Siege of Lightning

by R. J. Pineiro

  No, George decided, he definitely didn’t feel like listening to his coworkers’ problems during his free time. With his mother in a wheelchair, George and his two sisters took turns going home during lunch to look after her. During the days when one of his sisters went home for lunch, like today, he spent his time enjoying the only other activity that filled his life besides computers: reading spy novels. George read them by the dozens. He simply couldn’t ever get enough, even as a teenager, when he’d visualized his own father playing the roles of the main characters. A love for clandestine work had been part of the reason he’d chosen the intelligence field after college. He had wanted to be a field operative, follow his father’s footsteps, become a Cold War master spy, but reality had fallen far short of expectations when George had failed the rigorous physical examination required for all operatives. He just wasn’t the physical type, and that revelation had nearly crushed him. But he had hung in there. He’d still wanted to be a part of it, to live up to his father’s memory. And so, with a computer engineering degree and a minor in political science, he had joined the National Security Agency right out of school.

  As the lunch group left, George sat back down and read the second entry in the computer list. Vera Baumberger, a Rocketdyne engineer working at Kennedy Space Center on the new orbiter Lightning, had accidentally fallen off a platform at the launchpad and died from a fractured skull.

  George leaned back in his swivel chair. He read both entries once more looking for something else that could indicate a possible connection, but nothing seemed obvious. The incidents appeared to be totally unrelated. Hardly a pattern, George thought, but that was the reason why the program only highlighted the icon in yellow—a possible pattern.

  He clicked back to the main screen. So far he had nothing relevant for Clandestine Services, the department George reported to, which also happened to be headed by his own uncle, Thomas H. Pruett.

  George didn’t mind indirectly working for his father’s older brother. In his mind, George knew the Agency had hired him for his top-notch computer skills, but as in any other large corporation, he was concerned about rumors of favoritism spreading around the Agency. As it turned out, in the year since his arrival at Langley, George had only seen his uncle a few times, mostly outside work, when Thomas Pruett visited George’s mother. As head of Clandestine Services, his uncle was a busy man.

  Also known as the Directorate of Operations, Clandestine Services was primarily composed of the so-called “area” divisions. These divisions corresponded roughly to the State Department’s geographic bureaus. His uncle had explained to him on his first day that it made a lot of sense, since most CIA operators in foreign countries worked under State cover. The largest division was Far East, followed by Europe and Western Hemisphere. George worked indirectly for Western Hemisphere and Europe since his algorithm concentrated mostly on aspects of those two areas. His data—assuming he came up with anything of significance—would first go to the office of Chief Europe Ronald Higgins, who also happened to be acting as Chief Western Hemisphere, and if the information was deemed significant, it would then be presented to the elder Pruett.

  George had stopped by his uncle’s office the day before to drop off a small birthday present from his mother, but his uncle’s secretary had told him that Pruett had been out of the country for almost two weeks and would not be back for another day, something that didn’t surprise George one bit.

  George locked his system and headed for the parking garage.

  PARIS, FRANCE

  Cameron eyed the young CIA agent guarding Marie’s door, and nodded approvingly at the rookie’s hands-free-and-ready posture. He went into the room and smiled when he saw Marie sitting up, eating a bowl of soup. The second agent sat next to her bed drinking coffee and reading the paperback. Cameron shook his head. The agent quickly got up and left the room.

  Cameron stopped halfway to her bed. She wore a white hospital gown.

  “How are you feeling?”

  She looked up and studied him briefly. “Fine. Much better. Do you believe my story now?”

  Cameron exhaled. “Yes. We believe your story.”

  She smiled. “Good. Thanks. Your two colleagues told me what you did. I guess I owe you one.”

  “No problem. I was just doing my job.”

  The door opened. Cameron’s case officer, Richard Potter, walked in the room. A couple of inches shorter than Cameron and forty pounds heavier—most of it around his waist—Potter gave the impression of someone who spent too much time behind a desk. The CIA official closed the door and approached the bed.

  As Cameron went through the introductions, the door opened again. A middle-aged, well-built man wearing a suit under a brown overcoat stood in the doorway. The man briefly introduced himself as the Prefect of Paris police. Cameron could barely see his lips move underneath a thick but well-kempt mustache.

  The Prefect removed his coat, set it on a chair next to Marie’s bed, and faced his audience of three.

  “I’m afraid our initial assessment that the single-car collision was purely accidental was incorrect,” he began to say. “We think Monsieur Guilloux was murdered—”

  “Damn! I knew it! I told you, Cameron,” Marie said. She turned to the Prefect. “I also tried to convince inspector Roquette, but he wouldn’t believe me. I think my husband was killed because of what he had discovered at Athena.”

  “That’s possible. You do know that Inspector Roquette was killed last night at the hotel?”

  “Yes,” responded Marie. “I found that out from the CIA agents outside. How was he involved in all of this?”

  The Prefect briefly ran a finger over his mustache. “We have reason to believe that Inspector Roquette was responsible for your husband’s death.”

  “Well, that makes some sense,” noted Cameron. “That would certainly explain why he brushed Marie off when she asked him about the investigation.”

  “That’s right…bastard!” exclaimed Marie. “Wait a second. Who killed Roquette then?”

  “We’re working on that right now,” said the Prefect. “We have a couple of good descriptions from witnesses. They all saw a man with gray hair and beard running out of the hotel.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Cameron. “I saw him, too. You think he killed Roquette?”

  “At this point we’re working under that assumption.”

  Cameron tilted his head. “Do you think he was killed to break the link with the people that actually wanted Guilloux dead? According to Marie, they could be Athena’s upper management.”

  “We’re trying to establish that right now. That’s all I’m at liberty to say at this moment, but please rest assured that the police are handling the case under my direct supervision. There is no need for your agency to be involved any further.”

  “Just answer this,” Cameron pressed further. “If Marie’s suspicion is true, and her husband was killed because he had information that incriminated Athena in the destruction of the Russian spacecraft, then wouldn’t that make it an international incident?”

  “If that’s true, yes,” the Prefect responded. “But until that is established, I can’t talk about the case anymore. This is a French police matter. We appreciate the help you have given us, but I’m afraid the matter no longer concerns you.”

  “The hell it doesn’t!” Marie snapped. “The last time I was told by police that matters were being handled was the day before Roquette tried to kill me! And the only reason I’m still alive is because the CIA came to my rescue. Now after all of that you’re telling me you want the CIA out of it?”

  “I’m afraid the Prefect is correct,” Potter said, cutting in. “This matter is not for the CIA. Not yet anyway.”

  Although not very pleased, Cameron accepted Potter’s decision. The police would handle it for now.

  The Prefect grabbed his coat, mentioned to the gr
oup that two of his men would be there within the hour to replace the CIA agents, and left the room.

  Potter glanced at Cameron. “Ready?”

  “In a minute, sir. I’ll meet you down by the car.”

  “Two minutes. Remember, the French are in charge now. It’s their show.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Potter left the room. Cameron waited until the door was closed. He sat by the edge of the bed. Marie frowned and stared out the window. Her room overlooked the Observatorie de Paris.

  “You okay?”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, I’ve been ordered to stay out of it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep in touch. You should be out of here by tomorrow.” He reached into his coat pocket. “Here’s my direct number at the embassy. If there’s anything you need, anything, please give me a call. All right?”

  She turned and looked at him. He felt overwhelmed by her green eyes. Even without any makeup, Marie was a beautiful woman. Slowly, her frown changed to a slight smile. “All right. Thanks. Thanks a lot for everything.”

  “My pleasure.” He put his hand over hers. “Bye now.”

  He got up.

  “Au revoir.”

  Cameron smiled. “Au revoir, Marie.” He turned around and walked outside.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CLIPPERS

  We have seen many vessels pass through the water, but never saw one which disturbed it less. Not a ripple curled below her cut-water, nor did the water break at a single place along her sides.

  —A reporter aboard the clipper Lightning on her maiden voyage

  LAUNCH COMPLEX 39, PAD A. KENNEDY SPACE CENTER, FLORIDA

  Michael Kessler had always loved the sea as much as he enjoyed flying. He dreamed of the times when discoverers like Columbus, Cortez, and Balboa went against all odds and set forth to find new worlds, challenging the powerful and dangerous ocean in wooden ships that would make today’s sailors tremble with fear. Those were the days, he reflected. The days of real sailors. Men with nerves of steel. Most of the famous explorers were considered lunatics by their peers, or were labeled as dreamers and not given any respect. Only after much ridicule did men like Columbus and Magellan, men ahead of their time, finally receive ships, which often looked so old and battered they appeared hardly able to reach the harbor’s mouth, much less endure the cruel Atlantic Ocean or even the more dangerous Pacific. Crews were made up mostly of prisoners, men sentenced to death who would be pardoned by the crown only if they cooperated and survived. Ships’ crews were large in those days, mainly because one in four would die during a given voyage. Those were the odds given to the inmates prior to sailing: seventy-five percent chance of coming back alive with their crimes forgiven. Most took the opportunity, though the sea was far from forgiving.

  Scurvy was the primary cause of death. Caused by a lack of Vitamin C, it resulted in the slow rotting of their bodies, starting with their gums and calves. The disease, if not immediately treated, evolved into gangrene and eventually death. The men tried just about everything—from opening their gums and skin with knives to bleed the blackened blood, to savage amputations. Mere delays of the inevitable, thought Kessler. How ironic. While the ocean’s clear waters flowed under the hull and fresh air caressed the main deck, the crew would be literally rotting away.

  With time, cures for such diseases were developed, sailing ships grew in size and speed, and by the middle of the nineteenth century safe and fast transatlantic voyages were possible thanks to a new breed of vessels, initially called the “tall ships.” Sails hung higher and higher on massive masts in order to maximize the driving power of the wind. Below the waterline, their reinforced hulls could endure the savage punishment of the sea as water and wood clashed at speeds in excess of twenty knots.

  It was the golden age of sailing, the age of the clippers, and the American-built Lightning, one of the largest and fastest clippers ever made, a long, graceful yachtlike vessel, beautifully painted and rigged, ruled the seas. Lightning’s first captain was “Bully” Forbes, notorious for refusing to reduce sail area when the winds were strong, setting records during his voyages between America, England, and Australia while surveying routes to deploy submarine cables for telegraph communications. The fear in those days was that strong winds would increase the likelihood of smashing the rigging, but Forbes knew how much to push Lightning without exceeding the builder’s specifications. Lightning’s shrouds, four inches in diameter, provided the strength to support a 160-foot-high mainmast. In addition, Lightning became one of very few ships that regularly used a moonsail—a sail above the uppermost sails. Lightning had the muscle, and Forbes simply took advantage of it, setting record after record in one of the last of the great American clippers.

  Lightning. Kessler read the words painted in black on the starboard wing. It was nighttime, but the entire area was brightly lit, and he stared at the thermal-protection system covering the basically aluminum orbiter. The system, composed mainly of two types of reusable insulation tiles and thermal blankets, protected Lightning against the brutal aerodynamic heating during re-entry. The two types of tiles, consisting of pure silica fibers made of sand and stiffened with clay, differed only in thickness and surface coating to provide protection for different temperature regimes. The thicker tiles—ranging from one to five inches in thickness—were coated with a mixture of tetrasilicide and borosilicate glass, which gave them their glossy black sheen. These tiles protected the orbiter’s entire underside, part of the nose, and all leading edges, against temperatures reaching up to 2300 degrees centigrade. The thinner tiles and thermal blankets—ranging from one-half to three inches thick—had a coating of aluminum oxide and white silica compounds. Rated for up to twelve hundred degrees, these while tiles and thermal blankets protected the upper fuselage and all leeward surfaces.

  Thermal tiles—a logistic nightmare. Each tile had to be individually cut and fit to a specific location on the orbiter. After bonding, the tile was pull-tested to determine how tightly it adhered to the skin. Pull-testing was critical to ensure that Lightning’s thermal-protection system would be able to withstand the extreme rigors of lift-off and re-entry heating.

  Kessler continued to stare at the orbiter. In less than twenty-four hours, hundreds of thousands of gallons of liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen would be pumped into the External Tank, from the propellant storage facility located on the northwest corner of the launch complex, at a rate of ten thousand gallons per minute, making Lightning ready for business.

  Ready for business. Kessler lowered his gaze, suddenly overcome by a feeling of inadequacy, of not being ready for the responsibility. But what about all of the months of training I endured at Johnson Space Center’s Shuttle Mission Simulator? All of the “dead stick” landings at Kennedy? The hundreds of hours practicing EVAs in the WET-F pool? Doesn’t that count for something? And that’s not counting the flying I did for the Navy. Doesn’t that qualify me as mission commander?

  Kessler watched in silence as the colossal Rotating Service Structure slowly rolled back, exposing Lightning’s closed payload bay doors. Launch minus thirty hours. Kessler felt his heartbeat increasing. Relax, Michael. If you can handle one of those Tomcats landing on a moving carrier, you shouldn’t have any problems bringing that spacecraft back home.

  Kessler closed his eyes and visualized him and Jones on the day of the launch at the Operations & Checkout building eating the classic steak and eggs breakfast prior to the weather briefing. Then it would be time to suit up and leave the O&C building at T minus two hours, thirty minutes and head for the launch pad. Upon arriving at the white room at the end of the orbiter-access arm, white-room personnel would assist them in entering the orbiter, where they would conduct air-to-ground communications checks with Launch Control at Kennedy and Mission Control in Houston. Then Lightning’s hatch would be closed.

  God, he pleaded, please don’t let me fu
ck this one up.

  Kessler turned and headed for his quarters. He had two more hours of rest before the press conference later on that morning.

  * * *

  A mile away Captain Clayton Jones walked up to the Vehicle Assembly Building, looking for Kessler. The VAB, originally built to assemble the Saturn V moon rocket under the name Vertical Assembly Building, was at the time the largest building in the world, covering eight acres with an enclosed volume of 129 million cubic feet. The structure could withstand winds of up to 125 knots, a necessity to protect the space vehicle properly against the temperamental Florida weather.

  The titanic bridge cranes lifted the orbiter Atlantis off the floor. They would hoist 150,000 pounds of orbiter onto the 154-foot-long, unpainted, rust-orange External Tank. Its dirty-looking primer contrasted with the pristine white of the Solid Rocket Boosters and the gleaming orbiter, but NASA had made the decision long ago—to stop painting disposable tanks, thus saving the taxpayers the cost of a fifteen-thousand-dollar paint job, and lightening the tank’s weight by almost six hundred pounds.

  The entire shuttle assembly took place over one of the Mobile Launcher Platforms.

  Jones stared at the colossal assembly. The high-precision hoisting unit had successfully brought Atlantis—in a vertical profile—within inches of the External Tank. NASA technicians now worked laboriously at connecting the hardpoints on Atlantis’s underside to the steel assembly built onto the side of the External Tank.

  The Herculean effort to prepare a shuttle for launch never failed to fascinate him. He’d watched for hours while Lightning was readied. He couldn’t wait to ride her into space.

  ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE, MARYLAND