The two hikers came closer and inspected the straps. “You look worse than I thought,” said the guy, and Kira was encouraged to hear concern rather than suspicion in his voice. “You going to be okay?” he asked as he began unbuckling the restraints. “You need me to call 911 or anything?”
“Nah,” said Kira. “It looks worse than it is. I’ll be fine. Not that I don’t feel like a total moron for letting this guy talk me into this.”
The buckles undone, the two hikers helped pull the jacket over her head. Kira blew out a relieved breath when it was finally on the ground. “Thanks,” she said gratefully. She turned to the female half of the duo. “Do you mind if I use your phone to make a quick call?” she asked. “I have a friend who lives about thirty minutes away. I wanna ask him for a ride.”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Kira took the phone, reveling in the use of her arms and hands once again. She walked a few steps from the hikers and turned away. “David, hi, it’s me,” she said when Desh answered, keeping her voice low.
“Kira!” he shouted in a whisper, the relief in his voice palpable. “Are you okay?”
She realized that he must have learned of the fire by now, and probably thought she’d been in it. “Yes. But believe it or not, I’m on the outskirts of the Rocky Mountain National Park.”
“I know,” said Desh, which was the very last thing she expected to hear. “Jim and I are here too,” he continued hurriedly. “We know about van Hutten. Six commandoes raided his cottage about twenty minutes ago, with more probably on the way.”
Kira adjusted to the new information and circumstances immediately, crouching down to make herself less visible, her heart picking up speed. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire. “Who are they?”
“My guess is Jake sent them,” replied Desh. “But we aren’t certain. Which direction did you run from the house?”
“East.”
“Shit. We went west.” There was a pause. “Circle back to the cottage. We have a car about a quarter mile from it. This is a national park, so Jake’s men can’t make themselves too obvious. But be quick. And be careful.”
41
Jim Connelly climbed through the attic window of van Hutten’s rented cottage and onto the roof, sliding toward the edge on his belly. In most situations like this, binoculars would have come in handy, but not in this one. He needed as panoramic a view as he could get, especially given the woods made this exercise far more difficult. He was looking for movement, nothing more, and evolution had made human eyesight exquisitely sensitive to picking this out against a still background. Even if the figures were tiny in the distance, he could guess their identities. Moving fluidly and blending into their surroundings: commando. Moving stiffly and making no attempt to conceal themselves: tourist. Girl alone: almost certainly Kira Miller.
“See her?” said Desh into his phone, fifty yards away to the east.
Connelly continued scanning the area. “No. But you have a hostile at three o-clock. And he’s moving with purpose. If he keeps his bearing he’ll pass twenty yards due north of you in about forty-five seconds.”
“Copy that,” said Desh, plotting an intercept course and moving as stealthily through the woods as he always did.
As the commando passed in front of him, Desh dove out of nowhere, timing his assault perfectly, and drove the man to the forest floor. The commando had been so intent on tracking Kira, and so confident he and his associates owned the woods, that he was taken entirely off guard. Desh kicked his gun away and drove an elbow into his face. After delivering three more blows in rapid succession, the man fell to the forest floor, helpless.
“Who are you?” said Desh, pointing his gun at the man’s head.
“Fuck you,” said the commando calmly, giving Desh the voice sample he needed. Desh delivered another blow to his neck and the man was out cold.
Desh lifted his cell phone to his mouth. “One down,” he whispered to Jim Connelly. “Any Kira sightings yet?” he added anxiously.
“No. But I’ve got another hostile thirty yards due west of you on a southeasterly vector.”
“Got it. Get off the roof and meet me behind van Hutten’s van. I’ll take this second guy out and send the others to the southwest.” Their car was parked to the northeast, so if he could send their pursuit in the exact opposite direction, they should be able to escape.
“Roger that,” said Connelly.
Desh removed the earpiece and attached microphone from the man lying unconscious before him and worked his way farther north. He intercepted the second man the same way he had the first, and although this soldier was able to block a few of Desh’s blows and even land one of his own, the end result was the same.
Two down, thought Desh.
He crouched down and focused on the Fuck You the first commando had been kind enough to utter. His voice was deeper than Desh’s, and it had a gravelly, resonating quality. Desh lowered his voice and practiced a few times. Hopefully, it would be close enough. Desh lifted the microphone he had removed from the second commando to his mouth. “This is . . .” he began, and then mumbled incomprehensibly, counting on the man’s colleagues to think his call sign had been the victim of poor reception, which wasn’t unknown in the Rockies. The ease with which he had surprised these two men showed they weren’t expecting company. They saw themselves as the hunters, not the hunted, regardless of the warnings they may have been given about Kira’s skills. “I’ve spotted the girl southwest of the house, moving fast,” he continued in his deeper voice, making sure the words were clear once again. “She’s . . .” He garbled more words and then tossed the headset away. He paused for a moment to consider his next move when Kira Miller emerged from behind a tree.
She saw the unconscious body next to Desh and rushed to his side, just as he was shoving the commando’s gun into his pants. “Where’s Jim?” she whispered when she was beside him.
“Back at the cottage,” replied Desh, so quietly she wasn’t sure if she heard him or had just read his lips. He began moving and motioned for her to follow.
In minutes they had rejoined their colleague. Like Desh, Connelly wasted no time on greetings. “What about van Hutten?” he whispered to Kira.
“Leave him,” she mouthed back. “He can’t tell Jake anything new. He’s brilliant, and a good man.”
“Then what’s with the arson and kidnapping?” whispered Desh.
“Long story,” replied Kira as they headed northeast, to the car Desh and Connelly had parked a quarter of a mile away. Desh led, with Kira behind him, and Connelly taking up the rear.
Once they began moving, no one spoke, or even attempted to mouth any words. They were nearing the finish line, and if they could manage not to give away their position for just a little longer, they were home free.
After a few minutes double timing it through the woods, they could see their destination off in the distance, a light gray Ford parked under a tree.
Desh heard the faintest rustle behind them and off to the side.
He spun around, pulling his gun with the speed and reflexes of a world-class athlete—but not fast enough. Seeing him move, the commando behind them emerged from the cover of a tree and sent a bullet racing toward Kira Miller’s heart.
Jim Connelly dove in front of her, pushing her aside. The slug meant for her exploded through his neck, taking out his jugular and killing him instantly.
Before the commando could get off a second shot, Desh drilled a hole neatly between his eyes, and the woods were still once again.
Desh surveyed his surroundings but detected no one else. The gunman had been alone, but that wouldn’t be true for long. He yanked the car keys from Connelly’s pocket and handed them to Kira. She was in shock and seemed completely paralyzed. “Go!” he shouted, but his words didn’t register. “Go!” he screamed again in her ear. “You’re driving. The others will have heard the shots!”
Kira broke from her fog and ran to the car. She threw herself int
o the front seat and shoved the key in the ignition. As the car’s engine came to life she turned to see what had become of Desh. He was rushing to the car with Connelly’s body draped over his shoulders, the ex-colonel’s neck torn open and still leaking the last of his blood onto the forest floor.
“Pop the trunk,” yelled Desh as he neared.
Desh laid his friend in the trunk and slid into the passenger’s seat. The car began moving before he had closed the door.
“Shit, shit, shit,” said Kira as she picked up speed, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. “I can’t believe he’s dead. It should have been me.”
Desh was reeling every bit as much as she was, but once again they couldn’t afford to mourn. Not yet. Not only had a man he respected more than any other just lost his life, but Desh had taken a life as well. A man who had thought he was fighting on the side of right. In the heat of the moment, acting on rage and instinct alone, Desh had shot to kill.
He forced these thoughts from his mind as they turned onto a main road.
Desh considered ditching the car but thought better of it. Jake’s men would arrive at the site of the gunshots on foot, with no way to follow. And the car he and Connelly had driven here was off the radar.
Kira seemed on the verge of an emotional collapse, so he kept her talking, getting her to explain van Hutten’s motives. The physicist had thought his fire had destroyed their entire supply of gellcaps. Since the gellcaps couldn’t withstand high heat, even if the safe they were in wasn’t consumed by the fire, he was correct to believe they were destroyed.
But he didn’t know they had another facility. Like Jake before him, he had dealt them a serious blow, but still not a fatal one. “How’s our inventory of gellcaps in Kentucky?” asked Desh.
“Good. We should have plenty to hold us until I can produce more. I made sure each site had enough to carry us through if we lost one of the headquarters. But we’ll have to suspend the west hexads indefinitely.”
Desh nodded grimly. They had been on the defensive and had been taking a beating. They needed to get to the RV, clean up, bury their friend, and join Matt Griffin, who was manning Icarus’s Kentucky headquarters this week—now Icarus’s sole headquarters.
David Desh felt the loss of Jim Connelly as deeply as he had the loss of his own father. At least his friend had died a hero. But even as he thought this he realized it might not be true. He had to admit to himself that his wife was now as alien to him as the object hurtling through space. Had his friend sacrificed himself to save a woman who could well be the most important human ever born?
Or had he died to save something else entirely?
42
The small alien ship slipped inside the orbit of Pluto and continued on, inexorably, toward its target. Although decelerating, it was still moving hundreds of times faster than any terrestrial object had ever managed, and it quickly passed inside the orbits of the gas giants of Neptune, Uranus, Saturn, and Jupiter. Now travelling at pedestrian speeds its mass and length had long since been stable to within the limits of terrestrial detection. It was a perfect sphere, approximately nine feet in diameter, still emitting Casimir radiation, although at these speeds it was now only siphoning off a drop of the ocean of zero point energy available to it.
All attempts made by humanity to communicate with the craft in a variety of possible ways were ignored.
Inside the orbit of Mars, the ship began breaking even harder, as every one of the nearly eight billion inhabitants of Earth held their breath.
Would it stop? Fly by? Crash? Would flying pigs emerge?
These questions were moments away from being answered as the ship neared ever closer, tracked by every hobbyist and professional astronomer in the world and thrown up on countless televisions and computer monitors. At this point, Jupiter and Saturn could have jumped to light speed and collided, and not a single telescope would have recorded this event, being otherwise preoccupied.
The ship slid smoothly into low orbit around the third planet from the Sun. Then, undetected by the vast array of instruments trained on the ship, thousands upon thousands of tiny transparent spheres, just a hair larger than microscopic in size, were ejected from tiny pores in its hull with enough force to rain down uniformly across the planet below.
The ship crisscrossed the globe and injected its invisible payload for several hours, and then assumed a perfect geostationary orbit above the Earth’s equator, matching its orbital speed to that of the Earth’s rotation so that it maintained a fixed position above the planet.
Its orbit established, it ejected a metal sphere the size of a large beach ball directly at the Sun, and an instant later the Casimir radiation issuing from the object ceased entirely.
Thousands of different scenarios had been modeled by the people of earth, and this one, in which the ship just parked itself in a stable orbit, had long been considered one of the more likely possibilities. The U.N. had contracted with a private company, Space Unlimited, to retrieve the alien craft should this occur, and a terrestrial retrieval ship was launched within hours of the alien ship having established a stable orbit.
All attempts at communication continued to be ignored, but Space Unlimited’s ship was not fired upon or hindered in any way. The alien craft was checked for life and for any form of computer or robotic intelligence, but none were found.
The alien craft was then plucked from its orbit and placed in the cargo hold of the Space Unlimited ship, and although no life had been detected, microscopic or otherwise, it was put through a thorough decontamination process—just to be sure. Finally, less than a day after its arrival, the alien craft was brought to the surface and transported to thousands of eager scientists waiting on board a luxury cruise ship flying a U.N. flag, now called Copernicus, waiting in the South Atlantic.
43
Desh and Kira joined Matt Griffin at their Kentucky headquarters and there began licking wounds and discussing plans to rebuild. The setbacks had been fast and furious over the past month. When they had been on the verge of recruiting van Hutten things had finally seemed to be heading in the right direction. But now they felt like Sisyphus, condemned to push a backbreaking boulder uphill, only to have it roll back down whenever it neared the top. Sisyphus had been condemned by Zeus to repeat this futile endeavor for all eternity, but for the Icarus team, just recovering the ground the boulder had lost a single time was a daunting prospect.
The three remaining members of a core council that once had numbered five held a private funeral for Colonel Jim Connelly, a truly great man whose loss cast a further pall on an already battered and discouraged group.
While they kept their heads down for a short time, not wanting to attract any more attention until their trail had grown ice cold, much of the craziness that had gripped the world at the approach of the alien craft was subsiding, and the world was returning to a new normal.
The alien ship had come. Neither God nor the devil had emerged from it. The world had not been destroyed or dramatically altered in any way. No sermons on the mount were issued from the spherical ship. No technology discovered that would transform society. Scientists aboard what had become the most famous ship in the world, the Copernicus, had yet to find anything, unable to discover how to even activate the zero point energy drive that had propelled the ship. After finding no electronics or computer guidance and control systems, or the alien equivalent, scientists became convinced that the vital brain of the ship had been ejected into the Sun to ensure alien secrets would be kept.
The ship was scoured inside and out using x-rays, radio waves, nuclear magnetic resonance—basically every wave across the wide electromagnetic spectrum—yet no messages, no hieroglyphics, no images—absolutely nothing—was discovered, not even microscopic scratches. And then everything else under the sun was tried, down to checking for invisible ink, with the same result. What they had was an empty hull of a ship, with a dead and incomprehensible engine, and no brain.
Desh, Griffin, and K
ira had waited with baited breath for days, wondering if something would pop out of the vessel, jack-in-the-box style, and demand Kira Miller’s head, or complain that the planet was filled with morons rather than the towering IQs that had beckoned it across spacetime. But this had not happened, which was a relief, especially to Kira, since van Hutten had her half convinced that his analysis was correct.
They continued to check satellite coverage and look for electronic eyes that might be pointing in their general vicinity, as well as check other early warning systems they had in place, but they found no reason to believe they weren’t safe and hidden, at least for the moment.
While Jake was their biggest threat, they would never be able to breathe easily until the puppet master behind him was found and stopped. So Desh threw himself into tracking down the man who had once been called Eric Frey, enlisting the help of Matt Griffin. He loved working with the affable giant, which brought back memories of the last time they worked together on a manhunt. That time they had been trying to find the enigmatic Kira Miller, a woman who had once again become far more enigmatic than Desh wanted to admit, even to himself.
Kira gave Desh and Griffin a description of the sort of biotech equipment Frey would need to reproduce her therapy, including names of private companies that sold DNA synthesizers, and other companies from which he would almost surely order some of the more common cloned genes he would need. Griffin spent five minutes while enhanced and compiled a list of the approximately eight thousand customers who had ordered necessary ingredients.
From there it was just a matter of whittling the list down. Desh interviewed several of Frey’s colleagues by phone to supplement his discussion with Arnold Cohen, and assembled a profile of the man. He was almost sure to own a boat, and subscribe to two or three saltwater and deep sea fishing magazines. Griffin had hacked into police records and had learned that Frey had befriended numerous young boys and had taken them on his boat, a few accusing him of molestation—certainly representing the tip of the iceberg—although all charges were ultimately dropped. A boat was ideal for this type of predatory behavior since there would be nowhere for a victim to run or hide; no one who could possibly interrupt; and no one to hear any screams.
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