by Jon Land
The Omega Command
Jon Land
For Professors Elmer Blistein and George
Monteiro, and the English Department of
Brown University. Thanks for taking a chance.
Contents
Prologue
Part One: Madame Rosa’s
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part Two: The Narcissus
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part Three: San Melas
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part Four: Newport
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part Five: Horse Neck Island
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
A Biography of Jon Land
Acknowledgments
A Sneak Peek at Strong at the Break
Prologue
“HOUSTON, THIS IS ADVENTURER.”
“Come in, Adventurer.”
Astronaut Marjorie Rait tightened her grip on the joysticks that controlled the space shuttle’s mechanical robot arm. “Ready to begin satellite retrieval procedures again.”
“Roger, Marge. Here’s to sticky fingers.”
Rait smiled and pushed the right-hand joystick up and to the right, eyes locked on a small television monitor above her; its image was also broadcasted back to the Johnson Space Center in Houston. This was the fourth time she had attempted to use the robot arm to bring in the rogue communications satellite for minor repairs; the previous three having failed due to a combination of mechanical breakdown and bad luck. Rait pressed her lips together as she watched her efforts on the screen—the steel arm extended slowly toward the satellite. Since the tragic loss of Challenger, failure had become a nonexistent term in the NASA vocabulary. Too many people were watching, waiting for something else to go wrong. Adventurer had been constructed with precisely that in mind, and its previous two missions had come off without a hitch.
The robot arm was in line with the satellite now. Rait cursed the sweat forming on her brow.
“Looking good, Marge,” came the voice of the Capsule Communicator, better known as Cap-Com.
“Just a little farther,” noted astronaut Gordon Caswell from his post in the shuttle’s open cargo bay. The plan was for the robot arm to deliver the satellite down into it so he could effect repairs. “Easy does it.”
Marjorie Rait manipulated the left-hand joystick to maneuver the arm’s huge pincers, easing them forward. She squeezed her fingers together gently. The pincers closed over the satellite’s lower left pod.
“I’ve got it!” she said.
“Bring her down slow, Marge,” advised the Cap-Com, following the arm’s descent toward the cargo bay on the main Houston television monitor.
“Houston, this is Caswell. Think you boys’ll ever be able to build one of those arms small enough to give a horny astronaut a hand job?”
“Oh, Christ,” came the muffled voice of mission commander Nathan Jamrock in Houston, as he reached into his pocket for a fresh package of Rolaids.
“We’re on an open line here, Gordon,” warned the Cap-Com.
“Musta slipped my mind,” said Caswell.
The satellite was right over him now, coming down directly in line with its slot in the repair bay. Marjorie Rait followed its progress on the monitor, drawing the right-hand joystick straight back now. At 180 miles above Earth’s surface, there would be no comforting sound of metal clicking against metal, not even an echo from the cargo bay to tell her she had been successful. She kept easing the joystick back.
“Bingo,” said Caswell, and Rait allowed herself two deep breaths as her grip loosened on the joystick. Her eyes stayed locked on the monitor, which now pictured Caswell coolly fastening the satellite down so he could begin repairs.
Marge didn’t see the red light flashing on the warning panel directly above her.
“Houston, this is Caswell. I’ve got my toolbox out. Looks like you guys forgot to pack a Phillips head screwdriver.”
“Guess you’ll have to improvise, Gordon.”
“That’s a roger.”
The television monitor now showed Caswell working on the lower right portion of the damaged satellite with what looked like an ordinary socket wrench. After a few seconds he returned this tool to his box and extracted another. All the tools snapped snugly into slots tailored specifically for them to prevent them from rising into the zero gravity of space. The box itself was magnetically sealed to the bay floor and could be moved about in a variety of directions thanks to rollers. Caswell’s motions looked slow and drawn out, due not only to the absence of gravity but also to the need to be precise to the millimeter.
In the cockpit a repeating beep found the ears of Marjorie Rait.
“Oh, my God,” she muttered, looking up finally at the red light flashing on her upper warning panel. “Houston, this is Rait. Sensors have picked something up. Repeat, sensors have picked something up.”
In Houston dozens of technicians turned to panels which were large, virtual replicas of those inside Adventurer. Some of them had been on duty for Challenger, and their boards, albeit less sophisticated, had provided no warning then either.
“Marge,” came the Cap-Com’s calm voice, “we show nothing down here. Probably equipment malfunction. Check your circuits.”
“Negative,” Marge shot back. “Circuits all operative. Something’s coming at us from behind, in line with our orbit.”
Rait felt the icy grip of panic through her space suit. Why didn’t the instruments in Houston show what hers did?
Another warning chime went off on her instrument panel.
“Object closing, Houston. Repeat, object closing!”
“We still read nothing, Adventurer.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Caswell asked, a wrench slipping from his hand and sliding into space. “You guys are starting to make me nervous.”
The voice of mission commander Nathan Jamrock found his ears. “Gordon, look around you. Is there anything out there, an asteroid chunk, a wandering satellite, anything?”
“Nothing out here but us spacemen. All I see is black and—Hey, wait a minute. There is something coming in from the rear. Still a ways off but definitely closing.”
“Can you tell what it is?”
“Negative, Houston. All I caught was what seemed to be a reflector, maybe something blinking. … There it is again.”
“Metallic?”
“Must be.”
There was a brief pause and then Nathan Jamrock’s voice returned. “Gordon, can you reach the television camera?”
“Affirmative.”
“Then raise it in line with whatever’s out there. Let us have a look at it.”
“That’s a roger.”
Jamrock stripped the headset from around his ears and turned to his executive assistant. “Signal a red alert.”
An instant later an alarm began wailing throughout mission control. Personnel rushed to different stations. Satellite tracking procedures were activated all over the world. NORAD, the air defense command in Colorado
, was put on line and would now be monitoring all subsequent communications. A call was made to the President. Jamrock chewed another Rolaid.
One hundred eighty miles above Jamrock, Gordon Caswell shuffled toward the television camera mounted at the front of the bay. He had been an all-American running back in college, but speed meant nothing in space. Covering ten yards felt like a thousand, and the harder Caswell pushed, the slower he seemed to move.
In the cockpit Marjorie Rait followed Caswell’s agonizingly deliberate walk as she pressed buttons to ready Adventurer for emergency maneuvers. She had begun to strap herself into the pilot’s seat when the monitor showed Caswell stop in his tracks. She had been an astronaut long enough to know there were no sounds in space. Which made it all the stranger that it seemed to be a sound that made him turn. And then gasp.
“Oh my Christ …”
“Adventurer, this is Houston Cap-Com. What do you see? Repeat, what do you see?” Mission control at the Johnson Space Center had turned silent as a tomb.
Caswell watched the thing in the black air unfold before him as it drew closer.
“Damn, it’s going to attack,” he muttered.
“Adventurer, did you say ‘attack’?”
“It’s coming closer now. I can see that—”
The transmission became garbled.
“You’re breaking up, Adventurer.”
“Goddamn … closing … bigger than …”
“The television camera,” said Jamrock, headset back on, “adjust it so we can see, Gordon. Do you copy?”
“Affirma—”
For an instant the television monitors in mission control were filled with Caswell’s gloved hand reaching toward the lens to aim it at whatever was approaching the shuttle.
“Adjustment complete,” Jamrock made out through the static.
Caswell’s hand moved away. Mission control personnel held a collective breath, then released it.
Because the transmission fizzled, broke up, scrambled.
“Get back inside the shuttle!” Jamrock ordered. “Marge, fire the main engines. Marge, do you read me? Marge, this is Houston, do you read me?”
Static.
“Adventurer, this is Houston, please come in.”
“You’re … garbled,” responded Rait finally, voice ruffled and weak. “Systems blowing, shorting out. Mayday! MAY—”
More static.
“Adventurer, this is Houston, do you copy?” from the Cap-Com this time.
Nothing.
“Adventurer, this is Houston, please acknowledge. …”
In mission control nervous glances were exchanged.
“It’s right on top of us!”
Gordon Caswell’s desperate words were the last thing mission control heard before all shuttle monitoring lights flashed red and then died out altogether. Men scrambled to press new buttons, try different switches, but their efforts had the same hopeless desperation of an operating team fighting to revive a clearly dead patient.
“Adventurer, this is Houston, can you hear us?” asked the Cap-Com one last time.
Gordon Caswell couldn’t hear a thing. He continued describing the monstrous thing that seemed ready to swallow him as its vast bulk covered the shuttle. There was a bright flash which sent bolts of heat through Caswell’s suit, and he was dimly conscious of his visor cracking, melting, exposing him to the emptiness of space. He was turning in the brightness now, seeming to float.
And then there was nothing.
In his private office Nathan Jamrock squeezed the receiver tighter to his ear. For the last ten minutes he had been filling the President in on what little NASA had been able to conclude about the fate of Adventurer. He had taken over the space shuttle program in the wake of damning hearings which had forced a total restructuring at NASA. Never in his wildest nightmares had he imagined such a report would ever be called for again. Too many precautions had been taken. He had made sure of it.
“You’re sure there’s no mistake?” the President asked.
Jamrock peeled away the foil from another package of Rolaids. “It’s on tape, sir. Caswell clearly indicated something was about to attack. What happened was no accident this time.”
“You think the press will see it that way?”
“I don’t much care at this point. We’ve got more important things to concern ourselves with.” He paused. “I recommend calling a Space-Stat alert.”
“That would be a first, Nate,” the President said hesitantly.
Jamrock raised two of the tablets toward his mouth. “Today seems to be full of them.”
Part One
Madame Rosa’s
Monday Afternoon to Wednesday Afternoon
Chapter 1
God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
THE CAROLERS DOMINATED the corner, flanking a smiling Santa Claus, who was ringing his bell over a noticeably empty urn. Perhaps Santa’s smile had shrunk since the day had begun. Perhaps not. All that could be said for sure was that his beard was dirtier, grayer, and thinner from the children pulling at it and coming away with polyester strands.
The New York City streets were icy and slick. The storm that had battered the New England coast had spared the city its brunt, touching it only with a graze. The light snow that had been falling steadily for hours now added to the difficulties of the cars struggling to negotiate over it. With only eight shopping days left until Christmas, New Yorkers were not likely to let the weather beat them.
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy
Comfort and joy
A red Porsche snailed down the street, grinding to a stop before Santa and the carolers. The driver beeped the horn, slid down the passenger window. Santa came over and the man handed him a ten.
“Merry Christmas, sir!” said Santa.
Easton simply smiled. He was in the mood to be generous. His channels had come through with an early Christmas present. Three months of grueling, tedious, and sometimes dangerous work had paid off beautifully.
The Santa Claus thanked him again, backing away from the Porsche. Easton hit a button and the window glided back into place. The Porsche started forward again. Easton shuddered from the new cold and flipped the heater switch up a notch. He down-shifted well in advance of a red light, realizing his hand was trembling slightly over the shift knob. He had stowed the microfiche within it, and just thinking of its contents brought his breathing up a notch with the heater. The windshield began to fog. Easton swiped at it with his sleeve. The light turned green and the Porsche fishtailed through the intersection. He was almost to his destination.
The right thing, of course, would be to deliver the microfiche immediately. But his superiors would have to wait, for Easton had his therapy to consider. On the road for nearly twelve weeks, he had been forced to miss four of his sessions. He could see the brownstone now and the doorman standing before it. His stomach fluttered with anticipation. Already he felt more relaxed.
Traffic snarled and the Porsche skidded briefly before finding pavement. Snow was collecting on the windshield again and Easton switched the wipers back on. Traffic started forward in front of him, and Easton eased the Porsche to the right, sliding to the curb where the doorman stood waiting. The brownstone stood beside several others like it, an ordinary sight from the outside.
The doorman opened his door for him. “Mr. Easton, how good to see you back,” he said, signaling for a parking attendant.
Easton tipped the doorman with the usual amount, not at all uncomfortable with the use of his real name. Names meant nothing at the brownstone, professions even less. Everything was done with maximum discretion. Senators, mayors, businessmen—the brownstone was a place where they could leave their professions at the front door.
Easton watched his Porsche pull away toward the parking garage and then stepped through the door the doorman was holding for him. An impeccably attired woman was waiting inside.
“Ah, Mr. Easton, it’s been too long.�
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“I’ve been traveling. Work, you understand.”
“Of course.” The woman smiled graciously. She was striking for her age, which was at least sixty. Her face showed barely a wrinkle, and her dull blond hair fell easily just below her ears. She was a walking testament to modern cosmetics and surgery. Madame Rosa had a role to play and she had to look the part. “I’ve reserved your usual room.”
“And the … subjects?” Easton asked eagerly.
Madame Rosa smiled again. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased.” She took his coat and led him toward the stairs. “Are any refreshments in order?”
“No.”
“Hashish, marijuana, cocaine?”
“Never.”
Madame Rosa scolded herself. “Ah, yes, how silly of me. Dulls the reflexes, of course. We can’t have that, can we?”
Easton just looked at her.
Madame Rosa stopped halfway up the first staircase. “Stop and see me on your way out. I’d appreciate your evaluation of our new subjects.”
Easton nodded and continued on alone. No mention had been made of price. There was simply an account to be settled at regular intervals, always in cash and never with argument. Easton reached the third floor, turned right, and entered the second room down.
The smell of sweet incense flooded his nostrils. The room was dimly lit, but Easton made out the two figures lying naked on the bed. A boy and a girl—twins. Just as he had ordered. Madame Rosa had outdone herself this time. Easton began stripping off his clothes. He was trembling, already aroused.
The girl moved from the bed and helped him with his pants, unzipping his leather boots and caressing his legs. She was thirteen or thereabouts, a dark-haired beauty with tiny mounds where her breasts would soon be. Her small nipples stood erect.
Her male twin was just as beautiful, dark hair cut not as long but smothering his ears and falling easily to his shoulders. He lay on the bed, legs spread, fondling himself, dark eyes glowing in the soft light.
Easton let himself be led by the girl onto the huge bed, careful to toss his shoulder holster to the side so it would be easily within reach. He fell backward on the sheets and settled next to the naked boy. The boy rolled on top of him, first hugging, then licking, then sliding down till his mouth neared Easton’s groin.