by Tom Grace
“If, at any time during this interview,” Barnett continued, “you feel it is in your best interest to have counsel present, we will discontinue until proper arrangements can be made. You will have to be placed in protective custody until we can reconvene.”
“I’d be under arrest?”
“You misunderstand me. We’re investigating a rather dangerous situation. When I say protective custody, I mean we wish to protect you.”
Barnett spoke with a calm, reassuring voice, the kind that made you want to believe him. As a prosecutor, Kilkenny thought, the man must have been a devastating opponent.
“Do you wish to have counsel present?”
Rainey shook his head.
“To begin with, you are Anson Rainey?”
“Yes.”
“And you are employed by Skye Aerospace?”
“Yes, for the past twelve years.”
“What is the nature of your work there?”
“Research and development. I design satellites.”
“Are you familiar with work done by Skye Aerospace for the U.S. government, specifically Nuclear Missile Defense?”
“I lead that design team.”
“Where, specifically, do you work?”
“At the company’s Palmdale campus. My group has a separate facility there because of our work.”
“And your particular field of expertise is space-based laser systems, is that correct?”
Rainey nodded. “Our proposal utilized a constellation of space-based weapons platforms to intercept ICBMs during their boost phase.”
“Could such a weapon be used offensively, say against another object in orbit?”
Rainey nodded. “ASAT is an integral part of our overall concept.”
“How about murdering astronauts?” Kilkenny asked icily.
Rainey looked at him, confused. “Excuse me?”
“Please pardon my associate,” Barnett said, his annoyance barely concealed. “The past few days have been rather difficult for him. Prior to leaving Washington, I met with several high-ranking officials in the Department of Defense. Those familiar with you and your work spoke very highly of both. They also informed me that at this time no space-based NMD testing has been authorized or conducted. Is that correct?”
“Y-y-yeah,” Rainey stuttered. “That’s right.”
“So, Skye Aerospace has not placed a laser weapon in space, because if they had, you would know because you would have designed it? Is that correct, Mr. Rainey?”
Rainey’s eyes darted between the three men staring at him, but he offered no reply to the questions.
“Mr. Rainey, is that correct?” Barnett asked again.
Rainey sagged into the couch. “Look, I work on black projects. You’re CIA, so you understand black, right? I talk about any of my work and I go to jail.”
“I assure you, we are both cleared for anything you have to say.”
“How do I know that?” Rainey pleaded.
“Fair enough. If you’ll give me a moment, I think I can address your concerns.”
As Barnett went out the front door, he pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
“How’d your father die?” Kilkenny asked.
“My father?” Rainey was thrown completely off-guard by the change of topic.
“I see the uniform and the decorations and the flag. He must have been quite a soldier.”
“He was. Spent his whole adult life in the marines. He died in the attack on the barracks in Beirut. He served in Vietnam as well.”
“That why you work in the defense industry?”
Rainey nodded. “Couldn’t enlist, funky heart rhythm. My father died for this country, so I do what I can to honor his memory.”
Barnett returned with a thick Halliburton briefcase. He set it on the coffee table and popped open the latches. An LCD screen filled the upper half of the case; a keyboard and other equipment filled the lower. He pulled a small, square antenna out of the case, then pointed it at the front window.
“Is that south?” Barnett asked, pointing at the window.
“Yes,” Rainey replied.
Barnett set up the antenna by the window, then sat beside Rainey on the couch, switched the unit on, and typed a long string of digits into the numerical keypad. A brief chatter of electronic tones, like fax machines shaking hands, squawked from the built-in speakers, then disappeared.
The White House Seal appeared on the screen, then Darcy Oates appeared in what looked like a study. The president’s national security advisor was dressed formally.
“Director Barnett, are things ready on your end?”
“Yes, and thank you for pulling this together so quickly.”
“We’ll talk about that later.”
Oates stepped off-camera and was replaced by the president. Rainey’s mouth dropped open.
“Mr. President,” Barnett began, “I’m here with Anson Rainey.”
“I see that,” the President replied in a West Texas drawl. He was dressed in a tuxedo. “Mr. Rainey, do you recognize me?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Wonderful. Most folks don’t when I dress up like this. I think it’s the bow tie that throws ’em. I’m told y’all are having a little trouble deciding whether or not you should talk with Jackson here about your work for the guv’ment.”
“Uh huh.”
“Then let me make this real easy for you. The United States does not have any weapons in space, nor have we told anyone to put one in space for us. Congress and the Department of Defense have not authorized the spending of any money, black or otherwise, on the deployment of a space-based weapons system. If you are acting in the belief that you are protecting your nation’s security by not answering Mr. Barnett’s questions truthfully, then you are gravely mistaken. Director Barnett and his associates have my full faith and confidence, and I hope you will grant them yours.”
Barnett watched Rainey as the president spoke to him—the man seemed transformed.
“I think that’ll do it, Mr. President. Thank you, sir.”
The president nodded, and then the screen went blank.
“I-I-I just spoke with the president,” Rainey stammered.
“That puts you one up on me,” Grin said.
“Same here,” Kilkenny chipped in. “But now that you know we’re with the good guys, answer the question. Has Skye Aerospace put a weapon in orbit?”
“Yes.”
“Did it go up in January of ’01 with a dummy satellite?” Grin asked, his curiosity transparent.
“How did you know?”
Grin stretched his arm out and pumped it back in with the fist curled. “Yes! I am good.”
“There will be time to celebrate later,” Barnett said. “Mr. Rainey, exactly what type of weapon are we talking about?”
“Chemical laser—deuterium, hydrogen fluoride, and helium. It’s in our Nuclear Missile Defense design proposal—the one the DOD funded, or at least I thought they did.”
“Who else knows about your work?”
“Outside the design team, just C. J. Skye and Owen Moug—he’s the head of Defense Systems. Like I said, we’re kept separate from the rest of the company.” Rainey turned to Grin. “How’d you find it?”
“Wasn’t easy,” Grin replied. “That thing stealth?”
“Yeah, we designed Zeus-1 with a very small radar cross-section. Should’ve only been visible at all when the solar panels were deployed.”
Grin nodded knowingly. “That explains it blipping in and out of view.”
“But why were you even looking for it?”
“Because it was used to murder six astronauts aboard Liberty,” Kilkenny replied.
“Sweet Jesus,” Rainey said, horrified.
“That wasn’t the first time, either,” Kilkenny continued. “We believe it has destroyed dozens of spacecraft.”
“I don’t understand? Why would anyone do this? It’s insane.”
“Money,” Kilkenny replied. “This i
s all about gaining market share. I’ll bet every time a satellite went out, Skye Aerospace was waiting with one of theirs, ready to take up the slack. If you just lost part of your global paging network, are you going to wait months to get a replacement up when your customers are howling, or worse, bolting? No, you sign with Skye and thank your lucky stars that they had the bandwidth when you needed it. This is damn near the perfect crime. Hard to detect and harder still to investigate. And in the end, the victims pay you to help them out and the rest is covered by insurance. It’s brilliant.”
“Can you help us find Zeus-1?” Barnett asked.
“No, we designed the system so that all command and control information is protected by some very serious encryption. Once we turned the bird over, my access was reduced to monitoring onboard systems, which I can do from here.”
“Show us,” Kilkenny demanded.
Rainey led them into his home office, a technological inner sanctum that impressed even Grin. To help him with his work, Skye Aerospace had provided Rainey with a dedicated high-speed fiber line into the company’s network.
“Zeus-1 is a prototype,” Rainey explained as he navigated through the Skye computer network, “a chance to try out a few things before building a full production model. For diagnostic purposes, it was programmed to transmit a daily status report. I usually compile the data at the end of the month, see how the systems are performing. I’m going to pull in the most recent report.”
“Would these reports tell you what Zeus had been doing?” Kilkenny asked.
“Nothing specific. I could tell that the spacecraft had been moved and fired, I just didn’t know when or where, or at what. I’d see things like a drop in propellant or laser fuel—performance statistics.” Rainey paused as the information he was looking for came up. “This bird is getting close to the end of its service life.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at this,” Rainey said, pointing at a column of chemical symbols—He, He32 and NF3—followed by a column of numbers.
“That the fuel for your laser?” Kilkenny asked.
“Yeah, and it’s getting pretty low. Same with propellant. I’d say it’s got one decent shot left, then game over.”
“One shot is probably more than enough to scuttle the ISS and murder its crew,” Kilkenny offered bitterly.
Rainey paled at the reminder of how his work had been used. “Sorry if I sounded a little glib. I’m just used to thinking about this project like a big computer game, just shooting down the other guy’s missiles before they hit my cities. I never thought …”
“Never thought what?” Grin asked.
Rainey locked eyes with Kilkenny. “You said Zeus-1 had been used to kill six astronauts, but all the news reports said there were seven onboard Liberty.”
“I misspoke,” Kilkenny backpedaled.
“I don’t think so. If you’re worried about Zeus attacking the space station, there’s got to be a reason.”
Kilkenny looked over at Barnett with an expression that wordlessly asked the question: Do I tell him? Barnett sighed and nodded his assent.
“One of Liberty’s astronauts survived the attack. He saw everything, recorded it all, and somehow managed to get to the ISS before his air ran out.”
Rainey’s eyes grew wide. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
“Mr. Rainey, based on what happened with Liberty, we have very strong reason to fear your employer’s reaction should she learn of the existence of a witness to her crimes,” Barnett said, his drawl steely with authority. “That piece of information is not to be repeated, and now that you’ve heard it, steps will have be taken to ensure your compliance.”
“We have to stop Skye before she can use that thing again,” Kilkenny added. “Even if she only has one shot left.”
“Oh shit,” Rainey blurted, “she doesn’t.”
“Doesn’t what?” Grin asked.
“She doesn’t have just one shot left—she has hundreds.”
“I thought you said your satellite was almost out of fuel.”
“It is, but my team delivered Zeus-2 a week ago, and it’s going up in a couple of days.”
“From where?” Kilkenny asked.
“Out in the Pacific.”
Kilkenny looked at Rainey as if the man had made a bad joke.
“He’s not kidding,” Grin said. “Skye Aerospace really does launch rockets from the middle of the Pacific, about fourteen hundred miles south of Hawaii. They shoot ‘em up from the equator off a modified oil rig.”
“Aequatus and the launch platform are there right now,” Rainey added. “Skye, too—she never misses a launch and we’re inside the seventy-two-hour countdown.”
“We cannot allow a second weapon to be placed in orbit,” Barnett said.
Kilkenny turned to the CIA director. “Then let’s get a plane out there and bomb the fucker.”
“You can’t,” Rainey pleaded. “Aequatus is tied alongside the launch platform until just before the launch. There could be as many as three-hundred people onboard.”
“Then we’ll hit it after the ship pulls back,” Kilkenny countered. “We only need a few seconds.”
“But blowing the rocket up is also not an option. Zeus-2 isn’t just another Zeus-1—it’s a lot more powerful.”
“All the more reason to hit it before it gets in space.”
“I’m not just talking about the laser,” Rainey explained. “This spacecraft is powered by a nuclear reactor. Blow it up, and you’ll contaminate a huge chunk of ocean and probably kill everyone on Aequatus.”
“I think he’s right, Nolan,” Grin said, mulling over the scenario. “Bombing that rocket would be like setting off a dirty bomb with enough explosives to push a cloud of radioactive shit way up into the atmosphere.”
“Gentlemen, we have two clear and ordered objectives,” Barnett said decisively. “The first is to apprehend C. J. Skye before she can again make use of her weapon. The second is to prevent the impending launch of another weapon.”
“But Skye’s out in the middle of the ocean right now,” Rainey argued. “How are you going to stop her?”
Kilkenny smiled. “There’s only one way.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
PEARL HARBOR
AUGUST 20
“Man, that’s a big ship,” Rainey said as he followed Kilkenny and Grin down to the submarine pens.
Virginia stood high in the water, her jet-black sail and upper hull exposed in the Hawaiian morning sun.
“Submarines are boats, not ships,” Grin corrected.
Kilkenny shot a glance at his friend, but said nothing. They presented their credentials at the gangway and were permitted to board.
Inside the submarine, the crew was busy making preparations to put out to sea. Kilkenny’s first stop was the captain’s cabin.
“Three civilian guests reporting aboard, sir,” Kilkenny announced. Johnston was running through some paperwork when Kilkenny appeared in his doorway.
“So you’re the guys responsible for canceling our shore leave,” Johnston growled. “Crew’s not going to be too happy with you guys.”
“We’ll keep our heads down,” Kilkenny promised.
“Good. I hope my men didn’t jostle your equipment too much. We had to reconfigure the torpedo room to accommodate the SEALs and their gear.”
“Understood. Captain, this is Anson Rainey. He’s familiar with the two vessels we’re going after.”
Johnston stood and extended his hand. “Welcome aboard, Rainey.”
Kilkenny led the way down to the torpedo room. As Johnston had warned, the largely empty center section was now stacked with berths for nineteen men and every available bit of space was filled with SEALs and their equipment.
“Where’s the lieutenant?” Kilkenny asked a SEAL checking over a Heckler-Koch MP5.
“Yo, LT!” the young man boomed out. “The man wants a word with you.”
A lean, well-built young man with close-cropped dirty blo
nd hair turned from the empty imaging chamber and navigated through the mass of men and material toward the hatch. He eyed the three men standing there, looking for soft targets.
“I’m Lieutenant Ralph. What can I do for you?”
“We’re your bunkmates for this trip. I’m Kilkenny. This here’s Grin and Rainey.”
“Good to meet you. We saved you three bunks up front by your gear.”
“Cool.” Grin turned to Kilkenny. “I’m gonna see if there’s anything I need to fix.”
“I’ll join you in a minute,” Kilkenny replied.
“You led a platoon with Two, right?” Ralph asked, referring to SEAL Team 2, based in Little Creek.
“Yeah. Did my six.”
“Miss it?”
“Nah, I manage to find enough trouble all by myself.”
Ralph laughed. “Ain’t that the truth. What’s all that equipment up front?”
“Research project. Admiral Dawson cleared it, so if we have time, I’ll walk you through it. I think the first order of business will be reviewing your OP. Rainey here is the Encyclopedia Britannica of Skye Aerospace, complete with the full schematics on both ships.”
Ralph clapped a strong hand on Rainey’s shoulder. “You, sir, are my new best friend. Let’s go have a chat.”
At noon, Virginia sailed out of Pearl Harbor and slipped beneath the Pacific on a southerly course.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
AEQUATUS
After arriving onboard, Tao had been allowed to regain consciousness. Though her chemical restraints had been replaced with physical ones, she preferred the latter as they were less invasive. She lay on her left side atop a queen-sized bed, wrists tied behind her back and her ankles bound.
She had carefully eaten the first meal she was given after coming to—a broth soup, crackers, and ginger ale—only to regurgitate it halfway through. The lingering effects of Unger’s injections had left her weak and nauseated.
Opening her eyes, she saw her guard seated in a chair by the door, his interest more on a DVD of The Ugly One than his listless prisoner. The sound of bare knuckles impacting on flesh in one of the films’ fight sequences caused him to snort approvingly.
