Spin (Captain Chase)

by Patricia Cornwell

  Except it appears to be moving from one orbit to another as it speeds around the Earth, and no satellite I’m aware of can do such a thing.

  36

  “IT’S HARD to tell from this,” Conn directs everyone’s attention to the map of GEO on a data wall. “But that little pinpoint of light you see moving in this time-lapsed video is moving in the direction of a multibillion-dollar intelligence-gathering satellite capable of listening in on conversations and conducting top secret reconnaissance.”

  “USA555A was launched three weeks ago from Kennedy Space Center,” Dick takes over again. “And the concern is that an adversary is aware, and the spy satellite is what this rogue object is now pursuing.”

  “Does the public know about this recently launched spy satellite? Because it’s news to me,” the NSA puzzles.

  “Not that we know of,” Dick says. “We were hoping certain adversaries might believe it or something similar blew up in our rocket last week. We tried to give that impression, that maybe there was something in the payload no one was talking about.”

  “Trying to capitalize on the disaster,” Conn explains as I envision Wallops Island emergency crews recovering debris from the blast site throughout the night. “But it didn’t work. By all appearances an adversary is aware of USA555A and is targeting it.”

  “Whoever’s behind this has stepped up what we believe is the next imminent attack,” Dick adds. “Whatever this rogue object is, it has sufficient thruster power to change trajectories and altitudes, now moving on a course that places it directly in the path of our satellite.”

  “Thankfully, whatever this rogue spacecraft is, it’s not any faster than it is,” the Pentagon says.

  “Thankfully indeed, and to the swiftest go the spoils,” Dick replies. “If the vehicle involved were any faster, we wouldn’t have been able to mobilize in time. Even so, neutralizing the problem is a long shot,” and that’s a word I could have done without.

  “How much time do we have?” asks the Secret Service. “Now that this rogue object has changed its orbit again as of 5 days ago, escalating possible contact with USA555A.”

  “By our calculations,” Dick answers, “it’s scheduled to be within striking range tomorrow at 0900 Zulu time, 4:00 p.m. here in DC,” and now I understand the urgency.

  It’s making sense why everything had to happen when it did, and as fast as it has. It’s not just about the missing GOD chip. It’s about deploying a spacecraft to GEO.

  “We must prevent another attack on our satellites, the most sensitive one yet,” Dick explains. “We have to figure out who and what’s doing this, and eliminate the threat.”

  “Pure sabotage,” says the secretary of state.

  “Space terrorism,” the CIA adds gravely.

  “One of Uganda’s concerns,” the president grimly lifts his finger. “Nations are reticent to invest in starting a space program if this is what happens.”

  “Some kind of weapon is being deployed. Has to be,” the DIA adds.

  “But why can’t we pick that up on radar?” the Secret Service wants to know.

  “How could there be a weaponized spacecraft up there and we have no idea?” the vice president looks extremely unhappy about it.

  “It would have to be constructed of a material with a very low signal,” DARPA decides.

  “Like plastic,” I volunteer. “It’s extremely hard to see on radar, especially if you’re not looking for it, and this is causing increased problems with space debris. A lot of CubeSats and other things being sent up are made of plastics and other composites that don’t include metal.”

  “Last week we lost communication on the International Space Station,” Dick says. “And there were other malfunctions that could have been fatal to our astronauts while they were installing a quantum node during a spacewalk. The Station commander was riding the robotic arm when it lost power, stranding her,” and touching the tablet, he shows another video.

  Astronauts Peggy Whitson and Jack Fischer are weightless inside the Space Station, holding themselves in place with foot loops, both of them somber. And it bolsters me a little to see they’re dressed no better than I am, in khakis, polo shirts with their mission patches, and socks.

  “. . . There were multiple failures simultaneously,” Peggy looks into the camera, bobbing a little as she floats in microgravity, hanging on by her toes. “Both electrical channels powering the prime and redundant strings of the robotic arm failed.”

  “Then there was an entirely separate event,” Jack says. “The prime and redundant communication systems also failed . . . ,” and Dick stops the recording.

  “It’s not credible that this cluster of disasters in addition to the rocket’s destruction were a coincidence,” he renders his verdict. “An examination of commands sent to the Station found that they were sent from another location.”

  “Hacking?” asks the secretary of state.

  “Actually, worse than that, as it turns out,” Dick answers. “Bad information from a communications satellite in GEO. And this same problem resulted in a rogue signal that caused us to hit the kill switch at Wallops Island,” as he’s saying this, I think of Lex.

  Damage to a communications satellite didn’t happen because he or anyone else dialed a number on a burner phone.

  “I’m confused,” says the NSA. “If a satellite was damaged, how does that explain what seems to be precision targeting of a resupply rocket and the Space Station.”

  “Not necessarily precision,” Conn replies, and I would have spoken up if he hadn’t. “If a certain satellite is one of several that controls the communications on the Space Station or at Wallops, then if you damage this satellite sufficiently? Chances are good there’s going to be a serious if not catastrophic problem.”

  “Exactly,” I concur. “When a bad command is given to a rocket or a dish antenna linked to it, no matter the source or the intention, you don’t take a chance. You hit the kill switch. When bad commands were given to the Space Station, it lost communication and power to the robotic arm. But it just as easily might have caused some other major malfunction.”

  “Scary stuff,” the vice president scratches notes on a legal pad.

  “In other words, there’s something up there that’s going to keep on doing this until we figure out what it is,” the president decides, his jaw defiantly set. “What do you suggest?”

  “That we deploy a vehicle immediately to intercept whatever this thing is,” Dick says. “To get close enough that we might detect a signal, something we’re not picking up on the ground. Or better yet, see what it is.”

  “What vehicle are we talking about?” asks the CIA. “Because I thought I knew everything going on around here,” to a flutter of tense chuckles.

  “Probably the best-kept secret in recent memory or maybe ever, and a critical part of the Gemini project,” Dick says as if they already know about it, and I see nods around the table. “While you’re aware of Space Force’s mission, you aren’t aware of this,” as an image fills the flat-screens around the room.

  The interior of a spotless hangar, and parked inside it is what looks like a mini Space Shuttle, only sleeker and with small morphing wings like what I saw in the wind tunnel. Its skin is a startling dark gray, and overhead light flares on an intricate gridwork of metallic filaments forming a conductive network.

  The vehicle is flown single pilot with AI assistance, in this case ART, but there’s no mention of him. A Propulsion Engineered Quantum Orbit Defender, Dick tells the Situation Room.

  “Or PEQUOD as in the novel Moby-Dick,” he explains, and I wonder if anybody gets the irony that his last name is Melville. “An allusion to the murderous whaling ship painted black, and covered with whale bones and teeth,” he adds.

  0
0:00:00:00:0

  AT HIGH NOON our helicopter hovers along a taxiway at the pace of a brisk walk, making a loud low beeline toward NASA’s oldest aviation hangar, built in 1951, the metal siding dull and tired, barely glinting in the sun.

  The rooftop radome where Carme was hiding last week is white like snow against the cloudless sky. NASA’s big blue meatball logo is faded but proud over the closed sliding bay door, and it’s hard to fathom what’s happened since I encountered Dick and his posse. It must have been someone else sticking her hands in the air before getting shoved facedown into the snow.

  Our sleek bird settles gently a safe distance from the Boeing C-17 that wasn’t here this morning, and Air Force loadmasters are collecting short segments of thick wooden planks from the tarmac. Something big with wheels must have been hauled inside the combat-gray transporter with its T-tail and low-slung wings, the rear loading ramp gaping wide like Jaws.

  Through the opening I can see military cargo specialists making sure everything is properly stowed. No telling what’s in there crated and shrouded, possibly the MOBE test model that splashed down at the Gantry. Or the iridescent morphing wing I noticed in the wind tunnel might be on board along with weapons and other military equipment destined for Cape Canaveral, Florida.

  Opening our doors, we climb out of the helicopter, our clothing flapping in the wind of blades thud-thudding, and if I had a brain in my head, I’d make a run for it. I’d tell Dick I’m honored, even grateful, and he shouldn’t think for a minute I’m not mindful of all he’s done since the day I was born if not before. But I’m not ready. He can’t possibly think I would be, and what do Mom and Dad have to say?

  Or Carme, by the way, and why not my brash fighter pilot sister instead of me? She’s not afraid of anything except being bored, and never disappoints in a crisis, witness the video of her single-handedly saving an entire Delta Force. The point is, it doesn’t matter what anybody says because I’m not up to a task this unprecedented and beyond my reach.

  The best thing would be for me to go home where I belong. Instead, I walk off into the sunshine with Dick, maneuvering around puddles and patches of slush, doing what he says as usual. To give myself credit, I’m better at keeping things to myself such as my slow-burning anger over having no privacy or say about my life.

  I don’t show how overwhelmed I’m feeling as I turn around, smiling, waving thanks and see you later to our pilots. More honestly, I’m saying goodbye to Conn Lacrosse. He responds by flashing that toothy grin of his through the windscreen, giving me a thumbs-up.

  I’m not sure why, maybe because I survived my first briefing in the White House Situation Room. Possibly he’s showing his approval because I’m about to hitch a ride on a supercool tactical transporter that can land on short runways, a road, in a field. It can back up, turn around and take off again.

  Also, I’m off to Kennedy Space Center, and as exciting as that sounds for someone who’s always dreamed of being an astronaut, it was quite a jolt getting the news at the same time the president of the United States and everyone else did. Conn already knew what’s in store for me because he and Dick are in cahoots (to use one of Mom’s favorite words).

  They decided if I got volunteered in front of Mount Olympus, I would have a hard time saying no. It would have gone over like a lead balloon had I attempted to explain to the president that I know enough to know what I don’t, and maybe someone else should take care of the problem. I can imagine him lifting his finger, about to tell me I’m shirking my patriotic duty.

  All to say that in my book, what Dick and Conn did was dirty pool. But I made a conscious decision not to take it personally, to be a good sport. I made sure I told my mysterious Secret Service counterpart how impressed I was with his piloting skills. Conn’s landing on the South Lawn scored a 9 out of 10 in my book, the same with his takeoff.

  “Why only a 9?” was his response.

  “It gives you something to look forward to.”

  “But what made you take away a point?”

  “Maybe next time I won’t,” I suggested, and we casually batted around the idea of catching a beer one of these days.

  It’s not so different from my back-and-forth with Davy Crockett. Except Conn Lacrosse isn’t the least bit annoying, doesn’t bully, and I don’t need Carme to set me up with him. The Secret Service agent and I probably have a lot in common even if I can’t be certain who he really is. I suppose he could live up to his name and be a con artist, a double-crosser.

  He might be married with kids in some other life, already in a committed relationship, or is a philanderer (and why wouldn’t he be?). The real Conn might not be kind to animals or into women (even if he acts otherwise convincingly). How am I supposed to know what’s genuine when dealing with a spy?

  Why should I trust him any more than I would a salesman or an actor? Maybe it’s my SIN but I seem to be friendlier, more sociable with men, maybe with everyone, the same way I’m feeling about food all of a sudden. And that’s not necessarily good.

  “Thus, the meaning of drinking from a firehose,” Dick sums up a day that’s far from over as we walk across the ramp to the awaiting C-17.

  “I’ve given up worrying about whether I know what I’m doing anymore,” I tell him the truth.

  “You’ve always known what you’re doing.”

  “It never feels that way. How am I supposed to be good at something I’ve never done?”

  “No one who goes to space does it until they do. The training happens down here, most of it virtual as you well know, and you’ve been doing it for years,” he says. “We don’t have practice rockets, and you don’t walk in space until you walk in it,” and we’ve reached the side door.

  Our feet clunk hollowly up metal steps, and I hear the hydraulic hum and clank of the rear ramp beginning to close like a steel drawbridge. The cockpit is to the left, and the pilots and a loadmaster snap to attention, saluting Dick.

  “Afternoon, sir.”

  “Welcome aboard, sir.”

  “How’s it going?” they get around to me, no salute, barely a glance, no competing with the big cheese.

  “Fine, thanks,” I reply as if anyone is listening.

  “You know where we’ll be,” Dick says to them. “And what I requested?”

  “Yes, sir, all there. Whatever you need. I made sure there’s TP in the head.”

  “Now that’s good thinking,” Dick nods with one of his bemused smiles.

  “Much appreciated,” and I mean it.

  37

  THE CENTER FUSELAGE is as big as most submarines, windowless and dimly lit now that the back ramp is closed, everybody gone.

  Military transporters aren’t built for comfort, and the less flammable the materials, the better. There’s nothing much in here but metal, nonskid flooring, cargo straps, and no wall panels or headliners to cover cables and anything else most passengers don’t want to see.

  “I had a brainstorm last night when I saw the manifest,” Dick says as we walk through deep shadows, our feet loud on metal.

  I can feel the cold through the soles of my dress boots that were terrible in snow and not the best idea here. The only seats look like fold-up beach chairs in this part of the plane where troops stay during transports. But we’re not stopping, and I follow Dick into the cargo section where we weave through foothills of shrink-wrapped wooden crates chained to tie-down rings.

  “A sleeping bag is helpful,” he’s in his element, and I’m definitely not dressed for the environment. “The problem is the floor is so hard and can get really cold,” he has to remind me of how uncomfortable I’m going to be.

  “Well this doesn’t sound like much fun. I can see my breath in here,” I finally comment. “And I doubt it’s going to be better at 30,000 feet . . .”


  As I say it, ART verifies in my lenses that yes indeed it’s nippy at that altitude, –44.44°C or –48°F as we speak. Reaching the rear of the cargo section, I discover the reason for the wooden planks on the tarmac, a beauty of a Sikorsky HH-60W. Its 4 blades are folded together and bungee corded to the tail boom so the helicopter could fit inside the plane.

  “It’s supposed to replace the Blackhawk,” Dick says as I gawk at yet something else today.

  “How many times are you going to torture me?” my aircraft envy is back with a vengeance, my stomach reminding me nonstop that it’s empty.

  “It’s been in testing, now headed for the skid strip,” Dick says, and he means the test airstrip at the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. “Not as comfortable as your living room,” he means the Sikorsky isn’t. “But a hell of a lot better than sitting in one of those seats or on the metal floor. Hop in,” and we open the cockpit doors.

  It may be petty of me but I’m grateful he climbs into the left seat. It’s only fitting that I should sit in the right one since I’m a helicopter pilot, and he’s not. It’s me going into space I’ve just discovered, not him. Since I’ll be flying my Chase Plane single pilot (if I don’t count ART), that would suggest I’m in command, and Dick needs to start treating me accordingly.

  “You ready for some refreshment?” reaching behind his seat, he grabs folded blankets, and a soft-sided insulated bag.

  Truth be told, I could eat a horse right about now, and I watch with keen interest as he opens the bag, pulls out a thermos.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” he finds large Styrofoam cups. “Afternoon tea inside a helicopter that’s been swallowed by an airplane.”