by David Hewson
'That's irrelevant,' she said, catching her breath in the stifling, overcrowded room.
'No. It is absolutely relevant. This is where he ran. And this is where he killed himself when he knew the game was up. Is it right you were the one who found him? That must be hard to live with.'
Speaking very slowly, she said, 'Will you get off my fucking back — '
'No. I won't. Because you're letting something personal get in the way of the job. And you're too smart, too damn good for that.'
'You're an a — a - asshole, Dave,' she said.
'An a — a - asshole?' he said, eyes twinkling. 'Hey, I never knew you had a stutter lurking beneath the surface there, Helen. Listen. I read the files. All the files. Not just the ones that went to the Senate committee and got them off the hook. Your old man was clean. As clean as any of us. You got to believe that and let this thing go before it eats you right up.'
She could see the little cottage in her mind's eye. If she tried, she guessed she could smell the salt air coming through the window, mingling with the cold, harsh aroma of spilled blood.
'I didn't enjoy saying that,' Barnside added. 'But it needed saying.'
She looked at Barnside and knew that, in his own odd way, he was trying to help. 'Well, now you've said it. So can we get on with the job?'
CHAPTER 46
Calling the Postman
Las Vegas, 0331 UTC
As the Nevada night fell and Bill Ruffin worked with Mary Gallagher to erect a flimsy, opaque clover leaf in space above the sun-drenched Pacific, FBI agent Bernard Mason phoned the US Postal Service sorting office in Alamo, north of Vegas, out on the long drab line of 93 running through the desert. He got a mouthful of abuse for his pains.
Mason held the phone away from his ear, waited for the cursing to subside, then said, 'Sir, I know it's the busy time for you.'
And wondered to himself: How many busy times do you get in a one-horse town like this? On a day when the world, by official order, has put a closed sign on its door and the entire phone system has been down until only an hour ago?
'Then call back later,' said the old, sour voice on the end.
'Sir,' Mason continued, 'this is the FBI. And this is important. What's more, you don't have a delivery tomorrow, what with the emergency and everything.'
'You're so clever, smart-ass, how come you even knew I was here?'
'I phoned your home. Your wife told me.'
There was a pause on the line. 'She told you that?'
'Yeah.'
'Bitch. I told her I was going drinking. How'd she know I just came in to catch up on some paperwork?'
362
'I guess some of us are just wedded to the job. They notice, you know. Mine does.'
'Yeah,' the voice said, a touch of empathy there. 'Well. What do you want?' And listened.
'New York State,' the man said at the end.
'Excuse me?'
'Yasgur's Farm. Woodstock, New York State. Don't you people know history?'
'Yeah,' Mason said. 'We know that one. But this is someplace named after it. In Nevada. Maybe.'
'Maybe?'
'I'm just asking. I thought you guys just liked to get stuff through, even if it had the wrong address, no zip code, that kind of thing… just like the Mounties, always get your man.'
'Hey, you want to hear about no zip code? We get stuff here with no goddamn name on it sometimes, and they still expect it in their mailbox the next morning.'
'Precisely, sir. So I was wondering. If something came your way with "Yasgur's Farm" on the front of the envelope, would you people know what to do with it?'
'Don't ask me. I'm just the manager. But if you wait a moment I'll ask a man who might know.'
The line went dead. Mason shuffled through the sheaf of numbers in front of him. Nevada was a big place. It seemed to have an awful lot of post offices. Ash Springs was next.
'You still there, Mr FBI?'
'Oh yes, sir.'
'I spoke to Ronnie Wilson who, surprise, surprise, is taking the opportunity of this unexpected holiday to prop up the bar at Joe's. He's our field operative.' The man chuckled. 'You get that?'
'I am trying to contain my merriment, sir. And?'
'He says there's someplace out at Cabin Springs, the old dry lake, out on the back road through the wildlife refuge. Couple of times recently he's had to make some special deliveries out there. Says they had zip codes, a PO box number, and "Yasgur's Farm" on the label. You believe that? These people. Either they give you too little information or it's too much.'
Bernard Mason blinked, felt his heart make a little jump, and reached for the pen. 'He's sure about that.'
'Oh no. He's just making the whole damn thing up. You people have lives to go to or what?'
'Okay,' Mason said, 'give me the details.'
Thirty seconds later he pushed a piece of paper in front of Fogerty and said, 'We got a hit. Remote farmhouse out on a back road that runs out from 95 all the way through the wildlife refuge straight into 93 just short of Alamo. Close to the 93 end.'
'Map,' Fogerty said, and watched Larry Wolfit mangle the keyboard. The zip code pulled up an area map from the Postal Service. This provided an overlay for the digital security image.
'Jesus Christ,' someone said behind Fogerty. An officer in Air Force uniform was following the screen.
'You know this?' Fogerty asked.
'That's on the edge of the Nellis restricted area. We let people through because of the refuge and there's a couple of homes, mainly for weekenders. We're taking practice bombing runs up to ten miles short of Cabin Springs. They're right under our nose. This is going to be easy.'
'Really,' Fogerty said quietly, and went back to the screen. 'Have you found this place yet?'
Wolfit had the refuge up on the map. There was precious little detail at this altitude, just the thin line of the desert track and an outline, like an ink spot, of the lake itself.
'There.' He pointed at a speck of light the size of a pinhead, then zoomed in, took up the resolution, and drilled down through the layers until the picture was clear. Yasgur's Farm, from above, looked like a sizeable modern ranch house, probably extended over the years from a single rectangular shack.
Now it was large, four distinct sections tacked onto each other, probably giving a good three thousand square feet of space if the place was single-storey, more if they had any first-floor extensions.
'It's big enough,' Helen said.
'But where's the dome?' Fogerty asked.
'Property records,' she demanded, and watched as Larry Wolfit pulled up the database.
'According to the state file, this property's real name is Buena Vista Farm,' he said. 'Dates back to the fifties. Property changed hands in March. New owner a corporation registered in Switzerland. No more details.'
'Yeah. Great,' Barnside said. 'But like the man said, where the hell is the dome?'
Wolfit zoomed out again, hit the degradation button on the filter, and saw a single bright circle appear a quarter of a mile away from the house, along what looked like a ridge.
'Water tower,' said the man in the next seat. 'It's down there on the map. Mentioned in the state filing too, planning permission back in 1989.'
'Sure,' Helen said, and watched as Wolfit zoomed in on the thing. 'But if you wanted to really hide something, what would you do? You'd find some pre-existing feature and replace it. Remember what Lieberman said? These people are clever. We've been looking for something new. Maybe that's what they wanted us to look for.'
'Good.' Fogerty nodded, watching the image come up in size on the monitor. Wolfit ran it up all the way. No one was impressed. The image was so indistinct, it could have been anything. The dome. A rodeo ring. Even a water tower.
'We've got Nighthawks in that area,' the Air Force man said. 'I can get one there in five minutes.'
'Will the folks in the farm know?' Fogerty asked. 'We need some element of surprise.'
'Not a chance. These
are helicopters with silent flight capability. We can be over there at six hundred feet and they won't hear a thing. And you could put the movie they get on HBO if you want.'
'Do it,' Fogerty said. 'And while we're waiting, get the HRT people in the briefing centre, work on the assumption we have a hit here.'
The room suddenly became less crowded.
'I have to go with them,' Helen said. Fogerty stared at her, eyes wide behind the big owl glasses, and then at Barnside, who had moved next to her.
'You still feel that way, Miss Wagner?' Fogerty asked. 'You could run it from here if you wanted.'
'No,' she said quickly. 'I have to be there. The whole purpose of this mission is to capture their system intact and working. I need to be there with my team. I need to be on-line to La Finca all the way. And once you've secured the target, I want you people out of my hair.'
Barnside shrugged. Fogerty gazed at her in silence.
'Here she comes,' Larry Wolfit said. 'We've got a live feed from the chopper.'
The monitor was now occupied by a blue-tinged video screen, the image distinct and sharp, but eerie, like the picture from an early moon shot. The desert floor looked like the surface of the moon too. Then a lone coyote wandered across the screen, there was the outline, hard and straight, of the road, and a scattering of scrubby brush.
'Where are they going?' Fogerty asked.
"The house,' the Air Force officer said.
'Kill that,' Fogerty demanded. 'I want to see this dome first. Without that, we've got nothing.'
Someone barked orders at the back of the control room. They could see the direction of the chopper change on screen. Some low scree came into view, more scrub, and then a shape, circular but indistinct.
'Go in closer,' Fogerty said.
'It's at max resolution already.'
'Then fly lower.'
The man in uniform hesitated and said, 'But what if they hear-'
'Just do it,' Fogerty said. 'We don't have room for guesswork.'
'Sir.'
It was, Helen thought, just like the film of an Apollo mission, the sort of stuff you watched when you were a child, wondering what all the fuss was about. The grey, bare landscape rose up to greet you, looking airless, inhospitable. Someone gasped. 'Hold it there,' she ordered.
A mosaic of polygons covered the surface of the flashing image, and around the exterior ran what looked like a perfect circle.
'They skinned it,' she said. 'They've put an exterior skin right around the whole damn thing to make it look like a water tower from the ground, and then just left the top open hoping we wouldn't see.'
Fogerty stared at the screen. 'All this gets recorded, is that correct?'
'Yes sir,' Wolfit replied.
'Good. Well, let's get this helicopter back to altitude and over to the house. We have plans to make.'
Helen waited, looked at him.
'Well?' Fogerty asked.
'I'm still awaiting your decision, sir.'
His face gave nothing away. 'This is a Bureau exercise, Miss Wagner.'
'Sir-'
'But I take your point. Be there for the briefing.'
Levine gave out a sardonic smile. 'Sure, that's okay with me too, Dan.'
'Good.'
'You should take Barnside along too,' Levine said. 'He could come in useful.'
Fogerty looked at the big man. 'I guess you people are happier in twos. Sure thing.'
Barnside grinned at her and she didn't know what to make of it. 'Hey, Helen,' he said. 'We'll make a team yet.'
CHAPTER 47
Connect
Equatorial orbit, altitude 20315 kilometres above the Pacific, 0405 UTC
At this height above the earth the satellite's velocity was 3.86 kilometres per second and the period required to complete a single orbit 723.37 minutes, almost exactly twelve hours. Charley had positioned Sundog to sit squat in the centre of the earth day, wherever it was over the globe. That way she could make the most of the storm that was building in space behind it. She could adjust the speed across the globe at any time by firing up the satellite and adjusting the orbit: higher meant slower. Lieberman had worked out the forecast for the present track. She had it right on course for Western Europe when the zenith rose up to greet them, and well in line for North America over the following twelve hours. Perfect timing, Lieberman guessed, a natural Charley attribute.
He didn't mention any of this as they watched the astronauts on the big screen at La Finca. He'd done his best to show them how to shut his part of Sundog down. Now it was just a question of letting the crew get on with its job.
Bill Ruffin and Mary Gallagher sweated inside their suits, watching the four wings of the giant oversized shade hang over Sundog, casting a vast, deep shadow over the solar panels, and beyond to the satellite itself. The two astronauts felt at home in space, knew how to handle zero gravity, how carefully and slowly they had to manoeuvre, to feel the objects they were trying to work with. It was a mistake to rush a single thing. If one vital part went missing, received an accidental knock, the impetus would send it flying, with a balletic slowness, out of their reach forever. Ruffin and Gallagher would have no second chances, and that thought stayed with them during this interminable period of waiting.
The LED on the base plate seemed to have been stuck on orange for years. Then Ruffin slowly closed his eyes, dreamed of home, a warm Florida beach, cold beer, a nice quiet raw bar with country music floating out of the speakers.
Lieberman's voice broke through the silence of their helmets. 'We saw the light change. My part's over. You're in Irwin's capable hands now.'
'Thanks, Professor. You can have a job at the Cape any day.'
Ruffin looked at the light. It was red, no mistakes there. Mary Gallagher was already reaching into her tool kit, waiting to be told. He took a deep breath and, without thinking, scanned the black horizon for the Shuttle. It was a long way off now, a kilometre at least, looking like a kid's model in white plastic. They still had plenty of air left. Plenty of time too. All that was needed was to bring the satellite off-line, then call up Dave Sampson, get him to bring the ship back up, manoeuvre around once more, pick them up, and head off home.
Home. Such a small, insignificant word for a concept so huge it could occupy your entire life.
'Bill?' Mary asked. They were in the shade cast by the clover leaf, and the satellite shielded her from the bright reflecting surface of the earth just then. He could imagine her smart, sparky eyes staring at him through the visor, behind the deep reflected image of the glowing living globe that sat there now.
'Nothing,' Ruffin replied, and wished his mouth didn't feel so dry. 'Let's get on with it.'
The two of them removed the clasps of their lines from the struts, worked their way down the aluminium arms of the panel structure, and reattached the cords, this time to the exterior of the satellite itself. Ruffin stared at the red light, shining like a little beacon. Sundog looked dead. 'This thing is down now, Irwin. Why can't we just leave it at that? If she's got no power, she's no threat.'
'The power won't stay off,' Schulz replied. 'At some stage Michael's wings are going to move out of alignment, and then she wakes up, Charley's back in business. The only way we can be sure that thing's dead for good is for you to get behind the panel and key in a final shutdown sequence. But you get a good window from the shade trick. As long as the power's down from there, we're okay to open her up.'
Ruffin looked at the giant sunshade. It cast an enormous shadow right over the entire solar panel clover leaf and part of the satellite too. It was rigid in space, kept in place by the tiny, immutable forces of momentum that were shared by these strange mechanisms performing an odd little distanced dance, an unconscionable height above the surface of the earth.
'I get it,' he sighed, and thought: 'It would be too easy just to throw a shade over the thing and go home.' He looked at Arcadia and asked, 'You can see us okay from there, Dave?'
The radio crackled.
'Not too well. I'm some way off now and the angle's bad. But don't you worry. Once you take this thing down I'll be around and scooping you up in no time.'
'That sounds good.' Ruffin jerked on the cord of the floatcam, which was still static behind them, back with the solar structure. 'You're going to take us through this, Irwin, step by step. I know we practised in training but I like all the eyes I can get.'
'Sure,' the voice from the ground said. The cylindrical camera came up to Ruffin. He steadied it with one hand, then pointed the lens at the body of the satellite. It was, as luck would have it, cast in darkness by the huge parasol they had erected. Ruffin had half expected this: Murphy's Law applied in space too. He and Gallagher took out two powerful flashlights, attached them to an external antenna, turned them on, and illuminated the entire area.
'You got that?'
Somewhere on earth, Ruffin knew, they would be looking at the matte-black exterior of this thing, seeing much the same view he did now. There was an access panel on the outer skin of the satellite. It had a smart card slot on the side, and enough warning signs by it to put off any curious intruder who didn't hold the key. The panel was positioned, sensibly, close to the base of the unit, so anyone trying to work on Sundog could see the status light at the same time.
'They can't reprogram the access code,' Schulz's voice said. 'If that worries you.'
'Hadn't even occurred to me until that moment,' Ruffin said, then took one final look at Mary to make sure she was on top of this, pulled the card out of the tool kit, and pushed it into the slot. Nothing happened.
'We live to fight another day,' he muttered, and waited. The line was silent. 'Anyone there?'
'Damn,' Schulz whispered. 'The door panel is on a hydraulic mechanism. It should have popped open when you inserted the card.'
Ruffin looked at the thing. It was about three feet wide and two feet deep, a flat, plain lump of metal, with what looked like rubber hermetic seals around the edge.
'Suggestions?' he asked.
'It's stuck,' Schulz said immediately. 'If it had rejected the card we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. There's a small explosive device built to guard against unauthorized access, and that will work even on power down.'
