THREE MINUTES

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Chapter 8

13:00, 1 July 2001

Kirtland Air Force Base

New Mexico

Lionel did his best to appear calm, but he kept both hands on the metal bar on the dashboard of the Jeep. Every few seconds he would automatically frisk himself, checking on his wallet, his watch, pens in his pockets, whatever, to see how much had flown out.

His military escort and driver, a severe-looking Air Force soldier in his mid-thirties with neither a name patch nor rank insignia, was keeping up a solid 80 miles per hour on a long, straight dirt road. It was an especially well-kept road, Lionel noted. Clearly very hard-packed, well-used, and wide. But it was still dirt, and it still seemed they were going awfully fast.

Lionel had caught a smaller Gulfstream from Andrews Air Force Base at six this morning, landing at Albuquerque International Airport a few hours later. He was a little surprised they hadn't landed at Kirtland AFB, but as he considered it he understood. This was not a flight that was to attract any attention.

His driver had picked him up at the general aviation terminal, and after a brief conversation about his identification, hadn't said much at all. Lionel wished he could calm down enough to try to start a conversation, but it just wasn't going to work out. It was going to take all he had not to lose it over this Dukes of Hazzard driving from this mystery flyboy.

They sped over a rise, and cresting it suddenly had a view of a sprawling concrete-and-steel complex surrounded by twenty-foot fencing. The top of the fence, Lionel noticed, was well-covered with razor wire. The first checkpoint was still several miles from a small huddle of buildings; Lionel saw that the barricades after the checkpoint forced their path in a zig-zag pattern. No vehicle much larger than their Jeep could have negotiated the turns.

At the second checkpoint, armed guards circled the Jeep carrying small electronic devices Lionel couldn't identify, as well as mirrors mounted on the ends of short poles, checking the underside of the Jeep. Lionel and his escort both had to step from the vehicle, as a Marine in desert combat fatigues waved an electronic wand across their arms and legs. Lionel thought it looked similar to devices used at Langley, or even in commercial aviation; but these were much, much thinner.

There was another zig-zag pattern of barricades sat past the checkpoint, and after negotiating this, they were in.

Their destination was a dull gray building with backwards-sloping walls, built into a hillside to such an extent that Lionel suspected he could see perhaps one tenth of the building's full size. This was Building 909.

Every American knew that their government's military had various facilities around the world, where the secret weapons of the next war would undergo testing and evaluation. Most Americans knew that early nuclear explosions had taken place in Nevada, and that the "stealth", or radar-evading technology so effective in the 1991 Gulf War, also had its roots in the state, at a semi-secret base known to the civilian world as "Area 51".

But in the neighboring state of New Mexico, a far more interesting and strategically significant technology was being tested. Until about a month ago, even Lionel had never heard of Building 909.

A woman in plain clothes emerged from the single door in the side of the building, walking toward them and extending her hand.

"John Lionel," she said smiling broadly. "I'm Pat Woods, National Security Agency. Welcome to Building 909."

"Thanks," said Lionel, returning the smile.

"Come this way, please."

Lionel looked back; his escort remained in the Jeep, under the hot sun. Apparently he was going to wait until Lionel was safely inside the massive steel door. Somewhere in the distance a jet engine screamed from high altitude. Lionel turned and followed his host through the doorway.

Walking into the building they were met by a surprising blast of refrigerated air. The hallways were spartan, with little art and no sign of a window anywhere. Lionel noticed a strange pattern of diamond-shaped cross-hatching in the texture of the walls.

"The entire building is protected from radio frequency interference," said Woods, following Lionel's stare. "Outside of the White House Situation Room, and maybe Air Force One, this is probably the most private place on earth."

Woods led him down a stairway and into her office, another sparsely decorated room. The single adornment on her desk, Lionel noticed with mild amusement, was a wooden model of the supersonic SR-71 spyplane.

"What I'm going to show you," began Woods, sitting behind her desk and gesturing for Lionel to take a chair opposite her, "is about as big a secret as we have these days."

Lionel nodded, taking his seat. "I've been getting that feeling ever since I spoke to the Joint Chiefs. And," he added, "I've gotten the sense that this is not a place where most people just wander in."

Woods smiled at him. "There was some question," she continued, "as to what would be the best location for your center of operations." She shifted in her chair. "As odd as it might seem, the Joint Chiefs decided you needed to be here. I was a little uncomfortable until I'd had a better chance to look at your service record, but between seeing that and the recommendations of the Chiefs I'm glad to have you here."

"Thanks," said Lionel, genuinely pleased. "I don't want to seem like I'm stepping on interdepartmental toes."

"Not at all," said Woods quickly. "It's a perfect fit. We have the communications network necessary to coordinate things from the Building, and there's no chance anyone outside the perimeter will have any idea what you're up to... or even," she smiled broadly, "that you're here."

Woods opened a file drawer and removed a single piece of paper, pushing it across the desk.

"This is a different kind of secrecy agreement," she said quietly. "This is going to take your life away for the duration of your work here. Rather completely, I might add."

Lionel began to read the document, frowning slightly. He popped a mint and began working in earnest on the wrapper.

"Take your time," said Woods. "We can't leave this office until you've signed. You need to really be sure about this."

Lionel knew his situation. The Emergency Terrorist Nuclear Defense Plan he scripted, and the Secretary of Defense ultimately approved, was as comprehensive as the state of technology would allow. But to run it he would have to be focused exclusively on the job -- and in order for him to get the job, he needed to leave the Bureau.

He was too visible, as amazing as that seemed. While NATIO captured few headlines, the fact remained that whoever had made off with the Soviet warheads had a good understanding of the U.S. intelligence system; they had, for one thing, somehow been able to access data from the TRANSOM satellite, a platform which had been classified and compartmentalized about as much as could be done.

The complicated impression Lionel had to convey, not only to the public but also to everyone at the FBI (and all the other departments they touched), was that he was not going to be involved in any part of this investigation. And for that to be even remotely possible, since he would be the person to head up such an investigation, people had to get the impression that (a) there was no investigation, and (b) that Lionel was leaving the FBI.

The past three weeks had been a series of short stage plays, performed for the pleasure of the press, his colleagues, and anyone else who might have taken an interest. He had intentionally brought home a laptop that held sensitive information; he had been reprimanded. He had done it again; he had been publicly censured.

He had made a series of phone calls, asking old acquaintances to put out "feelers" for new work for him, were he to leave the Bureau. "No no," he had said, "I'm not actively looking, or anything. You know, just for the future. I mean, no one works for the public sector forever, right?"

He had done it on insecure phone lines, from his home. He spoke to friends in various news agencies, not saying enough to give them any kind of interesting story, but merely mentioning in passing his dissatisfaction with work. All of these parts together were enough that when his departure from the FBI was formally announced, few were surprised.

All this was necessary in order to continue the illusion that no one knew about the bomb.

Lionel would need to practically live and breathe his new command, and doing it from the FBI headquarters would make it all too obvious that they were on the trail of a rogue nuclear device.

The NSA, on the other hand, were quite a bit less public. "No Such Agency" went the old cold-war joke, and for a government entity the National Security Agency were remarkably streamlined, and very tight with their own information. Since they spent so much time invading other people's privacy, it made a certain amount of sense that they would be exceptionally good at maintaining their own.

The NSA kept a motto: "Providing and Protecting Information". This was a philosophy nicely embodied by the sixteen sub-story bunker he would shortly be calling home.

Lionel's hand, holding the pen, hovered over the paper briefly. He considered the next part of his new assignment.

As it had been explained by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, there were currently two military assets that could neutralize the threat of a nuclear weapon like the one recovered from the Scorpion; conveniently, both had their test and evaluation operations under the umbrella of the Air Force. Only one was actually operational, and that one would be housed at Andrews Air Force Base. It would be charged with the primary mission of protecting the nation's capitol.

The other was still experimental, months away from being field-ready (although Lionel expected he would have something to say about that timetable), and this asset would have to stay at its home here, in this most shadowy corner of Kirtland Air Force Base. From Kirtland, it could conceivably reach most of the lower 48 states in record time, fulfilling what the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the Secretary of Defense had determined to be the secondary objective: protecting everyone else.

Lionel would inhabit a mission-specific control room in the heart of Manzillo Mountain, thirteen floors below the ground level of Building 909, and would spend his sunlight-free days and nights training an operations crew for the possibility of a nuclear attack on U.S. soil.

He signed the paper, and passed it back to Woods.

"Well," she said, "Let's go look at your new office."

Woods led him out the door and down another series of corridors, into an elevator, and down to the lowest level of the Building.

"You're not going to fool anyone that you're really Air Force out here," joked Lionel.

Woods looked at him, curious. "How do you mean?"

Lionel pointed at the buttons on the elevator control panel. "Thirteen floors," he laughed. "Pilots are the most superstitious creatures in the world, they'd never let you get away with that!"

She laughed back, putting her hands in her coat pockets. "In our line of work, even bad luck can be auspicious."

The elevator door opened, and Lionel stepped out onto an entire floor dedicated to watching the country; large display screens filled the walls, and a dozen men were monitoring feeds from satellites, aircraft, and ground units. The 24-hour a day task of searching for that weapon had begun.

"This is your office over here," said Woods, guiding him to a representatively spartan cubicle on a far wall. On the desk were two computers, four telephones, a video conferencing unit, and a small cylindrical box wrapped in gold foil.

"What's this?"

Woods just grinned. "It's a welcoming gift. Open it."

He pulled apart the foil, revealing a little plastic tub. It was filled with mint candies. He opened the lid, pulled a handful out of his own pocket, and dropped them in. Exactly the same kind.

"Nice work," said Lionel, grinning back at her. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," said Woods. "We are the NSA, after all."

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