“No one I know would be even remotely capable of pulling off that kind of heist,” George said. “You guys have the money to do just about anything.”
“But why would we? Dr. Lee’s crystal, and whatever else you found in that capsule, is thirty-year-old technology. The methods and equipment we have at our disposal today are far superior to whatever he had back then.”
“So, Iceland would have no interest in these components?” Lauren asked.
“I never said that. I’m just saying that from a technology standpoint, they’re just not that valuable to us.”
“From a technology standpoint?” Lauren looked at Tara curiously. “Let me just ask you straight out: Did you or anyone associated with the Iceland Group steal those components from Los Alamos?”
“Yes.”
Lauren’s eyes went wide. “Yes? You stole Dr. Lee’s AWX components from Los Alamos?”
“I didn’t.”
“But someone associated with Iceland did?”
“Yes.”
“You realize that’s a federal crime, right?”
“Well, then it’s a good thing we’re in Iceland,” Tara said.
“You planning on staying here forever?”
“We, the Iceland Group, are well aware of the possible consequences of our actions. It’s a risk we’ve chosen to take.”
“To accomplish what exactly?” Ellis asked.
“I’m sorry. That I can’t say.”
Lauren went over to the window. The sun was down and the lights from the parking lot were reaching feebly into an adjacent field. After a long moment, she turned. “Well, Ms. Gatekeeper, I suppose it’s silly to ask, but can you at least tell us where Dr. Carrols is?”
“Of course. That I would be happy to answer. Like I said, the Wall is impenetrable.”
“She’s literally behind a wall?” George asked.
“Not a vertical wall—a horizontal one. The wall is fourteen million square kilometers of ice. Dr. Carrols and her team are at the South Pole, at Iceland Station, one hundred and forty-three kilometers west of the Amundsen–Scott South Pole Station. Even if you were already at the South Pole, you wouldn’t be able to contact her. All communication to and from Iceland Station has been severed and won’t be reconnected for at least another thirty-six hours. And that’s the Wall.”
“That’s one of them,” Lauren said.
Chapter 20
“Helios, activating sequence three.” Oren’s voice comes over the speakers in Jan’s flight helmet.
A flight suit and helmet is all Jan gets on this mission—no pressure suit. With Oren’s draconian weight restrictions, Jan considers himself lucky to be wearing underwear.
“Affirmative. Sequence three active,” Jan replies.
Outside the starboard window, the tower’s cantilevered bridge swings clear.
Jan, trying to feel a little less like a piece of cargo, clicks through the status screens on the computer display.
“T minus two minutes,” Oren says.
It’s been little more than an hour since Oren strapped him into this seat. It feels more like two weeks.
“Jan,” Nate’s voice cuts in with odd acoustics. “This is a private comm line. The main channels are encrypted, but we still have a few stragglers in the control room. I just wanted to remind you that, if you lose communication and get a system failure alert after burn three, you’re going to have to manually push the abort button. So try not to pass out. Got it?”
“Got it. Don’t worry, that won’t happen.”
“Which part?”
“All of the above.”
Jan looks at the abort button in the upper right-hand corner of his screen. Hit that button and you’re given two options: smart return or emergency return. Smart return intelligently plans out a safe return to one of several safe and dry landing zones; emergency return is more along the lines of, “Hey I’m out of air, get me on the ground (or on the water more than likely) ASAP.”
“Hey, Nate.” Jan double-checks that he’s on the correct channel. “Really push Oren on a way to get me back. I know there’s got to be a solution in that brain of his. Do whatever you can to coax it out of him.”
“Will do.”
“T minus sixty seconds,” Oren’s voice cuts in.
“Okay, Jan, I’ve got to get back into the control room,” Nate says. “Good luck. See you on the other side.”
“One way or the other. Thanks, Nate.” Jan switches voice channels. “Control, are you sure we still have clear skies?” Out his port-side window, Jan can see navigation lights.
“We see him,” Oren says. “He’s just outside the safety perimeter.”
“Affirmative.”
“Thirty-eight seconds and we’re all green,” Oren says.
“All green,” Jan echoes back.
“Detaching APU, CFC, and FML.”
In front of him, the computer flashes through a series of go/no-go indicators as thousands of sensors, monitoring everything from fuel flow to the electrical integrity of Helios’s instrumentation, relay their data. All green, a few yellows, but nothing of concern. The rattle of intake pumps kicks in, sending a shiver throughout the cabin.
This is it. Jan tries to calm himself. Just focus on the instrument panel.
“Seven, six, five, four—”
The final count is drowned out by the roar of the Sage IV rocket motors. Buried in the violent tearing of one massive body from another, and the continuous thrust needed to accelerate this process, Jan hears: “Helios, you’ve cleared the tower.”
And just woke up the Pentagon, the Ministry of Defense, and God knows who else.
The oppressive rattling and thunder continues as the reflected glow outside his window diminishes with speed and altitude.
“Helios, how are you doing?” Oren asks.
“I’m good,” Jan replies.
On the seat next to him is an isolation box with a brick of C4 and two remote detonators inside. He tries to look at it, but can only see to the edge of his helmet.
“Okay, Helios, your low-altitude course correction is coming up. Sit tight, you’re going to be gaining a lot of ground speed. Standby for CM-1.”
“CM-1, Helios, standing by.”
“Go for CM-1.”
Jan feels a shift in g-force as the Sage IV noses over and he begins his northwesterly trek toward line-up with the space station’s orbital plane. The downward force has decreased, but now he’s being compressed sideways.
“You’ll be pulling about eight gees,” Nate tells him. “But it’s lateral, so you shouldn’t black out.”
“I’m good.” Jan looks at the blur of an instrument panel in front of him, unable to read the clock. He flexes his jaw before he talks. “I, ah—how long will this last?”
“Switching to satellite uplink,” Oren says. “Altitude 84 kilometers; downrange 190.”
“You have a little ways to go,” Nate responds.
“Got it.” A combination of vibrations now resonates through the cabin—an incessant rattle paired with a thumping, low-frequency shudder.
“Altitude 95 kilometers; downrange 360.”
Some unknown amount of time later, Jan realizes that the vibrations have decreased. The lateral pressure is gone and out his starboard window, he can see the blackness of space.
“Helios, burn three complete,” Oren says. “You’re go for orbital insertion.”
“Helios?” Nate cuts in. “You still with us?”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine.”
“Good to hear.” Nate chuckles. “The navigation system will continue to employ its yaw corrections, and while it’s trying to lock on to the station, you’re going to hear quite a few beeps and buzzes—”
“And you’ll see the tracking indicator pop up on your screen,” Oren interjects.
“Just don’t touch anything,” Nate says.
“Got it. Still no one knocking on your door?”
“They’ll be here soon enough,” Nate says, �
��although it’s a little like closing the barn door after the horse has bolted.”
“And you can bet,” Oren adds, “that the engineers at NASA have already figured out that we’re going for a fast rendezvous. So heading Helios off at the station is going to be their top priority now. Let’s just hope that Dimitry has things handled on that side.”
“Okay, Jan,” Nate says. “We’d better get relocated. If for some reason we don’t come back online, remember that, at any point in the mission—especially if you’re unable to dock—you can always hit that big red abort button.”
“Understood,” Jan replies. “I’m sure it’ll all go fine. They’ll probably have a cup of espresso waiting for me—hello? JLA Flight, do you read?”
Static.
Jan brings up the communications window on the computer display. The microwave-satellite relay network appears to be online. The JLA Control Center, however, has a red, jagged line through it.
“JLA Flight, come in. JLA, this is Helios, do you read?”
Nothing.
Jan looks around the cockpit. He unbuckles and floats over to the starboard window. He looks down at Earth and thinks about the tens of thousands of years of mankind looking up in wonder. What would they make of him, this mortal in his tiny craft, looking down from the heavens, utterly alone?
Chapter 21
“Helios to JLA Flight, come in. JLA, this is Helios, do you read?”
Three and a half hours and more than two complete orbits later, still no response.
It’s possible that they’re still working on some technical glitch at the remote facility, Jan tells himself, but in all likelihood, Nate and Oren are now in the hands of the FBI.
At least Helios’s navigation system seems to have him on track. According to Oren, the system should bring him right to the station, handle all the braking burns, and align him with the Harmony module’s nadir docking port. The question is, then what? He’s had no luck contacting Dimitry, and without his help, he simply can’t dock.
NASA, of course, could have alerted the crew in spite of Dimitry’s best efforts. Really, all it would have taken is for someone to have woken up and checked their email.
Jan wonders what the officials at NASA must be thinking. They certainly had to be tracking Helios’s approach to the space station, but did they know it was him on board? They did if the FBI had their hands on Nate and Oren.
Why weren’t they trying to contact him?
Jan looks out the window at Earth.
Just remember, you can hit that abort button any time you want.
He checks the communications screen. Still nothing.
All right, what if docking isn’t an option? Is it at all possible to pull off Nate’s plan of maneuvering close enough to the Leonardo module to plant a bomb?
Jan has no experience with EVAs, nor does he have an EVA suit. He doesn’t even have a pressure suit. But with all his zero-g physical training, might it be possible for him to do this quickly enough to survive that limited exposure to space? Maybe. But could he really maneuver Helios that close to the Leonardo without crashing into it? Doubtful. Also, it’s doubtful that the crystal and the other front-end components are even inside the Leonardo. Dimitry, at Jan’s request, has hidden them.
Oh, and of course, by blowing up the Leonardo, he’d probably kill everyone on board.
So, what if it comes down to aborting? He looks out his port-side window at South Africa. Maybe if he landed in a remote enough area, he could sneak away and make his way to China, to his wife and son.
That might save his neck, but it’d do nothing for the primary objective. The advanced wave technology would still fall into the Americans’ or Russians’ hands.
“Helios, JLA Flight, do you read?” Oren’s staticky voice hits Jan like a tidal wave. He adjusts the speaker volume.
“I read you—Oren?”
“Sorry about the delay, Jan. Things got a little exciting down here. But telemetry shows you right on track. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. What happened? Is Nate there?”
“The main power was cut just as we were about to head out. Then we had to set up in another part of the Orbit One building and reestablish our connection to JLA’s satellite data relay system.”
“Where’s Nate?”
“He took off in the Su-27. He’s taking an AWACS and a couple of F-16s on a wild goose chase toward White Sands—”
“A wild goose chase? They’ll probably shoot him down!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry, Nate’s pretty crafty. He has a satellite phone with him. He’ll call once he’s on the ground. But look, we have a much more pressing issue to deal with. GalactiTrek launched about eighteen hours ago.”
“Eighteen hours ago?”
“NASA masked the launch by claiming it was an LSR satellite launch.”
“How’d they pull that off so quickly?
“Desperate times…”
“And how soon before they get to the station?”
“About seven hours is my estimate. That gives you plenty of time—assuming you can get on board. Any word from Dimitry?”
“None.”
• • •
Ninety minutes later, Jan looks out his port-side window. The space station has grown from a mere speck of light into a discernible mechanical structure—most notably its huge solar panels.
Jan feels the second braking burn.
“Getting pretty close now,” Jan tells Oren. “Still nothing from Dimitry. I’m starting to think nobody’s home.”
Jan stares out at the space station. “Hang on.” Oh shit. “Oren, you there?”
“I’m here. Go ahead.”
“You know that Russian launch?”
“What about it?”
“Well… I’m looking at three docked Soyuz capsules right now.”
“Are you sure?”
“One, two, three. Yeah, I’m sure—”
“Ah, finally.” A baritone voice breaks in on Dimitry’s channel. “Dr. Lee, this is Commander Aleksei Dernov. I have been monitoring your communications for several hours now thanks to your open channel with Captain Dimitry Antonov.”
Silence.
“Please, Dr. Lee, there is no cause for alarm. You are quite welcome aboard. You have my permission to approach and dock.”
Chapter 22
Lauren, Ellis, and George crossed the tarmac, heading toward the hangar doors to the Forensic Aviation and Reconstruction Lab at Sea-Tac.
They had left Keflavík International Airport, Iceland, at 11:00 P.M., just an hour after their meeting with Dr. Tara Cipriani, had shot across the Canadian supersonic corridor in just under two hours, and, having outrun the sun, and with only minor air traffic to deal with, had arrived here at 7:00 P.M.
What they had really wanted to do was return to North Carolina to re-interview Stephen Lee. Unfortunately, Deputy Director Arthur Johnson had had other ideas. Unimpressed with their explanation of some kind of world-altering time message, and furious with them for now dragging a journalist around with them, he had ordered them out to Sea-Tac. “See if you can light a fire under those techno-nerds,” he had said. “And get rid of that goddamned journalist.”
Here in Washington, the sun was down and it was drizzling.
“Fifteen hours remaining.” Lauren checked her HoloWatch.
She wasn’t entirely convinced they could affect the outcome of the Message’s task; three decades in, whatever evil or good Stephen Lee had been up to was probably fairly well set in stone. But they had to try. What if they could prevent some kind of catastrophe? A threat to Wall Street or the nation’s infrastructure, or some kind of political coup? Besides, solving this mystery before the forty-eight-hour deadline had become an obsession for her.
“We never promised Arthur anything thorough,” Lauren said. “If we can make this fast and get back in the air—even if we have to fly low and slow—we could be in North Carolina by six A.M. North Carolina time.”
�
��That gives us nine hours,” Ellis said. “Plenty of time to rattle Stephen Lee’s cage.”
“George?” Lauren called out. He was several meters ahead of them and practically at a jog.
George would have preferred to have been in North Carolina, too. But a chance to see Helios before it was hung from the rafters at some air and space museum wasn’t bad either.
He waited for them at the threshold to the hangar.
Inside, the Forensic Aviation and Reconstruction Lab, normally occupied by the NTSB, was awash with lab-coated FBI technicians. And at the back of the hangar, on a wooden platform, was Helios. The technicians had removed its side panels and laid out much of its electronic and mechanical components on tables. It seemed impossible that so much stuff could have been crammed into that thing.
“You’re really tearing it apart,” Lauren said to the forensic team leader, Timothy Weiss, after introducing herself, Ellis, and George.
Timothy was tall, with thinning blond hair, and had a coffee stain on the front of his lab coat.
“That’s the idea,” Timothy replied. “I’m sorry—but no one told me you’d be here today. I would have had some kind of presentation for you.” He looked around. “I know it seems a little chaotic around here, but we’ve been going nonstop since Helios’s arrival.”
“Not a problem,” Lauren said. “We’re just here to see if there’s anything we can do to help—then we’ll be out of your hair.” She couldn’t help but glance at the top of his head. “How about just a quick overview?”
“Sure.” Timothy started up the steps to Helios’s denuded frame. The steps, the platform, the tables, all were made of freshly cut wood. The place smelled of it—damp two-by-fours and plywood.
“Anyone care for some coffee?” Timothy asked. “We’ve been practically living on the stuff.”
“I see.” Lauren pointed at his lab coat.
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