The Ganymede Project

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  Anderson hesitated, extending a flaccid hand and the non-commital greeting, “Hello.”

  Gallagan grabbed and aggressively pumped.

  “You shake my hand as though I’m the Devil. I assure you, Doctor Anderson, I am not. The Cold War is over. Sit down, please.”

  Katrina sat in a hard, wooden-backed chair next to Anderson, pressing his hand in a comforting gesture. “It’s all right, really. Nikolai wants to help you.”

  “I attended one of your lectures,” Gallagan said. “It was very interesting.”

  “I didn’t know that environmentalism was a concern in your country,” Anderson said, with a tinge of hostility.

  Gallagan put his hand over his heart. “Ah, you cut me to the quick! It’s our new religion. So many things have gone wrong—not because the previous regime disliked nature. They just thought the works of socialist man—technology and industry—were infinitely more important. They were wrong about many things.”

  “Is that why you asked me here? To confess to past sins?”

  Gallagan smiled, grinding pearl-white teeth. “No. I’m a diplomat, which is a dignified word for ‘politician.’ We never confess to anything unless it’s in our interest to do so.”

  “What I heard was a confession.”

  “What you heard was an expression of interest.” Gallagan smiled and ground his teeth again.

  Anderson remained silent.

  “Um, tell us about your theories of eco-responsibility, again,” Katrina said, trying to put a more objective spin on the discussion. “You seem to stress individual responsibility, but in Russia, we have a more collective—”

  She stopped, as Gallagan carefully withdrew stacks of U.S. hundred dollar bills from a drawer, piled them like building blocks on one end of his desk, and plopped a photograph on the other end.

  “What do you want from me?” Anderson asked softly.

  “Life is a balancing act,” Gallagan said, moving his arms as though performing on a high wire. “On the one hand, there are things we all want, such as money, and meaningful work. On the other hand, there are pitfalls to avoid.” He pushed the photograph toward Anderson, shrugging. “Perhaps this is a pitfall for you. I personally do not have a problem working with people of unorthodox sexual orientation. But in more conservative circles—”

  Anderson was unprepared for the photograph. Most of his life he remained celibate, aware that he was different, but unwilling to cross the line—until recently. “It was a moment of weakness,” he rasped, as the rhythm of breathing built toward panic. “Again, I ask you, sir, what do you want from me?”

  “Doctor Anderson,” Gallagan said, in a comforting tone, “do not be afraid. Please. I want you to continue doing what you do. I’ll help you. I’ll coach you. I’ll be your silent partner. You get what you want. I get what I want. And we both avoid the pitfalls.”

  “A deal with the Devil.”

  Gallagan smiled. He opened another desk drawer and pulled out a thick file, tossing it on the table in front of Anderson.

  “Here’s a hymnal. In these documents, you’ll find a litany of environmental crimes committed by the U.S. government. Read the material. Come back to see me. Katrina will have a briefing for you.”

  “On my favorite subject,” she said. “Groom Dry Lake Base.”

  * * *

  Deke Dobbs returned to the International UFO Research Center smelling like an old tennis shoe. He sat on the stoop and sweated while the Center’s mascot, Gray, padded slowly into the yard.

  Gray was not an athlete. He accompanied Deke on these runs because he was paid the dog equivalent of money.

  “Here ya go, boy,” Deke said, throwing a biscuit.

  Deke carefully removed his sweatshirt and hung it on a hook. It would stay there until the next run. The way he saw it, the shirt gave Gray a scent to follow. Tracking Deke on a run was intellectually taxing and Gray needed all the advantage he could get.

  Now Deke watched Gray do his favorite thing, which was to crawl into a cool nook under the trailer and gum a biscuit until it was slavering, pulpy mush.

  Deke went inside and switched on equipment, preparing to get back to work at the mission that brought him here—to seek out and prove the existence of UFOs and extraterrestrial life. And make ends meet by publishing an electronic newsletter for the converted.

  He noted the telephone message from Jill Sommer. He called her hotel. She wasn’t there, so he left a message that Jafri was “out of the loop.” He wasn’t sure when he’d be back from D.C., but if Jill needed help from the Center, he would gladly provide his expeditionary services—provided she paid up front.

  Deke was almost as familiar as Jafri with secret paths leading to the Groom perimeter. He had spent many nights with Zfar watching the desert sky from the bed of a pickup truck on Freedom Ridge. Most of the time he saw stars, meteor trails and aircraft.

  On a few rare occasions, however, the night sky raised cosmic, existential questions.

  * * *

  Jack Dugan licked an envelope, closed it, and slipped it into a mailbox near the Farragut West metro station. The discussion with Chisholm had gone badly. The man was not what he appeared to be, and it was time to update the Jack Dugan life insurance policy.

  The meeting had been a series of miscalculations. Chisholm believed—not without justification—that Dugan, a member of the black-world cabal, and someone who knew all the secret handshakes, would stop trying to expose the information leak once he was briefed on Operation Majority and Project Ganymede. It was, after all, the usual way of the intelligence world. Once you are given access to compartmented information, you are bound by its controlling rules. And Operation Majority was secured by threat of death. To emphasize the risks, Chisholm confirmed what Dugan had already guessed from intercepts—that a reporter and a Russian diplomat had been marked for “downsizing.”

  The shock of disclosure had been too great, the controlling measures too extreme and Dugan’s resulting dyspepsia too aggravated.Go screw yourself was not the response that Chisholm was looking for.It was bad judgment , Dugan thought.A momentary lapse. But maybe the error can be repaired .

  First things first. He didn’t know the reporter, but hedid know the Russian—Katrina Fontanova. In order to protect her, he had to get to a semi-private phone. Quickly.

  * * *

  It was a little after 3 PM. Jill Sommer drove her rental car into the hotel lot near Rachel, Nevada, and parked it close to theActionNews TV control van.

  She removed a heavy bag of groceries—an exercise in acrobatics. She struggled, closed the door with one foot and tried to maintain her balance as she walked toward the hotel.

  A car door opened in front of her. A man stepped out—muscular, wearing sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt.

  “Excuse me, Ma’am,” he said. “Aren’t you Jill Sommer, the reporter?”

  “Yup,” she said, struggling with the grocery bag. “Whatever you’ve got, make it snappy!”

  The man smiled, removed a gun with a silencer and pointed it at her. There was aPOP as he pulled the trigger.

  She stumbled backward. A mixture of spaghetti sauce, clams and shattered glass ‘glopped’ to the asphalt. Jill dropped the bag. A bloody bullet wound punctured her chest. She wheeled toward the pool entrance behind the hotel.

  Several small children played in a wading pool. They saw a woman limping out of the parking lot and assumed she was playing a game.

  Behind her, the man in a Hawaiian shirt extended his weapon and fired a second shot. AnotherPOP .

  Jill Sommer stumbled through the open gate, tried to say something, but couldn’t, then collapsed into the wading pool.

  Children screamed.

  The man in a Hawaiian shirt fled.

  A cloud of blood darkened the water.

  * * *

  It was early evening on the East Coast. In the small study of his Annapolis home—a bedroom now populated with Russian language books, a computer, Marine Corps mementos and only
the most basic of furniture, Yuri rolled the cylinder of his Smith and Wesson Model 66 revolver along his arm, inspecting the chambers. He could smell the gun oil.

  A ringing telephone interrupted his effort. He crushed a cigarette and picked up. The voice was Dugan’s.

  “Yuri? This is Jack. I need a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “I can’t tell you too much over the phone, but you know the assignment you gave me? Where you wanted me to clown around?”

  “The Bozo search?”

  “Yeah. I found Bozo. He’s a pretty nasty guy. False nose and everything.”

  “So what’s the favor?”

  “I want you to track another part of the circus tonight. A certain female bear. You know the one. You’ve seen her act. Find out if anyone else follows her tonight. There might be trouble.”

  “Piece of cake,” he said, glancing at his watch. She should leave in another hour or so. She’s pretty regular about it. I can get there, no problem.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Name it.”

  “Remember the birthday present you got me in Florida?”

  The birthday present? Yuri didn’t answer immediately, but his brain went into fast rewind.He wants to avoid loose talk on the phone. But what birthday present? I don’t even know Jack’s birthday. The only thing Yuri could think of in Florida was Louis Weddell. “Are you talking about the Buddha figure?” he said, finally.

  “Yup. It was a thoughtful gift, but much too expensive. I just want to reciprocate. I know your birthday’s coming up.”

  “You’re too sentimental, Jack.”

  “Yeah. I know. I wanted to give you something special to think about. It’ll be in the mail, in case I can’t get it to you personally.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “Be careful tonight.”

  “You know me, Jack. I’m a cautious guy. Talk to you tomorrow. Bye.”

  Yuri hung up, his mind filled with questions. “Be careful tonight,” he said to himself aloud. He shook his head, packed his gun with .357 rounds and carefully clicked the cylinder closed. After wiping the pistol with a cloth, he inserted it into a shoulder holster.

  He rolled down his sleeves, walked to a mirror and straightened his tie, winking at his own reflection.You cautious guy, you .

  Then he put on an overcoat and went out into the night.

  * * *

  In another part of Washington, D.C., a debriefing of the Project Ganymede test was in progress. At the front of the room, Whit Constantine’s face was cast in sharp relief by an overhead projector. The classification slide was up.

  “This briefing is classified TOP SECRET MAJIC,” he said. “The Project Ganymede test falls under the umbrella of special security rules established for Operation Majority.” The screen behind him stated tersely:DECLASSIFY ON ORDER OF THE PRESIDENT .

  “The test was generally a success,” Constantine said. “We met all test objectives, came in under project budget and had only a few minor glitches.”

  He changed the slide.

  “The test demonstrated three things: that we can control the animals individually; that we can control them as a group; and that we can scale up to large numbers.”

  * * *

  The exterior door of the Russian Embassy opened. Katrina Fontanova stepped out and walked to the iron security gate. There was a low buzz. The gate opened. She took three strides onto the sidewalk and watched the gate close behind her. The night was cold. A slight drizzle fell. She trembled with a chill. As she turned a corner, she noticed a man behind her at a distance.

  He wore a coat and resembled Yuri Sverdlov.

  * * *

  Constantine stood beside an overhead projector. He removed a chart showing two intersecting curves.

  “Now let’s look at a few of the glitches,” he said, putting up a schematic of the circular grid. The chart had arrows and other annotations.

  “The flow of animals from the control gates was pretty much as expected... except from this area.” He outlined the area on the chart with a pencil.

  “Video tape shows that while all other animals converged on the target, these anomalous animals seemed to freeze. Some oriented toward Richard’s vehicle, others toward White Mountain.”

  He put up the next chart. “After the test, we found dead animals in these same areas.” The photograph showed several dead Norwegian rats.

  Constantine looked into the darkness. The reality of a long conference table faded into the ambiguity of shadows beyond the overhead projector. A dozen indistinct figures sat at the table. Richard Chandra was closest to the projector. His face was more visible than others.

  One of the phantoms spoke.

  “I’d like to know what happened from Richard’s point of view.”

  “Like someone turned out a light,” Chandra said.

  A Germanic voice interrupted. “Maybe the Thought Tunneling Devices are unstable. Has there been any unusual degeneration of tissues from the Roswell sample?”

  Billy’s Texas-accented voice countered: “Naw, don’t think that’s the problem. It’s more likely a defect introduced during manufacture. Our ability to replicate TTDs is still pretty crude.”

  A file glided across the table.

  Billy continued: “This new production process gives us a large yield of nano-devices, but we haven’t figured out yet how to do bulk testing in a satisfactory way.”

  “It’s definitely something we’ll have to watch,” Chandra said. “Of course, I’m personally concerned about why the animals died.”

  A raspy voice followed. “There’s another possibility. We detected an ET probe circling the Test Area a day after the event. When we talk about site security, I’ll show you some pictures.”

  * * *

  Katrina walked along a darkened street, avoiding puddles, thinking about getting home quickly before another rain shower hit.Not too far , she thought.Just a quick detour first .

  Home was a fifth floor apartment at Crystal International Suites, one of the tallest structures in Crystal City. It was close to the Pentagon, Office of Naval Research, defense contractors, and Washington National Airport, where countless elected officials and dignitaries parked their cell phone-equipped limousines. The Russian Embassy rented the penthouse, jam-packed with communications intercept equipment. Katrina was its caretaker. The luxury apartment was a fortuitous perk.

  This was not the usual route home. Rumor had it that a new building under construction in Crystal City would house computers and databases for the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. If the Russian Embassy could put a few workers on the payroll, it might be possible to bug the place. Gallagan wanted a feasibility report ASAP. The site was almost on the way home—a minor detour.

  The street was torn up, hedged by rows of heavy earthmoving equipment that sat idle, awaiting work crews that would arrive in the morning. The pathway narrowed to a temporary covered boardwalk surrounding the site. She traveled along one long, straight section of the pedestrian walkway, then turned a corner, found a peephole, and looked in.

  As she thought about microwave angles and other variables, she heard footsteps amplified by wooden planking. They were around the corner, but approaching her position.With this construction, everyone gets funneled through this point , she thought. The footsteps stopped.

  Curious, she walked to the corner and looked down the walkway. Whoever was there stayed in the shadows.They probably found another peephole and are looking in , she thought, walking on.

  The footsteps started again. She stopped to look back. The footsteps stopped.

  She grew uneasy, moving at a faster clip toward the end of the pedestrian tunnel. The footsteps followed.

  I’ve been stupid, she thought.He’s following me .Trying to see where I go.She thought about the report she would have to give Gallagan.The good news is that we can bug the site. The bad news is the FBI knows of our interest . He would be furious.

  She thought of ways to salvage
the situation—throw them off. Maybe direct contact was in order.I’ll just call his bluff . She stopped again, looking back.

  “Mister Sverdlov? Yoo-hoo?”

  The footsteps stopped. There was no answer.

  The dolt thinks he’s invisible!Now she was angry. “Leave me alone! Quit following me!”

  As she strained to pick out sounds, her own breathing dominated the silence.Was there another sound ?Metallic ? She continued walking, picking up the pace.

  There’s more than one. Now they’re walking faster, almost—

  Katrina broke into a run, finally clear of the walkway, and raced across a narrow asphalt alley. She collided with a trash can, nearly invisible in her path, then caromed off a wall, tumbling to the ground.

  Two men raced toward her—one wearing a coat, the other, a sweater. The man in a coat pulled a gun.

  No, she thought, turning over, trying to get to her feet, searching for a way to escape.

  A shot exploded from behind.

  Missed. Now he’s—Uhhn!

  She felt a body hit. It pinned her against the ground. She rolled over, trapped, then saw the man’s face—eyes wide open—pressed against her own face, exuding blood, brains and death.

  They’re going to kill me, she thought.

  The second man, standing above her, drew a gun, hesitated, then fled as more footsteps approached.

  “Stop. FBI!” someone shouted.

  Yuri Sverdlov materialized from the darkness, braced his gun with both hands and fired a second time.

  Footsteps raced into the night, dissolving into the background, finally blending with the tap-tap-tap of tree branches brushing on a metal sign. A cool wind whispered through the alley.

  Yuri holstered his weapon and rolled the dead man off Katrina. She looked at him, face frozen in an expression of shock, confusion and vulnerability. He extended a hand and helped her up.