“Then you’re telling me you’re no further along now than you were two days ago,” the President said dejectedly, after Jamrock had finished his latest report.
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“What about the tapes?”
Jamrock shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket for a package of Rolaids. This was going to be a six-tablet meeting, he figured. “Computer magnifications and enhancements have yielded nothing new. By the time Caswell had gotten the camera up in the direction of … whatever was coming, the transmission had been jammed.”
“Jammed by what, Nate?”
Jamrock’s teeth sliced into his first pair of Rolaids. “The same sophisticated apparatus we suspect that’s keeping our ground-based radar from tracking the damn thing. It’s nothing our current technology can definitively account for any more than we can account for the means by which the shuttle was destroyed. Of course that doesn’t mean the Russians haven’t come up with something we’re not yet aware of.”
“I’ve already spoken with the Soviets and I’m satisfied that they had nothing to do with what happened. They claimed and I’ve already confirmed that two of their unmanned crafts were destroyed under similar circumstances. Somebody obviously wants control of space for themselves. That still doesn’t tell us what that somebody is up to.” The President paused. “But I’ll tell you this much, whoever it is has got something big up there, and destroying our shuttle was an outright act of war. Why? And what was Caswell trying to describe?”
Jamrock fidgeted impatiently in his chair. “Our only means of learning that will be to send something else up.” He swallowed the grit from his Rolaids. “Mr. President, I can have Pegasus ready for launch in nine days.”
The President tapped his fingers on his desk, considering the implications of Jamrock’s suggestion. Pegasus was the prototype for what was envisioned as a fleet of laser-armed shuttles that could knock out of the sky anything that strayed too far into American air space. Short of a Star Wars shield, such a fleet would provide the ultimate security from enemy attack, along with being the controversial first step in the militarization of space. Pegasus had been tested and deemed ready for deployment. Technologically, all lights were green. Politically, red ones flashed everywhere.
“There’s plenty of demand from the press and on the Hill for another series of hearings, Nate.”
“NASA couldn’t survive them, sir. And even if we could, it probably wouldn’t matter much. Whatever was responsible for Adventurer’s destruction is still up there, and I’m betting whoever’s controlling it isn’t finished yet. Forget questionable O-rings and frozen SRBs. What happened up there this time was an act of war.
The President turned his gaze out the window at the night sky. “How many days to get Pegasus airborne?”
“Nine.”
“Make it eight, Nate.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Sandy Lister said, rising uneasily from her office chair.
“You’d better, boss,” T.J. Brown told her. “Benjamin Kelno worked for Krayman Industries. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“T.J.—”
He stood up and looked at her across the desk. “Just hear me out. He showed up with the computer disk the very day you got approval for the Krayman story, pouring blood all over the sidewalk, but he still made it here because he wanted you to have that disk. Not anybody, just you. What was it he whispered?”
“That time was running out, that I had to stop them.”
“Stop who, boss?”
“You want me to say Krayman Industries, but I won’t.”
“But it fits!”
“What fits? You’re grasping, T.J. We don’t even know what’s on the disk yet, do we?”
T.J. shrugged. “It’s some sort of predetermined flight program. For what I don’t know. But that air force friend of mine just might be able to help. I’m having lunch with him tomorrow.”
“Look, Krayman Industries is a major multinational corporation, a Dow Jones blue chip. It’s crazy to think they’d be implicated in anything like this.”
“There’s lots about them you don’t know. Like I told you this morning.”
Sandy sat back down. “Then maybe it’s time I learned.”
Chapter 5
Easton’s car had been taken to the CIA’s forensic laboratory, located not in Langley but on spacious grounds overlooking Rock Creek Park near the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Northwest D.C. That was to be McCracken’s first stop Wednesday morning thanks to a pass secured for him by Andrew Stimson. The pass was made out in a false name, Stimson’s signature being the sole important feature. Clearly, no one could be allowed to learn Blaine was in Washington. Word spread fast in the capital, and if it reached the wrong people, the operation would be blown.
The CIA’s private lab was better known as the “Toy Factory” since its primary task over the years had been to develop new weapons for use in the field. McCracken bypassed these sections, which made up the bulk of the Toy Factory, and moved toward an area reserved for forensic work of a more mundane nature, where Easton’s Porsche was being stored. The car sat in a separate garage bay and McCracken was escorted to it by a man in a white lab coat who seemed intent on charting Blaine’s every move on his clipboard.
“This may take a while,” McCracken said when they reached the bay.
“My orders are to remain with you,” the man said. “But I’ll stay out of your way.”
He unlocked the bay door and slid it up, revealing the formerly flaming red Porsche, now charred black and marred by cracked and bubbled paint. The scent of burnt metal was still in the air. The handles had been stripped and Blaine had to use the inside latch to get the door open.
The car was a shell. Its seats had been ripped out along with just about everything mechanical. The steering column was bent at an impossible angle, as if someone had tried for the wheel as well but then gave up.
Blaine spent the next two hours going over every inch of the Porsche, oblivious to his escort’s claims that it had all been done already. His hands and clothes were grimy from the effort and his enthusiasm waned with each chunk of flesh lost on the spiny underside of the dash. He looked at the escort before starting on the two remaining tires and decided that CIA personnel were more than capable of inspecting the innards of burnt rubber.
It didn’t make any sense, Blaine thought. Burning the car indicated they hadn’t found what Easton had hidden. That meant it was still in the Porsche somewhere, unless the fire had claimed it. But Easton’s hiding place would be a spot impervious to flames.
McCracken climbed back through the door and settled himself where the front seat used to be. The hiding place would be convenient, within arm’s reach, so as not to attract attention when Easton used it. It would not have to be big but would be reinforced, protected with padding perhaps.
His fingers wrapped around the shift knob, which was leaning off to the side. With nothing better to do, he stripped it off even though it had already obviously been checked by both Easton’s killers and the CIA. He unscrewed the lower portion, squeezing with all his strength. It came off, exposing the knob’s hollow interior, a perfect hiding place for something small. He stuck his index finger through the opening and felt around the inside. Nothing but dust. He rolled the knob around in his hand, then wedged his finger back inside and held it up to the light as if it were a mystical crystal ball that might show him the answer.