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The Doomsday Conspiracy :: Sheldon Sidney
Страница: 6 из 213We have a shopping centre, cafeteria, post exchange, eight snack bars, a hospital complete with operating room, a dentist’s office, a branch of the State Bank of Laurel, a dry-cleaning shop, a shoe shop, a barber shop, and a few other odds and ends.”
It’s a home away from home, Robert thought. He found it oddly depressing.
They passed an enormous open area filled with a vast sea of computers. Robert stopped in amazement.
“Impressive, isn’t it? That’s just one of our computer rooms. The complex contains three billion dollars’ worth of decoding machines and computers.”
“How many people work in this place?”
“About sixteen thousand.”
So what the hell do they need me for? Robert Bellamy wondered.
He was led into a private elevator that Keller operated with a key. They went up one floor and started on another trek down a long corridor until they reached a suite of offices at the end of the hall.
“Right in here, Commander.” They entered a large reception office with four secretaries’ desks. Two of the secretaries had already arrived for work. Harrison Keller nodded to one of them. She pressed a button and a door to the inner office clicked open.
“Go right in, please, gentlemen. The General is expecting you.”
Harrison Keller said, “This way.”
Robert Bellamy followed him into the inner sanctum. He found himself in a spacious office, the ceilings and walls heavily soundproofed. The room was comfortably furnished, filled with photographs and personal artifacts. It was obvious that the man behind the desk spent a lot of time there.
General Mark Hilliard, Deputy Director of NSA, appeared to be in his middle fifties, very tall, with a face carved in flint, icy, steely eyes, and a ramrod-straight posture. The General was dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and grey tie. I guessed right, Robert thought.
Harrison Keller said, “General Hilliard, this is Commander Bellamy.”
“Thank you for dropping by, Commander.”
As though it had been an invitation to some tea party.
The two men shook hands.
“Sit down. I’ll bet you could do with a cup of coffee.”
The man was a mind-reader. “Yes, sir.”
“Harrison?”
“No, thank you.” He took a chair in the corner.
A buzzer was pressed, the door opened and an oriental in a mess jacket entered with a tray of coffee and Danish pastry. Robert noted that he was not wearing an identification badge. Shame. The coffee was poured. It smelled wonderful.
“How do you take yours?” General Milliard asked.
It’s a home away from home, Robert thought. He found it oddly depressing.
They passed an enormous open area filled with a vast sea of computers. Robert stopped in amazement.
“Impressive, isn’t it? That’s just one of our computer rooms. The complex contains three billion dollars’ worth of decoding machines and computers.”
“How many people work in this place?”
“About sixteen thousand.”
So what the hell do they need me for? Robert Bellamy wondered.
He was led into a private elevator that Keller operated with a key. They went up one floor and started on another trek down a long corridor until they reached a suite of offices at the end of the hall.
“Right in here, Commander.” They entered a large reception office with four secretaries’ desks. Two of the secretaries had already arrived for work. Harrison Keller nodded to one of them. She pressed a button and a door to the inner office clicked open.
“Go right in, please, gentlemen. The General is expecting you.”
Harrison Keller said, “This way.”
Robert Bellamy followed him into the inner sanctum. He found himself in a spacious office, the ceilings and walls heavily soundproofed. The room was comfortably furnished, filled with photographs and personal artifacts. It was obvious that the man behind the desk spent a lot of time there.
General Mark Hilliard, Deputy Director of NSA, appeared to be in his middle fifties, very tall, with a face carved in flint, icy, steely eyes, and a ramrod-straight posture. The General was dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and grey tie. I guessed right, Robert thought.
Harrison Keller said, “General Hilliard, this is Commander Bellamy.”
“Thank you for dropping by, Commander.”
As though it had been an invitation to some tea party.
The two men shook hands.
“Sit down. I’ll bet you could do with a cup of coffee.”
The man was a mind-reader. “Yes, sir.”
“Harrison?”
“No, thank you.” He took a chair in the corner.
A buzzer was pressed, the door opened and an oriental in a mess jacket entered with a tray of coffee and Danish pastry. Robert noted that he was not wearing an identification badge. Shame. The coffee was poured. It smelled wonderful.
“How do you take yours?” General Milliard asked.