Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 46

Five Days, Thirteen Hours, Twenty-Eight Minutes

"I think this proves your theory right, Nate," Mentnor said, tapping several buttons on the console in front of him, refocusing the image on the monitor. The two men in Alaska were now a crisp image, and even the reclusive Isaac Mentnor recognized the face of the President's son-in-law. It had been splashed everywhere in the previous months – in magazines, on the news, even at sporting events. "That's definitely Trace Hightower. I would imagine that the man with him is one of the Secret Service detail assigned to keep him safe." The scientist crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair. "If they're still alive, then I would only imagine that they're making for Zulu Base. That would be, after all, the only logical alternative."

"Yes," Ramsey agreed. "But if we know that, you can bet that Pendley knows it ... and, since Hightower's survival kind of throws a world class monkey wrench into his plan for world domination, we'd better do something to make sure that young man stays alive."

Quickly, they marched into the conference room, where they found an aide delivering a report to Chief Stoddard. The man read the report, his eyes fixed on the data, as Ramsey announced, "Sir, we have some intelligence that I think you should look at."

The man raised an eyebrow at him. "This wouldn't have to do with Trace Hightower, would it?"

Confused, Ramsey dropped his arms in defeat. "How did you know?"

Smiling, the chief rose from his chair. He dismissed the aide and waited for the young woman to leave the room. Once she had vanished, Stoddard announced, "After you shared with me what your operating theory was, Mr. Ramsey, I immediately assigned several of the White House military aides to gather what evidence they could that Mr. Hightower might still be alive. This is Washington, unfortunately, and word travels fast. If news of his son-in-law's survival reached the President, then you and I and Dr. Mentnor would have much to answer for. However, I thought it prudent to err on the side of caution before sharing your opinion with President Campbell."

Shrugging, Ramsey tried hard not to appear dumbfounded. "Well, what did you find out?"

"Something troubling." Stoddard moved methodically, taking each step with measured effort, as he glanced down at the papers he held in front of him. "Approximately three hours ago, an AH-64D Apache Longbow attack helicopter departed Bolling Air Force Base with a filed flight path taking them to Alaska."

Ramsey sensed the blood drain from his face. "Sir, please tell me that you're joking."

"I wish I were."

He had to figure out what to say next. Nathan Ramsey couldn't accept the defeat. It wasn't in his nature. He was stubborn – Stoddard knew that he was – and he had to prove his usefulness now.

"Sir," he began, "the Longbow is one of the staples of our tactical defense aircraft. While I'm quite certain that its top airspeed is classified, I wouldn't imagine that bird can fly more than 200 miles per hour ... at about three hours a clip ... meaning that they'd have to stop to refuel every 600 miles or so." He tried doing the math in his head, but math was never one of Ramsey's strong skills. "That's over four thousand miles!"

"I appreciate the optimism, Mr. Ramsey," Stoddard offered, "but this Longbow was part of a secret program assigned to FEMA."

"FEMA?"

"Yes," he continued. "The very wing of the government that Senator Pendley is demanding we surrender operational control over to him." The chief stopped near the conference table, and he calmly set the file he had been carrying on the polished surface. "The program has been refitting the Longbow for long-range assault response capabilities. After all, should the need arise to enact a state of martial law, the government will need to respond quickly and decisively all across the fruited plain. Who knows how far away one of these helicopters may be needed at a moment's notice." He shook his head tiredly. "Unfortunately, the specifications on the Longbow are classified. I do have someone working on that, but, by the time we have them, it very well may be too late. All I can tell you is that the base commander has assured me that this Longbow – with a single stop for refueling – will break Alaskan airspace within the next four hours."

"Seven hours flight time?" Ramsey asked incredulously. "Sir ... are you telling me we have an attack helicopter with an airspeed of 600 miles per hour?"

Stoddard threw his head back, closed his eyes, and inhaled. "Mr. Ramsey, I'm only telling you that which has been told to me." He craned his head to the right, produced a loud crack, and then brought his hand up to massage it gently. "Given everything that's happened, I stopped believing anything hours ago."

Insistent, Ramsey moved forward. "Get something in the air, sir! Take that bird down!"

"Without our satellite defenses," the chief began, "we don't know where it is. Surely, Pendley knew this, and that's why we're in this position."

"But how ..."

"You have a mole."

Both the chief and Ramsey turned to look at Isaac Mentnor.

"It's really quite simple, if you think about it," the scientist explained. "Not only has the senator taken control of your ability to use the satellite network, but he contacted you on a secure internal communications line direct to the War Room. He couldn't have done that unless someone was cooperating with him from the inside. Since Pendley had control of the satellite network long before Yuri provided us with what visual reconnaissance he had, then it's safe to assume that he could've known that Trace Hightower was still alive long before we did. But – if I'm understanding the timetable correctly, gentlemen – he didn't order this helicopter to head toward Alaska until after Nathan and I came here to the White House and you heard Nathan's theory." Mentnor walked up to the table, joining the two men. "That would indicate that someone here – someone on the inside – perhaps someone in the War Room – someone told Pendley about this intelligence. He couldn't take the chance that we'd figure it out, so he went on the offensive well before we could launch a rescue mission."

Realization sank into the chief of staff. Slowly, his shoulders slumped. His body weak, he reached out, grabbed one of the chairs around the table, pulled it away, and sat down. His eyes were fixed on an invisible spot in space. "That would make perfect sense," he finally agreed.

"No other information should leave this room, chief," Mentnor concluded.

The man slowly nodded.

"You're right, Dr. Mentnor," he said. His eyes lost focus, and then he turned to the others, smiling. "But, like the two of you, I've grown tired of the senator remaining two steps ahead of us ... and that's why I wanted you to hear this." He leaned forward and tapped a button on the table's communication console. There was an audible click from the overhead speaker, and then a woman's voice announced:

"I'm here, sir."

Stoddard grinned. "Nathan Ramsey and Dr. Isaac Mentnor, say hello to General Margaret Nash of Zulu Base Command."

Ramsey and Mentnor glanced at one another and smiled.

"Hello!"

"Hello, sirs!" she replied. "While we're not exactly enjoying the benefits of modern living, I would venture to guess that it's a bit warmer where you are as opposed to where I am!"

"That's an understatement, general," Ramsey agreed.

"Margaret," Stoddard interrupted, "what's your condition?"

The open telephone line hissed angrily with static before the woman stated, "Sir, Zulu Base has been completely dark since the ... well, sir ... I don't know what it was that hit us, but I assume it was some kind of electromagnetic pulse. Everything – our communications, our power supply, the heating system, our aircraft and vehicles – everything has been rendered inoperable."

"General," Mentnor began, "what hit your part of Alaska was a burst of temporal energy. The resulting shockwave would've behaved much like an EMP. I would imagine every circuit on the base would've fused as a result."

"That's a big affirmative, doctor," she agreed. "To be honest, we couldn't even get so much as a working telephone line up and running until thirty minutes ago. I managed to contact some folks at NORAD. They told me that the United States had suffered a terrorist attack, and they immediately connected me to the White House switchboard. Chief of Staff Stoddard has been very kind in bringing me up to speed on the current crisis."

"General," Ramsey interrupted, "have you heard anything from Trace Hightower's group?"

"No, sir," she replied, "we haven't. However, as I said, communications has been down."

"But you can mobilize?"

"Yes, sir. We haven't a single working vehicle to complete any air or land extraction, but I've assembled several squads to go out into the cold, on foot, to search for him and his party. Mr. Hightower left Zulu two days ago. I don't know precisely where he was headed, but Chief Stoddard has shared with me the satellite images that our Russian comrades were so polite to offer. I believe we have an idea of his possible location, assuming that he headed back in our general direction after the blast."

Ramsey nodded. "Any idea of how soon you may locate him?"

"Mr. Ramsey, it's really impossible for me to speculate," she said. "Besides, over the last year, speculation hasn't really been my forte. As you can imagine, Zulu Base has been fairly quiet. Much of the time we're cleaning equipment, running drills, burning heating oil, and the like. We've always been prepared to serve as a point of defense for a first strike coming against troops crossing over from the former Soviet Union. Since the wall came down, the Joint Chiefs have largely kept us around to service intelligence. Given our location, we're prime real estate as a listening post for much of Asia. Otherwise, it's pretty barren up here."

"That's where you come in, Nathan," the chief interjected.

He placed a hand on his chest. "Me?"

"Yes." Stoddard raised his head so that he could speak clearly in the direction of the open microphone. "General, I wanted you to hear the orders I'm conferring on Nathan Ramsey. He currently serves as the Chief of Security for the BackStep Program, and he's been a tremendous resource for us here at the White House in this situation." Pivoting in his chair, the man faced Ramsey. "Nathan has a contact with what's left of the Soviet Union – a Mr. Yuri Ivanov."

"Yes, sir," the general replied. "I've heard of General Ivanov."

"Very good."

Stoddard winked.

"Mr. Ramsey will be asking General Ivanov's assistance. Given the fact that yours are the closest birds to provide tactical support to an incoming military threat and given the fact that your birds are presently grounded due to circumstances well beyond our control, I am exercising my authority to extend all diplomatic courtesies to General Ivanov. I will have Mr. Ramsey contact the general to request that Ivanov dispatch three Russian helicopters. These birds will enter your airspace for the expressed purposes of – should it become unconditionally necessary – providing tactical air defense support on your behalf and aiding in the search for the President's son-in-law. Is that clear? Do you understand that General Ivanov's men have been granted full assurances of their safety in return for their cooperation?"

"Yes, sir."

"Pardon me if I'm repeating myself, Margaret," Stoddard said, "but you'll forgive me for not wanting any international incidents occurring on my watch: are you absolutely clear on what it is we're trying to accomplish here?"

"Zulu Base will serve join General Ivanov and his crew in a joint mission between our two forces to rescue Trace Hightower, sir. You have my word that the general will enjoy our complete cooperation."

"Thank you, Margaret," he stated. "I'll talk to you soon."

With that, he hung up.

Confused, Ramsey held his hands out from his side. "What did I just volunteer for?"

Stoddard rose. "Nathan, I'm sorry, but I have no one else to turn to."

"But I'm not field ops."

"You'll do fine."

The man felt his heart pounding in his stomach. "But I'm not certified field ops," he tried again.

The chief pressed a firm hand on Ramsey's shoulder. "Nathan, I said earlier that I had something for you to do. This is it. You've been of tremendous service here, but I need your expertise out there, in the field. I need you to contact Yuri Ivanov. The two of you are old friends. Clearly, he trusts you. Right now, this country needs your friendship to serve the national interest. Tell him what we're up against. Tell him that the threat posed by Senator Pendley ... if it isn't contained right here, right now ... it will decidedly take on global implications very quickly. I need you to convince him to loan the United States government three defense helicopters closest to Alaska. They have to beat Pendley's team there. That's an absolute necessity."

"But what about me?"

"After you convince Yuri," Stoddard continued, "you'll be helicoptered from the White House lawn to Bolling Air Force Base. I have an F-15 Eagle standing by. I have no doubt that, at Mach 2.5, you'll also beat that modified Apache Longbow to Alaska with enough time to spare to meet up with Yuri's men and take command of this mission."

Unable to speak, Ramsey turned – pale – and glanced at Mentnor.

The scientist only smiled.

"Nathan, can you do this for me?" the chief asked. "Do you think you can convince General Ivanov to cooperate?"

The man swallowed, gulping down the bile that had suddenly crept up his throat.

"I'm going to need a helluva lot more than a few cases of Jack Daniels to do it, sir."

END of Chapter 46