The Cassandra Compact c-2

by Robert Ludlum

  Landon's fingers trembled as he fumbled for the key to unlock the drawer he'd prayed he would never have to open. The Book was a slender three-ring binder. Landon opened it to the first page, reached for the phone, then hesitated.

  Getting to his feet, he plugged his headset into the intercom system that connected him to all the headsets used by the staff.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said somberly. “If I can have your attention… Thank you. You all heard the last communication from Discovery. If it's accurate ― and we don't know that it is ― then we are in the middle of a true catastrophe. The best thing we can do for our people up there is to follow procedures and be ready to respond to any request for assistance. Continue to monitor all aspects of the flight and of the shuttle's condition. If there's deviation or anything unusual ― no matter how insignificant ― I want to know about it. I want the data team to review all the tapes, every conversation, every transmission. Whatever happened up there happened quickly. But there had to be a trigger. I want to know what it was.”

  Landon paused. “I know what you must be thinking, and going through. I know what I'm asking you to do is difficult. But we cannot lose hope that there may be survivors. That's whom we're working for. Whoever's left, we want to bring them down safely. Nothing else matters.”

  He looked around. “Thank you all.”

  The silence that had settled over the room began to break up. Landon was relieved that the grim expressions were replaced by ones of resolve and determination. He had always believed that the people he worked with were the best; now they were proving him right.

  Landon's first call went to Rich Warfield, the president's science adviser. A physicist by training, Warfield was familiar with the shuttle program. He immediately grasped the magnitude of the mishap.

  “What can I tell the president, Harry?” he asked. “He'll want the bottom line, no bullshit.”

  “Okay,” Landon replied. "First, there has been no communication with Discovery since Wallace's last transmission. In it, he indicated that the crew was dying or dead. I'll have someone play you the actual tape in case the president wants to hear for himself.

  “As for the shuttle, it appears stable. There's been no change in flight path, speed, or trajectory. All onboard systems are green.”

  “Give me your educated guess, Harry,” Warfield prompted.

  “All air-supply readings are normal,” Landon replied. “That means no toxic contaminants. No smoke, no fire, no gases.”

  “What about food poisoning?” Warfield suggested. “Could it be something as mundane as that?”

  “The crew would have been having their first meal. But even if all the food were contaminated, I doubt that the poison could have spread so quickly ― or virulently.”

  “What about the payload?”

  “This wasn't a classified flight. The Spacelab had the usual menagerie of frogs, insects, and mice to be used for experiments…”

  “But what, Harry?”

  Landon double-checked the experiments' schedule. “Megan Olson was slated to begin work on Legionnaires' disease. That's the only bug in the program. She never got started on it.”

  “Could the bug have filtered out somehow?”

  “Chances are ten thousand to one that it did. We have all sorts of sensors to detect a leak in the Biorack. But let's say it did. Legionnaires' doesn't work that fast. Whatever killed the crew did so in a matter of minutes.”

  For a moment there was silence.

  “I know it's not my area of expertise,” Warfield said finally. “But if you carve away the other possibilities, it still sounds to me like a bug got loose.”

  “Off the record, I'm tempted to agree with you,” Landon replied. “But I wouldn't go planting that idea in the president's mind. Right now, we just don't know.”

  “The president will have questions,” Warfield said heavily. “I think you know what the first one will be.”

  Landon closed his eyes. "This is the procedure, Rich. During launch, the range safety officer tracks the flight. His finger is never far from the destruct button. If anything goes wrong, well… You remember Challenger? After the external tank blew and the shuttle exploded, the solid rocket boosters kept going. The RSO brought them down.

  “The shuttle has a destruct sequence that can be activated by us when it's on its way down. At that point, it's still far enough out that if we had to, we could blow it up without any danger to the population below.”

  Landon paused. “Rich, when you tell him this, remind him that he's the one who has to give that order.”

  “All right, Harry. Let me pass along what we have so far. Don't be surprised if he calls you direct.”

  “The minute I know more, I'll let you know,” Landon said.

  “Harry, last thing: can we bring the shuttle down on autopilot?”

  “Hell, we can bring a seven-forty-seven down that way. The question is, will we want to?”

  Landon's next call went to the range safety officer, who had already been apprised of the emergency. Landon explained as much as he could, then added that the original duration of this mission had been eight days.

  “Clearly that's not the case anymore,” he said. “It's not a question of if but when we bring her down.”

  “And once she's in range?” the RSO asked quietly.

  “Then we'll see.”

  Landon continued down the list, which included calls to General Richardson and Anthony Price. In addition to being the air force chief of staff, Richardson was also codirector of the Space Security Division, which was responsible for identifying and monitoring everything that was either approaching earth or in orbit around it. As head of the National Security Agency, Price was on the list because the shuttle sometimes flew classified missions sponsored by the NSA.

  Every time he finished a call, Landon looked around, hoping that one of his people would have some news for him. He recognized this as the gesture of a desperate man; under the circumstances, any conversation he might have been having would have been interrupted if contact with the shuttle had been reestablished.

  For the next two hours, Landon continued to work the phones. He was grateful that at least for now, he didn't have to deal with the media. Many in NASA resented the fact that shuttle flights were now considered so mundane that coverage was not warranted. During the ill-fated Challenger launch, CNN had been the sole network providing live feed. Today, only NASA cameras had recorded Discovery's liftoff.

  “Landon, circuit four!”

  Landon didn't even bother to see who was speaking. He found the channel and heard a faint voice through the crackle of static.

  “Mission control, this is Discovery. Do you copy?”

  * * *

  Dylan Reed was still in the Spacelab, in his protective EMU, his boots in the floor restraints that kept him positioned in front of the auxiliary communications panel. The several hours of deliberate incommunicado seemed like an eternity to him. He'd turned off the radio so that he wouldn't have to listen to the desperate voices floating from mission control. Now, to proceed with the next phase of the operation, he had reestablished contact.

  “Mission control, this is Discovery. Do you read?”

  “Discovery, this is the mission director. What is your status?”

  “Harry, is that you?”

  “Dylan?”

  “It's me. Thank God, Harry! I didn't think I'd ever hear another human voice.”

  “Dylan, what happened up there?”

  “I don't know. I'm in the lab. One of the EMUs was showing default. I climbed in to check it out. Then I heard… Jesus, Harry, it sounded like they were being strangled. And the commo gear was down―”

  “Dylan, hang on, okay? Try to stay calm. Is there anyone else in the lab?”

  “No.”

  “And you've had no communication with the rest of the crew?”

  “No. Harry, listen. What ―?”

  “We don't know, Dylan. That's the long and the
short of it. We got a garbled message out of Wallace but he couldn't tell us what happened. It had to be something fast and extremely lethal. We're thinking a bug got loose. Do you have anything like that on board?”

  Actually what I have is a shuttle that's one big hot zone.

  But what he said was: “Christ, Harry! What are you talking about? Look at the manifest. The worst we're carrying is Legionnaires' and that's still in the biofreezer.”

  “Dylan, you have to do this,” Landon said in a measured tone. “You have to go back into the orbiter and see… and tell us what you see.”

  “Harry!”

  “Dylan, we have to know.”

  “What if they're all dead, Harry? What am I supposed to do for them?”

  “Nothing, son. There's nothing you can do. But we're going to bring you home. No one leaves their post until you're back on the ground, safe and sound.”

  Landon was about to add “I promise,” but the words couldn't make it past his lips.

  “All right, Harry. I'll go check out the orbiter. I want to keep the commo link open.”

  “We need you to check the video feed. We have no picture.”

  That's because I fixed the cameras.

  “Roger that. Leaving the lab now.”

  The bulky space suit made his movements awkward, but slowly Reed floated through the connecting tunnel, taking care not to snag any part of his suit. Even the slightest tear would be fatal.

  The sight in the mid-deck made him gag. Stone, Karol, and Carter had been reduced to bloated corpses covered in sores, floating freely or snagged to pieces of equipment by an arm or a leg. Trying not to look, Reed maneuvered his way around them to the ladder. Up in the flight deck, he found Wallace strapped to the commander's chair.

  “Mission control, this is Discovery.”

  Landon responded instantly. “Go ahead, Dylan.”

  “I found everyone except Megan. Jesus, I can't tell you…”

  “We need to know what they look like, Dylan.”

  “The bodies are bloated, sores, blood… I've never seen anything like it.”

  “Are there any signs of the contaminant?”

  “Negative. But I'm not taking off the EMU.”

  “Of course not. Can you tell what they were eating?”

  “I'm on the flight deck, with Wallace. Let me go downstairs.”

  After a few minutes, Reed was back on the link. In reality, he hadn't moved. “Looks like whatever was brought onboard. Chicken, peanut butter, shrimp…”

  “Okay, we're checking the source of the food right now: If it was contaminated, the agent might have mutated in microgravity.” Landon paused. “You need to find Megan.”

  “I know. I'll check mid-deck again, the john… If she's not there, she'll be on the lower deck.”

  “Contact me as soon as you find her. Mission director out.”

  * * *

  Thank God!

  Although her transmit button was still malfunctioning, Megan had heard every word between Reed and Landon. She slumped forward, her helmet clicking against the air-lock door. Hundreds of questions raced through her mind: How could the rest of the crew be dead? What could have overtaken them? Was it something they had brought onboard? It'd been less than an hour since she'd last seen Carter and the others. Now they were dead?

  Megan forced herself to calm down. She glanced at the nest of wires in the open panel above the door. Clearly there was a mix-up in the wiring. Following the instructions printed on the panel door, she had tried to reverse a number of connections but so far hadn't found the faulty one.

  Relax, she told herself. Dylan will be down here in a few minutes. When he doesn't find me out there, he'll realize I'm in here. He'll open the door from his end.

  Megan took as much comfort in the thought as she could. She wasn't prone to claustrophobia, but she could feel the air lock ― no bigger than a pair of broom closets set side by side ― closing in on her.

  If only the damn mike worked! To be heard by another human would be the sweetest thing.

  Then fix the mike, she told herself.

  Dylan's voice came over her headset: “Mission director, I'm in the lower deck. No sign of Megan yet. I'll check the storage holds.”

  Even though she knew that sound was baffled in space, Megan raised both hands and began pounding on the door. Maybe somehow Dylan would hear her.

  “Mission director, I've checked most of the hold. Still nothing.”

  Landon's voice floated through Megan's headset: “Suggest you try the air lock. Maybe she got in there.”

  Yes, try the air lock!

  “Roger that, mission director. I'll cut commo until I reach the air lock.”

  As soon as Reed approached the door, he saw Megan's face behind the porthole. The joy and relief in her eyes speared him. He switched on the intercom mode on his communications set.

  “Megan, can you hear me?”

  He saw her nod.

  “I'm not receiving. Is your transmitter down?”

  Megan nodded, then floated up and pointed to the commo unit built into the chest of her EMU. She gave the universal thumbsdown signal and worked her way back to the porthole.

  Reed looked at her. “Okay. I understand. Not that it makes any difference.”

  Megan wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly and mimed a shrug.

  “You don't understand,” Reed said. “Of course you don't. How could you? Megan…” He hesitated. “I can't help you get out.”

  Her eyes widened in terror and disbelief.

  “Let me tell you what's out here, Megan. A virus. The kind the world has never seen before because it's not of this world. It was born on earth, but it was given life here, in the Spacelab. That's what I was working on.”

  She was shaking her head, her lips moving frantically in soundless words.

  “You should try to stay calm,” Reed continued. “You heard me talking to mission control. They know everyone's dead. They have no clue what happened up here. And they never will.”

  Reed wet his lips. “Discovery has become a kind of Marie Celeste, a doomed ghost ship. Of course, there are differences. I'm still alive and so are you ― for the time being. NASA can and will bring the orbiter down on autopilot. As long as I'm alive, they're not going to push the autodestruct button.”

  Reed let a beat go by. “They won't have to.”

  Megan felt hot tears spill over her cheeks. She was faintly aware that she was screaming but that had no impact on Reed. His expression remained as cold and remote as arctic ice.

  “I wish it were someone other than you, Megan,” he was saying. "Really I do. But Treloar had to be eliminated and you were his backup. Now, I don't expect you to understand. But since I was the one who brought you into the program and gave you this chance, I feel I owe you an explanation. You see, we need to keep our bioweapons' arsenal strong. All those treaties we signed ― do you think places like Iraq, Libya, or North Korea give a damn about them? Of course not. They're too busy developing their own weapons. Well, now we'll have something that will trump whatever they come up with. And we'll be the only ones to have it.

  “The sample I made? A thimbleful is enough to eradicate any country we choose. I realize that's not a very scientific measurement, but you get my drift. If you don't believe me, look at what happened here, how quickly the smallpox went to work, the consequences…”

  Never in her life had Megan felt so powerless. Reed's voice droned in her ears like something from a nightmare. She could not believe such words coming from a man she had thought she knew, a colleague, a mentor, someone she'd trusted implicitly.

  He's insane. That's all I need to know. And what I need to do is get out of here!

  When Reed spoke again, it was as though he'd read her mind.

  “You've done most of my job for me, Megan, locking yourself in like that. The fire will do the rest. I didn't mention that? Well, there's going to be an awful lot of confusion when this thing lands. The only thing on mission
control's mind will be to get me out of here safely. After that, if something explodes, well…” He shrugged. “You've been a part of history, Megan. I'll never forget you ― or the others.”

  His eyes never left hers as he touched a panel on his commo unit. “Mission director, this is Reed. Do you copy?”

  She heard Landon's voice: “Copy, Dylan.”

  “I have an update. I… I found Megan. She's dead… like the others.”

  There was a moment's silence on the other end. “I copy, Dylan. I'm so sorry. Listen, we're working to bring you home. Can you get to the flight deck?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “We won't need any help, but if something goes wrong…”

  “Understood. Harry?”

  “Yes?”

  “You've opened the Black Book, right?”

  “Yes, Dylan.”

  “There's a name that's not in there. Dr. Karl Bauer. He knows more about bugs than anyone alive. I think you might want to consult with him about the quarantine.”

  “Roger that. We'll get Bauer to the landing site. We're running emergency descent models right now. As soon as we have a firm trajectory, we'll let you know.”

  Reed smiled faintly and, looking directly at Megan, said, “Roger, mission director. Discovery, signing off.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  The helicopter ferrying Jon Smith from Camp David landed in the cargo transport area of Andrews Air Force Base. Smith hopped out and trotted across the tarmac to the white panel truck parked next to a sleek executive jet.

  “Hello, Jon,” Major-General Kirov said, watching the corpsmen pull a stretcher out of the truck.

  “Did everything go as planned?” Smith asked.

  “It did,” Kirov replied. “These men” ―he indicated the corpsmen ― “arrived at your house exactly on schedule. They were very quick, very efficient.”

  Smith glanced at Ivan Beria, a blanket tucked up to his chin, as he was wheeled by.

  “Is he all right?”

  “The tranquilizers worked perfectly,” Kirov replied.

  Smith nodded.

  As the stretcher disappeared into the jet, Kirov turned to Smith. “I am grateful to you ― and to Mr. Klein ― for allowing me to help. I only wish I could do more.”