Voyager

by Carl Rackman

  The sharply dressed attorney was the youngest man at the table. He smiled. Like a shark, thought Callie.

  Petersen cleared his throat. “Dr Woolf, we have reviewed the final report on the Voyager One images. I recognise that we only have these images because you took them, inadvertently as I believe, from the Woodbury facility the night they were downloaded. For that, we owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  Callie nodded with uncertainty, not knowing if she was being thanked for stealing classified material.

  Petersen continued to speak in a very controlled manner – Callie suspected the entire conversation was being recorded.

  “We have spent several hours reviewing the report. It has provided some…questionable conclusions, and that’s the reason you’ve been asked to join us at this stage. I need to make it clear, Ms Woolf, your comments are on the record. As an additional formality, I am instructed to make it clear you will not be incriminated or adversely affected by anything you may choose to divulge at this meeting. Our legal adviser is present to ensure your First Amendment rights are protected.”

  Callie’s insecurity deepened with a note of alarm.

  Berensohn, the lawyer, chuckled at her visible discomfort. “What General Petersen means, Dr Woolf, is that you can say whatever you like and it won’t bounce back on you. I can guarantee it.” He smiled again and nodded at Petersen.

  Callie knew better than take anyone’s word on anything by now. Especially a lawyer’s.

  Petersen continued. “Dr Woolf, is there any conceivable way, in your mind, that the Voyager images could be genuine?”

  Callie shifted in her seat looking at the faces staring back at her. “I’m sorry, sir, genuine in what way?”

  Petersen frowned impatiently. “I’m asking if you think Voyager could have taken those pictures in outer space.”

  Callie shook her head emphatically. “No, sir.”

  Everyone looked at each other, then back at Petersen.

  “Is that a scientific opinion, Dr Woolf?”

  Callie was about to repeat her denial when she saw a flicker behind Trask’s eyes. It was fear.

  She paused before adding, “Sir, it is my scientific opinion that no human being could plausibly interfere with Voyager One at such a distance from Earth. I’m prepared to concede from our research over the past three months that Voyager One was tampered with by people on Earth but it wouldn’t be possible for anyone to catch up with the probe. It’s taken forty years to get where it is. The idea that anyone could have caught up with it is, to all intents and purposes, scientifically impossible.”

  Petersen’s mouth was turned down at the corners. He nodded grimly. He looked at Trask, who shrugged. Galvin looked seasick. Jessica looked like she was desperate for a cigarette. He didn’t look directly at Callie as he read from the pages in front of him. “Dr Woolf, the report details two months of very specific work in which you have participated. The final report can find no anomalies in the images, nor in the imaging techniques used.”

  Callie felt a dull ache in the pit of her gut.

  Petersen continued. “Our research has concluded that all of the images were taken by Voyager One’s high-res, wide-angle camera at short focal range on or about September first, 2016.”

  Callie stared. “That’s…impossible.”

  Jessica gave a loud click with her tongue and rolled her eyes. “Honey, he’s just freakin’ well told you that it’s totally possible! You’re the expert. Tell us how in the hell this happened.”

  Callie was reeling. “What about the signal Morris found? The pictures were transmitted to the probe!”

  Trask just shook his head.

  Petersen jabbed a finger on the report in front of him. “The signal triggered the downlink. We’ve established that beyond doubt. We’ve been through every line of code, every signal, every last system that was energised at any time since June. The timeline is a perfect match. The camera was re-energised remotely without any command from Earth, friendly or otherwise. Whoever was messing with Voyager out there must have had some way of linking that information to people here on Earth, because the downlink request was triggered the same day from a sixty-four-metre dish in Hyderabad, India. Don’t try to tell us that’s not possible either, Dr Woolf, because it happened! Their only problem was they couldn’t decode the images – we alone have that capability. That’s why they had to get us to do it for them. And it explains why they stole and burned our photos. Because they knew we’d sit on them as soon as we saw what they were.”

  “But if the pictures are real—”

  Petersen was not in the mood for discussion anymore. “We know the implications, Dr Woolf.”

  Five accusing sets of eyes bored through her. There was an air of desperation. Like they expected Callie to be able to fix this but she had failed them somehow. Well, screw them. I’m not carrying the can for this.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Callie.

  “I can’t tell you that, Dr Woolf, for obvious reasons.”

  Callie felt the weight of the cuff on her ankle. She reddened. “Yes, sir.”

  Jessica Mulherne spoke directly to Petersen. “Petey, if you tell the President—”

  “I can’t tell the new guy. It’s the provenance he wants. He’ll turn the damn country inside out.”

  “He’s getting sworn in tomorrow, Petey! You can’t just sit on this.”

  Petersen suddenly remembered Callie was there. “You’re excused, Ms Woolf. Thank you for your contribution to this project. Your comments are now part of the official record. You have legal immunity from anything you may have divulged. But please be aware that if you repeat any of our discussions, you will be rearrested for espionage. Do you understand me, Doctor?”

  Callie was numb from what she’d just heard. “Yes, sir.”

  Berensohn slid a file across the table with an affidavit to that effect. “Just sign there, please.”

  Callie did. She stood and excused herself, not meeting anyone else’s eyes.

  The assistant let her out of the door. As it closed behind her, she looked at the FBI minder who began to lead her down the corridor.

  Suddenly her surroundings seemed to whirl around her head. Callie fainted and slumped to the floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Friday, 20th January 2017

  Washington, D.C.

  Inauguration Day

  It was one of those perfectly still and brightly sunlit winter days, perfect for a Presidential inauguration but a security nightmare for the watchers trying to spot a shooter. The shadows were deep, and the contrast with the dazzling sunlight made scanning the rooftops and apartment blocks that much harder for the hundreds of cops, agents and security personnel engaged in sterilising a one-kilometre radius around the presidential platform.

  Airspace was closed within ten miles of the site. Security teams from every alphabet agency had combed the entire area, from the sewers to the air conditioning units on the building tops, for the past forty-eight hours. If the bad guys were planning to shoot the new Commander-in-Chief on the podium, they would need a howitzer.

  Late the previous night, Ferguson flashed an urgent notification around all the agencies that an attempt would be made on the President-Elect’s life, together with a detailed description of the shooter. He’d applied a Red (Viable and Immediate) label, but he knew that the word of a mysterious and wanted female agent of a secret und unknown organisation would not hold water with sticklers at the Treasury Department. Instead, it had gone out as an Amber alert, of which there were literally dozens – despite his election victory, the new President wasn’t the most popular man.

  Ferguson looked at his watch for the umpteenth time in the past minute. Standing on the roof of a low-rise office building on Constitution Avenue, about two hundred metres from the inaugural platform, he used binoculars in a tedious but meticulous search of the rooftops and balconies.

  He had his speed dial set to the mysterious Ms Jones. They were calli
ng her ‘Agent Jones’ today to throw off any other listeners. Ferguson was aware that she had been top of every agency’s wanted list, and was believed to be in custody; yet, here he was allowing her free access to the inauguration. Worse, she was hiding somewhere in the vicinity with a veritable arsenal of Supra weaponry stashed in a Bureau Dodge Charger, just like the one she’d used in New York.

  Although Ferguson was sure that working with the woman was their best chance of foiling the day’s attack, he felt deeply compromised – despite Brad’s assertions, he didn’t trust her. The suspicion they were being comprehensively hoodwinked by the woman remained strong in his mind. She had brazenly walked straight into the FBI and killed one of their agents once before. And Ferguson wasn’t born yesterday – it was clear that Barnes was giving her goo-goo eyes every time he saw them together. She’d shot him in the face, for crying out loud! What was he thinking? Ferguson feared she might have used some sort of hypnosis to infiltrate them. He feared she was simply doing her Supra job undercover at the FBI, standing by to assassinate the President under their noses – and with their full complicity.

  For that reason, he was in radio contact with Agents Berkoff and Savage. They were shadowing her in an identical Charger. If she tried anything, they were going to call down hellfire and brimstone on her. If it ever transpired that Ferguson had not only known the shooter but had helped her, he wouldn’t just be canned from the Bureau; it would mean the rest of his life in jail. He wasn’t going to take any chances with her this time.

  Ferguson had separated Barnes well away from the Jones woman. He was on the roof of the Univision offices near the platform armed with powerful binoculars, high-definition cameras and a fast laptop hooked up to face-recognition software.

  He checked in with the overall Bureau co-ordinator, the familiar and unwelcome voice of Deputy Director-in-Charge Morrison. The man had somehow emerged from the Queens incident not only unscathed, but with his long-anticipated promotion to D.C. as deputy director.

  “Magic Six, Ross One-York-Six, Position Alpha Thirteen, Clear. Over.”

  “Roger. Hold. Out.”

  Ferguson was surprised how easily Morrison had acquiesced to his request to field his own team at the inauguration. He was careful to conceal the nature of his intel, but the content was compelling enough for Morrison to let him in. However, he knew he was being kept on a tight leash. He wasn’t able to transmit over the main co-ordination channel, which was extremely frustrating. Instead, he had to relay all his information through Morrison. In addition, his personal radio link to his own agents was being monitored. His only secure connection was with Jones via mobile phone.

  Nervous tension built up within him. “Laurel One-Four, any update? Over.”

  Berkoff replied immediately. “Negative, One-York-Six. Jones is still in the car. Over.”

  “Roger. Out.”

  The call was unnecessary – jumpy, even. Stay calm, Ken.

  The sun shone brightly, illuminating the breath of thousands of muffled spectators thronging the approaches to the platform. It was beautifully decked out in miles of red, white and blue trim, and flags hanging idly in the stillness.

  Sound engineers and technical staff fussed over the miles of cabling connecting the PA system and various cameras on elevated platforms that would record the swearing-in and legal appointment of the next President of the United States.

  The sky buzzed with the whirring of various helicopters. The ubiquitous news choppers were being kept out of the airspace bubble around the Capitol. The price they demanded in return for their absence was undiluted, real-time access to the camera feeds from all around the platform. Ferguson knew if anything went down, there was no way the public would be spared graphic live footage of the death of a new President.

  Instead, the flying arsenal of national security flitted around the sky above the Mall. From his vantage point, Ferguson could see FBI and police helicopters alongside Army Blackhawks carrying Special Forces Reaction Teams; further out Apache gunships flitted in case heavier firepower became necessary. Nobody was taking any chances.

  There was already a heavy police presence ready to deter protesters, of whom there were likely to be thousands. Also, the Bureau had its hands full isolating the various militias coming to town, allegedly to protect the man they regarded as the new messiah, come to deliver them from the federal government. The irony was that the people the militias suspected most strongly – federal government agents – were the very ones ready to lay down their own lives to protect the new President. Ferguson wondered what the threat of alien visitors would do to this already volatile melange.

  He looked automatically at his watch again. Almost 10:45 a.m. The dignitaries were already arriving. He lifted his binoculars and resumed the search among the shadows.

  He gazed around one more time. He took in the crowds, the sunshine, the helicopters and the sharpshooters, and other people all around the rooftops. The sudden futility of his situation struck him like a physical blow. He realised that if he didn’t let Jones off her leash, he was stifling his best chance of success.

  He pulled out his phone to call her.

  “It’s Jones.”

  “Agent Jones, you should know, my guys are watching you from up the street.”

  “I know. Berkoff’s in the black Charger two blocks back with the nerdy girl. You guys are not the best at covert surveillance. Anyway, tell them to get closer. If I have to move, they’re already too far away.”

  Ferguson gritted his teeth. “I know where you are, Ms Jones. That should be enough.”

  “Okay, Ken, keep your panties on. I’m on your side. The fact that I’m speaking to you proves Supra haven’t found me yet. I haven’t seen them either.”

  “So, what’s their play? You worked with these guys.”

  “The ceremony begins at eleven thirty hours. The swearing-in is at twelve hundred hours. They won’t strike before he’s legally sworn in as President. We have at least an hour. The shooter will be disguised as law enforcement or military. He’s probably in a vehicle with the wheelman. The spotter will be dismounted, watching their backs, and probably running interference if anyone gets too close. There are a finite number of locations where they can take the shot and still get away. Give Barnes time. He’ll spot them.”

  Ferguson sighed. “11:45. One hour. Then it’s over, one way or the other.”

  “We’re going to do this, Ferguson.”

  “Sure, ma’am. I wish I shared your optimism,” Ferguson sighed again as she hung up.

  He radioed Berkoff to sacrifice cover and park behind Jones’ Charger. It was pointless trying to pretend they were doing anything else but watching the woman.

  Ferguson’s earpiece crackled again.

  It was Morrison. “Ross One-York-Six, do you have an update? Over.”

  “Magic Six, have you disseminated the description of the shooter? Over,” replied Ferguson, avoiding the question.

  “One-York-Six, I am not convinced the source of the intel is strong enough to narrow the search. Over.”

  “It remains the only source we have to his possible identity. Over.”

  “Who is the source, Agent? Over,” asked Morrison.

  Ferguson’s heart sank. He decided to lie his butt off. “Sir, we picked up surveillance intel in New York yesterday. Over.”

  “I’ve seen the report. But it doesn’t specify the source. Over.”

  “I can’t reveal the source, sir. Over.”

  Morrison was strangely non-committal. “Roger. Out.”

  Meanwhile, Brad continued his search of the perimeter, painstakingly picking out every sniper team and analysing every single face fitting the bill. He’d covered over a hundred personnel, but there must have been at least three thousand within the boundary. He took in all the likely shooting positions and examined them one by one.

  By 1140 he, too, realised the futility of his solo effort.

  Brad called Ferguson on the radio. “Ross One-York-S
ix, Ross One-Five. This isn’t going to work on our own. Why won’t they broadcast the description?”

  “It’s not our call, Barnes,” he said carefully, aware that Morrison was listening.

  Ferguson’s phone buzzed again, this time from Jones.

  “I’m going to move up to the Mall area, Ferguson.”

  “No way. It’s crawling with cops and Feds. You’ll be too conspicuous.”

  “Please, Agent Ferguson. They won’t be looking for me, they’re expecting Diane Breecker. And I’m betting that no agency will have my face, retinas or fingerprints on any database they can access. I feel pretty safe, Ken.”

  Ferguson bit his lip. Her arrogance grated on him.

  She continued speaking. “Anyway, listen. I’ve evaluated the area. It has to be a clear shot. I can’t see how they’re going to make it from anywhere except across the Mall.”

  “Okay, Agent Jones, the clock is running. They’re going through the V-P’s swearing in ceremony now. Do you need to find a vantage point?”

  “I’m staying with the car for now. If Barnes can find Blacklight, I’ll hit him.” She hung up again.

  Time was running out fast. Ferguson called his agents on the radio. “Laurel One-Four, we are conducting an active shooter search with our asset. Stay in the vehicle and keep close.”

  “Ross One-York-Six, this is Magic Six. Say again last. Over.”

  Morrison! In the intensity of the moment, Ferguson forgot about the monitored channel eavesdropping on his team. He tried backpedalling. “Uh, Magic Six, repeat the question. Over.”

  Morrison, ever the bureaucrat, was irritating in his persistence. “Ross One-York-Six, who or what is your ‘asset’? Over.”

  “Sir, I have a team member with very acute eyesight. He is looking for an active shooter per my description submitted last night. Over.” Ferguson imagined Berkoff and Savage laughing at his inept explanation.

  Ferguson turned away and put his finger in his other ear as a helicopter chose that moment to begin hovering three hundred yards from him by the edge of the Reflecting Pool in front of the Capitol lawn. He looked up irritably to see it in a slow hover above the crowd’s heads five hundred feet up. It was black with large ‘FBI’ lettering. People in the crowd were craning their necks and shielding their eyes from the dazzling sunlight to wave away the chopper with a chorus of protests.