Freedom (TM)

Suddenly a nearby non-com shouted in a hoarse voice, “Pochodem vchod! Zrýchlené vpred!” and the soldiers responded in unison with a guttural “Hah!” and began to march off double-time.

Philips watched as the troops moved in formation across the tarmac, toward a distant, taxiing transport plane. For a moment she wasn’t sure what to do next.

But the soldier’s departure revealed a square-jawed man in a sweat-soaked shirt and a photographer’s vest moving briskly toward her. A KMSI photo ID badge wagged on his lapel as he walked, and he was completely absorbed in flipping through papers in a dispatch case. He finally looked up to reveal mirrored sunglasses and smiled broadly. “Dr. Philips, Clint Boynton, Sky Ranch Services.” He offered his hand.

Philips just glared at him. “What is this place, Boynton?”

He started flipping through folders in the dispatch case again. “I’ve got that here.”

“I don’t think you have to look in there to tell me where we are.”

“An undisclosed location.” He pulled a thick Mylar envelope from the case. It was stamped “Top Secret” in four places. He handed it to her. “The decision to bring you here was made at the highest level.”

“The White House is involved?”

Boynton laughed, then apparently realized Philips was serious.

She took the envelope from him and felt the weight of it. There was a thick report inside. In her experience a document this heavy meant somebody had just spent several hundred million dollars.

Boynton pointed. “I’m told you’ll find answers to your questions in there. There’s a cover letter.”

She sighed and ripped the seal on the envelope, pulling out the contents. There was a thick bound report inside entitled “Project Exorcist,” with an attached letter, addressed to her. It was on Pentagon stationery. “Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” As she had been told, she was being loaned out to Weyburn Labs—for Operation Exorcist. She maintained a poker face.

“I’ve been instructed to—”

Philips just interrupted him with one upheld hand, then started flipping through the fifty-page bound report at great speed.

“Doctor?”

Philips ignored him and continued flipping pages. In half a minute she’d reached the last page. She looked up again. “Very, very interesting . . .”

Boynton pointed at it in disbelief. “You just read that?”

“Only the useful parts. Some of the estimates are overly optimistic, but still . . .”

Boynton snapped his dispatch case shut. “In any event, you’re now part of the Weyburn Labs team.” He looked at his watch.

“We’ve got a forty-mile drive ahead of us, Doctor, and time is tight.”

“We’re going to this Sky Ranch?”

“You’re already on the ranch, and we won’t be leaving it.” He raised his arm and curled the four fingers of his hand.

Several vehicles emerged from a nearby hangar: a rose-colored Mercedes Maybach limousine followed by a couple of Chevy Sub-urbans with blacked-out windows.

The Maybach rolled to a stop in front of Philips and Boynton. The passenger door bore a family crest, as though it was some Renaissance coach and four horses. The crest was a riot of cattle, rifles, and oil derricks.

She’d seen it once in a library book when she was a child. Great American Families. “The Aubrey coat of arms.”

Boynton smiled. “I’m impressed, Doctor. The Aubreys no longer own an interest in the property, but the holding company still uses their coat of arms as a logo.”

Philips nodded. “They owned the largest contiguous parcel of private land in the United States. 784,393 acres. Larger than the state of Rhode Island.”

Boynton gri

“Why such a large piece of land?”

“Privacy. We’re seventy-five miles from the nearest town. The outer perimeter is ten miles from where you’re standing and ringed with the latest seismic sensors and cameras. The sky is swept by radar, and we’ve got a battalion of crack troops in garrison—including an artillery section. The Daemon would have difficulty sneaking up on us out here.”

Philips nodded.

Soldiers wielding what looked to be metal detection or radio frequency wands emerged from the Suburban and approached Philips. Other soldiers moved to take her luggage.

“What’s this?”

“Necessary, I’m afraid. No outside electronic devices or weapons of any kind are permitted on the ranch. The Daemon is cu

She had left her phone and laptop back in Maryland, but they riffled through her purse and carry-on bag with gusto.

They also started sca

In moments, they detected her watch and the silver amulet on a chain around her neck. They sca

A soldier now strapped a small gray plastic bracelet around her wrist. He fastened it into place with a rivet gun and ran tests on it with an electronic device.

Philips looked at it. “You’re strapping a transponder on me?”

A soldier snapped a digital photograph of her.

Boynton held up his hands reassuringly. “RFID tag for tracking purposes. Don’t try to remove it.” He pointed to the one on his own wrist. “It’s your identity while on the ranch. It’ll send an alert if it’s tampered with. Sensors at the entrances to most buildings will go into alarm if you enter without one. Likewise if you enter restricted areas. And alarms are responded to with lethal force. These RFID tags let the troops know that you’re friendly, and we’ve got quite a few snipers out there—so please wear it at all times.”

Boynton opened the door to the first limousine and gestured for Philips to get inside.

She lingered at the open car door. “Why is the airfield so far from the house?”

“The FAA restricted the airspace within a twenty-mile radius of the mansion.”

Philips nodded. “I guess after 9/11 you can’t be too careful.”

Boynton looked confused.

“Planes as weapons.”

Boynton thought for a moment, then nodded. “Oh, right.” He gestured again for Philips to get inside the car. “If you please . . .”

She got inside.

The drive to the main house was a blur of grass and scrublands. For all the signs warning of cattle and the dozens of cattle guards they rumbled over, Philips never saw one. Instead she saw military units and anti-aircraft missile batteries.

Even though she remembered every word of what she’d read of the Aubreys, she was still stu

It was as if Philips had just rolled up to Castle Howard in Regency-period England. The cobblestone courtyard in front circled around a massive Italian fountain, blasting water thirty feet in the air from a dozen cherubic lips—with a muscular stallion rearing up over it all. It looked as though the Aubreys had sacked Europe. For all Philips knew, they had.

Linked to the back of the house by a covered causeway was what looked to be a sizable modern conference facility, done in smoked glass and granite.

The Maybach stopped under the shadow of twin marble stair-cases rolling out from the massive front door of the house. Philips stepped from the limousine as a valet in a red livery coat held the door for her.

Boynton had exited the Suburban and walked past them. “This way, Doctor.”