Chapter 3: Land of Rust

Washington D.C., 10:35 AM, West Wing corridor of the White House

Rick's military boots fell on the thick carpet, the sound completely absorbed. He maintained a standard marching pace, his right index finger unconsciously rubbing the position on his waist where his gun should have been holstered. The Secret Service agent at the end of the corridor nodded to him in acknowledgment, but with scrutiny in his eyes.

As he turned the corner, an antique mirror reflected his figure—his uniform still crisp, but with a subtle sweat stain at the collar. He paused, using the pretext of adjusting his tie to confirm no one was following him.

"Colonel?"

Rick spun around to see White House Chief of Staff Emma Grayson standing by the security door, clutching a stack of documents. Her gaze behind golden-rimmed glasses was as sharp as ever.

"The President needs you to sign this confidentiality agreement," she handed him a document, "regarding the content of this morning's meeting."

Rick took the pen, noticing that at the bottom of the document there were already three signatures: the President's, the Secretary of State's, and the Secretary of Defense's. The ink color was identical on all three, as if they had been signed simultaneously.

"Ms. Grayson," he asked while signing, "which department typically handles the follow-up reports from the Chicago laboratory?"

"The Pentagon's Special Investigation Division." She took back the document, the corners of her mouth turning slightly upward. "However this time, it's being reported directly to the President's Office."

As the sound of her high heels faded at the other end of the corridor, Rick reached for the breast pocket. The note with Lincoln Memorial written on it had vanished, replaced by a White House access card with an address scribbled in pencil on the back: "1900 17th St NW"—a safe house location three kilometers away from the original meeting point.

Outside the window, two F-35s were conducting patrol missions in the crystal-clear blue sky. Their shadows swept across the White House lawn like some silent warning.

Washington D.C., 10:48 AM, Northwest Gate of the White House

Rick stepped out from the shadows of the West Wing corridor, the midday sunlight instantly piercing his eyes. He squinted slightly, his right hand instinctively shielding his brow, the button on his uniform sleeve reflecting a dazzling glint in the sunlight.

Two Marine guards at the security checkpoint stood at attention and saluted, but their eyes remained fixed on the access card on Rick's chest. The younger one's Adam's apple bobbed—Rick noticed his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard of his M4 rifle.

"Would you like us to arrange transportation for you, Colonel?" the older guard asked, his voice too perfectly steady.

Rick shook his head, scanning the parking lot. Three black Chevrolet Suburbans were parked nearby, engines idling, with barely visible white smoke coming from their exhaust pipes. The windows were covered with blast-resistant film, but Rick could sense someone watching him from inside.

"Nice weather today, I'll walk back," he patted his left leg, "doctor's orders to get more exercise."

The guards exchanged a glance. The younger one seemed about to speak but ultimately just nodded stiffly.

As Rick crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, he heard urgent radio chatter behind him. He didn't look back, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up—an instinctive reaction developed over years on the battlefield, an intuition for the reflection of a targeting scope.

Office workers hurried past on the sidewalk, no one giving the uniformed officer a second glance. Rick turned at the first intersection, using a storefront window's reflection to confirm: those three Suburbans had indeed slowly followed, maintaining a perfectly calculated distance.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. When he took it out, an encrypted message flashed on the lock screen: "Don't go home. Red Line subway→Dupont Circle→Transfer to S2 bus. —W"

Rick deleted the message and glanced up at the surveillance camera on the street corner. He knew that at least five groups were tracking his movements right now: the President's, the Secretary of Defense's, the Secretary of State's, and two others whose origins he didn't know.

When the light turned green, he suddenly accelerated across the street, jumping onto a bus just as the doors were closing. Through the dirty window, he saw the three Suburbans forced to stop at the intersection, the window of one lowering to reveal Secretary Crawford's assistant's ashen face.

As the bus slowly pulled away, Rick felt the key stuck to the bottom of the seat—the cold metal ridges told him this would be the beginning of a long day.

Washington D.C., 11:23 AM, Connecticut Avenue

The bus slowly pulled up to the stop, and Rick rose and walked toward the rear door. Sunlight streamed through the windows, falling on his shoulders with the gentle warmth unique to early spring.

The air conditioning inside the bus hummed softly, mingling with the muffled jazz from the radio. In the front seats, an elderly woman was rummaging through her shopping bag, while a student-looking young man dozed against the window—everything appeared calm and ordinary.

The door opened with a hiss, and Rick stepped off. On the platform, several employees in Federal Express uniforms were busy loading and unloading packages, none sparing him a glance.

He stood at the edge of the platform, pretending to check his phone while scanning the street from the corner of his eye. The three Suburbans were still parked two blocks away, windows half-lowered, the silhouettes inside barely visible.

The key rested quietly in his pocket, cool to the touch.

Rick walked unhurriedly along the sidewalk and turned into a coffee shop. After ordering a black coffee, he sat by the window, watching the Suburbans slowly drive past without stopping.

The coffee cup was warm, its aroma wafting up. He gently rubbed the key in his pocket, contemplating his next move. Outside, the sunshine remained gentle, the city's rhythm unchanged, as if no crisis loomed.

Washington D.C., 11:35 AM, inside the coffee shop

Rick's phone vibrated on the table, displaying "Unknown Number." He stared at the flashing incoming call notification for two seconds before his thumb gently swiped the answer key.

"Beautiful weather for a walk, isn't it?"

Secretary of State Williams' voice came through the receiver, as gentle as usual but with a hint of tension. The faint hum of helicopter rotors could be heard in the background.

Rick didn't respond immediately, his gaze sweeping across the other customers in the coffee shop—college students queuing at the counter, office workers typing on laptops in the corner, everything normal.

"I'm guessing you didn't call to discuss the weather, sir," he said in a low voice, his fingers unconsciously tapping the edge of his coffee cup.

Williams gave a slight chuckle, the laugh sounding somewhat distorted through the static: "The 17th Street locker is a good choice. But I suggest you detour through the Jefferson Memorial—the cherry blossoms are out there, quite beautiful."

The call suddenly cut off. Rick stared at the darkened screen, his brow furrowing slightly. The Jefferson Memorial wasn't even on the route to the safe house, and cherry blossom season wasn't due to start for at least two more weeks.

He raised his coffee cup, using its reflection to observe outside. Across the street, a man in a gray trench coat pretended to read a newspaper, but his gaze behind his glasses remained fixed on the coffee shop entrance.

Rick put down his cup, leaving a tip on a napkin. When he pushed open the door, the man in the trench coat immediately closed his newspaper and raised his hand to the communication device in his ear.

In the distance, toward the Jefferson Memorial, a cloud of pink bloomed unseasonably in the clear sky—the distinctive color of a directional signal flare.

Washington D.C., 12:08 PM, Tidal Basin shore

Rick walked slowly along the shore path, the early spring breeze carrying moisture from the Potomac River across his collar. The white dome of the Jefferson Memorial reflected in the lake surface, shattered into thousands of shimmering fragments by the gentle wind.

A few tourists were scattered on the lawn taking photos, an elderly couple sat on a bench feeding pigeons, young people in sportswear jogged past wearing earphones—no suspicious figures anywhere.

As he climbed the memorial steps, a familiar figure emerged from behind a marble column. Secretary of State Williams wore casual clothes and held a tourist guidebook, looking like an ordinary retired scholar.

"Cherry blossoms bloomed earlier in 1939 than they do now," Williams said softly, opening the guidebook and pointing to a page. "That year Roosevelt recorded the bloom dates in his personal diary."

Rick took the book, his fingertips detecting where pages had been cut inside—hiding a storage locker key and a note filled with numbers.

"The President doesn't know you're here?"

Williams smiled, his gaze sweeping across the calm lake surface. "Jonathan now only listens to AI advice." He removed his glasses to clean them. "And the 'Sentinel' system has an interesting flaw—it doesn't recognize visitor center storage lockers."

A blue heron skimmed across the lake, the sound of its wings beating covering their whispers. Rick slipped the book into his inside jacket pocket, feeling the edge of the key press against his ribs.

"Tonight at eight," Williams suddenly raised his voice, pointing eastward like an enthusiastic tour guide, "the light show at the Lincoln Memorial is worth seeing."

As he walked away, an unseasonable cherry blossom petal fell on his shoulder. Rick watched the old man's hunched figure blend into the crowd of tourists, while the numbers on the note in his hand seemed to burn slightly in the sunlight.

Washington D.C., 12:22 PM, Jefferson Memorial Visitor Center

Rick stood in the corner of the locker area, his fingertips gently rubbing the note. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, illuminating the string of numbers with unusual clarity:

17-36-5-24-9-15

His eyes moved between the numbers, his brain automatically beginning to decode—this wasn't a simple locker combination, but a variant of geographic coordinates. 17°36'5" N, 24°9'15" W. Somewhere in the Atlantic, near the edge of the Bermuda Triangle.

The door of locker B12 clicked open with a faint sound. Inside was only a manila envelope, light to the touch. Rick didn't immediately remove it, but instead used his phone camera to check the envelope's edges—no tamper-evident seal, no reflective conductive ink.

"Need any help?"

A visitor center staff member had appeared behind him, his name tag reading "Intern." But Rick noticed his stance—weight slightly forward, right hand hanging naturally at his side, the posture of someone ready to draw a weapon at any moment.

"No, I found it," Rick smiled, holding up a postcard. "My grandmother always likes to mail souvenirs from here."

He slipped the envelope into his sleeve. As he walked out of the visitor center, he counted at least three surveillance operatives disguised as tourists—a woman with a DSLR camera who hadn't removed the lens cap, a boy eating ice cream with a military-issue watch on his wrist, and an Asian tourist pretending to take selfies but with the camera angle obviously offset.

On the bench by the lake, the tourist guide Williams had left still lay open. Rick sat down and turned to page 36, his finger tracing over the facsimile of Roosevelt's diary. Certain letters had been lightly circled in pencil, spelling out a chemical formula: C17H24O5.

The molecular formula for cortisol. A stress hormone.

The sound of a ferry's horn came from the distance. Rick held the postcard up to the sunlight, and invisible ink gradually revealed itself—a yellowed floor plan of the Chicago laboratory, with a ventilation duct circled in red pen, beside it the notation: Sentinel blind spot 02:00-02:15.

He looked up at the memorial's dome, just in time to see an albatross glide past. This sea bird shouldn't appear inland; the band on its leg glinted with an eerie metallic sheen in the sunlight.

Washington D.C., 12:45 PM, Tidal Basin walking path

Rick tucked the postcard into his inner pocket and set off westward along the lakeshore. Spring sunlight filtered through the newly green treetops, casting dappled light on his shoulders. The path grew busier with tourists, and several children on bicycles laughed as they sped past him, their bells ringing cheerfully.

He turned onto a side path, and when passing a public restroom, casually tossed the tourist guidebook into a trash bin. The mirror-like glass doors reflected the scene behind him—the woman with the DSLR camera had stopped at the junction and was speaking into her communication device.

Ahead, the path led to a cherry tree grove. Though not yet blooming season, the branches were already studded with tender green buds. Rick slowed his pace, his fingers in his pocket gently stroking the edges of the envelope. He could feel that inside were not just papers, but also a small metal object that shifted slightly with each step.

At the end of the path was an intersection with Constitution Avenue, where traffic flowed steadily. Rick sat down on a bench, pretending to tie his shoelace while sliding the envelope into a gap under the seat. As he stood up, his fingertips held a tiny data card, the size of an SD card but with edges gleaming with unusual copper color.

A taxi conveniently stopped in front of him.

"To Dupont Circle," Rick said as he opened the door, noting a thin, long scar on the back of the driver's neck—the typical incision mark from a subcutaneous communication device implant common among special forces.

In the rearview mirror, several hurried figures flashed past the edge of the cherry tree grove. As the taxi turned onto the main road, Rick found an earpiece stuck with chewing gum under the seat. He put it on and heard Williams' hoarse whisper:

"The data card needs to be inserted into the old terminal beneath the Lincoln Memorial... they'd never think we'd use the backup system from 1932..."

Outside the window, the outline of the Lincoln Memorial gradually came into focus. Rick gazed at the calm surface of the Reflecting Pool, which mirrored a Black Hawk helicopter silently circling above, like a predatory bird waiting to strike.

Washington D.C., 1:03 PM, in a taxi heading to Dupont Circle

The city street scene steadily retreated outside the window, the afternoon sun casting fragmented light on the windshield. Rick leaned back in the rear seat, his gaze casually sweeping across the rearview mirror—that black SUV had been following them for three blocks.

The driver's fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel in Morse code rhythm: [TAIL BEHIND]

Rick nodded slightly, taking out the copper-edged data card from his inner pocket, carefully examining it in the sunlight. The metal contacts on the card had subtle scratches, indicating it had been used repeatedly.

"Is the air conditioning too cold?" the driver suddenly spoke, simultaneously turning on the radio.

Amid the jazz music, Rick noticed the GPS screen on the dashboard flickered once, showing real-time surveillance footage of Dupont Circle—two men in suits were guarding the S2 bus stop, one with a red flashing earpiece.

"It's fine," Rick returned the data card to his pocket, his fingers tapping a response on the leather seat: [REROUTE TO ADAMS MORGAN]

The taxi suddenly turned into an alley, and the SUV in the rearview mirror unwittingly shot past the intersection. The driver whistled, sharply turning the steering wheel as the tires splashed through a puddle.

"You know," the driver's eyes blinked in the rearview mirror, "Adams Morgan has an old record shop that still sells vinyl from 1980."

Rick looked out at the passing fire escapes and graffiti walls, understanding this was a code. When the taxi finally stopped in front of a worn-down shop called "Midnight Blues," the data card felt scorching hot in his palm.

The wind chimes at the shop door jingled in the warm breeze. In the window display, a faded jazz record was spinning automatically, its label reading "Stormy Weather."