by Tom Grace
“Mash notes, eh?”
Kilkenny refrained from comment and typed in his key to unlock the message. A bar graph along the bottom of his screen quickly filled, displaying the percentage of information decrypted. In a blink, the gibberish was replaced by readable plain-text.
Nolan,
I’m sending you this file because I know you will discreetly get it into the right hands.
By now, you’ve heard what happened to Liberty. It wasn’t an accident. I’m certain of this because Pete Washabaugh survived the attack and barely managed to make it here alive. Attached is a portion of the video record from his spacewalk that clearly shows what he saw.
We’ve watched the video and are convinced that someone deliberately attacked Liberty and murdered her crew. We also believe the weapon used is an energy beam, and maybe some image enhancement of this video can verify that. We don’t know who is behind the attack, but we think it has something to do with the satellite that Liberty was sent to retrieve. The video clearly shows the satellite was also attacked, which is why it failed to make orbit.
My crewmates and I believe our lives would be endangered if word of Pete’s survival and his video record became general knowledge. That’s why I’m contacting you, Nolan. We need your help.
All my love,
Kelsey
“Well, that was certainly no French postcard,” Grin said. “But at least she’s okay.”
“Yeah, let’s take a look at the clip.”
Kilkenny selected the attached file. Immediately, a window containing a multimedia program filled the screen. The clip showed Washabaugh’s inspection of the damaged satellite and the destruction of Liberty. The last frame froze with Liberty spiraling down toward the Earth.
“Damn,” Grin said soberly.
“It’s never easy watching something like that—knowing at that moment people are either dead or dying.”
Kilkenny closed the video clip viewer. Kelsey’s plea for help remained in the center of his screen. He hit the reply button.
Kelsey,
I understand. I love you too.
Nolan
CHAPTER TWENTY
XIYUAN, CHINA
AUGUST 12
Huang Zhanfu moved purposefully through the gallery, the soles of his black tasseled loafers tapping softly on the polished marble floor. Artwork from various periods of China’s long history adorned the walls, a collection impressive in both quality and estimated worth of the pieces. Any museum would be proud to house such a display, but this gallery never opened to the public. Few, outside senior party officials and those who worked for the Ministry of State Security, even knew of its existence, and the security force that protected the Guojia Anquan Bu’s well-hidden compound were tasked with keeping it that way.
As Huang entered the anteroom, the minister’s executive assistant lifted the phone and announced his arrival. He then rose and met Huang at the door to the minister’s office.
“Chief Huang,” the man said with a respectful nod, “the minister will see you now.”
The ornate wooden door glided open silently and closed behind Huang with a barely audible click. That such a massive object could pivot with such ease impressed the head of the ministry’s Tenth Bureau, a man who specialized in matters of science and technology. The door, like every other surface enclosing the office, was thick with soundproofing and electromagnetic shielding a vault for some of the nation’s most carefully guarded secrets.
Huang glanced out the ribbon of windows that ran along one side of the large office. In keeping with the position, the minister’s office possessed a splendid view of one of the capital’s most treasured landscapes: the Summer Palace.
Tian Yi sat and watched as Huang approached. At fifty-nine, the minister was a decade Huang’s senior. Before his appointment as minister, Tian had held Huang’s post, and it was his handling of intelligence-gathering operations in the United States during the nineties that had made him a clear favorite for the top job when the previous minister retired. Tian then tapped his young protégé as his successor in the Tenth Bureau.
Both men wore crisply tailored business suits, Tian in a solid dark blue and Huang in a lightweight summer gray. They exchanged bows and Tian motioned for Huang to take a seat.
“So, what is this urgent matter that we need to discuss?” Tian asked.
“The American shuttle.”
Tian sighed. “Two tragedies in so short a time.”
“Yes, but I suspect the Americans believe theirs was not an accident.”
The hairless freckled skin covering Tian’s head tightened as his eyes narrowed. “Continue.”
“Our agents monitoring activity at the Pearl Harbor naval base in Hawaii intercepted two interesting communications. The first was an e-mail sent by Kelsey Newton to Nolan Kilkenny.”
“I have heard those names before.”
“The operation against Moy Electronics,” Huang offered.
“Ah,” Tian replied, recalling the failed attempt to secure American encryption technology.
“Newton is an astronaut, currently serving aboard the International Space Station. She is also Kilkenny’s fiancée. Kilkenny works for a technology consortium and is currently working on an undetermined project with the navy all we know is that it has something to do with the new submarine Virginia. A few hours after the shuttle exploded, Newton sent an encrypted message to Kilkenny. Our cryptography section is currently working on the message, but all they have been able to determine is that it contains a very large file.”
“Sounds like nothing more than a private exchange between lovers, perhaps something pornographic to comfort this Kilkenny during his woman’s long absence.”
“I don’t believe so. According to records from the internal network and telephone switchboard at Pearl Harbor, within minutes of opening Newton’s message, Kilkenny placed a call to Langley, Virginia. He dialed the direct line to the office of your counterpart at the CIA. At this moment, Kilkenny is onboard a military aircraft headed toward Washington. He did not return to his hotel room to pack for this trip.”
“Why do you believe this has something to do with their shuttle?” Tian asked.
Huang had conversed this way many times with Tian. When he was a new recruit, the minister saw promise in him, honed his intellect, and taught him the skills, both analytical and political, needed to succeed in the world of intelligence. Tian had taught him that intelligence is like the ancient game of Wei Ch’i, where the ability to think many moves beyond the current play is absolutely necessary for victory. Now, he was probing Huang, seeing just how far his student had followed this line of thinking.
“While your suggestion that Newton’s attached file might contain inspirational imagery is an interesting one, I doubt Kilkenny would wish to share such material with the head of the CIA. And if he was that kind of man, forwarding the attachment would have saved both the time and expense of his hasty flight to Washington. Based on the reaction we have seen so far, it is clear the Newton’s message contains something of great importance to the American government.”
“A reasonable conclusion, but how have you divined that the contents of this message relate to the shuttle incident?”
“It’s the most plausible theory,” Huang replied. “Newton has been in space too brief a time to have performed any scientific work. On the same day that a shuttle is lost, Newton sends an encrypted message to a person she trusts. This implies that she did not trust the open channels at NASA with the contents of her message; therefore the message must have nothing to do with her duties aboard the station. You taught me that secrecy and urgency are often the companions of bad news the destruction of a shuttle is bad news.”
“But the loss of the shuttle is no secret.”
“True, but the reason for the loss is.”
“And why should we be concerned?” Tian asked. “The Western news networks will dissect this event for months, and in the end NASA will release an official finding.�
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“Our official finding in the Shenzhou-7 inquiry left much unanswered and our space program remains grounded,” Huang replied, somewhat bitterly. “The engineers could find no sign of a fault in any of the spacecraft’s systems leading up to the moment contact was lost. While a collision with a micrometeoroid was listed as the probable cause, analysis of our launch window shows it was clear of such dangers. The loss of a second spacecraft in orbit, so soon after our accident, strikes me as curious. Newton’s message and the American’s reaction to it have amplified that curiosity.”
Tian considered what he’d heard carefully and could find no fault in Huang’s reasoning.
“What do you propose?”
“Our first task is to decode and analyze Newton’s message. Cryptography estimates several days to a week to accomplish this. As a secondary line of inquiry, I recommend that we begin surveillance of Kilkenny in hope that his movements may reveal a clue to his intentions.”
“Approved. Keep me informed of your progress. And Huang, good thinking.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
PALMDALE, CALIFORNIA
Inside the clean room, Anson Rainey observed as the engineers responsible for the satellite’s power systems made their final inspection. Like Rainey, they all were dressed in white sterile suits, surgeons of a sort working in an operating room far cleaner than any hospital and shielded for all forms of external electromagnetic radiation.
Zeus-2 was a long and slender spacecraft, its outer skin a dull black composite that reflected nothing save its purpose. It was a weapon and Rainey had created it.
This was the second satellite constructed by the small team of elite engineers who composed Skye Aerospace’s secretive Defense Systems Group. The first, a prototype, had gone into orbit in January 2001. There, it proved the essentials of Rainey’s elegant design to Pentagon skeptics.
Rainey remembered the day C. J. Skye paid a visit to the DSG facility and announced that the government had awarded Skye Aerospace a lucrative contract to build the orbiting portion of the nation’s nuclear missile defense shield. The champagne flowed and bonuses were handed out as Skye toasted the groundbreaking work of her talented engineers.
Neither the great money nor the praise of his employer was the driving force behind Rainey’s work on the Zeus project. What motivated him was proliferation. In an era when the United States and Russia were dismantling ICBMs, long-range missiles and various weapons of mass destruction were blossoming, for the most part, in nations where the government ruled by the barrel of a gun. Duty was a quality instilled in Rainey by his father, and that he was using his mind and skills to protect his country was a source of great pride.
Daddy would have been right proud, Rainey thought, that his paunchy, nearsighted son would engineer a way to protect the good old U.S. of A.
“Power systems are go, boss,” the lead power engineer reported.
“Nice work, ladies and gentlemen,” Rainey called out. “Zeus-2 is now certified ready to fly. Let’s get it buttoned up and prepped for the trip to Long Beach.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The driver let Peng Shi off near the corner of Seventeenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, then merged back into the flow of Washington traffic where he would circle until called upon. Dressed in khaki pants and a yellow golf shirt, Peng easily blended in with the people milling about the heart of the Washington. With an expensive digital camera dangling from his neck and a camera bag off his shoulder, he was mistaken by most people for a Japanese tourist.
When the order for this surveillance came in, Peng quickly set aside his normal duties at the embassy as a junior attaché with the office for economic development and leaped at the chance to do some fieldwork. Peng gleaned two important facts from the subject background material provided by the ministry: Nolan Kilkenny was currently involved in high-tech venture capitalism and had previously served with distinction in the Unites States Navy’s Special Forces.
That same brief also led Peng to believe that his subject’s initial destination would be the CIA’s sprawling campus in Langley, Virginia. Instead, the government car sent to collect Kilkenny from Andrews Air Force Base brought him directly to the Old Executive Office Building, right next door to the White House.
Completed in 1888 as office space for the navy and the Departments of State and War, the OEOB current occupants included senior White House staff and the vice president. While the purpose of Kilkenny’s visit was still unknown, the message he brought with him had clearly found an audience at the highest levels of the American government.
Peng found a spot on the opposite side of Seventeenth Street from which to observe the main entrance to the OEOB. Feigning an interest in the building’s overly ornate French Second Empire styling, Peng raised his camera and squeezed off a rapid succession of frames, capturing his subject as he moved up the granite stair.
Kilkenny stopped at a security checkpoint just inside the building and was quickly granted entry.
They’re expecting him, Peng noted.
“Hello, Nolan.”
Kilkenny had just passed through the security at the main entrance of the Old Executive Office Building when he heard the familiar, sultry voice. He quickly located Roxanne Tao standing near the information desk, waiting for him. She was dressed in a sleek black blazer and skirt with a matching silk blouse. Her long black hair was done up in a twist and a pair of simple golden hoops dangled from her earlobes.
“Did you get my suit?” he asked.
Tao nodded. “Your father went through your closet, I made sure it all matched.”
“Thanks. He’s as color-blind as I am.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t have one with you.”
“I was working on a submarine with Grin. Not much call for formal attire.”
“Still, weren’t you a Boy Scout or something—be prepared and all that?” Tao asked sarcastically. “Here. I had an interesting time getting it through security. I told them I was a delivery girl for a Chinese Laundry.”
“You look more like a lobbyist,” Kilkenny said as he relieved her of the garment bag.
He then disappeared into the men’s room to exchange the rumpled casual attire he’d worn during the long flight for something more appropriate to the level of this meeting. He returned five minutes later shaved and clad in a charcoal-gray suit and white button-down shirt accented with a Jerry Garcia tie.
Tao carefully appraised his transformation. “Much better.”
Peng studied the Asian woman who had met Kilkenny in the lobby and found her arrestingly beautiful. After handing Kilkenny the garment bag, she remained in the lobby waiting. Peng took advantage of the situation and captured her image with the precision optics mated to his Canon EOS-10D. When Kilkenny returned, the pair moved into the building’s interior and out of sight.
And now, I wait, Peng thought.
Leaning up against a lamppost, he scrolled through the images stored in the camera’s memory. Most were worthless, but a few clearly captured Kilkenny and the woman. He selected two images one of the woman head on, the other in profile and uploaded them through a thin cable into his digital phone. Seconds later, the image files were streaming through the air into a computer inside the PRC embassy on Connecticut Avenue where a facial recognition program would attempt to identify the woman.
Kilkenny and Tao descended to the lower level, where their ID cards permitted them access to the tunnel leading to the White House. They were met at the checkpoint on the opposite end by a thin, silver-haired man, impeccably attired—CIA Director Jackson Barnett.
“Quite a bombshell you’ve uncovered, Nolan,” Barnett said as he shook Kilkenny’s hand. “This way.”
Barnett led them through the warren beneath the executive mansion to a guarded situation room. Inside, Kilkenny saw five people but recognized only Darcy Oates from her regular appearances in the news. The president’s national security advisor was seen by both friend
s and foes of the current administration as one of the brightest people serving the president and a serious contender for the top job a few years down the road. Barnett gave Oates a nod.
“Let’s begin, shall we,” Oates said, cutting through the low buzz of conversation. “I believe some introductions are in order.”
Everyone took their seats with Oates at the head of the dark oak conference table. From her left sat Ben Kowalkowski of the NRO, Tim Heshel of U.S. Space Command, and Linda Ryerson and Fred Jesup of NASA. Barnett, Tao, and Kilkenny sat on her right. FBI Director Ethan McRae sat on the opposite end.
“The purpose of this meeting,” Oates began, “is to discuss the incident involving the space shuttle Liberty.”
“My people are still trying to determine the cause,” Ryerson jumped in quickly. “A full internal investigation is under way, but it’s only been two days since the accident. It’s still too early for anything conclusive.”
Ryerson looked rattled: The abrupt shift into crisis-management mode had clearly affected her. Jesup nodded in agreement with his boss. The darkened folds of skin beneath his eyes bespoke the hours of sleep he’d forgone since the loss of Liberty.
“I appreciate the efforts NASA is making to thoroughly investigate this disaster,” Oates continued, “but not the interruption. Recent evidence has come to light that points to a deliberate rather than accidental cause. If true, this matter clearly moves into the realm of national security and everything we discuss today falls under the Official Secrets Act. Director Barnett, if you please.”
Barnett wiped his wire-frame bifocals, rose, and walked over to a large wall monitor.
“What you are about to see was received yesterday by my associate, Mr. Kilkenny,” Barnett began, his voice a smooth Carolina drawl. “I believe you’ll find it, as I did, rather disturbing. It’s a brief clip, so please hold your questions until the end.”
The lights in the room dimmed and the monitor filled with an image of a satellite spinning against a dark, star-filled background. The shallow white curve of an astronaut’s protective helmet arced across the bottom of the screen.
