Freefall: A First Contact Technothriller (Earth's Last Gambit Book 1)

by Felix R. Savage

  The other one drew his hand out of his jacket pocket, holding a compact gun.

  Jack broke into a sprint, not caring where he was going. Away.

  CHAPTER 35

  Skyler was supposed to be at the banquet at the exclusive Diaoyutai State Guesthouse, where the Minister of Science and Technology and a pair of reality television stars would fete the SoD astronauts, and the whole thing would be packaged as a special on state television, but fuck that. Lance had told him he wouldn’t be attending. And Skyler was supposed to go in his stead? Don his penguin suit and hover around the astronauts, in case Kildare broke out that dry British sense of humor, or Menelaou said something about human rights, or Hardcastle … well, Hardcastle wasn’t likely to put a foot wrong. And Giles Boisselot, the ESA astronaut, had his own minder from the DGSE.

  Basically, Skyler was sick of doing whatever Lance told him to.

  And to be honest, he didn’t do great with Chinese food. The very smell of it made him feel queasy at this point.

  So he ditched the banquet.

  Bad nanny!

  Changing into jeans, he reassured himself that Director Flaherty would have his back if anyone (Lance) made a stink about it. The lay of the land had shifted recently at Langley. Lance had formerly been Flaherty’s blue-eyed boy, but the director had lately been issuing smoke signals indicating that Skyler was his new favorite. A consequence of Skyler’s work with the ‘second string,’ maybe. Anyway, it was a reversal that had been way too long in coming.

  Despite this shift, there also existed the possibility that Flaherty had told Lance to ditch the banquet, as a subtle fuck-you to their hosts. In which case, Skyler wanted to be on the right side of that play.

  All of which led to Skyler Taft sitting in solitary splendor in Morton’s of Chicago, in the Regent Hotel, enjoying a perfectly seared steak, and feeling a slight sense of melancholy as he employed each of the three forks and three knives correctly, as he’d been taught as a child. He was a Taft, after all. His parents might’ve rejected high WASP culture before he was ever born, but some things remained, passed down like old furniture, because it was too much trouble to get rid of them: for example, table manners.

  He kept his phone by his plate as he ate, but it didn’t ring or buzz.

  A little after ten, he paid the check. He left a solid tip—or rather, Uncle Sam did—and rolled out onto the second floor of the hotel. He descended to the mezzanine level, and trailed his fingers along the balustrade, gazing down into the atrium. People sat taking coffee in the café area below. Skyler was a bit tipsy. Loneliness hung like a thin curtain between him and the rest of the world. He envied the couples billing and cooing over their espressos, and then he saw that one of them was Lance.

  To be exact, one half of a couple was Lance.

  The other half was a Chinese woman.

  Skyler had the peculiar sensation that insects were crawling over his scalp. This was what it meant when people said their hair stood on end.

  He leaned on the balustrade, casually observing the pair.

  He didn’t know the woman. A tailored black dress flattered her bony, thoroughbred physique. Her hair was up in a clasp decorated with pearls. A designer handbag sat on the floor beside her chair. She was maybe forty-five. She looked like the kind of person who frequented the Regent Hotel, Beijing.

  Lance leaned across the coffee cups, speaking intensely, his fists clasped between his knees. Skyler had never seen him look so … sincere? Human?

  Skyler took out his phone and photographed them together. His heart thudded. He moved along the mezzanine and took more photographs until he could be sure he’d got good images of both their faces, or as good as an iPhone camera could manage.

  He remembered Lance’s conviction that one of the SoD crew was a Chinese spy and saboteur.

  Lance had suggested it might be Hardcastle.

  What if the spy was … Lance?

  Skyler could see how he’d have pulled it off. Lance had not been in orbit at the time of the incident, but he’d been up before, as Skyler had. And he had visited the ground inspections facility in Shanxi Province several times over the last year. He had the means and opportunity to have sabotaged the SoD.

  Motive?

  Well, Lance wouldn’t be the first man to fall for an older woman.

  Skyler could personally understand that.

  As he stood there, thoughts whirling, Lance and his companion rose to leave. Close together, but not holding hands or touching, they walked under the mezzanine, and out of Skyler’s sight.

  Skyler hurried down the stairs. He stopped on the landing, where he had a view of the foyer. Lance and his companion stood in front of the bank of elevators leading to the guest rooms. Lance was speaking. Skyler recognized the expression on his face now: you MUST believe me, you MUST accept MY truth, was the subtext to whatever he was saying.

  An elevator opened. The woman walked in. The doors closed. Lance stood there for a moment, and then turned to leave the hotel, head down.

  Skyler descended the last few stairs and followed him. It was easy. Lance wasn’t looking around. Outside, a bitter wind sliced through Skyler’s coat and scarf. Lance crossed the plaza in front of the hotel, his coat open, seemingly indifferent to the cold. The trees sparkled, clothed in blue and white lights.

  Instinct urged Skyler to catch up with Lance and ask him what the fuck was going on.

  Wisdom told him not to let Lance see him, at any cost. Send the pictures to Langley. Get the CIA to run a facial recognition analysis on the woman.

  His dilemma changed when Lance stopped dead. He pulled his phone out and answered it.

  Two seconds later, Skyler’s own phone rang.

  “Taft,” Skyler said, skulking behind a tree, watching Lance.

  It was the PR woman from the SoD consortium who was managing this leg of the publicity tour. “OK, there you are. Wonderful. I’m assuming you know that Kildare bailed on the event. Is he with you or something?” She did not give Skyler time to respond. “I need to know what’s going on. This is getting completely out of hand.”

  “What’s happened, Amber?” said Lance, on the phone.

  Christ! Skyler pulled the phone away from his ear, confirmed that he was on a conference call.

  Twenty feet away, and on the phone, Lance said, “Regarding Kildare, no, I was not aware of that, and he’s not with me. Maybe Skyler knows—”

  “He’s not with me, either,” Skyler said, heart sinking. You take one night off, your first night off in months, and SHTF. I hate my life.

  “Wait up, aren’t you at the event, Sky?” Lance said, unaware that Skyler was standing twenty feet from him.

  “No,” Skyler snapped.

  “OK, you guys have got some kind of crossed wires thing going on,” Amber the PR woman said. “Just put that on one side for a second. The problem is not Kildare. He doesn’t show, you know, I kinda fucking expect that from him. The problem is Masuoka.”

  “Huh? What?” Skyler and Lance said, pretty much at the same time. Koichi Masuoka was the steadiest and most reliable of the entire crew. He would do what was asked of him and then do an extra 20% on top of that, on principle.

  “Yep,” Amber said. “He just ran out of here like someone lit a fire under his ass. What the fuck is going on? I am here kowtowing to the minister, apologizing like I never apologized in my life. Thank God this broadcast isn’t going out live—”

  Skyler interrupted. “Did Masuoka say where he was going?”

  “If he did, would I be asking you?”

  Skyler abandoned his spy-versus-spy game. He walked up to Lance and said, “C’mon, let’s get on this.”

  Lance spun, his right hand dropping to his side. Skyler believed that if Lance had been armed, he might well have shot Skyler there and then.

  There was a moment of silence.

  Skyler shrugged. “I had dinner at Morton’s. Couldn’t handle another goddamn Chinese meal.”

  Lance’s face relaxed
a fraction. He would now be thinking—or desperately hoping—that Skyler had not seen him meeting his Chinese contact. He held up one finger. To Amber, he said, “Skyler’s with me. We’ll take care of this. I’ll call you back if we need anything.” He hung up. “Sorry about that. I practically jumped out of my fucking skin.”

  “No problem,” Skyler said, and because Lance would think it unnatural if he didn’t ask, he added, “Don’t tell me you went for steak, too?”

  “No, man, I had something else to take care of.” Lance tapped on his phone. “Kildare and Masuoka. They’ve got to be together. Let’s see if we can find them on the locator app.”

  And Skyler’s opportunity to confront Lance passed. He let it pass. This was more important.

  Their phones had NSA-developed apps that used cell tower data to locate mobile phones. Here in China, the system only worked for American phones. But that’s all they needed, as Kildare and Masuoka both had phones issued by NASA.

  Skyler activated his own app. They stood side by side in the cold, heads bent over their phones.

  “Got Masuoka,” Lance said, and then he exploded: “Oh fucking shit.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Jack ran.

  He didn’t know which way he was going anymore. The concrete monoliths blocked out the neon he’d been heading for. All that mattered was eluding the gunmen behind him.

  He turned every corner that offered itself, hoping to cut off their sightlines for long enough to get away. It wasn’t any use. Every time he slowed for breath and looked back, he saw one of them behind him, running hard. Fucker was fit. Younger than Jack.

  Why didn’t he shoot?

  Didn’t want noise, didn’t want trouble.

  Or he wanted Jack in one piece. For questioning.

  The other guy had vanished. Probably circling around to cut him off.

  Their footfalls beat an urgent rhythm on the empty sidewalks. Jack’s trainers made soft thuds. The guy behind him sounded like he was wearing shitkicker boots.

  Trees lined the broad sidewalks, but were sparse, offering no hiding places.

  These damn long blocks.

  These damn wide open streets.

  The city of the future: nowhere to hide.

  Scant traffic zoomed past.

  Desperate, his lungs burning, Jack stumbled into the street and waved at an oncoming car. “Please! Stop!”

  The car swerved around him with an angry parp. Jack had to nip across the street to avoid a wave of traffic coming the other way, and realized he’d inadvertently put a barrier between himself and his pursuer.

  He put on a burst of speed, making for the next corner.

  The guy behind him bounded recklessly into the traffic. Horns blared. Someone yelled in Chinese.

  Jack didn’t stop to see whether his pursuer got through, or got turned into roadkill.

  He rounded the corner, arms pumping—

  —and skidded to a halt. A black-haired man faced him, arms extended defensively.

  It’s the other guy. He’s cut me off.

  Jack’s adrenaline peaked, and he was preparing to charge the man, when he recognized Koichi Masuoka.

  Momentary shame pulsed through him. He dropped his stance. “Koichi! Fucking hell!”

  “Get in the taxi,” Masuoka said, pushing him. Only now did Jack notice the vehicle stopped by the curb.

  “I had a bad experience with a taxi earlier,” he joked uneasily.

  Masuoka shoved him in and climbed in after him. “What’s going on, Jack?”

  “Man with a gun,” Jack said. He craned forward, watching the cross street. His pursuer limped up onto the sidewalk. “In fact, that one.”

  “Honto da,” Masuoka said. The man held his gun by his side, in plain view. “What did you do?”

  “Fuck all.” Jack’s nerves were unravelling. He shouted at the driver, “Go! What the hell is the matter with you?”

  The man broke into a stream of Chinese, lifting his hands off the wheel as if he thought Jack was threatening him, which actually made sense, given Jack’s tone of voice.

  “OK, I will call someone,” Masuoka said, all humor gone from his voice. He dragged out his phone. After a minute he started talking in Japanese. His tone changed completely, to Jack’s bafflement. It sounded like a cordial catch-up call.

  Jack braced, holding the door handle.

  The gunman lurched alongside the taxi and thumped on the driver’s side window.

  This finally seemed to convince the driver that it would be smart to get moving. The taxi leapt forward, but had to stop at the corner. The traffic had thickened and there was no stop light. It meant a tricky merge and the poor old driver was trembling in panic.

  A bullet hit the taxi’s rear window.

  Jack and Masuoka instinctively dived into the footwell. When Jack popped his head up, the rear window had turned into a crazy frosted jigsaw, and dimly through it he saw two figures approaching.

  Both of them now.

  The taxi driver flung the door open and got out. He faced the approaching gunmen, hands in the air.

  “Fuck,” Jack shouted. Panicking, he forced his six-foot-two frame through the gap between the front seats. He dropped into the driver’s seat. As he reached for the door to close it, another gunshot barked. The door jumped out of his hand and safety glass cascaded to the street. He left the door hanging open, stamped on the accelerator.

  Brakes squealed. Horns played a discordant fanfare.

  The swinging door took someone’s wing mirror off.

  Jack leaned out and hooked it shut, keeping his other hand on the steering wheel.

  Masuoka was yelling into his phone all this time. He thumped Jack’s shoulder. “Not this way!”

  “Which way?”

  “U-turn! Hayaku!”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  Jack forced the taxi into the leftmost lane. He spun the wheel, fishtailed the rear wheels around, and accelerated into the traffic going the other way. A flight instructor had once said Jack had the best spatial awareness he’d ever seen. Jack had never expected to use it for aggressive driving in a bullet-riddled Beijing taxi.

  “Keep going! Turn right up here!” Masuoka shouted. Minus two windows, the taxi was full of wind and traffic noise.

  “How the hell d’you know where we are?”

  “I can read the street signs! Same characters. Different language.”

  Jack swung the taxi into the cross street Masuoka indicated, leaving the heavy traffic behind.

  “Other side of this street!”

  Street was underselling it. The vast intersection they were now entering reminded Jack of Red Square in Moscow. The concrete monolith on the other side also looked like something out of the USSR. High metal fences blocked the building off from a sweep of pavement. A single stripe of windows glowed, high up. Jack pulled over. “Mate, are you sure—?”

  He was talking to the night. Masuoka was out of the taxi and running.

  Baffled, but still trusting him, Jack abandoned the taxi at the curb. He sprinted after Masuoka.

  Across the empty intersection.

  Four men in camouflage stood at parade rest in front of the building’s fenced-off gate.

  Christ! Those were Chinese paramilitary police!

  Jack stopped at the edge of the pavement. At this point he suspected everything and everyone, even Masuoka. The wind ran icy fingers through his hair. His muscles were limp, drained of energy. He watched Masuoka approach the paras, his hands in full view.

  The paras moved to repulse him.

  Another voice rang out from behind them. A frail man in a business suit hurried out of the gate, waving a handful of documents.

  Masuoku greeted the newcomer with a glad shout in Japanese, then turned back— “Jack! Come on, quick! My friend has permissions for us to go in.”

  That was when Jack spotted the flagpole behind the fences. The Rising Sun fluttered in the cold, dry wind from the Gobi desert.

  This forbidding
building was the Japanese embassy.

  He staggered inside.

  From the Daily Mail, Tuesday, December 7th, 2018:

  TYCOON MURDERED IN UPSCALE BEIJING APARTMENT BUILDING

  BEIJING, Dec. 7 (Xinhua) – A leading investor in the global aerospace industry was murdered at his home in an upscale Chaoyang Road apartment building, local authorities said.

  Residents are on edge following the discovery of Theodore Zhang’s body by his cleaning lady on Monday. According to a police press release, Zhang appears to have been tortured before his death. Sources claim that the body exhibited multiple cuts, consistent with the traditional Chinese technique of lingchi, or “the death of a thousand cuts.”

  The grisly punishment of lingchi, which involves slicing off pieces of the body, leading to death, was traditionally reserved for traitors. It was outlawed in 1905, but is rumored to still be practiced by the so-called ultra-militarist faction within the Chinese army.

  Zhang, 42, held dual American and Chinese citizenship. While he had formerly been a high-flyer in the aerospace industry, he was rumored to have experienced financial setbacks recently, sources said.

  No suspects have been named in the case, but local residents suggested the horrific murder may be linked to the Spirit of Destiny project. Whatever the truth, the tragedy is likely to further roil the waters, raising new questions whether the $300 billion spaceship will leave for Europa on schedule next year.

  CHAPTER 37

  The next thing that happened was Koichi Masuoka got fired.

  For Hannah, it was the last straw.

  She had liked the Japanese astronaut and had even come to depend emotionally on him. They had shared the troubling story of Firebird Systems. Hannah had trusted him not to breathe a word to another soul.

  Was that why he’d been yanked from the mission? Had he spilled the beans to the wrong person?

  No, Burke said. Nothing to do with that, Hannah-banana.

  Burke also knew about the Firebird Systems thing. He’d admitted it when Hannah pressed him on it. The Spirit of Destiny had already started to kill people, and it wasn’t even finished yet. That sickening knowledge bonded them. Masuoka had been the third member of their conspiracy of silence.