Covert-One 2 - The Cassandra Compact

by The Cassandra Compact [lit]

  As the visitor and Reed moved away from her and into a pool of light, Megan saw something around the man's neck: a health stabilization card, indicating that whoever he was, the visitor had been given a clean bill of health by NASA doctors.

  Satisfied that Reed's guest was cleared to be in a restricted area, Megan started to move away. But something in the back of her mind resisted. She'd always relied on her intuition and instinct; listening to both had saved her life more than once. They whispered to her now that she should not do the polite thing and walk away, giving Reed his privacy.

  Megan hung back. Because the two men stood facing each other, she couldn't hear what they were saying. But there was no mistaking that something passed from the visitor to Reed: a shiny, metallic cylinder about four inches long. Megan saw it only for a split second before it disappeared into the pocket of Reed's overalls.

  Megan watched the visitor grip Reed's shoulder, then get back into his car and drive away. Reed seemed to gaze after the taillights until they were reduced to two pinpricks, then he turned and began walking toward his quarters.

  He has preflight jitters, just like the rest of us. Someone close to him came out to see him off.

  But the explanation rang hollow. Reed was a veteran of six shuttle missions, almost nonchalant about the process. Nor could it have been a relative. Once the quarantine was in effect, family members had no contact with the crew. They were relegated to a special viewing area three miles from the launch.

  Someone in the program. Someone I never met.

  Before heading for the mess hall where the crew would have their last real meal until they returned, Megan stopped off at her room. She considered her options, one of which was to casually broach the subject with Reed. After all, he had been her supporter ever since she had arrived at NASA; over time, she'd come to think of him as a friend. Then she remembered Adam Treloar, the missing smallpox, and the desperate search that was secretly under way. Klein's directive had been unequivocal: she was to report anything suspicious. Although Megan was certain that there was a perfectly innocent explanation for Reed's behavior, she nonetheless reached for the phone.

  __________

  At six-thirty, the crew entered the clean room to suit up. Since Megan was the only woman on the mission, she had a cubicle to herself. Closing the door, she cast a critical eye over her launch/entry suit or LES. Made to measure and weighing a hefty ninety pounds, it was comprised of more than fifteen individual pieces, including a flotation device, gravity pants, and a diaper. Megan had questioned the need for the latter until Reed had explained to her exactly how much pressure was exerted on the body during the entry into orbit. It was virtually impossible for the bladder not to void.

  "Looking very stylish, Megan," Frank Stone, the mission pilot, commented when she stepped into the men's changing area.

  "I like the patches best," Megan replied.

  "Tell my wife that," Bill Karol, the commander piped up. "She designed them."

  Each mission had a unique patch, designed either by the crewmembers or their relatives. This one depicted the shuttle racing into space. Inside the round borders were stitched the names of the crew.

  The crew paired off to check each other's suits, making sure that every piece was snug and secure. Then one of the mission specialists, David Carter, led the group in a brief prayer. The moment helped lift the pall created by Adam Treloar's untimely death.

  With a little over three hours to liftoff, they trooped out of their quarters and into a blaze of camera lights. The walkout was the last chance for outside observers, all carefully screened and wearing special passes, to see the astronauts. Passing through the gauntlet, Megan waved briefly for the media. When she smiled, a reporter called out, "One more! Just like that."

  The ride to the gantry in the UPS-style van took only a few minutes. Once there, the crew boarded an elevator that took them up 195 feet to the white room, the final staging area where they put on their parachutes, harnesses, communications hats, helmets, and gloves.

  "How are you holding up?"

  Megan turned to see Reed beside her, dressed and ready.

  "Okay, I guess."

  "Preflight butterflies?"

  "Is that what's going on inside my stomach?"

  He leaned closer. "Don't go spreading this, but I get them too."

  "Not you!"

  "Especially me."

  Maybe it was the way she was looking at him that brought out his next words: "Is anything wrong? You look like you want to ask me something."

  Megan brushed the air with her hand. "It's the moment, I guess. You dream and train and work for it, and then one day, it's there."

  Reed patted her shoulder. "You'll do fine. Just remember what Allenby said: we're all counting on those experiments you have scheduled."

  "Ladies and gentlemen, it's that time," one of the prep crew called out.

  Megan breathed a sigh of relief as Reed turned away. During her telephone conversation with Klein, the head of Covert-One said that he would immediately check on Reed's mysterious visitor, try to establish a solid ID, and get back to her. Since she hadn't heard from him, Megan assumed that Klein was either still checking or that he had come up with a perfectly satisfactory answer that he hadn't been able to relay to her.

  "Showtime," Reed announced. He gestured at Megan. "After you, ma'am."

  Megan took a deep breath, crouched, and ducked through the flight-deck hatch. Making her way to the ladder, she descended to the mid-deck where, in addition to the sleep stations, food and storage lockers, and the bathroom, were three special liftoff chairs for her, Randall Wallace, another mission specialist, and David Carter, the payload specialist.

  Settling herself in the take-down chair, which would be folded and stored after liftoff, Megan found herself on her back, her knees pointed at the ceiling.

  "Third mission and I still can't get used to these seats," Carter grumbled as he slipped into the chair beside hers.

  "That's because you keep putting on the pounds, my man," Wallace needled him. "All that home cooking."

  "At least I have a home to come back to," Carter shot back.

  Tapping an imaginary cigar, Wallace did his imitation of Groucho Marx. "Must be love."

  The banter died as the prep crew came in and strapped the astronauts into the seats.

  "Mikes?"

  Megan tested hers and nodded as much as she could, given the tight leeway. As her mates were strapped in, she listened to the orbiter crew going through the liftoff checklist with mission control.

  Their work finished, the prep crew stepped back. Although Megan couldn't see them, she imagined how solemn their expressions were.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, Godspeed. Come home safely."

  "Amen to that," Carter muttered.

  "I should have brought a good book to read," Wallace mused. "Megan, how are you doing there?"

  "Just peachy, thank you. Now if you boys don't mind, I have my own checklist to review."

  __________

  Several hundred miles to the northeast, Jon Smith finished his second cup of coffee and checked his watch. By now, Kirov would have had enough time to settle into position in Dupont Circle. On his way out, Smith took one last look at the monitors connected to the exterior security cameras. Located on a corner lot, his house was bordered by tall trees that effectively hid it from its neighbors. The backyard was all lawn, with no bushes or shrubs where an intruder could hide. Motion sensors embedded in the stone walls of the house continually scanned the area.

  If someone managed to get past the sensors, he would discover a sophisticated alarm system built into the dual-pane windows and the door locks. If these were somehow breached, pressure pads throughout the house would activate, triggering both an alarm and an incapacitating gas through the sprinkler system. Tested in federal prisons, the gas took down its targets in less than ten seconds, which was why Smith kept a gas mask in his night-table cabinet.

  Although Smith believed
that Beria would not attempt to kill him with a long-range shot, he thought it prudent to double-check the perimeter. Satisfied that it was secure, Smith went back through the kitchen that connected directly to the garage. He was reaching to shut off the small television perched on the counter when he saw an image that made him stop. He hesitated briefly, then smiled and reached for the phone.

  __________

  At twenty-one minutes to liftoff, the voice of the flight director, Harry Landon, came over the crew's headsets.

  "Folks," he said in his Oklahoma twang, "seems we got ourselves an unexpected development."

  Even though they were aware that three hundred people at mission control were listening to every sound they made, the crew could not contain a collective groan.

  "Don't tell me we're going to have to do this all over again," Carter groused.

  "What's the problem, mission control?" the pilot asked crisply.

  "Did I say a problem? No. I said a development." There was a brief pause. "Olson, are you all done with your flight check?"

  "Yes, sir," Megan replied, her heart racing.

  Don't tell me I screwed up. Anything but that.

  "In that case, do you want to take this call?"

  Involuntarily, Megan tried to sit up but got nowhere. Who could be calling her? Oh, Jesus!

  "Harry," she said in panicky voice. "I don't know if that's such a good idea."

  "Now don't you fret. I'll patch it through only to you."

  The last thing she heard before the static was Carter's "Rats!"

  "Megan?"

  Her pulse quickened. "Jon? Is that you?"

  "I couldn't let you leave without saying good luck."

  "Jon, how did you.... ? I mean, how could you---"

  "No time to explain. Are you okay? Are you ready?"

  "Ready, yes. Okay? Well, I'm still getting used to sitting on a ton of liquid fuel."

  "I wanted to wish you well.... Make sure you come home safe and sound."

  Megan smiled. "I will."

  "Sorry, folks," Landon broke in. "Time's up."

  "Thanks, Harry," Megan said.

  "I'm going to put you back in the loop. Ready?"

  "Go ahead."

  Megan steeled herself for some gentle ribbing, which never materialized. In the fifteen minutes to countdown, the rest of the crew were busy exchanging instructions and details. Closing her eyes, she whispered a few words from the Twenty-fourth Psalm. She had barely finished when the shuttle shifted a little. An instant later, the ignition procedure for the solid boosters kicked in and a loud, low rumble enveloped the craft.

  Through the chatter of ground control double-checking liftoff, Megan heard: "Houston, we have Discovery liftoff!"

  As the external tank fed the shuttle's main engines, Megan felt as though she were strapped to a bone-jarring roller coaster--- except that there was no stopping this ride. Two minutes and six seconds after liftoff, the solid boosters separated from the orbiter, falling away to the ocean, where they would be retrieved. Powered by the fuel from the external tank that fed her main engines, Discovery struggled to break free of gravity. The higher and faster she ascended, the closer the crew got to the maximum 3-G pressure. Megan had been warned that it would be like having a gorilla strapped to your chest.

  Wrong. More like an elephant.

  Six minutes later, at an altitude of 184 miles, the main engines stopped firing. Its job done, the external fuel tank separated and fell away. Megan was amazed by the sudden silence and by how smooth the ride had suddenly become. Turning her head, she understood why: beyond the sliver of a window in her line of sight were the stars. She and Discovery were in orbit.

  ___________________

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY ONE

  ___________________

  The preceding evening, Ivan Beria had rendezvoused with the driver of the Lincoln outside the Metro stop at Q Street and Connecticut Avenue. The driver had further information and instructions for Beria, who studied them as the car wended its way out of the city toward Bethesda.

  The driver was necessary because Beria could not afford to be seen on the streets--- and because he had only the most rudimentary driving skills. A killer who could carve a man up in seconds, he was lost in and confused by the traffic streaming in and out of the city. In an emergency, he could not be sure of executing an escape. There was one other advantage to the car besides transport: it was perfect for surveillance. Washington was filled with executive sedans. This one would not look out of place in a neighborhood such as Bethesda.

  Approaching Smith's house, the driver slowed as though searching for a particular number. Beria got a good look at the rambling ranchstyle house, set well back from the street. He noted the trees that ran along the property line and that, he surmised, continued around the back. There were lights in the windows but no shadows indicating movement.

  "Come around again," Beria told the driver.

  Next time, Beria looked closely at the other houses on the block. Most had toys and bicycles on the front lawn, a basketball hoop over the garage door, a small powerboat perched on a trailer chocked in the driveway. By contrast, Smith's house looked vacant, brooding. It was, Beria thought, the house of a man who lives alone and prefers it that way, whose work demands solitude and secrecy. Such a house would have a far more sophisticated--- and deadly--- warning system than anything advertised by the security company patches on the doors of the other homes.

  "I have seen enough," he told the driver. "We will come back tomorrow morning."'

  Now, a few minutes after nine o'clock in the next morning, Beria was in the backseat of the Lincoln as it idled at the far corner of Smith's street. The driver was standing outside, smoking. To passing joggers and dog walkers, he appeared to be waiting for a client.

  In the cool stillness of the interior, Beria reviewed all the information on Smith. His principal wanted the American doctor out of the way quickly. But there were obstacles. Smith did not go to an office. His home appeared to have good security. Therefore, the execution would have to be done out in the open, wherever an opportunity presented itself. Another problem was the unpredictability of Smith's movements once he was outside his home. He had no set schedule, so the principal could not say where he would be at any given time. This meant that Beria had to follow Smith as closely as possible and look for an opening. Working in his favor was the fact that the American did not have an escort, did not--- as far as the principal knew--- carry a weapon. Most important, he had no inkling that he was in any kind of danger. Beria checked his watch; forty-five minutes had elapsed since he'd arrived.

  The Lincoln listed as the driver got back behind the wheel. "Smith's coming out."

  Beria looked through the windshield down the street where a navy blue sedan was backing out of a garage. According to the principal, this was Smith's vehicle.

  "And we begin," Beria said softly.

  __________

  As Smith drove into the city, he constantly checked his mirrors. After a few miles he tagged the black Lincoln that changed lanes whenever he did. He called Kirov on the cell.

  "It's the Lincoln from the airport. On my tail. I think Beria's nibbling."

  "I'm ready," Kirov assured him.

  Breaking for a light, Smith checked his rearview. The Lincoln was still three cars back.

  Once in the city, Smith drove as fast as traffic permitted, changing lanes, leaning on his horn. He hoped Beria would buy the image of a man late for an important appointment, a man preoccupied, his guard down, easy prey. He wanted the assassin to focus on him to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. That way, he would never see Kirov coming.

  He's in a hurry, Beria thought. Why?

  "He's headed for Dupont Circle," the driver said, keeping his eyes on the traffic.

  Beria frowned. His apartment was in that area. Could Smith have already discovered it? Was that his destination?

  The sedan picked up speed on Connecticut Avenue, turned
left on R Street, and then right on Twenty-first Street.

  Where's he going?

  The sedan slowed as Smith approached the top of the triangle at S Street. Beria watched him park the car in a lot, then cross Twenty-first Street. This area, with its Eastern European restaurants and shops, was familiar to him. Since arriving in Washington, it was the only place he had ventured into where he felt comfortable.

  He's here to try to pick up the scent. Or maybe someone saw my picture.