The Cassandra Compact

CHAPTER THIRTY

A little over an hour had passed since Air Force One had landed at Groome Lake, Nevada. Escorted by a pair of F-15 Eagle interceptors, it had come in on the same runway that, a decade earlier, had been built to flight-test the B-2 bomber. As soon as the presidential platform was on the ground, a contingent of air force security accompanied the chief executive and his working group to the shuttle landing facility a mile and a half away.

In spite of the heat, the president insisted on walking along the runway with his group and then down the ramp into the holding area. He glanced around at the interior of the bunker. With its smooth concrete walls, broken only by outlets for the gas jets, it reminded him of a giant crematorium.

Which is really what it is…

The president pointed to a cocoonlike tube, eight feet high, five feet wide, that ran from one of the walls into the middle of the bunker like a gigantic umbilical cord.

“What's that?” he asked an air police lieutenant.

Castilla turned when he heard the soft whir of an electric golf cart. Seated beside an air force security guard was Dr. Karl Bauer. When the cart pulled up alongside the group, Bauer got out and, nodding at members of the entourage, walked directly to the president.

“Mr. President,” he said gravely. “It is good to see you again. Although I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

The president knew that his eyes were his weakness. They always gave away his moods and emotions. Trying not to recall what Smith and Klein had told him, he forced himself to smile and to shake the hand of a man he'd once respected, who had been honored at the White House. Who's a fucking monster.

But what he said was, “The pleasure is mine, Dr. Bauer. Believe me, I'm grateful that you're here.” He gestured toward the cocoon. “Maybe you could explain this.”

“Certainly.”

Bauer led the way to the end of the cocoon. Looking inside, the president saw that the last six feet of the chamber were sealed off from the rest, creating a kind of vault or air lock.

“This portable cocoon is my own design and manufacture,” Bauer said. “It can be flown anywhere in the world, set up in a matter of hours, then coupled by remote control to the target. Its sole purpose is to extract an individual from a hot zone that may be difficult or impossible to enter ― which is the situation we are faced with.”

“Why not go directly into the shuttle, Doctor? Surely with protective suits that's possible.”

“Possible, yes, Mr. President. Advisable? No. We have no idea what is loose on board the orbiter. Right now, we have one survivor, Dr. Reed, who is not contaminated. It would be best to bring him off the ship and put him through the decontamination process rather than risk sending someone to get him. There's less chance of an accident, and we'd be able to find out very quickly what happened.”

“But Dr. Reed doesn't know what happened,” the president objected. “Or what we're dealing with.”

“We can't be sure,” Bauer replied. “Under the circumstances, it's not unusual for people to have observed or remembered more than they think they do. In any event, we then send in a robot probe to take samples. There are full lab facilities here. I will be able to tell you within the hour what it is we're dealing with.”

“In the meantime, the shuttle sits here, hot, as you would say.”

“Certainly you can give the order to have it destroyed immediately,” Bauer replied. “However, there are the bodies of the other crew members. If there is any chance of bringing them out, giving them a decent burial, I believe we should hold out for it.”

The president fought to keep his rage in check. The butcher's concern for his victims was almost more than he could bear.

“I agree. Please, continue.”

“Once the cocoon is mated to the shuttle, I will enter from the other end ―behind the wall,” Bauer explained. “I will walk into this small decontamination chamber, check it, and seal it. Only then will Dr. Reed be instructed to open Discovery's hatch and step directly into the decontamination area.”

Bauer pointed to PVC pipes running along the ceiling the length of the cocoon. “These supply electricity and decontamination detergents. The chamber is equipped with ultraviolet light, which is deadly to all known forms of bacteria. The detergent is an added precaution. Dr. Reed will undress. Both he and his suit-except for the sample we need ― will be cleaned at the same time.”

“Why clean the suit?”

“Because we have no practical way to dispose of it in the chamber, Mr. President.”

The president remembered the question Klein had asked him to raise. Bauer's response was vital, but it had to be elicited in such a way so as not to arouse the slightest suspicion.

“If the suit needs to be sterilized,” he asked, “then how does the sample come out?”

“The chamber has a pass-through facility,” Bauer explained. “Dr. Reed will deposit the sample into a carrier tray. On the other side, I will roll the tray through into the Glovebox. This way the sample will always remain in a secure environment. Using the Glovebox, I will deposit the sample into a secure container, then bring that out.”

“And you'll be doing this yourself.”

“As you can see, Mr. President, the space inside the cocoon is somewhat restricted. Yes, I will be working alone.”

So nobody can see what you're really doing.

The president stepped back from the cocoon. “This is all very impressive, Dr. Bauer. Let's hope it works as advertised.”

“It will, Mr. President. At the very least, we know we can save one of those brave souls.”

The president turned to the group. “I guess we're as ready as we'll ever be.”

“I recommend we go to the observation bunker,” CIA director Bill Dodge suggested. “The shuttle is fifteen minutes out. We can watch the touchdown on the monitors.”

“Has there been any contact with Dr. Reed?” the president asked.

“No, sir. Communications are still out.”

“What about that explosion?”

“I'm still waiting for more details, Mr. President,” Marti Nesbitt replied. “But whatever it was, it didn't affect Discovery's flight path.”

As the group followed the president to the entrance of the bunker, Castilla looked back. “Aren't you coming with us, Dr. Bauer?”

Bauer's expression was suitably grim. “Oh, no, Mr. President. My place is here.”

Grabbing hold of the space acceleration system, Megan managed to pull herself up. Her chest throbbed where Reed had hit her, and there was a shooting pain in her lower back where she'd fallen.

You're running out o f time. Move!

Megan staggered to the sled chair. She had no doubt that Reed would use Discovery's autodestruct system to vaporize all evidence of his diabolical handiwork. That would be the only way to ensure his safety. That was why he hadn't killed her before leaving the Spacelab. Megan glanced at the sled chair and knew it was her only hope.

There was no communications equipment as such in the Spacelab. But during medical tests, crew members had been wired not only into the recording instruments onboard Discovery but also to a communications feed that relayed the results directly to physicians at mission control. Settling herself in the chair, Megan strapped down her ankles and one wrist. With her free hand, she plugged a microphone jack into the communications unit on her suit. As far as she knew, the feed sent back digital, not voice, data back to mission control. But then again, no one had ever told her that voice communication was impossible.

Just let someone on the other end hear me, she prayed, and activated the sled's instrument panel.

“RAID One to Looking Glass, come in.”

The voice of the pilot in the lead Commanche crackled in Smith's headset. A second later, he heard the Groome Lake tower's response.

“RAID One, this is Looking Glass. You are in restricted air space. Immediate authorization is requested.”

“Authorization is Brass Hat,” the pilot replied calmly. “Repeat, Brass Hat.”

Brass Hat was the Secret Service code name for the president.

“RAID flight, this is Looking Glass,” the controller replied. “We have positive ID on you. You are cleared to land on runway R twenty-seven, L left.”

“R twenty-seven L left, roger,” the pilot said. “Touchdown in two minutes.”

“Where's the shuttle?” Smith asked.

The pilot keyed into the NASA frequency. “Thirteen minutes out.”

At mission control, Harry Landon was tracking the shuttle's progress through the atmosphere on a giant plotting board, where she appeared as a gently descending red dot. In a few minutes, low altitude satellites would be able to transmit pictures. As Discovery got closer, air force reconnaissance planes would roll their cameras.

“Landon?”

Landon glanced up at the commo tech. “What is it?”

“I'm not sure, sir,” the tech replied, obviously confused. He handed Landon a printout. “This just came in.”

Landon glanced at the sheet. “It's the medical feed from the sled chair.” He shook his head. “It must be a malfunction. Reed is on the flight deck. For the feed to be accurate would mean that someone else is in the sled chair.”

“Yes, sir,” the tech agreed. He didn't have to be reminded that that someone would have to be alive. “But look at this. The chair's instruments are on. The heart monitor shows signs of activity ― very faint, but activity nonetheless.”

Landon slipped his reading glasses down his nose. The tech was right: the heart monitor was registering a living organism.

“What the hell?”

“Listen to this, sir,” the tech said. “It's the last few minutes of commo tape. We kept it rolling even though…”

Landon grabbed the headphones. “Play it for me!”

Since the beginning of the emergency, Landon had listened to so many hours of transmission that he could tune out the hiss and crackle that filled his ears. Behind the static he heard something, barely discernible but distinctly human… a voice calling from the ethers.

“This is… Discovery… Spacelab… am alive… Repeat, alive… Help me…”

Jack Riley and his RAID team began jumping out even before the Commanches' rotors wound down. Smith glanced at the enormous hangars lined up like prehistoric turtles, their roofs painted dull brown to blend in with the desolate landscape. To the south and west were mountain ranges; to the northeast, nothing but desert. Even through the din of men and machinery, there was an eerie stillness to the base.

The team arranged their equipment in a flatbed truck that had pulled up, then jumped aboard for the short ride. Smith and Riley followed in the Humvee.

The hangar's interior was partitioned to allow the team privacy ― and, Smith suspected, to prevent them from seeing what else was stored there. As Riley had promised, a commo console was up and running, manned by a young female officer.

“Colonel,” she said. “You have flash traffic from Bluebird.”

Smith was adjusting his headset when Klein came on. “What's your status, Jon?”

“We're getting into our Level Four suits right now. How about the shuttle?”

“It'll be in the chamber by the time you get there.”

“Bauer?”

“Doesn't suspect a thing. He's already suited up and ready to mate the cocoon with the shuttle.”

Smith had seen the blueprints and photos of Bauer's creation, but he had never been inside it.

“Jon, there's something you need to know ― and hear,” Klein said. “A few minutes ago, Landon received communications from inside the Spacelab. It was a distress signal. We're running tests right now. I don't want to raise your hopes, but the voice sounded like Megan's.”

Sheer joy surged through Smith. Yet at the same time, he was aware of the possibly deadly consequences of this development.

“Has Landon told Reed about this?”

“Not that I know of. Communications are still down. But I should have told Landon to keep quiet in case contact was reestablished. Wait one.”

Smith tried to rein in his clashing emotions. The idea that Megan was alive brought him hope. At the same time, if Reed somehow discovered this, he would still have a chance to kill her before he left the shuttle.

“Jon? It's all right. Landon says the link is still down. I confused the hell out of him by ordering him not to talk in case it comes back up, but I have his word that he won't tell Reed a thing.”

“Anything on those voice tests?” Smith demanded.

“So far they're inconclusive.”

“Can you play me the tape?”

“It's pretty scratched up.”

Smith closed his eyes and listened. After a few moments, he said, “That's her, sir. Megan's alive.”