“In Moscow we will make our case,” he assured her.
“So why are you nervous?”
He was not nervous, he told himself. But then why was he sweating? He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Contemplation of the Caliph’s Guard will do that to a person.”
Irina was sweating, too. “Does the Guard know? I mean know, not just suspect?”
They could not know. No one in the FSB could have been so stupid as to reveal what he had done. But secrets escaped for reasons beyond stupidity.
Yakov’s mind spun off into wheels within wheels, and paranoid fantasies, about who might have been coerced, or corrupted, or a double agent, or …
“Why is it so hot?” she demanded. “Can you turn down the heat?”
“Of course.” He reached for the console—
The metal panel burnt like fire. As he stared, incredulous, at seared fingertips, the console erupted in sparks. His instruments went blank.
Irina screamed. Her face twisting with pain, she threw aside her earphones, also sparking, to slap at the smoke spewing from behind her ears.
“We won’t be going to Moscow,” Yakov said. Because the universe had, if not a sense of poetic justice, then a dark sense of humor.
Not that Irinushka could hear him anymore.
The Learjet’s left engine burst into flame, and then the right. The plane went into a sickening plunge. Black smoke filled the cockpit. He felt himself charring, blistering, roasting. He felt he must explode into a bloody cloud of steam.
Well played, Tyler.
The instant of immolation when the fireball erupted was a sweet release.
EPILOGUE | 2023
Wednesday, November 1
“This is about Dad, isn’t it?” Clarissa asked, tugging and twisting a lock of hair.
“I don’t know, hon. I just don’t know.” Anna Burkhalter put an arm around her daughter and gave a hopefully reassuring squeeze. They sat side by side on their living room sofa.
“What exactly did they say?” Rob asked from his college dorm room.
As Rob kept asking, with only the slightest variations in wording, as though some secret truth waited to be teased and coaxed out of the cryptic request. Summons. Command.
Anna looked around the room with embarrassment. She had been on the verge of replacing the battered tables, the worn-shiny fabric of the sofa, the dated carpet, the cat-tattered curtains. She had been on the verge for years. More urgent uses for the money had always intruded, even before the divorce.
“Only that we make ourselves available for this call. Just the three of us. You are alone, aren’t you, Rob?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“I think we have to prepare for the worst,” Anna said.
Because they had not heard from Patrick for a month. No one had. He would never go this long without calling or e-mailing the kids—if he could.
Because whatever else Anna had to say about Patrick, he was a good father. As good, in any event, as the kids let him be—and that they did not always allow him was probably her fault.
Forget probably. She vented about him too much, complained too much, and the memory made her feel like dirt. Because when rescuers got to the bottom of that mountain of wreckage, she just knew they were going to find Patrick’s body.
“I know,” Rob said softly.
A message-waiting icon began to blink. “Hold on, guys,” Anna said.
“This is the White House,” a stern-faced woman announced. “Mrs. Anna Burkhalter?”
“This is she,” Anna managed. “And my son and daughter.”
“Please hold.” The woman was replaced by the presidential seal. And then—
“Thank you for taking my call,” President Gibson said. His voice was firm and resonant, his manner grave. The massive wooden desk was familiar from a dozen presidential addresses. To one side, a flagpole stood. Behind him, the window wall had a pronounced curve.
“Mr. President,” Anna stammered. She had not believed, not really, not until she saw him, saw the Oval Office, that this was not all some huge mix-up or cosmic irony.
“Mrs. Burkhalter, Mr. and Ms. Burkhalter, I have sad news to deliver.”
“We understand.” Only Anna understood none of this. Presidents did not make condolence calls.
“The rescue team in Green Bank completed its work this morning. As we all feared, Dr. Burkhalter is dead.” The president paused. “You knew him as a father and former husband. You knew of him as a scientist. I want you to know that Patrick Burkhalter was also a great patriot. More than once, with great personal heroism and at a great personal cost, he performed deeds of critical importance to the nation. He was not at liberty to discuss his actions; his personal life—and yours—doubtless suffered for it. On the slight chance it will ease your loss, I wanted to tell you myself about his sacrifice.”
“I … I don’t know what to say,” Anna said.
Because she did not understand any of this, except—with deep shame—the part about great personal cost. After that accursed spacecraft went missing, after Patrick had thrown away his career, he had told her that things happened for a reason. He had promised her that things would be all right. But rather than follow her husband, rather than trust him, she had spurned him. Taken the kids away from him.
She fought back the tears for a more private moment, even as Clarissa wept beside her.
“There is no need to say anything,” the president replied. “But if mere words ever have the power to comfort, I offer these: We honor Patrick and recognize our debt to his memory.
“Beyond words, know that a place of honor is being held for Dr. Burkhalter at Arlington Cemetery. A suitable memorial in his name will be forthcoming.”
“Sir?” Rob asked, his voice quavering.
“Yes, son?”
“My dad … he did okay?”
The president smiled. “Son, you cannot begin to imagine how well your dad did.”
* * *
Isaac Kelly could neither hammer nails without bending them nor saw straight. Offered an electric nail gun, he became a hazard to himself and others. Even his measurement skills were suspect. For a supposedly brilliant and educated man, he had found he had rather limited talents.
Still, he could carry lumber and shingles around a worksite, clear away the scraps, run errands to the hardware store. He could see to it that the men and women with real abilities ate and remained hydrated. And so, one house at a time, for as long as the Habitat people would have him, he meant to do what he could. To do his penance.
Not his only penance, of course. Every morning, under the tutelage of experts, he searched his memory for the smallest details about his past life. The subconscious was an amazing thing, and he had noticed more, about many things, than he could have imagined. Even when his interrogators badgered and berated him, as they challenged the smallest gap or inconsistency in his answers, Isaac wanted to thank them.
There was much to be gleaned from what could be reconstructed about past associates whom the CIA experts could never question. They obviously drew conclusions from Isaac’s recollections, conclusions they did not share with him.
And the former associate dead by his own hand? That death Isaac did not regret.
Isaac started up a ladder, carrying cold sodas for the men busily shingling. From the top rung he could see a bit more of the town, even catch a glimpse of the High Plains desert beyond. Vantage point was everything. Like the view from—
Earth all but filling the sky. The spreading stain of oil in the Caribbean. Invisible death lancing downward—
With a shudder he banished the mental images. The daily debriefings were more than often enough to relive those memories. Not to mention every night in his dreams.…
As he handed out cans of cold soda, the man who had been Dillon Russo—a man the world, and Crystal, must (happily?) believe dead—could not help but wonder.
What did the CIA do with the information he provided?
Friday, No
vember 3
White House briefings were scary. In the course of his career, Tyler Pope had gotten himself hauled in front of the National Security Council often enough to know. But briefing the president? One on one? That had been gut-wrenching.
Now Tyler hung around to debrief the president, and the wait was even worse. Observing the telecon would have made the debriefing far easier—but mere analysts do not sit in on calls between heads of state. Not even volunteering to translate.
It’s merely the fate of the world, Tyler told himself. Nothing to concern myself over.
He had the West Wing first-floor reception area to himself. He had not expected to come alone, but the director of Central Intelligence had been preempted at the last minute by business he had deemed, “less Earth-shattering, but more time-sensitive.” Not that the suspense would have been any easier to bear while sitting with the DCI.
So Tyler could also look forward to updating the DCI on his impression of how things had gone.
Finally, the president’s personal secretary appeared. “He’ll see you now, Mr. Pope,” she said. She saw Tyler into the Oval Office and closed the door on her way out.
President Gibson waited on one of the two facing couches, a highball glass of ice and amber liquid in hand. Scotch, if reports of the president’s tastes were to be believed. Gibson rose as Tyler entered. “Care for a drink, son?”
“No, thank you, sir,” Tyler said. He wanted his head clear. And he wondered if the president’s drink was celebratory or boded ill.
“Sit, please.”
They sat.
“Pavel wasn’t very happy,” Gibson offered.
Pavel, as in Pavel Borisovich Khristenko, president of the Russian Federation. The knot loosened in Tyler’s gut. If all had gone well, Khristenko should be unhappy. Tyler asked, “Could you tell me how it went, Mr. President? From the beginning?”
“We started with the usual platitudes. Wives, families, we should talk more often.” Gibson paused for a sip. “Then he allowed as how we had matters to discuss.”
An acknowledgment of the obvious, Tyler thought. Nonetheless, an acknowledgment.
“Pavel commented on the recent terrible events, and the many economic disruptions.” Gibson chuckled. “He seemed loath to move past that.”
“To admitting Russia’s role?” Tyler asked.
Gibson shook his head. “That’s not how these things work. Our conversation was about what Pavel will do to avoid being forced into such an admission.”
More than enough evidence existed to force the confession. Because the moment the hostages on Phoebe reestablished communication with Earth, Yakov’s whole—brilliant—scheme began to unravel.
There was Dillon Russo’s ongoing debrief, of course. Analysts digging into the backgrounds of Jonas Walker, Lincoln Roberts, Felipe Torres, Thaddeus Stankiewicz—and Russo, too, whom Tyler trusted about as far as he could throw—had uncovered plenty of links to Yakov. There were the days of helmet-to-helmet chatter and the occasional downlink from a Russian intel satellite, all intercepted by the NSA and all so much gibberish. With encryption software and security keys recovered on PS-1, the NSA had decrypted everything. And the most damning of all: things Yakov had nervously or carelessly revealed as he fled. Tyler had bugged the “pizza van,” the pizza vest, and Yakov’s plane.
“What does Khristenko have to say about my former neighbor?” Tyler asked.
“Oh, that’s an interesting point,” the president said. “I believe Pavel’s biggest worry is that Yakov Brodsky and Psycho Cyborg aren’t dead.”
“Khristenko actually believes we kidnapped an accredited diplomat, albeit an FSB agent?”
“Is that harder to believe than that we might allow an accredited diplomat to be killed?” Gibson looked straight at Tyler.
Tyler said, “Our witnesses on PS-1 both saw Russo turn the microwave beam on Yakov’s plane. And we have Russo’s confession.”
There you have it, Mr. President. Plausible deniability.
Never mind that we could have cut off the beam from the ground.
What if Russo had not taken the hint? Tyler wondered. Would I have ordered the shoot-down?
“Understood,” Gibson finally said. “Regardless, the nagging doubt that we might have splashed a decoy and been as ill mannered as to snatch and interrogate two of their prized assets has made Pavel uncharacteristically … flexible.”
Tyler relaxed, if only a bit. “Just how ‘flexible’ is he, sir? In any tangible way?”
Gibson set down his highball glass, empty but for some ice. “Russian oil spigots will be fully opened. And Russia will ‘suggest’ to its fellow cartel members that they do the same.”
Expanded supply to meet the increased demand. If the spigots truly came wide open, perhaps even a touch of price relief. In the short run, the cartel might rake in more money than ever.
“Respectfully, Mr. President, that’s not enough,” Tyler said. “Not after the havoc the Russians caused.”
“Patience,” Gibson said, pointedly. “I observed that after the recent wanton destruction, every resource for generating electricity is, and will be, required. I proposed to Pavel that he very publicly embrace new technologies, anticipating the day the oil runs out. And in regard to powersats, in particular, I ‘advised’ that certain unfounded accusations, expressed in the heat of a terrorist incident, would best be retracted.”
Take that, Pavel Borisovich. “I’ll bet it felt good to twist the knife.”
“You have no idea,” Gibson said. “That brings me to our final topic. I told Pavel what I will soon declare to the world. That the military relief mission on Phoebe is the vanguard of a permanent American military garrison. That our outpost will have the resources to quickly deploy to and defend PS-1 and our many powersats to come. Further, that we will be putting Phoebe under the jurisdiction of American law.
“Should any international treaty seem incompatible with these actions, we will work vigorously to amend it. If necessary, we will withdraw from any such treaty. Anarchy on the high frontier is demonstrably too dangerous.”
With PS-1 as recently modified standing ready to defend the outpost. Tyler supposed that nuance would have gone unarticulated.
“How did that go over, sir?”
“At the beginning of the Space Age, the nations of the world somehow convinced each other that we would leave behind our earthly interests, our earthly natures, when we sought to use the vast resources of space. It was wishful thinking, pure and simple. We ended up reproducing the lawlessness of the Wild West—that was your analogy, son, and I thank you for it—and relearning, the hard way, that peace and safety on the frontier require a sheriff.”
“And?” Tyler prompted.
Gibson frowned; prompting apparently crossed some line. “Pavel had a number of objections. To which I observed that a few years ago lawlessness had led to … undesirable outcomes in the Restored Caliphate.”
“And if he believes we hold Yakov, and Yakov is talking…”
“Let’s just say that Pavel, who had become very stoical, suggested that perhaps bygones should be bygones, and something about not waking up trouble while it sleeps quietly.”
“That’s the Russian version of letting sleeping dogs lie.”
“In this case,” Gibson said, smiling, “it was Pavel’s version of surrender.”
Quid pro quo. Dirty secrets kept secret, and acts of war buried, because open conflict with Russia would be a terrible thing. Hostilities between Russia and the Restored Caliphate, although they would likely avoid American casualties, would still starve the world of oil.
Tyler had imagined himself subtle and saw how naïve he had been. Heads of state elevated subtlety to a very rarified plane.
Too bad, he thought, he could never share with Marcus and Valerie the extent of what they had accomplished. But even if he could, Tyler gathered the two of them had other matters on their minds.
Saturday, November 4
Valerie pac
ed and prowled her living room. When that palled, she straightened compulsively. Then she prowled some more.
She spoke with Marcus every night, texted with him several times daily, loved him without reservation. She had only actually seen him, been with him, twice in the month since he had been back on Earth. The first time had been more CIA debrief than reunion. The short while they had had alone together, they had spent in the moment, without any thought to the future. The second occasion was Patrick’s funeral.
Marcus had had to stay in the District; she got that. Coordinating the repair of PS-1 and expediting the many powersats to follow had to come first. New responsibilities thrown at him, support contractor no longer, reporting directly to the NASA Administrator. She had gone home to Simon and Green Bank, to a shattered observatory, traumatized colleagues, and an uncertain future.
And so, the necessary, crucial, life-altering conversation had yet to happen. Did Marcus even know what they had to discuss?
But the delay was almost over, Marcus due any minute. So that they could talk, Simon was at a friend’s house for a sleepover.
And then headlights turned into her driveway. They were in each other’s arms, once more lost in a passionate now, the moment not yet arrived for words.
But eventually …
They had dressed, and had a snack, and settled onto the living room sofa. Valerie cuddled at Marcus’s side, his arm around her. Now was bliss.
And ephemeral. “We need to talk,” she said.
“Four words that never go anywhere good.”
She shrugged off his arm, edged away so that she could see his face. “The thing is…”
“What is it, Val? Straight out.”
“The observatory. My job. With the big dish destroyed, many of us have been given notice.”
“That’s awful.” He reached for her hand. “And?”
And? Men could be so obtuse.
She would move in with him in a minute. In other circumstances, she would (she told herself) propose it herself. But not these circumstances. Not unemployed. Not appearing desperate rather than committed.
Would Marcus ask? Did he even want to ask?
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