“I suspect most of us feel the same way,” he returned her laugh and laid two fingers on her forearm, a small intimate gesture. “But we’re taking a break here. Tell me about yourself. How did you get into the intelligence game?”
Danielson looked down at his hand. The fingers were those of a craftsman, large and gnarled, ungainly to look at, but capable of deft, intricate movement. She raised her eyes to his face and enjoyed the way his grey-green eyes reflected a sense of humor and well-being.
“Not much to tell—” she began.
While Runyan entertained Danielson with small talk, Isaacs and Phillips discussed the developments of the afternoon and their options for the remainder of the day. Isaacs was not pleased by any of the ideas he had heard. Phillips suggested gently that they should allow the brainstorming to continue until they either ran out of ideas or found one on which there was some consensus. They were interrupted by a woman who announced a phone call for Isaacs. He raised his eyebrows at Phillips and followed the woman out.
He returned several minutes later and headed for Danielson, his face grim. He interrupted Runyan in the middle of a funny story, and addressed Danielson.
“There’s an emergency,” he said brusquely. “We’ve got to get back to Washington.”
As Danielson looked at Runyan with uncertainty, Isaacs turned to Phillips.
“I’m very sorry, but we must go. Something has come up. I’m grateful for your time today.”
“We’re happy to be of service, of course. Your problem has intrigued us, and I’m sure we’ll continue to discuss it.”
“I hope you will. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”
Isaacs hustled Danielson around as they gathered up their things and escorted her to the car.
He drove quickly in great concentration for several minutes until he was sure of his course. Then he glanced at her.
“That was Bill Baris. The Russians have made their next move. They’ve surrounded our nuclear satellite with a pack of hunter-killer satellites.”
“What will they do?”
“Not clear. Baris has called the crisis team for this afternoon to try to get the basic facts together. We’ll meet again first thing tomorrow morning and try to anticipate them. If they hold off that long. Damn! McMasters will wonder where the hell I am.”
He drove in silence again for a while.
“That was a very good presentation you gave today,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “You convinced them we’ve got a real problem. And thanks for coming to my defense when that bastard Leems got on my back.”
“This can’t really be a Russian weapon, can it?” she asked.
“Sure doesn’t smell right to me, but we should check satellite locations just as Leems said.”
Danielson began to contemplate how she could obtain and sort Soviet satellite positions. They were quiet the rest of the way to the airport.
There were problems getting their reservations changed. They spent an hour and a half in the terminal amid crowds that prevented any discussion of their mission. Danielson could tell Isaacs was tense and fretful. The visit with the Jason team had been intriguing, but inconclusive, and the move of the Russians had caught him up short. If he had been in Washington he would have assembled the crisis team, not left it to Baris. Danielson sympathized with the anxiety she knew Isaacs felt. CIA officials had a right in principle to their free time, but they had better be on the spot when an emergency cropped up, never mind off on another coast suborning Agency policy. Danielson felt exposed herself.
The only seats they could get were several rows apart in the crowded midsection of the red-eye flight. Jet lag and strain caught up with Danielson. She napped most of the way. Isaacs was trapped between a talkative matron and a young mother, squirmy babe in lap. He stared grimly ahead through the whole flight, trying in his fatigue to think.
Chapter 9
Jorge Payro grabbed another piece of sheet metal off the palette behind him. He fed it carefully into the machine, checking the alignment, then stepped back and yanked the lever triggering the hydraulics. The press crumped down, folding edges, slicing off the extra metal. Jorge raised the lever, pulled the formed piece off the platform and worked around the edges with his file to remove the worst of the burrs. He placed the partially formed object on the conveyor belt. Somewhere down the line, after more cutting, stamping, drilling, painting, and fitting, the part would emerge as the top of a washing machine. Jorge turned for another flat sheet. While he worked he thought of his date for the futbol game that evening. One of the teams from Buenos Aires was coming to play Rosario. Rosario was good this year; they had a chance. Jorge was excited by the prospect of a victory. He was also excited by his own chances with Constanza. Particularly if they won, everyone’s passions would be running high.
He pulled another piece off the press and tackled it with his file. He put it on the conveyor, then did a double take, and yanked it off again. He held it before him and stared in amazement. There was a hole in it, about the size of his little finger. He had not noticed that when he picked up the sheet. He looked at the stack on the palette. No holes there. How could he have missed such a thing? He set the damaged part aside, picked up a fresh sheet, and maneuvered it into place. He pulled the lever. The press dropped a little, but then jammed, groaning.
Jorge slapped the lever off. He threw the switch that shut the machine down completely, raised his safety goggles up onto his forehead and stared. The upper jaw of the press was skew in its framework. Jorge stepped forward and craned his neck to look up at the underside. His eyes widened. There was a hole in the massive piece of steel. It was drilled through, just like the damaged part he had just removed. From somewhere higher up in the works of the machine, a steady stream of fluid seeped down. Jorge removed a glove, ran a finger through a drip and sniffed. Hydraulic fluid. This machine is in bad trouble, he thought to himself as he wiped his finger on his overalls. He pulled the sheet of metal from the press and was not completely surprised to find another hole in the bed of the machine. He ran a finger around its clean edge and bent to peer down. He couldn’t see but a fraction of a centimeter in, but he bet it was deep, maybe all the way to the floor. He stuck his little finger into the hole up past the first knuckle. He couldn’t imagine what could have caused such a thing.
Jorge pulled off his other glove, threw it next to the first, and went in search of his supervisor.
It was 7:30 a.m. Sunday morning, July 4. Isaacs had not slept on the flight back from San Diego and then had spent an hour on the phone catching up on the Russian deployment of hunter-killer satellites and making arrangements for this morning’s meeting. He’d gotten three hours of troubled sleep and nursed a splitting headache.
Isaacs scanned the packed conference room. Twenty-three people were more than it held comfortably, but he had called for everyone in his crisis team to bring their aides. This would speed dissemination, give the young people exposure, and encourage them to participate directly. He did not want any bright ideas languishing in the face of an unprecedented confrontation with the Russians. He began as the last chair was filled.
“I’m sorry to have to call you in on a holiday. This may be the Soviets heavy-handed idea of irony, but they’re threatening us with some real fireworks.
“You know that the Soviets launched an operating laser and used it to destroy the FireEye satellite, which had recently been placed into orbit last April.” You don’t know why, though, he thought. He caught Pat Danielson’s eyes on him from where she sat in a rear corner looking remarkably alert despite their late flight. She returned his gaze steadily until he looked on around the room and continued. “The US appropriated that laser satellite with the shuttle, but the Soviets launched another. The US response was to put a small atomic device in orbit near the laser. The device is specially shielded with a reflective coating, difficult for the laser to penetrate. There are also heat sensing circuits that will trigger the device if the laser is used on it. The Soviets have been informed of this. We have promised to detonate the device if the laser is used.