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Doug at the Desk. That’s what everybody called him. Doug sat behind the reception desk all day, courteous to one and all. It was his job, and he took it seriously. He had to, because it was his front. He was more than a receptionist, built like a train, with two years of intensive combat training in weapons and hand-to-hand. Novak selected him for this lowly receptionist job, because he was the front line of defense. Behind him, screening the elevators, were two more men at all times. They were his back-up.
Doug at the Desk. First in line.
Doug and Crossfield, Archer’s Head of Security, shared the front desk in twelve-hour shifts. Doug volunteered for the night shift. Crossfield was an older guy with lots of experience but not at the top of his game physically, in Doug’s opinion. Doug wanted to be on the desk when the fucker arrived. He would take him down all by himself.
At his reception desk, Doug viewed a bank of security screens fed by security cameras throughout the building. He could punch up any location from his computer keyboard and focus in on any location. He could sequence the scans on a timer or on command. It took two minutes for every camera to feed in to one of the four screens, switching every fifteen seconds. His eyes flitted across four screens, fifteen seconds per camera, with a two-minute cycle for all thirty-two cameras.
Doug at the Desk ran his scan now, punching in the command to ICARUS, which controlled the building through a nest of programmable logic controllers or PLC’s, hooked up to electronic alarms, thermostats, cameras, air conditioners, and motion detectors. ICARUS could make the building comfortable or uncomfortable on command. The computer network also could function without commands, firing up its own logic routines based on input data from its PLC’s. The logic routines were color graded, from green to orange to red to black, depending on the severity of the data. Black meant a hot zone leak, a contamination from the third level basement. Orange was the usual night status, green the day status.
Doug at the Desk watched his monitor screens roll through the thirty-two cameras as ICARUS confirmed status “orange” for all alarms, sensors, and PLC’s. The thirty-two cameras showed him the location of everyone in the building, which tallied with his entry log. There were twenty-eight people in the building, according to his log. The egghead doctor was in the hot zone chamber, working on what was left of Novak. The Snakeskin Commander was in the B3 lockers with three Jericho men, holding some kind of training session with his fancy armor. Doug had taken an instant dislike to Kipling.
The new CIO replacing Patricia Masters, the delicious Danielle Montreau was on B2, the computer center floor. She was alone, sitting at the hard-wired terminal directly linked to ICARUS. God knew what she was up to, but she was the only woman in the place, so he froze that camera for an extra ten seconds, just for the pleasure of looking at the curve of her back as she leaned over her computer screen. She raised her hand and gave him the finger without looking at the camera. Doug smiled, no harm in looking. It was his job.
The nine remaining Jericho bodyguards spread themselves out on Upper Level 3, two floors up from his desk. They were also on six-hour shifts, two groups of six men. They covered the stairwells and elevator, plus one man in Tower’s office. They were all wearing gas masks and protective suits. They had given the same for Doug to wear, but he told them to shove it. He would stop the bad guy before he spread anything around him. He was at the front desk.
That left eight Archer security men. Of the eight, two staffed the front desk: Doug and Crossfield, who were now asleep in the control room behind the elevators. That left six, three pairs that rotated in six-hour shifts, from sleep to elevators to rovers. There were always two men behind Doug, in the elevator alcoves, backing him up. Two more were always on patrol, the rovers monitoring the hallways and perimeters. The remaining two were in the first floor lounge, asleep. There were twenty-two men in the building, all protecting one chickenshit Director. Talk about overkill. At least it was good money. Overtime double rate. Doug watched as the cameras ran through their scan sequence, empty room after empty room.
He checked his 357 Magnum, safety off. He laid it to his right, on a shelf just beneath the counter, within easy access. Doug sat back and did his deep breathing exercises, relaxing his muscles as he prepared himself for another twelve hours of boredom. Just like last night and the night before that.
Burke briefed Doug on this Witch Doctor. Sure, the guy was some hotshot assassin. Big deal. Who would be nuts enough to take on an entire building full of specialists like himself? Hell, the guy wouldn’t get past the front desk. No one had in the three years he had sat here. He was the point man, with the perfect record.
He glanced over at the red button, to his extreme right, under the lip of the counter. He had never pushed that button, had never even come close. It was the ICARUS trip-wire to total lockdown, where retractable steel walls fall everywhere, covering all windows, outside doors, and the atrium courtyard. The building became a steel cage. Doug had only seen it once, during a test. The sound of the steel hitting the floors, everywhere, all at once was one great thunderous slam like a fist to the gut.
So let this Witch Doctor try to come into Archer. He would have to get through the motion detectors, the cameras, the infrared lenses, Archer Security, the Jericho team, those Snakeskin armor dudes and finally, ICARUS lockdown. Before all that, on the front line was the toughest link in the whole secure chain, namely Doug at the Desk.
Let the fucker try to get past him. Just let him try.