer to his question appear on the screen. He was right.

His hands jerked off the keyboard as if he had received an electric shock. He spun his chair around. His voice rose: "There's a nuclear warhead on that missile you had me program! It's not decommissioned. It's fully armed and operational! That's why there are new codes on it. My God! How could you make such a mistake? It's nuclear, General. Nuclear! This is no simple missile strike to make a point!" He whirled back to his keyboard. His breath came in gasps of fear and outrage. He muttered, "There's still time. I must shut it down there's still time"

A bullet screamed past Chambord's ear and chipped stone into his face. "What!" He jumped, turned, and saw the pistol in the general's hand.

La Porte's voice was calm, calculating. "Move away from the keyboard, Doctor."

Dr. Chambord inhaled sharply, afraid. He was angry, but he was also beginning to understand that his own life was in danger. "Tell me you didn't intend this diabolical act, General. A nuclear attack. Unbelievable!"

From his high-backed, antique chair, La Porte lowered his pistol, allowing it to dangle casually in his big hand. His booming voice said confidentially, "There's been no mistake, Doctor. A conventional warhead wouldn't have provided the concussive shock Europe and France needed. This way, there can be no hesitation. They'll see we must make a new beginning. After this, they'll vote on Monday the way I wish."

Dr. Chambord frowned again. "But you said you told me"

La Porte sighed, bored. "I simply affirmed what your bourgeois conscience wanted to hear. You still have that silly peasant fear to dare the ultimate. Take my advice, Doctor. Always dare. Who dares, wins, my poor Chambord. Even the English and the unfathomable Americans sometimes see the truth in that."

Dr. Chambord was an introverted man, unaccustomed to expressing emotion. In fact, he was uncomfortable with both tears and laughter, a characteristic of narrow feelings that his wife had occasionally complained about. He missed her now especially. But then, he had missed her every day since her death. He had always told her that the mind was an infinitely complex system, and even if he did not express his emotions, he felt them as deeply as she.

As these thoughts occurred to him, he found himself calming. It became clear what he must do.

He knit his fingers together in front of him and said earnestly, "You'll murder outright at least a half million with the ICBM. The radiation will kill untold additional millions. It will lay waste to" He stopped and stared.

The general's pistol had risen again, and now it pointed at Chambord's heart. The general had a haughty expression on his face, and Chambord had a sudden impression that the tall chair on which he sat was no chair. It was a throne.

Outraged, Dr. Chambord cursed. "That's it! You intended this all along. That's why you picked Omaha. It's not just because it's the headquarters of the U.S. Strategic Command and a more important military target than even the Pentagon. Or because it's a hub of information services and telecommunications industries. It's because it's the Heartland, as they call it, where people think of themselves as safe because they're buried in the middle of the continent. The whole United States thinks of the Midwest as safe. With one blow, you show that the safest people in the safest place are unsafe by turning their 'heartland' into a wasteland, while you cripple America's military. So many deaths just to make a point. You're a monster, La Porte! A monster."

General La Porte shrugged. "It's necessary."

"Armageddon." Chambord could barely breathe.

"From the ashes, the phoenix of France of Europe will rise again."

"You're mad, La Porte."

La Porte stood, his size and personality again dominating the armory. "Possibly mad, Doctor. But unfortunately for you, I'm not crazy. When the authorities arrive, they'll find the bodies of Mauritania, of Captain Bonnard, and of you."

"You'll be gone." Chambord's voice sounded dead even to himself. "It'll be as if you were never here. They won't know you're behind all this."

"Naturally. I couldn't hope to explain the use of my castle in your horrible plot, should you and Captain Bonnard survive. I appreciate all your help."

"Our dream was a lie."

"No lie. Just not as small as you thought." The general's two pistol shots exploded in the vaulted room. "Good-bye, Chambord. You've served France well."

Eyes open, the scientist fell from his chair like a deflated toy.

At the same moment, a violent fusillade of gunfire seemed to come from everywhere. La Porte stiffened. The Crescent Shield had been at the other end of the castle. How could they be so close now?

He thundered toward the door, gesturing to the two Legionnaires inside the armory to follow. In the corridor, he paused to bark orders to the two waiting sentries, and all five bolted down the stairs.

"Back!" Jon warned over the din and flying bullets.

Noise no longer mattered, so they raced back along the corridor toward the spiral stairway that led up into the east tower. In the confined space of the stone walls, the firing behind them sounded as if it came from an army.

Above them, the door to the armory slammed open, followed by a shout in rapid French. Meanwhile, from below, there were new noises. Booted feet were pounding upward. The Legionnaires to the rescue.

Jon, Ranch, Peter, Marty, and Thérèse dove into two empty rooms on either side of the hall.

Breathing hard, Jon cracked open his door and saw Peter inch his open, too. They watched La Porte, out of uniform, and four Legionnaires burst past, heading toward where the Crescent Shield's cutting-out party was still firing, attacked by Legionnaires, Jon guessed. General La Porte bellowed an order that was lost in a thunderous fusillade.

Jon and Peter slid out into the passage, followed by the others. They tore onward to the tower stairs while in the distance behind them the Legionnaires and the Crescent Shield continued to battle.

Jon in the lead, the four others following, they climbed swiftly. At the top, they paused and looked carefully all around. The door to the armory stood wide open, and there were no sounds from inside. The shadowy landing with its weak electric lights and narrow windows built for the use of archers was abandoned.

"What does it mean?" Marty wanted to know.

Jon motioned for silence. With hand signals, he sent Peter and Randi into the armory. "Marty, Thérèse, and I'll cover the stairs," he whispered.

Almost instantly, Randi was back out. "Everybody, come in here." She beckoned them inside. "Hurry."

Marty dashed in after her, looking for the prototype, with Thérèse right behind. Jon brought up the rear, watching for danger. They stopped together, stunned by the sight of Emile Chambord on the carpet beside his desk. He was pitched over onto his face, as if he had fallen forward from his chair.

Thérèse covered her cheeks with her hands. "Papa! Oh no!" She ran to him.

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear." Marty followed and patted her shoulder.

Thérèse sobbed, dropped to her knees, and rolled her father over. There were two bullet holes in his chest. Blood matted his shirt.

"Is he alive, Jon? Tell me whether he's alive!"

As Jon crouched beside her, he looked at his watch. "Mart! The computer. It's less than two minutes to midnight!"

Marty shook his round head as if to clear it. "Okay, Jon." He fell into Emile Chambord's chair and went to work on the keyboard.

Peter ran toward the door. "Let's go, Randi. Somebody has to watch their backs."

Nodding agreement, she tore after him. Their dark clothes faded into the landing's long shadows.

Jon checked Dr. Chambord. "Looks as if both of the bullets entered your father's heart. I'm sorry, Thérèse. He died instantly."

She nodded and wept.

Shaking his head, Jon stood up and hurried around to where he could stand behind Marty and be available if needed. At the same time, he surveyed the old armory, with its medieval armaments, shields, and armor hanging from the stone walls and leaning in corners. The room was vast, with quite a bit of furniture, all of it old, heavy wood. The ceiling was high, and the electric lights inadequate to thoroughly illuminate it. In fact, it appeared to him that fully three-quarters of the big room was without light. The fixtures were only in this section near the door. Still, Jon could see far enough back to make out stacks of wood crates, which he assumed held ammunition.