But a dark cloud loomed over Athena’s profitable venture, threatening not only to take away the obscene profits Athena had grown to enjoy, but most importantly, to ruin Vanderhoff’s plans for European domination in space. The new NASA. An improved NASA. A reborn space agency with a real vision: to regain the status it had held in the late sixties and early seventies, to establish itself once more as a space leader. The Challenger setback had only resulted in a new, vigorous agency willing to go the extra mile to achieve the dreams of Presidents Eisenhower and Kennedy: to make space travel routine, an everyday occurrence. Vanderhoff knew that was the philosophy behind the American space shuttle program. It was the reason NASA had stepped away from brute-force methods of reaching space and opted for sophistication, for reusable spacecraft capable of taking off like a rocket and landing like an airplane, routinely transporting its passengers and cargo to orbital stations built from materials also ferried into space by the advanced orbiter. That was the shuttle’s mission and, in Vanderhoff’s mind, the future.
But Vanderhoff believed the future in space belonged to Europe, not the United States, and not even the independent republics of the former Soviet Union, which remained united behind Russia’s leadership when it came to space exploration. Athena already had plans for its own shuttle and space station, but needed time to develop the projects. Time that Vanderhoff knew would not be available if NASA remained successful in maintaining its aggressive new schedule of shuttle launches, a large number of which would be used to ferry modules of Space Station Freedom into orbit.
Vanderhoff eyed General Marcel Chardon sitting to his right. Chardon was the second-in-command of all French armed forces and the most powerful military player of Vanderhoff’s coalition.
Like the two high-ranking German Bundeswehr officers sitting next to him, General Chardon had chosen to join Vanderhoff’s conspiracy for tactical reasons. The sixty-two-year-old general was certain that Europe would be threatened by competing U.S. and Russian space stations, which would be used—Cold War or no Cold War—as test bases for Strategic Defense Initiative weaponry.
SDI. Vanderhoff exhaled. He strongly shared Chardon’s belief that Europe had to take immediate steps now to position itself as the leader in space with the end goal of becoming the world superpower. Vanderhoff, like Chardon, cherished the dream of Europe being the strongest power on Earth, and space supremacy was a critical step toward achieving that dream.
Vanderhoff and his allies had the financial means to back all of the research needed to build Athena’s revolutionary Hermes shuttle and the Columbus space station, but time was running out. NASA was coming back too strong. The prototype modules for Freedom were already completed, and with Discovery, Atlantis, Endeavour, and now Lightning, the American space agency had plenty of muscle to ferry all the hardware necessary to permanently establish itself in space before the end of the century.
Athena needed time and Vanderhoff knew how to get it. He had already tested his stealth killer satellite on the Russians, and now it was the Americans’ turn. He began the meeting.
“We have two major issues to discuss. The first is in regards to a CIA operative named Stone. Apparently this agent was responsible for the debacle at the warehouse. He seems to have taken Madame Guilloux under his wing.” Vanderhoff saw Chardon’s face hardening. “I have just received a call from our contact inside the CIA and he has given me information that assures us of Mr. Stone’s termination. Once he is done away with we will find Guilloux’s wife and terminate her as well, just as we killed her recalcitrant husband and the other scientists who opposed us. We can’t afford a leak before Lightning’s launch.”
Chardon shifted his two-hundred-pound body on the chair and exhaled.
“Something bothering you, General?”
“Stone should have been dead by now, monsieur. He never should have left the warehouse alive.”
“Well, just make sure your people are in place at the Botanical Gardens, and that he doesn’t escape this time. Any problems with the local police?”
“No,” replied Chardon. “We own the Prefect of Police.”
“Well, just make sure everyone involved knows that this time there can’t be any mistakes. Understood?”
“Oui.”
Vanderhoff paused to look around the table and saw several heads nodding in assent. He had driven the point home. He leaned back in his swivel chair and forced his expression to relax somewhat.
“Gentlemen, the second issue up for discussion is Athena’s future in space in the post-NASA era. I have met with my scientists down in Kourou and their progress has been outstanding, largely due to the major injection of capital into our research and development division. Here are the fruits of our labor.” Vanderhoff rose and walked to the side of the room, where he pulled off a white cloth covering mock-up models of their space shuttle and space station.
“This is a model of the shuttle Hermes, gentlemen, a space vehicle that takes state-of-the-art technology one step beyond the American space shuttle. Our shuttle will be capable not only of returning from space and landing like an airplane, but also taking off like one.”
Right away, Vanderhoff noticed people murmuring among themselves. He waited for silence and continued.
“Before Guilloux’s elimination, he had devised a revolutionary and clean method of reaching space. You see, gentlemen, three-fourths of the launch weight of the American shuttle is nothing but liquid oxygen—the heavy oxidizer vital to achieve combustion with liquid hydrogen fuel. Most of that oxidizer is consumed during the first three minutes of flight, when the shuttle is still within Earth’s atmosphere. Guilloux came up with an interesting thought. Why carry all that oxygen along when there is plenty of oxygen in the atmosphere? And so Guilloux proposed a rocket engine that would breathe oxygen during the atmospheric portion of the flight, switch to on-board liquid oxygen right before reaching space, and in the process, severely cut back on weight and complexity while increasing cargo area. Simple and elegant.”
“But feasible?” asked Chardon.
“Our scientists are working on that. That’s why we need to slow down NASA. We need time to overcome two major obstacles. One is the development of an air-breathing jet engine capable of attaining speeds in excess of Mach ten to achieve space injection. The second is to develop an active fuselage cooling system. Unlike the tiles of the passive thermal-protection system of the American orbiter, our system will cool the entire fuselage by running liquid hydrogen under the craft’s skin using a technology similar to the one currently used for cooling conventional rocket-engine nozzles. We feel the cooling issue will be straightforward, but the jet engines—that’s going to take time and plenty of money to develop. Once done, however, we will have a true space plane.”
“How much time?” asked Chardon.
Vanderhoff pointed at the engines in the rear of the three-foot-long plastic model of the streamline Hermes. “A conventional jet engine extracts oxygen from the atmosphere, but it is not suitable for speeds above Mach three. We have developed an engine that uses the ramming effect of the plane’s supersonic speed to compress the air in the combustion chamber prior to its mixing with fuel. This is what we call a ramjet engine, and we have determined that ramjet technology will get us up to Mach six. Beyond that, we have designed—on paper—a special type of ramjet engine in which supersonic air flows through the combustion chamber. This technology, gentlemen, is what will get us the speed necessary to break away from Earth’s gravitational force. The heart of Hermes is the supersonic combustion ramjet or scramjet, but to develop it we’ll need time and money. We have the money. With Lightning out of the way we’ll buy the time.” Vanderhoff paused to let the information sink in.
“Is our launch on schedule?” asked Chardon.
“All is in place. An Athena V with an explosive drone attached to a communications satellite is scheduled to lift off at 11:35 P.M. local time
the day after tomorrow, but remember, gentlemen, the satellite is just a contingency. We don’t expect Lightning to reach orbit.”
“Any problems at NASA?”
“No. All is in place there as well.”
Chardon leaned back and nodded. The room fell silent.
“Very well, then,” concluded Vanderhoff. “General, you’ll handle Mr. Stone. I’m flying back to Kourou immediately to supervise the launch. Call me the moment you have news. Meeting adjourned.”
CHAPTER SIX
GAMES OF THE TRADE
PARIS, FRANCE
The storm arrived sooner than Cameron had expected. Flashes of lightning temporarily illuminated the dark afternoon sky. Ear-piercing thunder shook the soft grass beneath him. Secluded yet open, the park offered several escape options. Closing time was only a few minutes away, and most of the strollers had already left to get out of the rain.
Marie was not with him. He had talked her into waiting outside the park’s walls, out of sight by the Seine. He would get her after cauterization was complete.
Cameron watched the light drizzle turn into a heavy rainfall as he stood a hundred feet from the Quai Saint Bernard, the four-lane street that separated the gardens from the enraged waters of the Seine. The powerful winds drove three- and four-foot waves savagely against the century-old retaining walls. Water exploded in a cloud of white foam that seemed to engulf the tourist boats docked nearby, but somehow the brightly colored crafts emerged time and time again from beneath the maddened waves, refusing to surrender to their much stronger adversary.
Cameron pulled up the collar of his trench coat, leaned against an oak, and watched a single deer peacefully taking refuge from the storm inside one of several man-made caves built as part of their caged habitat. Cameron smiled. He had not been at a zoo for some time. Actually he didn’t expect to see animals here. According to the sign outside, JARDIN DES PLANTES, he was in the Botanical Gardens, yet in the short time he’d been moving around waiting for Potter to arrive, Cameron had seen enough wild animal cages and enclosures to fill a small-sized zoo.
He checked his watch once more. It was past five o’clock and still no sign of--
Cameron spun around. His ears had registered a new sound, almost imperceptible against the thunder. A gunshot.
He reached for the Beretta 92F, pulled it firmly to free it of the Velcro strap, and curled his fingers around the black alloy-framed handle. He turned and headed into a cluster of trees. Who was the shooter? Was it Potter? Was his case officer corrupted? Anything seemed possible at this point.
His thoughts quickly vanished as bark flew off the trees under the impact of a high-velocity round. He squinted but couldn’t see anything through the heavy rain. The report came a second later as he rolled away over the muddy soil toward cover.
The cold rain quickly seeped under his coat and soaked his cotton shirt. The wet fabric clung to his chest. His back hit the trunk of a cedar tree hard. He burrowed into the foliage, quickly surrounding himself with cover, temporarily safe. Smeared mud covered his face. His hair felt heavy with it. Cameron turned his face to the sky and let the rain wash it clean. Crouched, uncomfortable still, he raced through his options. A second, he thought. A second for the sound of the gunshot to reach his position. The shooter had to be about a thousand feet away, Cameron estimated as he unsuccessfully scanned the area. Already darkness and the rain made it impossible to see anything out beyond thirty feet away, except during lightning flashes. But he also knew that the shooter could most likely spot him during that time also. His night vision lost to a lightning flash, Cameron waited for a moment, until it cleared. He raced forward, away from the protection of the trees, across the clearing to where an animal cage, the ape pen, stood in the middle.
One, two, three bullets ricocheted loudly off the wet concrete a mere two feet from him. Close, too close, he decided, suddenly realizing his mistake. The shooter didn’t need the infrequent bolts of lightning to illuminate his target: he had a night-vision scope. Cameron was safe as long as there was lightning, when the bright sky would literally blind anyone using night-vision gear. The scope would amplify the surrounding lightning by a hundredfold, blinding the user with very high-intensity flashes, and rendering the equipment useless.
Darkness returned. Two more shots. Two more splashes. Bingo. Cameron spotted the bright muzzle flashes through the rain, coming from the mound next to the distant aquatic garden.
He reached the rotunda in the center of the park and hid behind a three-foot-tall concrete wall; waited in the dark. Lightning gleamed and he jumped over the low wall, tripped on something, and landed headfirst in a puddle of water. Involuntarily, he inhaled, choking on muddy water. He snorted and coughed to clear his airway, and breathed deeply for several moments to catch his breath.
Night resumed. Two more shots. Another bolt of lightning. The two seconds of light revealed what had tripped him. Bile rose in his throat as he experienced a field operative’s worst fear: the compromise of his case officer. It wasn’t Potter shooting at him. Who?
Darkness came as suddenly as it had departed. Cameron rested against the concrete wall as water dripped down his forehead. He tried to come to terms with Potter’s death, with the breaking of his link to the CIA. Only Potter could officially pull him in, but the next lightning flash showed a hole the size of Cameron’s fist in Potter’s chest. Not only high-velocity, but also jacketed hollow-point as well, he decided. One good shot and the game had ended.
Cameron wiped the cold water off his face with his quivering hands. Soaked to the skin, he began to shiver. But Cameron knew he couldn’t let that slow him down. He tensed, ready to move, when a bullet struck the Beretta just forward of the trigger casing, missing Cameron’s index finger by a fraction of an inch. His hand stung from the impact, which brought memories of Little League bats held too loosely. He instinctively let go of the weapon, watched it skitter across wet concrete. The gunfire had come from his right.
A second shooter!
Cameron ran as fast as his legs allowed him. He disappeared into the small forest, stopping when he estimated he was at least a hundred feet away from the clearing. He cut left and headed toward the back of the park, reaching the edge of the woods a minute later. He found the rear gate already closed, the security guard gone. Cameron had not expected to be there so late. The deserted four-lane street and the Seine extended beyond the six-foot-tall, ornate wrought-iron fence.
Cameron inhaled deeply and broke into a final run. He felt light-headed but persisted, concentrated on reaching the fence. Nothing else mattered. The black fence. The winds and rain intensified, blowing him to the side. He forced his aching legs to continue running, positioning his body against the rain falling at nearly a forty-five degree angle, pushing harder and harder against the wrathful storm until he managed to curl his fingers against the thick metal bars at the top of the fence.
He glanced backward. Through the water and mud, he saw two figures exit the woods. Cameron kicked his legs, pulled himself up and over the fence. He landed on his feet and rolled on the sidewalk.
He got up and raced across the street, reaching the other side in seconds. He looked back, saw figures halfway up the fence. Cameron darted down the concrete steps that led to the Seine’s shore, sought a place to hide.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Cameron bolted upstream, remaining a few feet away from the edge of the concrete retaining wall. The ferocious waves continued to pound below him.
Lightning flashed. The shots came once more, muted by the thunder but clear. The sound remained in his ears long after the ground exploded to his right. Cameron could not outrun them. It was just a matter of time before the men caught up with him and finished him off. Cameron felt weak. His pace slowed. He had to take a chance, the choice not pleasant but the alternative less so. Jump and maybe die, don’t and be certain of it.
Cameron cut to th
e right and kicked both legs as hard as he humanly could against the weathered edge of the concrete wall, diving directly into a four-foot wave. He heard a shot while in midair but felt no impact.
The water came, sudden and cold, yet somehow soothing. He went under, below the boiling, wind-torn surface. The pain from his limbs began to subside, dulled by the cold water or perhaps because he was losing consciousness. Air.
The waves and current dragged him downstream fast. He surfaced and spotted shooters over a hundred feet away, still scanning the area where he’d jumped. Cameron continued drifting away, farther and farther. Again he felt light-headed. He fought it. He needed to somehow get the word out about Athena’s plan to destroy Lightning, but the physical abuse had been severe. His body demanded rest. He struggled to reach one of the boats but his aching legs refused to respond. He battled the waves for a few more minutes until he felt drained, totally drained, well past the brink of exhaustion. He tried to kick his legs to remain afloat, but failed. Cameron slowly went under. His last conscious feeling was a hard tug on his arm. He had found silence. He had found peace.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Higgins let the secured telephone ring three times before answering. He knew who was calling, and he also knew why. The coded message from the Paris station faxed to him just minutes ago indicated that only one man had died at the Botanical Gardens. There were supposed to have been two found dead. Case Officer Potter and Operative Stone. Yet the CIA flash report indicated that only Potter had been killed, by a direct hit to the heart. There was no mention of Stone.
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