Devil's Gate (NUMA Files 9)

“The missiles are gone,” one of the telemetry operators said.

Radio calls in the background confirmed that the pilots were seeing the same thing. And then all of a sudden one pilot radioed with trouble.

“Experiencing control failure—”

The signal cut.

A second pilot reported something similar, and then his signal went dead.

“Large explosions, bearing one-five-five,” a third pilot said. “We have two, maybe three aircraft down—”

The squadron commander cut in. “Drop to the deck, pull back.”

Before his orders could be followed, two more signals were lost. And moments later he confirmed five aircraft down.

“Apparently, we drew the damn line in the wrong place,” he said.

With a red face, and veins popping out on his neck, Brinks looked as if his head might explode. A sense of unease crept over everyone else in the room as well.

The submarines would move next, along with an end run attempted by Dirk’s two civilians. But this attack would happen in slow motion.

As they waited an aide came into the room and spoke with Vice President Sandecker. He passed a note.

Sandecker looked up, concerned anew.

“What is it?” Brinks asked.

“Contact from Moscow,” Sandecker said.

“Moscow?” Pitt asked.

Sandecker nodded. “They’re claiming to have just uncovered information suggesting that Washington, D.C., is about to be attacked. The threat comes in the form of a particle beam weapon. Apparently, the same one we’ve just failed to destroy. They insist that the intelligence is highly credible and that the threat is valid. They urge we do everything possible to defend or evacuate.”

“What in the name of…” Brinks began.

Sandecker looked up. “If the information’s accurate, the attack will come within the next ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?”

“Nice of them to get us a warning so early,” someone else grumbled.

“We can’t evacuate the city in ten minutes,” someone said. “We couldn’t do it in ten hours.”

“Emergency Broadcast System,” someone else said. “Urge everyone into shelter. Basements, underground garages, the Metro. If this is true, people will be safer in those places.”

Brinks shook his head. “If this is true,” he said sarcastically. “This is a joke. And if we start crying that the sky is falling, a thousand people will die in the panic for nothing. Which is probably just what they want, along with our citizens worrying whether we can protect them or not.”

“What if we can’t protect them?” Pitt asked. “Are we just going to let them die in their happy ignorance?”

Brinks squirmed. “Look,” he said. “Garand may have taken this round, but there’s no way they can hit us here. Every one of our experts concludes that. Their weapon fires in a line of sight. It simply cannot hit anything over the horizon. Even the F-18s were safe, once they dropped back a few miles.”

The Vice President looked around. “Anyone have anything to add? Now’s the time if you do.”

There was silence for a moment, and then another staffer from the NSA spoke up, a slight man with frameless glasses. “There is one possibility,” he said.

“Spit it out,” Sandecker ordered.

“Particle beams are aimed and directed through the use of magnets,” the man explained. “One study concluded that an extremely powerful magnetic field placed along the target line could bend a particle stream, redirecting it onto a new target. In essence, giving it the ability to shoot around corners.”