Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

• • •

“There they are,” Hollis said.

Through his passenger-side window he’d seen the faint lights of an approaching plane wink on against the backdrop of black thunderheads rolling in from the west. All the adrenaline from the battle at the warehouse had deserted him along the ride and the pain and weakness he’d felt before was returning, worse than ever.

Cathy Merrick pulled the truck to a stop as they reached the end of a long dirt road. Just ahead was a little country airfield with no tower, lights, or services, just a grass-lined runway probably used only by crop dusters and private pilots practicing their touch-and-go landings.

They both rolled down the windows and though the sound of the approaching aircraft was just barely audible it didn’t sound right at all. The descent grew unsteady as they came on; they were way too high and moving too fast to land and the wings weren’t fully level. Soon Hollis could see that only half the landing gear was down.

When it passed the far end of the runway the plane settled in and flared, banking subtly as if to favor the side with the missing wheel. It flew down the length of the pavement, holding itself in the air and bleeding off speed, and then when it seemed the air could support it no longer it lost its lift and dropped the last few inches to the ground.

It rolled out and slowed on that single wheel, the tail came down, and then the unsupported wing tipped and fell into sudden contact with the pavement. The one spinning propeller shattered at impact and threw its blades, the plane skidded and veered, showering sparks and grinding along until at last it skidded into a sharp half turn and came to a silent, smoldering halt.

As they drove out onto the runway Hollis pulled a small fire extinguisher from its clips below his seat. He jumped out before the truck had fully stopped, fell, and got up and ran as best he could to the side at the rear of the fuselage. When he found the door he pulled it open and climbed inside.

Noah Gardner was already helping Molly out of her seat belt and together they brought her out and clear of the wreck. When she was safe the two men returned to the plane and walked up the tilted aisle to the cockpit.

There they found Ellen Davenport kneeling by the side of an elderly man who was slumped and motionless in the pilot’s seat. As they approached, they saw that she was straightening the old man’s disheveled clothes, smoothing a few bits of broken glass from his thin white hair, and gently easing his hands from their steadfast grip upon the wheel.

“When we stopped,” she said, “I looked over, and he was gone.”

The patter of a light freezing rain had just begun, quietly pecking at the metal skin of the aircraft. In the distance Hollis heard the unmistakable sound of sirens on the way.

“Ma’am,” he said softly, “I’m afraid we need to go.”

“I won’t leave him like this.”

“Ellen—”

“You two go on,” she said. “I’ve got my phone. I’ll wait until you’re long gone, and if they haven’t found us yet, I’ll call it in.”

Noah had known this woman long enough to recognize a final decision when he saw one, and he didn’t argue.

“Thanks for everything you’ve done for us,” he said.

Before he could stand to leave she stopped him with a touch.

“This man got us here so you could make a difference,” Ellen said. “Don’t you dare let him down.”

• • •

Once all were safely assembled in the truck and they were back under way Hollis checked the time-to-destination on the GPS. When ten minutes remained he took out the last of their disposable cell phones, punched in a number, and listened. He waited until the phone on the other end picked up and then he pressed the button that ended the call.

Sixty seconds later his phone rang twice and then went silent again. That was the signal that all would be ready up ahead.

Cathy Merrick looked over briefly from the driver’s seat, and he nodded to her.

“That’s it,” Hollis said. “From here on out it’s do or die.”

Chapter 62

Their insider at Garrison Archives was a young mailroom intern who’d been planted in her job months before.

Like most spies, much of her role up to then had involved simply blending in and waiting. Recently, however, she’d been given three important duties to perform for Molly Ross and the Founders’ Keepers.

First, she’d smuggled out a copy of the internal network architecture documents—it was amazing what low-level employees have access to when they’re put in charge of the shredder and the photocopy room. Next she copied down a few key PIN numbers from a security guard’s crib sheet and ordered a duplicate access card for all the inside doors. Once these things had been gathered she’d addressed a padded envelope to Mr. Thom Hollis, care of HomeWorx, Inc., and forwarded it all to a UPS private mailbox in the nearby town of Butler.

Third, she’d intercepted a special-delivery package when it arrived by courier at Garrison—said package having been constructed and sent by some tech-savvy co-conspirators—and after business hours that same night she’d punched a pattern of holes through the outer cardboard of the box and placed it as directed, high on a shelf in a utility room near an open vent for the air-conditioning and environment control system.

And last, at some unspecified time in the very near future, she would be ready to put on a small performance for her coworkers.

Here’s what she was supposed to do: once she’d gotten the go-ahead signal, and when her nose detected a very specific fragrance wafting through her workplace, she was to mention the smell to her colleagues, fake some vertigo and troubled breathing, and then faint dead away on the spot.

The first steps were already accomplished. When an announcement came over the PA system that a threat had been received of a possible chemical or biological weapons attack against the facility—and that this was not a drill—she knew that her final task would be required within minutes.

• • •

Anyone who’s gotten a whiff of actual cyanide gas and lived to tell the tale would confirm that its odor of bitter almonds is quite different from the familiar nutty scent of the supermarket variety. The real thing would certainly bear little resemblance to the cloying, sweet almond scent that would soon begin to show itself in the cool filtered air throughout the Garrison underground facility.

Rooms away from where Molly’s planted intern waited, the package she’d received and prepared came to life as a cell phone inside it received a call.

The ringer electronics of the phone activated a microcontroller-enabled circuit board and the salvaged heating element from a head-shop vaporizer warmed up to a bright orange glow. Servo motors whirred, pistons worked, gears and rollers turned, and at a rate of a drop per second, two ounces of Italian amaretto began to drip with a hiss onto the hot metal.

Moments later, pungent white smoke began to waft through the holes in the box, soon permeating the utility room before being sucked into the recirculating air of the HVAC system.

• • •

The minute the WMD threat had been announced all seventeen hundred employees stopped working and awaited further instructions at their posts and desks. Despite the nationwide alert that was currently in force, no immediate evacuation had been ordered. Garrison was a high-profile and somewhat controversial facility among some elements of society, and such threats were not that uncommon.

Often, after a few minutes of break time the all-clear would be sounded and everything would quickly return to normal. They were protected by many levels of security, after all, and safely ensconced more than two hundred feet beneath ground level in a rock mine hidden under a mountain.