NAVAL BASE POINT LOMA; SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
Jared was starving. Since morning, when he first began hearing people outside the building, he decided to stay hidden. As the commotion outdoors steadily increased, he readied himself to bolt at any moment, but no one ever entered the place.
It didn’t take him long to figure out the babble of voices belonged to people preparing for the arrival of that spaceship boat he’d heard about in the news. For the past several hours, from the security of his nook, he heard all the speeches over the public address system.
With the party outside apparently over, he dared to stand up to stretch his legs. A few moments later he heard voices and quickly ducked.
“Let’s go through the back door,” a man said. “I always leave it unlocked in case I forget my keys—which is way too often.”
“Absent-minded professor, huh?”
A woman.
“Uh, guilty as charged.”
When the door opened Jared made himself as small as possible.
Someone turned on the lights. He shrouded his eyes against the sudden brightness.
“Can you hold on? I need to go to the bathroom,” the female said. “I haven’t gone since Panama City.”
He readied himself as the voices moved quickly away from him, heading further into the hangar.
Now!
Go!
In one swift, quiet motion, he leapt up, pushed through the door, and sprinted away into the darkness.
FRIDAY, APRIL 28 (10:59 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME)
When she returned from the restroom, Carlos and Calder were chit-chatting.
“Not talking about me, I hope,” she said in jest.
“No,” her brother said. “I was just telling Calder how everyone at our church followed your guys’ whole mission.”
“I’d like to meet your family one day,” Calder said. “They sound like really cool people.”
“They are,” she said. “But we better get on with the tour. I gotta powwow with Eva before heading to the hotel. Lots happening.”
Calder led them to the center of the hangar and explained the purpose of the tall stage-like structure there. A ramping scaffold wound around its perimeter, like the threads of a screw.
“This is where Hero sits when I have to work on her.”
“Her throne,” Carlos said.
“Yeah, you could say that. I can raise and lower her using this hydraulic lift and access any part of her by walking along the scaffolding.”
“And it’s just the one vehicle, right?” Allie said. “There’s no backup?”
“Right, no backup; Hero’s a very expensive machine.”
She smiled. “Well, after this, I predict you’re gonna be able to afford building her a sister or two.”
Carlos was sweeping his eyes around the place. “It’s so clean. Like a hospital.”
“Hero’s insides contain some very precise, delicate technology,” Calder said. “One speck of dust in the wrong place could be disastrous. That’s why the building is under positive pressure.”
“What does that mean?”
“Special ventilation fans constantly keep the inside pressure higher than the outside, which helps keep dirt and air pollution from coming in.”
Allie looked up at the very tall ceiling. “This place reminds me of the VAB at Cape Kennedy—you know, the vehicular assembly building, where they put together the huge rockets.”
Calder nodded. “Actually, it does. I’ve seen it.”
He swept his hand across the massive facility. “The layout’s pretty straightforward—divided into quadrants.” He started pointing. “Over there, to the north, is propulsion. Over on the west side is navigation. On the east is life support. And over there, by the door we just came through, is payload. In each—”
Her phone sounded.
“Oh, dang, I’m sorry. It’s probably Eva wondering where I am.” She glanced at the caller ID then answered. “Bueno?”
“Allie?” The voice sounded winded. “It’s Dallan.”
SATURDAY, APRIL 29 (8:15 A.M. CENTRAL EUROPEAN SUMMER TIME)
POOR CLARES’ SACRED HEART CONVENT; SEVILLE, SPAIN
When her cab arrived at the convent, Mother Yolanda smiled at the colorful, handmade paper decorations hanging on the outside of the main office building. She was used to receiving a warm welcome whenever she returned from a long absence, but this . . .
The rising sun was heralding a bright new day, but her body and spirits were feeling the wearying effects of the long, disappointing journey. She paused a moment to steel herself.
God will provide, He always has.
The driver helped her out of the car and immediately the kids ran to meet and swarm about her. “Ay, mis niños!” she said, bringing her hands to her cheeks. “Que bellísimos son!”
She stooped, taking the children into her arms one by one and kissing them, allowing herself to be swept up by the joyous homecoming reception.
“Mother Abbess! Mother Abbess!”
Her assistant, Sister Theresa, was hurrying toward her, holding the front of her habit off the ground to avoid tripping over it.
“Yes, Sister,” she said, alert to the look of extreme joy on Theresa’s young, smooth face. “It is good to be home, thank God.”
“Indeed, Mother Abbess, indeed! Welcome home! I have such news to report. We’ve all been waiting to tell you together.”
Yolanda always had a guarded reaction to being told there was unexpected news. The prowling enemy never rested. But in this case she thought Theresa’s evident jubilation boded well.
“What is it, my child?”
“Donations!” Theresa’s hands plunged into her habit’s hidden pockets and drew out fistfuls of paper money, telegrams, and checks. “People saw you on television with the American inventor, heard about our need, and are sending us money! Praise God, it’s a miracle! Our prayers have been answered!”
SATURDAY, APRIL 29 (12:23 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME)
Allie, aboard an executive jet bound for Boulder, had her eyes closed but wasn’t sleeping. Her restless thoughts vied between Lorena, who was still missing, and the truly scary news story she was about to break to the world.
When it rains it pours.
According to what Dallan told her on the phone, the sun was about to detonate a killer CME, a coronal mass ejection. Under normal circumstances, he explained, CMEs hitting the earth weren’t big news; they happened regularly and at their worst caused severe magnetic storms. But given the growing holes in the magnetosphere, a CME happening now constituted a very real and present danger to the planet. It could lead to the kind of catastrophe the Arctic just experienced or that allegedly killed Calder’s wife—or worse.
Dallan explained the president was planning to address the nation about the potential disaster, but that if she hurried over, she could be the one to break the news before anyone. She guessed he was trying to ingratiate himself with her, to show he was serious about turning over a new leaf. But she didn’t care about his motives, only the story.
Shifting in her seat for a more comfortable position, she yearned for the hotel room she gave up for this emergency. She loved the Manchester Grand Hyatt in San Diego and was counting on getting a good night’s sleep in preparation for the next day’s G-20.
“You awake?”
Her eyes flew open. “Eva,” she whispered. “What? I’m trying to sleep here. I’m gonna look like caca in the morning.”
Eva glanced around the darkened cabin. Pitsy and the crew were also on board. “Sorry, sorry. I just got a call from Stu.”
“Terrific, good to know,” she said irritably.
“He said the White House just contacted him. The president wants to tour the whale stranding site in San Diego tomorrow afternoon the minute he lands in the city. It’s a huge photo op.”
Allie looked at her blankly, still not understanding why all of this couldn’t have waited until the morning.
Eva gave h
er a big, self-satisfied grin. “Allie, he’s been following your reports of the rescue mission and today’s big arrival. He wants to meet you guys. The prez wants you and Calder to brief him on the whale strandings!”
CHAPTER 26
AMBUSH
SATURDAY, APRIL 29 (3:45 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME)
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
Calder, in the back seat of the limo with Burton Sager, was questioning the location of this morning’s live TV show. At Allie’s behest, the veteran PR agent was helping him out with the tsunami of interview requests.
“I just don’t understand why Mission Beach with a bunch of dying whales,” he griped. “Why not at my hangar? Why not next to Hero?”
The car was exiting the 5 Freeway, headed for Sea World Drive. They were running late.
“Networks like their anchors to be where the action is. They were going to do it at your hangar but changed their minds when news broke about the magnetic holes. It’ll be fine; this is important. They’re the number-one morning show in the country.”
When the car arrived at the beach he and Sager were met by the police chief and a dozen officers.
A police escort?
“The mayor wants to make sure you’re well taken care of,” the chief said, shaking his hand.
Calder looked about in the dark and spotted two large gatherings of demonstrators across the street. They were holding lowered picket signs and arguing loudly with one another.
At this ungodly hour?
Why are they here?
The police escorted him past the demonstrators, who hooted at them, and then past a barricade of white sawhorses and yellow caution tape.
“Good morning!” said a woman dressed in white Capri pants and a burgundy blouse. Her hair was pulled back tightly in a ponytail.
Calder easily recognized the popular anchor of the morning show, Dusty Robins. He shook her hand, forcing a smile. “Sorry for being late.”
“It’s okay. It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Sinclair, thank you for coming.” She also greeted Sager and then jerked a thumb in the direction of the protestors. “I hope they didn’t hassle you too much.”
“No big deal,” Calder replied. “But who are they?”
“They’re mostly kids from Occupy the World and Planet First. We’re hoping they don’t go for each other’s throats this morning. One group blames the beached whales on Navy experiments and the magnetic holes on climate change. The other blames it all on the environmentalists. Go figure.” She added casually, “Some even blame you for making things worse.”
Calder reared his head. “What? How do they figure that?”
“Yes, thank you, I agree. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about it. All they want is publicity. You’re just a convenient target.”
“Great,” he muttered.
“Did you manage to get any sleep?” she said, leading them across the sand.
He wagged his head. “Not really. It’s been nonstop interviews since I arrived, with reporters from every imaginable time zone. I’m just hoping I can make it through this interview. I don’t know how you people do it, getting up so early and being all smiles.”
“It takes practice: I’ve been doing this show for nine years now. Let’s get you some coffee real quick. Follow me.” She glanced at her smartphone. “We go live in twelve minutes.”
She led them into a large trailer parked in the sand. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Straight up.”
“And you, Mr. Sager?”
“Milk and two sugars.”
After her assistant served them coffee, Robins said. “C’mon back outside. I want to introduce you to our other guest.”
Calder looked to Sager then to Robins. “Other guest?”
“Yes, for a reaction to what you’ve just done. It’s someone who knows you: Dr. Terry Bradstreet.”
“Oh lord, not him.”
“What? He’s president of the California Academy of Sci—”
“Yes, I know. He’s my worst critic. Has been for years.”
Sager pulled Calder aside and asked him for an explanation.
“Never mind, I can handle him. Actually, it’ll give me a chance to say, ‘I told you so.’”
“You wanna pull out?” Sager pressed. “You can, you know. You don’t have to take any cra—”
“No, let’s just do this and get out of here.”
He and Sager followed Robins out of the trailer. They walked a short distance across the sand to a tall, thin man in tan slacks, button-down powder-blue shirt, and navy blazer.
Robins spoke first. “I understand the two of you know each other.”
“Yes, we do,” Bradstreet said with a feeble smile. “Morning, Calder.”
Calder stared arrows at him. “Morning, Terry. Good to see you.” He looked away and said under his breath, “Not.”
A frazzled-looking bald man wearing a headset rushed up to them. “Five minutes, Dusty! New York needs you all out there—now!”
The three quickly positioned themselves on the sand in front of the main camera—he on Robins’s right, Bradstreet on her left. The beach all around them was lit up; massive black, white, and gray shapes lay everywhere. Scores of volunteers were speaking softly to the distraught animals, dousing their bodies with buckets of seawater.
Calder winced at the ghastly sound of the whales clearing their blowholes and sighing, of the juveniles crying pitifully. Many in the final stages of dying were on their backs, their gigantic, fluked tails curled skyward.
“One minute!” the bald man shouted.
Moments later, on a small monitor nestled in the sand, Calder watched the show’s opening graphics.
Some fifty feet away, the demonstrators came alive.
He smirked.
Like trained seals.
Calder glanced over his shoulder at the slogans on the now dancing signs: SOLAR FARMS KILL . . .HOLY SMOKE—STOP THE SLAUGHTER . . .GO GREEN, NOT SOLAR . . . BAN ALL RADAR . . . MAKE PEACE, NOT WAR . . . CLIMATE CHANGE: WHALE OF A PROBLEM! The two groups took turns shouting, like warring football fans: “Stop the Navy!” “Stop the greenies!”
He turned back to the small monitor. The introductory graphics gave way to a shot of the cheery-faced anchor. At the bottom of the frame were the words: FRINGE OR FRONTIER?
What the—?
The bald man cued her.
“Good morning!” Robins said. “I’m here at Mission Beach, where the strandings continue to worsen beneath a hole in the earth’s magnetic field scientists say is growing. We’ll have the latest updates on that for you in just a minute.
“But first we begin our live coverage with a man who knows all about what’s happening with the strandings. Last evening, after three days of trying to stop whales from beaching themselves, he came home to San Diego to a hero’s welcome as the world watched and cheered.”
They played snippets from yesterday’s ceremonies: Hero’s arrival, the governor’s introduction, Calder’s own speech.
Suddenly he felt a nudge from behind, his cue to enter the frame.
DR: “Dr. Sinclair, thank you so much for joining us this early in the morning. Here in California it’s only four o’clock and I know you haven’t had much sleep.”
Calder nodded unenthusiastically.
CS: “Thank you. I’m grateful to be here.”
DR: “How does it feel to be home?”
CS: “Terrific. It’s always good to be home.”
For the next few minutes Robins had him quickly walk viewers through the three-day trip, querying him about the Japanese whalers, the Reverend Mother, and how he and Allie handled going to the bathroom and getting sleep.
DR: “Looking back on it all, what would you say was the highlight of your trip?”
Calder shifted his feet in the sand, numbed by a chilly, predawn breeze and the litany of mostly inane questions.
CS: “The highlight? I’d say proving Hero actually works as advertised. I couldn’t have hoped for a
better performance from her. She was a real trouper.”
DR: “You claim she runs on nothing but air, is that right?”
Calder stifled an urge to scream.
CS: “No, not air. And not nothing. That’s the point. She runs on the quantum vacuum. People often think a vacuum is nothing. They remember learning that way back in science class, but it’s wrong.”
DR: “So, when you say ‘quantum vacuum,’ what exactly do you mean? Is there some simple way you can explain it to us?”
Calder, taking in a lungful of air, nearly gagged on the stench of the beached animals.
CS: “When you suck everything out of an enclosed space—a jar, let’s say—there’s always something left behind. Science calls it ‘vacuum energy.’ It’s invisible and exists in a kind of twilight zone state, but I’ve figured out a way to extract it and put it to work.”
DR: “Oh, wow, that sounds complicated.”
CS: “Well, yes—but—well, think of fracking, where you extract leftover natural gas trapped inside the ground. That’s kind of what I do. I’ve invented a way to liberate leftover energy trapped inside the vacuum.”
DR: “Oh, I get it. Kind of like squeezing blood out of a turnip, huh?”
Robins chuckled at her own cleverness, thanked him, and then looked directly into the camera.
DR: “Now, for an outside opinion on all this we’re joined this morning by another respected scientist, Dr. Terry Bradstreet. He’s president of the California Academy of Sciences.”
Bradstreet stepped into the frame and smiled—somewhat smugly, Calder thought.
At the same time, Calder felt someone taking hold of the back of his shirt and tugging it gently, his cue to step back from the limelight. His stomach muscles tightened. His mouth felt dry.
DR: “Dr. Bradstreet, thank you so much for being here. You heard what Dr. Sinclair just explained. Tell us—what do you think?”
Bradstreet, clearing his throat, shot a glance at Calder, then turned to the camera. He seemed confused about where exactly he should be looking.
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