The Roswell Conspiracy

ONE

They called it the Snow Farm, and Tyler Locke had to admit this winter brought a bumper crop. White stretched across the rolling hills unbroken until it reached the rocky peaks in the distance. As he strolled out the lodge entrance, Tyler zipped up his leather jacket and put on gloves. Although there were no clouds to block the morning sun, it was still a nippy negative ten Celsius outside, not the temperature he was used to in mid-July.

With a wave to the bellman, Tyler walked out into the frigid air. He squinted against the blinding white before donning his sunglasses. In the distance, clusters of Nordic skiers whisked across groomed courses. Behind him he could hear the whine of car engines being pushed to their limits as they raced around a track.

A silver Audi S4 rounded a bend piled high by the Snow Farm’s massive snow blowers. The Audi drifted one direction, then the other, throwing up a rooster tail of snow behind it. The turbo howled as the car accelerated toward the hotel entrance. Just when it looked like the driver was going to blow past him, the antilock brakes chattered, and the car skidded to a stop in front of Tyler.

The driver’s door flew open, and a black man bounded out with a quickness that must have amazed the bellman watching from inside. Though Grant Westfield’s six-foot frame was two inches shorter than Tyler’s, he was built like a tank and moved like a Ferrari. If Tyler shaved off his short brown hair and quadrupled his time in the weight room, he might look half as formidable.

Not that Grant was looking particularly intimidating at the moment. Tyler barked a laugh when he saw that his friend had squeezed all 250 pounds of muscle into an enormous orange parka. To Tyler, Grant looked like the unholy offspring of the Michelin Man and a pumpkin.

“Where did you get that?” Tyler said.

Grant patted the car and smiled. “Isn’t it cool? I talked the guys at the Proving Grounds into letting us borrow it for the day.”

New Zealand’s Southern Hemisphere Proving Grounds, located halfway between Wanaka and Queenstown in the South Island’s Southern Alps, is the leading facility for auto companies that want to torture-test their upcoming cars in winter conditions while the US, Japan, and Europe bask in summer. Tyler and Grant were there to put a top-secret hybrid prototype through its cold-weather paces for an unnamed manufacturer. Now that they were done with their main work, they had one more job to do before they took a few days off to explore some of the adventures for which the Queenstown area was famous.

Skiing, however, would not be one of the activities. Unlike Tyler, Grant hated the cold.

“The car is great,” Tyler said, “but I was talking about your nuclear-powered parka.”

Grant stretched out his arms and then adjusted the black ski hat that covered his shorn head. “It’s awesome. Even Antarctica is afraid of this parka. You don’t like it?”

“I’m afraid that if I sit next to it for more than an hour, the radiation will make me as bald as you are.” He rounded the front of the Audi, but Grant blocked the opening.

“What are you doing?” Grant said.

“I’m driving.”

“The hell you are. I procured the vehicle, so I get to drive.”

“When was the last time you drove in snow?”

“Two years ago. When we were in Whistler for that job at the Olympics.”

“Exactly,” Tyler said. “You tore the bumper off my Cayenne.”

“An accident. Could have happened to anyone.”

“In the condo parking lot?”

Grant shrugged. “Then this is just the practice I need. Four-wheel drive, top-of-the-line snow tires, electronic stability control.”

“Ten airbags.”

“Right! You’ll be plenty safe. What more could you want?”

Seeing that Grant wouldn’t relent, Tyler trudged back to the other side and got in. Before he even had his belt on, Grant punched the accelerator and they were fishtailing down the road.

“Where to?” Grant asked.

“Left when we get to the highway. The sheep station is north of Queenstown. My phone’s map says no more than an hour to get there, even with your driving.”

“Man, I cannot believe we are doing this.”

“Aren’t you a little curious to see what she’s got?”

“Come on. This lady must be senile. A seventy-five-year-old woman claims to have witnessed the crash of an alien spacecraft at Roswell and has a piece of the wreckage, and you think she’ll hand us anything other than some unidentifiable hunk of twisted metal? If she’s creative, it’ll at least be from a 1947 Buick. Who is she anyway?”

“Fay Turia. Born Fay Allen. Raised on a ranch near Roswell, New Mexico, until the age of ten when her father’s cousin got him a job as a foreman at a sheep station in New Zealand. The whole family moved down here, and she hasn’t lived in the US since.”

“You checked her out?”

“As much as I could,” Tyler said. “She emailed me a copy of her birth certificate to prove she was born in Roswell. It was legit.”

“So she lived there. Why does she want to hire us?”

“She called Gordian the foremost airplane accident investigation firm in the world.”

“Well, that’s true. At least she’s perceptive in that respect.”

Gordian Engineering was the company Tyler had founded. With a bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering from MIT and a PhD from Stanford, he’d since happily stepped down from his role as president of the firm and now served as its chief of special operations, which meant he could pick and choose the projects he wanted to pursue. Grant was his best friend and the company’s top electrical engineer. Their complementary skills let them oversee a wide range of projects, including forensic accident analysis, demolition, loss prevention, and automotive testing.

But this request was not in the normal line of inquiry. Most of their jobs were for large multinationals that could afford the rates they charged. An individual asking for their assistance was highly unusual.

“Did she ever say why she waited sixty-five years to come out to the world?” Grant asked.

“She said she’s been doing her own investigation on the down low because she heard too many stories about what the government did to the other people who came forward about the crash. But now she’s stuck and wants to see if we can help her out.”

“And you agreed to this out of the goodness of your heart?”

“She sweet-talked me into it. Of course, I wasn’t going to take on the job officially.”

“Probably not something we want to add to our website.”

Tyler laughed. “Right. I told her if she could wait three months, we’d be in her neck of the woods for another job and would stop by to see what she had. So here we are.”

“She’s a kook.”

“Likely, although she sounded remarkably with-it on the phone. I’m sure whatever the object is, we’ll turn it over, frown at it with concern, take a sample and some photos, and then tell her that its origin is indeterminate. We won’t give her a conclusive answer, but we won’t dash her hopes for an alien artifact, either. After that we can head into Queenstown.”

“I hear they’ve got a good pizza place there called The Cow,” Grant said. “Then we can figure out what to do for fun. You know, I do have the parachutes in the trunk.”

Tyler smirked at him. “You don’t give up, do you? I told you. Bungee jumping, yes. Skydiving, no. At least with the bungee you’re already tied to the bridge.”

For the next thirty minutes, Grant steered them down a twisty cliff-hugging road called the Crown Range, where the drop-offs were so steep and Grant’s driving was so suspect that Tyler started to wonder just how much more adventure he could stand during the trip.

Once they got below three thousand feet, the snow cleared and Grant upped the speed. They made up so much time that Tyler texted Fay that they’d be twenty minutes early.

Tyler guided Grant through green pastures and farmland dotted by quaint bed-and-breakfasts. When they turned onto Fay’s road along a deep ravine carved by the Shotover River, Grant sighed as it climbed back above the snow line. In another few minutes they saw a sign for the Turia Remarkables Sheep Station, named for the jagged Remarkables mountain range looming over Queenstown’s Lake Wakatipu. Fresh tire tracks split the driveway’s snow.

“Maybe this means she left,” Grant said hopefully. “I’m starving.”

Tyler looked at his watch: 9:40 a.m. Twenty minutes early for their appointment. “That would explain why she hasn’t texted back.”

They followed the tracks for half a mile until they reached a stately white clapboard home with an attached garage. Behind it was a large red barn. Except for a few evergreens surrounding the house, the countryside was bare of trees. A fence disappeared into the hills on either side.

The snow tracks separated into a pair that led to the garage and a second set leading to a Toyota sedan parked in the circular driveway in front of the house. Grant pulled up next to it.

Tyler got out and laid his hand on the Toyota’s hood. Still warm, just like he expected. No rancher would drive a sedan. Two pairs of footprints wound to the door. Fay must have visitors.

No sheep or ranch hands were visible, probably out working somewhere on the station’s two thousand acres.

“Nice place,” Grant said.

“Looks like ranching has been good to her. Shall we say howdy?”

Grant nodded, and they crunched through the snow. When they were within ten feet of the front door, two shotgun blasts erupted from inside the house.

Their Army training kicking in, Tyler and Grant both dived to their bellies without hesitation. Grant gave him a look and silently mouthed, “What the hell?”

Tyler was about to suggest they make a hasty retreat to the Audi when he was stopped by a woman’s shout, followed by a third shotgun blast closer to the right side of the home. Tyler turned his head and saw a man skid around the corner of the house.

He raised a pistol, but before Tyler could yell, “Don’t shoot,” the stranger fired wildly in their direction, bullet impacts kicking up snow all around them.

That was all the prodding they needed to find cover. Grant scrambled toward the house and rammed the front door open like a charging rhino. Tyler was hot on his heels and slammed it closed once he crossed the threshold.

The hallway seemed shrouded in darkness until Tyler realized he was still wearing his sunglasses. When he doffed them, he saw that shards of a broken lamp littered the floor and buckshot holes peppered the wall.

From his right came the unmistakable sound of a pump-action shotgun chambering a new round. Tyler looked up to see a striking woman who had to be seventy-five-year-old Fay Turia, though she didn’t look a day over sixty. In her white hair cropped just below the ears, slim sporty figure, and bright green eyes, Tyler perceived the echo of the stunning beauty she must have been fifty years ago. Only the wrinkles around her eyes and neck and several liver spots on her hands betrayed her true age. She held the shotgun firm to her shoulder, as if she were not merely comfortable with the weapon but adept at handling it.

“Who are you?” she growled. The yawning barrel was the size of a manhole at this distance. Smoke wafted from it.

Tyler put up his hands. “I’m Tyler Locke. You must be Fay. I believe you invited me and my friend, Grant Westfield, for a friendly visit.”

Recognition dawned on her face, and the scowl melted away, replaced by a toothsome smile.

“Welcome to my home, Dr. Locke,” she said cheerfully, as if she were about to serve tea and crumpets instead of hot lead. “Would you mind terribly calling the police?”

TWO

Nadia Bedova stared at the water glass, hoping that Vladimir Colchev would not show up. Nestled next to her feet was the package that he’d requested.

Her seat at the outdoor café afforded a spectacular view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, clusters of tourists visible along its spine partaking in the Bridge Climb. A cruise ship docked across Circular Quay provided the backdrop for ferries, catamarans, and jet boats motoring past the ivory shells of the famed opera house.

Despite her calm expression, Bedova’s stomach churned as she waited. Four of her fellow operatives from Russia’s foreign intelligence service — the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki or SVR for short — were stationed at key locations nearby: two in the crowded walkway between the café and water, one at another table outside, and a fourth inside the restaurant housed under a five-story apartment tower. In addition to the mass of tourists strolling along, bikers and skateboarders occasionally rolled through. None of them would escape the operatives’ notice. They were here to apprehend Colchev or, if necessary, to kill him.

His actions had driven her reluctantly to this point. If he had just disappeared, he might have been left alone. But his last contact with her made it obvious that the SVR would have to bring him in or get rid of him once and for all.

A voice issued from the tiny microphone in her ear. One of the men in the walkway.

“I see him. One hundred meters behind you and coming this way.”

Bedova didn’t turn. “Is he alone?”

“Yes.”

The agents had already checked everyone else in the vicinity, and nobody seemed suspicious or put in place to help Colchev. He really was on his own, just as he’d said on the phone this morning.

She felt him touch her shoulder and didn’t flinch. She looked up and saw him smiling back at her. He was as fit as she’d ever seen him — broad shoulders, slim hips, steely gray hair — and she suddenly experienced a rush of memories of when they’d been together.

He bent down and lightly kissed her cheek. Then he came around the café’s front railing and took a seat opposite her. Now that he was in the shade, he removed his sunglasses and the intense eyes she remembered drilled into her.

“You look lovely, Nadia,” he said in a silky bass, using his native Russian.

She responded in kind. “I miss you, Vladimir. Why don’t you come home?”

“You know I can’t do that. At least not yet.”

“When then?”

“I have something to do first.”

“Is that why you needed this?” Bedova handed the bag over to him. He unzipped it, confirmed that the contents were complete and intact, and then closed it back up.

“Thank you, Nadia. I know procuring this must have been difficult.” He withdrew an envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table to her.

“I can’t take that,” she said.

“You deserve it. For everything you’ve done.”

She ignored the bulging envelope and leaned forward, taking his hands. “You must tell me what you’re doing. I want to help you.” She knew all four operatives, as well as her superiors back in Moscow, were hanging on every word.

Up to this point, the only intel they’d had to go on was courtesy of a single encrypted communication intercepted from one of Colchev’s known associates that referred to “Wisconsin Ave.” and an event taking place on July twenty-fifth, less than a week away. The belief within the organization was that he was planning a rogue op using former SVR operatives turned mercenaries and that the target was somewhere in America.

“I wish you could come with me,” Colchev said, “but the risk is too great.”

“When I volunteered for the SVR, I knew the risks.”

“I meant the risk to my mission.”

“You don’t trust me?”

Colchev turned to watch a passing ferry. “What I’m planning takes a special conviction. Honestly, I don’t think you would have the stomach to follow through.”

“Why?”

“It’s better that you don’t know.”

She let go of his hands and sat back. “Did you know I have spoken to the head of the SVR?”

Colchev’s head snapped around. “Why?”

“I didn’t tell him about our meeting. I wanted to know what he had planned for you if you returned.”

“A sham trial followed by a swift execution, I expect.”

“No, he said that he understands that the situation wasn’t your fault. And he knows that you have another operation in motion. He wants to know if there is any way he can help you.”

Colchev was silent as he examined her for deceit. Like him, she was an expert at lying, which she was doing now. Her objective was to find out about Colchev’s current plan. The director was hoping that Colchev would bring her onto his team or at least give her some hint of his mission. Barring that, the four operatives were instructed to move in and take him as soon as he walked out of the café with the bag. Bedova couldn’t have asked for a more wrenching assignment: to bring in the man she had once loved to be executed just as he’d theorized.

Colchev had created the spy ring that included Anna Chapman and nine other spies who were exposed by the US counterintelligence agencies in 2010. To prevent divulgence of their intelligence-gathering methods, the Russians retrieved them by swapping four imprisoned Russian intel officers who had been moles for the Americans. Nobody had been happy about the deal, but the SVR couldn’t allow the spies in America to reveal any more than they already had.

Someone had to be blamed for the debacle, and the obvious choice had been Colonel Alexander Poteyev, the SVR agent who’d sold the spies’ identities to the Americans for thirty thousand dollars. But internally, the fault rested with Colchev, the man responsible for setting up the entire operation in the first place. If he wasn’t incompetent for letting the Americans discover the spies, then he was complicit. Either way, he had to be dealt with. Permanently.

“Nadia,” Colchev finally said, “they have already tried Poteyev in absentia and found him guilty of treason. He’s now a non-person in Russia. If it weren’t for the CIA’s protection, he’d be dead by now.”

“Why didn’t you go into protective custody like Poteyev?”

Colchev’s jaw worked back and forth, and then he spoke in a hush. “Because I’m not a traitor. I didn’t sell out my country. I hate America for everything they’ve done to Russia. I’m a patriot.”

“Then prove it. Come back with me and tell them the truth.”

“They aren’t interested in the truth. They want a show trial to save face. It will accomplish nothing.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I have assets in the US that I never revealed because I feared Poteyev’s treachery myself. Because they weren’t compromised, I saw my opportunity to act independently, and I’m taking it. I’m going to prove my allegiance to Russia and the SVR. And when I do, my men and I will be welcomed back to our homeland as heroes.”

“But what can you possibly do that we can’t?” Bedova asked.

“Something that takes will. Now that I’m a non-person, whatever I do can be blamed on a rogue spy. I didn’t ask for this status, but since I have it, I will take advantage of it and do what Russia never could without fearing retaliation. Once they see the results, they will do everything they can to reward me.”

“I don’t understand.” Her gaze lingered on the bag holding the equipment Colchev had requested. “How will Icarus make this operation possible?”

Colchev tilted his head as if considering a decision. “Are you sure you want to be a part of this?”

She had reached him. Now she had to delve into his mission. “Are you planning an attack?”

He smiled. “I am planning to strike a blow that will change the course of history and Russia’s place in it. I have—”

Colchev’s phone buzzed. He stood and picked up the bag. This was it, as soon as he left the café, the operatives would move in and grab him.

But instead of leaving, he put the bag on his seat and held up a finger. “Excuse me while I take this call. Then I’ll share my plans with you.”

He stepped away to a pillar by the side of restaurant, just out of earshot.

“Can you hear anything?” she said without moving her lips.

“Nothing,” one operative said.

“Keep an eye on him,” said another.

“He won’t leave without the bag,” Bedova said. “He needs it for some reason, and he’s about to tell us why.”

Bedova felt a rush of air blow by her, and the swift hand of a bicyclist snatched the bag from Colchev’s seat. He threw the satchel over his shoulder and pedaled away furiously, scattering yelling pedestrians in every direction.

The thief, who was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, must have thought it was Bedova’s luggage carelessly placed across from her, but he would get a rude surprise when he saw that it held no money, jewelry, or electronics.

Before she could call for help, the other operatives were shouting in her ear.

“Get him!”

“He’s too fast!”

“Cut him off!”

The operative seated at the café tried to jump across the railing to stop the cyclist, but he was too late, as were the agents in the walkway and the one bursting out of the restaurant’s interior.

Bedova knew that Colchev would be just as concerned with retrieving the sack, but when she turned, she couldn’t see him. The wail of an alarm coming from that direction cut through the other noises.

“What happened to Colchev?” she said.

“He was right there a moment ago!” came the harried reply. “I looked away for a second, and then he was gone.”

Bedova grabbed the envelope and leaped out of her chair. She ran through the café to see a fire exit from the adjoining apartment tower click shut. The alarm it had tripped continued to shriek. Because it was a metal door with no exterior handle, someone inside must have opened it for Colchev.

Only then did she realize that the whole scenario had been a setup. Colchev had chosen the restaurant, no doubt paying off the waiter to steer Bedova toward the seat she’d taken. He had used the cyclist as a distraction, giving him enough time to duck into the building.

She took off after the other men chasing the rider, who disappeared around the corner of the building.

Pumping her arms, she sprinted after him, rounding the building not far behind the other agents. As the cyclist came into view, she saw him dump the bike at Macquarie Street. A van screeched to a halt next to him. He hopped in and the van sped away.

She heard it stop again only a few seconds later. She kept running, and when she got to the street, she could see Colchev climbing into the van. He caught sight of her and gave her a wave. He mouthed “Spasebo” and the door shut. The van accelerated and whipped around the corner.

“Did you see the plate?” one agent said.

“Don’t bother,” Bedova replied. “It’ll be a stolen number.”

Their own van arrived a minute later, but by now the trail was too cold. Colchev could be heading in any one of six directions.

Bedova patted the envelope in her pocket and withdrew it. She opened it to find a stack of hundred-dollar Australian bills. They were wrapped in a white sheet of notepaper.

She unfolded it and saw Colchev’s handwriting.

I don’t blame you for trying, Nadia, because you are a patriot, too. But don’t get in my way again.

THREE

Tyler was surprised when the men who’d attacked Fay didn’t jump into their car and drive away, instead taking up positions covering both sides of the house with their pistols. Tyler, Grant, and Fay had retreated to the top floor to wait there until the cavalry arrived. The only time she had left them was to duck into the living room and retrieve a canvas satchel that now sat by her side.

“Have you ever fired a Remington twelve-gauge, dear?” Fay said to Grant. The weapon that had loomed like a howitzer in Fay’s hands looked like a pea shooter in Grant’s.

“I’ve handled a few in my day,” Grant replied.

“He was in the Army Ranger Regiment,” Tyler said. “He could shoot an RPG if you had one.”

“No, the New Zealand government won’t let us own those, I’m afraid,” Fay said. Tyler didn’t know whether or not she was seriously chastising her adopted country for not allowing her to own a rocket-propelled grenade until she winked at him.

“You don’t have any more ammo, do you?” Grant asked. “We’re down to four shells.”

“No. It was my husband’s gun, God rest his soul, and I hadn’t fired it in years until today.”

Fay’s initial calm demeanor hadn’t been an act. Once they’d heard that the police were on their way, Tyler had expected her to collapse from the strain. Instead, she’d methodically related the events preceding their stumble through the front door, although she did give Grant the shotgun, which he kept trained on the stairwell.

Fay had been traveling in the US for the past two weeks, and she had returned to Queenstown that morning, in time for her meeting with Tyler. Five minutes after she got home, two men knocked at the door. New Zealand normally being a safe place, Fay didn’t think twice about letting them in, especially when they said they were there representing Tyler Locke, who unfortunately wasn’t going to be able to come himself.

The men, both of whom spoke with American accents, seemed to know everything about the meeting, including the ten o’clock appointment they’d set, so she showed them her artifacts from Roswell. The lean blond man who’d shot at Tyler and Grant called himself Foreman, and the other one, a hulking giant sporting a black goatee, went by the name of Blaine. They wanted to know whether she’d ever come in contact with an opalescent metallic material, and she told them she honestly didn’t know what they were talking about.

Fay was already beginning to suspect their motives when she went into the kitchen to fetch a pot of tea and saw Tyler’s text message that he would be early.

Calling from the kitchen, she asked Foreman and Blaine where Tyler was, and they claimed he hadn’t been able to make the trip from America. Instead of coming back with a tray of Earl Grey and scones, she entered the living room holding the shotgun.

The men put up their hands and moved as if to leave, but one of them drew a pistol, and that’s when the shooting started.

“I guess those two will think twice before underestimating an old lady again,” she said.

Fay certainly didn’t fit the image of an elderly pensioner. Tyler guessed she kept herself fit working the sheep station. Her hands were callused and she had lines on her face from being outdoors in the sun, but the sweater she wore left no doubt that she had some muscle on her bones, holding the shotgun with ease. She was the antithesis of a doddering grandmother.

“I wouldn’t mess with you,” Tyler said. “Plus you seem pretty fresh for someone who slept on a plane last night.”

“Try Ambien. It does wonders for a person. Fourteen hours from LA through Auckland, and not a bit of jet lag. You should try it the next time you travel.”

“As long as Tyler isn’t the one doing the flying,” Grant said.

“Oh, are you a pilot?” When Tyler nodded, she patted his arm and then gave it a squeeze, feeling his bicep. “You are a catch, aren’t you? Smart, good-looking, and talented. If I were forty years younger, I’d save you for myself.”

Tyler didn’t know what that meant, but he felt himself blushing. Grant chuckled and shook his head.

“Maybe we should get back to focusing on the two men with guns outside,” Tyler said. The car hadn’t started, so he guessed they hadn’t gone far. “How long before the police get here?”

“About ten more minutes, give or take.”

“They’ll leave as soon as they hear the sirens. It would be suicide for them to make a frontal assault.”

“Their whole plan seems risky,” Grant said. “Why aren’t they leaving already?”

“Fay, do you know why they wanted your artifacts?” Tyler asked.

Fay shook her head and clutched her satchel tightly. “I don’t. Only my granddaughter has seen what’s in here.”

“Would she have told someone about it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I know why they aren’t leaving,” Grant said with a sniff. “Do you smell that?”

Tyler saw the first wisps of smoke curling up the stairwell, followed by the crackle of flames from the back of the house.

“I’ll call 111 back and tell them to send a fire engine,” Grant said as he handed the shotgun to Tyler and pulled out his phone. “And I’ll get something to cover our faces.” He went into the hallway bathroom.

For the first time, Fay lost her composure. Her face seethed with rage. “Those bastards set my house on fire! I should have killed them when I had the chance.”

Tyler crabbed to the rear window and poked his head up. The back door was engulfed in fire. “Did you have any accelerants outside?”

Fay thought for a moment, then nodded. “Lighter fluid for the barbecue.”

“That must be what they used. The cedar siding will go up fast.”

“If they came for my Roswell artifacts, why do they want to burn them now?”

Tyler shrugged. He was just as confused by the situation as Fay.

Smoke billowed through the hallway. He and Fay crouched to get under the thickest of it.

Tyler edged over to the front window and took a peek. He saw Blaine run around from the back of the house and take up a spot behind the Toyota. At this distance the shotgun would be at a severe disadvantage. Instead of solid slugs, the gun was loaded with birdshot, which had a minimal effective range. There was no way to get all three of them to the Audi safely.

Blaine reared back and threw a glass container with a lit rag protruding from it.

The front of the house burst into flames. Now they were trapped from both sides. They’d all succumb to smoke inhalation long before the police arrived if they stayed inside, but jumping through one of the windows would make them easy targets.

Grant came back from a bathroom with wet hand towels to put over their noses and mouths.

“The firefighters are on the way,” Grant said, “but it’ll be a while. I suggest we get out of here.”

Tyler remembered the tire tracks leading to the garage. “Do you have a car, Fay?”

“A Land Rover. We can get to it from the kitchen.”

That’s what Tyler had been hoping to hear. Since the garage was attached to the house, they wouldn’t have to go outside to get in the vehicle.

“We’ll have to risk a getaway,” Tyler said. “Let’s go before we can’t breathe.”

They all scooted down the stairs. Fay grabbed Tyler’s hand. “This way.”

The three of them scuttled to a door in the kitchen. They had to shield themselves from the flying shards of glass as the back windows shattered from the heat. When they entered the dark garage, Fay slapped a set of keys into Tyler’s hand.

“Your reflexes are probably quicker than mine.”

Tyler gave the shotgun to Grant. “See if you can take one of them out when we pass.”

They scrambled into the SUV, Tyler in the driver’s seat, Fay in the passenger seat, and Grant in the back.

“Ready?” Tyler said, the key already in the ignition.

Grant thumbed the window switch. “Ready.”

Fay clicked her seat belt and nodded.

“Okay,” Tyler said, “everyone keep your heads down.”

Tyler started the engine and flicked the transmission into drive. He didn’t bother with the garage door opener. He slammed his foot to the floorboard, and the Land Rover’s nose tore into the aluminum door, wrenching it from its tracks. Flames licked at the truck as they sped out, the garage door still clinging to the hood until a flick of the steering wheel sent it flying.

The gunmen were crouching behind the Toyota, ready for their quarry to pile out in a panic away from the fire at the back of the house. It only took a moment for them to refocus their aim, but it was enough time for Grant to lay down some covering fire. Two quick blasts disintegrated the Toyota’s rear window and pockmarked the quarter panel.

Tyler checked the rearview mirror and saw that one of the men had been hit by a couple of pellets. The slight injury did no more than cause him to curse loudly and return fire, his pistol cracking as bullets plunked into the back of the Land Rover.

In this snow there was no way the two-wheel-drive Toyota sedan would be able to keep up with the four-wheel-drive SUV, so Tyler intended to gain a lead and rendezvous with the police, who should be on their way up the mountain.

It sounded like a great plan until a pistol shot behind them was followed by a loud thump from under the vehicle. A bullet had punctured the right rear tire. The Land Rover’s back end swerved sideways as Tyler struggled to maintain control. Now he not only had to outrun their trigger-happy pursuers, but he would have to fight the SUV’s insistent urge to plunge off the snowy cliff-side road into the river far below.

FOUR

Morgan Bell wasn’t getting much cooperation from Charles Kessler, Lightfall’s project lead. That pissed her off.

“Dr. Kessler, we have full authorization to be here,” she said, pointing at her credentials. It stated that she was a special agent with the Air Force’s Office of Special Investigations.

Kessler peered at her ID in mock studiousness. “Never heard of OSI.”

“That doesn’t matter. I know you’ve been contacted by our superiors about our investigation and that you were instructed to give your full cooperation. We need to talk. Now.”

By “we” she meant herself and her partner, Vince Cameron, who stood next to her watching a dozen laboratory technicians carefully packing equipment into shipping crates. Their voices echoed from the Wright-Patterson lab’s high ceiling. Morgan had visited the sprawling Dayton, Ohio Air Force base many times, but she’d never been inside this building.

“Agent Bell, I’m very busy here,” Kessler said, his eyes sweeping the room before locking on a skinny man in glasses and a lab coat who was wrestling a box onto a hand cart. “Collins! Make sure the OC-5 analyzer gets packed in there.”

Collins looked up and nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir.”

Kessler pointed at a guy with long greasy curls and more forearm hair than she’d ever seen before. “Josephson. Help Collins.”

Josephson looked less eager than Collins. “Dr. Kessler, I’m supposed to be packing the calibration equipment.”

“And if you had that done yesterday, maybe I would have sent Collins on the transport flight to accompany the equipment instead of you. Now move.”

Josephson shrugged and moseyed over to Collins.

Kessler turned back to Morgan. “The transport flight is scheduled to take off in three hours, and as you can see we are behind schedule.”

“Sounds like poor planning on your part,” she said.

“Who are you?”

“Dr. Kessler,” Vince said, “we’re sorry to bother you at a critical time. We just need a word with you in private. I promise it won’t take more than a few minutes.”

Kessler smoldered and then said, “Fine. My office is over here.” He stalked away, leaving them in the dust.

Vince grinned at Morgan as they followed him. “Have you heard of the phrase, ‘You’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar’?”

Morgan didn’t return the smile. “Yes.”

“Don’t you think that tactic might come in handy once in a while?”

“I use it if I need to.”

“Do you ever need to?”

“No.”

“See?” Vince said. “That’s your problem.”

“It’s not a problem. That’s what I have you for.”

“I knew I had a purpose.”

They entered Kessler’s office and closed the door. Kessler sat down at his desk in a huff. “So what is the OSI anyway?”

“You ever watch the show NCIS?” Vince said. “You know, Naval Criminal Investigative Service? We’re like them, only for the Air Force instead of the Navy.”

“I don’t watch TV.”

“We are the primary law enforcement agency for the Air Force,” Morgan said. “Our mission is to identify and neutralize criminal, terrorist, and intelligence threats to the Air Force, Department of Defense, and US government.”

“Well, I’m pleased to tell you, Agent Bell, that we’re on your side.”

“Are you sure about that? Because we have evidence that there is a leak in Project Lightfall.”

Kessler sat up in his chair. “What do you mean?”

“Does anyone in the program ever use the term, ‘Killswitch’?”

Kessler was aghast. “How do you know that word?”

“That’s the nickname some people on your staff have used to refer to the Lightfall weapon, isn’t it?”

Kessler furiously tapped on his desk with his index finger to punctuate his points as he spoke. “Agent, this is an unacknowledged Special Access Program. Information is strictly on a need-to-know basis. Most members of Congress don’t even know about Lightfall.”

“Well, there are no senators here, so we should be fine.”

“Dr. Kessler,” Vince said, “both Agent Bell and I have top clearances, as I’m sure you were told. And we are on a need-to-know basis in this case. If someone is trying to steal information about Lightfall, our mission is to identify that person or persons and bring them to justice before we have a further national security breach.”

Kessler didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “All right. Yes. The staff started referring to the weapon as the Killswitch, and the name stuck, much to my chagrin.”

“The National Security Agency intercepted a message hidden in a public Internet discussion forum dedicated to videogames.” Vince referred to his notebook. “It said, ‘Kill Switch hints? Stuck on level seven. Died twenty-one times the first day, then twenty-five times the next. Need help.’ The username was PG0915. Only one person responded. A man named George Hickson. His answer was, ‘Did you try the black box cheat code?’”

Kessler frowned. “Hints and cheat codes? Is Kill Switch a game?”

“Yes. It was released nine years ago.”

“So? It’s just some kid who can’t play very well. What’s the problem?”

“Because elements of the message seem to have connections to the Lightfall program, we think it may be a code. When is the Killswitch supposed to arrive in Australia?”

“Two days from now. The weapons test is scheduled for ten days after that.” Kessler’s eyebrows knitted together. “What are you getting at?”

“The arrival date is July twenty-first,” Morgan said. “Seven twenty-one.”

“Are you serious?” Kessler said with a laugh. “That has to be a coincidence.”

“What happens on July twenty-fifth?”

Kessler shrugged. “We’ll be prepping for the test firing.”

“And what about the username?” Morgan asked. “PG0915. You’re using the Pine Gap facility for the test prep. PG may mean Pine Gap.”

“More coincidence.”

“And what if 0915 is a time?”

“Oh, come on. Did you track this person down? It’s probably some pimply-faced teenager in his mother’s basement.”

“We did try to find this person,” Vince said, “but whoever it was used an anonymizer to register the username. George Hickson didn’t pan out either.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“It’s possible that hostile forces are targeting one of those dates for some reason,” Morgan said. “Perhaps someone is planning to take photos or smuggle information about the weapon out of Pine Gap. They may even try to sabotage the weapon somehow. It’s our recommendation that you postpone the test until a later date.”

Kessler’s face darkened. “Agent Bell, do you know how much has been spent getting ready for this test?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Over one billion dollars and seventy thousand man-hours of work.”

“And all of that time and money will be wasted if someone steals information about the weapon or disables it somehow.”

“I don’t believe this.”

A knock at the door.

“Yes?” Kessler said.

The door opened and Collins poked his head in. “Sir, we’re having a problem with the magnetic flux density analyzer.”

“What’s wrong with … Never mind. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” Collins closed the door.

“Why is this test being conducted in Australia?” Morgan asked.

Kessler sighed. “We have to use the Woomera Test Range in South Australia.”

“We have test ranges here in the US.”

“Woomera is the biggest land-based weapons testing area in the world. It’s larger than England and allows the evaluation of rockets and explosives far from prying eyes. No facility in the US is that isolated.”

“Who chose Australia as the test site?”

“The Australians. This is a joint project with them.”

“I know. Do you think someone on the Australian side could be the leak?”

“It’s only a handful of people on their end, but go ahead and waste your time delving into that side of it.”

“We will investigate every possibility thoroughly,” Morgan said. “In the meantime I’m going to recommend that you postpone the test until we can verify who sent that message.”

“Agent Cameron,” Kessler said, turning dramatically toward Vince, “you seem to be the more reasonable person here, so I’ll address this to you. Unless I get a call from the Secretary of the Air Force himself telling me to call off the test, we are going forward with it. Now, you are the investigators, so investigate. You may interview whomever you want. Look into their backgrounds. Put extra security on the transport. I don’t care. Just stay out of my way.”

Before Morgan could respond to the disdainful comments, Vince stopped her. “Putting extra security measures on the transport will only draw attention that what they’re transporting is valuable. We might as well put a sign on the plane saying, ‘Top secret weapon inside. Please don’t steal it.’”

Kessler waved a hand. “Security is your job, not mine.”

“Dr. Kessler,” Vince said, “are any of your employees gamblers?”

“I have no idea. I don’t get involved with their private lives.”

“Any of them been acting strangely at work?”

He spoke without hesitation. “Not at all.”

“You’re absolutely sure you don’t remember anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not that I recall.”

“You seem to be very blasé about the possibility that your project has been compromised by potential spies,” Morgan said.

“I handpicked all of the scientists and engineers on this project myself. I work with them daily. I can state for a fact that none of them is a spy.”

“What about you?”

Kessler’s eyes burned into Morgan’s. “Are you insane? I’ve spent the last ten years of my life on this program. I’ve staked my entire reputation on it. Why would I do anything to sabotage it?”

“You tell me.”

“I can’t, because this is ridiculous. You’re fishing for something to justify your jobs. Unless you can come up with a more credible threat than a stupid message on a discussion forum, we will continue as planned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make sure Collins will be finished in the next thirty minutes.”

He stood and walked to the door, waving Morgan and Vince out of his office. He shot Morgan a withering stare as he locked it, and he was gone.

“What do you think?” Vince asked her.

“I don’t like coincidences,” Morgan said.

“Neither do I.”

While Vince took a bathroom break, she called her section head. The conversation didn’t go well. She hung up and waited.

When Vince returned, he said, “By the fact that we aren’t hustling after Kessler, I’m guessing the boss said he wasn’t going to the director with this.”

Morgan shook her head. “He doesn’t think there’s enough to warrant cancelling the test.”

“It is pretty flimsy evidence.”

“Not too flimsy to merit two tickets to Australia, though. We’re on United out of LA this evening. I convinced him to send us to Pine Gap just to keep an eye on things.”

Vince groaned. “Are you kidding? Fifteen hours on a flight to Sydney? At least tell me we’re flying business class.”

Morgan shook her head. “Coach.”

Another groan.

“It gets worse. Did you look at Pine Gap on the map?”

“No. Why?”

“Sydney isn’t our final destination. We’ve got a connecting three-hour flight. Pine Gap is in the middle of the Australian outback, near Alice Springs.”

This time Vince didn’t groan. “You just love trying to make me miserable.”

“No,” Morgan said. “You do just fine on your own.”

FIVE

If the bullet had gone through one of the front tires, the Land Rover would have skidded off the road and plummeted into the Shotover River long ago. And although the right rear tire was punctured, it hadn’t shredded, so Tyler was able to open up some distance between him and the rear-wheel-drive Toyota on the snowy road. With the curves throwing off their aim, the pursuers’ shots went wild. So far luck had favored the pursued.

But two new problems faced them. Grant was now out of shells, and they had come down to an elevation where snow no longer covered the road. At the speed Tyler was going, the pavement would rip the punctured tire to tatters in minutes.

“Where are the cops?” Tyler said to Grant in the backseat.

“The dispatcher says they’re about two miles away.”

Tyler saw in the mirror that the Toyota was closing fast. “If we stop, we’ll never be able to hold out until the police get here.”

“There’s a small town up ahead,” Fay said. “Arthurs Point. We could run into a shop and get help.”

“Do the shop owners carry guns?”

“Shop owners in gun shops do.”

“I don’t suppose there are any gun shops in this little town.”

“I don’t think so.”

Hiding in a store might work, or it might get innocent bystanders killed. Given that the gunmen were still in hot pursuit, it didn’t seem like they cared much about witnesses.

Tyler saw a red sign flash by for Shotover Jet, the jet boats that take passengers on a high-speed ride down the Shotover River canyon. Grant had shown him a brief video of the boats when they were planning their trip to Queenstown, but Tyler hadn’t thought about it further because of the cold weather.

“Fay,” he said, “do the jet boats run in the winter?”

“Oh, yes. Year round.”

He glanced in the mirror and saw Grant nodding. “It’d be hard for them to follow us.”

Bullets hammered the tailgate.

“Down!” Tyler shouted, but nobody had to be told to duck.

The Toyota was less than a hundred yards behind them.

The rear wheel was now grinding along the asphalt, throwing up a shower of sparks. At any moment the wheel itself might fly off, and then they would be easy prey.

“Since they’re after me,” Fay said, “the noble thing for me to do would be to offer to have you drop me off to distract them while you get away, but I have to admit I’m too scared to make the gesture.”

“Don’t worry, Fay,” Tyler said. “That’s not an option.”

“Good, because if you’re thinking of using the jet boats to get away from these men, the turnoff is coming up on the right.”

Tyler was impressed. Even though she was frightened, Fay still kept her wits. Sure enough, a new sign for the jet boats pointed to the right. Tyler cranked the wheel and grimaced as the rear hub squealed against the road in protest.

Tyler approached a fork in the road. “Which way?”

Fay indicated a gravel lane straight ahead. The Land Rover passed a parking lot where startled tourists watched the SUV flash by. Tyler slammed on the brakes as they turned down a tree-covered decline.

He accelerated again when they reached a rocky beach along a bend in the river. On the right were several of the bright-red jet boats still stowed on their trailers. Two boats were in the water, and Tyler could make out the twin-jets poking from the back of the sleek craft just above the waterline. Each of the identical boats was big enough to hold twenty passengers, and an aerodynamic roll-bar stretched across rear, giving them the appearance of sports cars.

Not that Tyler knew much about boats. Cars and planes were the vehicles he spent his time on. But Grant was a fanatic for boats. He had several of them back in Seattle and hosted a party on his thirty-foot Bayliner every August on Lake Washington to watch the Navy’s Blue Angels perform their air show. In addition to the cabin cruiser, he also owned a jet boat for water skiing.

If they made it onto one of the Shotover boats, Grant would be the one driving.

To their left, a group of passengers were waiting for their ride, already decked out in weather gear and life jackets. Several of them yelled as Tyler skidded across the stones.

One of the docked jet boats was unloading tourists, and the other was empty. Tyler had been hoping there would be only one boat, but with the Toyota rushing down the road toward them, blocking their sole way out, they were committed. Standing and fighting wasn’t an option.

He stopped and the three of them jumped out. Fay sprinted for the empty boat. Seeing that he didn’t have to help her, Grant waved the shotgun around in the air, sending the tourists and jet-boat operators scattering back toward the guest center in terror.

With the Land Rover covering their escape, they pounded across the dock and climbed into the boat. Passengers were rapidly evacuating the other one.

The Toyota smashed into the SUV, and more shots split the air. Tyler felt a round zing past him as he helped Fay into the boat. Grant tossed the shotgun on the deck and leaped in, quickly examining the dashboard. He found the ignition and hit the button. The engines turned over, burbling with barely restrained power.

While Fay belted herself into her seat in the front row, Tyler threw the lines off. “Clear!” The massive Blaine sprang out of the car and ran along the dock, snapping off shots from his pistol. Tyler dropped to the deck.

“Hold on!” Grant yelled.

He threw the throttle forward. With a deafening roar, the jet boat surged into the river. As the boat pulled away, Blaine jumped from the dock and landed in the back row.

“Watch out!” Tyler shouted to Grant, who turned around and saw that they had a hitchhiker. Blaine raised his pistol to fire. Tyler, in the front row of seats next to Fay, was too far away to do anything. He pulled her down to get her out of the line of fire and told her to stay as low as she could.

In the middle of the river, Grant turned the steering wheel all the way right, and the boat whirled around in a 360-degree spin. As he struggled to keep from being tossed out of the boat, Blaine was thrown into the handle bar in front of his seat and dropped the pistol into the third row.

“He lost it!” Tyler yelled as he saw Foreman draw a bead with his own pistol from the dock. “Go! Go!”

Grant goosed the throttle, and the boat darted ahead just as rounds slammed into it. Tyler couldn’t hear over the cacophonous engines, but Foreman rushed through the fleeing passengers from the other boat and screamed at the operator, who dived over the side into the freezing water. Foreman climbed in, obviously intent on continuing the pursuit.

Having regained his footing, Tyler vaulted into the second row of seats and leaned down, searching frantically for the dropped pistol. Blaine had the same idea and spotted it before Tyler did. He bent over to snatch it, but Tyler grabbed his arm to prevent him reaching it. Neither would let go of the other, and both of them fell into the third row as they entered the narrow canyon downriver.

Because of the precise control the engine nozzles afforded them, the Shotover Jet boats could come within a foot of the canyon walls, nearly brushing the rocky outcroppings as they rocketed down the river at sixty knots. Though it seemed dangerous, the highly trained operators made it a safe thrill.

Tyler just hoped that Grant had as much skill as the normal operators, because they were coming awfully close to hitting the cliffs.

However, that wasn’t his biggest problem at the moment, which was that Blaine was mercilessly pummeling his midsection with fists the size of canned hams. Tyler threw his own punches, but because he was on his back and constricted on either side by the seatbacks and railing, he couldn’t get much power behind them.

Blaine’s face was so close that Tyler got a noseful of his fetid breath and saw that his attacker had the scarred remains of a disfigured left earlobe, no doubt the result of a previous fight. The man was a professional, not giving Tyler the opportunity to move his arms. There was no way for him to reach into his pocket and get to the knife on his Leatherman multi-tool.

A punch to the temple set stars whirling in front of Tyler’s eyes. Blaine bent over to retrieve the pistol so he could finish the job. At the same time, Grant juked the boat left, causing Blaine to reel backward. Seeing his slim opening, Tyler kicked out with both feet.

He caught Blaine in the stomach, which combined with the momentum of the boat, launched him over the side just as the boat passed another outcropping of rock.

Blaine crunched into the sandstone as if he’d fallen from a ten-story building. His inert crushed body flipped backward into the roiling water and disappeared beneath the wake of the jet boat.

Tyler, the adrenaline masking the effects of the pummeling, bent over and picked up the pistol, a.45 caliber Heckler and Koch. He checked the magazine. Six rounds left, including the one in the chamber.

The jet boat behind them had made up the distance while Grant had been maneuvering to help Tyler get rid of Blaine. Barely a boat length separated them.

Rounds thudded into the back of the boat. Tyler popped up and fired off three quick rounds from the HK, but the motion of the boats made it impossible to get a clean shot. His bullets missed, but the other boat swerved away, giving Tyler a chance to climb to the front.

Fay was belted in and leaning down in the seat as far as she could. Tyler squeezed her shoulder, and she replied with a thumbs-up.

“Where does this river go?” he asked her.

“It ends up in Lake Wakatipu. We can get all the way to Queenstown.”

That might have worked but for an ominous sputter coming from the rear of the boat. Black smoke trailed behind them.

“He hit one of the engines,” Grant yelled. “I’m shutting it down. Any rounds left in your hand cannon?”

“Three.”

They were coming to the end of the canyon. The river widened ahead, looping around low stretches of stone beach like the one at the dock, which would leave them fully exposed to gunfire from their flank.

“I say we turn around. Those tourists at the dock would have called the police. They should arrive by the time we get back.”

“Let’s do it,” Tyler said. “I’ll distract him with a couple of shots.”

“Got it.”

Tyler belted himself in, leaned out and squeezed off two rounds, causing Foreman to duck again. At the same moment, Grant twisted the steering wheel and Tyler’s stomach along with it. The boat did a 180, dug in, and then launched forward. Foreman didn’t have time to shoot, but Tyler saw him do his own turn. They left him far behind, but with two working engines on the pursuing boat, Foreman would likely catch them before they reached the dock.

They roared back up the canyon, the sound of the single engine echoing off the steep walls. Tyler peeked above the gunwales and saw the other boat gaining quickly, but he didn’t fire. With only one round left, he’d have to make it count.

More bullets raked the stern.

“We’re not going to make it,” Grant shouted. “Any ideas?”

“Keep sweeping back and forth. Make sure he can’t pull even with us until we reach the other side of the canyon. Then let him come up on the right. Remember the rock beach back at the dock? Maybe we can strand him on it.”

Grant nodded. “Better than nothing.”

Even at their slowed speed, it took no time for them to race back to the northern entrance of the canyon.

“Ready?” Grant yelled.

Tyler held up the pistol in response. Grant steered left and ducked down, and Tyler could hear the trailing boat pull alongside. Foreman was waiting until he was next to them before he dealt the coup de grâce.

Tyler sat up and took aim. If he was lucky, his shot would kill the gunman.

He wasn’t. The shot went wide, but it was close enough to make Foreman flinch.

Grant rammed their boat into the other one. Because Foreman was holding the pistol, he had only one hand on the wheel and wasn’t able to react quickly.

Tyler saw the surprised expression on the gunman’s face when he realized he was headed directly for the rocky beach at full speed. Foreman tried to bump his way to the left, but Grant wouldn’t let him budge. At the last second, Grant spun the wheel, putting their boat into a slide and missing the beach by inches.

Foreman wasn’t as nimble. He went into a slide as well, but it was the worst possible decision.

Had he simply gone straight forward, Foreman’s boat would have slid up onto the beach and come to a stop. Instead, the skidding motion meant that the side of the boat’s hull hit the rocky shore at fifty knots.

The boat rolled spectacularly, the engines whining as they sucked air. The roll bar would have protected Foreman if he’d been belted in. Instead, he was ejected into the path of the somersaulting boat and crushed by the hull.

Grant eased back on the throttle and guided the boat toward the dock. Four policemen who’d been watching the chase covered them with rifles as they approached, shouting at them to put their hands in the air. Grant put his hands up and let the boat drift close enough for one of the policemen to tie them off. Tyler dropped the pistol onto the deck and raised his arms.

“It’s okay, Fay,” Tyler said. “You can get up now. Just do it slowly. Your local constables look like they have itchy trigger fingers.”

Fay sat up and peered at the men. Her eyes lit up when she recognized one of the officers. “For goodness sakes, Michael Brown! Stop pointing that thing at us. These aren’t the bad guys.”

The tension drained from Brown, and he lowered his rifle, signaling the others to do the same. Tyler followed suit.

“Mrs. Turia?” Brown said. “We had a report that you’d been taken hostage.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.” She unbelted herself and stood. Tyler held her hand as she stepped out.

Tyler, his eyes still fixed on the policemen as he climbed onto the dock, heard a woman yell, “Nana!” She rushed past the policemen and threw herself into Fay’s arms. Tyler thought she could be the granddaughter Fay had mentioned, except that this woman had much darker skin than Fay. The two of them hugged tightly until the woman pushed back to hold Fay at arm’s length. “I was horrified when I heard about the fire at the house. Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Jessica, thanks to these young men.” She gestured at Tyler and Grant.

The woman turned, and Tyler got his first good look at her. Everything about her screamed athlete, from her drawstring pants and black hoodie stretched over her lithe build to the stylish shag of shoulder-length chestnut hair. She wore no makeup and none was needed. With creamy brown skin, rounded cheekbones, and full lips, she had no trouble drawing furtive glances from the young police officers.

Despite all that had already happened this morning, it was this moment that really shocked Tyler. He blinked a few times, not believing that he was seeing her for the first time in over fifteen years, half a world away from where they’d last seen each other.

Eyes like melted chocolate stared at him in surprise, and memories came flooding back like a cresting wave.

“Tyler?” she said. “What the hell is going on?”

Tyler opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He turned to Fay. “Your granddaughter is Jess McBride?”

Fay’s sheepish look told him that she had known from the beginning that Jess had been Tyler’s college girlfriend.

SIX

It had been four hours since Popovich and Golgov, traveling under the names Foreman and Blaine, were supposed to report in that they had disposed of Fay Turia. But when Vladimir Colchev checked his messages upon landing in Alice Springs, there were none waiting.

Before his three-hour Qantas flight from Sydney, Colchev had meticulously rechecked the Icarus prototype he’d procured from Nadia Bedova. As he’d expected, it was complete and ready for use. She wouldn’t have risked sabotaging it because he might have noticed during the handover.

As Colchev had been finishing the examination in Sydney, Popovich texted him a brief message.

We are in her house. She has engraving but no X. Orders?

To Colchev the information was both interesting and unfortunate. Interesting because he didn’t know the engraving still existed. However, he had a high-resolution photo of it, so it was worthless to him. The unfortunate part was that she had no xenobium. If she had, it would have made his mission much more simple.

Colchev had texted back immediately.

Destroy engraving. Term woman.

He didn’t need any loose ends at this late juncture. Termination of the Turia woman was the best option, and he’d had every confidence that his men would carry out his orders. That was why the lack of communication with Popovich since then was so troubling.

Colchev exited the plane and emerged from the covered staircase to a cloudless azure sky. The midday sun beat down, but its rays could heat the mild winter breeze to only a few degrees above room temperature.

Waiting for Colchev at the gate was Dmitri Zotkin, a whippet-lean operative whose trim mustache and beard matched his short dark hair. Dressed in khakis and a denim shirt, he could have passed for a guide coming to take Colchev on a tour of the outback.

They exited the airport without a word, and Colchev tossed his duffel into the rear of Zotkin’s SUV. They both got in, and Zotkin drove out of the airport.

“Why haven’t we heard from Golgov or Popovich?” Colchev said.

Zotkin cleared his throat. “They failed in their mission.”

“How do you know?”

“We’ve been monitoring news reports from Queenstown. Police say that two men were killed in an apparent kidnapping attempt.”

“Damn it! Is the woman alive?”

Zotkin nodded. “Her house was burned to the ground, but she survived. No word on her condition.”

“What about our men? Have they been identified?”

“No names have been released.”

Like all of the men who were in Colchev’s operation, Golgov and Popovich spoke fluent English in a neutral midwestern accent, and their passports were stellar fakes. Still, their deaths added to the mission’s risk.

“Is there anything leading back to us?” Colchev said.

Zotkin shook his head. “I’ve already sent the scramble signal to their phones. Any data or phone numbers on them have been destroyed.”

Colchev pounded the dashboard with his fist, shaking it until the glove box popped open. He closed it, sat back, and sighed. “They were good men.”

“At least they died for their country.”

They had been a loyal part of his foreign intelligence service team before Colchev’s failure, and now the former SVR operatives wouldn’t even get the honor of a Russian state funeral. He unrolled his window and breathed in the cool desert air. When his team had achieved its mission, he would make sure Golgov and Popovich’s part in the operation was recognized, that they would receive the honor they deserved as heroes of the Motherland.

Colchev snapped back to focus on his goal now. Because Fay Turia had no xenobium, their path was clear.

“How are the preparations going?” he asked.

“We’re almost ready. The last shipment arrived this morning, and they should be finished loading it by the time we get back.”

Zotkin turned onto a road going north into Alice Springs.

“What about the CAPEK vehicle?” Colchev asked.

“It is in working order, and we have a meeting set up with the project lead tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent.”

“And your informant still says the Killswitch will arrive on time?”

Colchev thought back to the message on the discussion forum. The username they’d agreed on had been compromised, so the pre-arranged replacement had been used. The only thing it said was, “Confirmed,” meaning the operation was a Go according to plan.

“The Killswitch will be here in the morning,” Colchev said. “Do you have all the documentation in order?”

“The uniforms, vehicles, and papers are all ready.” Zotkin cleared his throat. “What about Nadia? Did you get Icarus from her?”

“Everything went as expected.”

“I knew she’d never join us.”

“I didn’t think she would.”

“But you let her live.”

“We are patriots, Dmitri. So is Nadia. You would have me kill one of our own?”

“If necessary.”

“It wasn’t necessary.”

Zotkin grunted but didn’t say more. How to deal with Bedova was the one disagreement he and Colchev had. Zotkin had advocated wiping out her whole team as soon as she delivered Icarus, but Colchev knew that killing a fellow member of the SVR would make their reintegration into Russia much more difficult once the mission was over.

“If we see her again, we’ll do what we have to,” Colchev said.

Zotkin gave another grunt, but he seemed satisfied.

As they continued driving, they went over details of the operation. Although they had planned it down to the last detail, there were always contingencies to consider. A mission this complex required precise timing and complete understanding of the situation by all involved. The biggest question mark was his man on the inside of Lightfall. If he came through, the rest of the operation would go smoothly.

By the time Zotkin turned into the warehouse parking lot, Colchev was confident they were as ready as they could be.

The depot had once been used as a transfer station for trucks bound for Darwin and Adelaide, but it had been shut down years ago. Through a shell company, Colchev had rented it out as a staging point for their own operation, and the owners had asked no questions about their business.

Four semi trailers and a shorter truck were backed up to the warehouse loading platforms, and two SUVs occupied the lot. He and Zotkin got out and went into the warehouse, where a forklift was busy moving a pallet from the small truck to one of the trailers. Half a dozen men were assisting in the work.

Colchev stopped the forklift driver. “How long until you’re done?”

The driver pointed at the trailer closest to them. “This is the last load. We should be done setting the rest of it up in two hours.”

“What about the detonators?”

“Ready for rigging.”

“We’ll do it tonight. From now on, I want two men on watch, rotating every four hours.”

“Yes, sir.” The forklift driver carefully set down the pallet and went back to the small truck for another one.

His men formed a chain to move the pallet’s load, twenty-five-pound clear plastic bags full of tiny pink pellets. Golgov and Popovich had been instrumental in obtaining them.

Colchev smiled as he read the bag’s large block letters. ANFO. It had taken his team months to acquire the quantity they needed. And just as he’d planned, the last payload had arrived in time for the operation to be set in motion.

Short for ammonium nitrate/fuel oil, ANFO was one of the most common explosives in the world. Colchev walked over to the trailer to get a good look inside. His smile widened when he saw the fruition of so much hard work.

For the entire length of the interior, bags of ANFO were stacked from floor to ceiling.

SEVEN

After four hours in the police station, Tyler was famished. Before he’d had a chance to talk to Jess, they’d all been hauled away from the jet boat dock to be questioned at the Queenstown police department. An incident like this was extremely unusual for peaceful New Zealand, so he was sure they’d already made the worldwide news reports.

Tyler lost count of how many times he went over the story for the interrogating officers, all without stopping for lunch. No doubt they were comparing his tale to Grant’s and Fay’s. They were eventually convinced that Tyler was telling the truth, that unknown assailants attacked Fay and that Tyler and Grant had come to her rescue, although Tyler wasn’t so sure that she had really needed rescuing.

What the police wanted to know now was why she’d been targeted. So did Tyler. As he told the investigators, it must have something to do with her Roswell artifacts, but he had no idea why anyone would want them.

By mid-afternoon Tyler had told the detectives all he could, and he was released. The police seemed content to chalk this up to a strange robbery gone awry, and with both assailants dead, they considered the danger over.

The policeman who escorted Tyler out told him that someone would be coming by shortly to return the Audi using the keys Grant had given them. Tyler met Grant at the front of the station. When they saw the mass of news media outside, they took a seat in the waiting area.

“Well, this has been fun,” Tyler said. “Where’s Fay?”

“The cops interviewed her before they got to us,” Grant said. “They told me she left two hours ago to check out what’s left of her house.”

“I hope she’s able to salvage something.”

“At least she’s alive.”

Tyler couldn’t disagree, but the attitude that it could have been worse was small consolation for someone who just lost everything they owned.

Grant patted his stomach. “I’m as hungry as a vegan at a pig roast. As soon as we get the car back, we’re heading to that pizza place and I’m ordering an extra-large pepperoni. Then you’re going to tell me all about Jess.”

Tyler rolled his eyes. He should have known that would be Grant’s first topic of conversation.

“I’ll tell you now, because there’s nothing to it. She and I went out for a year at MIT. It didn’t work out and we broke up. End of story.”

“Uh huh. And how come I never heard about her before?”

“Do I know about all your old girlfriends?”

Grant smiled. “Good point. But now that she got us into a shootout in the middle of a foreign nation, maybe it’s time you spilled it.”

Tyler sighed. “All right. I was a junior and she was a freshman in a history elective I was taking. She sat next to me one day, and we started talking. I thought she was cute, and after about a week, I asked her to go to a party with me. One thing led to another, and we were a couple.”

“You thought she was cute? When she was a college freshman, did she look anything like she does now? ’Cause I got a look at her down at the dock. She’s not cute. She’s smokin’.”

“I noticed her. Everyone noticed her. A girl at MIT who looks like that had her choice of guys.”

“And she sat next to you? What was wrong with her?”

“Maybe she liked a man in uniform,” Tyler said with a shrug. “I was wearing my ROTC class A’s that day.”

Grant nodded knowingly. “That’s why I wear mine whenever I go to a wedding. Never fails. So why’d you break up?”

“Pretty simple. I wanted a long-term relationship. She was new to college and didn’t want to settle down just yet. So that was it. Three months later I met Karen.”

But in fact their relationship had been far more serious than he was letting on to Grant. The eight months he’d dated her had been intense, but that was a lifetime ago. Jess was the first girl he’d ever fallen in love with, and she’d broken his heart. But he harbored no ill will toward her because if he hadn’t broken up with Jess, he would never have gone out with Karen, his wife and the love of his life. In a way, he owed Jess for giving him the best years he’d ever had.

Grant had been great friends with Karen, though she had teased him mercilessly about his serial love life. Grant had been the only reason Tyler had lived through the terrible year after she was senselessly taken from him in a car accident.

A policeman came in through the front door, and the sounds of shouting reporters briefly invaded the station. He spotted Tyler and Grant.

“Dr. Locke and Mr. Westfield, your car is waiting.”

“They brought the car here?” Grant said. “That’s service for you.”

They walked outside and were immediately surrounded by the growing crowd of news people and cameras. Tyler saw the Audi and silently pushed his way through the cacophony of shouted questions.

He stopped when he saw Jess driving and Fay in the passenger seat.

Fay waved from her open window. “Get in!”

Not wanting to get into a discussion in front of the media, he and Grant crammed into the back seat. Jess hit the accelerator and zoomed down Camp Street.

“What are you doing here?” Tyler said.

“Didn’t you want your car back?” Jess said.

“Yes, but where are we going?”

“Back to my house.”

“Your house?”

“Well, we can’t go back to my house,” Fay said with a mixture of anger and sadness. “It burned to the ground before the fire brigade could get there.” A sob caught in her throat.

“I’m sorry, Fay,” Tyler said.

“I wish we could have done more,” Grant added.

“You boys did all you could. I would have gone up in smoke, too, if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

“They couldn’t save anything?” Tyler said.

“All that’s left is what I have with me.”

There was silence for a moment until Grant opened his mouth.

“So, Jess, how do you know Tyler?”

Tyler had to stifle a groan.

“Tyler didn’t tell you about our hot love affair?”

“I heard it was quite passionate,” Fay said.

“Good God,” Tyler said. He didn’t think the day could have gotten worse.

“Why did you break up with my granddaughter?”

“Do you think this is really the best time to talk about our dating history?” Tyler said.

“It’s okay, Nana,” Jess said. “He’s always been a little touchy about sharing his feelings.”

“College was a long time ago,” Tyler said.

“Yeah,” Grant said. “Tyler now regularly gets choked up by greeting card commercials.”

“You are not helping.”

“What? This is fun.”

“Can we please get back to the issue at hand?” Tyler said. “Which is that two men burned your house down and tried to kill you this morning for something you supposedly found after the Roswell incident. Do you know why?”

“That’s why I wanted to consult with you,” Fay said. “Jess said you were the best forensic airplane crash analyst in the world.”

“Jess told you to hire me?”

“Not in so many words,” Jess said. “That’s why I was surprised to see you earlier. When Nana said she was looking for someone to look at her piece of wreckage, I must have off-handedly mentioned you worked for Gordian.”

“It wasn’t off-handed,” Fay said.

“Nana!”

“She was reluctant to call you. She had no idea I asked you to consult with me.”

Jess glanced in the mirror at Tyler, then looked at Fay. “Wait a minute. Is this why you asked me over to lunch today and wouldn’t tell me why?”

“I thought it might be nice for you two to get reacquainted.”

“Why are you even here?” Tyler asked Jess.

“In the car or in New Zealand?”

“In Queenstown.”

“I live here now. Moved here three years ago after a stint doing encryption analysis for a global private security firm in Auckland.”

“I thought you were going to be an economist.”

“Oh, right, I was still an economics major then. No, I switched to mathematics. I thought I was going to work for Wall Street, but the thought of spending every day dressed in a suit made me want to throw up, so I went into codebreaking. It paid almost as well, and I could come to work in sweats if I wanted to.”

“What are you doing here?”

“After my parents died, they left me some money, and I wanted to be closer to Nana. Since I have dual citizenship with the US and New Zealand, it was easy to buy a part ownership in a business here.”

“In encryption?” Grant asked.

Fay shook her head. “Jessica has a stake in one of the biggest extreme sports tourism companies in Queenstown.”

“I’m not much more than an investor, but I come up with some of the ideas for new activities. The best perk is that I get to beta test all of the new experiences. Other than that, I spend most of my time on the slopes or the hiking trails around Queenstown.”

Tyler was surprised by none of this. One of the things that had attracted him to Jess in the first place was her outgoing nature, willing to try anything and everything, convincing him to take risks that he might not have without her. She was an excellent skier, rock climber, and swimmer, and she loved spending time outdoors. Jess had always been more interested in play than work, so it sounded like the new gig was a perfect fit for her.

Jess turned into the drive of a small bungalow with an expansive view of the lake and the Remarkables range behind it.

They got out and Fay took Grant’s arm. “I bet you’re as hungry as I am. Come help me make lunch.”

“Happy to,” Grant said, and they went into the house, leaving Jess and Tyler alone outside.

“Nice place,” Tyler said.

“It does the job. I’m not here much so I don’t need a lot of space.” She turned to him and gave him a serious look. “I was sorry to hear about your wife’s passing.”

Tyler did the head bob he always used to acknowledge that kind of sentiment. He’d gotten accustomed to it over the years, and everyone seemed to understand what the gesture meant.

“And I’m sorry about your parents.” After an awkward silence, he said, “Jess, what’s going on here?”

“With my grandmother?”

He nodded.

“She’s told me her story so many times, I’d come to think of it as a myth. Now I don’t know what to think.”

“What story?”

“She’ll have to tell you. She’s much better at it.”

“I’ll be interested to hear it. Then Grant and I will have to be on our way. Given what happened today, we thought it would be prudent to head back to Seattle tomorrow.”

“That’s why I asked Nana to take Grant inside. I want to hire you.”

Tyler was taken aback. “I wasn’t going to charge Fay for the consult.”

“No, I want to hire you to find out why someone tried to kill her. She’s the only family I have left in the world, and I owe it to her. Especially now that she has nowhere else to go.”

Tyler hesitated, so Jess went on. “If you’re worried about the price, I can afford whatever you charge.”

“It’s not that. It’s just … I mean, Roswell?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but you have to admit there must be something to these artifacts she has if someone wanted them badly enough to chase you down the Shotover River for them.”

Tyler looked out over the water, then back at Jess. “I can’t make any promises. I need to hear what Fay has to say.”

Jess smiled. “Oh, and by the way …” With both hands she pulled Tyler’s head down and planted a kiss on him. For a second he was a college junior again, and his stomach did a flip as he lost himself in the moment.

Jess stepped back and said, “That’s for saving Nana’s life this morning.” She walked into the house, leaving Tyler to wonder what just happened.

EIGHT

Jess was pleased with herself. Not because she had kissed Tyler. Ever since she’d seen him this morning, she’d had the overwhelming urge to do that. What she was proud of was that she had the willpower to go no further.

Tyler had aged well. He used to be as lanky as dried linguini, but obviously he’d filled out during his Army years. Though the sun had weathered him a bit, the lines on his face and long jagged scar on his neck added a rugged dimension to his tousled hair, strong jaw limned with a two-day stubble, and alert blue eyes. Now she recalled why he was the one she’d approached in history class. At first he hadn’t gotten the hint, so she’d maneuvered herself into getting invited to a party he was attending.

She smiled at the memories and opened the front door of her house. Jess turned to Tyler and said, “Well, aren’t you coming?”

Tyler recovered from his flabbergasted reaction and nodded, walking in her direction.

She found Fay and Grant making ham-and-cheese sandwiches in the kitchen.

“I think we all need a drink,” she said, and grabbed four bottles of Newcastle from the fridge. She popped the top on hers and took a long draught.

Tyler came in, spotted the beers, and drained half a bottle without a word.

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” Jess said to Grant. “My name is Jess McBride. Only Nana calls me Jessica.”

“Grant Westfield,” he said, wiping some mustard on a paper towel before shaking her hand.

“You work for Gordian Engineering, too?”

“Electrical engineer. Tyler recruited me into the firm. We did stints together in both Iraq and Afghanistan when I served in his combat engineering company as his first sergeant.”

“Then he abandoned us to join the Rangers,” Tyler said.

“His company?” Jess asked.

“Tyler was captain of the unit. And I didn’t abandon him. He left to start Gordian.”

“Why do you look familiar?” Fay said to Grant.

“You might remember Grant as the guy who gave up his pro wrestling career to join up,” Tyler said.

Jess didn’t follow sports much except during the Olympics. She looked at Fay, who shook her head.

“No, I think it’s because you remind me of that man on the reality show. The handsome bald one. I can’t remember which one now. It’ll come to me. But you do look a little like my husband. He had your type of muscular build.”

Tyler knew Jess’s background, but Grant gave her a new once-over at this tidbit of info.

“My grandfather was full-blooded Maori,” Jess explained. “That’s why you’d think I was Nana’s adopted grandchild.”

“Nonsense,” Fay said. “She looks exactly like her mother, who looked just like me.”

“And it seems like she got her sense of adventure from you,” Tyler said.

“That’s why she’s so good at coming up with the company’s tour packages.”

“Like what?”

Jess ticked them off using her fingers. “We’ve got six bungee-jumping locations, skydiving tours, kayaking trips, heli-skiing, white-water rafting. Just about anything you can name. Except jet boats. And we’re working on that.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a budding empire,” Tyler said.

“It’s in full bloom,” Fay said. “Jess’s company made twenty million dollars last year.”

“Okay, Nana. They don’t need all of the details.”

“I’m just so proud of you, honey.”

“I know.”

Now it was Tyler giving her a new appraisal. “Well, we’ve gone through a lot to get to this point, Fay. What exactly is it that you wanted me to take a look at?”

Fay went to her satchel and removed a hunk of silver metal the size and shape of a Frisbee cut in half. One edge was a smooth curve while the other was jagged, as if it had been hacked apart with a rusty can opener. Jess had seen it a hundred times, but now the attack gave it greater significance.

Fay gave it to Tyler, who held it carefully so that he didn’t cut himself, weighing it with his hands. “Too strong to be aluminum. Feels like a titanium alloy. Or possibly magnesium. I’d have to take it back to a lab to make sure.”

“Can you tell me if it’s from a spaceship?” Fay asked him.

Jess noticed Tyler’s lip curl at the ridiculous question, but he inspected the object carefully before answering. “It definitely looks like it’s been involved in a crash of some kind.” He pointed at the tears in the metal. “You can see evidence of explosive impact here, along with some melting of the material. But this could be from an aircraft. I’ve seen thousands of pieces like it.”

“From sixty-five years ago?”

“Well, no. My expertise is on recent accidents. But I have seen wreckage from old World War II bombers. Maybe that’s what you found.”

“Oh, no. This is definitely from the Roswell crash.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I found it there.”

“Perhaps a plane crashed in the area.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, Fay,” Tyler said. “I’m having a hard time believing this came from a spaceship, but it’s not because of you. I’m just an inveterate skeptic. If this is from Roswell, why are you just investigating it now?”

“She’s been investigating it for the past five years,” Jess said. “Ever since my grandfather died.”

“I didn’t tell Henare — that was my husband — about my experience at Roswell until very late in life. I thought he would send me to a loony bin, so I told him about it only when he was dying. I was shocked when he said I should go on that quest, that he’d be with me every step of the way. Since then I’ve been trying to track down the origin of what I learned at Roswell. I was hoping you could point me in the right direction. All I want is an answer. I don’t care what it is, but I’d like to know before I end my days on this planet.”

Grant stopped cutting the sandwiches, and Tyler guzzled the rest of his beer. Though they hid it well, Jess saw the dubious look they exchanged.

“Fay,” Tyler said, tossing the bottle in the recycling bin, “I’m happy to take this piece of metal back to Gordian and test it every way we can. But I can tell you now that unless we find it’s made of some material that we’ve never seen before, the results will be inconclusive.”

“Did you show that to anyone else?” Grant asked. “The guys at your house today must have heard about it somehow.”

Fay gave them an embarrassed look. “Oh my goodness, I did talk about it, didn’t I? When you told me it would be three months before you could see me, I didn’t think it would hurt to go to Roswell for the annual UFO festival and see if I could get some information from the people there, although plenty of them are kooks.”

“Who did you talk to?” Tyler said.

“Lots of people. You could tell that ninety percent of them were just what I thought Henare would think of me: crackpots, all of them with wild tales that I knew were absolute hogwash, but there were also lecturers and authors there who’ve spent years researching the incident.”

“Did any of them seem to take a particular interest in your story?”

“Sure. I don’t know if they believed me, but a lot of people were interested.”

“Did you show anyone your artifacts?”

“No, but I did mention the piece of wreckage in an interview.”

“There’s even a video,” Jess said.

“What video?”

“I can show it to you after lunch,” Fay said.

“Do you know anything about the multicolored metal Foreman and Blaine were after?” Tyler asked.

Fay shrugged. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“You mentioned in the house that you had ‘artifacts’ plural. Is the second one another piece of wreckage?”

“Not wreckage really. But it’s from the crash.”

Fay pulled out her real treasure from the satchel, a battered piece of wood in a plastic sheath.

She handed it to Tyler, who peered at the engraving. His eyes lit up when he recognized the drawings etched into the smooth wood. Jess wasn’t surprised that he knew what they were.

“Where did you get this?” he said.

“At Roswell. The same day I picked up that piece of metal from the wreckage of the spaceship.”

“You found it in the wreckage?”

Fay looked at Jess, who nodded for her to continue.

“It was given to me,” Fay said. “By an alien who survived the crash for a short while.”

Grant, who had been taking a swig of beer, coughed as some of the liquid went down the wrong way.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Did you say alien?”

Tyler furrowed his brow at Jess, but she was glad to see that he didn’t immediately dismiss the statement. He obviously was willing to listen to more.

Jess picked up two of the plates and nodded for Grant to get the others.

“Let’s take our lunch into the dining room,” she said. “Nana has a tale to tell you.”

NINE

Fay galloped across the grassy plain atop her Appaloosa, Bandit, trying to outrun the approaching storm. With darkness falling, her father would soon come looking for her, and he’d tan her hide if he found out she’d gone riding without finishing her after-school chores. As she felt the hot wind in her face and watched Bandit’s silky mane toss from side to side, Fay thought it would be worth the risk.

In just a few days, he’d be yanking her from everything she’d ever known in her ten short years. She’d never even been out of New Mexico and now her father wanted to uproot the entire family so he could go run his cousin’s sheep ranch near someplace called Lake Wakatipu on the other side of the world. And the worst part was that they’d have to leave Bandit behind. She’d argued that it wasn’t fair, but nothing she could say would change his mind. The best she could do was spend as much time as she could with her beloved horse, so she’d taken him for long rides every evening whether her dad liked it or not.

But he’d be extra mad if she got stuck out in a thunderstorm. Flash floods could happen in the blink of an eye, and to get home she’d have to cross many arroyos on the Foster sheep ranch where the foreman, Mac Brazel, let her ride undisturbed.

The clouds rolled in, lightning piercing the sky every few minutes. She was still seven miles from the barn and safety. At this rate she’d be soaked by the time she got there, and there’d be no way she could hide what she’d been doing if she walked into the house drenched and covered with the smell of horse. Then her behind would get the belt for sure. She pressed her heels down and urged Bandit to go faster.

A new sound intruded over the pounding hooves. Faint at first, the hum grew steadily, coming from the west behind her. Too constant to be thunder, it sounded like an engine, but no one would be idiot enough to try to drive a truck through the uneven terrain.

Fay looked over her shoulder to see where it was coming from, but the plain was empty to the horizon. The sound grew louder still, and she realized that it wasn’t coming from behind her. It was overhead.

With White Sands Proving Ground only thirty miles away, she’d heard some of her friends talk about planes that sometimes flew high above the Army base. Two years ago, she’d even heard the faraway boom of something her father later called an atom bomb. That had gotten the kids talking when the news had been made public. To them, nothing was better than a government secret, unless it was a secret weapon that could destroy an entire city.

But the noise she heard now wasn’t a bomb, and it wasn’t the drone of aircraft propellers. This was more like the whine of a thousand trumpets blowing in unison. And it was heading straight toward her.

She pulled up sharply on the reins, and Bandit whinnied as he came to a stop. Fay looked up into the low-hanging clouds hoping to catch a glimpse of the noise’s source. Then, just like heavy seas parted by a ship’s prow, the clouds slid aside, and a flying object like nothing she’d ever seen screamed out of the sky.

Her mouth agape, Fay struggled to keep Bandit from bolting as a giant, silvery disk descended directly at them. Not knowing which way to go, she kept the horse still. The flying disk had no propellers, just two gaping black openings on either side. The craft had to be wider than the local high school’s football field.

Before she could decide on a direction to go, it roared overhead, deafening her and spooking Bandit. He reared up, bucking Fay, and while she sailed through the air, she realized that the object that she’d thought was a disk was actually the shape of an oblong wing with no body. Then she hit the ground, smacking her rear harder than her dad would have and rolling away from Bandit’s panicked stomping.

Fay raised her head in time to see the silver wing plow into the ground a quarter-mile in front of her, spraying dirt into the sky as it skidded to a stop.

The whine from the craft didn’t end, but she could see no further movement.

Wincing from her bruised backside, but otherwise in one piece, she cooed at Bandit until he calmed and came to her. She climbed back on and tentatively rode toward the motionless air vehicle.

She knew she should just ride straight on and tell her father what had happened, but she also felt intense curiosity about the craft. Her father had taken her to an airfield one time to see the Army planes, and they’d all had white stars and numbers painted on the sides. This object had no markings whatsoever.

When she reached the front of the craft, Fay dismounted the horse and tied him to a scrub brush to keep him from bolting. She could see now just how huge the thing was, the wing standing more than five times higher than her thin frame.

As she walked along the wing’s length, she ran her hand over its smooth skin, the metal cold to the touch. She didn’t notice the cracked square of glass lying on the ground until she was right next to it.

No, not glass, because it wasn’t shattered, but it was transparent like a window pane. She looked up and saw the space where the pane would go. The frame around it had been ripped apart from the force of the crash. Although the front of the craft was partially buried in the earth, it was too far above her to see inside without hoisting herself up. Now she wished she hadn’t dismounted Bandit.

Her heart raced as she tried to decide what to do. If someone was hurt, Fay had to help them, but she was terrified about what she might find. Living on a ranch, she’d seen death and injuries: broken bones, impalements, rotting sheep that hadn’t been discovered for a week. But this was different. There might be injured men inside.

Her dad had raised her to be tough. She’d become the son in the family after her brother died when she was two. Her father took her shooting and roping, taught her how to shear and hunt and fish. Fay convinced herself she could handle whatever she discovered in there and then report back. It would take only a moment to investigate.

Wrapping her leather gloves around the frame, she prepared to pull herself up when a silver hand shot out of the opening and grabbed at her wrist.

Fay fell backward and screamed. She shrieked even louder when she saw the face that peered out the window.

Although it was the size of a human and had two arms, its bulbous silver head was twice as large as a man’s, framing two circular black eyes and a wide slit where the mouth should have been. The grotesque face lacked any nose. She screamed again when the creature climbed over the window’s sill and landed next to her, breathing heavily before collapsing to its knees. Blue fluid bled from its stomach. It put its three-fingered hands to its head, shaking it back and forth as if it were trying to decapitate itself. After a moment, it gave up and sank to all fours.

With a guttural tone, the thing babbled at Fay in a language she’d never heard. She shook her head in disbelief, and before she could scramble away, the creature lunged at her and grabbed her leg. She tried to twist free, but its grip was too strong. He crawled toward her and took her hand.

Fay was scared beyond reason, sure that the thing was preparing to eat her, but instead it stood and pulled her to her feet. Without letting go of her hand, it loped toward Bandit, babbling nonstop the entire way, as if it were terrified about something inside the downed craft.

She struggled but couldn’t break free. When they reached Bandit, the creature patted the horse on the neck, then threw Fay onto the saddle. To her dismay and surprise, the thing climbed awkwardly up behind her and lashed the reins, launching Bandit into a canter with surprising skill.

It was only then that Fay realized that the whine from the craft was getting louder by the second. They fled across the plain in the direction of a slope leading down to an arroyo a half-mile ahead. For some reason, the creature was desperately trying to put distance between them and the craft.

Lightning flashed, followed seconds later by the crack of thunder. The storm would arrive in minutes.

When they reached the slope, the creature dismounted and pulled Fay off, leading them down into the dry streambed, soon to be swollen with water from the coming storm. With one hand on Bandit’s rein, it pushed her against the twenty-foot-high vertical wall of the arroyo and covered her body with its own. As it did so, a tremendous blast like a thousand thunderclaps split the air.

The thing hadn’t been trying to kidnap her. It had been trying to protect her.

Bits of debris rained down around them, but none of them were large enough to injure them or the horse.

After a minute, the thing rolled over and lay on its back, wheezing with great effort. Its shaking hand snaked behind its back and withdrew something from a hidden pouch. It pressed the object into Fay’s hands.

No longer terrified by her savior, she looked down and saw with astonishment a weathered piece of wood no bigger than a schoolbook. On it was an engraving of a rough triangle with a large dot on the left side next to a squiggly line coming from the triangle’s center. Carved on the reverse side were four simple images recognizable as a spider, a bird, a monkey, and a person.

She stared back at the creature. “You want me to give this to someone?”

The creature pointed at her. The gift was meant for her.

“The Army, maybe?”

At the word “Army” it violently shook its head and shoulders and pointed at her again. The piece of wood was for her alone. Then the creature spoke with a voice so warped that Fay could barely understand the syllables.

“Rah pahnoy pree vodat kahzay nobee um.”

Fay shook her head. It sounded like gibberish. “I don’t understand.”

It repeated the phrase again slowly. “Rah pahnoy pree vodat kahzay nobee um.” It gestured for her to repeat it, and she did so three times until she got it verbatim.

With its hand shaking even more forcefully, the thing drew a figure in the dirt. It was an upright rectangle. Inside the rectangle the creature wrote a K, a backwards E, and a T before it was too weak to go on.

It raised one hand to Fay’s face, and she didn’t recoil. The hand stroked her cheek once, then fell away.

The shaking stopped and the labored breathing abruptly ended. The creature that had saved her life was dead.

Fay bawled at the thing’s sudden end. She stayed crouched over its motionless body until the rain began to gush from the sky, washing away her tears.

She couldn’t stay, and she couldn’t move the heavy corpse. She’d have to leave it where it was.

The thing obviously didn’t want her to report what had happened, but she couldn’t just leave the creature there for no one to find for days or even weeks, its body at the mercy of scavenging coyotes.

Fay knew that Mac Brazel and little Dee Proctor rode the fence line every Thursday, so they’d be coming in this direction the next morning. She could leave clues that would lead them here.

She climbed onto Bandit and took one last look at the creature, who now seemed so vulnerable and unthreatening lying against the streambed wall. She kicked and Bandit trotted up out of the arroyo through the water coursing down in a torrent.

As she topped the slope, Fay was amazed to see that virtually nothing was left of the craft but small chunks littering the ground around her.

She picked up a dozen of the silvery metallic scraps and rode Bandit toward the fence line, scattering pieces behind her every few hundred yards. The shiny metal would lead the way back. When she reached the fence, she dropped the last few bits where she knew Mr. Brazel and Dee would see them.

But two remnants of the crash she kept with her, safely tucked into her vest. One was a curved piece of silver craft itself, its jagged edges wrapped in her bandana. The other was the strange wooden carving.

She wouldn’t tell anyone what she’d seen. Something about the way the creature pointed at her gave her the sense that she would get into all kinds of trouble if she volunteered the story.

If the creature wasn’t washed away by a flood, Mr. Brazel would find it. He would come across the wreckage, too, and then tell the government authorities about it. After it made the news, she imagined that the discovery of such an alien craft would be the talk of the town in nearby Roswell.

TEN

After Fay finished her story, no one moved. Tyler stared at his empty plate and mulled over what he’d just heard. Grant had a look like he was trying not to show he thought she was nuts. Jess twirled her knife back and forth in her fingers and kept her eyes on the table.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone about this back in 1947?” Grant asked.

“I was afraid. When Mac Brazel reported the spaceship wreckage, the Army came in, covered the whole thing up, and convinced everyone Brazel was crazy. If people wouldn’t believe the ranch foreman, why would they believe a ten-year-old girl? I don’t even know what they did with the alien body. Took it back to Area 51, I suppose.”

“But you went to the UFO festival a couple of weeks ago. Why?”

“I had tried on my own for five years to find the truth, and I never got any closer to answering my questions. I was at a dead end. I had nothing to lose. Or so I thought.” Tyler felt Fay’s eyes fix on him. “I can tell you don’t believe me.”

He ran his hand through his hair, trying to think of a way to put his next words delicately.

“I like you, Fay,” Tyler said.

“Oh, this isn’t going to be good.”

“You really think you met an alien?”

“He certainly fits the description of other encounters that have been reported: the gray body and huge head, the bulging black eyes, the slit for a mouth.”

“And you believe those stories?”

“I can tell you don’t believe in UFOs and aliens.”

“I believe in UFOs. They’re unidentified flying objects. Anytime someone can’t figure out what something is flying through the sky, it’s a UFO by definition. That doesn’t mean they’re spaceships from another world.”

“How can you be so sure?” Fay asked. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

“Sounds familiar,” Grant said to Tyler, who squinted as he tried to recall which Shakespeare play the line was from.

“Hamlet, Act One,” Jess said to Grant, then looked at Tyler. “Did you take any English courses at MIT?”

“Just one,” he said. “Science Fiction and Fantasy. I can give you a great analysis of the human compulsion for self-destruction symbolized in A Canticle for Liebowitz.”

“So you’re a science fiction fan who doesn’t believe in aliens,” Fay said.

“It’s the fiction part that’s important. I do believe it’s probable that alien life exists in other parts of the universe. It’s even likely that some of that life is sentient and intelligent. Astronomers are finding new planets all the time. Eventually, we’ll confirm that some of them are capable of supporting life.”

“Then why is it so impossible to believe that some of those civilizations have visited Earth?”

“I didn’t say it was impossible. I’m not an absolutist. Shakespeare was right. I don’t know everything. But I’m also a scientist, so I go by evidence. No one has yet produced incontrovertible video, photographic, or physical evidence that spacecraft have visited us.”

“Don’t we have stealth aircraft that you can’t see on radar?”

“Yes.”

“Then why couldn’t the aliens have something similar but more advanced?”

“They could,” Tyler said, “but then you run into another issue. Current scientific knowledge states that faster-than-light travel is literally impossible. An alien civilization would have to send ships that take thousands of years to get here.”

“Maybe they did,” Fay said.

“But why do the ships always land in Podunk little towns in the middle of nowhere? No offense.”

“None taken. Maybe it’s because they know humans have itchy trigger fingers, so they’re trying to feel us out. Maybe they’ve been in our solar system for hundreds or thousands of years just observing us.”

“Why?”

“They could be waiting us out. Seeing if we kill ourselves. Then they can just move in.”

“They’ve been waiting for thousands of years and have never made their presence known?”

“They have made their presence known,” Fay said. “I may not have a college degree, but I’ve been studying this for years now. There are eerie similarities among cultures around the planet. Simultaneous development of key technologies. Common structures like pyramids built by the Egyptians, the Inca, the Mayans, the Cambodians, the Indians. I’ve been all over the world and seen them with my own eyes. You can’t just dismiss the strange coincidences. What I find hard to believe is that humans could build such advanced structures and technology with the primitive tools they had.”

“I don’t think that gives much credit to human ingenuity and creativity. We’re a pretty smart bunch of people. I’ve been around the world, too, and I’ve seen things you would have a hard time believing if you hadn’t been there.” Tyler exchanged a knowing look with Grant, who’d been with him to witness those incredible sights.

“And what about my own experience?” Fay said, exasperated. “Are you saying I’m making it up?”

“Fay, I don’t want to sound patronizing, but this was sixty-five years ago. You were ten and probably had never left your county at that point in your life, so anything outside of your experience would have seemed exotic. I’m sure you saw something you didn’t understand, but that doesn’t make it a flying saucer from another world.”

“Then what was it? A weather balloon?”

“It sounds like some kind of aircraft.”

“And the alien?”

“It could have been a man in a flight suit.”

“Then why couldn’t I understand what he said?”

“Maybe he was injured in the crash and that messed with his language skills,” Grant said. “I’ve had a couple of concussions, and I could barely pronounce my own name for a while after each one.”

“And the blue blood?” Fay said.

“Are you sure it wasn’t just water?” Tyler said. “You said yourself there was a storm coming.”

“It wasn’t water. It was bright blue, like glass cleaner.”

Tyler turned to Jess. He knew she would have an equally hard time with the belief in aliens. Time to put her on the spot.

“What do you think about all this?” he said to her.

Jess cleared her throat before speaking. “To be honest, it’s a pretty fantastic story, and I didn’t believe it for a long time.” She looked at Fay with chagrin. “Sorry, Nana.”

“But you believe it now?”

“I don’t know what to believe. But those men thought she had something worth killing for.”

“Fay, you said you were in a video. Can you show it to us?”

“I’ll bring it up on my computer,” Jess said. She left and came back a minute later with a laptop. They all crowded around while Jess brought up the video on YouTube. The user name said UFOseeker0747. According to the stats, it had been viewed over 15,000 times.

“Who was this video for?” Tyler asked.

“A young man named Billy Raymond was filming it for his UFO blog,” Fay said. “When I was in Roswell a few weeks ago for the festival, he was interviewing attendees. I only appeared on screen for a minute.”

Jess started the video and skipped forward to the five-minute mark.

The interviewer was off-camera inside some kind of conference center. Crowds milled in the background, and it looked like he was wrapping up an interview with a woman dressed in a flowing kaftan covered with a field of stars. Then the video cut to Fay in the same location.

“This is Fay Turia,” Raymond said. “Have you ever had an encounter with UFOs or aliens, Fay?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Fay said. “I saw the crash at Roswell and met an injured alien who gave me an artifact. I’m writing a book about the encounter now.”

“You were actually there? Amazing! Can you tell me anything about the incident or the artifact itself?”

“I’m not ready to just yet. I also have a piece of the wreckage. I have an expert coming to look at it soon, and I’ll be including his findings in my book.”

Suddenly Tyler felt guilty for not acting earlier on her request. Maybe her house would still be standing if he had.

“Come on, Fay! You’re killing me! Can’t you give us just a hint about what happened to you to convince my viewers that you were really there?”

“Well, I can tell you what the alien told me,” Fay said reluctantly.

“The alien spoke to you? What did it say?”

“Rah pahnoy pree vodat kahzay nobee um.”

“Huh. Any idea what it means?”

“I was hoping someone here could tell me.”

“Any luck?”

Fay shook her head.

“Well, Fay, I hope you find out. That’ll make a hell of a book. Can’t wait to read it. When your book comes out, I’d love to do a follow-up interview.”

“Happy to.”

The video cut to another attendee, and Jess paused the playback.

“After we were done,” Fay said, “I gave him my name, email, and address, but I haven’t heard from him since. I only found the blog and the video because he had transcribed the dialogue and mentioned my name.”

“Did you ever find anyone who had an idea what the phrase means?” Grant asked.

Fay shook her head.

“Anyone could have seen this video or read his blog and heard you talk about the artifact,” Tyler said. “What you said got someone’s attention.”

“But it makes no sense,” Jess said. “The piece of wreckage, the wood engraving, the opalescent metal those men asked Nana about. Why is any of it valuable?”

“The whole scenario does seem extreme for UFO hunters,” Grant said.

Tyler picked up Fay’s weathered piece of wood to examine the engraving again. It was clear that the drawing on one side was a map, detailed enough to pinpoint a location depending on the scale. It could be a city or an island, but without a starting point, it was useless.

Tyler flipped the wood over and ran his fingers across the grooves etched in the surface.

“If I didn’t meet an alien,” Fay said, “how do you explain that?”

The four primitive etchings were of a monkey with a spiral tail, a tarantula, a condor with its wings spread wide, and a human-like figure with one arm raised.

Tyler had recognized the images immediately, remembering the Chariots of the Gods TV special from his youth that speculated about gigantic messages drawn in the desert. The 1,500-year-old drawings — many of them hundreds of feet in length — could only be seen in their entirety from the air, so the theory was that the multitude of animal symbols, straight lines, and wide pathways were actually created to signal ancient aliens about potential landing sites.

The four images on her piece of wood were identical to ones that were part of an ancient archaeological enigma: the mysterious Peruvian geoglyphs known as the Nazca lines. Fay believed that Tyler was holding in his hands proof that aliens had visited Earth.

ELEVEN

Morgan could tell that Vince was not happy with the flight arrangements, mostly by the way he’d been bitching about it ever since they were changed. Even though the United flight from LA would have been more comfortable, the military would have had to shell out big bucks for the full-fare coach seats. Not only was the Air Force saving money by having them travel on the C-17 carrying the Killswitch to Pine Gap, but the two of them could do it without being noticed as extra security. The flight would make one stop at Hickam Field in Honolulu and then it was straight on to the Alice Springs airport, with in-flight refueling from a tanker on the way.

They were sitting in two of the permanent side seats in the cavernous main cargo hold. Crates of equipment bound for Pine Gap were chained to pallets running down the center of the plane. Some of it was Dr. Kessler’s, but most of it was routine machinery and supplies used to run the facility. The only passengers were Morgan, Vince, and Kessler’s technician Josephson, who slept on a seat at the far end of the hold.

“Why couldn’t we go with Kessler and the rest of his team?” Vince said.

“Their charter flight was full,” Morgan said without looking up from her e-book reader. It was loaded with every book by Charles Dickens and Jane Austen, so she had plenty to keep her occupied. She found that losing herself in nineteenth-century English literature was a strong inoculant against stress.

“This sucks,” Vince said. “At least in coach you get dinner and a movie.”

“I told you to bring some books.”

“I was going to watch a few DVDs, but I forgot to charge my computer, and they don’t have any outlets down here.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Then we get a flight attendant who thinks he’s a comedian.” Vince aped the loadmaster’s Alabama drawl. “‘You have a life jacket under your seat, but if we crash into the ocean, we’re all going to die anyway, so don’t worry about it.’”

“You sound worried about it. He said don’t.”

“If I liked the water, I would have joined NCIS.”

“Get some sleep.”

“Sleep? On these seats? Sure. And then once I get my eight hours in, what do I do with the other twelve?”

“You could keep whining. That seems to be working for you.”

Vince crossed his arms in a huff. He stayed quiet for a whole five minutes. Elizabeth Bennet had just received an all-important letter from Mr. Darcy when Vince interrupted Morgan’s reading.

“I’d feel better about the transport from the airport to Pine Gap if we went with the weapon.”

“The truck will have four armed agents in it. What would you add to the equation?”

“We could follow in our own car.”

“It’s a nondescript truck. A chase car would draw attention.”

“Do you think the leak is an Aussie?”

“We shouldn’t talk about it outside of a secured facility.”

Vince exaggeratedly looked around at the hold. “Where do you think they hid the bugs?” he said in a stage whisper.

He had a point. On board an Air Force cargo jet was about as secure as they could get. The noise from the engines would make it impossible for Josephson to hear them, even if he were awake. And they wouldn’t have much time to plan once they arrived in Australia. She closed the cover on her e-reader with a sigh.

“Since the person who posted it used an anonymizer,” Morgan said, “we can’t pinpoint where it came from. So it could be anyone on the team from the US or the Australian side.”

Since they’d discovered the posting three days ago, Morgan and Vince had been working nonstop trying to trace where the message had come from. Backgrounds, relationships, and possible motives for everyone involved in the project had all been checked. On the US side, the trail was cold.

“Maybe we should look at it from a question of motive.”

Morgan nodded. “All right. There’s greed.”

“Could be. There are a dozen countries that would be willing to buy the Killswitch technology. But nobody on the team seems to have sufficient money troubles to sell out their country.”

“And none of them has any suspicious bank deposits. But we can’t rule it out because a lot of these people are smart enough to hide overseas accounts.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t know if they want to steal the Killswitch itself, steal the technology, or sabotage the test.”

“It’s doubtful they’d attempt to steal it before we get to Pine Gap,” Morgan said.

“Why?”

“Because of the xenobium stored there. It’s the only known sample in the world, and the Killswitch is useless without it.”

“Xenobium. Ever since I heard the name, I keep thinking it’s a heartburn medication. ‘Xenobium — Relief is on the way.’ What do you think it is?”

“I don’t have enough information to speculate.”

“We don’t need info to speculate.”

Morgan eyed the six-foot-long crate and shrugged. “Kessler will give us the rundown on it in Australia.”

She and Vince had received only a minimal briefing on the Killswitch, so they didn’t yet know how it worked, only that it was an unprecedented new weapon that fried electronics with an electromagnetic pulse, or EMP, and that xenobium was the material used as the explosive trigger.

“The forum didn’t say anything about the xenobium,” Morgan said. “It’s possible that someone is trying to sell the plans for the Killswitch and didn’t mention the xenobium because he’s trying to have his cake and eat it too.”

Vince clucked in disapproval. “You mean, sell somebody a worthless weapon? That’s a recipe for getting yourself killed.”

“It may be enough for someone to know how it works. If they had the plans, they could build it themselves.”

“Then where do they get more of the xenobium?”

Morgan shook her head, but said nothing.

“Of course, this could all be coincidence,” Vince said, “and we’re just getting a free trip to Australia on the dime of the American taxpayer.”

“You don’t think that.”

Vince smiled. “No, I don’t. Neither do you. So what’s the plan?”

“We should get our interviews of the team underway as soon as we arrive. Maybe we’ll get one of them to crack.”

“And I’ll double check the security plan for moving the Killswitch to the test range. If someone’s planning to steal it, the likeliest scenario would be during transport, because that will be the first time the xenobium will be with the weapon outside of a secure facility.”

Vince went silent and sighed. After two more sighs, Morgan took pity on him and lent him her laptop so he could watch his DVD.

With Vince plugged in and tuned out, she went back to reading her novel. Though she tried to immerse herself again in the machinations of nineteenth-century British landed gentry, Morgan couldn’t keep her eyes from flicking to the crate holding the Killswitch.

TWELVE

Colchev sat at a metal desk in the Alice Springs warehouse office and watched the news report from Queenstown for a second time. The laptop’s streaming video cut from a view of Fay Turia’s smoldering house to the overturned jet boat lying behind a body covered in a sheet. Colchev’s lip curled in anger at the thought of his men being killed on what should have been a routine operation.

As the anchor continued her narration of the events, the video showed two men exiting the police station. The first was a huge black man dressed in the brightest orange parka Colchev had ever seen. Bald, with a neck as thick as a telephone pole, the man was identified as Grant Westfield, an electrical engineer and former professional wrestler who was known as “The Burn” before he left the sport to join the Army.

The slightly taller white man who followed Westfield was identified as Dr. Tyler Locke, another engineer with a company called Gordian Engineering. Though not as bulked-up as Westfield, Locke in his leather coat didn’t conform to the doughy awkward lab denizen that Colchev had worked with in the past. They both looked like men who could take care of themselves in a fight. Colchev had been surprised his men could be defeated by civilians until he saw Locke and Westfield.

The two men ducked into a silver Audi and left without responding to questions shouted by the journalists. Colchev found Gordian’s website and read the short bios for each of them. As he suspected, both were decorated combat veterans. Locke was a mechanical engineer skilled in forensic investigation and explosives while Westfield specialized in system failure analysis and demolition.

It wasn’t mentioned on the Gordian site, but Colchev found several news reports connecting Locke and Westfield to the discoveries of Noah’s Ark and King Midas’s tomb. Apparently, these men were gaining a reputation for finding ancient artifacts. Perhaps they were working with Fay Turia to interpret the map on the wood engraving.

That thought gave him renewed confidence that he’d been right to seek her out. She’d come to his attention through a blog from a Roswell conspiracy theorist. Colchev had standing web searches in place for any spelling variation of xenobium connected to Roswell, and her video had come back as a match. When he saw Fay talking about her experience at Roswell, he was sure she had a link to the xenobium that he needed.

His mole within the Lightfall program thought the xenobium that Australia possessed was the last remaining specimen in existence, but Colchev knew otherwise. Colchev’s research indicated that another sample of it had been hidden by the ancient Nazca civilization of Peru somewhere amongst their colossal desert drawings, but until he’d discovered Fay’s Roswell UFO convention video three days ago, he had no idea how to find it.

Zotkin knocked on the office’s open door. “We’re ready for you.”

Colchev closed the laptop and followed Zotkin to the closest trailer backed up to the warehouse’s loading platform.

Four barrels had been anchored to the trailer’s floor and filled with loose ANFO pellets. Two blocks of C-4 plastic explosive lay next to each barrel. In addition to Zotkin, four other men watched as his electrical expert, Gurevich, crimped wires together.

Colchev inspected the work. Everything seemed to be connected properly, but he had to be sure this setup would function as intended.

“Let’s test it,” he said.

While he waited for Gurevich to hook up a temporary extension to his wiring, Colchev thought it apt that yet another explosion would complete a mission that had begun at the site of the Tunguska blast in Siberia over a hundred years ago.

According to reports Colchev dredged up long ago from dusty archives, explorer Vasily Suzdalev had been the first to the disaster area in 1916, eight years after the explosion. When he came back two months later, he carried with him an unusual metal he’d dubbed xenobium for his speculation that it had come from space. During the return journey to Moscow with his prize, Suzdalev became extremely ill, not realizing then that he’d been suffering from radiation poisoning while carrying the postage stamp-sized specimen in his pocket. The elemental structure of xenobium would remain a mystery because scientists who were testing its electrical properties applied a power surge that detonated it, resulting in the complete destruction of a five-story-tall brick building.

When the fledgling Soviet government realized the potential of such a compact explosive, the Reds sent a now-recovered Suzdalev back to Tunguska in 1918 to find more of it, this time with a leaded case to carry any samples he might find. But a spy told the White forces of his mission, and they dispatched their own representative, a scientist and former soldier named Ivan Dombrovski, to track down Suzdalev and retrieve the weapon that might lead to the defeat of the communists.

It was only much later, after the tsar had been executed and Dombrovski fled to America, that Suzdalev’s corpse was found in the swampy tracts of Siberia by some native tribesmen. The Soviets assumed Dombrovski gave whatever he found to the United States in return for asylum. A new search of the Tunguska area revealed no more samples of the xenobium. The secret of its source location died with Suzdalev.

The Soviet Union sent spies to the US to discover if Dombrovski had gleaned any info about where to find more of the precious metal. Unfortunately, an attempt to steal back the Tunguska sample from the US went horribly wrong, leading to Dombrovski’s death and the destruction of the xenobium he’d spirited out of Russia. Instead of a victory for the Soviets, the operation had been a catastrophe.

The one piece of useful intelligence had been that Dombrovski explored the world for years trying to track down another source and apparently found two strong leads: a map and proof that more of the xenobium existed. Somehow, Dombrovski had used the map to find a huge sample in the Nazca region of Peru, even taking a photo to document that it was real. But for unknown reasons, Dombrovski did not take the specimen, leaving it in South America. With Dombrovski dead and most of his records burned in a lab fire, the failed Soviet operation had destroyed any possibility of following his trail, and it was thought that the xenobium was lost forever.

Then Colchev had had a stroke of luck. For many years he had cultivated a source within the American military weapons development community, and during their communications the mole claimed that the Australians had some xenobium of their own. It matched all the properties of the Tunguska material, and the Americans were designing a weapon to take advantage of its unique nature, paying the Australians a hefty sum to use xenobium as its explosive trigger.

Tomorrow the Killswitch weapon system would land in Australia, and with the detonation of the truck bomb it would be Colchev’s. Four days after that, July twenty-fifth would become a day to remember for Russia.

Gurevich unspooled the temporary cable to the center of the warehouse and connected it to a tiny detonator. He stood and said, “It’s set.”

All of them stepped back from it as far as they could. Colchev removed a small state-of-the-art signaling device that operated on a coded spread-spectrum frequency. It had a wireless range of twenty miles, far greater than required for his purposes.

Zotkin and the rest of the men looked at Colchev expectantly, the validation of their hard work over the last nine months held in the palm of his hand. He knew how they felt. This moment represented years of Colchev’s life.

His specialty in the SVR had been recruiting and handling foreign intelligence resources. He’d received four commendations for the information he’d gathered. Obtaining the Killswitch prototype would have been his greatest achievement, but the capture of Anna Chapman and her comrades had caused his fall into disgrace before he could accomplish his goal. His superiors were so shortsighted and timid that they abandoned the mission to obtain the Killswitch technology to avoid any chance of further embarrassment.

Since they lacked the conviction to follow through, Colchev would show them what could be accomplished with the proper will and expertise. They would see how Russia could be a great country again, no longer under the heel of America’s mighty capitalist domination.

Colchev went to university during the Glasnost years, watching his country’s steep decline in global stature. He had never known insecurity until the Cold War ended with the fall of the Berlin Wall. Certainly there were indignities to be suffered during the communist regime — long lines for bread and toilet paper, tight restrictions on travel, the omnipresent gaze of the internal intelligence apparatus. But the people knew what it was to be safe back then. Colchev’s father, Yuri, had a steady job at a factory and there was always food on the table.

Perestroika ripped all that away. When the Soviet Union crumbled, it was the collapse of an empire that had ruled a quarter of the Earth’s land area. He hated America for claiming victory in the Cold War and laughing at his nation’s woes.

The economy fell off a cliff when Boris Yeltsin became president, and Colchev’s father lost his job. Crime in Moscow grew rampant. Yuri tried to open a little store with the paltry savings he had, but the fledgling Russian mafia exacted revenge when he refused to pay the protection money they demanded. On the way home from work late one night, Yuri was shot dead in the street.

His mother never recovered. Vodka became her medicine, and she took ample doses. Colchev could have turned to the mafia himself, but he vowed never to join those pigs, who he felt were destroying his country and turning it into a kleptocracy. He wanted to help restore Russia to its former greatness, and he had an aptitude for languages, so when the foreign intelligence community recruited him, he knew it was his calling.

He rose quickly through the ranks, focusing on his career so tenaciously that he stumbled through two failed marriages. As a fellow agent, Nadia Bedova had understood him. She knew, more than either of Colchev’s ex-wives, that the job was everything. The Chapman debacle was grievous but not insurmountable. In the end he would prevail.

Colchev smiled and pressed the button on the handheld device. The isolated detonator went off with a bang, and his men cheered in unison. Neither of the sounds were loud enough to draw undue attention in this industrial district of town.

He congratulated each man with a traditional Russian bear hug, finishing on a hearty backslapping embrace with Zotkin. Gurevich unclipped the temporary wires inside the trailer and began inserting detonators into the bricks of C-4, which would be buried in the ANFO barrels.

Colchev stood quietly and admired the work of his team. In less than a week, his sacrifice would be rewarded and his reputation restored. After July twenty-fifth, he would return to his country a hero for devastating their greatest enemy, the United States of America.

THIRTEEN

Nadia Bedova stood patiently as the bodyguard frisked her. With a touch that was quick and efficient, he showed he was a pro by not lingering on her breasts or rear. She had come unarmed to the Sydney office tower knowing that she’d never be allowed to enter with her weapon.

Satisfied that she was clean, the guard led her down the hall to the penthouse suite of Mulvey Gardner Trading. Andrew Hull, the company’s owner, had established the innocent-sounding firm to provide a front for his arms deals; it was one of the biggest such organizations on the Pacific Rim. Bedova had used his services herself many times. If Colchev were conducting some kind of operation in Australia, Hull would have information about it.

Inside the corner office was a portly man in his forties who strode over to her with an outstretched hand. As he got closer, she could see evidence of the Australian’s recently implanted hair plugs.

“Ms. Bedova,” he said with a smile. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

“Mr. Hull.” She shook his hand and sat.

“May I offer you a drink?”

“No, I don’t have time.”

“Ah, business only. Unfortunate. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“You’ve spoken to Vladimir Colchev recently.”

Hull didn’t look away, but his smile faltered ever so slightly.

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss my business with other customers.”

“Even if that business was conducted with money stolen from Russian coffers?”

“It’s no matter to me where the money comes from,” Hull said. “Surely you can see that having to worry about the source of the funds would be bad for business.”

“I need to know what you got for Colchev.”

Hull laughed. “There’s nothing to tell. Besides, even if there were, I wouldn’t stay in business very long if my clients felt that their trust in me could be violated so easily.”

“Your business will be even more short-lived if my superiors feel that you are dealing with our rogue agents behind our backs.”

The smile vanished. “My understanding was that Mr. Colchev resigned and is now operating independently.”

“Oh, he’s operating independently. With funds he stole from the SVR. How much business do you conduct with Russian arms suppliers?”

Hull remained silent at the rhetorical question. She already knew that more than half his income came from supplying Russian arms to rebel groups across Asia. If her country were to turn off the spigot, he would be hammered by other dealers vying to take his place.

“What are you offering?” Hull said.

“Besides your continued good standing with the Russian state? If the lead you give me results in the capture or death of Colchev, you will be paid five hundred thousand Australian dollars.”

Hull shook his head. “If you fail and Colchev finds out I led you to him, he’ll come after me. That would also be bad for business.”

In addition to the phalanx of guards she’d come through, Bedova could see that the penthouse was clad in glass thick enough to withstand an RPG blast.

“All right. I’m authorized to make an upfront payment of a half million.”

“Plus a bonus? Double, say?”

Bedova paused, then nodded. “That should pay for your security for quite a while.”

“Hmmm. One million dollars. You must want him badly. Why?”

“His departure didn’t go well, and he had a high-level clearance. If one of your key employees suddenly left and took your greatest secrets to a competitor, what would you be willing to pay to stop him?”

“I see your point.” He pursed his lips in thought, then said, “All right. I agree to your terms. But I require the deposit before I tell you what I know.”

Bedova nodded confidently. She made a call and had the $500,000 wired to Hull’s account. In reality she was authorized to pay only a total of half a million dollars. She’d figure out what to do about the bonus payment later. When he was satisfied with its completion, he turned from his computer.

“Now tell me what you know,” Bedova said.

“Three weeks ago, Colchev came to me with an urgent request. He’d had difficulty securing some materials he needed.”

“What materials?”

“ANFO. Detonators. Primer cord.”

“How much of the ANFO did he buy?”

“Forty tons of it.”

Bedova eyes widened. “Did he say what he planned to do with it?”

Hull laughed again. “No, and I didn’t ask.”

“If he’s plotting a terrorist attack, weren’t you afraid of it being traced back to you?”

“That’s a risk we always take in this line of work, but my involvement was merely as a facilitator. I simply paired him with a seller, a treasurer at a mining company in the Northern Territory who had a surplus that he was trying to get rid of.”

“Where is the attack taking place?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Where did he tell you to have the ANFO shipped?”

“To a warehouse in Alice Springs.” He gave her the address. “The last shipment arrived yesterday morning.”

“So the attack could happen at any time?”

“I suppose so.” He paused. Bedova could see he was trying to decide whether to tell her something else. “It’s obviously in my best interests for you to succeed.”

“You know more?” she asked.

“Colchev may be gone when you arrive.”

“If we miss him in Alice Springs, we may lose him for good, so you better share what you know.”

“I don’t think his ultimate objective is in Alice Springs.”

“Why?”

“Because he asked me to put him in touch with someone in the Baja cartel.”

Now Bedova was even more confused about Colchev’s intentions. “The Mexican drug gang?”

Hull nodded. “And before you ask why, I don’t know.”

Bedova had her suspicions why. If Colchev needed something smuggled into the US, no one had a better system than drug runners.

She leaned forward in her chair. “Did he mention Wisconsin Ave?”

“No.”

This wasn’t making sense. Why would Colchev need Icarus for any of this?

“If you’re lying to me,” she said, “I will find out. Your suppliers will dry up, and your customers will know you are persona non grata.”

Hull put up his hands in acquiescence. “I assure you that’s all I know. If you can’t find him, I think that says more about the Russian intelligence forces than it does about me.”

Bedova looked at him for several seconds. Hull was a skilled liar. If he was holding back, she would never know. But she didn’t think he would give her a false lead.

She stood. “One more thing.”

“Yes?” he said, coming around his desk.

“If you attempt to warn Colchev that we are coming, you won’t live to the end of next week.”

“No need to threaten me, Ms. Bedova. I’m fully invested in your success. Literally.”

She nodded and walked out. While she rode the elevator down, she texted her team.

Find out how quickly we can charter a flight to Alice Springs.

FOURTEEN

“I don’t care what it costs,” Jess said to Tyler and Grant, putting her phone away and taking a seat on the sofa next to Fay. “We need your help.”

While Jess had taken a call, the rest of them had moved to the living room for coffee and gone over Fay’s story twice more. The tale was the same all three times, so Tyler was confident Fay wasn’t lying. Whether she had all the facts right was another matter. Memories could grow hazy over that stretch of time.

Jess seemed surprised that Tyler hadn’t jumped at the chance to join them on their quest. “Come on? What do you say? Want to have an adventure?”

Tyler glanced uncomfortably at Grant, who shrugged as if to say, “Why not?”

“Don’t you think a private detective would be a better choice?” Tyler said. “We’re engineers.”

“But you’re also investigators. Who else would I hire? Some local PI who tracks down ex-husbands late on their child support?”

“You need some kind of international investigation firm.”

“How much more international can a firm be than Gordian? Your website says you have offices in thirty-five countries.”

“But you also want to find out how the Roswell incident is connected to the Nazca lines. Don’t you want an archaeologist?”

“I’ve already talked to a dozen archaeologists,” Fay said. “They all thought I was crazy.”

“Besides,” Jess said, “Nana has been working on this for five years nonstop. She could have a PhD in the subject by now if she had gone to school for it. I bet she knows as much about the Nazca culture as anyone.”

“What do you want us to do?” Grant said.

“We want you to help us track down whoever it was that attacked me,” Fay said. “They have to have some answers about the engraving.”

“At the very least we have to know why they want the artifact,” Jess said.

Tyler’s eyes went to the engraving. “Did you show it to the police?”

“Yes,” Fay said. “They didn’t believe me. They think this is about something else.”

“Like what?”

“They said they think it was a pair of robbers who showed up under false pretenses to get the cash in my house.”

“How much cash?”

“I have a safe with a hundred thousand dollars inside. Part of Henare’s life insurance payout. I use the money to pay for travel to Peru twice a year to study the Nazca lines and their ancient city of Cahuachi. The safe’s fireproof, so it survived. The police think I must have told someone about it, but I didn’t. I have no idea how thieves could have known about the money.”

“Why would they burn down your house and chase us if they were looking for cash?” Tyler said. “Burglars would have bugged out when things got hairy.”

Fay shrugged. “I’m just telling you the police’s current theory. I’m sure it’ll change, but they said the investigation might take a while.”

“And we don’t have that much time,” Jess said. “More men could come back at any time.”

“Or never,” Grant said.

“Maybe. But until we find out what was so important about this piece of wood, Nana and I will be looking over our shoulders constantly. Even if she gives it to someone else, she may not be safe.”

Tyler sighed and looked at Grant. “What do you think?”

“I’m up for it if you are. We were going to take a few days off anyway.”

Jess and Fay looked at him expectantly. Finally, Tyler said, “All right. We’ll do what we can.”

Jess pumped her fists in the air. “Yes! I knew you wouldn’t let us down.”

“Thank you so much,” Fay said.

“The only problem is that we don’t have many leads,” Tyler said. “We’ll contact Billy Raymond and see if anyone has asked him about Fay, since the video seems the likely place where these guys heard about you.”

“I’ll get on that,” Grant said, and took out his phone as he left the room.

“We can take the piece of wreckage and the engraving back with us to Seattle for analysis in our lab. We might get some new info about the materials used.”

“We might want to put that off for a while and go another direction,” Jess said. “The phone call I took was from a contact I have with the police.”

“You have an in with the cops?” Tyler said.

“I still do occasional decoding work for them.”

“Do the police have a lead?” Tyler said.

Jess nodded. “Yes, they do, but they think it’s pretty thin. One of the tourists at Shotover Jet posted a video online of you three commandeering the jet boat. He also caught the men chasing you on camera. Apparently it’s plastered all over the Web.”

“Someone recognized Foreman and Blaine?” Tyler asked.

“So he claims. An Australian student at a Charles Darwin University extension campus. He emailed the police telling them that he thinks he saw one of the men last week.”

“Where was this?”

“At a research facility just outside Alice Springs in central Australia. The student’s name is Jeremy Hyland.”

“Are the police following up on it?”

Jess shook her head. “Foreman and Blaine’s passports had no stamps for Australia, so the New Zealand police thought it was just the ramblings of an overexcited kid, even though he provided a pretty detailed description of Blaine. They’re swamped with the rest of the investigation right now, so his lead is a low priority.”

“Why do you think he’s right?” Tyler asked.

“Because I called Hyland. He said he’s pretty sure he saw Blaine at his university facility. He was driving the car of a man who came to see their research.”

“Pretty sure doesn’t sound very sure.”

“He also mentioned that Blaine was missing part of his left ear.”

That got Tyler’s attention. He thought back to his fight on the jet boat and remembered Blaine’s torn left earlobe up close, just before Blaine was crushed against the rock outcropping, most likely mangling the evidence of the disfigurement.

But Fay had noticed it, too.

“That’s him!” she blurted out. “It looked like the lower part of Blaine’s ear had been ripped off. He must be the man the student saw.”

“And even better,” Jess said, “the student claims to have seen Blaine’s passenger just yesterday driving down the main highway through Alice Springs.”

“What is Hyland’s research about?” Tyler said. “Anything to do with Roswell?”

Jess shook her head. “He works on a project called CAPEK, or Computer-Automated Payload Extension Kit. It’s autonomous vehicle research funded by the trucking industry.”

Tyler chuckled. “They named their robotic truck after Karel Capek.”

“Who’s that?” Fay said.

“He’s a Czech writer who coined the word ‘robot’ in a play called R.U.R., which stands for Rossum’s Universal Robots.” When Tyler saw Fay and Jess’s surprise at his knowledge of this bit of trivia, he added, “Another work featured in my sci-fi course.”

Jess took the wood engraving. “Why are the men who are willing to kill for Nana’s artifact interested in a robotic truck in the middle of Australia?”

“I guess we’ll have to ask the researchers,” Tyler said. “And I think we should do it in person. We might be able to track down the man who was with Blaine.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. Because we’re going with you. There’s a flight to Sydney that leaves Queenstown in two hours. Then we can catch a connection to Alice Springs.”

Before Tyler could protest, Grant returned with a grim expression.

“What’s the matter?” Tyler asked.

“It’s Billy Raymond, the guy who shot Fay’s Roswell video,” Grant said.

“What about him?”

“Three days ago he was killed.”