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“Dude,” Armo said, “sounds like a nice prison. Kind of sounds like the Ranch, too.”
Dekka’s eyes had gone wide on hearing Eliopoulos addressed as “dude,” but she kept quiet.
Eliopoulos shrugged and nodded and said, “In a way it is a bit like a prison, Mr. . . . um, Armo. But the fences and gates are there to keep people out, not in.”
“We come and go as we choose?” Cruz asked, clarifying for Armo’s benefit.
“Of course. I’ll repeat, because it bears repeating: we need you. And”—he dipped his head in wry acknowledgment—“we’ve seen what you do to government facilities you don’t like.”
“Okay,” Dekka said. “What else, General?”
“You would have a private jet and pilots at your disposal, twenty-four/seven/three sixty-five. If you need funds, we’ll take care of it. The Pentagon budget is large, more than large enough to conceal money spent on you.”
“You’re saying the rest of the government wouldn’t know about this facility?” Shade asked.
“Exactly. We’d be hiding it from Congress, from the Justice Department, from anyone with a, um, different view of things. I have broad powers when it comes to national security.”
Dekka glanced at Shade and saw a resentful acceptance. She looked next to Malik, who nodded slightly. Then she turned to the person she still trusted more than any other.
“Sam?”
“It would leave us vulnerable to the military. No offense, General, but you won’t always have this job.” Sam blew out his cheeks and winced at being reminded by a sharp stab of pain that his face had been barely sewn together. “But as it is, we are not just the targets of bad guys, we’re the targets of paparazzi and hustlers and con men and crazy people. Our faces are everywhere in the media, in social media. The only one of us who could walk down a street right now is Cruz, and that’s only because she can change her appearance.”
“Armo?” Dekka asked.
“If they fix the pool,” Armo said. “Also they better have decent Wi-Fi.”
One of the officers opened a folder, glanced down, and said, “There is a dedicated fiber-optic line that delivers five hundred megabits per second.”
Armo looked to Malik, who said, “Yeah, that’s about as fast as it gets.”
Armo shrugged. “Okay, but free Netflix, too.”
“That can be arranged,” said the most senior military officer in the country. “Free Netflix.”
“One more thing,” Sam said. “I’m married.”
Eliopoulos smiled a little ruefully. “We have already arranged for Ms. Ellison to join us. As a matter of fact, she should be landing at Andrews in just a few minutes. She is . . .” He let it trail off and seemed embarrassed.
“Were you about to say intimidating, even a little scary?” Sam laughed.
“I was going to say impressive and not easily convinced.” Eliopoulos grinned. “But yes, a bit . . .”
“Mmm,” Sam said. “And now she’s not just a genius; she’s got super-strength. I will no longer be throwing my laundry on the floor or leaving dishes in the sink. Or, you know, arguing with her. About anything.” He brightened. “Oh, and I should mention that Astrid has a steel box she would like to have dropped into the Marianas Trench.”
“She mentioned that, yes,” the general said. “That box is currently being loaded aboard a C-17 in California. The box in question will be rolled out of the cargo door and dropped into the deepest spot in the Pacific Ocean.”
“That ought to do it,” Sam said. And thought, Maybe.
The facility was named Site L. It encompassed more than a square mile of forested land with a scattering of uninteresting buildings aboveground. But belowground it was a great deal more, a vast complex of tunnels, empty, echoing chambers, storerooms filled with neatly organized canned food and swimming pool–sized fuel tanks. It had its own water supply, its own power generator, and could in theory survive a direct hit from a nuclear weapon.
We are ten now, Malik thought. Will we be more or fewer a month from now?
Dekka, Shade, Cruz, Armo, Francis, Sam, Astrid, Simone, Edilio, and Malik himself. Ten against how many? How many more Vectors were out there? How many enemies did they have within the government itself? How long would this lair of theirs remain secret?
The Military Police security was all outside, monitoring the cameras and sensors that augmented the razor wire–topped hurricane fence. Within the underground facility lived a small maintenance and housecleaning staff of enlisted men and women who did unglamorous work despite having security clearances higher than the captain of a nuclear submarine.
And at the center of the web of hallways and tunnels, defended by steel vault doors a tank could not dent, was a command center like something out of a movie, with video monitors on the walls and desks and wheeled chairs and the stuffy atmosphere of a place long disused. The monitors were all blank. Dust rings showed where computers had been removed. At the very middle was a ring of chairs around a rectangular table.
