The concept of a space suit could be broken down into basic layers, starting with an inner, skin-tight layer that not only increased comfort for the wearer by reducing contact with the outer sections, but also provided some form of thermal control. Angela was glad she already had such a layer in the undergarment Jack wore beneath the battle dress during their initial escape. All she needed was a way of providing regulated pressure to the thousands of gel-filled capillaries lacing it.
Next was the pressure container, an inflatable, man-shaped bladder that could be pressurized. Angela chose to use an off-the-shelf diver’s dry suit for this since it was made of very tough neoprene and nylon and was already airtight, making her job easier.
On top of that was the restraining layer, which as the name implied, prevented the pressure layer from ballooning or changing shape when pressurized.
And covering everything would be a few layers of aluminized Mylar for mid-suit thermal insulation before finishing the design with a heat shield made of flexible insulation material for reentry protection.
So she began with the restraining layer, using basic white nylon canvas, which Dago had brought over to their secret hideout in Daytona Beach in the form of a long sheet, along with an industrial-class sewing machine and a spool of Nomex thread, which she would use for the entire suit not only because of its strength but also because of its amazing heat-resistant properties. In addition, she had requested inch-wide lanyards made of the same nylon material, which she would use to reinforce sections of the suit.
Dago and his gang had done an amazing job of obtaining her initial shopping list.
Angela laid out the one-piece undergarment on the dining room table and used it to take measurements of what would become the restraining layer, which she would cut out in three sections, the upper torso, the arms, and the legs, before sewing them together into a one-piece suit. The gloves and helmet would come from a dealer in Orlando that specialized in selling used space gear, American, Russian, and even Chinese. Once she secured those items, she would use Dago’s shop to make the interfaces match the locking mechanisms, in particular the metallic rings for the gloves and the helmet.
Using a tailor’s measuring tape, Angela took exact measurements before increasing them by 25 percent to allow room for the battle dress and the pressure layer.
She worked slowly, methodically, measuring everything three times, before carefully using tailor chalk to transpose the measurements onto a six-by-six sheet of nylon canvas stretched on the floor, which she cut with a pair of heavy-duty scissors.
She did this alone, after sending Jack and Dago on more errands, her mind needing the silence to stay focused on the task at hand, carefully stacking the sections on the other side of the table, by the sewing machine, taking almost four hours to complete the measuring and cutting phase.
Angela stretched her sore back and checked her watch. It was past seven, and Jack and Dago still weren’t back.
Time for a break.
She grabbed a Red Bull and walked onto the covered back porch facing the private beach. Jonathan Layton lived the frugal life of a college professor, but his brother seemed to enjoy the opposite end of the spectrum, owning multiple residences funded by the insane salary of a senior partner in a successful New York law firm.
Angela grinned while looking at the Jacuzzi spa before sitting on an Adirondack chair to stare at the ocean for a while.
She went over the next steps in her mind, carefully going through the upcoming detailed assembly, from the position of ventilation and air pressure hoses to the correct placement of zippers and reinforcing straps. As in everything else in life, the devil was in the details, and she needed to be alone to consider every single feature that would have to be incorporated to keep Jack alive for what she estimated would be a five-hour ascent phase via a weather balloon—assuming Layton could get the physics to work—followed by a ten-minute fall.
Angela spent the next hour thinking through every detail, her mind cataloguing the actions without having to write anything down, stepping through every requirement from the moment Jack would leave the ground, through the required pressurization above twelve thousand feet as he entered the physiological-deficient zone, which was marked by a number of critical transitions. The first above thirty-four thousand feet, when an oxygen-rich breathing mixture was required to approximate the oxygen normally available in the lower atmosphere. The second was above forty thousand feet, when that oxygen-rich mix had to be delivered under positive pressure. A third inflection point occurred above sixty-three thousand feet, also called the Armstrong limit, when fluids in Jack’s throat and lungs would boil away unless the suit transitioned to a pressurized 100 percent oxygen environment. All the while, the suit had to manage his body temperature as outside temperatures plummeted with altitude, as the balloon carried him through the stratosphere and into the mesosphere.
She finished her energy drink, gave the Jacuzzi another glance, and headed back in.
Next came the integration phase, sitting behind the industrial-class sewing machine, where she had already run the Nomex thread through the heavy-duty needle.
She started with the arms and legs cutouts, carefully stitching them before moving onto the torso, sewing heavy-duty zippers along the front, from groin to neck so Jack could put it on and take it off without assistance. She connected the arms and legs onto the torso, creating a one-piece coverall large enough to accommodate not only Jack in his battle dress and pressure suit but also the hoses and cable to power his ventilation and temperature control systems.
She continued by cutting out the access points on the chest for the oxygen, pressurization hoses, and thermal control hoses, reinforcing the edges with sections of lanyard before installing the ionized fittings, running the threaded end through the opening before smearing all edges that made contact with the lanyard with heat-resistant glue, and finally securing them in place by inserting large ionized washers from the inside followed by matching ionized nuts, which she hand-tightened before using a ratchet.
It was almost midnight by the time she finished stitching strips of heavy-duty lanyard to strategic sections of the restraining layer for added strength as well as to increase flexibility, fastening not just the edges of the strong nylon bands but also the center section by going over each of them a second time using an X pattern, especially around his torso, where the lanyard formed the basis for the attachments to a parachute for Jack’s final descent—similar to the one on the OSS but more rudimentary.
But good enough, she thought, hearing Jack and Dago coming in through the garage.
She went up to meet them, giving Dago a hug and Jack a kiss, before helping them carry her shopping list into the living room, including an extra-large fireproof suit made of flexible insulation material, similar to the one in the OSS but worn by firefighters, and which she would modify to fit over the restraining layer. To her surprise, they had also purchased a used Russian space suit from the dealer.
“Suit’s too small,” Jack said, “but the helmet and gloves will work. Plus I thought that maybe we can cut out the interfacing locking rings and use them in my suit.”
Angela slowly nodded. “Good move, Jack. That makes the job a lot easier. I may be able to cannibalize a few more items.”
Dago dumped a large box with wires, hoses, aluminized Mylar sheets, and even a home aquarium pump next to the dining room table and went straight for the kitchen, snagging a few beers from the fridge and passing them around while heading to the back porch to look at the moon.
“To your journey, Jack,” said the large biker, raising his longneck, clacking the bottle with his friends.
Angela drank but suddenly felt a hole in her stomach, realizing that she had spent all day working on a suit that would allow Jack to leave her for the second time in her life. But she had occupied her mind with the technical aspects of the project, the scientist in her locking out emotions, focusing on what had to be the most critical project of her life. J
ack wouldn’t get a second chance up there if she made a mistake, if the pressure suit deflated, if the thermal control failed, if the oxygen delivery system malfunctioned.
If …
She stayed outside with them, looking at the ocean while Jack and Dago did most of the talking, engaged in a game of looking for differences between his world and this one—which she found a bit disturbing.
“Angie? You okay?” Jack asked after a while.
Angela managed a nod while sipping her beer and staring at the ocean, even though she was actually as far away from okay as one could imagine, as the realization of losing him again descended, twisting her insides, in a way even making her wish he had never shown up at her doorstep. After all, she had managed, albeit quite painfully, to get over him, to start a new life and develop feelings for someone else—even if that someone turned out to be an asshole.
And now, the realization of having to go through that again sent a sudden wave of depression through her.
But then another voice echoed inside her head, mixed with the sound of breaking waves and the whistling sea breeze: put on your big-girl pants and suck it up.
Sitting next to Jack, Angela placed a hand over his, interlacing fingers, also realizing that for the longest time she had prayed to hold him just one more time. She remembered quite clearly the many, many nights she’d spent crying, hugging her pillow, wishing like crazy that it was Jack, willing to trade everything for just one more night with him, for just one more moment of intimacy to say good-bye.
So rather than sitting there feeling sorry for herself, Angela did the only thing that made sense. She stood up, said good night to Dago, who raised his beer at her and winked, before taking Jack by the hand to the master bedroom.
Later, after they were finished and spooned naked under the covers, as she felt his steady breathing caressing the back of her neck, Angela slowly came to terms with the bittersweet hand she had been dealt.
Jack would only be here for a little while longer. He would warm her bed for just the days or maybe even the week or two it would take her to secure the items and get him ready for his return home.
And then he would be gone.
For better or for worse, that was all that fate was offering.
And it would have to be good enough.
* * *
The team moved through the woods swiftly, using the cover of darkness to make their advance near invisible, like shadows shifting in the night, moving single file.
Davis was in front, guiding his men, using this opportunity to prove his leadership not just to the team he had inherited from the treacherous Riggs, but also to Hastings, who had issued orders to bring Angela Taylor to him alive.
Everyone else was expendable.
Hastings had been very clear, and even someone as experienced and battle-hardened as Davis, having not just survived but actually thrived through three tours in Afghanistan, felt his stomach twist at the thought of disappointing the general.
Back in Kabul, Davis had fought for his country knowing quite well that win or lose, his family back home would always be safe.
That wasn’t quite the case operating under Hastings’s rule.
But Davis didn’t have a choice. Opportunities for returning veterans were slim, and when his young son was diagnosed with a strange form of leukemia, and the best treatment was beyond his reach, Hastings had stepped in, providing his family with the resources to put the toddler under the care of the finest professionals in the business, pushing the cancer into full remission within a year.
But now Hastings owned him.
Davis’s family continued their daily life, enjoying the benefits of his new employment, but unaware of the dark consequences of failure.
Tonight the general had been furious, and whatever it was, Davis noticed it had been serious enough for Hastings to appear visibly shaken, which was definitely a first, at least for the Afghan vet.
The general had left town within the hour and jumped on a plane to somewhere, but not before reiterating his orders.
Focus, he thought, momentarily looking over his right shoulder at his team. All six wore black uniforms beneath the protection of flexible body armor layering their chests and shoulders, also black, capable of absorbing the impact of rifle shots and shrapnel without impairing movement.
They continued, gloved hands gripping M4 carbines fitted with sound suppressors, finally emerging from the woods surrounding the property, crossing the short meadow, reaching the back of the one-story structure, shown in hues of green as painted by the Generation IV night-vision devices strapped around their heads, designed to reduce image noise over prior generations while also allowing operation with a luminous sensitivity nearly twice that of its predecessor, translating into sharper images.
Davis ordered his men divided into two teams of three, one to cover the front and the other the rear. He remained with the latter while watching the former rush around the corner, toward the front, signaling thirty seconds later that they were in position.
He checked the luminous dial on his watch, counting down the seconds before starting the next phase of the mission, when his team would flush the occupants toward the waiting arms of the men covering the front.
He inspected the metallic surface of the rear door, making his decision.
“Now,” he whispered into his throat mike, and a moment later one of his men, almost six-five and weighing close to three hundred pounds of solid muscle, removed the battering ram strapped across his back, clutched it in both hands, and swung it back once, his neck muscles pulsating as he shoved it with all his strength right into the center of the door, just above the lock while also stepping in the direction of the blow to increase the momentum.
The heavy door creaked and caved in, but it didn’t open.
“Again,” he whispered, getting behind him as he swung it once more, delivering a second strike, ripping the door off its hinges, and sending it crashing into a hallway.
“Move, move, move!” he whispered, leading the charge, rushing across the hallway and into a deserted living room, his M4 up near his face, his goggles peering through the sights into every corner, looking for movement, for any sign of occupancy, his shooting finger poised over the trigger, the adrenaline heightening his senses.
But a moment later those same senses told him something was seriously wrong.
“Check the bedrooms,” he ordered, going into the kitchen, staring at the dirty dishes in the sink and the empty pizza boxes on the counter, opening the refrigerator and noticing the cans of Red Bull and Budweiser Light.
“Bedrooms clear,” one of his men reported.
He checked the front room again, looking under sofas, behind curtains, going into the utility room and then the garage, noticing it was empty. No bikes. No cars.
Not a fucking thing.
Slowly, Davis lowered his weapon and returned to the living room, confused. The tip had reached him just twenty minutes ago. He had literally accomplished nothing short of a minor miracle by deploying a team in such short notice, running a textbook operation.
Except the intelligence had arrived too late. The house was empty.
And as he stood in the middle of a living room he knew had just been abandoned, he had the strangest feeling that—
Davis turned around, hearing a faint mechanical noise, looking up to the far corner in the living room, near the foyer, where the walls met the ceiling.
A security camera.
And it was moving, following him.
For the love of …
Davis paused in front of it, making sure the bastards at the other end got a good look at his dark figure, before giving them the finger, aiming his M4, and firing once.
* * *
“Whoa,” said Art-Z, blinking at his tablet computer when the wireless video feed went blank as they hid in the woods to the east of the house. “Not a happy camper, that one.”
“No shit, amigo,” said Dago, kneeling next to him in the kn
ee-high shrubbery lining the floor of the forest.
“See, Bonnie. You can’t trust The Man even when he’s supposed to be on your side.”
Angela frowned while standing behind Art-Z and Dago, also looking at the screen, before shooting Riggs a look that could grind the pine trees surrounding them.
“So much for your fucking safe house.”
The large FBI agent was about to reply when Pete put a hand on his shoulder and slowly shook his head.
Riggs looked away while mumbling, “Oh, God.”
“It’s okay, man,” Pete said. “At least your handler was able to give us a little head start to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s … my family. If Hastings can find us this easily, he can also…”
“Where are they?”
“Atlanta. My handler’s moving them to another location. But apparently nothing’s beyond Hastings’s reach.”
“Wrong,” she said. “His operation relies on the good guys following the rules. He knows how the system works and has created a way to operate within it by taking advantage of the established processes at the FBI, the CIA, and the other agencies. But we’re hackers. And he’s having a hard time figuring out how to handle us.”
“So, what are you suggesting? Should I go get my family? Maybe hide them somewhere not even the FBI knows?”
Angela regarded the agent while frowning.
“What?” he asked.
“Before I answer your question on what we do next, I have a … delicate question for you.”
Riggs crossed his large arms. “Shoot.”
“Hastings found our hideout. What makes you think he hasn’t found your family already?”
He blinked and hesitated, before saying, “I just got word that they’re safe … just got moved to another location.”
“Word from whom?”
“My handler.”
“This is the same handler who told you we were safe in there?” She pointed at the house beyond the woods.
He looked away. “So what are you saying? That I forget about them?”
The Fall Page 29
