BEAL AEROSPACE. MICROCOSM, INC. ROTARY ROCKET COMPANY. KISTLER AEROSPACE. 4 страница

The bitch called me on an unsecured line.

Rachel Sexton was obviously intent on destroying the credibility of this discovery, and Tench’s only solace was knowing the President had captured Rachel’s earlier briefing on videotape. Thank God. At least Herney had thought to obtain that small insurance. Tench was starting to fear they were going to need it.

At the moment, however, Tench was trying to stem the bleeding in other ways. Rachel Sexton was a smart woman, and if she truly intended to go head‑to‑head with the White House and NASA, she would need to recruit some powerful allies. Her first logical choice would be William Pickering. Tench already knew how Pickering felt about NASA. She needed to get to Pickering before Rachel did.

“Ms. Tench?” the transparent voice on the line said. “William Pickering, here. To what do I owe this honor?”

Tench could hear the television in the background‑NASA commentary. She could already sense in his tone that he was still reeling from the press conference. “Do you have a minute, director?”

“I expected you’d be busy celebrating. Quite a night for you. Looks like NASA and the President are back in the fight.”

Tench heard stark amazement in his voice, combined with a tinge of acrimony‑the latter no doubt on account of the man’s legendary distaste for hearing breaking news at the same time as the rest of the world.

“I apologize,” Tench said, trying to build an immediate bridge, “that the White House and NASA were forced to keep you unapprised.”

“You are aware,” Pickering said, “that the NRO detected NASA activity up there a couple weeks ago and ran an inquiry.”

Tench frowned. He’s pissed. “Yes, I know. And yet‑”

“NASA told us it was nothing. They said they were running some kind of extreme environment training exercises. Testing equipment, that sort of thing.” Pickering paused. “We bought the lie.”

“Let’s not call it a lie,” Tench said. “More of a necessary misdirection. Considering the magnitude of the discovery, I trust you understand NASA’s need to keep this quiet.”

“From the public, perhaps.”

Pouting was not in the repertoire of men like William Pickering, and Tench sensed this was as close as he would get. “I only have a minute,” Tench said, working to retain her dominant position, “but I thought I should call and warn you.”

“Warn me?” Pickering waxed wry momentarily. “Has Zach Herney decided to appoint a new, NASA‑friendly NRO director?”

“Of course not. The President understands your criticisms of NASA are simply issues of security, and he is working to plug those holes. I’m actually calling about one of your employees.” She paused. “Rachel Sexton. Have you heard from her this evening?”

“No. I sent her to the White House this morning at the President’s request. You’ve obviously kept her busy. She has yet to check in.”

Tench was relieved to have gotten to Pickering first. She took a drag on her cigarette and spoke as calmly as possible. “I suspect you may be getting a call from Ms. Sexton sometime soon.”

“Good. I’ve been expecting one. I’ve got to tell you, when the President’s press conference began, I was concerned Zach Herney might have convinced Ms. Sexton to participate publicly. I’m pleased to see he resisted.”

“Zach Herney is a decent person,” Tench said, “which is more than I can say for Rachel Sexton.”

There was a long pause on the line. “I hope I misunderstood that.”

Tench sighed heavily. “No, sir, I’m afraid you did not. I’d prefer not to talk specifics on the phone, but Rachel Sexton, it seems, has decided she wants to undermine the credibility of this NASA announcement. I have no idea why, but after she reviewed and endorsed NASA’s data earlier this afternoon, she has suddenly pulled an about‑face and is spouting some of the most improbable allegations imaginable of NASA treachery and fraud.”

Pickering sounded intense now. “Excuse me?”

“Troubling, yes. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Ms. Sexton contacted me two minutes before the press conference and warned me to cancel the whole thing.”

“On what grounds?”

“Absurd ones, frankly. She said she’d found serious flaws in the data.”

Pickering’s long silence was more wary than Tench would have liked. “Flaws?” he finally said.

“Ridiculous, really, after two full weeks of NASA experimentation and‑”

“I find it very hard to believe someone like Rachel Sexton would have told you to postpone the President’s press conference unless she had a damn good reason.” Pickering sounded troubled. “Maybe you should have listened to her.”

“Oh, please!” Tench blurted, coughing. “You saw the press conference. The meteorite data was confirmed and reconfirmed by countless specialists. Including civilians. Doesn’t it seem suspicious to you that Rachel Sexton‑the daughter of the only man whom this announcement hurts‑is suddenly changing her tune?”

“It seems suspicious, Ms. Tench, only because I happen to know that Ms. Sexton and her father are barely civil to one another. I cannot imagine why Rachel Sexton would, after years of service to the President, suddenly decide to switch camps and tell lies to support her father.”

“Ambition, perhaps? I really don’t know. Maybe the opportunity to be first daughter . . . “Tench let it hang.

Pickering’s tone hardened instantly. “Thin ice, Ms. Tench. Very thin.”

Tench scowled. What the hell did she expect? She was accusing a prominent member of Pickering’s staff of treason against the President. The man was going to be defensive.

“Put her on,” Pickering demanded. “I’d like to speak to Ms. Sexton myself.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Tench replied. “She’s not at the White House.”

“Where is she?”

“The President sent her to Milne this morning to examine the data firsthand. She has yet to return.”

Pickering sounded livid now. “I was never informed‑”

“I do not have time for hurt pride, director. I have simply called as a courtesy. I wanted to warn you that Rachel Sexton has decided to pursue her own agenda with respect to tonight’s announcement. She will be looking for allies. If she contacts you, you would be wise to know that the White House is in possession of a video taken earlier today in which she endorsed this meteorite data in its entirety in front of the President, his cabinet, and his entire staff. If now, for whatever motives she might have, Rachel Sexton attempts to besmirch the good name of Zach Herney or of NASA, then I swear to you the White House will see to it she falls hard and far.” Tench waited a moment, to be sure her meaning had settled in. “I expect you to repay the courtesy of this call by informing me immediately if Rachel Sexton contacts you. She is attacking the President directly, and the White House intends to detain her for questioning before she does any serious damage. I will be waiting for your call, director. That’s all. Good night.”

Marjorie Tench hung up, certain that William Pickering had never been talked to like that in his life. At least now he knew she was serious.

On the top floor of the NRO, William Pickering stood at his window and stared into the Virginia night. The call from Marjorie Tench had been deeply troubling. He chewed at his lip as he tried to assemble the pieces in his mind.

“Director?” his secretary said, knocking quietly. “You have another phone call.”

“Not now,” Pickering said absently.

“It’s Rachel Sexton.”

Pickering wheeled. Tench was apparently a fortune‑teller. “Okay. Patch her through, right away.”

“Actually, sir, it’s an encrypted AV stream. Do you want to take it in the conference room?”

An AV stream? “Where is she calling from?”

The secretary told him.

Pickering stared. Bewildered, he hurried down the hall toward the conference room. This was something he had to see.

The Charlotte’s “dead room"‑designed after a similar structure at Bell Laboratories‑was what was formally known as an anechoic chamber. An acoustical clean room containing no parallel or reflective surfaces, it absorbed sound with 99.4 percent efficiency. Because of the acoustically conductive nature of metal and water, conversations onboard submarines were always vulnerable to interception by nearby eavesdroppers or parasitic suction mics attached to the outer hull. The dead room was, in effect, a tiny chamber inside the submarine from which absolutely no sound could escape. All conversations inside this insulated box were entirely secure.

The chamber looked like a walk‑in closet whose ceiling, walls, and floor had been completely covered with foam spires jutting inward from all directions. It reminded Rachel of a cramped underwater cave where stalagmites had run wild, growing off every surface. Most unsettling, however, was the apparent lack of a floor.

The floor was a taut, meshed chicken‑wire grid strung horizontally across the room like a fishing net, giving the inhabitants the feeling that they were suspended midway up the wall. The mesh was rubberized and stiff beneath the feet. As Rachel gazed down through the webbed flooring, she felt like she was crossing a string bridge suspended over a surrealistic fractalized landscape. Three feet below, a forest of foam needles pointed ominously upward.

Instantly upon entering Rachel had sensed the disorientating lifelessness to the air, as if every bit of energy had been sucked out. Her ears felt as if they’d been stuffed with cotton. Only her breath was audible inside her head. She called out, and the effect was that of speaking into a pillow. The walls absorbed every reverberation, making the only perceivable vibrations those inside her head.

Now the captain had departed, closing the padded door behind him. Rachel, Corky, and Tolland were seated in the center of the room at a small U‑shaped table that stood on long metal stilts that descended through the mesh. On the table were affixed several gooseneck microphones, headphones, and a video console with a fish‑eye camera on top. It looked like a mini‑United Nations symposium.

As someone who worked in the U.S. intelligence community‑the world’s foremost manufacturers of hard laser microphones, underwater parabolic eavesdroppers, and other hypersensitive listening devices‑Rachel was well aware there were few places on earth where one could have a truly secure conversation. The dead room was apparently one of those places. The mics and headphones on the table enabled a face‑to‑face “conference call” in which people could speak freely, knowing the vibrations of their words could not escape the room. Their voices, upon entering the microphones, would be heavily encrypted for their long journey through the atmosphere.

“Level check.” The voice materialized suddenly inside their headphones, causing Rachel, Tolland, and Corky to jump. “Do you read me, Ms. Sexton?”

Rachel leaned into the microphone. “Yes. Thank you.” Whoever you are.

“I have Director Pickering on the line for you. He’s accepting AV. I am signing off now. You will have your data stream momentarily.”

Rachel heard the line go dead. There was a distant whirr of static and then a rapid series of beeps and clicks in the headphones. With startling clarity, the video screen in front of them sprang to life, and Rachel saw Director Pickering in the NRO conference room. He was alone. His head snapped up and he looked into Rachel’s eyes.

She felt oddly relieved to see him.

“Ms. Sexton,” he said, his expression perplexed and troubled. “What in the world is going on?”

“The meteorite, sir,” Rachel said. “I think we may have a serious problem.”

Inside the Charlotte’s dead room, Rachel Sexton introduced Michael Tolland and Corky Marlinson to Pickering. Then she took charge and launched into a quick account of the day’s incredible chain of events.

The NRO director sat motionless as he listened.

Rachel told him about the bioluminescent plankton in the extraction pit, their journey onto the ice shelf and discovery of an insertion shaft beneath the meteorite, and finally of their sudden attack by a military team she suspected was Special Ops.

William Pickering was known for his ability to listen to disturbing information without so much as flinching an eye, and yet his gaze grew more and more troubled with each progression in Rachel’s story. She sensed disbelief and then rage when she talked about Norah Mangor’s murder and their own near‑death escape. Although Rachel wanted to voice her suspicions of the NASA administrator’s involvement, she knew Pickering well enough not to point fingers without evidence. She gave Pickering the story as cold hard facts. When she was finished, Pickering did not respond for several seconds.

“Ms. Sexton,” he finally said, “all of you . . . “He moved his gaze to each of them. “If what you’re saying is true, and I cannot imagine why three of you would lie about this, you are all very lucky to be alive.”

They all nodded in silence. The President had called in four civilian scientists . . . and two of them were now dead.

Pickering heaved a disconsolate sigh, as if he had no idea what to say next. The events clearly made little sense. “Is there any way,” Pickering asked, “that this insertion shaft you’re seeing in that GPR printout is a natural phenomenon?”

Rachel shook her head. “It’s too perfect.” She unfolded the soggy GPR printout and held it up in front of the camera. “Flawless.”

Pickering studied the image, scowling in agreement. “Don’t let that out of your hands.”

“I called Marjorie Tench to warn her to stop the President,” Rachel said. “But she shut me down.”

“I know. She told me.”

Rachel looked up, stunned. “Marjorie Tench called you?” That was fast.

“Just now. She’s very concerned. She feels you are attempting some kind of stunt to discredit the President and NASA. Perhaps to help your father.”

Rachel stood up. She waved the GPR printout and motioned to her two companions. “We were almost killed! Does this look like some kind of stunt? And why would I‑”

Pickering held up his hands. “Easy. What Ms. Tench failed to tell me was that there were three of you.”

Rachel could not recall if Tench had even given her time to mention Corky and Tolland.

“Nor did she tell me you had physical evidence,” Pickering said. “I was skeptical of her claims before I spoke to you, and now I am convinced she is mistaken. I do not doubt your claims. The question at this point is what it all means.”

There was a long silence.

William Pickering rarely looked confused, but he shook his head, seeming lost. “Let’s assume for the moment that someone did insert this meteorite beneath the ice. That begs the obvious issue of why. If NASA has a meteorite with fossils in it, why would they, or anyone else for that matter, care where it is found?”

“It appears,” Rachel said, “that the insertion was performed such that PODS would make the discovery, and the meteorite would appear to be a fragment from a known impact.”

“The Jungersol Fall,” Corky prompted.

“But of what value is the meteorite’s association with a known impact?” Pickering demanded, sounding almost mad. “Aren’t these fossils an astounding discovery anywhere and anytime? No matter what meteoritic event they are associated with?”

All three nodded.

Pickering hesitated, looking displeased. “Unless . . . of course . . .”

Rachel saw the wheels turning behind the director’s eyes. He had found the simplest explanation for placing the meteorite concurrent with the Jungersol strata, but the simplest explanation was also the most troubling.

“Unless,” Pickering continued, “the careful placement was intended to lend credibility to totally false data.” He sighed, turning to Corky. “Dr. Marlinson, what is the possibility that this meteorite is a counterfeit.”

“Counterfeit, sir?”

“Yes. A fake. Manufactured.”

“A fake meteorite?” Corky gave an awkward laugh. “Utterly impossible! That meteorite was examined by professionals. Myself included. Chemical scans, spectrograph, rubidium‑strontium dating. It is unlike any kind of rock ever seen on earth. The meteorite is authentic. Any astrogeologist would agree.”

Pickering seemed to consider this a long time, gently stroking his tie. “And yet taking into account the amount NASA has to gain from this discovery right now, the apparent signs of tampering with evidence, and your being attacked . . . the first and only logical conclusion I can draw is that this meteorite is a well‑executed fraud.”

“Impossible!” Corky sounded angry now. “With all respect, sir, meteorites are not some Hollywood special effect that can be conjured up in a lab to fool a bunch of unsuspecting astrophysicists. They are chemically complex objects with unique crystalline structures and element ratios!”

“I am not challenging you, Dr. Marlinson. I am simply following a logical chain of analysis. Considering someone wanted to kill you to keep you from revealing it was inserted under the ice, I’m inclined to entertain all kinds of wild scenarios here. What specifically makes you certain this rock is indeed a meteorite?”

“Specifically?” Corky’s voice cracked in the headphones. “A flawless fusion crust, the presence of chondrules, a nickel ratio unlike anything ever found on earth. If you’re suggesting that someone tricked us by manufacturing this rock in a lab, then all I can say is that the lab was about 190 million years old.” Corky dug in his pocket and pulled out a stone shaped like a CD. He held it in front of the camera. “We chemically dated samples like this with numerous methods. Rubidium‑strontium dating is not something you can fake!”

Pickering looked surprised. “You have a sample?”

Corky shrugged. “NASA had dozens of them floating around.”

“You mean to tell me,” Pickering said, looking at Rachel now, “that NASA discovered a meteorite they think contains life, and they’re letting people walk off with samples?”

“The point,” Corky said, “is that the sample in my hands is genuine.” He held the rock close to the camera. “You could give this to any petrologist or geologist or astronomer on earth, they would run tests, and they would tell you two things: one, it is 190 million years old; and two, it is chemically dissimilar from the kind of rock we have here on earth.”

Pickering leaned forward, studying the fossil embedded in the rock. He seemed momentarily transfixed. Finally, he sighed. “I am not a scientist. All I can say is that if that meteorite is genuine, which it appears it is, I would like to know why NASA didn’t present it to the world at face value? Why has someone carefully placed it under the ice as if to persuade us of its authenticity?”

At that moment, inside the White House, a security officer was dialing Marjorie Tench.

The senior adviser answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”

“Ms. Tench,” the officer said, “I have the information you requested earlier. The radiophone call that Rachel Sexton placed to you earlier this evening. We have the trace.”

“Tell me.”

“Secret Service ops says the signal originated aboard the naval submarine U.S.S. Charlotte.”

“What!”

“They don’t have coordinates, ma’am, but they are certain of the vessel code.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Tench slammed down the receiver without another word.

The muted acoustics of the Charlotte’s dead room were starting to make Rachel feel mildly nauseated. On‑screen, William Pickering’s troubled gaze moved now to Michael Tolland. “You’re quiet, Mr. Tolland.”

Tolland glanced up like a student who had been called on unexpectedly. “Sir?”

“You just gave quite a convincing documentary on television,” Pickering said. “What’s your take on the meteorite now?”

“Well, sir,” Tolland said, his discomfort obvious, “I have to agree with Dr. Marlinson. I believe the fossils and meteorite are authentic. I’m fairly well versed in dating techniques, and the age of that stone was confirmed by multiple tests. The nickel content as well. These data cannot be forged. There exists no doubt the rock, formed 190 million years ago, exhibits nonterrestrial nickel ratios and contains dozens of confirmed fossils whose formation is also dated at 190 million years. I can think of no other possible explanation than that NASA has found an authentic meteorite.”

Pickering fell silent now. His expression was one of quandary, a look Rachel had never before seen on William Pickering.

“What should we do, sir?” Rachel asked. “Obviously we need to alert the President there are problems with the data.”

Pickering frowned. “Let’s hope the President doesn’t already know.”

Rachel felt a knot rise in her throat. Pickering’s implication was clear. President Herney could be involved. Rachel strongly doubted it, and yet both the President and NASA had plenty to gain here.

“Unfortunately,” Pickering said, “with the exception of this GPR printout revealing an insertion shaft, all of the scientific data points to a credible NASA discovery.” He paused, dire. “And this issue of your being attacked . . . “He looked up at Rachel. “You mentioned special ops.”

“Yes, sir.” She told him again about the Improvised Munitions and tactics.

Pickering looked more and more unhappy by the moment. Rachel sensed her boss was contemplating the number of people who might have access to a small military kill force. Certainly the President had access. Probably Marjorie Tench too, as senior adviser. Quite possibly NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom with his ties to the Pentagon. Unfortunately, as Rachel considered the myriad of possibilities, she realized the controlling force behind the attack could have been almost anyone with high‑level political clout and the right connections.

“I could phone the President right now,” Pickering said, “but I don’t think that’s wise, at least until we know who’s involved. My ability to protect you becomes limited once we involve the White House. In addition, I’m not sure what I would tell him. If the meteorite is real, which you all feel it is, then your allegation of an insertion shaft and attack doesn’t make sense; the President would have every right to question the validity of my claim.” He paused as if calculating the options. “Regardless . . . whatever the truth is or who the players are, some very powerful people will take hits if this information goes public. I suggest we get you to safety right away, before we start rocking any boats.”

Get us to safety? The comment surprised Rachel. “I think we’re fairly safe on a nuclear submarine, sir.”

Pickering looked skeptical. “Your presence on that submarine won’t stay secret long. I’m pulling you out immediately. Frankly, I’ll feel better when the three of you are sitting in my office.”

Senator Sexton huddled alone on his couch feeling like a refugee. His Westbrooke Place apartment that had only an hour ago been filled with new friends and supporters now looked forsaken, scattered with the rubble of snifters and business cards, abandoned by men who had quite literally dashed out the door.

Now Sexton crouched in solitude before his television, wanting more than anything to turn it off and yet being unable to pull himself from the endless media analyses. This was Washington, and it didn’t take long for the analysts to rush through their pseudoscientific and philosophical hyperbole and lock in on the ugly stuff‑the politics. Like torture masters rubbing acid in Sexton’s wounds, the newscasters were stating and restating the obvious.

“Hours ago, Sexton’s campaign was soaring,” one analyst said. “Now, with NASA’s discovery, the senator’s campaign has crashed back to earth.”

Sexton winced, reaching for the Courvoisier and taking a hit right out of the bottle. Tonight, he knew, would be the longest and loneliest night of his life. He despised Marjorie Tench for setting him up. He despised Gabrielle Ashe for ever mentioning NASA in the first place. He despised the President for being so goddamned lucky. And he despised the world for laughing at him.

“Obviously, this is devastating for the senator,” the analyst was saying. “The President and NASA have claimed an incalculable triumph with this discovery. News like this would revitalize the President’s campaign regardless of Sexton’s position on NASA, but with Sexton’s admission today that he would go so far as to abolish NASA funding outright if need be . . . well, this presidential announcement is a one‑two punch from which the senator will not recover.”

I was tricked, Sexton said. The White House fucking set me up.

The analyst was smiling now. “All of the credibility NASA has lost with Americans recently has just been restored in spades. There’s a real feeling of national pride out there on the streets right now.”

“As there should be. They love Zach Herney, and they were losing faith. You’ve got to admit, the President was lying down and took some pretty big hits recently, but he’s come out of it smelling like a rose.”

Sexton thought of the CNN debate that afternoon and hung his head, thinking he might be sick to his stomach. All of the NASA inertia he had so carefully built up over the last months had not only come to a screeching halt, but it had become an anchor around his neck. He looked like a fool. He’d been brazenly played by the White House. He was already dreading all the cartoons in tomorrow’s paper. His name would be the punch line to every joke in the country. Obviously, there would be no more quiet SFF campaign funding. Everything had changed. All of the men who had been in his apartment had just seen their dreams go down the toilet. The privatization of space had just struck a brick wall.

Taking another hit of cognac, the senator stood up and walked unevenly to his desk. He gazed down at the unhooked phone receiver. Knowing it was an act of masochistic self‑flagellation, he slowly replaced the phone receiver in its cradle and began counting the seconds.

One . . . two . . . The phone rang. He let the machine pick up.

“Senator Sexton, Judy Oliver from CNN. I’d like to give you an opportunity to react to the NASA discovery this evening. Please call me.” She hung up.

Sexton started counting again. One . . . The phone started ringing. He ignored it, letting the machine get it. Another reporter.

Holding his bottle of Courvoisier, Sexton wandered toward the sliding door of his balcony. He pulled it aside and stepped out into the cool air. Leaning against the railing, he gazed out across town to the illuminated facade of the White House in the distance. The lights seemed to twinkle gleefully in the wind.

Bastards, he thought. For centuries we’ve been looking for proof of life in the heavens. Now we find it in the same fucking year as my election? This wasn’t propitious, this was goddamned clairvoyant. Every apartment window for as far as Sexton could see had a television on. Sexton wondered where Gabrielle Ashe was tonight. This was all her fault. She’d fed him NASA failure after NASA failure.

He raised the bottle to take another swig.

Goddamned Gabrielle . . . she’s the reason I’m in this so deep.

Across town, standing amid the chaos of the ABC production room, Gabrielle Ashe felt numb. The President’s announcement had come out of left field, leaving her suspended in a semicatatonic haze. She stood, lock‑kneed in the center of the production room floor, staring up at one of the television monitors while pandemonium raged around her.

The initial seconds of the announcement had brought dead silence to the newsroom floor. It had lasted only moments before the place erupted into a deafening carnival of scrambling reporters. These people were professionals. They had no time for personal reflection. There would be time for that after the work was done. At the moment, the world wanted to know more, and ABC had to provide it. This story had everything‑science, history, political drama‑an emotional mother lode. Nobody in the media was sleeping tonight.

“Gabs?” Yolanda’s voice was sympathetic. “Let’s get you back into my office before someone realizes who you are and starts grilling you on what this means for Sexton’s campaign.”

Gabrielle felt herself guided through a haze into Yolanda’s glass‑walled office. Yolanda sat her down and handed her a glass of water. She tried to force a smile. “Look on the bright side, Gabs. Your candidate’s campaign is fucked, but at least you’re not.”

“Thanks. Terrific.”

Yolanda’s tone turned serious. “Gabrielle, I know you feel like shit. Your candidate just got hit by a Mack truck, and if you ask me, he’s not getting up. At least not in time to turn this thing around. But at least nobody’s splashing your picture all over the television. Seriously. This is good news. Herney won’t need a sex scandal now. He’s looking far too presidential right now to talk sex.”