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It seemed a small consolation to Gabrielle.

“As for Tench’s allegations of Sexton’s illegal campaign finance... “Yolanda shook her head. “I have my doubts. Granted, Herney is serious about no negative campaigning. And granted, a bribery investigation would be bad for the country. But is Herney really so patriotic that he would forgo a chance to crush his opposition, simply to protect national morale? My guess is Tench stretched the truth about Sexton’s finances in an effort to scare. She gambled, hoping you’d jump ship and give the President a free sex scandal. And you’ve got to admit, Gabs, tonight would have been a hell of a night for Sexton’s morals to come into question!”

Gabrielle nodded vaguely. A sex scandal would have been a one‑two punch from which Sexton’s career never would have recovered... ever.

“You outlasted her, Gabs. Marjorie Tench went fishing, but you didn’t bite. You’re home free. There’ll be other elections.”

Gabrielle nodded vaguely, unsure what to believe anymore.

“You’ve got to admit,” Yolanda said, “the White House played Sexton brilliantly‑luring him down the NASA path, getting him to commit, coaxing him to put all his eggs in the NASA basket.”

Totally my fault, Gabrielle thought.

“And this announcement we just watched, my God, it was genius! The importance of the discovery entirely aside, the production values were brilliant. Live feeds from the Arctic? A Michael Tolland documentary? Good God, how can you compete? Zach Herney nailed it tonight. There’s a reason the guy is President.”

And will be for another four years...

“I’ve got to get back to work, Gabs,” Yolanda said. “You sit right there as long as you want. Get your feet under you.” Yolanda headed out the door. “Hon, I’ll check back in a few minutes.”

Alone now, Gabrielle sipped her water, but it tasted foul. Everything did. It’s all my fault, she thought, trying to ease her conscience by reminding herself of all the glum NASA press conferences of the past year‑the space station setbacks, the postponement of the X‑33, all the failed Mars probes, continuous budget bailouts. Gabrielle wondered what she could have done differently.

Nothing, she told herself. You did everything right.

It had simply backfired.

The thundering navy SeaHawk chopper had been scrambled under a covert operation status out of Thule Air Force Base in northern Greenland. It stayed low, out of radar range, as it shot through the gale winds across seventy miles of open sea. Then, executing the bizarre orders they had been given, the pilots fought the wind and brought the craft to a hover above a pre‑ordained set of coordinates on the empty ocean.

“Where’s the rendezvous?” the copilot yelled, confused. They had been told to bring a chopper with a rescue winch, so he anticipated a search‑and‑retrieve operation. “You sure these are the right coordinates?” He scanned the choppy seas with a searchlight, but there was nothing below them except‑

“Holy shit!” The pilot pulled back on the stick, jolting upward.

The black mountain of steel rose before them out of the waves without warning. A gargantuan unmarked submarine blew its ballast and rose on a cloud of bubbles.

The pilots exchanged uneasy laughs. “Guess that’s them.”

As ordered, the transaction proceeded under complete radio silence. The doublewide portal on the peak of the sail opened and a seaman flashed them signals with a strobe light. The chopper then moved over the sub and dropped a three‑man rescue harness, essentially three rubberized loops on a retractable cable. Within sixty seconds, the three unknown “danglers” were swinging beneath the chopper, ascending slowly against the downdraft of the rotors.

When the copilot hauled them aboard‑two men and a woman‑the pilot flashed the sub the “all clear.” Within seconds, the enormous vessel disappeared beneath the windswept sea, leaving no trace it had ever been there.

With the passengers safely aboard, the chopper pilot faced front, dipped the nose of the chopper, and accelerated south to complete his mission. The storm was closing fast, and these three strangers were to be brought safely back to Thule AFB for further jet transport. Where they were headed, the pilot had no idea. All he knew was that his orders had been from high up, and he was transporting very precious cargo.

When the Milne storm finally exploded, unleashing its full force on the NASA habisphere, the dome shuddered as if ready to lift off the ice and launch out to sea. The steel stabilizing cables pulled taut against their stakes, vibrating like huge guitar strings and letting out a doleful drone. The generators outside stuttered, causing the lights to flicker, threatening to plunge the huge room into total blackness.

NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom strode across the interior of the dome. He wished he were getting the hell out of here tonight, but that was not to be. He would remain another day, giving additional on‑site press conferences in the morning and overseeing preparations to transport the meteorite back to Washington. He wanted nothing more at the moment than to get some sleep; the day’s unexpected problems had taken a lot out of him.

Ekstrom’s thoughts turned yet again to Wailee Ming, Rachel Sexton, Norah Mangor, Michael Tolland, and Corky Marlinson. Some of the NASA staff had begun noticing the civilians were missing.

Relax, Ekstrom told himself. Everything is under control.

He breathed deeply, reminding himself that everyone on the planet was excited about NASA and space right now. Extraterrestrial life hadn’t been this exciting a topic since the famous “Roswell incident” back in 1947‑the alleged crash of an alien spaceship in Roswell, New Mexico, which was now the shrine to millions of UFO‑conspiracy theorists even today.

During Ekstrom’s years working at the Pentagon, he had learned that the Roswell incident had been nothing more than a military accident during a classified operation called Project Mogul‑the flight test of a spy balloon being designed to listen in on Russian atomic tests. A prototype, while being tested, had drifted off course and crashed in the New Mexico desert. Unfortunately, a civilian found the wreckage before the military did.

Unsuspecting rancher William Brazel had stumbled across a debris field of radical synthesized neoprene and lightweight metals unlike anything he’d ever seen, and he immediately called in the sheriff. Newspapers carried the story of the bizarre wreckage, and public interest grew fast. Fueled by the military’s denial that the wreckage was theirs, reporters launched investigations, and the covert status of Project Mogul came into serious jeopardy. Just as it seemed the sensitive issue of a spy balloon was about to be revealed, something wonderful happened.

The media drew an unexpected conclusion. They decided the scraps of futuristic substance could only have come from an extraterrestrial source‑creatures more scientifically advanced than humans. The military’s denial of the incident obviously had to be one thing only‑a cover‑up of contact with aliens! Although baffled by this new hypothesis, the air force was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. They grabbed the alien story and ran with it; the world’s suspicion that aliens were visiting New Mexico was far less a threat to national security than that of the Russians catching wind of Project Mogul.

To fuel the alien cover story, the intelligence community shrouded the Roswell incident in secrecy and began orchestrating “security leaks"‑quiet murmurings of alien contacts, recovered spaceships, and even a mysterious “Hangar 18” at Dayton’s Wright‑Patterson Air Force Base where the government was keeping alien bodies on ice. The world bought the story, and Roswell fever swept the globe. From that moment on, whenever a civilian mistakenly spotted an advanced U.S. military aircraft, the intelligence community simply dusted off the old conspiracy.

That’s not an aircraft, that’s an alien spaceship!

Ekstrom was amazed to think this simple deception was still working today. Every time the media reported a sudden flurry of UFO sightings, Ekstrom had to laugh. Chances were some lucky civilian had caught a glimpse of one of the NRO’s fifty‑seven fast‑moving, unmanned reconnaissance aircraft known as Global Hawks‑oblong, remote‑controlled aircraft that looked like nothing else in the sky.

Ekstrom found it pathetic that countless tourists still made pilgrimages to the New Mexico desert to scan the night skies with their video cameras. Occasionally one got lucky and captured “hard evidence” of a UFO‑bright lights flitting around the sky with more maneuverability and speed than any aircraft humans had ever built. What these people failed to realize, of course, was that there existed a twelve‑year lag between what the government could build and what the public knew about. These UFO‑gazers were simply catching a glimpse of the next generation of U.S. aircraft being developed out at Area 51‑many of which were the brainstorms of NASA engineers. Of course, intelligence officials never corrected the misconception; it was obviously preferable that the world read about another UFO sighting than to have people learn the U.S. military’s true flight capabilities.

But everything has changed now, Ekstrom thought. In a few hours, the extraterrestrial myth would become a confirmed reality, forever.

“Administrator?” A NASA technician hurried across the ice behind him. “You have an emergency secure call in the PSC.”

Ekstrom sighed, turning. What the hell could it be now? He headed for the communications trailer.

The technician hurried along beside him. “The guys manning the radar in the PSC were curious, sir...”

“Yeah?” Ekstrom’s thoughts were still far away.

“The fat‑body sub stationed off the coast here? We were wondering why you didn’t mention it to us.”

Ekstrom glanced up. “I’m sorry?”

“The submarine, sir? You could have at least told the guys on radar. Additional seaboard security is understandable, but it took our radar team off guard.”

Ekstrom stopped short. “What submarine?”

The technician stopped now too, clearly not expecting the administrator’s surprise. “She’s not part of our operation?”

“No! Where is it?”

The technician swallowed hard. “About three miles out. We caught her on radar by chance. Only surfaced for a couple minutes. Pretty big blip. Had to be a fat‑body. We figured you’d asked the navy to stand watch over this op without telling any of us.”

Ekstrom stared. “I most certainly did not!”

Now the technician’s voice wavered. “Well, sir, then I guess I should inform you that a sub just rendezvoused with an aircraft right off the coast here. Looked like a personnel change. Actually, we were all pretty impressed anyone would attempt a wet‑dry vertical in this kind of wind.”

Ekstrom felt his muscles stiffen. What the hell is a submarine doing directly off the coast of Ellesmere Island without my knowledge? “Did you see what direction the aircraft flew after rendezvous?”

“Back toward Thule air base. For connecting transport to the mainland, I assume.”

Ekstrom said nothing the rest of the way to the PSC. When he entered the cramped darkness, the hoarse voice on the line had a familiar rasp.

“We’ve got a problem,” Tench said, coughing as she spoke. “It’s about Rachel Sexton.”

Senator Sexton was not sure how long he had been staring into space when he heard the pounding. When he realized the throbbing in his ears was not from the alcohol but rather from someone at his apartment door, he got up from the couch, stowed the bottle of Courvoisier, and made his way to the foyer.

“Who is it?” Sexton yelled, in no mood for visitors.

His bodyguard’s voice called in with the identity of Sexton’s unexpected guest. Sexton sobered instantly. That was fast. Sexton had hoped not to have to have this conversation until morning.

Taking a deep breath and straightening his hair, Sexton opened the door. The face before him was all too familiar‑tough and leathery despite the man’s seventy‑something years. Sexton had met with him only this morning in the white Ford Windstar minivan in a hotel parking garage. Was it only this morning? Sexton wondered. God, how things had changed since then.

“May I come in?” the dark‑haired man asked.

Sexton stepped aside, allowing the head of the Space Frontier Foundation to pass.

“Did the meeting go well?” the man asked, as Sexton closed the door.

Did it go well? Sexton wondered if the man lived in a cocoon. “Things were terrific until the President came on television.”

The old man nodded, looking displeased. “Yes. An incredible victory. It will hurt our cause greatly.”

Hurt our cause? Here was an optimist. With NASA’s triumph tonight, this guy would be dead and buried before the Space Frontier Foundation attained their goals of privatization.

“For years I have suspected proof was forthcoming,” the old man said. “I did not know how or when, but sooner or later we had to know for sure.”

Sexton was stunned. “You’re not surprised?”

“The mathematics of the cosmos virtually requires other life‑forms,” the man said, moving toward Sexton’s den. “I am not surprised that this discovery has been made. Intellectually, I am thrilled. Spiritually, I am in awe. Politically, I am deeply disturbed. The timing could not be worse.”

Sexton wondered why the man had come. It sure as hell wasn’t to cheer him up.

“As you know,” the man said, “SFF member companies have spent millions trying to open the frontier of space to private citizens. Recently, much of that money has gone to your campaign.”

Sexton felt suddenly defensive. “I had no control over tonight’s fiasco. The White House baited me to attack NASA!”

“Yes. The President played the game well. And yet, all may not be lost.” There was an odd glint of hope in the old man’s eyes.

He’s senile, Sexton decided. All was definitely lost. Every station on television right now was talking about the destruction of the Sexton campaign.

The old man showed himself into the den, sat on the couch, and fixed his tired eyes on the senator. “Do you recall,” the man said, “the problems NASA initially had with the anomaly software onboard the PODS satellite?”

Sexton could not imagine where this was headed. What the hell difference does that make now? PODS found a goddamned meteorite with fossils!

“If you remember,” the man said. “The onboard software did not function properly at first. You made a big deal of it in the press.”

“As I should have!” Sexton said, sitting down opposite the man. “It was another NASA failure!”

The man nodded. “I agree. But shortly after that, NASA held a press conference announcing they had come up with a work‑around‑some sort of patch for the software.”

Sexton hadn’t actually seen the press conference, but he’d heard it was short, flat, and hardly newsworthy‑the PODS project leader giving a dull technical description of how NASA had overcome a minor glitch in PODS’s anomaly‑detection software and gotten everything up and running.

“I have been watching PODS with interest ever since it failed,” the man said. He produced a videocassette and walked to Sexton’s television, putting the video in the VCR. “This should interest you.”

The video began to play. It showed the NASA press room at headquarters in Washington. A well‑dressed man was taking the podium and greeting the audience. The subtitle beneath the podium read:

CHRIS HARPER, Section Manager

Polar Orbiting Density Scanner Satellite (PODS)

Chris Harper was tall, refined, and spoke with the quiet dignity of a European American who still clung proudly to his roots. His accent was erudite and polished. He was addressing the press with confidence, giving them some bad news about PODS.

“Although the PODS satellite is in orbit and functioning well, we have a minor setback with the onboard computers. A minor programming error for which I take full responsibility. Specifically, the FIR filter has a faulty voxel index, which means the PODS’s anomaly‑detection software is not functioning properly. We’re working on a fix.”

The crowd sighed, apparently accustomed to NASA letdowns. “What does that mean for the current effectiveness of the satellite?” someone asked.

Harper took it like a pro. Confident and matter‑of‑fact. “Imagine a perfect set of eyes without a functioning brain. Essentially the PODS satellite is seeing twenty‑twenty, but it has no idea what it’s looking at. The purpose of the PODS mission is to look for melt pockets in the polar ice cap, but without the computer to analyze the density data PODS receives from its scanners, PODS cannot discern where the points of interest are. We should have the situation remedied after the next shuttle mission can make an adjustment to the onboard computer.”

A groan of disappointment rose in the room.

The old man glanced over at Sexton. “He presents bad news pretty well, doesn’t he?”

“He’s from NASA,” Sexton grumbled. “That’s what they do.”

The VCR tape went blank for an instant and then switched to another NASA press conference.

“This second press conference,” the old man said to Sexton, “was given only a few weeks ago. Quite late at night. Few people saw it. This time Dr. Harper is announcing good news.”

The footage launched. This time Chris Harper looked disheveled and uneasy. “I am pleased to announce,” Harper said, sounding anything but pleased, “that NASA has found a work‑around for the PODS satellite’s software problem.” He fumbled through an explanation of the work‑around‑something about redirecting the raw data from PODS and sending it through computers here on earth rather than relying on the onboard PODS computer. Everyone seemed impressed. It all sounded quite feasible and exciting. When Harper was done, the room gave him an enthusiastic round of applause.

“So we can expect data soon?” someone in the audience asked.

Harper nodded, sweating. “A couple of weeks.”

More applause. Hands shot up around the room.

“That’s all I have for you now,” Harper said, looking ill as he packed up his papers. “PODS is up and running. We’ll have data soon.” He practically ran off the stage.

Sexton scowled. He had to admit, this was odd. Why did Chris Harper look so comfortable giving bad news and so uncomfortable giving good news? It should have been in reverse. Sexton hadn’t actually seen this press conference when it aired, although he’d read about the software fix. The fix, at the time, seemed an inconsequential NASA salvage; the public perception remained unimpressed‑PODS was just another NASA project that had malfunctioned and was being awkwardly patched together with a less than ideal solution.

The old man turned off the television. “NASA claimed Dr. Harper was not feeling well that night.” He paused. “I happen to think Harper was lying.”

Lying? Sexton stared, his fuzzy thoughts unable to piece together any logical rationale for why Harper would have lied about the software. Still, Sexton had told enough lies in his life to recognize a poor liar when he saw one. He had to admit, Dr. Harper sure looked suspicious.

“Perhaps you don’t realize?” the old man said. “This little announcement you just heard Chris Harper give is the single most important press conference in NASA history.” He paused. “That convenient software fix he just described is what allowed PODS to find the meteorite.”

Sexton puzzled. And you think he was lying about it? “But, if Harper was lying, and the PODS software isn’t really working, then how the hell did NASA find the meteorite?”

The old man smiled. “Exactly.”

The U.S. military’s fleet of “repo” aircraft repossessed during drug‑trade arrests consisted of over a dozen private jets, including three reconditioned G4s used for transporting military VIPs. A half hour ago, one of those G4s had lifted off the Thule runway, fought its way above the storm, and was now pounding southward into the Canadian night en route to Washington. Onboard, Rachel Sexton, Michael Tolland, and Corky Marlinson had the eight‑seat cabin to themselves, looking like some kind of disheveled sports team in their matching blue U.S.S. Charlotte jumpsuits and caps.

Despite the roar of the Grumman engines, Corky Marlinson was asleep in the rear. Tolland sat near the front, looking exhausted as he gazed out the window at the sea. Rachel was beside him, knowing she could not sleep even if she’d been sedated. Her mind churned through the mystery of the meteorite, and, most recently, the dead room conversation with Pickering. Before signing off, Pickering had given Rachel two additional pieces of disturbing information.

First, Marjorie Tench claimed to possess a video recording of Rachel’s private deposition to the White House staff. Tench was now threatening to use the video as evidence if Rachel tried to go back on her confirmation of the meteorite data. The news was particularly unsettling because Rachel had specifically told Zach Herney that her remarks to the staff were for in‑house use only. Apparently Zach Herney had ignored that request.

The second bit of troubling news dealt with a CNN debate her father had attended earlier in the afternoon. Apparently, Marjorie Tench had made a rare appearance and deftly baited Rachel’s father into crystallizing his position against NASA. More specifically, Tench had cajoled him into crudely proclaiming his skepticism that extraterrestrial life would ever be found.

Eat his hat? That’s what Pickering said her father had offered to do if NASA ever found extraterrestrial life. Rachel wondered how Tench had managed to coax out that propitious little sound bite. Clearly, the White House had been setting the stage carefully‑ruthlessly lining up all the dominoes, preparing for the big Sexton collapse. The President and Marjorie Tench, like some sort of political tag team wrestling duo, had maneuvered for the kill. While the President remained dignified outside the ring, Tench had moved in, circling, cunningly lining up the senator for the presidential body slam.

The President had told Rachel he’d asked NASA to delay announcing the discovery in order to provide time to confirm the accuracy of the data. Rachel now realized there were other advantages to waiting. The extra time had given the White House time to dole out the rope with which the senator would hang himself.

Rachel felt no sympathy for her father, and yet she now realized that beneath the warm and fuzzy exterior of President Zach Herney, a shrewd shark lurked. You did not become the most powerful man in the world without a killer instinct. The question now was whether this shark was an innocent bystander‑or a player.

Rachel stood, stretching her legs. As she paced the aisle of the plane, she felt frustrated that the pieces to this puzzle seemed so contradictory. Pickering, with his trademark chaste logic, had concluded the meteorite must be fake. Corky and Tolland, with scientific assurance, insisted the meteorite was authentic. Rachel only knew what she had seen‑a charred, fossilized rock being pulled from the ice.

Now, as she passed beside Corky, she gazed down at the astrophysicist, battered from his ordeal on the ice. The swelling on his cheek was going down now, and the stitches looked good. He was asleep, snoring, his pudgy hands clutching the disk‑shaped meteorite sample like some kind of security blanket.

Rachel reached down and gently slipped the meteorite sample away from him. She held it up, studying the fossils again. Remove all assumptions, she told herself, forcing herself to reorganize her thoughts. Reestablish the chain of substantiation. It was an old NRO trick. Rebuilding a proof from scratch was a process known as a “null start”‑something all data analysts practiced when the pieces didn’t quite fit.

Reassemble the proof.

She began pacing again.

Does this stone represent proof of extraterrestrial life?

Proof, she knew, was a conclusion built on a pyramid of facts, a broad base of accepted information on which more specific assertions were made.

Remove all the base assumptions. Start again.

What do we have?

A rock.

She pondered that for a moment. A rock. A rock with fossilized creatures. Walking back toward the front of the plane, she took her seat beside Michael Tolland.

“Mike, let’s play a game.”

Tolland turned from the window, looking distant, apparently deep in his own thoughts. “A game?”

She handed him the meteorite sample. “Let’s pretend you’re seeing this fossilized rock for the first time. I’ve told you nothing about where it came from or how it was found. What would you tell me it is?”

Tolland heaved a disconsolate sigh. “Funny you should ask. I just had the strangest thought... “

Hundreds of miles behind Rachel and Tolland, a strange‑looking aircraft stayed low as it tore south above a deserted ocean. Onboard, the Delta Force was silent. They had been pulled out of locations in a hurry, but never like this.

Their controller was furious.

Earlier, Delta‑One had informed the controller that unexpected events on the ice shelf had left his team with no option but to exercise force‑force that had included killing four civilians, including Rachel Sexton and Michael Tolland.

The controller reacted with shock. Killing, although an authorized last resort, obviously never had been part of the controller’s plan.

Later, the controller’s displeasure over the killings turned to outright rage when he learned the assassinations had not gone as planned.

“Your team failed!” the controller seethed, the androgynous tone hardly masking the person’s rage. “Three of your four targets are still alive!”

Impossible! Delta‑One had thought. “But we witnessed‑”

“They made contact with a submarine and are now en route to Washington.”

“What!”

The controller’s tone turned lethal. “Listen carefully. I am about to give you new orders. And this time you will not fail.”

Senator Sexton was actually feeling a flicker of hope as he walked his unexpected visitor back out to the elevator. The head of the SFF, as it turned out, had not come to chastise Sexton, but rather to give him a pep talk and tell him the battle was not yet over.

A possible chink in NASA’s armor.

The videotape of the bizarre NASA press conference had convinced Sexton that the old man was right‑PODS mission director Chris Harper was lying. But why? And if NASA never fixed the PODS software, how did NASA find the meteorite?

As they walked to the elevator, the old man said, “Sometimes all it takes to unravel something is a single strand. Perhaps we can find a way to eat away at NASA’s victory from within. Cast a shadow of distrust. Who knows where it will lead?” The old man locked his tired eyes on Sexton. “I am not ready to lay down and die, senator. And I trust nor are you.”

“Of course not,” Sexton said, mustering resolve in his voice. “We’ve come too far.”

“Chris Harper lied about fixing PODS,” the man said as he boarded the elevator. “And we need to know why.”

“I will get that information as fast as I can,” Sexton replied. I have just the person.

“Good. Your future depends on it.”

As Sexton headed back toward his apartment, his step was a little lighter, his head a little clearer. NASA lied about PODS. The only question was how Sexton could prove it.

His thoughts had already turned to Gabrielle Ashe. Wherever she was at the moment, she had to be feeling like shit. Gabrielle had no doubt seen the press conference and was now standing on a ledge somewhere getting ready to jump. Her proposition of making NASA a major issue in Sexton’s campaign had turned out to be the biggest mistake of Sexton’s career.

She owes me, Sexton thought. And she knows it.

Gabrielle already had proven she had a knack for obtaining NASA secrets. She has a contact, Sexton thought. She’d been scoring insider information for weeks now. Gabrielle had connections she was not sharing. Connections she could pump for information on PODS. Moreover, tonight Gabrielle would be motivated. She had a debt to repay, and Sexton suspected she would do anything to regain his favor.

As Sexton arrived back at his apartment door, his bodyguard nodded. “Evening, senator. I trust I did the right thing by letting Gabrielle in earlier? She said it was critical she talk to you.”

Sexton paused. “I’m sorry?”

“Ms. Ashe? She had important information for you earlier tonight. That’s why I let her in.”

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14