“I thought the same,” Mark said. “If you fly to Kauai to meet with Colonel Morgan first, you probably couldn’t get back in time to meet with Dr. Cully.”
“True,” Amato said. “When does Cully return from Galapagos?”
“Undefined. Apparently, he’s conducting some archaeological research while there.”
“Archaeology? I thought he was a biologist.”
“Maybe he’s looking for fossils? Darwin and all that,” suggested Mark.
“Ah, that must be it. Very well, then. San Diego it is. Can he meet tomorrow? I can leave tonight, if necessary.”
“I’ll call and find out.”
NASA Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
With his feet propped on the corner of his desk, Dennis Pritchard flipped through the list of questions from a meddlesome congressman intent on slashing programs from NASA’s budget. It was difficult to take the questions seriously as Pritchard knew the only reason for the antagonistic letter was a negotiating ploy. The congressman in question had previously been a NASA proponent, but in the last election cycle, control of the House had flipped to the opposing party. The new chair of the budget committee had made it known she intended to revisit the space agency’s budget with an eye toward shuttering certain NASA facilities she considered nonessential…facilities that just happened to be located in stronghold districts of members from the now-minority party, including a rather sizeable facility in the district of the meddlesome congressman.
The letter was the congressman’s way of communicating to Pritchard that he intended to fight the facility’s closing by publicly dissecting spending in other areas of NASA’s budget. His unspoken message: “Help me fend off the chairwoman or so help me God, I’ll make your life a living hell.”
Pritchard thought it unlikely the chairwoman really intended to go after the facility. She was just using the threat of it to exact compromises elsewhere in the budget…and to appease her party’s base by showing her teeth to the opposition. But, regardless of the politics involved, Pritchard was obligated to answer the congressman’s questions. He would try to slow roll them as much as he could, however, hoping the delay would outlast the budget battle.
As he flipped to the next page of questions, his assistant appeared at the door. “Dr. Pritchard? Dr. Brock is here to see you. She says it’s urgent.”
Removing his feet from the desk, Pritchard waved his hand. “Send her in.”
The assistant stepped aside and the harried-looking chief science officer rushed into the office. As soon the assistant closed the door, Brock said, “You are not going to believe this!”
“What? What’s wrong?” Pritchard asked, sensing something terrible had happened from Brock’s tone and demeanor.
“It’s Amato. His CUBE,” she said.
“What about it?”
“They tested the engine again today.”
“So?”
“You remember Dr. Fulton gave us the transponder ID for it yesterday, so we could have Houston lock onto it?”
A sudden pit formed in Pritchard’s stomach. “Oh, no. Did it hit something? Please tell me they didn’t hit ISS or Hubble.”
“No, they didn’t hit anything,” she said. She used both hands to push her disheveled bangs away from her forehead as she began to pace.
“Helen, what’s the matter? What happened?”
“You can’t imagine the chaos going on in Houston right now,” she said. “We had a freaking Level 9 tour going through Mission Control when it started. There’s no way we’ll be able to keep it quiet.”
Pritchard stepped in front of Brock’s pacing path. “Damn it, Helen. What in the devil are you talking about?”
She looked up at him, her eyes ablaze. “CUBE-1’s orbiting the Moon, Dennis. Right now, as we speak. It flew there in under three hours!”
“What? No, that’s not possible,” Pritchard said.
“I’ve been on the phone with both Goddard and Houston for the last twenty minutes. There’s no mistake. It’s there,” she said.
“My God.”
“It gets worse,” Brock said. “When the tour group was hustled out of Mission Control, there were a few reporters outside, waiting for a press briefing to start across the hall. A few of the reporters noticed the commotion and started asking questions before we could get a public information officer down there.”
“Oh, no.”
“The news is already starting to spread on social media. I’m sure we’re going to start getting calls from the networks any minute now,” Brock said.
“Has anyone talked to Augie?” Pritchard asked.
“Not yet,” she said.
“All right, here’s what we’re going to do…”
A3rospace Industries Command and Control Center
Mayaguana Island, The Bahamas
Amato was standing on the catwalk, looking down at The Rorschach Explorer, when Mark walked up. “Mr. Amato, I have Dr. Pritchard on the line. He says he needs to speak with you urgently.”
“Huh? What for?”
“He didn’t say, but he sounds very upset.”
“Upset? That’s odd,” Amato said. “Very well. Let’s go see what’s ailing the good doctor.”
Back in the office, Amato waited for Mark to patch Pritchard through. When the connection clicked, Amato could hear Pritchard speaking to someone on the other end of the line.
“Tell them we have no comment.”
“Dennis? Can you hear me?” Amato asked.
“Augie, yes, I can. Hold one sec,” Pritchard said. Amato heard a muffled conversation, and then Pritchard returned to the line. He sighed heavily and said, “Jesus, Augie, you’ve really put us in a bind.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about? What bind?”
“The Moon? Are you kidding me?”
“Ah,” Amato said, recalling now that NASA had “tagged” CUBE-1 the previous day. “So, you know of our little jaunt.”
“Jaunt? To the Moon in under three hours?” Pritchard said, his tone teetering between bitterness and sarcasm.
“Dennis, I don’t understand why you’re so hopped up. You knew we planned to retest CUBE-1 today.”
“Retest, yes. Go to the Moon, no,” Pritchard said. “Augie, we had civilians in Mission Control. They saw the reaction of our people, heard the station chatter. Some of them talked to the press. The news is already online. It’s spreading like wildfire.”
“I see,” Amato said, comprehending the source of Pritchard’s agitation.
The discovery of CUBE-1’s trip to the Moon did indeed put NASA in a bind with a laundry list of constituents — its employees, the media, the public, other space exploration agencies, Congress, the Pentagon and the White House.
It was a thorny predicament for Pritchard, for he would not be able to answer the inevitable questions without backing himself into a thicket of lies. If he disavowed knowledge of the spacecraft, there would be charges of incompetence or cover-up. If he said NASA was aware of the probe, he would be excoriated for having kept it a secret from his superiors and employees. He would face paranoia from the military and alien conspiracists alike.
Worse, even if Pritchard navigated the initial barrage of questions without becoming ensnared, he would not be able to dodge the toughest one of all without Amato’s complicity. How was such a feat possible?
“Have you issued a statement?” Amato asked.
“Not yet, I’ve been too busy getting my ass chewed out by the White House,” Pritchard said.
“I’m sorry, Dennis. I don’t know what to say.”
Pritchard sighed. “You have no idea what you’ve stirred up.”
“Does the media know it’s my probe?”
“As far as I know, no. But it’s just a matter of time.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“For the time being, nothing. I’ve been summoned to the White House for an ass chewing in person. Assuming I don’t get axed, I’ll
get back to you after I’m done,” Pritchard said.
“Okay,” Amato said. “One thing I should mention, Dennis. We’re planning on bringing CUBE-1 back to Earth tonight for another trial tomorrow. Perhaps it would be wise to have Houston untag it.”
“Don’t do it, Augie,” Pritchard said. “By nightfall there will be so many electronic eyes on it, official and unofficial, CUBE-1 won’t be able to fart without the whole world knowing. You’ll create hysteria. It’ll be War of the Worlds all over again.”
“Oh, come now. You’re being overdramatic,” Amato said.
“Am I? You flew to the Moon in less time than it takes to watch a football game. No one but your team and a select few here know it’s yours. To the average Joe, it’s a UFO, and you know the media will pump it up as that. If you fly it back before we put out a cover story, it will throw people into a panic,” Pritchard said.
“All right, I’ll tell the team to hold in place until you get back to me, but, Dennis, I need to be clear about something. I’m not participating in a cover-up.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“And you can tell the president, if I get pressured to fall in line, I will go public about the UMOs. It’s past time people knew anyway. Well past time,” Amato said.
When Pritchard spoke, his voice was low and his tone cold. “I would strongly advise against threatening the president, Augie. SECDEF has his ear, and he won’t hesitate to recommend a military solution.”
Concurrent with Pritchard’s call to Amato, Brock tried to reach Kiera. Without access to her cell number, Brock dialed the main number for the Mayaguana center and was routed to Kiera’s office extension via the automated reception software. Kiera did not answer and so Brock left a message. “Hello, Kiera. This is Helen Brock at NASA. When you have a free moment, I’d appreciate a return call. There’s something important I wanted to discuss with you.”
Meanwhile, Amato summoned Dante to his office and filled him in on the call with Pritchard. During their conversation, Mark delivered printouts of the latest news reports circulating on the Internet. As Pritchard had predicted, the media quickly escalated the Houston Mission Control incident into a hype-filled, UFO conspiracy.
“This is out of control,” Dante said, holding up one of the articles.
Someone at NASA had leaked CUBE-1’s coordinates and speed to an enterprising university professor, who used his connections with the Green Bank Observatory in West Virginia to direct one of their radio telescopes toward the Moon. Though CUBE-1 was so small as to be invisible on its own, against the backdrop of the Moon’s weak magnetic field, the ion trail from CUBE-1’s VLF engine lit up the radio telescope’s reflectometer like a flare. Once the professor located CUBE-1, he posted an online simulation of CUBE-1’s projected orbital path around the Moon. He also published an image captured by the reflectometer showing the probe’s red, high-magnetism trail against the blue and green of the Moon’s magnetic field.
The article was peppered with hair-raising quotes from the professor. Dante read several out loud.
“Nothing manmade can go that fast. Hell, the only way a comet could go that fast is if it got sucked in by the Sun’s gravity…”
“…My contact at NASA said they had been tracking the UFO in orbit around Earth since yesterday...”
“…Your guess is as good as mine, but I’ll say this. There’s no natural phenomenon I’m aware of that can spontaneously break free from Earth, fly to the Moon in such a short time and then brake hard enough to insert into lunar orbit…”
“Could it be an experimental spacecraft? I suppose it’s possible. NASA’s electric sail concept is rumored to be capable of the kind of speed the UFO demonstrated, but the last I heard, it’s still on the drawing board, years away from being viable.”
“Can you believe this crap?” Dante asked.
“It’s worse than you think,” Amato said.
“How could it be any worse?”
“I think NASA, well, the U.S. government will try to shut us down. Pritchard’s already asked us to keep CUBE-1 where it is until they craft a cover story. He suggested the military would get involved if we didn’t play ball.”
“The military?”
“Don’t look so surprised. Remember what they did to our LDV tests.”
“Geez, you really think they’d do that again, after all the bad publicity?”
“Without a second thought.”
Mark appeared in the doorway of Amato’s office. “Kiera is here. She asked to see you.”
“Tell her to join the party,” Amato said.
As soon as Kiera came through the entry, she said, “You’ll never guess who just left a voice message for me.”
She used Amato’s office phone to replay the message. When it finished, Amato said, “Ah, trying to play two ends against the middle.”
“How so?” Kiera asked.
Dante handed Kiera the articles while Amato summarized his call with Pritchard. After taking it all in, she looked at Dante. “Told you she was a devious little bitch.”
“No, I believe you said she was a know-it-all little bitch,” Dante said with a smile. Turning to Amato, he asked, “So, what are we going to do? Go along with whatever B.S. they come up with?”
Amato shook his head from side to side.
“Then, what?” Dante asked.
“How quickly can you ready the rest of the fleet to launch?”
The question seemed to stun Dante. With a blank expression, he blinked several times as he processed the implications of Amato’s query. Then he looked at Kiera and a smile crept across his face. “We just have to fuel the LDVs and hook ’em up to HABs. Otherwise, they’re ready to go. Right, Kiera?”
“Roger that,” she said.
“Good. How much can you shrink the gap between launches?” Amato asked.
“Uh, how much do you want to shrink it?” Dante asked in return.
“As short as possible,” Amato said. “I want to get as many of them in orbit as we can before they know what’s happening.”
“Okay, we’ll push it to the limit,” Dante said, as he stood to leave. “Come on, Kiera.”
As Kiera stood to join Dante, Amato said, “Hold up. Before you go, let’s discuss what to say when Kiera returns Dr. Brock’s call.”
His two lieutenants froze in place. Kiera was the first to speak. “You can’t be serious. You want me to call her back?”
“Of course.” Amato smiled. “It might help us keep their eyes and ears away from launching the rest of the fleet.”
9: MINEFIELD BALLET
Oval Office, The White House
Washington, D.C.
July 21, 2018
Pritchard stood in the anteroom waiting for the president to emerge from the Oval Office. Although he wasn’t positive who would be in the meeting with the president, he assumed his chief of staff and national security advisor were givens. Pritchard guessed his press secretary would also be in attendance.
It was less clear whether the national security advisor, Brett Shaw, would include the secretary of defense until he knew the precise nature of the situation. During the call summoning him to the White House, Shaw had said, “The president has a lot on his plate right now. The last thing he needs is SECDEF strutting like a peacock in front of the press.”
And he was right to be concerned. The media crush was in full frenzy, as Pritchard experienced firsthand. A Secret Service detail had been dispatched to NASA headquarters to escort Pritchard to the White House, and when Pritchard emerged from the building to enter a waiting SUV, a sea of cameras and microphones descended upon Pritchard and the agents bracketing him. As the agents pushed through the gauntlet, reporters had shouted out questions and demanded an official response from NASA.
As the door to the Oval Office opened, Pritchard thought of the crazed scene and wondered if it would be possible to conceive a cover story capable of quelling the growing mania. He rose to greet Danielle Hawkins, th
e president’s chief of staff. Without saying a word, she crooked a finger and motioned for Pritchard to approach. Her face was crimson and she wore a scowl. As Pritchard walked toward her, he thought, “Damn you, Augie. Look at what you’ve gotten me into!”
When he reached Hawkins, the forty-year-old former campaign manager jabbed a finger into Pritchard’s chest and whispered, “Beware. He’s royally pissed.”
She stepped aside and Pritchard found himself confronted by the grim-faced Shaw. At the far end of the room, President Andrew Jennings stood by the window behind his desk, speaking on the phone. Well, speaking was a charitable description. Screaming was more apt.
Shaw joined Hawkins and Pritchard and whispered, “It’s likely to get ugly, Dennis. Don’t take it personally.”
Pritchard nodded. “I’ll try not to. Who’s he on the phone with?”
“Secretary of state,” Shaw said. “Moron gave an interview on one of the networks. Made up all kinds of crazy shit.”
“Will anyone else be joining us?” Pritchard asked, surprised to see no one from the Defense Department in the room.
“Not for this meeting,” Hawkins said. “Andy wants to hear what you have to say first. When we’re finished here, we’ll likely call a meeting of the NSC. As you might imagine, SECDEF is hot for answers. Same is true over at NSA and CIA.”
“Got it,” Pritchard said. “Sorry for the firestorm. I didn’t think Amato would pull a stunt like this.”
Hawkins didn’t mince words. “I won’t B.S. you, Doctor. Andy’s not pleased you didn’t give us a heads-up about your trip to Mayaguana. If we had had this meeting twelve hours ago, we would have been better prepared to deal with it.”
The criticism was justified. He could have defended the delay by stating his fear of raising a false alarm about the UMOs but realized it wouldn’t soothe the president’s current anger. He apologized to Hawkins for the delay.
She nodded toward the fuming president who was still engaged in a shouting match with the secretary of state. “He’ll get over it. But don’t be surprised if you take fire.”
Skywave Page 14
