BEAL AEROSPACE. MICROCOSM, INC. ROTARY ROCKET COMPANY. KISTLER AEROSPACE. 6 страница

Sexton felt his body stiffen. He looked at his apartment door. What the hell is this guy talking about?

The guard’s expression changed to one of confusion and concern. “Senator, are you okay? You remember, right? Gabrielle arrived during your meeting. She talked to you, right? She must have. She was in there quite a while.”

Sexton stared a long moment, feeling his pulse skyrocket. This moron let Gabrielle into my apartment during a private SFF meeting? She stuck around inside and then departed without a word? Sexton could only imagine what Gabrielle might have overheard. Swallowing his anger, he forced a smile to his guard. “Oh, yes! I’m sorry. I’m exhausted. Had a couple of drinks, too. Ms. Ashe and I did indeed speak. You did the right thing.”

The guard looked relieved.

“Did she say where she went when she left?”

The guard shook his head. “She was in a big hurry.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Sexton entered his apartment fuming. How complicated were my goddamn directions? No visitors! He had to assume if Gabrielle had been inside for any length of time and then snuck out without a word, she must have heard things she was not meant to hear. Tonight of all nights.

Senator Sexton knew above all he could not afford to lose Gabrielle Ashe’s trust; women could become vengeful and stupid when they felt deceived. Sexton needed to bring her back. Tonight more than ever, he needed her in his camp.

On the fourth floor of the ABC television studios, Gabrielle Ashe sat alone in Yolanda’s glass‑walled office and stared at the fraying carpet. She had always prided herself on good instincts and knowing whom she could trust. Now, for the first time in years, Gabrielle felt alone, uncertain which way to turn.

The sound of her cellphone lifted her gaze from the carpet. Reluctant, she picked up. “Gabrielle Ashe.”

“Gabrielle, it’s me.”

She recognized the timbre of Senator Sexton’s voice immediately, although he sounded surprisingly calm considering what had just transpired.

“It’s been one hell of a night over here,” he said, “so just let me talk. I’m sure you saw the President’s conference. Christ, did we play the wrong cards. I’m sick over it. You’re probably blaming yourself. Don’t. Who the hell would have guessed? Not your fault. Anyhow, listen up. I think there may be a way to get our feet back under us.”

Gabrielle stood up, unable to imagine what Sexton could be talking about. This was hardly the reaction she had expected.

“I had a meeting tonight,” Sexton said, “with representatives from private space industries, and‑”

“You did?” Gabrielle blurted, stunned to hear him admit it. “I mean . . . I had no idea.”

“Yeah, nothing major. I would have asked you to sit in, but these guys are touchy about privacy. Some of them are donating money to my campaign. It’s not something they like to advertise.”

Gabrielle felt totally disarmed. “But . . . isn’t that illegal?”

“Illegal? Hell no! All the donations are under the two‑thousand‑dollar cap. Small potatoes. These guys barely make a dent, but I listen to their gripes anyway. Call it an investment in the future. I’m quiet about it because, frankly, the appearances aren’t so great. If the White House caught wind, they’d spin the hell out of it. Anyhow, look, that’s not the point. I called to tell you that after tonight’s meeting, I was talking to the head of the SFF . . .”

For several seconds, although Sexton was still talking, all Gabrielle could hear was the blood rushing in shame to her face. Without the slightest challenge from her, the senator had calmly admitted tonight’s meeting with private space companies. Perfectly legal. And to think what Gabrielle had almost considered doing! Thank God Yolanda had stopped her. I almost jumped ship to Marjorie Tench!

“. . . and so I told the head of the SFF,” the senator was saying, “that you might be able to get that information for us.”

Gabrielle tuned back in. “Okay.”

“The contact from whom you’ve been getting all your inside NASA information these past few months? I assume you still have access?”

Marjorie Tench. Gabrielle cringed knowing she could never tell the senator that the informant had been manipulating her all along. “Um . . . I think so,” Gabrielle lied.

“Good. There’s some information I need from you. Right away.”

As she listened, Gabrielle realized just how badly she had been underestimating Senator Sedgewick Sexton lately. Some of the man’s luster had worn off since she’d first begun following his career. But tonight, it was back. In the face of what appeared to be the ultimate death blow to his campaign, Sexton was plotting a counterattack. And although it had been Gabrielle who led him down this inauspicious path, he was not punishing her. Instead, he was giving her a chance to redeem herself.

And redeem herself she would.

Whatever it took.

William Pickering gazed out his office window at the distant line of headlights on Leesburg Highway. He often thought about her when he stood up here alone at the top of the world.

All this power . . . and I couldn’t save her.

Pickering’s daughter, Diana, had died in the Red Sea while stationed aboard a small navy escort ship, training to become a navigator. Her ship had been anchored in safe harbor on a sunny afternoon when a handmade dory loaded with explosives and powered by two suicide terrorists motored slowly across the harbor and exploded on contact with the hull. Diana Pickering and thirteen other young American soldiers had been killed that day.

William Pickering had been devastated. The anguish overwhelmed him for weeks. When the terrorist attack was traced to a known cell whom the CIA had been tracking unsuccessfully for years, Pickering’s sadness turned into rage. He had marched into CIA headquarters and demanded answers.

The answers he got were hard to swallow.

Apparently the CIA had been prepared to move on this cell months before and was simply waiting for the high‑res satellite photos so that they could plan a pinpoint attack on the terrorists’ mountain hideout in Afghanistan. Those photos were scheduled to be taken by the $1.2 billion NRO satellite code‑named Vortex 2, the same satellite that had been blown up on the launchpad by its NASA launch vehicle. Because of the NASA accident, the CIA strike had been postponed, and now Diana Pickering had died.

Pickering’s mind told him that NASA had not been directly responsible, but his heart found it hard to forgive. The investigation of the rocket explosion revealed that the NASA engineers responsible for the fuel injections system had been forced to use second‑rate materials in an effort to stay on budget.

“For nonmanned flights,” Lawrence Ekstrom explained in a press conference, “NASA strives for cost‑effectiveness above all. In this case, the results were admittedly not optimal. We will be looking into it.”

Not optimal. Diana Pickering was dead.

Furthermore, because the spy satellite was classified, the public never learned that NASA had disintegrated a $1.2 billion NRO project, and along with it, indirectly, numerous American lives.

“Sir?” Pickering’s secretary’s voice came over his intercom, startling him. “Line one. It’s Marjorie Tench.”

Pickering shook himself out of his daze and looked at his telephone. Again? The blinking light on line one seemed to pulse with an irate urgency. Pickering frowned and took the call.

“Pickering here.”

Tench’s voice was seething mad. “What did she tell you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Rachel Sexton contacted you. What did she tell you? She was on a submarine, for God’s sake! Explain that!”

Pickering could tell immediately that denying the fact was not an option; Tench had been doing her homework. Pickering was surprised she’d found out about the Charlotte, but she’d apparently thrown her weight around until she got some answers. “Ms. Sexton contacted me, yes.”

“You arranged a pickup. And you didn’t contact me?”

“I arranged transport. That is correct.” Two hours remained until Rachel Sexton, Michael Tolland, and Corky Marlinson were scheduled to arrive at the nearby Bollings Air Force Base.

“And yet you chose not to inform me?”

“Rachel Sexton has made some very disturbing accusations.”

“Regarding the authenticity of the meteorite . . . and some kind of attack on her life?”

“Among other things.”

“Obviously, she is lying.”

“You are aware she is with two others who corroborate her story?”

Tench paused. “Yes. Most disturbing. The White House is very concerned by their claims.”

“The White House? Or you personally?”

Her tone turned razor sharp. “As far as you are concerned, director, there is no difference tonight.”

Pickering was unimpressed. He was no stranger to blustering politicians and support staff trying to establish footholds over the intel community. Few put up as strong a front as Marjorie Tench. “Does the President know you’re calling me?”

“Frankly, director, I’m shocked that you would even entertain these lunatic ravings.”

You didn’t answer my question. “I see no logical reason for these people to lie. I have to assume they are either telling the truth, or they have made an honest mistake.”

“Mistake? Claims of attacks? Flaws in the meteorite data that NASA never saw? Please! This is an obvious political ploy.”

“If so, the motives escape me.”

Tench sighed heavily and lowered her voice. “Director, there are forces at work here of which you might not be aware. We can speak about that at length later, but at the moment I need to know where Ms. Sexton and the others are. I need to get to the bottom of this before they do any lasting damage. Where are they?”

“That is not information I am comfortable sharing. I will contact you after they arrive.”

“Wrong. I will be there to greet them when they arrive.”

You and how many Secret Service agents? Pickering wondered. “If I inform you of their arrival time and location, will we all have a chance to chat like friends, or do you intend to have a private army take them into custody?”

“These people pose a direct threat to the President. The White House has every right to detain and question them.”

Pickering knew she was right. Under Title 18, Section 3056 of the United States Code, agents of the U.S. Secret Service can carry firearms, use deadly force, and make “un‑warranted” arrests simply on suspicion that a person has committed or is intending to commit a felony or any act of aggression against the president. The service possessed carte blanche. Regular detainees included unsavory loiterers outside the White House and school kids who sent threatening e‑mail pranks.

Pickering had no doubt the service could justify dragging Rachel Sexton and the others into the basement of the White House and keeping them there indefinitely. It would be a dangerous play, but Tench clearly realized the stakes were huge. The question was what would happen next if Pickering allowed Tench to take control. He had no intention of finding out.

“I will do whatever is necessary,” Tench declared, “to protect the President from false accusations. The mere implication of foul play will cast a heavy shadow on the White House and NASA. Rachel Sexton has abused the trust the President gave her, and I have no intention of seeing the President pay the price.”

“And if I request that Ms. Sexton be permitted to present her case to an official panel of inquiry?”

“Then you would be disregarding a direct presidential order and giving her a platform from which to make a goddamn political mess! I will ask you one more time, director. Where are you flying them?”

Pickering exhaled a long breath. Whether or not he told Marjorie Tench that the plane was coming into Bollings Air Force Base, he knew she had the means to find out. The question was whether or not she would do it. He sensed from the determination in her voice that she would not rest. Marjorie Tench was scared.

“Marjorie,” Pickering said, with unmistakable clarity of tone. “Someone is lying to me. Of this I am certain. Either it is Rachel Sexton and two civilian scientists‑or it is you. I believe it is you.”

Tench exploded. “How dare‑”

“Your indignity has no resonance with me, so save it. You would be wise to know that I have absolute proof NASA and the White House broadcast untruths tonight.”

Tench fell suddenly silent.

Pickering let her reel a moment. “I’m not looking for a political meltdown any more than you are. But there have been lies. Lies that cannot stand. If you want me to help you, you’ve got to start by being honest with me.”

Tench sounded tempted but wary. “If you’re so certain there were lies, why haven’t you stepped forward?”

“I don’t interfere in political matters.”

Tench muttered something that sounded a lot like “bullshit.”

“Are you trying to tell me, Marjorie, that the President’s announcement tonight was entirely accurate?”

There was a long silence on the line.

Pickering knew he had her. “Listen, we both know this is a time bomb waiting to explode. But it’s not too late. There are compromises we can make.”

Tench said nothing for several seconds. Finally she sighed. “We should meet.”

Touchdown, Pickering thought.

“I have something to show you,” Tench said. “And I believe it will shed some light on this matter.”

“I’ll come to your office.”

“No,” she said hurriedly. “It’s late. Your presence here would raise concerns. I’d prefer to keep this matter between us.”

Pickering read between the lines. The President knows nothing about this. “You’re welcome to come here,” he said.

Tench sounded distrusting. “Let’s meet somewhere discreet.”

Pickering had expected as much.

“The FDR Memorial is convenient to the White House,” Tench said. “It will be empty at this time of night.”

Pickering considered it. The FDR Memorial sat midway between the Jefferson and Lincoln memorials, in an extremely safe part of town. After a long beat, Pickering agreed.

“One hour,” Tench said, signing off. “And come alone.”

Immediately upon hanging up, Marjorie Tench phoned NASA administrator Ekstrom. Her voice was tight as she relayed the bad news.

“Pickering could be a problem.”

Gabrielle Ashe was brimming with new hope as she stood at Yolanda Cole’s desk in the ABC production room and dialed directory assistance.

The allegations Sexton had just conveyed to her, if confirmed, had shocking potential. NASA lied about PODS? Gabrielle had seen the press conference in question and recalled thinking it was odd, and yet she’d forgotten all about it; PODS was not a critical issue a few weeks ago. Tonight, however, PODS had become the issue.

Now Sexton needed inside information, and he needed it fast. He was relying on Gabrielle’s “informant” to get the information. Gabrielle had assured the senator she would do her best. The problem, of course, was that her informant was Marjorie Tench, who would be no help at all. So Gabrielle would have to get the information another way.

“Directory assistance,” the voice on the phone said.

Gabrielle told them what she needed. The operator came back with three listings for a Chris Harper in Washington. Gabrielle tried them all.

The first number was a law firm. The second had no answer. The third was now ringing.

A woman answered on the first ring. “Harper residence.”

“Mrs. Harper?” Gabrielle said as politely as possible. “I hope I haven’t woken you?”

“Heavens no! I don’t think anyone’s asleep tonight.” She sounded excited. Gabrielle could hear the television in the background. Meteorite coverage. “You’re calling for Chris, I assume?”

Gabrielle’s pulse quickened. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m afraid Chris isn’t here. He raced off to work as soon as the President’s address was over.” The woman chuckled to herself. “Of course, I doubt there’s any work going on. Most likely a party. The announcement came as quite a surprise to him, you know. To everyone. Our phone’s been ringing all night. I bet the whole NASA crew’s over there by now.”

“E Street complex?” Gabrielle asked, assuming the woman meant NASA headquarters.

“Righto. Take a party hat.”

“Thanks. I’ll track him down over there.”

Gabrielle hung up. She hurried out onto the production room floor and found Yolanda, who was just finishing prepping a group of space experts who were about to give enthusiastic commentary on the meteorite.

Yolanda smiled when she saw Gabrielle coming. “You look better,” she said. “Starting to see the silver lining here?”

“I just talked to the senator. His meeting tonight wasn’t what I thought.”

“I told you Tench was playing you. How’s the senator taking the meteorite news?”

“Better than expected.”

Yolanda looked surprised. “I figured he’d jumped in front of a bus by now.”

“He thinks there may be a snag in the NASA data.”

Yolanda let out a dubious snort. “Did he see the same press conference I just saw? How much more confirmation and reconfirmation can anyone need?”

“I’m going over to NASA to check on something.”

Yolanda’s penciled eyebrows raised in cautionary arches. “Senator Sexton’s right‑hand aide is going to march into NASA headquarters? Tonight? Can you say ’public stoning’?”

Gabrielle told Yolanda about Sexton’s suspicion that the PODS section manager Chris Harper had lied about fixing the anomaly software.

Yolanda clearly wasn’t buying it. “We covered that press conference, Gabs, and I’ll admit, Harper was not himself that night, but NASA said he was sick as a dog.”

“Senator Sexton is convinced he lied. Others are convinced too. Powerful people.”

“If the PODS anomaly‑detection software wasn’t fixed, how did PODS spot the meteorite?”

Sexton’s point exactly, Gabrielle thought. “I don’t know. But the senator wants me to get him some answers.”

Yolanda shook her head. “Sexton is sending you into a hornet’s nest on a desperate pipe dream. Don’t go. You don’t owe him a thing.”

“I totally screwed up his campaign.”

“Rotten luck screwed up his campaign.”

“But if the senator is right and the PODS section manager actually lied‑”

“Honey, if the PODS section manager lied to the world, what makes you think he’ll tell you the truth.”

Gabrielle had considered that and was already formulating her plan. “If I find a story over there, I’ll call you.”

Yolanda gave a skeptical laugh. “If you find a story over there, I’ll eat my hat.”

Erase everything you know about this rock sample.

Michael Tolland had been struggling with his own disquieting ruminations about the meteorite, but now, with Rachel’s probing questions, he was feeling an added unease over the issue. He looked down at the rock slice in his hand.

Pretend someone handed it to you with no explanation of where it was found or what it is. What would your analysis be?

Rachel’s question, Tolland knew, was loaded, and yet as an analytical exercise, it proved powerful. By discarding all the data he had been given on his arrival at the habisphere, Tolland had to admit that his analysis of the fossils was profoundly biased by a singular premise‑that the rock in which the fossils were found was a meteorite.

What if I had NOT been told about the meteorite? he asked himself. Although still unable to fathom any other explanation, Tolland allowed himself the leeway of hypothetically removing “the meteorite” as a pre‑supposition, and when he did, the results were somewhat unsettling. Now Tolland and Rachel, joined by a groggy Corky Marlinson, were discussing the ideas.

“So,” Rachel repeated, her voice intense, “Mike, you’re saying that if someone handed you this fossilized rock with no explanation whatsoever, you would have to conclude it was from earth.”

“Of course,” Tolland replied. “What else could I conclude? It’s a far greater leap to assert you’ve found extraterrestrial life than it is to assert you’ve found a fossil of some previously undiscovered terrestrial species. Scientists discover dozens of new species every year.”

“Two‑foot‑long lice?” Corky demanded, sounding incredulous. “You would assume a bug that big is from earth?”

“Not now, maybe,” Tolland replied, “but the species doesn’t necessarily have to be currently living. It’s a fossil. It’s 170 million years old. About the same age as our Jurassic. A lot of prehistoric fossils are oversized creatures that look shocking when we discover their fossilized remains‑enormous winged reptiles, dinosaurs, birds.”

“Not to be the physicist here, Mike,” Corky said, “but there’s a serious flaw in your argument. The prehistoric creatures you just named‑dinosaurs, reptiles, birds‑they all have internal skeletons, which gives them the capability to grow to large sizes despite the earth’s gravity. But this fossil . . . “He took the sample and held it up. “These guys have exo skeletons. They’re arthropods. Bugs. You yourself said that any bug this big could only have evolved in a low‑gravity environment. Otherwise its outer skeleton would have collapsed under its own weight.”

“Correct,” Tolland said. “This species would have collapsed under its own weight if it walked around on earth.”

Corky’s brow furrowed with annoyance. “Well, Mike, unless some caveman was running an antigravity louse farm, I don’t see how you could possibly conclude a two‑foot‑long bug is earthly in origin.”

Tolland smiled inwardly to think Corky was missing such a simple point. “Actually, there is another possibility.” He focused closely on his friend. “Corky, you’re used to looking up. Look down. There’s an abundant antigravity environment right here on earth. And it’s been here since prehistoric times.”

Corky stared. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Rachel also looked surprised.

Tolland pointed out the window at the moonlit sea glistening beneath the plane. “The ocean.”

Rachel let out a low whistle. “Of course.”

“Water is a low‑gravity environment,” Tolland explained. “Everything weighs less underwater. The ocean supports enormous fragile structures that could never exist on land‑jellyfish, giant squid, ribbon eels.”

Corky acquiesced, but only slightly. “Fine, but the prehistoric ocean never had giant bugs.”

“Sure, it did. And it still does, in fact. People eat them everyday. They’re a delicacy in most countries.”

“Mike, who the hell eats giant sea bugs!”

“Anyone who eats lobsters, crabs, and shrimp.”

Corky stared.

“Crustaceans are essentially giant sea bugs,” Tolland explained. “They’re a suborder of the phylum Arthropoda‑lice, crabs, spiders, insects, grasshoppers, scorpions, lobsters‑they’re all related. They’re all species with jointed appendages and external skeletons.”

Corky suddenly looked ill.

“From a classification standpoint, they look a lot like bugs,” Tolland explained. “Horseshoe crabs resemble giant trilobites. And the claws of a lobster resemble those of a large scorpion.”

Corky turned green. “Okay, I’ve eaten my last lobster roll.”

Rachel looked fascinated. “So arthropods on land stay small because the gravity selects naturally for smallness. But in the water, their bodies are buoyed up, so they can grow very large.”

“Exactly,” Tolland said. “An Alaskan king crab could be wrongly classified as a giant spider if we had limited fossil evidence.”

Rachel’s excitement seemed to fade now to concern. “Mike, again barring the issue of the meteorite’s apparent authenticity, tell me this: Do you think the fossils we saw at Milne could possibly have come from the ocean? Earth’s ocean?”

Tolland felt the directness of her gaze and sensed the true weight of her question. “Hypothetically, I would have to say yes. The ocean floor has sections that are 190 million years old. The same age as the fossils. And theoretically the oceans could have sustained life‑forms that looked like this.”

“Oh please!” Corky scoffed. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing here. Barring the issue of the meteorite’s authenticity? The meteorite is irrefutable. Even if earth has ocean floor the same age as that meteorite, we sure as hell don’t have ocean floor that has fusion crust, anomalous nickel content, and chondrules. You’re grasping at straws.”

Tolland knew Corky was right, and yet imagining the fossils as sea creatures had robbed Tolland of some of his awe over them. They seemed somehow more familiar now.

“Mike,” Rachel said, “why didn’t any of the NASA scientists consider that these fossils might be ocean creatures? Even from an ocean on another planet?”

“Two reasons, really. Pelagic fossil samples‑those from the ocean floor‑tend to exhibit a plethora of intermingled species. Anything living in the millions of cubic feet of life above the ocean floor will eventually die and sink to the bottom. This means the ocean floor becomes a graveyard for species from every depth, pressure, and temperature environment. But the sample at Milne was clean‑a single species. It looked more like something we might find in the desert. A brood of similar animals getting buried in a sandstorm, for example.”

Rachel nodded. “And the second reason you guessed land rather than sea?”

Tolland shrugged. “Gut instinct. Scientists have always believed space, if it were populated, would be populated by insects. And from what we’ve observed of space, there’s a lot more dirt and rock out there than water.”

Rachel fell silent.

“Although . . .” Tolland added. Rachel had him thinking now. “I’ll admit there are very deep parts of the ocean floor that oceanographers call dead zones. We don’t really understand them, but they are areas in which the currents and food sources are such that almost nothing lives there. Just a few species of bottom‑dwelling scavengers. So from that standpoint, I suppose a single‑species fossil is not entirely out of the question.”

“Hello?” Corky grumbled. “Remember the fusion crust? The mid‑level nickel content? The chondrules? Why are we even talking about this?”

Tolland did not reply.

“This issue of the nickel content,” Rachel said to Corky. “Explain this to me again. The nickel content in earth rocks is either very high or very low, but in meteorites the nickel content is within a specific midrange window?”

Corky bobbed his head. “Precisely.”

“And so the nickel content in this sample falls precisely within the expected range of values.”

“Very close, yes.”

Rachel looked surprised. “Hold on. Close? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Corky looked exasperated. “As I explained earlier, all meteorite mineralogies are different. As scientists find new meteorites, we constantly need to update our calculations as to what we consider an acceptable nickel content for meteorites.”

Rachel looked stunned as she held up the sample. “So, this meteorite forced you to reevaluate what you consider acceptable nickel content in a meteorite? It fell outside the established midrange nickel window?”

“Only slightly,” Corky fired back.

“Why didn’t anyone mention this?”

“It’s a nonissue. Astrophysics is a dynamic science which is constantly being updated.”

“During an incredibly important analysis?”

“Look,” Corky said with a huff, “I can assure you the nickel content in that sample is a helluva lot closer to other meteorites than it is to any earth rock.”

Rachel turned to Tolland. “Did you know about this?”

Tolland gave a reluctant nod. It hadn’t seemed a major issue at the time. “I was told this meteorite exhibited slightly higher nickel content than seen in other meteorites, but the NASA specialists seemed unconcerned.”

“For good reason!” Corky interjected. “The mineralogical proof here is not that the nickel content is conclusively meteoritelike, but rather that it is conclusively non‑earth‑like.”

Rachel shook her head. “Sorry, but in my business that’s the kind of faulty logic that gets people killed. Saying a rock is non‑earth‑like doesn’t prove it’s a meteorite. It simply proves that it’s not like anything we’ve ever seen on earth.”

“What the hell’s the difference!”

“Nothing,” Rachel said. “If you’ve seen every rock on earth.”

Corky fell silent a moment. “Okay,” he finally said, “ignore the nickel content if it makes you nervous. We still have a flawless fusion crust and chondrules.”

“Sure,” Rachel said, sounding unimpressed. “Two out of three ain’t bad.”

The structure housing the NASA central headquarters was a mammoth glass rectangle located at 300 E Street in Washington, D.C. The building was spidered with over two hundred miles of data cabling and thousands of tons of computer processors. It was home to 1,134 civil servants who oversee NASA’s $15 billion annual budget and the daily operations of the twelve NASA bases nationwide.