by Tom Clancy
Annie stared at the picture, transported back in thought to the night it was taken.
She and Mark had toured the British Isles for their honeymoon, a trip that had lasted almost a full month and led them from London to Edinburgh to the coastline of South Wales, with stops in a dozen villages and twice as many old castles along the way. It was at a small pub and guest house in the Scottish Highlands, where they had envisaged getting a good night’s rest before heading on to the Orkneys, that they’d wound up tossing back far too much single-malt whisky and dancing to Celtic folk music with the riotous locals, kicking up sawdust until the caller had finally lost his voice around day-break. When they had left their room late the next afternoon after sleeping off murderous hangovers — and missing their ferry out of town — the innkeeper had handed them a sixty-second Polaroid some anonymous fellow reveler had taken of them doing their eightsome reel in tweed caps that they hadn’t recalled putting on, and had never made it back to their room with them.
The combination of their goofy, plastered expressions and the cockeyed angles of the caps on their heads had made them chuckle every time they pored through their photo album, but somehow it had done more than capture a delightful memory, a rare uninhibited moment for two people who had built their lives around ceaseless discipline and hard work; it had exemplified the easy consonance between them, a lightness and looseness that neither ever had been able to share with anyone else, and was so much the essence of their marital union that she had felt the picture naturally belonged at the center of her little cut-and-paste.
Annie began tapping the desktop more rapidly, her eyes clouding up. Eight years, that was all they’d had together. Eight years before the cancer took Mark from her, making him suffer a thousand monstrous indignities as it consumed him.
But she could not allow herself to dwell on that, not now, and instead turned her thoughts to the meeting she’d had with Charles Dorset just a half hour ago. No sooner had she arrived that morning than he had summoned her to his office and, virtually without preamble, asked whether she would be interested in directing the Orion probe. The prospect had caught her completely off guard, and she had sat before his desk in silence for several moments, as if there was something about his question she wasn’t quite getting.
“Mr. Dorset, there’s a long list of people I’d supposed might be appointed to the position, and I really hadn’t imagined myself being on it,” she had said at length.
“Why is that?” He had watched her over a steaming coffee mug in his hands. “What would make anyone more eligible than you?”
Annie had shaken her head, still at a bit of a loss. “Seniority. Technical expertise. I’m not sure I would know how to begin managing such a huge responsibility.”
His broad, florid face was very serious.
“I have always believed NASA’s greatest investment is in the men and women we send into space, not the technology that carries them there. The human element,” he said. “And you have proven yourself good enough to handle the training of our astronaut corps for the past three years.”
Annie paused a moment, then said, “I’m flattered by your confidence, but it frankly doesn’t eliminate my concerns. My background isn’t in technical science. Every one of Orion’s electronic and structural systems will have to be analyzed to find out what went wrong—”
“You’ve operated a shuttle and taught others to do so, which makes you intimately acquainted with its workings. But that’s almost beside the point. Of course no one is expecting you to do it all. I’m talking about leadership. You would have wide discretion in handpicking a team of professionals from both inside and outside the agency.”
She looked at him. “I’d expect a few ranking members of the organization to be very unhappy about being passed over for consideration.”
“Leave that to me,” he said with a dismissive sweep of his hand. “If their feelings get hurt, they can come in here and I’ll hand out Kleenex, scold them, compliment their hairdos or neckties, whatever it takes to settle them down. Ninety percent of what I do, day in and day out, is play conciliator between massive egos. I can butter a bun as well as any diplomat.”
A thought suddenly crossed Annie’s mind as she listened to him.
“I have to ask you right out,” she said. “Is this whole thing about trotting me out before the television cameras again? Using me as a figurehead?”
“Fair question,” he said. “And I won’t tell you the esteem with which you are held by the public hasn’t been taken into account. They need to believe in the findings of our task force, and truth from government is a hard sell. But the fact that you go down well with television viewers is only part of it.” He paused, his eyes meeting Annie’s. “I hope I’ve already made clear that the high regard for your ability and integrity extends into this office. And you also should know that Roger Gordian is pushing like hell for you.”
The revelation left her nonplussed again. “You’ve consulted with him?”
“We were on the telephone earlier this morning.” Dorset’s lips hinted at a smile. “And I can assure you, he left no room for confusion about his preference.”
Annie felt an unaccountable twitch of nervousness as that sank in.
“I don’t know what to say,” she told him. “There are other issues. The shuttle will have to be reconstructed piece by piece, and the Vehicle Assembly Building at Canaveral’s the only facility we have that’s large enough to hold it. I’d have to be in Florida to constantly oversee things, stay on top of the progress that’s being made. It would mean uprooting my family….”
“Housing won’t be a problem. We have excellent condominiums where you can sit on your balcony under a sun umbrella and watch the manatees and dolphins swim by.”
“It isn’t just that. The children are both in school—”
“Gordian’s offered to arrange for them to attend the best private school on the coast and pay their full tuition indefinitely. He will also take care of any day care and tutorial needs that may arise from the transition.”
“Sir—” She paused, overwhelmed. “I appreciate your offer. And Mr. Gordian’s generosity. But I need to think about this.”
“I understand.” He gulped down some coffee. “Take half an hour.”
She looked at him, speechless, wondering for a stunned moment if he might have been joking. The unchanged sobriety of his expression told her he wasn’t.
“I’d been hoping for somewhat more time,” she said. “A day or two—”
“And you ought to have at least that long. Unfortunately, though, the media leeches have turned up the rheostat. You know the atmosphere they’ve created. People expect everything from civil wars to natural disasters to be paced like hour dramas, their storylines concluded in time for the eleven o’clock news, and when reality conflicts with that expectation, sentiments can turn ugly. I promise that you won’t be pressured into rushing the investigation, but we need to demonstrate that we’re moving quickly to get the ball rolling. The Kazakhstan launch can’t be held up.”
Annie shook her head a little. “I’m not quite sure I see the connection. Apart from coordinating our schedules, the Russian mission was intentionally planned to be independent of Orion, and ought not be affected.”
“I know that, and you know that, but they’ve gotten cold feet before. Citing technical problems for every delay, when all it’s ever boiled down to is their unwillingness — or inability, I want to be fair — to pay for their own ticket to the show. As Gordian reminded me, they are quite capable of bumping their launch if they get jittery about the United States backing away from its financial commitments.”
Even before Dorset was finished talking, Annie had realized she couldn’t argue that with him on that count. He was right. Absolutely right.
She had nodded in agreement and risen from her seat.
“I’ll be in my office,” she had said.
“And get back to me in thirty?”
“In thirty,
” she’d assured him.
And here she was, here she was, the clock ticking down, leaving her with less than five minutes to give him her answer.
Her fingers drummed the desk. Why was she having such trouble making a decision? Dorset’s offer should have been irresistible. The kids would love Florida, especially knowing they would return home to their regular gaggle of friends once the investigation was concluded. With Orlando and all its razzle-dazzle tourist attractions less than an hour’s drive away, she could arrange her schedule so that every weekend would be a visit to paradise for them. And for her it would mean the chance to make certain no effort was spared in determining what had made Orion go up in flames, why Jim Rowland had died in such a horrible way… and to see that no other astronaut was ever threatened by a similar malfunction.
Annie probed her mind for the basis of her hesitation. Could it be she was afraid of failing to discover the cause of the fire, and thus failing Jim as well? Or was there some other underlying reason she was holding back, a failure of a different sort that had kept her chained and manacled in a dungeon of self-reproach since the night Mark died. Maybe, just maybe, she was like a prisoner acclimated to captivity who shrinks from her cell door as it is opened in an offer of release, looking directly out into freedom, and feeling a sudden terror that she no longer knows how to live with it.
Unconsciously at first, then with growing awareness, she studied the picture of Mark and herself in Scotland again, two people exulting in the moment, and welcoming a future that was by its very definition uncertain. Studied the picture, and all at once knew what her response to Dorset would be.
What it had to be.
Taking a deep breath, she reached for the telephone and punched in Dorset’s extension.
His receptionist put her through to him immediately.
“Yes?” he said, taut anticipation in his voice.
“Sir, I’d like to thank you for your offer,” she said. “And also ask if I may have Roger Gordian’s phone number, so I can express my appreciation for his support. And personally inform him of my acceptance.”
An instant after reading Gordian’s number off the display of his pocket computer, Dorset congratulated Annie Caulfield on her decision, hung up the phone, then rose from behind his desk and went over to the coffee machine on its small stand across the office. This would be his fourth — or was it his fifth? — mug of the morning and he’d only gotten in a bit over an hour ago. But what the hell, who was counting — he had enough to occupy his mind without keeping a tally.
He lifted the pot from its warming plate, filled his mug almost to the brim, and took a drink of the strong black brew while still standing at the machine. He began to feel calmer right away. How was it he always needed to be sipping a beverage loaded with caffeine, a stimulant, to relax? Though one could, of course, ask the same thing about chain smokers, nicotine being another notorious hyper-upper. Perhaps it was simply an oral fixation, as with overeaters. After all, what inherent calmative properties might there be in a sausage pizza, a Subway sandwich, or a cheeseburger with a side of batter-fried onion rings?
Dorset sipped the coffee down to a level where he could carry it without spilling any on his hand, then returned to his desk and sat. The affirmative answer from Caulfield was excellent news, especially in light of her initial reluctance to take on the job. An understandable reluctance too. She’d been through a lot in the past year. Her husband’s cancer, and then her not making it to his bedside the night he’d passed on. That part of the tragedy — not being there at the end — had devastated her, and for a time afterward Dorset had privately braced for her resignation.
Yet she had rebounded somehow. The woman kicked ass, no two ways about it. Dorset presumed the demands of getting a crew trained and ready for the Orion mission must have helped keep her going. But now, to have lost Jim Rowland, who had been like a brother to her… ass-kicker or not, there was only so much weight a person could carry. She had every reason to want to distance herself from the investigation, never mind refuse its leadership responsibilities. Which was a major reason he hadn’t seriously considered her for the position until Roger Gordian’s phone call.
Dorset raised the steaming mug to his lips and drank. Annie’s acceptance had given him a lift, but he wondered why it hadn’t proven greater than it was. He had no reservations about her being able to tackle the job, and indeed, felt her talents could not be overestimated. Maybe, then, the flatness of his mood had to do with Gordian exercising his clout. Not that he’d been heavy-handed. On the contrary, if there was a gentle way to remind someone you were holding him by the balls, Gordian had the touch. But from the moment he had suggested that Annie Caulfield head the Orion task force, Gordian had made it crystal clear his wishes were to supersede any other considerations Dorset might have about making the appointment. And also that, barring an outright refusal from Annie, he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.
Yes, Dorset thought with a swallow of coffee, it was largely his resentment over Gordian’s intervention that had robbed some of the moment’s luster. But that wasn’t all of it. Not if he wanted to be honest with himself. There was also the troubling news about Brazil, and his deliberately having kept it from Annie when he ought to have done the opposite. The attack on the base might very well turn out to be unrelated to Orion. He was certainly hoping and praying it would — why assume the worst? But she’d had a right to know about it. To know what she was getting into prior to making her choice. Because once word of the incident leaked to the press, she would be barraged with a shitstorm of wild speculation, and any misstatement from her, however innocent, would be enough to raise suspicions of a cover-up from some of her questioners. Annie needed to be informed, to be prepared, and he would do it within the next hour… but he had withheld the information earlier so that she couldn’t factor it into her decision, wanting to stack the deck in favor of a positive response.
Wanting to make sure Roger Gordian was accommodated, Dorset thought with a mixture of irritation and guilt. And who’s going to butter my goddamned bun?
He sighed. Orion, Brazil, the Kazakhstan launch… he had the sense that events were moving too fast, getting too far ahead of him. It was as if he was Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton in an old silent comedy film, working the pump of a handcar while clownishly trying to catch up with a chugging, whistle-blowing locomotive. Funny. Hysterical even. If you happened to be in the audience, and not sweating it on the rails.
Now he reached for his mug again, and was amazed to discover that it was almost empty. Christ. What kind of abuse must he be heaping upon his stomach? His nervous system?
Dorset stared down at the remainder of his coffee and frowned. Really, he ought to reduce his consumption. Fifty-eight years old, heart palpitations, elevated triglycerides, a grab bag of other chronic health problems — you had to watch out. Get on a treadmill once in a while, take one of those stress-management courses, anything besides brewing pot after pot after pot. On the other hand, there were worse addictions. Italian roast couldn’t be more harmful than cigarettes, booze, or prescription sedatives. He’d even heard some people got hooked on nasal sprays — what kind of habit was that? What the hell, right?
Expelling another breath, he pushed his chair back from his desk and went to pour himself a fresh cup.
TEN
QUIJARRO, BOLIVIA APRIL 19, 2001
Eduardo Guzman had been just a bit surprised when the Land Rover in which he was driven across the border from Brazil had turned into the dreary village of Quijarro instead of swinging onto the highway heading west toward the Chapare region, but as they had wound through the town’s mud-splashed, tumbledown streets, his driver had explained that he wanted to buy something to drink from one of the vending stalls near the railway station. Had Eduardo known of his intention to stop for a refreshment, he might have suggested doing so before they passed through the customs post in Corumba, where there had been many decent places to eat along the river promen
ade. Though a long ride and many miles of open country lay ahead, the filthy conditions outside their vehicle had squelched any hunger or thirst he might have worked up in the last few hours.
Still, he needed only to consider what he had left behind in order to cheer himself. There had been his betrayal by that damnable whore who had been working in league with the national police even as she worked his cock, performing brilliantly on both counts, tricking him into selling thirty kilos of cocaine to some “associates” of hers who turned out to be undercover agents. After his arrest, Eduardo had spent three days in lockup with piss-smelling thieves and drunks, sweating out the days and nights trying to remember everything he’d foolishly told the woman of his activities and waiting to see what charges would be pressed against him.
Thank God, someone in the organization — it was unclear to Eduardo whether this had been his uncle Vicente, or Harlan DeVane himself — had reached out to a government functionary and secured his release. Before dawn that morning, only hours before his scheduled arraignment, two plainclothes officers had appeared outside his detention cell, quietly removed him, and accompanied him into an unmarked sedan parked in front of the Sao Paulo jailhouse. They had taken him as far as the Corumba border crossing, exchanged some private words with the customs guards, and transferred him to the Land Rover in which his current driver, a barrel-chested man named Ramon, had been waiting near the checkpoint.