Pete liked hearing that. If they could reproduce the material, it would put him one step closer to a complete solution. He was already engaging two more scientists to develop a prototype version of the damaged suit, including a new helmet. With luck, they might be able to reverse-engineer the individual components in a few weeks and create a working prototype a month later. And that, combined with the jump profile he had extracted from the black box, would give him most of the pieces of the puzzle.
Except for the missing component, he thought, before thanking Gayle and walking back to his office.
His scientists were doing their part, but he couldn’t say the same for his operatives. The field reports were not encouraging.
Six professionals had been brutally disabled—one even killed.
Pete had read the encrypted message on his phone and nearly thrown it out of his office window an hour earlier.
The only good news was that the mercenaries were quite adept at cleaning up after their own mess. Aside for unconfirmed reports of fistfights, the FIT campus was pretty much undisturbed. No bodies were found. And of course, there was no sign of Angela or Jack, or even Professor Jonathan Layton, one of the key assets he had under surveillance.
So they’ve gone after her academic contacts, he thought, pretty much deducing that his former girlfriend was digging, and given her level of technical brilliance, it was just a matter of time before she connected the dots.
But Pete needed her on his team, connecting his dots, helping him unlock the apparent marvels of this game-changing technology. Unfortunately, any chance of doing so peacefully had ended when he’d arrived at her house in Humvees packed with armed soldiers.
He looked out his window at the Launch Complex 39 and the ocean beyond it, having forgotten just how damned skilled Jack was, and combining his operational talents with Angela’s mind only made them that much more formidable.
They had managed to escape his initial attempt to take them at her house, in the process neutralizing a dozen soldiers. Then they had deceived him—along with the Coast Guard and Homeland Security—with that ocean explosion stunt, before making fools out of a professional Serbian surveillance team in South Miami, and once again at FIT, where Jack had apparently disabled two independent professional teams, one Russian and the other Canadian.
But everyone had a weakness, something that could be exploited.
And then it suddenly came to him, as he stared at the distant ocean.
It couldn’t be that easy, he thought, rubbing his chin, considering the concept, realizing that the best plans were often the simplest.
Follow the technology trail.
And he began to make calls, to dispense instructions, orchestrating a new plan that neither Jack nor Angela would see coming for a while.
Until it was too late.
And this time there would be no mistakes.
* * *
They reached the beach house just past midnight, punching in the code Layton had given them to gain access to the gated community, before driving up to the house, where Jack got out, and entered another code by the keypad next to the double garage doors, which began to lift.
Angela drove their truck inside and Jack immediately closed the doors, hoping no one had seen them this late at night. One thing he’d learned about living in Florida was that the majority of residents were retirees who usually went to bed in the early evening hours.
The place was a classic vacation home, with a gigantic main room connecting the kitchen, dining room, and living room with panoramic windows facing a silvery ocean under a bright moon.
He entered the alarm’s security code before checking the place while Angela unloaded the groceries they’d gotten on the way, stocking up the refrigerator and pantry since they planned to be here awhile.
Jack walked into every room, inspecting closets, testing windows, making sure the place was secure, before returning to the kitchen, where she waited for him with a pair of Coronas.
They held hands while walking out to the covered back porch overlooking a private beach, which, like the rest of the neighborhood, was deserted at this late hour.
A half-dozen Adirondack chairs of different colors flanked a large covered Jacuzzi spa.
Angela set her beer on the arm of one of the chairs and walked over to the spa, lifting one end and testing the water.
“It’s warm,” she said, before lifting the cover and pushing it aside.
“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning against the railing while sipping his beer.
She ignored him, inspecting the touch controls before pressing a button. The unit came alive with bubbles and a soft blue light.
Taking charge again, Angela removed her T-shirt and jeans, before slowly stepping in with feminine grace, under Jack’s stare, as he stood there holding the longneck. This version of Angela had the innate ability to constantly leave him at a loss for words.
“You may be gone tomorrow, Jack,” she added at his silence. “But tonight you are in my world … where you’re mine. Remember?”
Slowly, he set the drink next to hers and made his way to the side of the Jacuzzi, where he also undressed before climbing in, sitting on a bench, the bromine tickling his nostrils as he scooped water and splashed it on his face, inhaling deeply, relaxing.
Angela leaned back, wetting her hair before approaching him slowly, the water barely covering her breasts, her eyes looking right into his, her chocolate freckle hovering over those amazing lips.
She scooped water and washed the bruise on the side of his face, before kissing it gently.
He just closed his eyes, letting her do whatever the hell she wanted, unable to resist—unwilling to do so as she mounted him at once, her hips taking charge, doing all of the work, arms around his neck, fingers running through his hair while Jack embraced her, pressing her against his chest, her breath on his neck as she gasped, taking him away from the madness of mercenaries, of operatives, and space jumps.
They remained embraced after they finished, the side of her face once again on his chest.
“We start bright and early, Jack,” she whispered as his breathing steadied.
“I know,” he replied in the darkness, his mind foggy again, confused, emotions broiling, overcoming logic. “Though at this moment I’m not so sure I ever want to leave.”
She hugged him tighter, before finding his lips, kissing him, hands framing his face.
“I know, baby. I know. But as much as I enjoy you being here, it isn’t natural. It isn’t right. This isn’t where you belong.”
Jack placed his hands on her face as well, staring into her eyes. This was Angela, the one he had fallen in love with long ago, the one who used to make him feel just like she did at this moment, passionate, alive, allowing him to forget about everything.
“I know I need to go,” he said. “She needs me now probably more than ever.”
“She does,” Angela said. “And tomorrow we start, as soon as Dago gets here. Divide and conquer. I’ll start working on the suit and you and him will take care of securing the components.”
Jack nodded, remembering her plan to get him back up to the ionosphere, even if it sounded a bit far-fetched, but choosing to trust her just as he had trusted his wife by getting inside that suit and jumping out of that pod.
“So you think that’s going to work?”
“As long as the model holds,” she replied. “Jonathan should be at MIT by now. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours to run the simulation and confirm our calculations.”
“And as long as we recover that solar antenna from Pete.”
“I get the feeling that you’ll have no problem handling that.”
“I’m actually looking forward to it.”
She looked at him and frowned. “Just promise me you won’t kill him, all right?”
He wasn’t expecting that. “But … Angie. He’s been trying to kill us for the past two days.”
“No, Jack,” she said, with a s
light grin. “He’s been trying to kill you. I don’t think he ever meant to harm me.”
“But—”
She put a finger over his lips. “Trust me, Jack. Okay?”
He paused, taking a deep breath, before asking, “What’s going to happen to you after I leave?”
She smiled, the freckle dancing over her lips before she tapped him on the nose. “I know how to take care of myself, Jack. I did it long before we met and long after you were gone. Plus I have Dago and his gang looking after me.”
“But—”
She kissed him again, drawing him in slowly, descending gently, glaring into his eyes as she did.
“Never forget me, Jack,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
Jack didn’t respond. He couldn’t even if he had wanted to, hands dropping to those magical hips, clasping them, going another round, before once again collapsing on each other.
“Never forget me,” she whispered again, a hand on his cheek while pressing the side of her face against his chest.
* * *
The key was to follow the money.
Angela had heard once from someone that if you tortured the numbers long enough, the truth would eventually emerge.
So they did. She tortured one financial stream while Art-Z tracked another one under the spellbound admiration of Riggs, Pete, and Dago.
“You should have stayed with the Bureau,” said Riggs, standing behind them as the hackers sat side by side at the dinner table clicking away.
“Really? And miss all of this fun I’m having?”
Art-Z looked at her. “Nice job in that server room, Bonnie. The hack works like a charm.”
“Sure,” she said, her back still aching from those damned Taser probes as she deployed a small army of bots to follow the myriad global transactions from Hastings’s deals, channeling funds from Pentagon accounts into a large number of subcontractors, including the ones retained to provide components for Project Phoenix. Angela knew all of them quite well, having spent countless hours codeveloping the modules that made up the Orbital Space Suit. But what she was really interested in were the contractors supporting Project SkyLeap, and in particular the mining operations sourcing minerals, including armalcolite, germanium, and dolomite to the facility where she had installed Art-Z’s hack in the server room.
“They’re making something called salolitite. What’s that, Bonnie?” he asked, pointing at his laptop.
Angela looked over to Art-Z’s screen, read the compound’s name, and made a face. “What is that?”
“I asked first,” the hacker replied.
She stared at the strange formula on the screen. “Pete? Any clue?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well,” Art-Z said. “Whatever salolitite is, it’s being produced in large quantities in the materials building, and in two varieties; one is called just modules and the other solar antennae, and they’re delivered daily to the SkyLeap building to be incorporated into the Orbital Space Suits.”
“What the hell is Hastings up to, Riggs?” asked Angela.
“Sorry, doctor. Like I told Pete, I was never allowed past the lobby of either building.”
“Whatever it is, it costs a hell of a lot of money,” said Angela, reading down the screen.
“Yeah,” said Dago. “My fucking tax dollars.”
“That’s one source,” said Art-Z. “Over here it looks like the general’s also associated with the Mexican cartel down in Juárez and Nuevo Laredo.”
Everyone gathered around his screen, reading through the bank transactions.
Riggs spoke first. “That explains those strange meetings in Mexico. I never knew it at the time because he kept his security detail outside the meeting rooms, but it’s obvious now. The general uses his contacts in the DEA and Border Patrol to provide planes and services to drug lords. In exchange, they make deposits for him at a number of overseas banks, money that he then also uses to finance his technological endeavors.”
“That’s right,” she replied. “And look at these ridiculous mining costs. This stuff is more expensive than diamonds.”
“Wow,” Pete mumbled. “And I thought Project Phoenix was expensive. The OSS development is mice nuts compared to these payouts.”
Angela sat back, thinking. Whatever salolitite was, it had to be what made Jack vanish. Nothing else in that space suit could have done anything remotely close to what she saw in those video frames. And that also explained the lack of alarm from Hastings, Olivia, and Salazar in Mission Control. They knew exactly where he had gone. And if they knew that, they should also know how to get him back. All she had to do was create some negotiation leverage, something to incentivize Hastings and his gang that it would be in their best interest to return her husband back to her unharmed.
“Say, Art,” she said. “Now that we can see the bank transactions … can we change them?”
“Change them … how?” asked Pete.
“Well, Hastings’s operation is a pretty serious black market endeavor. He’s secretly acquiring materials and services from a host of shadowy organizations, including overseas mining operations, which are getting paid under the table from either drug money or through funds illegally taken from American coffers. And he’s getting those materials—and those drugs—into this country by using our own planes. My point being that the people he’s dealing with have to be the worst kind.”
“Good point,” said Pete.
“I can weigh in on that,” said Riggs. “The reason my team existed was for the personal protection of Hastings. I attended many meetings where the general met with very unsavory people, like those who own mines in foreign countries as well as people in the drug business. Like I said, I was never allowed inside the actual meeting rooms, but I got to hang outside along with the bodyguards of the people that Hastings was meeting. I’m not easily intimidated, but some of these folks were pretty scary characters. The kind you don’t want to cross.”
“Good,” Angela said. “I wonder how they would react if they suddenly didn’t get paid? If in their eyes, Hastings wasn’t living up to his end of the deal? What do you guys think?”
“I love it, Bonnie,” said Art-Z.
“Brilliant,” said Pete.
“It’s definitely going to get his attention,” commented Riggs.
“Fuck him,” said Dago, standing behind them, his huge arms crossed.
They spent the following thirty minutes taking control of Hastings’s primary accounts, mostly in the Cayman Islands, Hong Kong, and Geneva, plus, ironically enough, bank accounts in Laredo, El Paso, and San Diego—all set up to pay off a myriad of suppliers and carriers, including the planes used by smugglers to bring all of the goods inside the country.
“All right, Bonnie. Moment of truth. Ready when you are.”
Angela stared at the arrangement, realizing that once she nodded, there would be no going back. But then again, there had been no going back since the moment Jack had vanished from those monitors. Hastings had played his cards and it was now time for her to play hers, to trump the general’s hand by kicking him where it hurts.
“You guys good with this?” she asked while turning around to face the trio behind her, and she received a unanimous thumbs-up.
It took all of thirty seconds from the moment they issued the changes. All of the funds allocated to pay dozens of contractors, a total amount of nearly eighty-nine million dollars for services rendered in the past thirty days, were withdrawn from sixteen separate accounts in four countries and transferred into seven of the twelve regional Federal Reserve Banks located in cities across the nation—minus a fee for pain and suffering, which Angela shifted into an account in the Bahamas.
Riggs checked his watch. “It’s three in the morning. By nine A.M., there’s going to be a hell of a lot of confused people in Washington.”
“This is what I call shitting in the general’s Cheerios,” said Pete.
Art-Z smiled. “This is what I call sticking it to The Man.
”
13
GOOD ENOUGH
Any damn fool can figure out a better way to do it … get it good enough, and get on with it.
—Bob Parks, aeronautical designer
Wiley Post built the first successful pressure suit in 1934, with financial support from the Phillips Petroleum Company. It was quite crude by today’s standards, made of a rubber pressure bladder protected by an outer layer of parachute fabric. He wore pigskin gloves attached to the arms of the suit, rubber boots, and an aluminum diver’s mask with a removable faceplate.
But it was good enough.
The suit got him to an altitude of fifty thousand feet and back down to Earth safely aboard a weather balloon.
His success inspired a large effort in the United States to develop the technology for pressure suits during World War II, although no actual suits were produced until after the war, when increased funding in aviation led to the S-1 and T-1 flight suits developed by the David Clark Company to be used by X-1 pilots.
By 1951 David Clark developed an improved version, the Model 4, first worn by USMC aviator Marion E. Carl, setting high-altitude records aboard a Douglas Skyrocket jet. The effort was continued by B. F. Goodrich, culminating in the Mk IV, which was adapted by NASA for Alan Shepard’s historical suborbital flight, kicking off America’s space program.
Over the following years—and decades—space suits evolved in safety and sophistication, culminating in Angela’s OSS.
But the basic principles never changed. A suit had to provide a stable pressurized environment, some level of mobility, a supply of breathable oxygen, and temperature regulation. Those were the four essential features. Nonessentials included a communications system as well as a means of collecting solid and liquid bodily waste.
Angela focused her priorities on creating something that would meet the four essentials.
The Fall Page 28