Once again no one spoke, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together.
Finally, Kay said, “If you’re right, the comet must be really big—a planet killer—at least 6 miles in diameter. The same as the one that took out the dinosaurs 65 million years ago. Come to think of it, it might not be a comet at all. It could be an asteroid. Either one will do the job.”
“They’re trying to save humanity, or so they believe,” Herc stated matter-of-factly. “With a comet that big, anybody that’s on the surface stands little-to-no chance of survival beyond a few weeks or months. There’d be a colossal explosion: six billion times more powerful than the 20-kiloton atom bomb we dropped on Hiroshima at the end of World War II. The debris that gets thrown into the atmosphere would block out the sun around the world for months. If the comet lands in water, there’d be huge tsunamis sweeping the globe. Those six men and women NASA says are part of a Mars mission experiment—they’re really nothing less than the future of the human race on Earth. As I think about it now, I’ll bet we discover they’re all young, attractive, brilliant, very fertile, and with very diverse ethnicities. They’re going to stay in orbit as long as they can, then come back literally when the dust settles. Minimum of two years. God only knows what they’ll come back to, though”
“The ISS mission must be their backup if everything else fails, whatever that is,” Kay added. “Scientists have been war-gaming this scenario for years. What do you do when a 6-mile asteroid is headed your way? Blast it with a nuclear bomb or two or three; push it into a different orbit with giant lasers, maybe plant giant rocket motors on it. They all might work—or not. If they don’t, you’ve got to have a Plan B or C or D.”
They all stopped, desperately trying to come to grips with the end-of-times scenes.
“Before we do or say anything else, we’ve got to get that hard proof,” Claire said, now focused on the most important article of her—or any other journalist’s—life. “People have a right to know.....” She stopped and barely smiled. “It’s funny, I suppose. I’ve used that phrase ever since I was in J-school. It’s the unofficial mantra of journalists everywhere. Now that we’re faced with extinction, it actually means something of staggering importance; not just whether your local politician had an affair with a celebrity’s wife or that taxes were raised in a late-night session of Congress. This is the real deal—everyone on the planet should have the right to know and face their common demise. No more right side of the aisle or left, first world and third; no more being led down a primrose path of ‘Trust us. We know what’s best for you.’”
“Where do you want to start, Claire?” Kay asked. “You’re the expert on sources and leads and what editors expect. If you’ll accept, I’m willing to devote as many resources as I have to help.”
“Thank you, Kay. I appreciate it.” She thought for a minute. “Why don’t we go to Colorado Springs and see what we can dig up there. Proving why and how Whalen died and any connection to Ludlow is a good first start. Men like him are incredibly arrogant. They think they’ve covered their tracks perfectly, but most of the time leave evidence that good detectives find. The Colorado Springs PD may have been looking in the wrong places. We know something they don’t. Once we connect those dots we’ve got to find a government source. Kay, maybe one of your customers has contacts in the FBI, NSA or NASA that could speak candidly with me. Whatever we do, we’ve got to move quickly. Can you get away?”
Kay laughed softly. “That’s one of the good things about being the boss. You can take off whenever you want to—or so they tell me. Seriously though, operations here are in standby mode until the bureaucrats in Washington finally decide to push things through. What do you think, Herc?”
“No problem. Flight testing is complete. Crews are fully trained. We’re running practice flights in the simulator to stay up to speed. Can’t see any other reason to stick around. All we’ve got to do is brief our seconds-in-command. Naturally, we shouldn’t tell anyone exactly what we’re doing or where we’re going. But, yeah, we can break away.”
“I’ve got an entire fleet of aircraft at our disposal,” Kay continued. “We can take the Gulfstream G150 and be in Colorado Springs in less than three hours. I’ve got four, full-time pilots on payroll. But Herc and I can easily handle those responsibilities. We can be wheels-up first thing in the morning.”
“What about your wife, Kay?” Claire asked.
“I’ll sit down with her and lay it all out. She’s been as supportive as a wife can be for a long time. Let’s face it, I’ve done a lot of coming and going in my day. Each time I’ve told her I’ve got a big project that’ll keep us apart for a while, she’s just smiled, given me a big kiss and said ‘I’ll see you when you get back.’” He wistfully stared at the pictures of her and their family on the walls.
Claire stretched and looked at her watch. “It’s almost midnight. What time should I set my alarm for?”
“Normally, I’d say 6 a.m.,” Kay said, snapping back to the present. “But I know we’re all tired. So let’s make it 7, with aircraft boarding by 8. If we need to we can catch some sleep in the air. The 150’s got very comfortable seats that fully recline.”
“Don’t worry about breakfast,” Herc added. “When I file our flight plan and make sure the 150 is fueled and ready to go, I’ll ask for food and drinks for as many meals as possible—just in case we have to fly somewhere else.”
“By the way,” Claire said to both men, “I’m going to put in a call to my boss first thing in the morning. I’ll need to give her a ‘what’s up.’ A story like this will have to be discussed and debated at the highest levels of the Sentinel. Naturally, I’m sure they’ll keep any discussions very confidential.”
They all had to smile at the irony.
Chapter 29
As the sun edged above the flat horizon of the Texas hardpan, Quinten Gnash sat in the back of his van. The bland, inconspicuous vehicle was parked at the base of the only cell tower that serviced the KS Spaceport. Anyone driving by would assume it was being maintained as it should to ensure their calls went through.
He’d gotten his usual three to four hours of sleep at his Lubbock hotel, then driven through the very-early morning hours to get to the tower by 6 a.m. For a few moments, he considered trying to penetrate the spaceport to conduct a sterilization operation against Ramond and McBeth. But after reviewing the base’s security systems and procedures, he realized he stood no chance of getting in and out without being caught. He moved on to a less risky Plan B: passively surveil cell traffic and look for another opportunity to eliminate the new contagion.
As he reviewed the past 72 hours he found himself annoyed by something else: being forced to personally conduct the Halpren sterilization. He’d tried to hire a contractor but couldn’t, given the short lead time and remote location of the house. He was also frustrated with the messiness of what he’d done. Normally, as he’d accomplished with Adelmo Garza, he would take many days or even weeks to thoroughly plan and execute an operation so there were no loose ends. In Ransom Canyon there were loose ends galore that could, in normal conditions, lead back to him. But given that time was a commodity in seriously short supply, he had little choice in the matter.
He forced himself back into the present to watch the illegal, digital cellular scanner sitting on the small desk in front of him. It was intercepting every call that “hit” the tower. In less than a second of any call coming in he could see the originating and receiving phone numbers on the scanners LCD screen. Of course there were dozens—if not hundreds—of calls coming to and from the spaceport and surrounding area every minute. But with the cutting-edge processor and massive hard drive that were the heart of the scanner, it wasn’t a problem. He’d programmed the unit to zero-in and freeze on any calls that originated from or were received by Ramond’s or McBeth’s phones. What he really liked about the device was its newest feature: it could intercept text messages in real time. He could literally see and read each digit as it was t
yped. Although Apple, Samsung and the other smartphone companies loved to trumpet how their encryption technologies made their phones essentially un-hackable, he and the NSA knew otherwise.
He also couldn’t help but chuckle about how much cell phone and digital technology simplified some aspects of his life. In years long past, those who practiced his tradecraft would have had a vastly more difficult task intercepting the calls of those they were spying on. Old-fashioned landlines were the principal means of communication then. They required CIA or FBI technicians to physically tap into paired copper wires bundled in their hundreds or thousands in a cable who-knows-where, or in a central office closely watched by “Ma Bell.” Both kinds of operations were usually very difficult, time consuming and mind-numbing tasks. Now, all he had to do was sit in a comfortable, air-conditioned van and watch a screen, waiting for the computer to do his bidding.
Within three hours of the confrontation with Ramond and McBeth in the hospital, he’d acquired most of his adversaries life histories. As he’d read what amounted to their expanded resumes on his laptop, he realized they were going to present him with a whole new set of challenges.
He wasn’t too concerned with McBeth. As he read her bio, he could see that although she did have a morsel of moxie, she was, after all, just another woman: physically deficient and emotionally fragile. She was at best a muckraking “Lois Lane;” scrounging for her next big story, but really hoping to score with Superman along the way and settle into domestic bliss. And of course, there was the matter of her ancestry. Her maternal roots were in Africa—automatically two and a half strikes against her before she even came to the plate.
Ramond was another matter entirely. The man was a war hero, fitness freak, extremely intelligent and had natural leadership ability. Yes, as he’d already demonstrated at the hospital, and even though he was way past his prime, Ramond was going to be trouble. But not so much that “Ludlow” couldn’t handle him.
Shortly after 7, as he sipped his harshly black coffee, the scanner beeped and its screen lit up. Just as he’d hoped, Claire McBeth was making an outgoing voice call to the New York City offices of the Sentinel; that guardian and mouthpiece of all things communist. That they dared to call themselves the world’s “newspaper of record” was—in his opinion—an insult to true journalists everywhere. He shook his head slightly to clear the distracting thoughts, then turned up the volume a shade so he could hear over the AC.
After three rings someone answered. “Anaya Williams-Jones office, this is Tommy. How may I help you?”
“Hey, Tommy,” Gnash heard McBeth say. “It’s Claire. The boss in?”
“Sorry. Anaya and Jack took off for a few days to their place on the Jersey shore. I don’t expect them back till next week. She did say that if something urgent came up she’d keep her phone close. If you want, I can transfer you to her. Before I do, I’d better tell you some guy called the national news desk with what he said was a big story. Said he only wanted to talk to you. The news boys forwarded his name and number to Anaya. Course she’s out of town and not taking routine stuff, so I took the liberty of texting the details to you. You should’ve received them late yesterday.”
“Yeah, I got it. But things were a little busy when I received it. I’ll take a look at it in a few minutes.”
“No problem. Probably nothing important. You know how it goes. Everybody thinks their news story is earth shaking.” He laughed, then continued. “Should I transfer you?”
Gnash wondered if whoever was trying to reach her was somehow aware of the gargantuan, inter-governmental collusion and coverup that was spinning in high gear—this in the hope of blowing the lid off with a 6-column spread in the Sentinel. The only person he could think of who might do that was Javad. But he was now probably trying to find another new rock to crawl under—not that it would make any difference. He discarded the thought. No need to waste precious time and resources on the traitor any longer. He now had much more pressing concerns.
“Yeah. Probably a good idea,” McBeth was now saying to the receptionist. “Something urgent has come up.”
“Okay. Hang on while I put you on hold. Nice talking to you. Bye-bye.”
“See ya’ later, Tommy.”
Gnash heard the hold music come on line, then a few clicks, more music for a short period and then ringing again. A woman answered brightly. “Claire! It’s good to hear your voice. How are things in Texas?”
Gnash could instantly hear the hesitation in McBeth’s voice. “Uh...not bad, I guess.”
Apparently McBeth’s boss had picked up on it as well. Her tone changed. “I suppose Tommy told you I’d take calls only for important stuff. This is important stuff, isn’t it Claire?”
“Yes. He did and it is important.”
“Okay. Lay it on me.”
“I want to change the article. Seok’s a fascinating guy, but something way more important has come up.”
Williams-Jones’ voice changed again. “We’re not going to have to cover old ground again, are we Claire?”
Gnash wondered what the implied threat was all about.
“No. It’s not like that at all.” McBeth paused for a moment, then continued with a rush. “Look, Anaya. I’m sorry but I can’t give you details over the phone. All I can say is that I’ve run across a news story here that is far more important than anything the Sentinel has ever published. I need your permission to chase it wherever it leads.”
Gnash was intrigued and annoyed at the same time. McBeth was a little more astute then he had originally given her credit for. She must have figured out that someone might be intercepting her calls. She clearly didn’t want whoever she suspected was listening in to know what her plans were, or exactly how much of the conspiracy she was aware of.
“We’ve been printing the news since 1852, Claire.”
“I know.”
“It’s that big?”
“And then some.”
There was a pause in the conversation that Gnash interpreted as the Williams-Jones woman trying to make up her mind.
“How much time do you need?”
“Not sure.”
“What about expenses, then? The boys upstairs would put me through the wringer if things got out of control. If I have to kick your American Express bill to them for signatures because it’s got $10,000 in air fare, and another 10 in hotel costs and meals, you do know what’s going to hit the fan, don’t you?”
“Not to worry. Next to nothing for all of them.”
There was another moment of silence, then a soft, derisive snort.
“What? Have you got an old lamp with a magic carpet?”
“Something like that.”
Gnash immediately knew that McBeth had to be referring to Kayode Seok. The man essentially had a bottomless pit filled with cash. He had private jets that could get her anywhere in the world within 18 hours. If Seok knew what was going on, the degree of difficulty for plugging this leak had just grown exponentially.
“Okay, but you’ve got to give me something other than ‘trust me’ to take upstairs.”
Gnash could hear McBeth take a deep breath.
“Okay. I believe I’ve uncovered a conspiracy at the highest levels of our government and probably those of many other countries as well.”
“The White House?”
“Has to be. And probably Number 10 Downing Street and the Kremlin and a bunch of other similar places as well.”
“You said ‘probably.’ How many indisputable facts have you got? Any authoritative sources?”
“Zilch. That’s what I need permission to track down. I will tell you, though, I do have one promising lead.”
“You’ve asking a lot of me, Claire. You’ve been with us for two years and you want me to put as much faith in you as a 5-Pulitzer veteran.”
“I know.”
After another lull in the talking Williams-Jones said, “Can you at least keep me somewhat in the loop?”
“As much as I can.
Calls to you might be.....unwise.”
“Oh, great!” There was yet another moment of silence. “So that means someone might be listening in on this call?”
“Yes.”
“So, now I have to be careful with my calls and where I go and who I talk to?!” Williams-Jones said.
“Probably a good idea.” McBeth stopped for a second, then continued. “Anaya, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a plane to catc........” She stopped abruptly.
Gnash instantly knew she realized she’d slipped up. She wasn’t as clever as she thought.
“Anyway. I’ll try to stay in touch as much as I can. Don’t try to call me or send e-mails or anything electronic. If I really need to tell you something, I’ll overnight a letter. Maybe you should do the same in response. Looks like we might be doing things the old-fashioned way: pencil and paper and the good old U.S. Mail. Just like they did in 1852.” McBeth laughed.
“I’ll take what you’ve given me to the board of directors as soon as I get back. Given your overview, I may cut things short a little bit here in Jersey. Anyway, be careful, Claire! Sounds like serious stuff.”
“Yeah. Will do.”
The call ended with another beep and Gnash turned off the scanner. He pursed his lips and slowly massaged his sore jaw, trying to summarize what little he’d found out. McBeth would almost certainly be leaving from Seok’s airport in a few minutes, flying somewhere, probably in this country. As he considered where that might be, he realized it had to be Colorado Springs. Halpren must have told Ramond about Whalen discovering the comet and his subsequent death. It was the only logical conclusion. They would start there.
What bothered him nearly as much was this Williams-Jones woman. If she told the Sentinel’s board about the conspiracy, all bets were off. The whole thing would unravel like a cheap sweater. McBeth had done him a favor by advising her boss not to call anyone. The woman would probably not even tell her husband now. The exposure was limited to her. Almost certainly she’d wait until she got back to New York City to bring the matter to the Sentinel’s top brass in person. But he had to stop her. His only hope was she would use her cell phone once she got into the city.
Blinding Fear Page 18