Jeffery Deaver - The Blue Nowhere

The agent hesitated then muttered, "You sure as hell just did, Bishop." He slung his machine gun over his shoulder and switched back to the tactical frequency. "All teams, stay in position. Repeat, stay in position. If you're fired upon full retaliation is authorized."

He sprinted back to the command post. The communications tech looked up in surprise. "What's up?"

On the screen Little could still see the confirmation code okaying the attack.

"Confirm the red code again."

"Why? We don't need to reconfirm if-"

"Now," Little snapped.

The man typed.

FROM: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA

TO: DOJ TAC OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01:

RED CODE CONFIRM?

A message popped up on the screen:

(Please Wait)

These few minutes could give the killers inside a chance to prepare for an assault or to rig the house with explosives for a group suicide that would take the lives of a dozen of his men.

Please Wait

This was taking too much time. He said to the communications officer, "Forget it. We're going in." He started toward the door.

"Hey, wait," the officer said. "Something's weird." He nodded at the screen. "Take a look."

FROM: DOJ TAC OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TO: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA

RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01

‹NO INFORMATION. PLEASE VERIFY OPERATION NUMBER›

The man said, "It's the right number. I checked."

Little: "Send it again."

Once more the agent typed and hit ENTER.

Another delay. Then:

FROM: DOJ TAG OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TO: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA

RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01

‹NO INFORMATION. PLEASE VERIFY OPERATION NUMBER›

Little pulled his black hood off and wiped his face. Christ, what was this?

He grabbed the phone and called the FBI agent who handled the territory near the San Pedro military reserve, thirty miles away. The agent told him that there'd been no break-in or theft of weapons that afternoon. Little dropped the receiver into the cradle, staring at the screen.

Steadman ran up to the door of the trailer. "What the hell's going on, Mark? We've waited too long. If we're going to hit them it's gotta be now."

Little continued to gaze at the screen.

‹NO INFORMATION. PLEASE VERIFY OPERATION NUMBER›

"Mark, are we going? "

The commander glanced toward the house. By now there'd been enough of a delay that the occupants might have grown suspicious that the phones were out. Neighbors had probably called the local police about the troops in the neighborhood and reporters' police scanners would have picked up the calls.

Press helicopters might be on their way. There'd be live broadcasts from the choppers and the killers inside could be watching the accounts on TV in a few minutes.

Suddenly a voice in the radio: "Alpha team leader one, this's sniper three. One of the suspects's on the front steps. White male, late twenties. Hands in the air. I have a shot-to-kill. Should I take it?"

"Any weapons? Explosives?"

"None visible."

"What's he doing?"

"Walking forward slowly. He's turned around to show us his back. Still no weapons. But he could have something rigged under his shirt. I'll lose the shot to foliage in ten seconds. Sniper two, pick up target when he's past that bush."

"Roger that," came the voice of another sniper.

Steadman said, "He's got a device on him, Mark. All the bulletins've said that's what they're going to do – take out as many of us as they can. This guy'll set off the charge and the rest'll come out the back door, shooting."

‹NO INFORMATION. PLEASE VERIFY OPERATION NUMBER›

Mark Little said into his mike, "Bravo team leader two, order suspect onto the ground. Sniper two if he's not facedown in five seconds, take your shot."

"Yessir."

They heard the loudspeaker a moment later: "This is the FBI. Lie down and extend your arms. Now, now, now!"

NO INFORMATION…

The agent then called in. "He's down, sir. Should we frisk and restrain?"

Little thought of his wife and two children and said, "No, I'll do it myself." He said into the mike: "All teams, pull back to cover."

He turned to the communications officer. "Get me the deputy director in Washington." Then he pointed a blunt finger at the conflicting messages – the go-ahead print-out and the "no information" message on the computer screen. "And let me know exactly how the hell this happened."

Lying on the grass, smelling dirt, rain, and the faint scent of lilac, Wyatt Gillette blinked as the searing spotlights focused on him. He watched an edgy young agent move cautiously toward him, pointing a very large gun at his head.

The agent cuffed him and frisked him thoroughly, relaxing only when Gillette asked him to call a state trooper named Bishop, who could confirm that the FBI's computer system had been hacked and that the people in the house weren't the MARINKILL suspects.

The agent then ordered Elana's family out of the house. She, her mother and her brother walked slowly out onto the lawn, arms raised. They were searched and handcuffed and, though they weren't treated roughly, it was clear from their grim faces that they were suffering nearly as much from indignity and terror as if they'd been physically injured.

Gillette's ordeal, though, was the worst and that had nothing to do with his treatment at the hands of the FBI; it was that he knew that the woman he loved was now gone from him forever. She'd seemed to be wavering on her decision to move to New York with Ed but now the machines that had driven them apart years ago had almost killed her family and that was, of course, unforgivable. She would now flee to the East Coast with responsible, gainfully employed Ed, and Ellie would become to Gillette nothing more than a collection of memories, like.jpg and.wav files – visual and sound images that vanished when you powered down at night.

The FBI agents huddled and made a number of phone calls and then huddled some more. They concluded that the assault had indeed been illegally ordered. They released everyone – except Gillette, of course, though they helped him stand and loosened the cuffs a bit.

Elana strode up to her ex. He stood motionless in front of her, making not a sound as he took the full force of the powerful slap against his cheek. The woman, sensuous and beautiful even in her anger, turned away without a word and helped her mother up the stairs into the house. Her brother offered a twenty-two-year-old's inarticulate threat about a lawsuit and worse and followed them, slamming the door.

As the agents packed up, Bishop arrived and found Gillette being guarded by a large agent. He walked up to the hacker and said, "The scram switch."

"A halon dump." Gillette nodded. "That's what I was going to tell you to do when they cut the phone line."

Bishop nodded. "I remembered you mentioned it at CCU. When you first saw the dinosaur pen."

"Any other damage?" Gillette asked. "To Shawn?"

He hoped not. He was keenly curious about the machine – how it worked, what it could do, what operating system made up its heart and mind.

But the machine wasn't badly hurt, Bishop explained. "I emptied two full clips at the box but it didn't do much damage." He smiled. "Just a flesh wound."

A stocky man walked toward them through the blinding spotlights. When he got closer Gillette could see it was Bob Shelton. The pock-faced cop greeted his partner and glanced at Gillette with his typical disdain.

Bishop told him what had happened but said nothing about suspecting Shelton himself as being Shawn.