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Copyright ©1989 by David D. Ross
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Part 1
Blood of the Lamb
*
CHAPTER 1
"The lines of Demarcation shall be Meridian 30 degrees West and Meridian
169 degrees West, including all oceans and territories north of the Panama
Canal. Within these boundaries no merchant or military craft of foreign
origin, neither land, sea, nor air, shall be permitted, except those member
nations of the Pan-American Pact."
—Thirty-First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of
America
1
In the dying fire of afternoon Flight 104 returned home.
For most of the journey from the People's Republic of England to Neil
Armstrong International, the HST Lockheed Pegasus was scanned by the picket
line of missile patrol airships extending from Greenland to Patagonia. An escort
of four navy F-60s joined her at the invisible frontier of Fortress America, then
she dipped into the low cloud cover to make her long gliding approach.
Five minutes out her running lights were visible from the deck of the nuclear
USS Oakland, where surface-to-air missiles were targeted to fire if the aircraft
deviated from her recorded flight plan.
She popped out of the fog. The setting sun broke into view, as if to welcome
home the envoy of the president-elect, the first American to visit Europe since
the last marines were evacuated from the United States embassy in London
twenty-five years earlier. On Armstrong field, a man-made island resting on
twenty-five years earlier. On Armstrong field, a man-made island resting on
pylons fifteen miles from New England, Flight 104's flaming engines created a
false dawn.
Ear-wrenching vibration climbed the acoustical ladder from basso profundo to
piccolo. The plane's wheels sang as she touched down and taxied the length of
the runway to a glass-steel tower, which impaled the island where the waves
pounded patiently against its massive stilts.
This flight was extraordinary. It had required an executive order of the lame-
duck president to allow Dorian Nye, Nobel Prize-winning physicist, to return
from his mission. Airport security had been called out to restrain the newsmen
while Nye's entourage disembarked.
Naturally all these precautions translated into delays and red tape for the average
airline passenger. Despite over a hundred and fifty years of civil aviation, some
things never changed.
Mel Hardrim, inspector of the Greater Washington Metropolitan Police, had
joined Nye in London. As they emerged from the tunnel onto a platform
overlooking the main floor of the terminal, his eyes moved over the crowd,
which squirmed like a giant millipede recoiling on itself. Overhead, an immense
holocube displayed a three-dimensional advertisement for a household detergent
with bioengineered microscopic biobots called “stain eaters.”
As they followed a ramp down into the crowd, Hardrim was uneasy. He disliked
crowded lobbies, even when they were cordoned off. Nye coughed at his side.
Dr. Nye's tweed overcoat was draped over his left arm while he hefted an
attaché/computer with his right hand. It was cold but sweat beaded on his shiny
dome. He was small, flabby, and wore a look of eternal chagrin. His otherwise
entirely nondescript face was distinguished by beetling brows and a firm mouth.
Hardrim smelled fear. Perhaps Nye was just nervous about the hearing, but
Hardrim's warning intuition was blazing red.
He saw several people in the crowd with computer interface implants sprouting
from the backs of their necks. 'Faces, they were called by the prejudiced and
fearful. Hardrim counted himself in that group. Any of them could have been a
potential assassin, as far as he was concerned.
Nye shielded dazzled eyes against the holovision lights. Hardrim squinted and
guided him with a hand on his elbow. Tonight Nye would meet with the
president-elect. Tomorrow he would testify before Senator Macadew's Special
Committee on the World Famine. Until then, Hardrim was nursemaid to a sixty-
year old man.
A man burst between two security men. Swiveling, Hardrim saw a glint of metal
and moved to shield Nye. The scientist instinctively stepped back, covering his
face with his hand. It was the last gesture he ever made.
Hardrim saw and felt a white flash and searing wind near his temple. Dorian
Nye's head exploded, splattering him with brains and blood and bone. Another
shot! Hardrim reeled to his knees. Through a red haze he saw the assassin on his
face in a pool of blood. His own hand gripped a revolver. He had instinctively
shot the killer.
A guard cautiously rolled the assassin's body over.
“Clean through the heart.”
The guard said something else; then, for some silly reason, his head started
expanding like a balloon. Then the fake marble floor jumped up and slugged
Hardrim in the face.
2
Somewhere a kid was beating a toy drum. Hardrim wanted to tell him to stop,
but whenever he tried, the tattoo increased. He swallowed at the cotton lining his
throat and squirmed under maniac dwarves wielding needles.
He sat up suddenly and was rewarded by a lance of agony in his head. His torso
was swathed in bandages and he was in an infirmary. The air was pungent with
antiseptics.
“Are you feeling better?”
Startled, Hardrim was hit by a wave of pain. When it subsided he saw a man in
the brown and black security uniform squinting at him. The man was middle-
aged, late seventies, Hardrim judged, although it was getting more difficult to
tell whether someone was in his fifties or approaching his second century.
“No,” snapped Hardrim, “I'm not feeling better.”
“Just a little nick in your side. You could hurt yourself worse opening a can of
tuna.”
“How did I get this?”
“Fella you shot got off one more before he croaked. You remember now?”
Hardrim shook his head and was sorry.
“I don't remember shooting him.”
“Well, you seem okay. Better get up. They need you in Control.”
“Who are ‘they'?”
“They is him. That is to say, Mr. Lin, the director of security on the island.”
“I guess I'll have to see him sooner or later.”
“Sooner would be better, sir.”
Hardrim swung his bare feet to the cold floor. He looked around helplessly.
“Where're my clothes?”
“Getting cleaned. They got blood and puke all over ’em.”
Hardrim glanced at his bony legs, “I can't go to airport security looking like
this.”
“Your looks I can't do much about, but I can rustle you up a spare uniform until
your suit is cleaned.”
The outfit was tight in the waist and loose in the hips.
He was led down a corridor, past a poster with a stylized portrait of Uncle Sam
pointing a finger at him with the admonition: I WANT YOU! TO HAVE A
BABY. At the end of the corridor was a reinforced steel door with raised
lettering that warned: AIRPORT SECURITY—NO ADMITTANCE.
Inside was a paranoid utopian novelist's dream, or nightmare, come true. The
walls were lined with monitoring holocubes, computer consoles, and techs with
earphones and implanted interfaces. Images changed constantly, enlarging to
focus on individuals, shrinking to embrace crowds. They spied on every
conceivable spot: snack bars, ticket dispensers, information desks, and
restrooms.
A tall man with short blond hair, scarred hands, and muscles that rippled with
each movement, stood at the center. A small personal computer was holstered at
his side. He turned abruptly. His icy eyes were unreadable; his mouth was a line
set in stone.
“Inspector, glad you could make it. I'm Alain Lin.” He didn't offer his hand.
“I didn't seem to have much choice, Mr. Lin.”
“No.” Lin's mouth twitched into a smile. “We all admired your heroics this
afternoon, but we have some very sticky questions that need answering. The
inconvenience is regrettable, but as a police officer I'm sure you understand.
Now—”
“What is your exact status here?” Hardrim interrupted.
“Status?”
“Do you have police powers? Who has jurisdiction over this matter?”
“Matter?”
“I acknowledge you control airport security, but this is a homicide.”
“The island is outside state jurisdiction. Until federal authorities arrive I have
protolegal status—”
“Protolegal? No such thing.”
“Quasilegal then.”
“You'll have to do better than that.”
Lin struggled to be pleasant. “An important man has been killed in my airport.
When the FBI arrives I'd like to give them a little information. Would you please
answer a few questions?”
“Since you phrase it that way, of course.”
Lin breathed out and nodded. He signaled a tech and a large screen came to life.
“This is the tape of the shooting.” Hardrim relived the event from a dispassionate
perspective outside himself. He was amazed how short the episode was—
seconds, really.
“There's no question about your actions. You moved when you saw the threat
and almost took the fatal bullet yourself. Most exemplary, though ineffective.”
“Yeah. Sorry I screwed up on that final little detail, Lin.”
Lin ignored the sarcasm. “Do you know this man?” The assassin's face filled the
screen: pale, drawn, tortured from within; the body emaciated and frail, yet
strong enough to throw two security men aside like tenpins. He was in his late
fifties or early sixties.
“I've never seen him before today.”
“Too bad,” said Lin tonelessly. “We have a positive ID but no background.
“Too bad,” said Lin tonelessly. “We have a positive ID but no background.
We're checking the main computer in D.C.”
“How'd he sneak that gun past you guys? I though you had metal detection down
to a fine art?”
“That is an embarrassing question, Inspector, but now I have one for you.” He
looked at Hardrim with a predatory glee. “When did you discover that the man
you were escorting was not Dorian Nye?”
“What the hell—?”
“Or did you know it all along?”
“Dammit!”
“Did you plan his disappearance?”
“What are you talking about?”
Instead of answering, Lin sat at a console. “Project the FBI file fingerprints of
Dorian Nye on a split screen with the victim's fingerprints.” Two sets appeared.
Hardrim stared, dumbfounded.
“Interesting, isn't it?” Lin's fingers played rapidly over the keyboard. “If you're
not convinced, here are the two retinal patterns. There's no doubt. The man you
escorted was altered surgically to look like Nye.”
“That's impossible!” said Hardrim. “London police delivered Nye to me
personally at Heathrow. His identity checked—”
“We'll verify that with the English authorities, but even if it checks, you're not
off the hook. You could have made a substitution before you left London. The
possibilities are many and we'll explore them all before you leave. I won't have
an international incident laid at my door. I will find out who's responsible. From
where I sit, you're the prime suspect. For now, the island will be sealed off. If
Nye's here, we'll find him.”
“Like you found the gun?”
Lin didn't answer, but a muscle twitched in the crook of his arm.
“Until things are settled, consider yourself under arrest.”
“I want to contact my superiors,” said Hardrim stiffly.
“Of course. Don't delude yourself. They can't help you. A plane from
Washington will land shortly with federal investigators who'll be very interested
in talking with you. You may go.”
