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Authors: Jon Land

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Day of the Delphi
marks a new beginning for me with the Tor publishing family, the wonder of which starts at the top with Tom Doherty, as great a man as he is a publisher. Tom is even greater for assigning me to a brilliant editor, Natalia Aponte, who took
my
final draft and helped turn it into something much better.
Of course none of this would have ever happened without my agent Toni Mendez’s dogged persistence and faith. Toni, you just keep getting better, as does Ann Maurer, who lived every line of this book with me from the first draft.
Walt Mattison (the real Blaine McCracken) and Emery Pineo continue to keep me on the straight and narrow when it comes to armaments and technologies. Genuises both, especially Emery, who makes answers to all my questions just a phone call away. And now that Dr. Mort Korn has retired, South Florida’s loss has become my gain, since he has more time to peruse my early drafts.
For a great weekend in Washington where much of this book took shape, my thanks to Skip Trahan, the ultimate tour guide, although I think next time we’ll skip Dupont Circle.
Thanks to Andy Stearns, Michael Weinberg, and Colin Burgess for help with the Coconut Grove geo. And to Jane Bosman for South Africa, Dick Shartenberg for New Mexico, Nancy Bercovitz for promotional input, and political scientist Gary Eddins for his help deciphering the inner workings of the government. Acknowledgment must
also go to a superb study of trilateralism edited by Holly Sklar.
1
And finally a special thanks to the gang at Steeple Street, who suffered through my weekly progress reports, and especially Joni Kopels, who made it through a whole manuscript!
Other books by Jon Land
 
The Alpha Deception
The Council of Ten
The Doomsday Spiral
The Eighth Trumpet
The Gamma Option
Labyrinth
The Lucifer Directive
The Ninth Dominion
The Omega Command
The Omicron Legion
The Valhalla Testament
The Vengeance of the Tau
Vortex
“Who do we need?”
“Sam Jack Dodd!”
“When do we need him?”
“Now!
To a man and woman, all of the marchers carried mounted posters of Samuel Jackson Dodd, the charismatic billionaire who had captured the nation’s fancy in the wake of a disastrous first eighteen months for the new president. The gridlock that was supposed to end only tightened, and a slew of broken promises later, his approval ratings had sunk into the high twenties. After a brief respite, the economy faltered again with no measures the administration enacted able to halt the slide. With nowhere else to turn, much of the nation was turning away.
Toward Samuel Jackson Dodd.
 
“Give me a crackling fireplace on a cold night, a damned good cognac, and Jon Land’s DAY OF THE DELPHI .. then leave me the hell alone so I can enjoy myself.”
—David Hagberg, author of
COUNTDOWN
and
CRITICAL MASS
 
“Tom Clancy and Stephen Coonts step aside. Jon Land is the new master of the political thriller, with plot twists for the ’90’s. Characters that jump off the page and breathless pace make him the new one to beat.”
—Ralph Arnote, author of
FALLEN IDOLS
Coming soon from Tor Books …
A Blaine McCracken Novel
by Jon Land
 
 
 
 
Enjoy the following preview!
PROLOGUE
“What d’ya make of that?”
Officer Joe Langhorn turned slowly into the sun, inching the Arizona Highway Patrol car toward the shape on the side of the road. On first glance he had passed it off as a Hefty bag discarded by some lunkhead in a Winnebago too impatient to wait for the next rest stop. But now he was thinking it could be a coyote or even a mountain lion. Road kill of a bumper-bending sort.
“Jesus Christ, Wayne, is that a …”
His partner, Wayne Denbo, held a hand up to shield his eyes, then pulled it away along with his sunglasses.
“Shit,” Denbo muttered. “Pull over.”
“I’ll call it in,” from Langhorn, reaching for the mike stand.
“Wait till we’re sure.”
Denbo climbed out his door first once the cruiser had ground to a halt on the sand-washed pavement. He had redonned his sunglasses, gun flap unsnapped out of habit. Langhorn drew up even in time for the next wave of sand to slap him in the face.
“I’m sure enough now,” he said after it had passed.
The shape suspended halfway over the shoulder embankment belonged to a man. The flapping of a black shirt spilling out of his pants accounted for the illusion of a discarded Hefty bag. His outstretched, sand-caked arms were tawny enough to look like the limbs of some unfortunate mountain predator. Not a coyote, but road kill quite possibly after all.
Langhorn waited with his gaze half on the cruiser while
Denbo leaned over the body and felt about its neck for a pulse.
“He’s still alive,” Denbo said, looking up.
“I’m calling this in now.”
“’The fuck, Joe. Bring my thermos over.”
It was a Dunkin’ Donuts jumbo, the kind that came free with enough coffee to fill it. Except Wayne Denbo always filled it with iced tea. Every day that Joe Langhorn could remember since they’d been paired up on this route.
The ice had long melted and what contents had survived the morning sloshed about inside. Joe Langhorn delivered it to his partner, who had just turned the man-shape onto his back.
“He hasn’t been here long,” Denbo reported. “Couple hours maybe.”
“Hit by a car maybe?”
“Don’t think so. He’s got no bruises or abrasions I can find.”
Langhorn gazed around into the emptiness that stretched in all directions. “Where’s his car? How the fuck he get out here?”
The shape moaned. Denbo lifted his head and tapped his cheek lightly.
“Mister? Come on, mister, wake up. Come on … .”
“You check for ID?”
Denbo flipped his partner a wallet he had pulled from the shape’s pants pocket. Langhorn bobbled it briefly, then grabbed hold.
“Name’s Frank McBride,” he reported, after locating the man’s driver’s license. “From Beaver Falls. Twenty miles west down the highway.”
“Twelve walking ’cross the sand.”
“You figure that’s how he got himself here?”
“Look at him.”
Langhorn didn’t really want to. Whatever it was would make a man walk a dozen miles straight into the heat of the
day was beyond anything he could conceive. “Thinking about calling this in, Wayne.”
But Denbo still had the shape’s head cradled, a half cup of brown-black iced tea pressed against his lips. He saw something tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket and reached for it.
“What’s that?” Langhorn asked.
“Airline ticket envelope.” Denbo opened it. “Empty.”
“Maybe they canceled his flight, so he decided to walk.”
The senior man’s eyes scorned his partner for the failed attempt at humor.
“Sorry.”
Denbo lifted the iced tea away from the unconscious man’s lips. “Come on, Mr. McBride. It’s okay now. You’re all right. Wake up. Wake up.”
The shape stirred slightly. His eyes opened: uncertain, wavering, frightened. His lips began to take in the tea.
“That’s it. There we go. Not too fast now.”
Denbo pulled the cup away and McBride was left with dark brown droplets washing the sand off his chin. His lips trembled, then opened, moving.
“I think he’s trying to talk, Wayne,” Langhorn pronounced. “I think he’s trying to say something.”
Denbo moved his right ear closer.
“Did you walk here from home, Mr. McBride? Did you walk here from Beaver Falls?”
The shape tried to force out a word and spit sand forth in its place. His hand latched desperately onto Denbo’s sleeve and drew the patrolman closer.
Joe Langhorn heard a muttered rasp, something like air bleeding from a tire. The rasp came again and then Wayne Denbo pulled away.
“What’d he say, Wayne?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, what’d you hear?”
Frank McBride was just lying there, not trying to talk anymore.
Denbo gulped down the rest of the tea himself. “One word.”
“
What
word, for the love of Christ?”
Denbo looked up from the empty cup. “Gone, Joe. I think he said
gone
.”
 
By the time the officers got him into the back of their patrol car, McBride was out again, eyelids jittering like a dreaming dog’s.
“What do you think he meant, Wayne?” raised Joe Langhorn. “What do you think he meant when he said
gone
?”
“Beaver Falls.”
“Huh?”
Denbo settled himself in the passenger seat. “I said Beaver Falls. Know anything about it?”
“Population of maybe a thousand. Nothing ’round it for miles. Folks live there like their privacy. Residents call it the Falls. Beaver got lost a long time ago.” Langhorn met Denbo’s stare and got the message. “Not on our patrol, that’s what you’re thinking.”
The senior man’s eyes tilted toward the backseat. “We should run him home.”
“Call it in’s what we should do. Stay with him while we wait for the ambulance to get here.”
“Forty minutes if we’re lucky,” Denbo told his partner.
“Long wait for a guy who maybe just needs to sleep one off.”
“He walked out of the desert.”
“Fight with his wife, maybe.”
“Way he’s dressed, that empty airline folder in his pocket, I’m thinking maybe he got home and saw something he didn’t like. Made him leave in a hurry.”
“Start the car, Joe,” Denbo ordered. “Beaver Falls is barely out of our way.”
 
 
Joe Langhorn never would have admitted it, but he breathed a silent sigh of relief when the town of Beaver Falls came into view. A part of him deep within had feared it was going to be … gone. Melted into the ground or reduced to rubble, like in some thriller novel they sold in the discount paperback section of Wal-mart. But it was there, rustic colors baking in the midday sun.
A squat collection of buildings no more than three stories high formed the town center along a half-mile drag. There was a church on one side of town. A K—12 school rested on the other. Couple restaurants, a bar, post office and bank. The single parking lot was half full.
Joe Langhorn snailed the squad car through the outskirts past some of the residents’ homes and headed into the center of town. He pulled into a parking space in front of the sheriff’s station marked RESERVED.
In the backseat Frank McBride shifted uneasily, threatening to come awake.
“Wait here,” Wayne Denbo instructed.
“The hell I will,” followed Langhorn, joining him on the hot pavement. They entered the sheriff’s office one behind the other.
It was empty. A cup of coffee that had long lost its steam sat on a big desk with a SHERIFF JOHN TOULAN nameplate. A half-eaten donut rested next to it on a napkin. There were three other desks and a counter for the receptionist/ dispatcher, all unoccupied.
“Musta left in a hurry,” said Langhorn.
Wayne Denbo moved behind the counter and reached for the microphone attached to the communications base unit. “Sheriff Toulan, this is the Arizona Highway Patrol. Come in, please. Over.”
Silence.
“Sheriff Toulan, come in, please. Over.”
More silence.
Langhorn and Denbo looked at each other. They started for the door.
“Maybe they’re out looking for McBride,” Langhorn offered.
Back in the street Denbo stiffened. “Look over there. ’Cross the street.”
Langhorn followed his eyes to an old-fashioned diner called Ruby’s dominated by a long counter.
“What do you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Right. Even though it’s lunchtime.”
Denbo started moving and Langhorn quickly followed him. Bells jangled when the senior cop entered the diner, presently lined by empty counter stools and unoccupied booths. Half of the stools had plates of breakfast food resting before them, most partially eaten. A blackboard advertised a western omelet special, and three orders with varying amounts left looked lonely in one of the booths.
Langhorn stuck his hand in a half-gone cup of coffee and swept his tongue across his fingers. “Hours old. Looks like they never got past breakfast, never mind lunch.”
“Enough time maybe for Mr. McBride to walk himself across the desert?”
“What the fuck, Wayne? What the
fuck
?”
They backed out through the door. The bells jingling startled Langhorn and he unsnapped his gun retainer.
“Let’s take a walk,” Denbo suggested.
 
In the post office, the lone counter had been abandoned with four letters resting atop it. Four stamps waited nearby to be licked.
The bank, too, was empty, the floor dotted with stray bills, a few checks, and deposit slips.
At Beaver Falls’ single filling station, a Chevy Cavalier waited at the pump with the nozzle from the regular slot jammed into its tank. The gas had come to an automatic stop. The Cavalier’s driver’s door was open, key still in the ignition and no driver to be found.
Each window Langhorn and Denbo passed, each closed
door they stopped to knock on brought the same results: nothing.
Langhorn was palming his gun butt now, flirting with whether or not to draw it. “Let’s get out of here, okay?”
“Whatever it was musta happened fast.”
“Wayne, let’s get out of—”
“If they were all together, where would they be?” Denbo followed, his eyes drifting up the street toward the school.
“We got to call this in, Wayne.”
“One more thing to check.”
 
The school door closed behind them with a rattling clang. The main office was just on the right and Wayne Denbo led the way in.
Beyond the front counter, a trio of secretary’s desks were empty.
The two highway patrolmen advanced down the narrow hall separating the offices of the principals and guidance counselors. The first three were empty as well.
They moved on to a room packed with copying and mimeograph machines, attracted by a dull hum emanating from a space-age Xerox with multiple paper slots protruding from one side. The top slot had overflowed and spit neatly printed paper everywhere. The machine’s small LED readout flashed a continuous message:
PAPER OUT
The Mr. Coffee against the far wall brimmed with a steaming full pot. Three styrofoam cups had been set out as if to await its contents.
“Nothing,” Joe Langhorn said from the doorway. “Fucking nothing.”
“You take the back end of the building,” Wayne Denbo told him. “I’ll take the front.” He pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt. “Stay in touch.”
Judging by the maps dangling from the front wall in the
first classroom he entered, Denbo figured this must be the school’s social studies section. Textbooks and notebooks lay open on unoccupied desks, some with pens dropped haphazardly upon them. What little of the blackboard the maps left exposed showed a sentence uncompleted, abandoned in the middle.
Denbo moved on to the next classroom.
Identical sheets rested atop each desk. Denbo stopped near one in the rear and hovered over the chair, as if the kid was still seated there. Social studies quiz. Twenty questions, all multiple choice. Junior high school stuff. Kid from this desk had gotten through the first nine.
“Wayne?” Langhorn’s voice called over the walkie-talkie.
“Here, Joe.”
“I’m in one of the science labs. It stinks down here. Got all kinds of stuff in vials and tubes left out. Instructions on the board saying what to do.”
“Don’t do anything. Don’t touch anything,” warned Denbo, worried about chemicals being left out that weren’t supposed to. He tried thinking about what it was like for Frank McBride. Back from a business trip to find his whole town missing. That had been hours ago. Maybe McBride had seen something then that might help decipher what had happened here in the Falls.

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