My memo was ignored—just as all my memos have been ignored in the past. I had already been exiled to Goddard’s Laser Ranging Facility, where I shot laser beams at the Moon and at satellites in order to get accurate measurements of Moon-Earth gravitational effects. I’m sure that our measurements are imprecise and need to be continually sharpened so we can make accurate predictions of asteroid orbits.
Shortly after the Chelyabinsk event—and the rebuff of my memo—I left NASA and contacted a headhunter firm, gave my qualifications, and said I believed I would be a good recruit for SpaceMine. I was known as an authority on gravitational fields and their effects on the orbits of objects in space. I soon was approached, hired, and on a plane to SpaceMine’s headquarters in Palo Alto, California.
My plan was to infiltrate SpaceMine and do what I could to stop any attempt to endanger Earth. I would perform criminal acts, if necessary. In fact, as soon as I got all the data that I could, I walked out of the building and went into hiding, to write this and pass it on to Hal. I realize that I am taking a risky course. And I realize that I might even be killed because of what I have learned. So, if that happens, I ask the person who reads this to act on it, by presenting it to President Oxley.
When Falcone got this far, he stopped reading. A moment later, so did Taylor. Falcone described what had happened at FBI headquarters. After going over the analysis of the car and computer timelines, he said, “It’s pretty clear that Hal had the laptop—with this coded message—in his possession when he was killed. When Cole called you, he would have known about Hal’s murder. The killers followed him to Capitol Hill and shot him there.”
“Why didn’t they kill me when they had the chance?”
“You were saved by the laptop’s GPS signal, which showed that the laptop was in the possession of someone on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“So it was you who might have been killed,” Taylor said.
“All the GPS told them was that the laptop was somewhere in a building at 701. They knew it would be crazy to try knocking on random apartment doors in a building that had to have tight security. So, I guess, they decided to kill Cole because he knew what was in the laptop.”
“Poor, poor Cole,” Taylor said. They both resumed reading Cole’s message.
59
At SpaceMine headquarters, I worked night and day analyzing all the data that came from the Chelyabinsk explosion, adding it to the data I had developed while working at Goddard. My conclusion was that we simply do not know enough about Near-Earth Objects, especially asteroids, to carry out SpaceMine’s plans to extract ore from asteroids. I also believe that there is a hidden side to SpaceMine involving a Russian silent partner named Kuri Basayev. He seemed to me to be a gangster. Initially, I wasn’t able to determine his role.
“There it is!” Falcone exclaimed, reaching this point before Taylor.
“Keep on reading,” Taylor said. “There’s more.”
When I began my work at SpaceMine, I soon deduced that the asteroid known to astronomers as Janus had been selected for mining and would be given the name Asteroid USA. I wrote an urgent report based on what is known about Janus and its hazardous, Earth-threatening orbit. After getting the usual run-around from a hierarchy of bosses, I slipped into the executive office wing and demanded to see Robert Wentworth Hamilton to show him my report.
He asked me to sit while he read the 26-page report. When he got to about the fourth page, he handed the report back to me and said, “Kind of long, Perenchio. You guessed right. We’re aiming at Janus.”
“Please, Mr. Hamilton. I implore you to at least read the summary of my findings,” I said, referring to the following passage:
Investigation of the orbit of the asteroid known as Janus reveals a 20-minute interval in April 2035 when there is a high probability of the asteroid colliding with Earth. Trajectory knowledge remains accurate until then because of extensive astrometric data, an inclined orbit geometry that reduces in-plane perturbations, and an orbit uncertainty that is deepened by gravitational resonance. In 2035 this uncertainty will be further increased by accelerations arising from the thermal re-radiation of solar energy absorbed by the asteroid. The accelerations depend on the spin axis, the composition, and the surface properties of the asteroid. So refining the collision probability may require direct inspection by a spacecraft long before 2035.
After reading this, Hamilton said, “You mean I should send up a spacecraft just to look at the asteroid? And have it come back empty? Look, Perenchio. I’m a businessman, not a scientist. When we send up a rocket, it’s not going to come back empty.”
“I cannot make it more clear, Mr. Hamilton,” I said. “There is a high probability that this asteroid will strike the Earth in 2035. Attempts to mine Janus would raise the risk of putting it through a gravitational keyhole, a place in space created when the Earth’s gravity’s alters an asteroid’s orbit in such a way that the asteroid will collide with Earth on a future orbital pass.” I told him that he was running that very risk in his attempt to move Janus without more proper research and controls.
“Listen, Perenchio,” Hamilton said, laughing. “If things go my way, there won’t be much left of that asteroid by 2035. Besides, if it should ever hit, it would only be the end of this world. That might be a blessing. A gift from God. End of discussion.”
I didn’t know what to make of his comment. It was bizarre, too cynical.
Then he said, dismissing me, “You were hired to give us credibility. We knew you were NASA’s expert on extraterritorial gravitation. All you were supposed to do for your paycheck was provide NASA credentials for an imprimatur on SpaceMine’s plans. If you can’t do that, we’ll find someone who will.”
I was in the Future Projects Department, and I had access to just about any database I wanted. The moment I walked out of Mr. Hamilton’s office I decided to gather as much information about SpaceMine as I could, with the intent of publicly warning that SpaceMine was putting Earth in danger. And I was determined to find a way to destroy SpaceMine.
Because I had Privileged EXEC, the highest security level at SpaceMine, I found it amazingly easy to insert my ID card into the proper computer slot and hack into SpaceMine’s data files. I knew I could cause havoc by tampering with them. But I was in for the long game.
Hamilton is extraordinarily concerned about security at SpaceMine. He relies mostly on his security director, a former NSA official. He was responsible for the so-called tamper-proof laptops like the one I am writing on. The USB slots are disabled and they cannot be connected to the Internet. They are issued to workers who do not have Privileged EXEC clearance.
The laptops have live-surveillance chips through the webcam and microphone features. Supervisors can surreptitiously hear and photograph users through a standard piece of software called RAT for Remote Administration Tool. There’s also a tracker that uses GPS data to trace any travels the laptop may make.
At the end of a work shift, the laptops are collected by the Security Office, emptied, and their contents distributed to the proper superiors with Privileged EXEC clearance. It was easy for me to obtain this laptop simply by forging an acquisition permit. I was able to disable RAT but decided to allow the tracker to function, figuring it might be useful.
All e-mail accounts must be sent and received through desktop computers that are monitored by the Security Office. But the e-mail accounts are amazingly easy to hack.
On the day I had my meeting with Hamilton, he sent an e-mail to his lawyer, a Paul Sprague at sullivanford.com, in Washington, telling him to check up on me through a private investigator that Hamilton apparently regularly uses. In the e-mail, he stressed the importance of Janus to SpaceMine: “It’s worth around eight trillion dollars.”
“Sprague!” Falcone said, thumping an index finger on the page and turning to Taylor. “He was on to Cole … and he was on to you right after the shootings.”
After Falcone briefly recounted his conversation with Ursula, Taylor said
, “So Sprague heard me on Street Speak and probably sent the transcript to Hamilton.”
“And you began having your troubles. Hamilton started pulling his power levers: show canceled, administrative leave…”
“Right,” Taylor said, looking shaken. He calmed quickly and said, “Read on.”
I checked Sprague’s name on the Internet and learned that he is in the same law firm that Hal Davidson is in. That made me cautious, lest Hal get in trouble. I did a name-search for Davidson in the e-mail accounts. I found that his name occurred once in a Sprague-Hamilton e-mail exchange that mentioned an interest in mineral mining in Africa.
Falcone looked up from the document and said, “As I remember, you said something about African mining on the Street Speak show.”
Taylor thought for a moment and said, “I think I just said SpaceMine would be using robots and wouldn’t have problems with miners’ strikes. It was just an offhand remark.”
“But I’m convinced that somehow SpaceMine and the miners are tied together,” Falcone said. “Did you know that Hal Davidson was doing pro bono work on the African miners’ strike?”
“I didn’t see Hal that often—maybe lunch once in a while, a birthday party at his house. All we did when we were together was reminisce about the old days. He never talked shop. What are you getting at?”
“You know that I think Hal was a deliberate hit. Hamilton must know that.”
“That’s a stretch, Sean.”
“I don’t mean that Hamilton ordered it. I mean he knows. Read the next couple of paragraphs.”
There is one e-mail account that goes through a highly secured router. Since I hope that this document will be presented to President Oxley, all I can do is list the clues I have and hope that the U.S. Government, with better resources, will be able to determine Hamilton’s relationship with a Russian associate named Kuri Basayev.
I found one message, which came in from Basayev. After that date, a new layer of encryption was added because Basayev had become involved with SpaceMine and was shielded by its most effective safeguards.
Here is the message: “I have arranged to take over the Khrunichev State Research and Production Center, where expensive modifications had to be made to arrange for the launch of your SpaceMine rocket. If you want your rocket to reach Asteroid USA safely, you will agree to sell me 40 percent of your proposed Initial Public Offering at 2 percent below the opening price. Details can be worked out through your Mr. Sprague.” It was signed K. Basayev.
As Hamilton has just announced, the rocket did reach the asteroid. So I must conclude that Basayev’s extortion worked.
Hamilton and Basayev seem to have exchanged some more e-mails because I came across several references to Basayev in Hamilton’s e-mails to Paul Sprague. One of them complained about “Davidson’s work in Africa.” When I saw that, I felt I had to warn Hal. But things began tightening up here. I could see addressees and subject lines, but I was no longer able to read the messages themselves.
“Jesus! I’m starting to see it,” Falcone said. “Hal probably suspected that someone was bribing the strike leader to continue shutting down mining operations. Now Cole sees Basayev’s name. He was keeping supply low so that the price of palladium goes up. And when he and Hamilton start digging on Janus, they’ll have a goddamn monopoly.”
“Okay. Now you’re the genius here, Sean. Finish up.”
To enter SpaceMine’s databases, I had an enable password—a random group of numbers and letters—that changes every twelve seconds. The entry device contains the user’s right thumb print and is usable only on-site. That takes you into User EXEC. After using a second, frequently changing password, I gained Privileged EXEC status on a special router terminal that enables full use of all databases. I am sure that with this knowledge a skilled NSA operative can penetrate SpaceMine.
As soon as I got all the data that I could, I walked out of the building and went into hiding, to write this and pass it on to Hal.
“We need to get these printouts and your laptop into a safe-deposit box,” Taylor said. “I feel as paranoid as Cole must have been.”
“You’re right to be scared,” Falcone said. He stood and began pacing as he spoke. “What I’m seeing now is this: Cole contacts Hal and arranges to hand over the laptop on October second. That shows up on the computer and car timelines I told you about.
“Hal calls Sprague and says he has a laptop that belongs to Hamilton and will meet Sprague on October fourth. Sprague calls Hamilton. And Hamilton calls Basayev, who says he’ll take care of the problem. Then that Russian motherfucker decides to send his goons to retrieve the computer and take out Hal. Two problems solved with one hit made to look like a random multi-shooting. Next day, you get the panic call from Cole. And—”
“And the goons kill Cole,” Taylor said. He shook his head and added, “If we know this much, imagine what the pros know. The FBI, the NSA, the CIA—”
“You think, in other words, that the government knows all this, right? Government trial and judgment, as in Department of Justice and grand juries? I doubt that very much, Ben. For one thing, top officials at the FBI and the CIA still don’t talk to each other, and that’s also true of a lot of people who are in the White House. I think it’s up to us right now.”
“So what do we do next?”
“You go to Goddard—and Ben, for Christ’s sake, don’t drive yourself this time!”
“Okay. Okay.”
“And try to find out all you can about Cole and what he was doing there. We need to know if he was loony or on to something big enough to be murdered for.”
“And what about you?”
“I’m going to find out what I can about Basayev. And I won’t be asking the FBI or the CIA.”
60
The day after Ben Taylor decrypted Cole’s message, he called Karen Thiessan at Goddard. Karen was the project manager of LOLA, the lunar orbiter laser altimeter that had been carried in NASA’s lunar reconnaissance orbiter spacecraft. LOLA’s job was to measure the shape of the moon by precisely measuring the distance from the spacecraft to the lunar surface. Cole Perenchio, in his encrypted message, said he had been exiled to Goddard’s Laser Ranging Facility, as Taylor’s earlier call to Human Resources had confirmed. And Taylor knew that the Laser Ranging Facility was involved with LOLA.
“I’m not surprised by your call, Ben,” Thiessan said after Taylor told her he wanted to talk to her about Perenchio. “You knew Cole better than I did, and I’m sure his murder is even more of a shock to you than it was to me. And … it’s been a while.”
They arranged to meet the following night. That was the best time to be at the range, because that was when the place came to life.
*
As soon as Taylor got on the Baltimore–Washington Parkway in his rental car he felt he was on familiar ground. He had lied to Falcone about not driving out to Goddard, but it was only a white lie. Besides, he would be more careful this time. Six and a half miles north on the parkway was Greenbelt, Maryland, and the Goddard Space Flight Center, which brought together America’s largest concentration of scientists and engineers.
Taylor the scientist and Perenchio the engineer.… That’s the way it looked on the NASA payroll. But Taylor was remembering the unique atmosphere of Goddard, where the labels meant little when men and women of both persuasions plunged into a project.
Taylor and Perenchio had worked together in Goddard’s Exoplanets and Stellar Astrophysics Laboratory, which studied the formation and evolution of stars and planets. Cole was especially fascinated by the thousands of exoplanets that existed far beyond our own solar system.
Engineers like Cole built such instruments as the Hubble Space Telescope and the imaging spectrograph; scientists like Ben tried to figure out what the devices were showing them. Cole designed and helped to build an instrument that identified the contents of the atmospheres of exoplanets when they were passing in front of their suns. One day the engineers and scientists chee
red at the news that faint signs of water had been discovered on five exoplanets, raising the likelihood of life beyond the solar system. That was a day of great joy for Cole, Taylor remembered. “Life, Ben!” Cole had exclaimed. “Life is showing the power of God’s universe!”
Taylor’s memories brought back a Cole Perenchio who had never quite found the niche for his genius. He had been brilliant at MIT—“a credit to his race,” a phrase that infuriated him but became a mocking line for the other Musketeers. After getting his doctorate, he was invited for a postdoc sojourn at the Institute for Advanced Study, in Princeton. But he had chosen NASA, drawn to its promise of an amazing future, built upon its man-on-the-moon triumph.
Cole had bounced around NASA: the space shuttle, the International Space Station, the early work on space telescopes and sensitive spectrographs. All that while he had been becoming more withdrawn and simultaneously more religious, beginning with Buddhism and finally ending with an embrace of a kind of Christianity that followed the thinking of the Jesuit paleontologist Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. He believed that the Earth, with an enlightened humanity, could evolve toward the noosphere, a mystic sphere of pure thought.
The last time he saw Cole, Ben remembered, they were sitting on a bench in Lafayette Park, across the street from the White House, and Cole was talking about de Chardin and his theory of complexity and consciousness.… Taylor could barely understand what Cole was saying, but his voice was soothing and he seemed happier than Ben had ever seen him.…
Taylor drove instinctively toward the employee gate and was politely directed to the visitors’ entrance, where he parked and called Karen Thiessan. A few minutes later, he saw her leave the visitors’ center and pass rapidly across the beam of his headlights. She was a large woman, “full-bodied,” as she sometimes laughingly called herself. A long black coat gave her a rectangular figure. Her black hair was short and gray-streaked. She carried an immense handbag.
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