President Jeffers's plane had been sabotaged.
"Something in the engine or fuel line," Shaeffer growled, tapping his clenched fist on the blueprints of the VC-25A's right wing. "Something that could start a fire despite the flame retardants in the fuel."
"Implies a pretty drastic breach of security," Rennie murmured.
Shaeffer threw him a hard look but kept his temper in check. "I would think so, yes. Finding out just how the bomb was introduced should show where and how big that hole is. Dr. Mansfield, I want another Jump tonight. How soon before the equipment can be ready?"
"Half an hour at the least," Griff told him, glancing at his watch. "But I'd like to point out that it's already coming up on eight o'clock and the Jumpers will need both a good night's sleep and some wind-down time before that."
"They'll get all the rest they need," Shaeffer said shortly. "Allow me to point out that you've still got three Jumpers you haven't even used yet."
I looked over at Kristen, saw her mouth twist sourly. Being treated like merchandise or pack animals had always been especially annoying to her. She caught me watching her, looked quickly away.
"Well... I suppose we could go ahead," Griff said slowly, looking around the table at the rest of us. "Late-night Jumps can be rougher than usual, though—biological rhythms and all, you understand—"
"We're up against a time crunch here, Doctor," Shaeffer snapped. "How many times am I going to have to repeat that?"
"Yes, but we've got three da—"
"I'm not talking about the damn three-day limit—" Shaeffer broke off abruptly, and for a second a strange look flicked across his face. "We're dealing with the media here, Doctor," he continued in a more controlled tone. "The American people want some answers, and I intend to get those answers for them. So. Who's next?"
Griff grimaced and turned to Kristin; moving my head, I managed to catch his eye. "I can take it, Griff," I said. "Evening Jumps never bothered me much." It wasn't quite true, but it was close enough.
Griffs lip twitched, but he nodded. "Yes... all right, fine. If that's all, then, Mr. Shaeffer...?"
Shaeffer nodded, and the group began to break up. I got out fast and headed toward the elevator; but even so, Morgan managed to catch up with me before I reached it. "Left my jacket downstairs after my Jump," he commented. "Mind if I tag along down with you?"
"No, of course not," I said as he fell into step beside me. "How bad is it?"
"The crash?" He shrugged, a nervous twitch of shoulders beneath his shirt. "Not too bad, leastwise not as long as you're up in the air. Not goin' be much fun at ground level."
"They never are."
"No."
We'd reached the elevator before he spoke again. "So... how you been doin'? We ain't heard much from you since you left."
"Judging by my reception earlier, it's just as well," I told him, hearing an unaccustomed trace of bitterness in my voice.
He nodded heavily. "I talked to Kristin after my Jump. You know, she was kinda hurt the way you just upped and left."
"I didn't just 'up and leave'—"
"You know what I mean. Woulda helped, you know, if you'd told us why you were quittin'."
I looked at him sharply. Had he figured it out? "I had my reasons," I said.
"I reckon you did. But Kristin and Hale don't take a lot on faith. S'pose it's a little late to worry 'bout now. So what do you think of this mess?"
"What's there to think about it?" I replied grimly. The elevator arrived and we got in. "Like you say, it's a mess."
"What 'bout Shaeffer?"
"What about him?"
"Strikes me as a mite... over-wrought, I s'pose."
I snorted. "He has just lost both his employer and a long time friend. How would you expect him to act?"
"I'd expect him to be mad as a hornet," Morgan nodded. "Nothin' wrong with that. But there's somethin' under the anger that bothers me. I get a feelin' he's hidin' somethin' big up his sleeve. Somethin' he wants to do, but at the same time is scared of doin'."
I bit at my lip. Morgan had grown up in a backwoods area of Arkansas, and people tended to assume he wasn't particularly bright. But what he lacked in book learning he more than made up in people-sense... and if he thought there was something odd about Shaeffer, it was time for me to start paying better attention to the man. "Maybe he's involved in the discussions of revenge against whoever's responsible," I suggested slowly. "McCallum's never struck me as the sort to call in military strikes—maybe it's Shaeffer's job to convince him otherwise."
"Maybe." Morgan shook his head. "Well, whatever it is, I 'spect we'll hear 'bout it soon enough."
The elevator door opened and we stepped out. "See you later," Morgan said as he scooped up his jacket from a chair near the contour couch. "Good luck."
"Thanks." Squaring my shoulders, I headed over to be prepped.
—
Twenty minutes later, wired and tubed and mildly sedated, I was lying on the contour couch and we were ready for my Jump. "Okay," one of the operators called. "Here we go. Countdown: six... three, two, one, mark."
And abruptly I found myself in brilliant sunlight, floating beside Air Force One as it soared over the mountains on its unknowing way to death.
To see the past like this had been a horrible shock to me the first time, and though its impact had diminished since then I didn't think it would ever fade away completely. There was an immediacy to the experience; a sense of objective, 360-degree reality, despite the obvious limitations, that was nothing at all like viewing the event on a TV screen. For me, at least—and probably for most of the others, too—that sense came with a suffocating feeling of helplessness and stomach-churning frustration. I was here—really here—at the actual real-life scene of a real-life disaster about to happen... and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.
Griff had once brought in a psychiatrist who'd tried to tell us that everyone felt similarly when they saw disasters that happened to have been caught on film. If that revelation was supposed to make us feel better, it hadn't worked.
But all this was standard reflex, the thoughts and emotions that had come in one form or another with every Jump I'd made, and even as the frustration rose in my throat, the old professional reflexes came up to cut it back. Gritting my teeth—a sensation I could feel despite having no real body at the moment—I moved forward over the wing and dipped beneath its surface.
It was dark inside the wing, but there was enough light coming in from somewhere for me to make out the details of the fuel tanks and piping and all. It was eerily quiet, of course—vision on Jumps is as crystal clear as if we'd brought our physical retinas back in time with us, but there's no sound or other sensory input whatsoever. Like being wrapped in soundproof plastic, Kristin had once described it. For me it was just one more macabre touch amid the general unpleasantness.
I floated around inside the wing for several minutes, keeping a close watch for anything that might precede the explosion about to take place. From the settings the operators had made I knew I'd have fifteen minutes before the engine caught fire, but time sense distortion was a normal part of Jumping and I didn't want to be caught unawares. I'd been tethered to the right inboard engine pylon, the tether length adjusted to let me get nearly out to the outboard engine in one direction or to the fuselage in the other. The tether was even more of a witchgadget than most of the Banshee equipment as a whole, consisting mainly of a charged electrical lead attached to a specific spot on a scale model of whatever your target vehicle or building was. With a tether in place a Jumper would stick with that piece of metal or wood or plasterboard through hell and high water; without it, there was no way to hold your position even in a stationary building.