May 30, 3:39 P.M.
Washington, D.C.
So much for dinner plans.
Though the explosion in Utah was only an hour old, Painter Crowe knew he'd be in his office all night. Details continued to flow in by the minute, but information remained sketchy due to the remote mountainous location of the blast. All of Washington's intelligence communities were on high alert and mobilizing to bear on the situation.
Including Sigma.
Painter's group operated as a covert wing for DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. His team was composed of handpicked Special Forces soldiers-those whose IQs tested off the scales or who showed unique mental acumen. He recruited and retrained them in various scientific disciplines to act as field operatives for the Defense Department's research-and-development wing. Teams were sent out into the world to protect against global threats.
Normally, such a domestic attack as in Utah would not fall within his team's purview, but a few anomalous details had drawn the interest of his boss, the head of DARPA, General Gregory Metcalf. Painter might have still argued against utilizing Sigma's resources for such a messy business, but as a result of the controversy surrounding the blast, even the president-who owed his life to Sigma in the past-had personally requested their assistance in this delicate matter.
And one does not say no to President James T. Gant.
So Painter's barbecue plans with his girlfriend were put on hold for the night.
Instead, he stood with his back to his desk and studied the large flat-panel monitors mounted on the three walls of his office. They depicted various views of the blast. The best footage came from the CNN cameras that had recorded the event. The other monitors flowed with grainy video and photos captured from cell phones, the millennium's new digital eyes on the world.
For the hundredth time, he watched the looping feed from CNN. He saw an older woman-Dr. Margaret Grantham, an anthropologist-leaning over a green military transport crate. She undid the latches and lifted the lid. A commotion ensued, jittering the camera feed. The view swung wildly. He caught a glimpse of a figure behind the woman, fleeing away-then a blinding flash of light.
Using a remote control, he froze the footage. He stared into the heart of the blast. If he squinted, he could make out the shadow of the woman within that glare, a dark ghost within the blaze. He moved the image forward frame by frame and watched her shadow slowly consumed by the brightness, whittled away to nothing.
With a heavy heart, he hit the fast-forward button. From there, the footage became chaotic and jostled: trees, sky, running figures. Eventually the cameraman found a vantage point from which he felt safe enough to resume shooting. The view swung back to the steaming blast zone. Chaos still reigned as people fled the site. A handful of others remained below, cautiously examining the scene. Moments later, a steaming geyser erupted and chased even the stragglers away.
A preliminary report already sat on his desk from Sigma's resident geologist. He estimated the blast had cracked into a "subsurface geothermal stream."
Painter stared again at the geyser. It wasn't subsurface any longer. The geologist's assessment had included a topographic map dotted with hot springs in the vicinity. Even in the dry technical jargon of the report, Painter could sense the enthusiasm brimming in the young geologist, the raw desire to investigate the site firsthand.
While he appreciated such passion, the National Guard had the place locked down. A search was under way for the shadowy figure behind the blast. Using the remote control again, he froze the fleeting image of the bomber, blurry and indistinct, caught for less than a second.
According to interviews, it was a young woman. She had tossed a backpack full of C4, wired with detonators, then fled into the woods. The National Guard, local police forces, and agents from Salt Lake City's FBI field office were attempting to seal off the area, but the mountainous terrain, rugged and thickly wooded, posed a challenge to finding her, especially if she knew the area.
To make matters worse, eyewitnesses reported that the woman was Native American. If true, that would mean even more political tension.
Painter caught his reflection in the monitor and searched for his own ancestry. He was a half-blooded Pequot Indian, on his father's side, but his blue eyes and light skin came from his Italian mother. Most never pegged him as Native American, but the features were there, if you looked hard enough: the wide, high cheekbones, the deep black hair. But as he aged, those Indian traits shone more strongly.
Lisa had commented on it only last month. They had been spending a lazy Sunday in bed, reading the paper, finding no reason to get up. She had leaned on an elbow and traced a finger down his face. "You're keeping your tan longer, and these sun crinkles are deepening. You're getting to look a lot like that old photo of your father."
Not exactly something you wanted to hear when lounging in bed with your girlfriend .
She had reached and fingered the single lock of white hair behind his ear, tucked like a snowy feather against the field of black. "Or maybe it's just that you're letting your hair grow out. I could almost tie this into a warrior's braid."
In fact, he hadn't been growing his hair out. He just hadn't had a chance to get it cut for a couple of months. He'd been spending more and more time at Sigma Command. The covert facility lay buried beneath the Smithsonian Castle on the National Mall, occupying what had once been bomb shelters during World War II. The location had been picked for both its convenient access to the halls of power and for its proximity to the Smithsonian Institution's many research facilities.
It was where Painter spent most of his days. His only windows on the world of late were his office's three giant monitors.
He turned away and crossed back to his desk, contemplating the implication of a homegrown terrorist, one with a Native American background. He seldom gave his own heritage much thought, especially after spending most of his youth in a series of foster homes. His mother, suffering from depression, had stabbed his father to death after seven years of marriage and the birth of their son. Afterward, Painter continued to have some contact with his Native American roots, fostered through the extended family of his father's tribe. But after such a hardscrabble and chaotic upbringing, he'd grown to place more emphasis on the American part of his Native American ancestry.
A knock on his open office door interrupted him. He glanced up to see Ronald Chin, Sigma's geology expert, standing in the doorway. "Thought you should see this."
Painter waved the geologist inside, almost expecting him to have to duck through the doorway. Chin stood just shy of six feet, missing that mark only because he kept his head shaved to the skin. He wore a gray lab jumpsuit, zippered half down to reveal an Army Ranger T-shirt.
"What is it?" Painter asked.
"I was poring over some of the reports and came across something that could be important." He placed a file atop the desk. "It was from a debriefing of a National Guardsman on the scene, a Major Ashley Ryan. Most of the questions centered on the identity of the bomber, along with events leading up to the blast. But Major Ryan seemed mighty agitated about the blast itself."
Painter sat up straighter and reached to the file.
"If you look at page eighteen, I've highlighted the key passages."
Painter opened the report, flipped pages, and read what was marked in yellow. There were only a handful of exchanges, but the major's last statement sent a chill through his blood.
He read it aloud. " 'The ground... it looked like it was dissolving away.' "
Chin stood with hands behind his back on the far side of his desk. "From the beginning, I thought there was something odd about that blast. So I consulted Sigma's demolition expert. He came to the same conclusion. For a detonation strong enough to break through bedrock and crack open a geothermal spring, the concussive blast radius should have been tenfold larger."
A gruff voice interrupted from the doorway. "That's right. Not nearly enough bang."
Painter turned to the doorway again. Apparently Sigma's new resident bomb expert had come to support Chin's assessment. The man leaned against the door frame. He stood half a foot taller than Chin, and outweighed his teammate by a good forty pounds, most of it muscle. His dark hair was stubble, but he still slicked back what little was there with gel. The man wore the same coveralls as Chin, but from the bared chest, it looked like he was wearing nothing underneath.
In his right hand, he kneaded a fistful of clay.
Painter grew concerned. "Kowalski, is that the C4 from the weapons locker?"
The man straightened with a shrug, suddenly looking sheepish. "Thought I'd run a test..."
Painter felt a sick lurch in his stomach. Joe Kowalski was ex-Navy, hired by Sigma a few years ago. Unlike others, he was more of an adoptee than a recruit. He had been serving as muscle and team support, but Painter sensed there might be more to this guy than met the eye, a vein of sharpness hidden beneath that dull exterior.
At least he hoped so.
Painter had reviewed the man's dossier since he'd joined Sigma-evaluating his aptitude and skills-and eventually assigned him to a field of study for which he seemed best suited: blowing stuff up.
Painter was beginning to regret that decision. "I don't think any explosives tests will be necessary." He tapped the file on his desk. "Have you read this field report?"
"I skimmed it."
"What's your take?"
"Definitely wasn't C4." He lifted his fist of explosive and gave it a squeeze. "The explosion was something else."
"Any thoughts?"
"Not without examining the blast field. Collecting some samples. Otherwise I have no clue."
He had to give Kowalski credit. It was a passable evaluation.
"Well, someone knows the truth." Painter leaned back in his desk chair and glanced to the screen with the frozen image of the bomber. "That is, if we can find her."