Gideon's Sword

Gideon's Sword by Douglas Preston Page B

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Authors: Douglas Preston
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wiseass mode, looking around. Garza looked at him, no smile this time, but did not reply.
    Beyond lay a vast, cavernous room, an open shell four stories high, illuminated by seemingly hundreds of halogen lights. Metal catwalks ran around the upper levels. The floor—as big as a football field—was covered with rows of large steel tables. On them rested a confusing welter of disparate items: half-dissected jet engines; highly complex 3-D models of urban areas; a scale model of what appeared to be a nuclear plant undergoing a terrorist attack by airplane. In a near corner was an especially large table, displaying what looked like a large, cutaway section of the seabed, showing its geological strata. Technicians in white coats moved between the tables, making notes on handheld PDAs or conferring in hushed whispers.
    “This is corporate headquarters?” Gideon asked, looking around. “Looks more like Industrial Light and Magic.”
    “I suppose you could call it magic,” Garza said as he led the way. “Of the manufactured variety.”
    Gideon followed him past table after table. On one was a painstaking re-creation of Port au Prince, both before and after the earthquake, tiny flags on the latter marking patterns of devastation. On another table was a huge scale model of a space facility, all tubes and cylinders and solar panels.
    “I recognize that,” Gideon said. “It’s the International Space Station.”
    Garza nodded. “As it looked before leaving orbit.”
    Gideon looked at him. “Leaving orbit?”
    “To assume its secondary role.”
    “Its what ? You must be joking.”
    Garza flashed him a mirthless smile. “If I thought you’d take me seriously, I wouldn’t have told you.”
    “What in the world do you do here?”
    “Engineering and more engineering, that’s all.”
    Reaching the far wall, they rode an open-cage elevator up to the fourth-floor catwalk, then passed through a door that led to a maze of white corridors. Ultimately, they reached a low-ceilinged, windowless conference room. It was small and spartan in its lack of decor. A table of exotic, polished wood dominated the space, and there were no paintings or prints on the white walls. Gideon tried to think of a suitable crack, but nothing came immediately to mind. Besides, he realized it would be wasted on Garza, who seemed immune to his rapier-like wit.
    At the head of the table sat a man in a wheelchair. He was perhaps the most extraordinary-looking human being Gideon had ever seen. Closely cropped brown hair, shot through with silver, covered a large head. Below a deep brow gleamed a single fierce gray eye which was fixed on him; the other eye was covered with a black silk patch, like a pirate’s. A jagged, livid scar lanced down the right side of the man’s face, starting at his hairline and running through the covered eye, continuing all the way to his jaw and disappearing under the collar of his crisp blue shirt. A black, pin-striped suit completed the sinister picture.
    “Dr. Crew,” the figure said, his face breaking into a faint smile that did nothing to soften its hardness. “Thank you for coming all this way. Please sit down.”
    Garza remained standing in the background as Gideon took a seat.
    “What?” Gideon said, looking around. “No coffee or Fiji water?”
    “My name is Eli Glinn,” said the figure, ignoring this. “Welcome to Effective Engineering Solutions, Incorporated.”
    “Sorry in advance for not bringing my résumé. Your friend Garza was in a hurry.”
    “I don’t like to waste time. So if you’d be kind enough to listen, I’ll brief you on the assignment.”
    “Does it have anything to do with that Disney World downstairs? Plane crashes, natural disasters—you call that engineering?”
    Glinn gazed at him mildly. “Among other things, EES specializes in the discipline of failure analysis.”
    “Failure analysis?”
    “Understanding how and why things fail—whether it be an assassination, an aviation

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