Siege of Lightning

CHAPTER FIVE PERSONAL SACRIFICES

Pruett set his briefcase down on his large desk and walked toward his mini-bar. His secretary always made it a point to keep his small refrigerator stocked with one of Pruett’s favorite items: milk. He drank it by the gallon to help his ailing ulcer. He opened the refrigerator and smiled when he saw two fresh cartons, one of whole milk, one of skim. He snatched the whole milk and eyed the expiration date, just in case. Satisfied, he opened the carton and took two large swigs.

Loosening his tie, he walked back to his desk, and eased himself into his leather swivel chair. The chair had belonged to his previous boss, the former Head of Clandestine Services, killed on the job several years back. Pruett, Chief Western Hemisphere at the time, had been asked by the CIA Director to fill the position until the Agency could find a replacement, but after several successful months, the Director had made Pruett’s temporary assignment permanent.

He noticed a small gift-wrapped box on the right corner of his desk. Pruett eyed the calendar and smiled. He had missed his own birthday. He shrugged and picked up the box. Like a curious youngster, he shook it twice but could not make out its contents. He removed the red wrapping paper and opened the box.

Pruett smiled as his eyes filled. He lifted out a clear paperweight with a three-by-five color photograph inside it, a photo of his brother’s family, Pruett’s only family besides his two kids. All his older relatives were long gone, and his job had never really given him the chance to start another relationship after his wife had left him nearly two decades before. His two kids never got to see much of him anymore. As they’d been raised by their mother and stepfather, Pruett had been pretty much kept out of it. That’s just as well, he reflected as his fingers fumbled with the square piece of Plexiglass. He’d always been on some assignment, and wouldn’t have been able to spend time with them anyway. You’re better off this way, Tom… or are you? It was certainly the price he had paid to get to his current position. He took another sip of milk and wondered if his large personal sacrifice had really made a difference. Did his contributions to the Agency compensate for the fact that his own kids — his flesh and blood — were practically strangers living across the country on the West Coast? Go easy on yourself, Tom. That was a decision made long ago. It’s too late to go back.

Pruett managed to shake the thought as he looked at the photo, and made a mental note to check on his nephew’s progress over at Data Collection the following day. He was a good kid, he decided, picking up where his father had left off at such a young age. Pruett felt a little guilty for having seen George only a few times since his arrival at the Agency, but his job… hell, it’s always the job.

The burning pain in his stomach lessened as he continued to drink directly from the milk carton. The soothing effect was better than what he got from the antacid tablets he carried with him at all times. It’s also healthier, he thought, staring at the Plexiglas paperweight.

It took Cameron Stone one hour to walk the stretch of the beautifully landscaped gardens between the Place de la Concorde, across from the American Embassy, and the Louvre. He’d decided to spend his day off discovering Paris all over again, especially after the turmoil of the past couple of days. As the noontime sun warmed up the air, tourists gathered in front of the huge glass-and-steel pyramids in the center of the Louvre. The controversial pyramids had been built several years back to modernize access to the museum’s different wings.

Cameron got in line to follow the tourists down the escalator that would take him to the underground reception and ticket area, the place from which all museum tours started.

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he spun around.

“Marie!”

She was dressed casually, just a plain pair of Levi’s and a long-sleeve white T-shirt. Her long hair was tied in a ponytail and she wore large gold earrings.

“Hello, Cameron.”

Once more, Cameron felt strongly attracted to her, and a bit guilty because of it. “You… are you all right? How’s the head wound?”

“What head wound?”

Cameron smiled, but the smile quickly vanished. “Did you follow me here?”

“Cameron, there’s something you must know. It’s about the rumor at Athena I told you about the other night.”

“C’mon, you know I can’t get—”

“Please listen to what I have to say. The information they have is very disturbing.”

“‘They?’ Who are you talking about?”

Marie shifted her gaze to the left. Cameron turned his head and spotted the man with the gray beard. The man from the rue de Cujas.

Instinctively, he reached under his coat. Marie put her hand over his. “Relax. He’s on our side.”

Marie waved at the man. He approached them.

“Hello, Monsieur Stone. My name is Jean-Francois. I was Monsieur Claude Guilloux’s bodyguard.”

Cameron blinked twice. Bodyguard? “Is that what you were doing back at the hotel? Protecting Marie?”

“Trying to, monsieur. Simply trying to conform to one of Monsieur Guilloux’s final requests. Come now, please.”

“Where? I’m not going anywh—”

“This won’t take long,” Marie said. “You’ll hear for yourself why Athena killed my husband.”

Cameron hesitated. The operative in him told him to stick to the rules. Contact Potter and get approval. But his instincts told him otherwise. Marie had talked of possible corruption in Athena’s ranks. If Athena had indeed destroyed the Russian spacecraft, then in Cameron’s logical mind, the problem demanded CIA intervention. Although Cameron seldom deviated from the book — he’d known too many who had and had died — his experience told him this was an exception. Going through proper channels to obtain approval might take too long. Potter might not even sanction further intervention. Cameron made his decision, and followed Marie and Jean-Francois to a parked car next to the Louvre’s west entrance.

Five minutes later, with Jean-Francois at the wheel, a worn-out Renault sped down the rue de Rivoli toward the Place de la Bastille, where Jean-Francois turned south and continued on Avenue Daumesnil.

Cameron sat in the back with Marie. He simply stared out the window wondering if he’d made the right choice by coming along. He knew that in doing so he had disobeyed a direct order from Potter.

The car came to a full stop in the middle of a long block on the right-hand side of a deserted street. Large warehouses on their side of the street bordered the Seine. Between the warehouse Cameron could see the river’s peaceful waters. The warehouses across the street blocked the view of the city’s skyline. Jean-Francois turned his head.

“Here we are. Please wait for my signal.”

“Where are we?” asked Cameron.

“Please, monsieur.”

Jean-Francois got out and walked across the cobblestone street to a warehouse on the left. The warehouse had a huge metal sliding door. It was closed but Cameron spotted a smaller door next to it. Jean-Francois checked both sides of the street, pushed the smaller door open, and disappeared.

Cameron turned to Marie. “I don’t like being inside this parked car. We’re too exposed.”

“Want to get out and wait next to the warehouses?”

“That sounds like a great—”

“There. He’s giving us the signal. We can go in now.”

Cameron glanced back toward the warehouse. Jean-Francois was waving his right hand at them.

Cameron quickly got out and helped Marie. “Let’s go.” He warily scanned both sides of the block. All clear. They crossed the street and followed Jean-Francois inside.

The stench of urine and mildew struck him like a moist breeze. Cameron saw no one as Jean-Francois led him and Marie across the warehouse. He spotted a door at the other end. Jean-Francois took out a key, unlocked the door, and pulling it open, motioned Cameron and Marie to go through. He followed, locking the door behind them.

Cameron stopped. The room was pitch black.

“Where are we?”

Before Jean-Francois could answer, bright lights came on, almost blinding Cameron. He found himself under the scrutiny of three well-dressed older men sitting behind a long wooden table.

“Who are you?” he asked, perplexed.

“Our names are not important, Monsieur Stone,” replied the one in the center. “All you need to know is that we were Monsieur Guilloux’s colleagues.”

Cameron didn’t like this game. As he scanned the room for possible avenues of escape, he chastised himself for allowing himself to be trapped. The room had no windows and no visible doors except for the one they had come in through. It looked about sixty feet deep and at least two hundred feet long. The ceiling was as high as the rest of the warehouse. Several fluorescent lights hung from it.

Cameron stood in the middle, Marie to his right. “All right. What is this all about?”

“I’m afraid it concerns the future of your space agency,” said a distinguished-looking gentleman seated at the table.

Cameron thought a moment. “You mean NASA?”

“Oui, monsieur. We were all dismissed from our positions at Athena Aerospace, where we worked with Monsieur Guilloux. We were lucky. None of us pressed the issue to the point he did. For that he was murdered. Still, we know what he discovered and cannot allow him to have died without purpose.

“The directors of Athena are planning to sabotage NASA, just as they sabotaged the Russians last month.”

Cameron stared at the hardened face of the man across the table. “Sabotage? Murder? Do you realize what you’re saying? The implications? The reaction from my government?”

“Oui.”

“All right. Go back to the beginning. Tell me everything you know. I want to know everything.” Cameron stared into the man’s sunken eyes. He saw fear.

The man started, slowly. Every once in a while he would stumble onto a word whose meaning he knew only in French. He would use the French equivalent, pause, and wait for a reaction from Cameron, who would simply nod and motion for him to continue. It took only a few minutes. When the man finished, Cameron closed his eyes and simply inhaled and exhaled deeply several times, trying to come to terms with what he had just learned, forcing his logical mind to assimilate the incredible revelation. He turned to Marie. Her eyes were on him, waiting for his reaction. He glanced back across the table.

“So, let me get this straight. Athena tested this… killer satellite on a Russian spacecraft to check its accuracy before trying it on an American orbiter?”

“Oui.”

“How long before Athena launches this satellite?”

“Three days.”

“How long before Lightning’s launch?”

“Tomorrow—”

A blast. An ear-piercing blast, instantly followed by a powerful shock wave that sent Cameron flying across the room. A shower of glass from shattered lights fell everywhere. Cameron braced himself as he crashed hard against the far left wall. He bounced and landed hard on his back on the wet concrete floor, rolling as trained reflexes took command.

He saw several dark figures enter the room through the large hole blasted in the opposite wall. Their silhouettes were sharp against the bright sun gleaming through the opening. Cameron couldn’t see much at first. He lost precious seconds trying to discern the long thin extensions at the ends of the figures’ hands.

Sound-suppressed pistols!

He reached for his Beretta as his eyes scanned the room. Marie had to be somewhere. But where? Where was she before the blast? Standing to my right. My right, my right. That means she has to be in front of me somewhere. Between me and the guns.

He heard one, two, three muffled shots. Detected the spitting sounds of a suppressed semiautomatic. He gazed around the room, found their origins. A figure lay still on the floor in the middle of the room.

Bastards!

He counted six intruders. The Beretta had fifteen rounds, and he didn’t have an extra magazine. It was his day off. No more than two rounds each. Cameron spotted the long table lying on its side ten feet away.

He heard three more spitting sounds followed by a low cry. Another two spits. Another cry.

Cameron rolled toward the table and stopped inches from its wooden surface. He rose to a deep crouch. Clutching the Beretta with both hands, he used the edge of the table for support.

“Fuck off, you assholes!” Cameron looked to his right. Marie!

His gun sights sought the dark form standing in front of Marie. Fired once. Twice. Both rounds aimed at the midsection. The target came up off his feet and fell to the left as both 9-mm Parabellum rounds transferred their energy. As he fired, Cameron quickly rolled away from his position. His weapon did not have a flash suppressor or silencer attachment. By firing he’d given his position away. The remaining five targets brought their weapons around and fired where he’d been merely seconds ago.

He had to get closer to Marie. Get to a new position and perhaps take out one or two more targets. His right shoulder crashed against the wall. Something gave; not the wall.

Damn.

He brought the Beretta around and trained it on a man still firing into the table, now twenty feet away. One shot. The target fell to his knees. Before he collapsed, Cameron already had another one lined up in his sights. He fired once more. Three down.

“Cameron… here…”

He heard her words, heard her pain. She was hurt. Cameron bolted up and raced the ten feet that separated them, sliding in beside her, next to the first target he’d killed. He looked to his left and spotted two targets leveling their weapons at him. Instinctively, Cameron grabbed the body of the dead target and pulled it up in front of him as he protected Marie with his own. He braced himself but death never came. Instead, he heard four loud blasts.

Confused, he focused on the right side of the room, where he’d seen the muzzle flashes. Jean-Francois! Relief fell victim to dread as three silenced shots foretold the end of Jean-Francois.

Cameron spotted the target. He trained the Beretta on him and fired twice. Both rounds hit. The man fell. Cameron scanned the room once more but saw no more targets. He turned to Marie.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I think just bruised. Don’t feel anything brok—” Her words were cut short by the sound of blaring sirens in the distance. Help. But not for him. This was no longer a local matter. He needed his case officer, needed to report. He remembered what he’d been told. Remembered a Roman candle called Challenger. Remembered a young schoolteacher and a country grief-stricken.

They left the warehouse through the hole blasted by the intruders and ran to the end of the block, slowed down, and walked casually for several blocks. The embassy was thirty minutes away. Help was there, support was there. He needed them. The future of America in space depended on them.

Kessler and Jones approached the mob of reporters. They had been briefed by NASA officials on what they could and could not say in public.

The NASA administrator standing by the mike looked in their direction.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Michael Kessler and Clayton Jones, the crew of Lightning!”

The audience of reporters and NASA personnel began to applaud. Kessler looked at Jones, who rolled his eyes.

“This is incredible, Mike,” Jones whispered. “I mean, look at them. They all think we can walk on water. I doubt we can do any wrong in their eyes.”

Kessler smiled.

The administrator pulled out a single sheet of paper.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press. Launch time for Lightning’s maiden flight has been set for tomorrow morning at 6:54 Eastern Standard Time. Navy Captain Michael Kessler will be mission commander. Mission pilot will be Captain Clayton Jones from the Air Force. With that I’ll open for questions.”

“Captain Kessler,” a lady asked from the back of the room. “Martha Warren, UPI.”

Kessler approached the mike. “Yes, Ms. Warren?”

“Isn’t it a little strange for you to go up in space as mission commander?”

Kessler narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, rookies like yourself usually get their feet wet by going up as mission pilots before commanding a shuttle.”

Jones was about to step up to the mike when Kessler motioned for him to calm down. Kessler stared at the reporter. He spoke slowly, his words measured. “I have to agree with you in the sense that it isn’t common for an astronaut to go up in space for the first time as mission commander, but on the other hand, why not? Look at the facts. Look at the training we’ve received. The hundreds of hours spent inside the Shuttle Mission Simulator at Johnson Space Center going over the launch, ascent, orbit, docking, deorbit, landing, and quite a number of emergencies that could occur in space. The simulator is by far much more demanding than the real shuttle. It tested us with situations that were far worse than anything that has ever happened in flight to date. We’ve gone over every problem faced by previous missions. In addition, both Jones and I have logged over five hundred hours of dead-stick approaches on the Gulfstream trainer, which also happens to be more demanding than the shuttle in terms of control and stability. We’re ready, we’re going up, and we will succeed. Next question, please.”

Before anyone could ask a question, the same woman spoke again. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re going up so soon when there’s a long list of astronauts waiting for their chance to go. Some have been waiting for over a decade. Isn’t it a little unfair for you to go up so fast? It would seem that you haven’t paid your dues yet.”

Kessler was about to respond when Jones stepped up to the mike. “I’d like to respond to that if you don’t mind, Mike.” Jones turned in the direction of the reporter. “Listen, Ms. Warren. I have no idea what you’re driving at, but I’d like to say — for the record — that this guy here’s the best damned pilot I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s going up because he’s the best, and Lightning deserves nothing but the best at the helm. I’m very proud to get the chance to go up with him in what’s going to be the most successful of the shuttle missions to date. Now, why don’t we stick to real issues about the mission and stay off trick questions?”

The room fell silent for several seconds. Kessler closed his eyes and exhaled.

“Next question, please,” Jones said.

“Robert Kinsley, ABC. How many days is the mission to last?”

Jones smiled and turned to Kessler. “I guess I’ll let you answer that. After all, you’re the mission commander.”

Kessler smiled in return. “The current schedule is to remain in orbit for four days.”

“What is the main purpose of the mission?” the same reporter asked.

“The first priority is to get Lightning checked out for commercial and military use. Captain Jones and I will go through a comprehensive series of tests to verify Lightning’s functionality in space. This is the main reason for the crew of two. There will be no mission specialists aboard on this trip… yes, the lady in the second row.”

“Is there any spacewalking scheduled for this mission?”

“No.”

“But Lightning is carrying the latest spacewalking gear, correct?”

“Every orbiter, regardless of the mission, always carries two sets of EVA gear even if there are no plans to go outside. In the event that we have to EVA for whatever reason, both Captain Jones and myself have spent hundreds of hours training to do so.”

Kessler looked at Jones as a dozen hands went up. Jones raised his eyebrows and smiled.

George Pruett put down his paperback and raised an eyebrow when the yellow-bordered NASA icon suddenly turned red. His right hand reached for the mouse and he clicked his way down the list to a new entry.

He read on for a few minutes and exhaled.

“Sweet Jesus!”

“You okay, George?” asked one analyst looking over the short cubicle wall into George’s small office.

“Ah… yeah, yeah, I’m fine, thanks.” The analyst gave him a puzzled look before going back to his work.

What does it mean? George asked himself. Three former Athena scientists gunned down during an assault on a warehouse? Two of them shot in the head point-blank? Who did the shooting? The other seven unidentified dead men found there maybe? All had sound-suppressed weapons. None carried any identification papers.

The report was short but concise. It had originated with a daily summary of activities provided by CIA analysts.

“Hmm…”

Now this is interesting, George thought as he selected the print command from a list of options on the right side of the screen. First Claude Guilloux and now more scientists from the same space agency? A few seconds later the Hewlett Packard laser jet printer kicked in with a light hum. A single sheet of paper was sucked in from the paper tray and came out at the other end. George snatched it and carefully read all three entries again. His analytical mind now told him that Guilloux had also been murdered. What about the accident at NASA?

George couldn’t help himself. Perhaps he’d read just too many spy novels, or maybe he simply wanted his algorithm to come up with something of significance, but he grabbed his phone and called information for the number of the public affairs office at Kennedy Space Center. He got it and dialed.

Ten minutes later, he hung up and set the Sun into a continuous loop so that nobody could access it without the appropriate password. Satisfied, George got up and headed for the fax machine across the hall, where the public affairs official at KSC faxed him a copy of the formal report on the accident.

George walked back to his cubicle, sat on his swivel chair, and slowly read the two-page report. It seemed as if Vera Baumberger had lost her balance while climbing down from one of the shuttle’s main engines — according to a young technician working with her at the platform, who also happened to be the first one to get to the spot where she’d fallen. George still didn’t like it, but decided to leave it at that for now. The matter with Athena scientists, however, definitely needed some attention.

He briefly checked the six-digit counter on the side of the laser printer and wrote down the number on the printout. He then made an entry on the printer’s logbook. The number of entries in the logbook matched the number of single-sheet printouts. That way no one could get hard-copy information from his system without him knowing about it.

George typed a short memo using a small electric typewriter on the side of his desk, grabbed the computer printout, and headed for the Records department of Computer Services on the second floor. He walked through the double doors and handed the papers to the Records clerk.

“Please route to the European section and file the originals.”

“Right away,” she responded, getting up and walking to the copy machine.

“Thanks.” George checked his watch and headed back to his Sun.

After three Metro transfers and a short walk, Cameron unlocked the door of their hotel room and let Marie through. He checked both sides of the long hallway before stepping inside and locking the door. They had had no problems finding a hotel room. Tourist season was almost over.

Exhausted, they both collapsed onto the double bed. Cameron flashed briefly on the impropriety of being this close physically to his charge, and guiltily recognized that he didn’t give a damn. His training told him that two people, often two agents, were inclined to become physically involved during high-stress assignments, but something told him that if it happened to him and Marie, stress would have less to do with it than her stunning beauty.

Priorities. Cameron knew they were clean, that they hadn’t been followed from the warehouse. And he’d specifically chosen not to seek refuge in the embassy when he noticed a gray-paneled truck parked next to the side gate. He wondered for a moment if the embassy was aware of the surveillance, then began to think about a safe contact point to meet his case officer. Marie’s voice broke his train of thought.

“So, what’s next?”

“Huh?”

“What do we do next?”

“Oh. I contact Potter and get him to pull us in.”

“How?”

He smiled. “Trust me.”

“What about the French police?”

“I’m not sure how to handle that yet. Let’s get to safety first and talk it over with our people. I’m sure there’s a way to work that out.”

She frowned. “How do you think Potter is going to react?”

“Oh, he’ll be pissed off at first and will probably curse me out for a couple of minutes. After that I think he’ll listen to what we have to say.”

“When do you plan to…”

“I spotted a couple of public phones a block away. I just wanted to get you out of harm’s way first.”

She smiled again and touched his arm in gratitude.

A strong woman, Cameron thought. Going through what she had gone through and still managing to keep her cool and not fall apart. Guilloux had indeed been a lucky man.

Cameron got up. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Please be careful.”

Cameron smiled and left the room.

On the second floor, Higgins picked up the phone and stared out the window. “Higgins here.”

“Hello, sir. Rich Potter here. Sorry to disturb you.

“Don’t worry about it. What’s wrong?”

“I might have a problem with one of my operatives. I’m not sure yet.”

“Go on.”

“The name’s Stone — Cameron Stone. He contacted me a few minutes ago and requested immediate cauterization,” Potter said, referring to the recovery of compromised agents.

“His reason?”

“He claims there’s an organization set out to sabotage NASA. Says it’s going to destroy the new shuttle, to be more specific. He also thinks the French police might be involved.”

Higgins inhaled and closed his eyes. He struggled to remain in control. “Did he set a pickup location?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well then, bring him in and keep him well guarded. Let me know what he has to say. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. When and where?”

“Botanical Gardens, five P.M. today. That’s an hour from now.”

“I’ll be here. Call me when it’s done, and remember. No mention of this to anyone else.”

“I know, sir. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, and good luck.” He hung up and pressed a fist against his jaw. Damn! How can it be? How did Stone get that information?

Higgins grabbed the phone and dialed a foreign number he had committed to memory.

Cameron stood next to the window and looked out. The sky was becoming dark and overcast, indicating an impending storm. He inspected the street below. All appeared normal. He checked his watch. An hour before the meeting.

“So, Cameron, you seem to know quite a bit about me. What’s your story?”

Cameron looked at Marie, still lying on the bed. “I’m not sure you want to hear it. It’s pretty boring.”

“It’s okay. Go ahead.”

Cameron smiled. “It all started when I graduated high school and left for the war.”

“Vietnam?”

“Yep. Spent four years there.”

“Why four? I thought you were only required to do one year.”

“True, but after my first tour I went home to find out that there were no jobs. The American people weren’t that sympathetic to soldiers in those days. So I went back, and remained in the military after the war. I was with the Special Forces for a few years before the CIA snatched me, and here I am today.”

Marie sat up and hugged her knees close like a child. “With all that activity going on I guess a private life was out of the question.”

Cameron didn’t respond. He lowered his gaze as the image of Lan-Anh’s charred body filled his mind. “There was someone once. It was a long time ago. I was only a kid. Had just turned twenty. Her name was Lan-Anh. She was killed in Saigon.

Marie left the bed and came to him. Touching his arm gently she said, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Like I said, it happened a long time ago.”

“Cameron…”

He lifted his eyes and met hers.

“What was it really like over there?” she asked

He looked away. “You don’t want to know.”

“I lost a brother over there, Cameron. Yes, I want to know.”

Cameron sat against the window sill and stared at Marie. Who are you, Marie Guilloux? What is happening to us? Cameron tried to suppress feelings he had not felt for years. He had felt physical attraction from the day he saw her. But this went deeper than that. He felt comfortable in her presence. He trusted her. She was not just another pretty face but a woman of substance.

Very well, Marie. You asked for it. Cameron began to speak. His voice was ice cold, his words strong. He told her about the pain, the frustration, the sorrow. He explained to her how young soldiers had died useless deaths mainly because of lack of training. Gunfire would erupt and they would just freeze and fall on their faces seconds later, filled with lead. It was madness. Then his tone changed. He dropped his voice by a few decibels and began to speak in between deep breaths. His fists were tight. His body rigid. He was back. The jungle surrounded him. Go, Cameron. Make a run… for it. You have a chance… by yourself. Get help… and come back… God, why did I leave him? But I did come back. I did! But too late. The Vietcong had gutted Skergan like and animal and left him hanging from a tree.

His mind was too cloudy to continue. His words became incoherent. Cameron turned to stare out the window, embarrassed, guilty, unable to face her. Marie was the first person he’d ever told the story.

He felt her hands on his shoulder, her fingers gently pressing. They reached his neck and massaged it. Cameron closed his eyes for a few moments, feeling his body relax.

“It’s all right, Cameron. It’s all right.”

Cameron turned around and stared into her eyes. He saw tears, felt mesmerized by her. She understood the way he felt. She understood his pain.

“Thank you,” he said.

“No. Thank you.”

The long and narrow conference room, built to accommodate the large table covering most of the marble floor, had all of its windows facing the city’s skyline. It fit his image of a world leader’s center of government, noted Frederick Vanderhoff as he scanned the occupants of fifteen of the forty black leather chairs that followed the contour of the oval-shaped mahogany table. The men present that afternoon formed his inner circle, a handful of visionaries who, like Vanderhoff, were among the most powerful financial leaders of the European Economic Community. He considered them the backbone of the EEC’s space agency, Athena, and the only ones willing to risk what it would take to make Europe the leader in space by the end of the century.

But Vanderhoff was more than just an investor. He had started as a scientist with a nose for good business ventures during the seventies and eighties, when he’d made his fortune by using his engineering talents to help develop weapons like the Armbrust man-portable anti-tank system, along with a variety of Heckler & Koch light weapons. He’d then used his negotiating skills and factory contacts to arrange sales of weapons to a number of Middle Eastern, South American, and African countries.

Vanderhoff glanced at an empty seat to his left, the one that had belonged to rocket scientist Claude Guilloux. Although very bright technically, Guilloux had lacked the commitment and resolve needed to achieve Vanderhoff’s vision for the European space community.

After the Challenger disaster, the EEC had invested billions of dollars to modernize Athena’s launching facility in Kourou, French Guiana, and to improve the quality of its rockets. With the large amount of capital available, Vanderhoff had hired the best scientific minds in Europe to design an improved launch vehicle with advanced guidance systems and capable of multi-satellite deployment on a single mission. The end result was the Athena V, a three-stage, 130-foot tall rocket capable of carrying single payloads into geosynchronous orbit or multiple payloads into low Earth orbit. Seven years after its debut, fifty Athena Vs had been launched without a single malfunction, establishing the European space agency’s credibility. With fees of sixty million dollars per low orbit launch and a hundred million per geosynchronous orbit launch, Vanderhoff and his ring of investors had collected a hundredfold on their original investment, and in the process had provided the European economy with an overnight boom in state-of-the-art industries manufacturing everything from satellites to computers for Athena’s rockets.

But a dark cloud loomed over Athena’s profitable venture, threatening not only to take away the obscene profits Athena had grown to enjoy, but most importantly, to ruin Vanderhoff’s plans for European domination in space. The new NASA. An improved NASA. A reborn space agency with a real vision: to regain the status it had held in the late sixties and early seventies, to establish itself once more as a space leader. The Challenger setback had only resulted in a new, vigorous agency willing to go the extra mile to achieve the dreams of Presidents Eisenhower and Kennedy: to make space travel routine, an everyday occurrence. Vanderhoff knew that was the philosophy behind the American space shuttle program. It was the reason NASA had stepped away from brute-force methods of reaching space and opted for sophistication, for reusable spacecraft capable of taking off like a rocket and landing like an airplane, routinely transporting its passengers and cargo to orbital stations built from materials also ferried into space by the advanced orbiter. That was the shuttle’s mission and, in Vanderhoff’s mind, the future.

But Vanderhoff believed the future in space belonged to Europe, not the United States, and not even the independent republics of the former Soviet Union, which remained united behind Russia’s leadership when it came to space exploration. Athena already had plans for its own shuttle and space station, but needed time to develop the projects. Time that Vanderhoff knew would not be available if NASA remained successful in maintaining its aggressive new schedule of shuttle launches, a large number of which would be used to ferry modules of Space Station Freedom into orbit.

Vanderhoff eyed General Marcel Chardon sitting to his right. Chardon was the second-in-command of all French armed forces and the most powerful military player of Vanderhoff’s coalition.

Like the two high-ranking German Bundeswehr officers sitting next to him, General Chardon had chosen to join Vanderhoff’s conspiracy for tactical reasons. The sixty-two-year-old general was certain that Europe would be threatened by competing U.S. and Russian space stations, which would be used — Cold War or no Cold War — as test bases for Strategic Defense Initiative weaponry.

SDI. Vanderhoff exhaled. He strongly shared Chardon’s belief that Europe had to take immediate steps now to position itself as the leader in space with the end goal of becoming the world superpower. Vanderhoff, like Chardon, cherished the dream of Europe being the strongest power on Earth, and space supremacy was a critical step toward achieving that dream.

Vanderhoff and his allies had the financial means to back all of the research needed to build Athena’s revolutionary Hermes shuttle and the Columbus space station, but time was running out. NASA was coming back too strong. The prototype modules for Freedom were already completed, and with Discovery, Atlantis, Endeavour, and now Lightning, the American space agency had plenty of muscle to ferry all the hardware necessary to permanently establish itself in space before the end of the century.

Athena needed time and Vanderhoff knew how to get it. He had already tested his stealth killer satellite on the Russians, and now it was the Americans’ turn. He began the meeting.

“We have two major issues to discuss. The first is in regards to a CIA operative named Stone. Apparently this agent was responsible for the debacle at the warehouse. He seems to have taken Madame Guilloux under his wing.” Vanderhoff saw Chardon’s face hardening. “I have just received a call from our contact inside the CIA and he has given me information that assures us of Mr. Stone’s termination. Once he is done away with we will find Guilloux’s wife and terminate her as well, just as we killed her recalcitrant husband and the other scientists who opposed us. We can’t afford a leak before Lightning’s launch.”

Chardon shifted his two-hundred-pound body on the chair and exhaled.

“Something bothering you, General?”

“Stone should have been dead by now, monsieur. He never should have left the warehouse alive.”

“Well, just make sure your people are in place at the Botanical Gardens, and that he doesn’t escape this time. Any problems with the local police?”

“No,” replied Chardon. “We own the Prefect of Police.”

“Well, just make sure everyone involved knows that this time there can’t be any mistakes. Understood?”

“Oui.”

Vanderhoff paused to look around the table and saw several heads nodding in assent. He had driven the point home. He leaned back in his swivel chair and forced his expression to relax somewhat.

“Gentlemen, the second issue up for discussion is Athena’s future in space in the post-NASA era. I have met with my scientists down in Kourou and their progress has been outstanding, largely due to the major injection of capital into our research and development division. Here are the fruits of our labor.” Vanderhoff rose and walked to the side of the room, where he pulled off a white cloth covering mock-up models of their space shuttle and space station.

“This is a model of the shuttle Hermes, gentlemen, a space vehicle that takes state-of-the-art technology one step beyond the American space shuttle. Our shuttle will be capable not only of returning from space and landing like an airplane, but also taking off like one.”

Right away, Vanderhoff noticed people murmuring among themselves. He waited for silence and continued.

“Before Guilloux’s elimination, he had devised a revolutionary and clean method of reaching space. You see, gentlemen, three-fourths of the launch weight of the American shuttle is nothing but liquid oxygen — the heavy oxidizer vital to achieve combustion with liquid hydrogen fuel. Most of that oxidizer is consumed during the first three minutes of flight, when the shuttle is still within Earth’s atmosphere. Guilloux came up with an interesting thought. Why carry all that oxygen along when there is plenty of oxygen in the atmosphere? And so Guilloux proposed a rocket engine that would breathe oxygen during the atmospheric portion of the flight, switch to on-board liquid oxygen right before reaching space, and in the process, severely cut back on weight and complexity while increasing cargo area. Simple and elegant.”

“But feasible?” asked Chardon.

“Our scientists are working on that. That’s why we need to slow down NASA. We need time to overcome two major obstacles. One is the development of an air-breathing jet engine capable of attaining speeds in excess of Mach ten to achieve space injection. The second is to develop an active fuselage cooling system. Unlike the tiles of the passive thermal-protection system of the American orbiter, our system will cool the entire fuselage by running liquid hydrogen under the craft’s skin using a technology similar to the one currently used for cooling conventional rocket-engine nozzles. We feel the cooling issue will be straightforward, but the jet engines — that’s going to take time and plenty of money to develop. Once done, however, we will have a true space plane.”

“How much time?” asked Chardon.

Vanderhoff pointed at the engines in the rear of the three-foot-long plastic model of the streamline Hermes. “A conventional jet engine extracts oxygen from the atmosphere, but it is not suitable for speeds above Mach three. We have developed an engine that uses the ramming effect of the plane’s supersonic speed to compress the air in the combustion chamber prior to its mixing with fuel. This is what we call a ramjet engine, and we have determined that ramjet technology will get us up to Mach six. Beyond that, we have designed — on paper — a special type of ramjet engine in which supersonic air flows through the combustion chamber. This technology, gentlemen, is what will get us the speed necessary to break away from Earth’s gravitational force. The heart of Hermes is the supersonic combustion ramjet or scramjet, but to develop it we’ll need time and money. We have the money. With Lightning out of the way we’ll buy the time.” Vanderhoff paused to let the information sink in.

“Is our launch on schedule?” asked Chardon.

“All is in place. An Athena V with an explosive drone attached to a communications satellite is scheduled to lift off at 11:35 P.M. local time the day after tomorrow, but remember, gentlemen, the satellite is just a contingency. We don’t expect Lightning to reach orbit.”

“Any problems at NASA?”

“No. All is in place there as well.”

Chardon leaned back and nodded. The room fell silent.

“Very well, then,” concluded Vanderhoff. “General, you’ll handle Mr. Stone. I’m flying back to Kourou immediately to supervise the launch. Call me the moment you have news. Meeting adjourned.”