The plaques and honors decorating the walls read like a Who’s Who of tech and aerospace giants. SpaceX, Amazon, Boeing, Apple, Lockheed-Martin, Google, Microsoft, and a dozen more all contributed to the Olympus Initiative. Dash found that interesting.
“Oh, absolutely. You know, we had Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, and Richard Branson here for a fundraiser about six weeks ago. It was very exciting.”
“Really?” Dash appeared puzzled. “Why would those space magnates devote time and money to your group? I mean, helping the poor is more Bill Gates than Elon Musk—and doesn’t he hate Bezos or something?”
Rockwell grinned, obviously thrilled about being able to drop names and gossip. The same oily public relations filth that had driven Dash to work as a journalist rather than a corporate mouthpiece. “I probably shouldn’t talk about this—”
Which meant it either wasn’t true or it wasn’t as important as he would make it out to be.
“—but Bezos has a plan to put a colony in low Earth orbit. Do you know what an O’Neil cylinder is?”
Dash’s good side and bad side tussled over his response. “Obviously. I’m a science and technology reporter.”
The bad side almost always won.
Rockwell’s smooth facade faltered. “Ah, um, sure. Of course.” Rockwell fussed with the knot on his tie. “Well, Bezos has expressed interest in some of our recycling and agricultural advances. Views us as a testbed for that kind of technology in space.”
Dash appreciated the good works on display but recognized a spin doctor when he heard one. His instincts told him Rockwell had shared a very calculated vision of the Olympus Initiative, using distraction and misdirection to keep him from inquiring about the wrong things. He decided to probe about the NASA connection.
“How do you select your projects?” Dash wanted to know. “Is there a petition or application process?”
Rockwell beamed. “In some cases, we go where the news is. When the earthquake rocked eastern Turkey in February, our C-130 was in the air eight hours after the news broke. With our expertise in key fields, we knew we could help, so we did.”
“Quite admirable,” Dash said with a nod.
“Other times, we select locations based on technologies we want to test and conditions that match it.”
Dash cocked his head. “Can you elaborate?”
Rockwell spread his hands. “Your village lacks electricity because it’s so remote. We have new photovoltaic panels to test or a new geothermal power plant to deploy. Those won’t necessarily work in the same locations, so we sift through potential candidates using a sorting algorithm.”
“And then just show up?”
“Hah! Nothing so rude.” Rockwell chuckled. “We send a small ambassadorial team to the location. They explain what we offer and ask if the village or whatever is interested in using it.”
“What does the initiative get out of it?”
“Well, we are a non-profit organization,” Rockwell said. “We get good publicity, plus corporate donations from companies eager for us to test their equipment or improve their own image. Mostly, though, we get the satisfaction of knowing that we’re making a better world.”
Dash pressed on. “But how do you find the village in the first place?”
“Oh, we get requests passed on from aid organizations. The Red Cross and Red Crescent, for example, frequently send us candidates.”
“Seems a little slow. Surely you could map that sort of thing yourselves.”
Rockwell laughed. “Well, if we ever get our own satellites, we’ll probably do just that.”
Dash laughed along with him, grateful that Iris recorded everything.
Liar.
“Well, I noticed an entry on the directory that mentioned NASA. What’s that about?”
Again, Rockwell’s smooth veneer cracked, but he recovered in a heartbeat. “Oh, that’s where we submit requests for mapping information. Those things take weeks to process unless there’s an overriding concern, like a storm or an earthquake.”
“Natural disasters,” Vashi offered.
Rockwell was all smiles again. “Exactly!”
Dash synced Iris up to his cloud account as well as backed up the data to his phone’s storage card as he walked through the doors of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory.
Rockwell might have been a competent PR hack, but his ignorance and assumptions would get him fired someday. It took all of Dash’s self-control to refrain from laughing in his face when Rockwell spouted his lies about requesting satellite mapping.
NASA, a federal agency, made its data available to the public. No requests needed. A company could grab any imagery they wanted, no problem. Given how expensive and difficult maneuvering a satellite in orbit could be, however, no one really got to request specific targeting—at least not outside of the intelligence community, who had their own satellites for that sort of thing anyway.
The Olympus Initiative, champion of the poor and technology-bereft, had no reason to liaise with NASA. They didn’t have a reason to have a dedicated office. Since Rockwell’s tour amounted to little more than misdirection and bullshit, Dash decided to see what he could glean from JPL.
Fortunately, he’d done enough stories over the past couple of years that he knew a couple of staffers and researchers.
“Dash!” A dark-skinned woman in a vibrant green blouse waved at him from the front desk.
“Ishani, hi!” Dash smiled, relieved to see a friendly face.
Ishani Nayyar was one of several women chosen for LA Eye’s women in science feature a year ago. A top engineer at JPL, her story of studying in India and her immigration to the United States was textbook American dream. Dash had enjoyed interviewing her.
Ishani gave Dash a firm hug, then looked him over. “Are you okay?”
Dash’s eyes were bloodshot from crying and his skin wan from the trauma of the morning. He forced a smile to his face. “Yeah. I’m good. Just been a long day.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What brings you by today?”
“I’m doing some background for a story. Think you can point me in the right directions?”
Ishani rolled her eyes. “Of course! What do you need?”
Dash unlocked his phone and brought up the images Rasul had left for him. “Do you know what this is?”
Ishani arched an eyebrow. “It’s a ship, Dash.”
“No, not that.” His fingernail jabbed the wine-glass structure. “This thing.”
Ishani took the phone and zoomed in. “It’s not a very clear image.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Do you recognize it?”
“Not really. I mean, it looks like a big plate with some pipes running from it. Actually, these four look like shock absorbers.” Ishani squinted at the image and adjusted the angle several times. “It doesn’t mean anything to me, Dash. Sorry.”
Dash waved off the apology. “Okay, second question: Ever heard of the Olympus Initiative?”
“No.” Ishani shrugged. “Sounds like the title of a novel.”
Dash took Ishani’s arm and led her away from the front desk. He slid his finger across the phone’s screen. “What about this image? Can you think of a reason why NASA would need armed Marines?”
Ishani looked closer. “No. I mean, sure, NASA uses nuclear material, but they don’t use the military for security. At least, we don’t here.”
“Notice the carrier in the background? These three things shouldn’t be in the same image.”
“Agreed.” Ishani frowned. “I don’t see anything special about this. Let’s take a walk and ask a few brains.”
Vashi glanced around. “This would be the place for them.”
JPL ran many of NASA’s remote missions, whether it was robotic explorers on Mars or planetary probes. Nestled in the foothills on the edge of Pasadena, Dash’s previous visits to JPL had excited him. He always learned something new and enjoyed meeting researchers and engineers so passionate about their work.
Alas
, Ishani’s guided tour didn’t yield any positive results. While the images intrigued several engineers, they couldn’t identify the wineglass structure, nor could they explain why NASA crates would be in a naval shipyard.
“You really want to talk to Irving. He knows everything about anything to do with nuclear materials.” Eileen Nakamura shook her head as she fitted a panel to the side of an instrumentation package. “Wish I could help.” Her ponytail waved from side to side.
“Wait, what? Did he retire?” Dash asked.
“Not at all. Took a job in the private sector. Up and coming firm, been poaching a lot of people from JPL, actually.” Nakamura lifted her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “I think we’ve lost eight people to them in the past six months.”
“Does the up and coming firm have a name?”
“No idea,” Nakamura said. “Too busy covering for people who aren’t around anymore. I’m just pissed they didn’t recruit me.”
“Menu,” Dash muttered. Iris jumped to attention in his vision and tracked the movement of his eye. Dash highlighted Nakamura’s face and brought up the social media menu. He picked social networks and his pupils darted down toward LinkedIn. A quick glance at his network brought up a large roster of engineers, scientists, and classmates. “Irving what?”
“Sandy, uh, Sandford Irving.”
Iris found Sandford Irving straight away and brought up his profile. The picture showed a soft, round-faced man already with a salt and pepper. Current employed by the Olympus Initiative.
The whole search had taken less than five seconds, including waiting for Nakamura’s input.
“Got him. I’ll send him a note. See if he can help me out.” Dash smiled. “Thanks so much for your help.”
“Anytime!” Nakamura stifled a yawn. “Sorry. I need more coffee.”
Ishani led Dash out of Nakamura’s lab. “Did that help?”
“Strangely enough, yes.” Dash’s eyes put Iris back to sleep and he gave his friend a hug. “Do me a favor? Keep this meeting between us.”
“Why?” Ishani frowned. “Is anything wrong?”
“I don’t think so,” Dash said. “I just want time to dig into this and don’t want to tip anyone else off.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll clear your name from the visitor’s log. It’ll be like you were never here.”
Seven
THE SHARP KNOCK ON THE door startled Castillo from her nap.
She glanced around the empty office, hand on her holstered pistol, before remembering her location. Castillo swung her legs over the olive-drab cot and sat up. “Enter.”
The faux-wood door opened, and Mosley poked her head inside. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am.”
Castillo waved away the apology. “Report.”
“We located Bandari’s foster brother, Dash. Two reports place him at the Olympus Initiative and the Crowne Plaza”
Ice water flooded Castillo’s veins. “What?”
“Yes, ma’am. Security cameras triggered DELPHI and we got a report from our agent-in-place that a journalist picked today of all days to ask questions about the initiative.” Mosley held up a tablet. “I also got a nervous call from the manager of the Crowne Plaza, warning me that a reporter had stormed into his office and startled him into confessing that there had been a shooting there today.”
Castillo took a deep breath. “Mr. Riordan seems to be as precocious as his brother. What did he get out of Ramirez?”
Mosley shrugged. “Nothing he can back up. He has Ramirez running his mouth, but there’s no evidence of anything. We left the hotel clean.”
“Good.” He stood up and stretched. “What about the initiative? Did he find out anything?”
“That’s the weird part,” Mosley replied. “I don’t think he did. He took the basic public relations tour, asked a couple of inane questions, and left. No fuss, no muss.” Mosley put her hand on her hip. “I don’t think he knew about it. Whatever information his brother gave that led him there, I don’t think it was enough to expose anything.”
“Just a bread crumb, huh?”
“That’s my take,” Mosley said.
Castillo paced in front of the cot as she roused her brain from its nap. If Dash had learned anything compromising about the initiative, he’d look for confirmation and proof. If he hadn’t, then only the data he possessed threatened the operation.
“Keep DELPHI on Dash and any colleagues he has at that magazine.”
“LA Eye,” Mosley supplied.
“Yes.” Castillo crossed her arms and rubbed her chin as she walked. “Let’s make certain he hasn’t stashed the information somewhere and make up a list of contacts he’s made since this morning.”
Mosley’s expression tightened. “That could be quite a few people.”
“I know, but there’s not much choice. The longer we wait, the bigger the task gets.” Castillo straightened up and turned to her subordinate. “No, it’s time to cast our net around Dash. Lock surveillance on him, contain his investigation, and bring him into custody.”
“Um, just custody, ma’am?”
Castillo thought she heard just a hint of rebuke in Mosley’s tone. She’d always respected her opinion and valued her as an officer. Her star hadn’t risen as quickly Castillo’s, but their friendship had grown strong.
“Rasul’s death was necessary. He knew too much. His brother has a few pieces of information, but I don’t think he understands anything. He’s trying to make sense of the clues. If we can capture him, there’s no need to kill him. He can just wait in a cell until the operation is complete.” Castillo nodded to herself. “No, we don’t need to eliminate him yet.”
“Too bad we can’t put Boscardin and Vandeleur on him. They’re good trackers.”
Castillo couldn’t deny it, but Dash was certain to recognize them. They’d never get close enough to track him without blowing their cover. She appreciated that Mosley wanted to rebuild their morale, erase their shame at getting bested by an amateur. The woman was a master at forging bonds. Made her a good second-in-command. Someday, it’d make her a great commanding officer.
“I’ll put them on his contacts,” Castillo said. “He has to have a bestie or something. Whoever he called the most or had the most social media contact with. Amateurs always turn to their friends. They just don’t know better.”
“Understood.” Mosley tapped her tablet.
“Anything else?”
Mosley’s lips spread into a wide grin. “Yeah, we grabbed some amazing sandwiches. You should have one.”
Eight
THE FACE ON THE SCREEN spoke to him.
“Dash, why didn’t you tell me? Rasul is my son. Couldn’t you tell me he died?”
Noor Bandari’s dark eyes accused him from the phone.
Dash had tried to reach her eight times but couldn’t bring himself to make the call. Tears and guilt consumed him each time and he’d close out the phone app and sob. Sitting in the midday sun, the sounds of Pasadena rolled around him while he cried and berated himself.
His brother’s face replaced his foster mother.
“Dash, I don’t want to die. Don’t let them kill my story. Please?” Rasul begged him, tears pooling in his eyes before three bullets exploded his head.
“Damn it!” Dash wailed, jamming the phone in his pocket and putting his head in his hands.
Passers-by gave no sign they saw his distress and kept walking. Dash sat on a retaining wall, shoulders shaking, for several minutes. Guilt and frustration clouded his mind. Nothing he’d learned today made much sense and he couldn’t make any connection that could explain his brother’s murder.
The stinging in his arm grew more intense. He needed to check it for infection and change the dressing. With a weary sigh, he stood up and walked back to his Jeep. He climbed into the backseat, took off his jacket, and pulled the dressing from his wound. The tape stuck to the skin, so he ripped it off, wincing at the sharp pain.
An inflamed redness surrounded the d
ark maroon scab on his arm. Clear plasma still leaked from the edges of the injury, which he wiped away with fresh gauze. He rubbed a liberal dose of antibiotic ointment into the wound where the scab still oozed.
“Ow!”
The gel stung, but his mother had always told him that if medicine didn’t hurt, it wasn’t helping.
“This stuff must be doing miracles,” Dash muttered.
Once he’d redressed the wound, he grabbed his laptop and wrote out a few notes, left himself reminders to follow up on questions or details, and wrote up a quick summary of his visit to JPL and the Olympus Initiative. He made it his habit to organize his thoughts while they were fresh in his head. It didn’t take long for ideas to fade, so sooner was always better.
“Iris, check my social media. Direct messages only.”
Iris spun around and posed in dramatic magic-girl fashion. “You got it!” Then said, “You have sixty-three direct messages! Wow!”
“Display list.”
Twenty of the messages were from his editor. Nancy was not happy and complained about Dash not answering his phone. That tone escalated to Nancy being irate and threatening to disembowel him. Most of the remaining messages were from different sources with tips or random bits of information. Nothing he cared about right now.
The latest message, however, was from Yifei, his best friend at the magazine. Dash dialed her number and leaned back in the seat.
“Hello?”
“Yifei, it’s Dash.”
“Why does it show a new number?”
Dash closed his eyes and groaned. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”
“You know Nancy’s after your head, right?”
“She’s going to have to wait in line,” Dash said.
Yifei’s voice softened. “Are you okay? You don’t sound great.”
“Not really.” He stretched out to ease the stiffness in his limbs, then sat up. “But I’ll survive. What are you working on?”
“The continuing lack of diversity in tech companies. Got six people on the record about discrimination and racial abuse at some big places. I even have one woman with video of being sexually harassed by a boss, who then launches into a slur-laced rant about her being a Chinese whore.”
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