He shook his head, finally understanding the reason for his uncle’s digestive problems. Too many questions and never enough answers.
He pushed the heavy door open and headed downstairs, reaching the second floor in seconds. He opened the door, exiting from the stairwell. Records was on the right.
“Hi, George.”
George stopped mid-stride, turned, and stared at Roland Higgins. “Wh—oh, hello, sir,” he responded. Where did he come from?
“So tell me, your algorithm coming up with anything new? I saw the report you sent to the European desk.”
George hesitated for a moment or two. All of his information had to be filed before leaving the Office of Computer Services. “Well…in a way, sir, but…”
“Hmm…tell me. I’m interested.”
“I’d like to, sir. But you know, the rules say I should go to Records before…”
Higgins laughed out loud. “I know the rules, George. I make most of them. You won’t get in trouble. I’ll go talk to Records afterward. Now, tell me. What’s new?”
George reddened. He felt silly, trying to quote CIA regulation to someone as high up as Higgins. “This, sir.” He pulled out the folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his pants. “The algorithm just picked it up.”
Higgins took the piece of paper from his hands and read it for about a minute.
“Good information. It is indeed too bad that you have to be exposed to this, but that’s the reality of things. These kinds of problems don’t always just happen in the movies. They occur in the real world.”
“I know, sir. It’s a terrible thing. Does it really mean that…”
“Yes. That standing orders are for termination with extreme prejudice. It sounds cold, but trust me, the evidence against him is overwhelming. We have to stop him.”
“I understand, sir. There’s one observation I’d like to point out to you.”
“Yes? What’s that?”
“Well, it regards the third entry, sir. It’s changed from the last time I printed it.” He noted that Higgins remained quiet for a few moments and stared at the sheet of paper.
George felt uncomfortable. Chief Europe finally raised his gaze. “When did you find out about this?”
“About ten minutes ago, sir. I was on my way to Records to file it and—”
“Don’t. I mean, I’ll handle it. I’ll talk to Records. You don’t need to get involved anymore. Is that understood?”
George noticed the warmness in Higgins’s eyes was gone, replaced by a fierce intensity.
“Yes—yes, sir. No problem. No one knows about this.”
“George, you have done the Agency a great favor. I can’t tell you anything else beyond that. Rest assured that this information along with your observation will go to the appropriate persons. Good job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Higgins turned around and disappeared around the corner. George headed back to his office with a truckload of questions and concerns. Why had Higgins reacted like that when George told him about filing the report with Records? Was he up to something? George wasn’t sure about that, but he felt certain that someone somewhere had changed his story and got caught doing it, and Higgins’s reaction only added to George’s suspicion. Calm down, George! Think objectively. Objectivity. That’s the answer. He’d read or heard that somewhere, perhaps in one of his novels; perhaps he remembered his father telling him that once. Step aside and look at the problem as a bystander, George. You dug up conflicting information and presented it to one of you superiors, who didn’t react too positively when you told him about filing the conflicting information with Records. On top of that Higgins had pretty much ordered George to keep a lid on it.
All right, George, what can you do if you don’t trust the person that has the information? Easy. Pass that same info to someone you do trust. Who?
George headed for his uncle’s office.
* * *
The moment Roland Higgins reached his office, he walked directly to a metal trash can next to his desk. He took the glass lighter from his desk and set George Pruett’s sheet of paper on fire. He let it drop inside the trash can, where he’d burned the two stapled sheets from George’s previous finding the day before.
He reached for the phone. It has to happen today, he reflected, staring at the burning paper. Today he would settle his problems.
CHAPTER NINE
COVER-UP
JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, HOUSTON, TEXAS
Neal Hunter walked outside Mission Control to have a short meeting with the press. He had been thoroughly briefed by the NASA administrator at the Cape on what to say and definitely what not to say. Lightning was the benchmark of the new NASA, the latest orbiter packed with the latest technology. The last thing the space agency needed at that point in time was bad publicity.
He pushed open the double doors and faced a mob of reporters and their camera crews. Selected members of the press had been present inside the guest room behind Mission Control, separated by a soundproof glass panel. They had been able to see the lift-off and hear the voice of the NASA public affair’s commentator at the Cape, but luckily for NASA, communications between the orbiter and Mission Control had not been live after the first few critical minutes. The members of the press may have noticed the commotion inside Mission Control, but had not been able to hear a thing besides the NASA commentator’s recap of the successful launch.
Hunter pulled out a white sheet of paper. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Lightning has successfully achieved a low orbit. Two OMS burns are pending to get it to its target orbit. Mission Commander Michael Kessler and Mission Pilot Clayton Jones report that all systems are nominal. They will commence their test schedule in five hours after achieving a stable orbit and after a three-hour rest period. That is all for now. We will issue press releases in one hour and hold a formal press conference in two hours. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” Hunter turned around and headed back to the control room.
“Then what was all the commotion inside the control room a half hour ago, Mr. Hunter? Is Lightning in any danger?”
Hunter stopped and slowly turned around. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the crowd in front of him for a few seconds before answering. “Lightning is fine! Everyone is always very tense during lift-offs, and for reasons that should be obvious to you all, we were particularly tense about this flight because of what it stands for. As I said earlier, a full press conference will take place in two hours, after Lightning reaches final orbit. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Thank you.”
The mob of reporters blasted a fusillade of questions that Hunter politely dodged as he walked back into Mission Control.
LIGHTNING
Kessler strapped himself into his flight seat and watched Jones do the same. He felt much more comfortable now that they had removed their bulky rust-brown-colored emergency ejection suits—a requirement during lift-offs and landings—and had put on their blue intra-vehicular assembly clothing—flight overalls with lots of pockets and Velcro for attaching small items.
Kessler reached for the ballpoint pen tucked in a pocket on the side of his left arm. The pen was not ordinary. Because of the lack of gravity, the pen had been pressurized to force the ink to the ball. He grabbed the notepad floating over the control panel. A string kept it secured to the panel to prevent it from wandering around inside the flight deck. He made an entry of the current time and brief flight status.
“Houston, you there?”
“Roger, Lightning. We copy you loud and clear,” Kessler heard Hunter respond through the speakers.
“OMS burn in two minutes, mark.”
“Roger.”
“Any more news on the problem on number-one SSME?”
“Ah, negative, Lightning, but it shouldn’t matter. The moment you shut the SSME off, the fuel lines to the
engine got cut off. The only concern over here is for the possible damage to the orbiter.”
“Same over here, Houston, but we won’t know until we go outside. By the way, we made a visual check from the aft windows. The payload bay appears normal.”
“Good. We were just about to ask you that. How are you guys doing otherwise?”
“No problems. Just a little tired, I guess. One minute mark.”
“Well, as soon as you reach your new orbit you’ll have a reduced rest period before EVA. Sorry, guys, we’re cutting your first break to three hours instead of eight. We all need to put our minds at ease about your situation, but without a visual we won’t know for sure.”
“No offense, Houston, but Jones and I prefer to start EVA as soon as we reach the new orbit. Thirty seconds to ignition.”
“Continue with countdown, Lightning. We’ll discuss this issue after the burn.”
“Roger. Twenty seconds. OMS firing sequence started. Fifteen seconds.”
Kessler couldn’t explain it, but he felt relaxed. He had things under control. “Five seconds…four…three…two…one…ignition!”
Kessler felt the light kick of the two six-thousand-pound-thrust Orbital Maneuvering System engines. Lightning began to accelerate under its own power to change its current egg-shaped orbit to a circular orbit of 160 miles.
“Thirty seconds. Systems nominal,” Kessler said. “One minute. Fuel and oxidizer pressure nominal. Helium pressure at…Houston, we have another problem.” The General Purpose Computers automatically stopped the OMS engines when helium pressure dropped below 460 PSI on the left OMS. He looked at Jones.
“Shit. OMS warning lights are red for both engines,” said Jones.
Kessler checked control panel F7 and confirmed Jones’s observation. The OMS engine Fault Detection and Identification system told him that in addition to losing helium pressure on one OMS engine, both OMS engines had failed the chamber and velocity tests. He eyed the helium pressure on the right OMS engine. It showed a nominal two thousand PSI. He reached for panel C2 and disarmed both engines.
“Lightning, Houston. OMS burn stopped thirty seconds early. New orbit one-four-five miles.”
“Houston,” Kessler began. “Helium pressure continues to drop on the left OMS…four hundred PSI…three hundred. What’s going on? I’ve already turned off both engines.”
“Stand by, Lightning. We’re checking.”
Kessler simply sighed, not believing all of what was actually happening to him. He took off his voice-activated headset. Jones did the same.
“What do you think, CJ?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m beginning to get a little worried about this bird. If this had happened during re-entry we’d be in a shitload of trouble.”
Kessler frowned. Jones was right on the money with that. If the OMS engines failed during re-entry burn, there was no telling where Lightning would actually reach Earth. Most likely too far away from the nearest qualified landing strip, and that’s assuming they somehow managed to make it through re-entry without burning up while entering the atmosphere at the wrong angle and speed.
“But heck,” Jones continued. “I guess we won’t have to worry about that since the fucking engines won’t even start anymore.”
Kessler slowly shook his head and exhaled. “Damn!” He put the headset back on. Jones did the same. “What’s going on, Houston?”
“Lightning, diagnostics is coming up with a major leak in the feed line from the left helium tank to the left OMS engine. We also just noticed that the propellant level on the left OMS tank is dropping.”
“I hope to God it’s leaking to space and not internally,” Kessler remarked as he read a propellant pressure of 120 PSI instead of the normal 250 PSI seconds before. Panel F7 now had a few more warning lights on.
“Shit!” Jones yanked off his headset, unstrapped, and propelled himself toward the aft windows. He turned on the lights inside the cargo bay.
“What was that, Lightning?”
“Jones’s checking to make sure there are no leaks inside the cargo bay. I share his concern about remaining in one piece, Houston.” Kessler shook his head at the thought of volatile hydrazine propellant floating inside the orbiter. Unlike helium, hydrazine would ignite the moment it came in contact with any gas containing oxygen.
“We feel like it’s leaking into space, Lightning.”
“Hey, Mike,” Jones screamed from the back. “Tell them I can’t see any leaks back there. All appears normal.”
“Houston, Jones can’t see a leak internally. It must be leaking outside. Left OMS hydrazine pressure below fifty PSI and dropping. Helium pressure’s down in the mud, too. Any ideas?”
“Confirm nominal reading on right OMS tanks.”
Kessler eyed the levels. “Right OMS shows helium at two thousand PSI. Hydrazine also nominal at two-six-five PSI.”
“We’re running diagnostics, Lightning, but based on the warning lights, it looks like a major OMS malfunction. Both engines show as failures.”
Kessler knew very well what that meant. The OMS engines were not only the primary means Lightning used to change orbits but also to decelerate for atmospheric re-entry. “Any chance of using the four aft PCS primary jets for deorbit burn?” he asked, referring to the Reaction Control System jets usually used only for attitude maneuvers.
“We’ll run some simulations, Lightning. In the meantime get some rest. Start EVAs in four hours.”
“Lightning requests permission to commence EVA right away. We’re pilots, sir. We must know the condition of our bird immediately.”
“Stand by, Lightning.”
Kessler waited.
A minute later, Hunter’s voice crackled through his headphones. “Negative, Lightning. Get your rest first. We’re having enough bad luck as it is. You don’t want to add fuel to the fire by working exhausted. No go get a meal and some sleep. I’ll wake you guys up exactly four hours from now. That’s an order.”
“Roger, Houston. We copy.” Kessler removed his headset and unstrapped his harness.
“Right,” Jones mumbled after also removing his headset. “Like anyone’s going to get any fucking sleep up here.”
Kessler sighed and followed Jones down to the crew compartment.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Tom Pruett walked down the short aisle between the two rows of cubicles in George’s work area. He saw no one there. He checked his watch. Lunchtime.
He raised his eyebrows and stared at the piece of paper in his hands—the short but intriguing message George had left him earlier today, when Pruett was in a meeting. George claimed to have found conflicting information regarding a shooting in Paris involving Cameron Stone. That alone had been reason enough for Pruett to drop everything and head down to his nephew’s office.
He spotted George’s nameplate on the last cubicle to the left, next to a note saying that he would be back at two o’clock. Pruett walked inside the small cubicle and noticed that the system was off, contrary to what the sign taped to the side of the twenty-inch monitor said. His nephew had prohibited anyone from turning off the system, but there it was. Not only off, but Pruett noticed something else. The hard disk was missing. And not only that, but a closer inspection of the system showed that someone had actually torn the disk out of the workstation. He clenched his jaw as he felt his stomach begin to burn. What in the hell is going on here?
He walked up and down the aisle, checking each cubicle. All of the other workstations appeared to be fine. He gave the room one final glance, stepped into the corridor, and walked straight for the security post on that side of the hall.
George, where are you?
* * *
At the opposite end of the hall, Higgins peeked around the corner and watched his superior approach the security post. He slowly exhaled through his nostrils. Another close call.
He checked his watch. He had an appointment to keep.
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
Harold Murphy, Master Sergeant, U.S. Army, Retired, pushed his brand-new lawnmower out of the garage. This was to be the final mowing of the season and Murphy could not be any happier. He detested mowing the lawn, particularly because he lived across from the Pruetts, whose son, George, used a landscaping service to keep his mother’s home looking like one out of House & Garden. That forced Murphy to at least keep his yard in halfway decent shape so he didn’t look like the bum of the neighborhood.
In reality Murphy liked the young Pruett, a good kid who had managed to stay off drugs and had gotten through school while working two jobs after his father had passed away and his mother had become unable to work. From what George’s mother had told him a few days before, George Pruett was doing a magnificent job at the CIA. Good for him, thought Murphy.
A year earlier, George had bought an old Porsche 356 convertible. Murphy, who owned a ten-year-old Porsche 911, had helped George get his new car in proper shape. That was one of the things Murphy missed about never having been married, not having kids of his own. That’s why he always looked for ways to help kids in the neighborhood with their bicycles, motorcycles, or cars. An expert mechanic while in the Army, he now kept a garage loaded with tools and a hydraulic lift. A day never went by without a kid stopping by to fix a flat, grease a bicycle chain, or change the engine oil. Over the years his garage had become the central point for repairs of all sorts of kids’ vehicles in the neighborhood. He’d earned the title of “Mr. Fixit.” Murphy was proud of that.
He eyed George’s 356 convertible parked in front of the house and checked his watch. Lunchtime. Murphy smiled. That was another reason he liked George. The kid had always taken good care of his mother after that unfortunate car accident that put her in a wheelchair for life.
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