“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
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.
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.”
“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?”