The room was stunned. Pete was too shocked to gloat. He turned white and faced Virginia.
“Photo 171 taken of the Earth. The reason why the estimate of the Asian continent as being so far away from the North American west coast is because Asia, at least in this photo taken from the Moon, was on the far side of the world at that time. The picture was taken—”
“Before the continents separated, and at a time when the world was inundated with volcanoes and explosive activity on its surface,” Virginia finished for him.
Pete smiled, albeit uneasily, and then removed his horn-rimmed glasses.
“Bingo.”
CHURCH OF THE TRUE FAITH, LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA
The Reverend Samuel Rawlins knew when he had his congregation where he wanted them. The two-hour sermon had started out chastising America’s foolish reach into space and continued with the accusation that the United States had introduced a weapon of mass destruction into God’s universe. As his Hollywood-style speaking voice reached out to the thousands attending in Long Beach, it was also reaching record numbers in eighty-six other countries that had accepted the special programming after the day’s events on the Moon.
“Were the mechanics and engineers of our wayward nation satisfied when we placed the footprint of mankind on one of the Lord’s heavenly bodies five decades ago? No, we have to reach for unspoiled ground once more and taint it with the radiation of a blackened soul. I say we have sinned a great sin, and the nation, if not the world, will pay for this egregious affront to God almighty!”
The congregation stood and shouted their approval. “I say to everyone listening and watching around the world that this reach back into space cannot be tolerated. This so-called find on the Moon is nothing but a hoax perpetrated by the leaders of this morally bankrupt nation, and assisted by their so-called allies across the globe, a trick of humankind to once more gain access to the workingman’s pocketbook—once again my brothers and my sisters, this trickery will not, cannot be tolerated, and I will fight this expansion into God’s universe with every breath in my body, even unto my own death!”
At that point the three-hundred-member choir broke out in song and the gathered parishioners stood and started clapping and shouting out amens. The Reverend Samuel Rawlins stepped away from the magnificent golden pulpit and held his hands high in the air. Women seated closest to him came near to swooning, while the men looked up at the ten-foot-high stage that was filled with palm trees and flowers with nothing but reverence and admiration etched upon their tear-streaked faces. As the choir sang the Reverend gestured to one of his younger deacons to lead the congregation in final prayer. Then he waved as if he were Elvis leaving the stage and departed to the left.
There were three men waiting for him as he stripped off his white jacket, but he ignored them as he first went to his two daughters and hugged and kissed them. The older wrapped a towel around his neck and the younger gave him a tall glass of water. He smiled and then excused himself. First, wiping his brow, he went to a man in a dark business suit.
“Numbers?” he asked.
“Our own network is carrying a forty-eight percent share. We swept the major networks off the airwaves. And listen to this—we pulled fifties in most European countries.”
“That’s good, Elliott,” Rawlins said after he drained the glass of water. “Give me real-time numbers, not percentages.”
The president of Faith Networks Worldwide saw the intense blue eyes as they bore into him and he wanted to step away, but he smiled instead. “You were seen by no fewer than one billion people here and abroad.”
Rawlins wiped his sweating face once more and then nodded. “Good. Now set up my special for Guiana. I have a sermon reserved just for our family down there. I want it to be beamed out to them no later than tomorrow evening. I’ve already recorded it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rawlins turned to the two other men as he watched his daughters, who also loved the attention and the limelight, step out onto the stage. They started singing and clapping with his choir and deacons.
“Okay, what have you got?”
The two men were part of his security team and were ruthless. They collected intelligence on anything or anyone that could possibly hurt his ministry.
“We have a special telegram from the Vatican. It seems you’ve hit a nerve with the new pope. He demands that you use—his words here, sir—common sense, and he hopes for restraint on your part. It seems you are inflaming the populace of many nations.”
“Is that right? Well, the pope and all of Catholicism haven’t seen anything yet. What else?”
“The regional board of evangelistic ministries has echoed the complaints of the Vatican. The president of the United States has been mum so far on your attack on the space program and himself. We don’t expect that to last after tonight.”
“I tremble in my shoes,” Rawlins said with a laugh, tossing the damp towel as he walked briskly toward his dressing room. “Keep up, gentlemen,” he said, not bothering to look back over his shoulder as the two men turned and followed. “I am informed by a most reliable source that the European Space Agency, along with those godless Russians and Chinese, have contingency plans to reach the Moon.” He stopped and looked intensely at the men. “Obviously they plan to attempt a recovery of both the human remains and the mineral samples. Of course, our contingency plans were predicated on something like this happening. Oh, maybe not such a worldwide attempt, but close. This cannot and will not happen, gentlemen.”
“We are ready, sir,” the largest of the two security men said, holding his own eyes steady on the Reverend.
“Now, the appropriate blame will be placed on nations and on organizations I have taken years to choose. The consequences of taking so many lives must not be traced back to me. We have spent more than two billion dollars over the years preparing our response and this is not the time to screw things up.”
The medium-sized man, actually the security chief for Faith Ministries and a former Delta operative, finally cleared his throat. His goatee was closely trimmed and his hair was recently cut.
“You have hired the best men there are from all around the world. You have paid handsomely for the loyalty of all. We will not fail you or your church, Mr. Rawlins. We will kill all who try to blunt the word of God.”
Rawlins finally smiled with true comradeship.
“God bless, Mr. Smith.”
The man known to everyone who worked with him as Smith, nodded once and then turned away, his taller assistant following.
The Reverend Rawlins watched the two men leave as he slid down the knot in his tie. The smile was gone and he felt better for it. He looked up into the girder work of the giant cathedral.
“Yes, Mr. Smith, go about God’s work. And, if need be, bring upon the heathen the Four Horsemen, for they shall deserve God’s wrath.”
300 MILES NORTH OF QUITO, ECUADOR
Will Mendenhall was up front in the cockpit of the Air Force Learjet taking his flying lesson from Jason Ryan while Jack and Carl studied the latest satellite images provided by the Event Group’s own KH-11 satellite, code-named Boris and Natasha. The images were downloaded into a virtual reality map that showed real-time cloud cover and ocean tides. The in-motion virtual map showed and even measured the snowfall in the Andes. As Jack hit the zoom icon on the side of the plastic map, the image enlarged to the point where he and Carl could clearly see the indentation in the Earth made when the original German excavation was buried after the war.
“Let’s see,” Everett said, counting under his breath. “I count no fewer than four guard towers and three roving SUV patrols. And they claim it’s all for public safety?”
“That’s the claim. They say there are dangerous and eroding mine shafts and such. However, according to the senator, we know for a fact that the operation was an open pit mine, no shafts involved, at least none that can be found by hikers.”
“Okay, do the Ecuadorians know what was take
n out of the ground there?” Everett scanned the map for more detail.
“We have no idea. Even though relations are good, they’re pretty hush-hush on what the site is hiding—or, what it hid at one time.” Jack said, correcting himself.
“These SUVs, you notice something?” Everett asked, pointing to and tapping the three roving vehicles outside the thirty-foot chain link fence.
“Nonmilitary, black in color, and expensive,” he said, adjusting the magnification on the virtual reality map. “Maybe a little bit beyond the resources of the Ecuadorian military.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Carl agreed.
“Colonel, we’re starting our descent into Quito, so you and the captain better buckle up back there,” Ryan said over the intercom.
Everett looked at his and then Jack’s seat belts, which had never been undone from takeoff. “Nah, we won’t tell him. He may think we don’t trust his flying,” he said with a crooked smile.
As Jack sat back in his seat and closed his eyes, his cell phone rang.
“Collins,” he said.
“Colonel, Niles here. I have an update for you on several fronts. Number one, the rest of the civilized world has seemingly turned an ugly eye toward us. They are using the excuse that we introduced fissionable material onto the lunar surface.”
“You’re kidding. I suppose they didn’t see the same footage we did on CNN?”
“Well, the president thinks it’s just a red herring, several of the more capable countries seem to be hell-bent on investigating the event firsthand.”
Jack sat up in his seat and then sat the cell phone down on the table between him and Everett. He hit speakerphone.
“Are they running a bluff? I mean, are they capable at this time of getting there?” Jack asked as he mouthed the word Moon to Carl.
“Well, the ESA claims they have not one, but two prototypes ready to go. I personally find that difficult to believe. They could never have hidden the budget from the European Union. But they did go on television just twenty minutes ago stating they were prepared to shuttle components into South America to start assembly of the two Ariane 7 vehicles.”
“Damn, what does CIA have to say about the accuracy of this claim?”
“Jack, all of our intelligence services were caught flat-footed on this one, and I for one won’t start pointing fingers; keeping tabs on the ESA hasn’t been the highest priority. The same goes for China and Russia. CIA counts warheads and missiles, not lunar-capable systems. For all we know they could launch as soon as they get their systems online and their vehicles assembled.”
“Is there anything we can do about it? I mean it’s obvious to anyone who’s been paying attention that there is a mineral up there that would be highly desirable. And the technology those remotes dug up, that’s not a bad second prize either.”
“The president wants me to get with DARPA and NASA to see if we have any alternatives,” Niles said, speaking of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. “I’m flying out in a few minutes to meet with the Defense Sciences Office in Arlington, and then I’m off to Houston.”
“Do we have any capability at all to get back there since the budget cuts?”
“I doubt it, Jack. That’s why you and Captain Everett had better come up with something. We need Operation Columbus and its artifacts found. One more thing, the excavation you’re visiting is owned officially by Hans Dieter Brinkman, a German businessman who leases and sells land out of his Munich offices.”
“What’s the story on this guy?” Jack asked.
“Well, Europa ran a background check on him and it seems our Mr. Brinkman is the son of Field Marshal Karl Brinkman. We have learned that the field marshal was an engineer before and during the war. He died in 1963 in, of all places, Quito. Pete Golding dug deeper and found that our man was a mining engineer. His son took over the business end of things but has never once set foot in Ecuador. Europa, as is her style, surmises that Mr. Brinkman the younger is nothing more than a front for another owner that she can’t find in the fine print of the property ownership papers. So, watch it, Jack. It could be anyone.”
“Is that all?” Collins asked, shaking his head at Everett.
“There is one more little thing. Pete Golding analyzed the material sent from the Beatles and has come up with an approximate age for the lunar site and the remains found inside Shackleton.”
“We’re listening,” Jack prompted.
“Right around seven hundred million years old,” Niles finally said. “Give or take a month.”
“A month, huh? Well, I can see you’re beginning to develop that sense of humor, Mr. Director. We’ll call when we have something.”
“Okay, Jack. I’m meeting with the president and he tells me I’m going to be incommunicado for the next eight hours, so I guess something’s pretty important. Anyway, good luck.”
* * *
As Jack, Mendenhall, Everett, and Ryan waited for the only rental car available at the Mariscal Sucre International Airport, Quito’s brand-new facility, they realized from the taxis and beat-up bus service that the airport had yet to see an influx of high-traffic rental car companies and high-end service industries. The services were somewhat lacking as the four men waited at the curb for their rental to be delivered. Ryan had gone to the only open rental counter inside the terminal and found sparkling new counters and floors, but only one company, Quito Express, was open for business. When Ryan returned he was unusually quiet as he waited beside Will Mendenhall.
“That was pretty quick,” Will stated, peeling his Hawaiian-style print shirt from the small of his back. The heat wave that had struck the foot of the Andes had surprised them when they exited the executive jet.
“Uh, yeah,” Ryan answered and then handed Will a brochure from Quito Express Car Rentals. The large picture on the front showed a shiny new Lexus SUV. The flyer folded out into three large panels of makes and models. “The choice was pretty simple.” Ryan moved his feet uneasily as he looked at the colonel and captain out of the corner of his eye. They stood with their sunglasses on, stoically waiting for any sort of punch line Ryan might add to his statement. They didn’t have to wait long.
Mendenhall was the only one to jump when a large bang sounded in the underground roadway that fronted the large and shining terminal. The backfire was soon followed by the squeal of an alternator belt as their rental pulled to the curb. Jack turned and looked at Ryan, who stood and stared straight ahead.
“I see your taste in cars is right in line with your taste in women, Mr. Ryan.”
Everett just stood and looked from the 1986 Yugo to the brochure Will was comparing to the actual rental. The car was white and looked as if a giant tiger had raked large, sharp claws across its side and hood. The rental manager hopped out. With a gold tooth showing, he smiled and handed Jack the keys. Collins looked at the set of keys and saw the remote door lock. Out of curiosity he pushed a button on the key fob. Mendenhall jumped again as the horn blared and the emergency lights started blinking. Jack pushed it again and the horn stopped, the lights went dead, and they all heard the audible click as the doors locked. Jack lowered his head and handed the keys to Ryan.
“Hey, guys, this was the only thing they had,” Ryan said, objecting to the looks he was getting from everyone as Mendenhall pushed the color brochure into his chest.
“Come on, Ryan,” Everett said, opening the car door and holding the front seat forward for Jack. “Maybe we can find a used llama dealer on the way.”
Ryan looked at Mendenhall, who was just shaking his head.
“Next time, you get the car.”
* * *
An hour later, with Ryan driving and fighting the maladjusted wheel alignment along with the burning clutch, they reached the foot of the Andes. The paved roads that Ecuador boasted of in their vacation travel guide, which Will was trying to read in the passenger front seat, failed to mention that the roads had been repaved sometime in the early sixties, right around the time o
f the Cuban Missile Crisis. They hadn’t seen repair since.
“Turn right on the next road you see, Lieutenant,” Everett said, as he held the Global Positioning monitor. “Then another quick right and stop. That will put us at a safe distance from the first guard shack and place us behind the main road where the roving security patrols travel. We should be able to get a good bird’s-eye view from there.”
Ryan fought the steering as they approached the dirt road on the right side of the paved highway. With brakes squealing and the alternator belt in danger of piercing their eardrums, the Yugo made the turn.
“Jack, why don’t we have a geologist with us? I mean even if we came across this mineral, we wouldn’t know it from a granite countertop.”
“I asked Niles if we could have one of Sarah’s people, but he said they had all been assigned other duties.”
Ryan made the other quick right ordered by Everett and for the first time they saw the high cyclone fence surrounding the excavation site. Ryan slammed on the brakes and then shut down the engine as fast as he could before the alternator belt told everyone from there to South Miami they were in the neighborhood. Ryan opened the car’s door accompanied by loud cracks and squeaks and then stepped out to allow the colonel to squeeze out of the backseat. As Jack stretched his taxed legs, he saw the barbed wire that topped the high fence. Then he saw something coursing through the steel chain link.
“For a patch of dirt, someone sure doesn’t want visitors, do they?” Mendenhall said. He removed his dark glasses and looked at the wire that led to conductors, then to the power pole nearby. He read the warning signs posted every forty feet along the electrified fence.
“Serious enough that someone’s going to run up one hell of an electric bill,” Ryan said, as he read the sign out loud. “Fifty thousand volts worth of persuasion.”
Jack watched the interior of the old excavation and saw that the ground was bare. It was flat and with not one single bush, flower, or weed. He turned and reached into the car. He brought out a pair of binoculars and sighted the glasses on the silverish-looking Quonset huts that lined the sides of the fence. Then he turned and scanned two of the posted guards in their towers. They were carrying something else the satellite pictures hadn’t shown them—AK-47 assault rifles.
Legacy: An Event Group Thriller Page 12