The Roswell Conspiracy

FIFTY-ONE

From the copilot’s seat of the Cessna 340A, Colchev could see vast rows of planes lined wingtip to wingtip on the grassy field bordering the northern runway of the Oshkosh Whitman Regional Airport. The previous night, he and Zotkin had landed in Calgary, Canada to refuel the Gulfstream, where they were able to sneak off the plane disguised as pilots. Two other men dressed as pilots took their places and the jet continued on its way toward Moscow. Then Colchev and Zotkin drove across the border into Montana using a new set of false passports and boarded the smaller twin-prop six-seater at a tiny airport in Shelby.

To cover his tracks, Colchev planted a small explosive device on the Gulfstream, timed to blow up over the remote Canadian tundra. It would take days to confirm that he and the xenobium were not on board.

Zotkin, who was flying the Cessna, got clearance to land on runway 27, which was closer to their parking spot in the north field than the main 36L runway used for the demonstration flights and daily air shows. They made their final turn, Lake Winnebago glistening just a few miles to the east under the azure sky. Excellent conditions for the launch.

As they came around, Colchev got his first glimpse of the Skyward spaceplane. It was situated in a place of honor at the primary taxiway leading to the main runway. Even from this distance, the vehicle was a technological wonder to behold.

The Skyward was slung underneath its carrier plane, the Lodestar. Like a mother hen, the wing-shaped Lodestar sat atop the spaceplane, which nestled into the curvature of the larger aircraft’s concave underside and was already in place for the launch in two hours.

The most distinctive feature of both the Lodestar and the Skyward was the unusual design of their fuselages. The carbon-fiber bodywork was constructed with criss-crossing struts that seemed to be oriented in a haphazard fashion. The delicate-looking framework was optimized to provide the maximum strength to the spaceplane for its weight, much like the hollow bones of a bird. The spaces in between the struts were filled with state-of-the-art polymer windows that gave intrepid passengers a 180-degree view of the Earth when the spaceplane reached its maximum altitude of seventy miles.

Colchev had been following the news about the Skyward ever since its existence had been made public. By acquiring the rights to use Burt Rutan’s SpaceShipTwo, Richard Branson’s company Virgin Galactic had a huge head start on ExAtmo’s effort to bring spaceflight to the commercial market, so the newer company had to come up with an attention-getting ploy to wrest some of the spotlight away from the pioneer and showcase its own advanced technology. The exhibition flight at the premiere experimental aircraft show in the world was the answer. As soon as Colchev had heard about the planned demonstration six months ago, he knew it would be his best chance to cripple the entire United States in one blow.

Getting information about the Skyward out of the notoriously secretive ExAtmo files had been difficult, but not impossible. One of the gems they’d acquired had been film of a test flight, showing the cockpit operation of both the carrier and spaceplane. With that, they knew their plan was possible.

The flight profile of the spaceplane was straightforward, helpfully sketched out in a CGI video on the ExAtmo website. The Lodestar could take off from any commercial runway. When it reached an altitude of 50,000 feet, the Skyward dropped from the belly. Once it was clear, the Skyward ignited its liquid rocket engine, propelling it to three thousand miles per hour, or mach four, twice the speed of the Concorde. Shooting straight up toward space, the engine disengaged after seventy seconds, giving the six passengers five minutes of weightlessness as the spaceplane was pulled back toward Earth, its fuel spent. Twenty-five minutes later, it glided in for an unpowered landing at the airport just like a Space Shuttle.

Of course, there was a pilot in case anything went awry during the flight, but on a typical trip he was superfluous during the launch. The Skyward was completely automated, the computer controlling the entire powered portion of the flight. As soon as the Skyward dropped from the carrier, the pilot didn’t need to do anything but monitor the gauges until it was time to land.

That automation was going to make it possible for Colchev to fly into space.

Building anticipation for the flight, ExAtmo had garnered extensive publicity by withholding the names of the pilots of the spaceplane and carrier aircraft as well as the two passengers. Fully suited and helmeted to maintain the mystery of their identities, they would be taken by shuttle bus to the flight line, where they would get on board the craft in full view of the crowds. The entire flight was to be recorded by telescopes on the ground. When the Skyward returned, the successful crew and passengers would be revealed in a massive press conference right on the tarmac.

Only it wouldn’t happen quite as planned.

Colchev and his men would take the place of the pilots and passengers. Zotkin, an experienced pilot rated on many different types of aircraft, would fly the carrier plane. Colchev and the other men, Nisselovich and Oborski, would climb aboard the Skyward. Once they were in the air, Nisselovich and Oborski would crawl through the mating hatch into the Lodestar, leaving Colchev alone to pilot the Skyward.

Colchev’s sole task during the Skyward’s launch would be to cut off the rocket early. After arming the Killswitch, he would depressurize the Skyward and eject the weapon, where it would continue on its ballistic arc. Then Colchev would fire the engine and use up the remaining fuel to get as much distance as he could between him and the Killswitch.

When the Killswitch went off, the electronics in the Skyward would be useless. It would be destined to crash, which was the reason Colchev needed the Icarus parachute. He’d bail out just as the Killswitch timer counted down to zero. Zotkin and the others would use traditional chutes from a much lower altitude. Ten minutes later, Colchev would land in an utterly changed world. He’d rendezvous with his comrades at a garage where they had stored an ancient diesel truck equipped with extra fuel. Together they’d make the difficult trek back to Russia through the North American wasteland, departing on a ship that they’d already contracted to meet them at the port of Seattle.

The Cessna’s wheels touching down brought Colchev out of his revelry. Guided by the flag-waving attendants, they taxied through the maze of aircraft and tents to their parking space.

Zotkin shut down the engines. He nodded at a hangar to their right along the edge of the airport.

“That’s the Weeks hangar. The flight crew is getting ready in there.”

The hangar door was closed for privacy. The shuttle bus that would take the crew to the plane was parked outside. No security was visible. The guards were all stationed around the spaceplane. The prep location had been withheld from the media, but Colchev had acquired the information from the ExAtmo files.

“Is everyone clear on the plan?” Colchev said.

Three nods.

Nisselovich and Oborski left to inspect the area around the spaceplane and verify that everything was as they anticipated.

Colchev opened the container carrying the Killswitch. He carefully removed the xenobium from its protective case and inserted it into the weapon. The tines latched onto the metal and drew it into the compartment, closing over it and shielding the radiation. Now all he had to do was enter the arming code and set the timer.

He and Zotkin unloaded the container from the plane and put it on a handcart they’d brought along. With all of the camping equipment and barbecues set up around them, no one glanced twice at them moving their luggage toward the unguarded hangar.

FIFTY-TWO

The banner on the control tower proudly declared that Oshkosh was the world’s busiest airport. The constant drone of propellers and engines reminded Tyler that the proclamation wasn’t hyperbole. Every minute there were aircraft taking off or landing, sometimes simultaneously on the two runways. More airplanes buzzed around in flight, including a squadron of P-51 Mustang fighter planes flying in formation.

There was also constant motion on the ground. As Tyler, Jess, Fay, Grant, and Morgan made their way toward the Skyward spaceplane, a Navy AWACS plane crossed in front of them and was ushered to a spot next to a white Air Force T-38 supersonic trainer and an Army Chinook helicopter, two of the many military aircraft on display. Lines of visitors formed at each of them, and the pilots were on hand to answer questions from the gawking fans. Some of them even allowed the curious to sit inside the cockpit.

On the other side of the tarmac were vintage aircraft of every stripe, from World War I biplanes to Vietnam-era choppers. Further down the runway Boeing and Airbus were giving tours of their latest airliners.

Enormous tents housing manufacturer showcases, vendor displays, and restaurants stretched five hundred yards in every direction. Outside most of the tents were innovative private plane models and experimental prototypes that the builders wanted to spotlight, hoping to make sales to the enthusiasts who came from all over the world.

The wide thoroughfares were crammed with pedestrians taking in the sights, tractors towing shuttle trams, and gas-powered carts ferrying workers and supplies in every direction. For the entire week, the airport was transformed into a small city, with a population approaching 100,000 visitors on sunny days.

“I’ve never seen so many planes,” Fay said. “This is enormous.”

“Are you doing all right, Nana?” Jess said. “We should have made you stay in Los Angeles.”

“I’m fine.”

Tyler thought she looked anything but. They were all exhausted from the constant travel and fitful sleep on planes, but Fay had gotten the worst of it. Dark circles under her eyes and a haggard droop in her shoulders gave away that she was on the ragged edge. Though she was the fittest seventy-five-year-old he’d ever known, age and illness were catching up with her.

When they had made the connection between the Killswitch and the Oshkosh AirVenture, Morgan had tried to convince the FBI and her superiors to send agents to stop the launch of the spaceplane or at least guard it until it took off. But her suspension had seriously undermined her credibility, and they wouldn’t listen because of a new development.

The private plane carrying Colchev had blown up over an unpopulated region of Canada. Homeland Security suspected that he got cold feet about bringing the xenobium into the US and continued on to Russia. All indications were that the explosive material was mishandled and detonated in flight. Canadian authorities were rushing an investigation team to the area, assisted by forensic units from the FBI and US Air Force. With the trigger gone, Homeland Security felt that the threat from the Killswitch had evaporated, though there was still a massive effort to locate the expensive prototype.

But Tyler didn’t believe Colchev would be so careless or would give up so easily. Which meant his group had to get to Oshkosh and either obtain proof that Colchev was coming there or stop him themselves. Jess had suggested calling in a bomb threat, which would cause the event to be evacuated and the flight to be aborted, but Morgan nixed that idea. She was worried that if Colchev suspected interference in his plans, he might panic and set off the Killswitch in the middle of the air show.

Overnight flights to Chicago were fully booked, so Tyler called for one of Gordian’s executive jets in Seattle to come down to Los Angeles and pick them up. It had the range to take them directly to the air show. He also requested that pistols be packed on the jet since Morgan’s weapon had been confiscated. If they were going to meet up with Colchev’s men again, doing so unarmed would place them at a disadvantage to the Russians.

A maintenance delay taking off from LA made the trip longer than it should have been, so they didn’t land in Wisconsin until only an hour before the launch was supposed to occur. It didn’t leave much time, and despite Fay’s valiant effort, she would only slow them down.

“Fay,” Tyler said, “how are you feeling?”

She smiled wanly. “Just a little tired.”

“Nana, why don’t you take a seat under those umbrellas by the food court?” Jess said, picking up on Tyler’s intention. “That way you can keep an eye on the Skyward and let us know if you see anything unusual.”

Fay looked like she was about to protest, but Jess’s hand on her shoulder changed her mind.

“Maybe you’re right. I can stay out of sight there. If I see Colchev, I’ll call you.”

“Perfect. And remember to drink some water. You could get dehydrated quickly in this heat.”

Fay squeezed Jess’s hand. “Be careful.”

“We will.”

“Oh, and if you see Colchev, I wouldn’t mind very much if you shot him.” With those parting words, she left.

Tyler, Jess, Morgan, and Grant picked up the pace as they headed toward the spaceplane.

“She’s a good role model for you,” Tyler said.

“I want to be just like her when I grow up,” Jess said.

“When will that be?”

“In about forty years.”

At the cordon separating the crowds from the area around the spaceplane, they got a good look at the unusual aircraft. Ground crews swarmed the exterior making the final checks before the flight, and yellow-shirted security personnel surrounded the airplane.

“We need to convince them to abort the flight,” Morgan said.

“Without your credentials, that’ll be difficult. Why should they believe us?”

“I’ll disable the plane myself if I have to.”

“We won’t get within twenty yards of it,” Tyler said.

A man from the ground crew passed them. Morgan grabbed his arm. The surprised technician must have thought she was an overzealous onlooker, until she lifted her shirt to show him the gun tucked in her waistband and gave him one of her cards.

“I’m Special Agent Morgan Bell,” she said. “We’ve gotten a report that someone may try to interfere with today’s flight. Has anything unusual happened this morning?”

The nonplussed crewman looked at the card and then at Morgan with wide eyes. The confidence in her tone convinced the man she was who she claimed to be.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “We’ve got everything under control, and all systems are go for the launch.”

“What about the crew?”

“They’re still in the Weeks hangar getting prepped. Should be here in thirty minutes.”

“Who’s in charge here?”

“That would be Robert Gillman. He’s the flight director. You’ll find him in the mobile control center over there.”

He pointed at a trailer with a satellite dish mounted on its roof.

“Tell him I’m coming to talk to him,” Morgan said, releasing the man. He nodded and trotted toward the trailer.

“What do you think?” Grant said.

“You and I will meet with the flight director, try to get him to scrub the demonstration. But I don’t want to put all our eggs in that basket. Tyler, you and Jess go find the flight crew and see if you can delay them until we get some real security out here. And if you spot Colchev or his men, do not engage. Call me first.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Tyler said.

As Morgan and Grant trotted to the command center, Tyler and Jess headed back the way they came. Tyler checked the official guide and found the Weeks hangar on the map.

“That’s all the way over on the opposite end of the airport,” Jess said. “Even if we jog, it’ll take a while to get there.”

Tyler spotted a utility cart parked behind the EAA Welcome Center. He took Jess’s hand and ran to it. The key was still in it.

“We’ll borrow this. Hop on.”

Tyler started it up and aimed it toward the northern hangars, dodging pedestrians until they got into the open and he could floor it.

“Is this what your life is like now, Tyler?”

He suddenly realized that this was the first time he and Jess had been alone together since leaving Peru.

“You mean, gallivanting around the world on caffeine and no sleep, barely living through each day?”

“Not to mention stealing vehicles and blowing up Air Force jets.”

“I don’t do this kind of stuff all the time,” Tyler said. “But it does seem to be happening more frequently the last couple of years. Do you like the craziness of it?”

“Yes. No. Both.”

“It sounds like your doctor friend does something similar.”

“This Doctors Without Borders job is short-term. Andy’s not going to be doing it forever.”

At the north field Tyler cut through the entrance to the aircraft parking area. The gunmetal gray hangar was up ahead.

“Then what’s next for you?” Tyler said. “The house in Queenstown? A private practice where he’s stitching up snowboarders and bungee jumpers? Kids?”

“Do you want kids?”

“I did when I was with Karen.”

“And now?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“Only with someone I love.”

“Would you be willing to give up the globe-trotting?”

“Someday. If the right person came along.”

“But you didn’t with Karen.”

“That was a few years ago. A lot’s happened since then.”

Jess gave his leg a squeeze and remained unusually silent. He didn’t know what that meant, and this wasn’t the time to delve into it further. They had reached the hangar.

Tyler and Jess got out of the cart and walked to the door. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He knocked and after a few moments heard the rhythmic squeak of rubber soles on a polished concrete floor. The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door.

“Yes?”

“I need to speak to someone in charge,” Tyler said.

“What is this about? We’re very busy.”

Tyler was about to respond, then stopped himself. The voice. He’d heard it just yesterday.

Zotkin.

He and Colchev were inside. With less than thirty minutes before the launch, Tyler and Jess could go back with this definitive proof and get the entire police force to surround the hangar.

“Oh. I guess we can come back later.”

But with that response, Zotkin must have recognized Tyler’s voice, too. The door flew open.

Zotkin took aim with a pistol, but Tyler barreled forward before he could fire, knocking Zotkin backward. He kneed the Russian in the groin, then elbowed him in the side of the head. Zotkin went down before he knew what had happened.

Tyler took his weapon and gave it to Jess. He yanked Zotkin to his feet and drew his own Glock, pressing it against the man’s temple.

“Move,” Tyler said, pushing him forward, one hand clenching his collar.

They turned the corner and saw six men lying against the hangar door, all of them bound and gagged.

“Put your gun down,” came a voice from behind him.

Tyler whirled around. Colchev was hunched over an open container holding the Killswitch.

His finger lay on the red arming button.

“I’ve set this timer to zero, Dr. Locke,” Colchev said. “Put your gun down or I push this button and a hundred thousand people die.”

FIFTY-THREE

Despite Morgan’s arguments, the flight director wouldn’t call off the launch. He said that the company had everything riding on this demonstration to secure more investment funding, and without a direct court order, the flight was going forward. With no official identification, her speculation about a stolen weapon being snuck onto the spaceplane sounded like the ravings of a lunatic, even with Grant there to corroborate her story. She would have threatened him at gunpoint if she thought it would change the man’s mind, but she knew that would just divert attention to the control center, leaving the spaceplane unguarded.

They exited the trailer and resorted to their only option. Sitting on a bench near the spaceplane, they used the infrared goggles to scan the crowd. Bystanders would think they were using high-tech binoculars to watch the airplanes.

“Do you think these guys will still be tagged?” Grant said.

“The ID dust is persistent,” Morgan said. “The ones who escaped in San Diego will still have some of it on them.”

Grant sighed dramatically. “Ah, San Diego.”

“Oh, my God. You’re not going to get all mushy about what happened, are you? You were just there at the right time.”

“Mushy? Hell no. Can’t a guy reminisce about a fun afternoon?”

“Good. Because that’s all it was.”

“Fine with me.”

They scanned for a few more minutes before Grant said, “But just for the record, I wouldn’t mind having another afternoon like it.”

Morgan smiled. “Maybe we’ll find the right time again.”

“I know a great hotel in Chicago. When this is over …” Suddenly Grant went quiet and tensed up. “There’s one of them. Twenty yards away.” He was pointing at a man with a rounded face and dark hair wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans. He must have just come from behind the trailer housing the control center. She put the goggles up and saw the man covered with red crosshairs.

“How do you want to take him?” Grant said.

“I’ll approach from the front and distract him while you sneak up behind him.”

“You mean like this?” a voice behind them said. Morgan felt the barrel of a gun jammed into her back. “Move and you die.”

The man they’d been observing strode toward them, a pistol tucked underneath the event program in his hand. He cautiously pulled the pistol from her waistband, then took Grant’s.

The guy behind them leaned closer to her. “You should have picked a partner who’s less conspicuous than Mr. Westfield. I spotted him the moment you walked into that mobile control trailer.”

He removed her goggles and used them to look at his cohort.

“The intelligence was correct. They did develop ID dust. I told you that’s how they knew we were in the house in Tijuana.” He lowered the goggles and put them in the pocket of his cargo pants.

“Where’s Colchev?” Morgan said.

“Nearby. We’ll take you to see him. Get up slowly.”

She and Grant both stood. She could now see that the men had silencers on their SIG Sauers. A jacket over the arm concealed the other man’s weapon.

“Now move.” They started walking, a pistol in each of their backs.

“We know what your plan is,” Grant said.

“So?”

“So I’m just letting you know it won’t work.”

“Why’s that?”

“We convinced the flight director to abort the launch.”

The Russian smiled. “If that were true, there would have been an announcement. Now keep walking or I’ll kill you right here.”

“That would ruin your plans, wouldn’t it?” Grant said. “A couple of gunshots would bring a lot of attention out here. Might even stop the flight.”

“That’s a risk we’re willing to take. Are you?”

Grant glanced at Morgan, and she shook her head. With the constant noise, two silenced gunshots might be mistaken for a backfiring aircraft engine.

As they walked, the Russians had to stay right behind them to keep their weapons concealed. The close range was a double-edged sword. The Russians couldn’t miss if they got shots off, but it also meant that Morgan had a chance to disarm one of them. All she needed was the proper distraction.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Does that matter?” Grant said, glaring at her. At first she thought he was genuinely angry with her, but then she saw the slightest widening of his eyes.

He was trying to give her a distraction. She played along.

“Well, I wouldn’t ask,” she said, “except that we got caught so easily because of you.”

“Oh, this is my fault now?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have brought you with me. You’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass since I met you.”

“And since I met you, you’ve been nothing but a raging bitch!”

Both Russians laughed at the comment. That was her cue.

She whirled to her right and raised her hand as if she were going to smack Grant in the face with her left hand. Grant made a show of twisting to avoid the slap. Their momentum carried them around so that they both rotated 180 degrees.

Grant struck the man behind him with a crushing blow to his shoulder. Trusting that Grant would live up to his billing as an expert in hand-to-hand combat, Morgan focused on her own guy. She grabbed the man’s pistol wrist, clasped his trigger finger, and bent it backward. The ligament snapped, causing the man to scream and drop the SIG.

The man elbowed her with the other arm, the point striking her in the ribs. She went to her knees but got back up and whipped around, grabbing the man’s hair as she slammed her shin into his thigh.

He cried out and went down. Morgan helped him, bashing his head into the pavement with a crack. The man went limp.

She looked up in time to see Grant’s opponent topple to the ground unconscious.

He stood, brushed his hands off, and walked over to Morgan. “You all right?”

She stretched her back. “I’ll be fine. Looks like you handled your guy almost as well as I handled mine.”

“His head had an unfortunate encounter with my knee.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Sorry about the ‘raging bitch’ comment.”

She pulled him to her and kissed him hard. Damn adrenaline.

When she let him go, she said, “I have to say, you are sexy as hell when you hit people.”

“You should see some video of my wrestling days.”

“I have,” she said with a smile. “Never missed one of your bouts.”

He grinned. “Why you little … And you let me think all this time that you hated me.”

“I could tell your ego was already big enough. No sense gushing over you.”

He chuckled and picked up one of the SIGs. “We have to show these guys to your bosses. Should be the proof we need to get the flight shut down. I’ll text Tyler to let him know that Colchev is down two more men.”

While Grant sent the message, Morgan scooped up the other gun and searched the man for any additional weapons or information about their plans. She came up empty and was about to tell Grant to wait here while she got security, but she didn’t need to.

Two policemen ran up to them, guns drawn. They saw the two men laid out, and pointed their pistols at Morgan and Grant.

“Drop your weapons now!” both of them yelled.

They let go of their guns and put up their hands.

“I’m a federal officer,” Morgan said.

“Show me your ID.”

“Don’t have it on me.”

The men exchanged looks, then one said, “On the ground! Do it!”

Morgan and Grant lay face down next to each other. As they were frisked, Grant said, “Maybe this isn’t going to go as smoothly as we thought.”

FIFTY-FOUR

Seething with anger, Colchev read the text message on Tyler’s phone and knew he’d have to alter his plan. According to Grant Westfield, Nisselovich and Oborski were in custody. Colchev knew they were too well-trained to talk, but without them the crew would be two passengers short when they got to the spaceplane. The flight director would certainly know something was wrong. They’d never get off the ground.

Only eight minutes remained until they were supposed to drive to the Skyward.

Colchev considered using the original passengers, who were now locked inside the hangar’s storage room, but he needed them alive, so he couldn’t take them on the spaceplane with him. He turned and eyed Tyler and Jess. Their sizes were slightly off: Tyler was taller than Nisselovich and Jess was shorter than Oborski, but they’d do.

Colchev picked up the pressure suits and thrust them at Tyler and Jess.

“Put these on.”

“Why?” Jess said.

“You two are going to be astronauts.” Seeing that they were about to protest, Colchev said, “If we don’t make it onto the Skyward, I will have no choice but to detonate the Killswitch on the ground. The gamma radiation will kill everyone at the air show. Now do it.”

Zotkin was already in his pilot’s uniform and helmet. Because he was going to fly the carrier jet, he didn’t need a pressure suit. The crash helmet and sunglasses would be enough of a disguise for him.

The three blue and gold pressure suits, however, were fully enclosed. The Skyward was pressurized, but the suits were required in the event of a hull breach. The lightweight material wasn’t exactly form-fitting, but it wasn’t nearly as bulky as the old suits the Apollo astronauts wore. While they were on the ground, a small slit in the base of the helmet allowed them to breathe. On the spaceplane the slit would be closed and an oxygen hose from the onboard environmental system could be plugged into the suit.

Colchev was wearing his, and the absence of air-conditioning in the hangar was beginning to make the suit stifling. Tyler and Jess struggled into the suits, which consisted of both an inner insulating layer — to protect against the freezing cold of the vacuum at seventy miles — and an airtight outer skin.

“What are you going to do with those men?” Tyler said, pointing at the storage room.

“They’re going to ensure my legacy,” Colchev said with a smile. “Did you recognize any of them?”

“Call me crazy,” Jess said. “but I’m pretty sure one of them is Trent Walden.”

“The action movie director?” Tyler said.

Colchev nodded. “Correct. He was supposed to be one of the passengers on the flight. The other passenger is a Russian producer named Mikhail Arshan. They were planning to film shots of the Earth from space for an upcoming movie they’re making together. They and ExAtmo thought it would be good cross-publicity for both ventures. Who better to reveal what I’ve accomplished here today?”

“You’re letting them live?”

“Of course. Not only will the Russian government have no doubt about my patriotism, but the Russian people will hear of my glorious triumph.”

“And the American government won’t rest until they bring you back here or kill you.”

Colchev smiled. “If they thought I was still alive. But why would they think I could survive such a cataclysmic event? Then it will just be a matter of getting a new face once I’m back in Russia. Your country isn’t the only one with a program to give its citizens new identities.”

Static from the pilot’s walkie-talkie told Colchev a call was coming in from the flight director. He left Zotkin to watch them while he answered.

“Yes?”

“We’re ready out here. Are you suited up?”

“Acknowledged.”

“Good. The driver is on the way to get you. Out.”

Colchev returned and gave Tyler and Jess their helmets. The mirrored visors would make them unidentifiable.

“I will be by the Killswitch at all times. The helmets stay on. If you take them off or you make any gestures for help, I will press the button. You understand?”

“We understand,” Tyler said. “If you do that, you’ll kill tens of thousands of people for nothing. And if you set it off in space, it’ll be just as meaningless.”

“Wrong! It will finally tip the scales in Russia’s favor. With this single action, I will change the equation that has dominated world culture since the Cold War ended. Now America will know what it’s like to be a second-class world citizen.”

“You don’t know my country very well. We’ll bounce back like we always do.”

“You don’t understand the power of chaos. I’ve seen it myself when the Soviet Union fell. All it takes is a push to unbalance the situation. And thanks to your own military-industrial complex, we have the weapon to give that push. I’ll never tire of the irony.”

“If your men were captured, the police will know you’re here,” Jess said. “They’ll stop us before we even get to the spaceplane.”

“Then why did I get a call from the flight director a few minutes ago saying that they’re ready?”

“Maybe it’s a trick to lure you out.”

Colchev knew she was right, but he had no choice now but to march on assuming victory. “For the sake of everyone here, I hope you’re wrong.”

A knock on the door, followed by a shout. “Your bus is here!”

Colchev put on his helmet and told Tyler and Jess to do the same. Zotkin hefted the bag containing the Icarus parachute system and his own normal parachute as well as several bungee cords. Colchev took the handcart, the Killswitch now in a black padded duffel. His hand was inside the zippered opening, his finger near the arming button.

“They’ll notice you’re carrying that,” Tyler said.

“Oh, you mean Walden and Arshan’s film equipment?” He gestured at a pile of cameras and lenses heaped on the floor.

That shut them up. They couldn’t see it underneath his helmet, but Colchev was grinning.

Zotkin opened the door and ushered Tyler and Jess outside. Colchev followed with the handcart. When they all got on the bus, he made sure to keep the Killswitch between him and Tyler.

The driver eyed the luggage but said nothing. He closed the door and drove off.

As they approached the Skyward, Colchev spotted the massive crowd that had gathered to watch the crew board the ship. They would have plenty to tell their grandchildren someday, provided they weren’t in an airplane or a car when the Killswitch went off.

Colchev leaned over to Tyler and Jess. “Remember: wave, but no other gestures. And say nothing to the ground crew. I will be listening.”

When they got out of the bus, the crowd cheered. Colchev gave them the thumbs up, and the mob went wild. They had no idea that he was sending them an insult. As opposed to signifying that everything was great, in Russia the thumbs up meant “up yours”.

Tyler waved, and Jess put up both her hands in the V sign to the crowd’s delight.

After a few more waves, the ground crew escorted them to the open hatch of the Skyward. With Zotkin making sure that Tyler stayed too far away to attempt anything, Colchev went first and brought the Killswitch up with the ground crew’s help. Then Tyler and Jess climbed aboard. Zotkin was last and pulled the hatch closed behind him. The Lodestar’s four engines were already spooled up and humming.

The interior of the Skyward was flooded with light from the myriad triangular windows covering the fuselage, so they were still in full view of the spectators. Three rows of seats, one on each side, straddled the center aisle. The pilot’s chair sat in the front center of the ship. With weight at a premium and flights costing more than $200,000 per person, there was no room for a co-pilot.

“Rear seats,” Colchev said.

While Tyler and Jess were standing at the rear of the spaceplane, Zotkin ordered them to turn their backs to the windows. Pretending he was adjusting their suits, he wrapped bungee cords around their wrists and guided them into seats across the aisle from each other. Zotkin belted them in with the four-point safety harnesses so that their arms were under the nylon straps. Once they were secure, Colchev and Zotkin lashed the Killswitch and Icarus between the seats.

Zotkin climbed into the carrier jet, and Colchev closed the hatch behind him before taking his seat in the pilot’s chair. He plugged his helmet into the onboard communications system. By switching the unit between channels, he could either talk to the flight control or to Zotkin on the Lodestar.

“All right, Skyward,” the flight director said, “now that you’re on board, let’s begin the checklist.”

“Roger, control,” Colchev said. Before the director could get any further, Colchev switched to Zotkin’s channel. “Are you ready?”

“The flight controls are exactly what I anticipated. I’m ready to taxi.”

“Then do it while they still think you’re the real pilot.”

Colchev switched back to the flight director’s channel just in time to hear, “—Skyward, do you read me?”

“I read you loud and clear, control.”

“Why aren’t you following the established takeoff procedure? What’s the problem?”

“No problem here. Skyward signing off.”

He should have closed the channel, but he rather enjoyed listening to the flight director’s confused shouts as the engines powered up and the spaceplane rolled across the tarmac to the runway.

FIFTY-FIVE

Grant strained at his handcuffs as he watched the Lodestar reach the end of the runway. The aircraft began its takeoff roll a second before he heard the engines go to full power. After ten minutes of telling their tale to the arresting officers, he and Morgan were not getting a sympathetic ear. The policemen’s major concern was clearing them out of the busy pathway so that the incident wouldn’t disrupt the event.

“You have to listen to us,” Grant said to the officer guiding him to the oversized utility cart. “You have to call the flight director of the Skyward and tell them there is someone here who may have planted a bomb on their plane.”

“Right. And those unconscious guys are Russian spies.” They’d already carted the Russians off in medical units. “Look. We’ve relayed your concerns to the appropriate people. We’ll take you to the security office. If your ‘story’ checks out, then we’ll see if we can find the other Russians.”

Grant and Morgan were shoved into the cart, and they motored away.

As the cart passed the main food court, a shout called out to them. When the cart didn’t slow, the shout became a scream of bloody murder. That finally got the officer to stop.

“What the hell is going on now?” he said.

Fay ran over to them waving her arms, dashing around to the driver.

“I need their help,” she said, breathing hard.

“Do you know these people, ma’am?”

“They’re friends of my granddaughter. What’s going on?”

“We caught them after they beat two men to the point of unconsciousness. We’re taking them to the security office. You can meet us there.”

The officer’s radio squawked. “Moline, where are you?”

“Moline here. We’re at the food court near the Heli Center.”

“We’ve got a major problem with the spaceplane demo. They lost contact with the pilot, and then he just took off.”

Grant felt his stomach sink. Colchev was already on his way up.

“That’s what I’m telling you!” Grant said. “The spaceplane is being hijacked.”

“And for all we know, you’re in on it. Now shut up!”

“Moline,” the voice on the radio said, “get over to the flight ops and see if you can give them a hand.”

“We’ve got suspects in custody.”

“Damn it! All right, bring them back here. I’ll get someone else.”

Moline put the radio away. “Ma’am, we have to go—”

Fay jabbed the muzzle of a Glock pistol against Moline’s rib cage, taking care to keep it out of sight of passing patrons. “No. You let them go. Now.”

Moline snickered at the seventy-five-year-old. “Is this a joke?”

“Do I look like a comedian?” Fay said with a deadly serious stare. Moline’s smirk faltered.

“Fay,” Morgan said, “where did you get that?”

“Tyler gave it to me. You didn’t think I would be the only one to come here unarmed, did you?”

Grant supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d want her own weapon after the way she handled that shotgun in New Zealand.

When Moline hesitated, Fay poked him with the Glock. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

Moline nodded at the other officer, who unlocked Morgan’s cuffs and then Grant’s.

“What do we do with them?” Morgan said, retrieving their weapons and the officers’ guns as well.

Grant looked around and saw a row of Port-a-Potties on the other side of the food court. “Over there.”

As inconspicuously as possible, they put the two officers into the potties and locked the doors with the handcuffs. The men might scream for help, but it would take time for anyone to get them out.

“Good job, Fay,” Grant said.

“I had to do something. Tyler and Jess are on that plane.”

Grant and Morgan looked at each other in confusion, then back at Fay.

“Are you sure?”

Fay nodded. “They were wearing spacesuits, so when I was watching them get out of the shuttle bus, I thought they were the crew. But then I saw the shorter one put up her hands in the ‘V for victory’ sign.”

“I don’t get it.”

Fay’s words came out in a gusher. “In New Zealand if you do the sign palm-out, it means ‘victory’. But if you do the sign palm-in, it means ‘screw you.’ You know, like giving the finger. Well, the shorter one gave the palm-out version to the crowd, but then she definitely gave the palm-in version to the two men on either end. Then when I saw the taller man put his hand on her hip to escort her to the plane, I recognized their walks. It was Tyler and Jess. Now they’re on board the plane with that madman. You have to help them!”

“They must have the Killswitch on board,” Morgan said. “How long until they launch the spaceplane from the carrier?”

Grant had read up on the Skyward on the flight there. “If the pilot climbs hard, they can be in launch position in fifteen minutes.”

He could see Morgan doing mental calculations. She shook her head. “Not enough time. The closest air base is in Madison. Unless they scrambled right now, they won’t be able to get here in time to …” She glanced at Fay. “… to force them down.”

Grant shook his head. “You’re right. Who knows how long it’ll take to convince them that there’s enough of a threat to send up the fighters.”

“What about the fighters here?” Fay said, pointing at the T-38, whose portable start cart was already attached. “They could go up and find the spaceplane.”

“No good,” Morgan said. “The T-38 is a trainer. It’s unarmed. All the planes here are. Besides, without orders from their chain of command, they wouldn’t do it.”

“You could,” Grant said.

“Me?”

“You were a fighter pilot. Can’t you fly that?”

Morgan looked at the T-38 again and then back to Grant. “You’re serious?”

“What other choice to do we have?”

Morgan pursed her lips in thought before she finally nodded. “You’re right. Come on!”

She sprinted toward the T-38, leaving Grant to pull Fay along behind her.

The trainer’s pilots were standing next to the jet talking to a patron. Morgan pushed the man out of the way.

“Captain, I’m a federal agent. I’m commandeering your airplane.”

The baby-faced pilot smiled at her and then started laughing hysterically. He turned to his subordinate, a lieutenant. “Hudson, did you put this pretty lady up to this?”

The puzzled lieutenant joined in the laughter and shrugged.

“I don’t have time for this,” Morgan said, pulling out her pistol.

The pilots got quiet fast.

“I’d listen to her,” Grant said.

“What the hell is this?” the captain said.

“I don’t have time to explain, and you wouldn’t believe me anyway. Give me your helmet.”

“The hell I will.”

She looked up the stairs leading to the cockpit. “That’s okay. It must be in the cockpit. Is your plane prepped and ready to fly?”

“You’re taking my plane over my dead body.”

Fay pulled her pistol and pointed it at him. “That might happen, son. Because my granddaughter is a hostage on the spaceplane that took off. Now give this woman the keys or whatever she needs, or I’ll shoot you myself.”

“This is truly a matter of national security,” Morgan said. “There is an EMP weapon on board the spaceplane. If it reaches launch altitude, the entire US infrastructure could be destroyed. I’m a former F-16 pilot, and I’m going to bring them back down before that happens. Understand?”

“What’s your call sign?”

Without hesitation, she said, “Buster.”

Despite the situation, Grant couldn’t help a slight smile. He was quite sure that Buster stood for “Ball Buster”.

The captain frowned at her. “I’ll fly up myself if I get confirmation about this.”

“No time. Fay, keep an eye on them.”

Morgan ran up the stairs. Grant dogged her footsteps. At the top she turned to see him right behind her.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“What if you get vertigo up there? I’ve got a helicopter license. I can’t take off in one of these things, but I could keep the stick steady if you black out.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Are you willing to bet the future of the country on that?”

She pursed her lips.

“I know what you have to do up there,” Grant said. “If they won’t land, there’s only one other way to bring them down.”

“That’s why I don’t want you there.”

“That’s my best friend we’re talking about. If you have to ram them, I want to be there to make sure Tyler doesn’t die in vain.”

She paused, wrestling with the decision, but he could tell she knew he was right.

“Okay,” she said grudgingly. “Get in the front seat. I’ll fire up the start cart.”

As Grant climbed in and squeezed into the pilot’s helmet and parachute, she ran back down the stairs and gestured frantically at Fay, who waved her gun at the two pilots when they didn’t respond quickly enough. Morgan ran back up the stairs and got in the rear cockpit seat.

“I told Fay to get the pilots to release the start cart once the engines are powered up. She’ll also get them to retract the stairway.”

They closed the canopies and strapped in. Grant kept his hands off the controls. The instrument panel was ten times more complicated than the light helicopter he flew.

The engines rumbled to life. He cranked his head around. The APU was pulled away, as were the stairs and wheel chocks. He gave the V-sign to Fay, palm out. She returned the gesture.

Grant thought they didn’t build them that tough any more and had to correct himself. The woman sitting behind him was the real deal, too.

Morgan released the brakes.

“Time to intercept?” Grant said.

“Can’t say. Even using afterburners, it’ll be close.”

Morgan informed the tower to clear all air traffic because she was taking off no matter what the controller said. A minute later the T-38 screamed down the runway, and Grant wondered if he’d ever touch the ground again.

FIFTY-SIX

Although the Lodestar carrier plane shaded the sun, Tyler had an expansive view of the horizon for 180 degrees around him thanks to the unorthodox window design. If he were prone to acrophobia, he’d be catatonic by now.

Tyler explored the limits of his restraints, but it was no use. The bungees were too tight to get any leverage against the belts. Zotkin had been very thorough, taking everything Tyler had on him, including his Leatherman.

He breathed in the smell of the Skyward’s interior through the slit in his helmet, a scent that smelled oddly like a car fresh off the factory floor, no doubt due to the newly installed upholstery. The tiny hole kept him from suffocating, but it did nothing to cool him down. He was already drenched with sweat.

Judging by their climb angle, he guessed they would hit the fifty-thousand-foot launch altitude in another five minutes.

“You okay?” Tyler whispered to Jess so that he wouldn’t be heard over the muted engine noise. He could see her struggling to no avail.

She gave him a plaintive look. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“What can we do? I’m trussed up like a turkey. Can you get out?”

“I’m trying.” He pulled again. This time he was able to move his arms up just a little. He tried twice more, but he’d reached his maximum range of motion. Unless he could figure out a way to loosen the belts, he was stuck.

Colchev had stripped out of his original flight suit and was now getting into the Icarus suit. It was somewhat bulkier because of the attached parachute and small oxygen tank. If Tyler could somehow break free, he’d at least have the advantage in mobility.

In situations like this, Tyler had one rule: doing something was better than doing nothing. He’d start by talking. He found it helped to get inside the mind of his enemy.

“I know what you’re planning to do, Colchev. You’re going to leave the Killswitch on here and jump out. Won’t work. We’ll both be in freefall. You’ll just float next to us outside the spaceplane until the bomb explodes.”

“Wrong.” He didn’t elaborate, but Tyler didn’t really think he was that stupid. Colchev was probably going to do it the other way around, dumping the Killswitch overboard once the timer was set, then using the rocket to put some distance between him and the explosion before bailing out.

At least that’s how Tyler would do it.

“Are you sure Icarus even works?” he asked.

“It was designed by top Russian engineers.”

“That’s what I mean.”

Colchev smirked at him. “Don’t forget that we were the first country into space. First satellite. First cosmonaut. First space walk. And now America rides on Russian rockets to the space station. I trust this parachute more than I trust this spaceplane.”

Tyler tried a different angle. “You can’t shoot us in here, you know. The bullets might rip through us and penetrate the hull.”

“True. If you’re worried about how you’re going to die, I’m planning to make it easy for you. Instead of letting you scream in terror as the disabled Skyward plummets back to Earth, I’ll just leave your suits unplugged from the environmental system. When I decompress the ship, you’ll fall unconscious and simply fade away. Much more pleasant.”

‘That’s very kind of you.”

“I’m not a monster.”

“Even though you’ve killed a dozen people already and you’re planning to kill thousands more?” Jess said.

“Soldiers are given medals for killing men while trying to take some godforsaken hill somewhere. I killed men on the way to resetting the global order. Which is more justified?”

“Yeah, you’re a regular hero.”

“One country’s villain is another’s hero. George Washington may be a hero in America, but to the British he was a vile traitor. If the colonies had lost the war, the city of Washington would be named Kingsville. It will be the same with me in Russia.”

“Colchevgrad?” Tyler said. “Not very catchy. There’s one other thing I’ve been wondering. How did you know about the cave on Easter Island? You didn’t have Fay’s relic to guide you there, but somehow you ambushed us.”

Colchev looked at them in amazement. “You really don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“About Dombrovski.”

“I know Dombrovski was the one who made the connection to the Nazca lines.”

Colchev shook his head and chuckled. “You Americans can keep secrets. Dombrovski was the one who originally brought the xenobium from Tunguska to the United States in exchange for asylum. He’s the one who created Project Caelus for the US Air Force. That’s why he was trying to find another source of xenobium.”

“Project Caelus?” So Colchev had additional information about Dombrovski’s secret project that Kessler hadn’t shared with them. Colchev must have had access to the records that the Soviets stole.

“It’s funny how we know more about it than you do,” Colchev said. “Dombrovski was obsessed with two things: Project Caelus and his second wife, Catherine. I suppose she became his fixation after the death of his first wife and daughter in Russia, but then Catherine died as well. Every morning he would visit her grave and then go straight to his lab.”

“Was Dombrovski a Russian spy?”

“No, he hated the communists. But we had someone in his lab who was sympathetic to our cause. That’s how we got possession of his notes. We’re the ones who torched his laboratory. We sabotaged his plane. We thought we had everything, including a photo of the xenobium in its Nazca hiding place. Dombrovski documented its existence but didn’t attempt to remove it because he hadn’t figured out how to do it without the chamber collapsing.”

“He planned to return to retrieve it,” Tyler said, “but the Soviets killed him before that happened.”

“We were going to complete his task,” Colchev said. “The old Soviet files had photos of the wood engraving, but Dombrovski died before we could find out the location the map was referring to. All we knew was that the xenobium was at Nazca. Then when I saw the video of Fay and heard her say, ‘Rapa Nui leads to xenobium,’ I thought she possessed the Nazca specimen. When I realized that wasn’t the case, I went to Easter Island to claim whatever clues were there for myself. You just happened to beat me to it. I set off the other Killswitch to keep you from following me.”

Tyler pulled at his restraints. “And yet here we are.”

Colchev strapped up the final piece of the Icarus suit. “At least you’ll die for your country. Maybe they’ll even name a monument after you. I know they will name one after me in my country.”

Colchev put his hand to his ear and nodded.

“We’re nearing our departure point, lady and gentleman. You’ll be dead in a few minutes, so I’ll bid you farewell. As for me, destiny awaits.”

He walked back to the pilot’s seat and buckled in.

As Tyler continued trying to stretch his seat belts, he made one promise to himself.

He wasn’t going to die sitting on his ass.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Morgan had stopped talking, and that’s what worried Grant the most as he kept his hand on the T-38’s control stick. Being a trainer, the jet was easy to fly, but all he could do was follow a straight line or make minor adjustments in their heading. He needed Morgan for anything more complex, and the two-minute vertical ride to thirty thousand feet had brought on a fierce bout of her vertigo.

He thought she was okay until they nosed over and leveled off. It was bad enough for him, the blood pooling in his head from the negative g’s, but for her it must have been overwhelming. She told him to keep hold of the stick and then went silent.

Thanks to chatter on the radio, they had enough info to vector in on the Lodestar. It was fifteen miles away climbing at two thousand feet per minute. At their closing speed of mach 1.2, the T-38 would rendezvous with it before the Skyward was in position for launch.

Ground control continued to try to raise the Lodestar on the radio without success, so they had requested the Air Force to scramble two F-16s to intercept it. Their ETA was another fifteen minutes, far too late to do any good. The T-38 was the only plane in range to intervene. Although ground control was also trying to reach Morgan and Grant, they maintained radio silence.

The situation reconfirmed for Grant that the Killswitch was on the Skyward. If there had simply been a communications malfunction, the pilot would have returned to Oshkosh. The only explanation was that Colchev was making his attempt to detonate the weapon in the ionosphere, causing a doomsday scenario for the American infrastructure.

Grant was sick at the thought of being responsible for Tyler and Jess’s deaths. He wracked his brain for any other option, but he kept coming up empty. If they simply made a warning pass or attempted radio contact with the Lodestar pilot to threaten him, Colchev might launch before the T-38 could intercept even if the Skyward weren’t at the optimal altitude. They’d only get one pass at bringing the carrier down. This had to be a sneak attack.

Grant tried to console himself with the thought that Tyler would agree he had no choice. The good of the country came first. Tyler had been an officer in the Army, with responsibility for ordering men into harm’s way. But Jess was an innocent victim. She’d never made the pact that you would give your life for the greater good.

Both military veterans, Grant and Morgan had made that bargain. It didn’t need to be said between them that they were willing to die to keep the spaceplane from launching.

“Morgan, talk to me.”

After a few seconds, he heard, “I’m here.”

“How are you doing?”

“I was able to hold down my lunch. My vision’s a little blurry, but it’s clearing up.”

“And the vertigo?”

“Better. I can handle the stick now.”

Grant let go and she put the plane into a steady climb on the intercept heading. She seemed to be doing okay.

“We’re going to come up from below and behind them. Even if they’re aware of us from listening to ground control, they won’t be able to see us until we’re almost upon them. When we’re close, I’ll slow to a one-hundred-knot closing speed so that I make sure not to miss. At that velocity we’ll still do enough damage to destroy the plane.”

“And ours.”

“That’s why we’re going to eject just before impact. Under each of your armrests is a trigger. Feel for them but don’t pull them.”

Grant touched them. “Got ’em.”

“When the time comes, you’ll pull both armrests straight up and squeeze the triggers. The canopy will blow off and a rocket will eject the seat. Sit up straight to minimize the possibility of fracturing your spine. The wind will slam into you. Your mask should stay on, but if it doesn’t you’ll pass out before you reach twenty thousand feet. The parachute will open automatically.”

“How will that affect the flight path of the plane?”

“At the speed we’ll be going, the plane will be like a missile. The inertia will keep it steady for a few seconds.”

“We pull at the same time?”

“No, pulling the handle will eject both of us, one after the other.”

Morgan was the expert, so Grant had to take her word that all this would work.

“I still expect that afternoon together,” he said.

“I promise. I’ll be there.”

A distant white speck caught Grant’s attention.

“Target dead ahead,” he announced to Morgan.

In seconds he could see the bone-white Lodestar, its enormous wingspan cleaving the blue sky. They were coming up directly behind the carrier, which grew in size rapidly.

“I’ve got it,” Morgan said. “Are you ready?”

“Just tell me when.”

“I’ll count down. Throttling back.”

Grant’s chest strained against the safety straps as the afterburners cut off. They were now doing a stately six hundred knots. Ejecting at this speed and altitude was dicey at best, especially because he wasn’t wearing a flight suit. If he didn’t die of hypoxia, he might freeze to death before he got to a lower altitude.

The Lodestar was now close enough that Grant could make out the Skyward below it.

Tyler and Jess had no clue what was coming. Grant rationalized that they would die anyway if the Killswitch were detonated, but the taste of guilt was too strong to ignore. If he could trade places with them, Grant would do it in an instant.

“I’m sorry, guys,” he said under his breath. “So sorry.” He silently prayed for them.

“It’s time, Grant,” Morgan said. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Can’t wait.”

The Lodestar loomed in the windscreen. Morgan was aiming dead center. The T-38 would tear through the middle of the fuselage. Grant hoped that Tyler and Jess would never know what happened.

Morgan began her countdown.

“Pull on one. Five.”

Grant wrapped his fingers around the armrests and triggers.

“Four.”

Morgan’s voice sounded strangely at peace.

“Three.”

Like she knew this was a moment to be savored.

“Two.”

Like she was finally back where she belonged.

“One. Bail out, bail out, bail out!”

Grant jerked the armrests up, and his world became a rush of sensation. The sound of the explosive bolts blowing the canopy off. The intense cold of the air lashing his arms. The crushing force of the seat catapulting him out of the plane. The coppery taste of blood as he bit his lip. The tunneling of vision from sudden deceleration as the air dragged him to a stop.

As he tumbled through the air, a drogue chute deployed to halt the spin, and that’s when he saw that she had overestimated their closing speed. He’d ejected when they were still hundreds of yards from the Lodestar.

But Grant couldn’t see Morgan’s chute anywhere. She hadn’t bailed out.

For an instant Grant thought something had gone wrong with the ejection mechanism. But then he realized she’d tricked him into ejecting. Morgan was staying with her plane until the end.

The Lodestar pilot must have seen the plane behind him because at the very last moment he banked to the left. If Morgan had ejected, the T-38 would have flown right by it.

Instead, Grant saw why she’d been selected as a fighter pilot. Morgan reacted to the evasive maneuver by snapping the T-38 sideways and flying through the starboard wing of the Lodestar.

The T-38 was transformed into a fireball so large that Grant could feel the heat of the burning fuel. Morgan didn’t have a chance to eject.

The starboard engines of the Lodestar cartwheeled away. Flames shot from the stub of remaining wing, and the Lodestar did a barrel roll, turning upside down.

Grant struggled to breathe in the thin air, fighting to maintain consciousness. He owed it to Tyler to be a witness to the end.

Grant expected the carrier to break up from the extreme aerodynamic forces, but the Lodestar fuselage remained intact, demonstrating the strength of the bird-bone frame holding it together. The aircraft continued its lazy spin until it was right-side up again.

Then to Grant’s horror, the Skyward was released from the Lodestar. It dropped away and the Lodestar fell behind, the fire eating away at the carbon wing.

The Skyward’s rocket fired just before the Lodestar exploded, taking it safely out of range of the burning wreckage.

True to its name, the Skyward stood on its tail and shot into the blue atop a tongue of fire propelling it to four times the speed of sound.

Grant had never felt so helpless as he watched the plane disappear into the heavens.

“So sorry,” he whispered as the blackness took him.

FIFTY-EIGHT

The deep indigo mesmerized Colchev. As they accelerated toward the stars, the color of the sky faded through a rainbow of blues. He turned his head against the punishing g-forces and saw the Earth receding at pace he couldn’t have imagined. Distinct ground features became imperceptible, only the shoreline recognizable as they soared over Lake Michigan.

The myriad windows of the Skyward had saved the mission. With nothing to do until the Skyward launched, Colchev had been taking in the panoramic view when he happened to look over his shoulder and saw the jet bearing down on them.

He had screamed a warning at Zotkin, but only in time to avert a catastrophic collision. In one last heroic effort before the Lodestar disintegrated, Colchev’s old friend jettisoned the Skyward, initiating the automated flight sequence.

He admired Zotkin’s sacrifice and vowed that his name would have a place of honor along with those of the other men who gave their lives in support of this mission.

Colchev suddenly felt the weight of responsibility crash down upon him. Now he was the only one left to carry out their plan. The future of the world was up to him.

Although they had launched prematurely, Colchev was confident that they would reach a sufficient altitude to make the operation a success. All he had to do was shut down the engines when the fuel gauge neared the five percent mark, leaving him enough to get clear of the gamma radiation emitted when the Killswitch detonated.

Colchev tore his eyes away from the hypnotic sky and focused on the task at hand. The engine was gulping liquid hydrazine at a prodigious rate, embodied in the five g’s that plastered him to the back of his seat. It was a tremendous effort to raise his arm, but the engine shutoff switch was within reach.

Just two more minutes.

Tyler was too busy trying to wrestle his way out of the bungee cord to admire the view.

He didn’t know who had made the kamikaze attack, but he thanked them for giving him a sliver of hope. During the violent roll he had hung upside down in his belt, providing just enough slack to pull his hands from underneath the restraints.

The Skyward’s engine howled behind them, but he knew the sub-orbital trip would last only a few minutes more. He contorted his arms in an attempt to undo the belt release, but the angle made it impossible to reach with his fingers. His best shot was to use his elbow to unlatch it.

He had to remember to keep silent as he worked. Colchev was still attending to the instruments. Tyler had been thinking about how Colchev would bail out of the Skyward, and it occurred to him that the spaceplane wouldn’t have a control to manually depressurize the fuselage as Colchev had said he would do.

Once Tyler realized Colchev’s likely depressurization method, he knew Colchev wouldn’t hesitate to shoot both of them. Tyler had to get to Colchev before the Russian discovered that he was free.

Tyler got his elbow under the latch and pushed it out, his muscles overtaxed by their quintupled weight. But the effort was enough.

The straps fell back into the seat. Although he was loose, the bungee was still wrapped around his wrists, and he had no way to untie it. He would have to get Jess to do it, but the brutal acceleration glued him to the chair.

Then the rocket cut off. One moment he weighed a thousand pounds and the next he was floating above his seat like a balloon.

Using his tethered hands, Tyler propelled himself over to Jess, who was shaking off the effects of the g-forces. He raised both hands for her to be quiet. He hoped Colchev’s helmet would prevent him from hearing their movement.

Tyler unbuckled her as silently as possible. He attached her seat’s oxygen hose to her suit, then closed her visor and locked it shut, making the suit airtight. He quickly unraveled her bungee cord and then held his hands out for her to reciprocate.

His cord was cinched up even tighter than hers, so she had trouble getting at the knot. She looked up, frustrated, and then her helmet twisted as if she spied something over Tyler’s shoulder.

He turned and saw Colchev getting out of his seat, the SIG Sauer pistol in his gloved hand.

The engine had cut off on schedule, and Colchev experienced freefall for the first time. For a moment it felt like his innards would come pouring out of his mouth, but the sensation passed quickly. In the movies astronauts in zero gravity are often portrayed as if they’re swimming through molasses, but Colchev had the opposite feeling, as if he had no more corporeal form than a ghost. The slightest nudge could send him flying.

After checking that his internal oxygen supply was functional and his helmet was closed, his next task was to decompress the cabin so that he could open the hatch. The differential between the cabin and the vacuum outside resulted in twenty thousand pounds of pressure on the door. He had to equalize them, which was what the pistol was for.

Shooting a hole in the skin of the Skyward was necessary for Colchev’s plans. It was a common myth that puncturing a plane’s window would cause the fuselage to explosively decompress and that anyone near the hole would be sucked out. Experiments on various aircraft had shown that the only effect would be the slow leak of air until it was depleted. At this altitude the blood of anyone not protected by a pressure suit would boil.

No sane aircraft designer would provide a way to intentionally depressurize a cabin, so Colchev had to resort to a cruder method. He couldn’t shoot through the windows because they were stronger than ballistic glass, but the carbon-fiber body was not bullet resistant. His plan was risky, but the whole venture had been risky. Besides, he would arm the Killswitch beforehand so that if something went wrong and he died as a result of the decompression, the weapon would still detonate.

He rose out of his seat and grabbed the headrest to turn around. Even in the bulky pressure suit, he felt as graceful as a butterfly.

His gleeful mood was suddenly chilled by the unbelievable sight of Tyler Locke, his bound hands outstretched, sailing toward him.

Tyler was only halfway through the cabin when Colchev saw him, but he was committed to his course. There was no way he could duck if Colchev fired at him, and he hadn’t had time to let Jess untie him, so his wrists were still stuck together.

The pistol came around, and Tyler thought he was dead.

But Colchev didn’t account for the effects of microgravity. As he swung his arm around, the change in angular momentum was enough to throw his aim off. He fired, but the bullet whizzed past Tyler’s helmet and punched through the fuselage behind him.

Colchev rapid-fired two more shots, but he’d apparently forgotten about Newton’s Third Law of Motion: every action has an equal and opposite reaction. He hadn’t anchored himself before firing, so the recoil of the gun sent him flying backward. His second and third shots embedded themselves in the windows.

Though the first shot hadn’t hit Tyler, the.40 caliber hollow-point had done its original job. Wind whistled as air rushed through the ragged bullet hole. It would be a matter of seconds before the cabin atmospheric pressure was zero.

Tyler shut his visor as he soared toward Colchev, but it was only a delaying action. The air inside his suit was extremely limited. Without the connection to the spaceplane’s internal oxygen, he’d be hypoxic in about a minute.

He reached out and kicked the pilot’s seat, altering his trajectory so that he hit Colchev squarely in the stomach with both fists. The pain he could see on Colchev’s face through the Icarus suit’s clear visor told him the impact made an impression.

Tyler swung his elbow out and knocked the pistol away. Colchev slapped at Tyler’s helmet, causing him to somersault backward. He was already getting light-headed from the lack of oxygen, but holding his breath wouldn’t help. He had to make this a short fight. The whistling of the air was gone, meaning the pressure inside was now equal to the vacuum outside.

Colchev launched himself toward the Killswitch, but Tyler grabbed his ankles before he could reach it. Tyler halted his own forward momentum by looping his toes around the edge of the pilot’s seat.

The sudden stop whirled Colchev toward the hatch. Too late, Tyler saw Colchev grasp the emergency release handle and yank it.

The hatch door swung open. Colchev pushed away from it back toward the Killswitch. As Colchev struggled mightily against his grip, Tyler held on, but Colchev now had the advantage.

Because Tyler wasn’t hooked to the internal oxygen, the carbon dioxide level in his suit would soon reach a lethal concentration. He could already feel himself getting dizzy. It was only a matter of time before he passed out.

Jess had to do something. Tyler was in a war of attrition with Colchev, and the Russian had the upper hand. And if Tyler was unable to beat him, she wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight with him.

The Killswitch was what Colchev was stretching for. She realized that with the hatch open, she could put the unarmed weapon permanently out of reach no matter what happened to her and Tyler.

Her heart pounding, she detached herself from the oxygen hose and pulled herself along the seats until she was floating above the Killswitch. Though the LCD timer read three minutes, it wasn’t counting down; Colchev hadn’t activated it yet. It didn’t matter that Jess had no idea how to disable the bomb. She had another solution.

Colchev waved his arms violently from four feet away, straining to get to her, but Tyler wouldn’t let go even as he was on the verge of unconsciousness.

Jess unhooked the quick-release bindings that were holding the Killswitch in place. She grabbed the end of it, and as she expected, the heavy bomb was now easy to maneuver.

With a firm grip, she aimed it at the open hatch. She braced her feet against the fuselage wall and then sprang forward.

Jess flew across the cabin, and when she was sure the Killswitch would clear the opening, she let go and flailed for purchase to prevent herself from following it out into the abyss.

Her hand latched onto the armrest of the nearest seat, and she swung around, her legs dangling through the open hatch.

Jess screamed at the thought of falling into space and used all of her strength to pull herself back inside. She glided to the back of the cabin where she saw the air hose floating next to her seat. She attached it and inhaled the cool oxygen blowing through.

Her terror abated, and she came to her senses long enough to see Tyler go limp. Colchev wriggled free from his grasp and pushed himself forward.

Jess steeled herself to fight him as best she could, but instead of coming for her, he went toward the base of the first row of seats. He rummaged around for a moment and then came up holding a fire extinguisher.

He placed his feet against a window and bent his knees. Then he did something that made Jess gasp in astonishment.

Colchev pushed off from the window and shot out the Skyward’s hatch into open space.

FIFTY-NINE

Tyler’s limbs were numb. A coldness seeped through his veins. His ears buzzed as though he were listening to a conch shell. Fog covered the inside of his visor. Or maybe the fog was in his mind.

Through the haze, Tyler made out a figure swimming toward him.

Colchev. Colchev was trying to get to the Killswitch. Tyler had to stop him. He reached forward but his fingers wouldn’t flex. The cold was unbearable.

He was vaguely aware of being pulled by the leg. His back hit something soft and yielding.

Knocking…Knocking…

His eyes snapped open.

His body was being shaken, and he heard a rapping on his helmet. Then he was suddenly aware of the air coursing through his suit. Jess floated in front of him, mouthing words he couldn’t hear.

He looked around and saw that he was in the first row of seats, and the oxygen hose was connected.

The hatch was closed. Wasn’t it open before? Yes, because Colchev had opened it.

And that’s when he realized two things were missing: the Killswitch and Colchev.

He pulled Jess’s helmet to his until they touched.

“Can you hear me?” he said.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded tinny, but it was understandable.

“What happened?”

“I threw the Killswitch out the hatch, but Colchev went after it. He’s propelling himself with a fire extinguisher. I don’t know how long we have.”

Tyler unhooked himself from the hose and launched himself over to the pilot’s seat. He could see Colchev about four hundred yards away. The coppery exterior of the Killswitch flashed in the distance beyond him.

They had a few minutes at most. Once Colchev reached the Killswitch, he wouldn’t bother with a delay. It was a suicide mission now. The detonation would be nearly instantaneous.

Jumping out of the spaceplane himself wouldn’t do any good. He’d never catch up to Colchev.

But the fuel gauge said the rocket still had some life in it.

Tyler had no time to tell Jess what he was planning. He motioned for her to buckle up and strapped himself into the pilot’s seat before attaching the air hose.

Suddenly he heard Jess’s voice. “Tyler,” she muttered, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Me too.”

“Tyler! How can you hear me?”

The air hose must also have had an audio umbilical so that the pilot could communicate with the passengers, but he didn’t take time to explain it.

“I’m going to ram Colchev. It’s our only hope.”

According to the online literature, the Skyward had tiny gas thrusters for attitude control in zero gravity so that the pilot could orient the spaceplane for optimal passenger viewing, important when they were spending the price of a condo on the trip.

With no airflow over the wings, the control stick wouldn’t be able to affect the orientation of the spaceplane. Tyler searched the panel and saw a dual-joystick control. That had to be it.

He toggled the left joystick and the nose slewed around. Tyler had put too much into it, so he compensated in the other direction. The sticks had been modeled on a video game controller. It took Tyler only a few seconds to understand how they functioned. They couldn’t move the vehicle sideways, so he would need to line himself up precisely to hit his target.

A quarter-mile ahead, Colchev made his own course corrections using the fire extinguisher as a crude thruster. He was closing on the Killswitch.

It was now or never.

“Hang on!”

With one hand on the thrusters, Tyler hit the button for the rocket.

The Skyward blasted forward. Tyler kept his fingers on the sticks, making tiny adjustments as the spaceplane shot at Colchev.

The one advantage he had was that the roar of the engine wouldn’t be heard by Colchev in the vacuum of space.

But something tipped him off that he was being pursued. Perhaps the light of the flame reflected on the inside of his helmet. Whatever it was, he twisted around and raised the fire extinguisher to blast out of the way just as the spaceplane reached him.

Time seemed to slow. As he passed, Tyler saw Colchev’s horrified expression glaring at him. He knew his own face was obscured by his darkened ExAtmo helmet, so Colchev couldn’t see the look of satisfaction as the leading edge of the Skyward’s wing clipped the fire extinguisher, sending it tumbling away. He hadn’t killed Colchev, but the spy wouldn’t reach the Killswitch either.

Tyler switched off the rocket. At this point, even if he thought a second pass would be needed, the engine didn’t have enough fuel for it.

“Did you get him?” Jess said. “Please tell me you got him.”

“I think so. We’ll know in a few minutes.”

Tyler stretched his torso to look behind him, but he couldn’t see anything. The freefalling weapon and the thief who’d brought it to this desolate location had already faded into the indigo blue.

SIXTY

The Killswitch taunted Colchev. Only a few meters away, it might as well have been a thousand. Without the fire extinguisher to fine-tune his path, he couldn’t get close enough to push the arming button.

Even if he could reach it, he might not have been able to press the button anyway. When the extinguisher had been ripped from his hands, the wrist seals on his gloves had been damaged to the point that they were bleeding air. The leak wasn’t fast enough for him to lose consciousness, but the cold seeping in chilled his hands to the point of numbness. At least he’d been able to deploy his drogue chute before they were completely frozen.

As they fell together, Colchev could only glower at the impotent Killswitch. He’d come so far to be denied his success by a few arm’s lengths. When he landed, he could guarantee one thing. He’d follow through on his promise to Fay. If Tyler and Jess somehow survived their landing, he would find them and erase them from this earth.

The air resistance gradually began to increase, and the Killswitch, which lacked the stabilization of the drogue, started to spin as it plummeted toward Lake Michigan at over six hundred miles an hour. The thickening air would diminish its velocity, and the eventual impact wouldn’t be strong enough to detonate the unarmed weapon before it sank. The sturdy casing would likely even keep the xenobium from irradiating the water. Colchev, who was slowed by the small parachute, could only watch as the Killswitch disappeared from view.

The agony from his frozen hands was excruciating, forcing tears of pain to dribble down his face. But he would not cry out. That was for the weak. The defeated. He held his rock-hard hands to his body.

For seven minutes the ground rushed toward him, and he used the increasing air resistance to angle away from Lake Michigan toward the Wisconsin shoreline. During that time he realized that he would still be hailed as a hero of the Motherland. He would survive the longest freefall in history. He would bring back crucial evidence of a top-secret American weapon. And he would boast of the success of destroying a threat to his country’s national security.

Despite the torture of his immobile hands, Colchev greeted the howling air rushing past his helmet as a sign that he was nearly through the worst of it. Tyler Locke had won the battle, but Colchev would come out of the situation unbowed.

He checked the wrist altimeter, which read eight thousand meters. At five thousand meters the parachute would automatically deploy. He was now over green pastureland, and upon landing he would have to formulate a plan for exiting the country.

But five thousand meters came and went without the sudden jerk of the chute opening. Colchev realized in horror that in the mayhem of his fight with Tyler, he hadn’t switched on the automated chute deployment mechanism.

He scrabbled at the manual ripcord, but his rigid hands would not grasp the metal ring. In a panic he pummeled his chest. No matter what he did, the rung stubbornly stayed in place.

As Colchev stared at the verdant countryside, he could make out the shape of cows grazing. Though it looked lush and soft, the approaching meadow would be as lethal as concrete. His destiny was no longer to be a hero. Instead of devastating America, he would be nothing more than a stain on it.

The thought of such a humiliating fate was too much for Colchev. Terror finally seized him. His last ninety seconds were an eternity of fear, and the sound of screams echoed through his helmet until he slammed into the grassy field.

While the Skyward plummeted during its freefall descent, Tyler was able to make contact with flight control and get a crash course on guiding the unpowered spaceplane in for a landing. He just hoped the term wasn’t literal in this case.

They had been far over Lake Michigan, so once the Skyward reached enough air resistance for the wings to have some lift, Tyler had to steer the craft back toward Wisconsin, aiming for Oshkosh thirty miles to the west.

It wasn’t until the Skyward was halfway from the shore to the airfield that the controller informed Tyler he didn’t have enough altitude to make it. Ditching in Lake Winnebago seemed like a bad idea, so he asked them for the closest runway and was told that, if he turned, he might make it to the Sheboygan County Memorial Airport. They had cleared a runway for his landing.

He made the turn and realized he’d bled too much altitude.

“Damn it!”

“How are you doing up there?” Jess said nervously.

“Why don’t you help me look for a nice straight piece of highway to land on.”

“Are you serious?”

“Time’s a-wasting.”

“Can’t you use the rocket motor?”

“Only if you want to crash more quickly.” Tyler thumbed the switch for the fuel-dump valve.

“This is the last time I go up in a spaceship with you.”

They looked for a landing spot. Tyler could try setting the spaceplane down in a field, but that was a tricky proposition. The Skyward could snag on a rock or depression and roll, potentially igniting the remaining rocket fuel vapors.

“There!” Jess cried out. He looked where she was pointing and saw a road curving away from a small town before it straightened for a two-mile stretch. He immediately recognized the ribbon of asphalt next to it. As a racing fan, he knew Elkhart Lake Raceway well. Even from this distance he could see the stands packed with spectators. Cars buzzed around the track.

“We have a winner,” he said and banked toward the highway. The spaceplane wasn’t much larger than a private plane, and roadway landings weren’t unprecedented and were often successful. He just had to hope that anyone driving on that stretch of highway would see him in time to get out of the way.

It wasn’t until he was committed to his approach from the north that he saw an unfortunate obstacle.

The highway was under construction. Orange cones dotted the pavement, and yellow pavers and backhoes littered the road.

He had one other choice. The straightaway at Elkhart was just barely long enough.

Tyler nudged the stick sideways until he was lined up with the track.

Jess realized what he was attempting. “Are you insane? We can’t land there!”

Tyler grimaced as he concentrated on the narrow strip of straightaway. “If you have a better idea, tell me three minutes ago.”

“You haven’t even lowered the landing gear!”

“Our speed’s too hot. This will only work as a belly landing. As long as the racecars stay out of my way.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Hold on.”

The track’s final turn flashed below him, and he could see that the racers were vintage sports cars. Then he saw the pedestrian bridge that marked the beginning of the flat straightaway. Miraculously, the segment of the track in front of him was devoid of cars.

As the spaceplane flew over the bridge, he could make out the faces of amazed race fans craning their necks to watch him come in.

Tyler pulled the nose up and the Skyward settled toward the tarmac as gently as if it were falling onto a bed of hay. Then the peaceful landing was interrupted by a grinding din as the pavement tore at the spaceplane’s belly with a vibration that rattled Tyler’s seat.

As the craft slid down the straightaway, Tyler’s control was gone. He was as much a spectator as the dumbfounded people sitting in the stands on either side. The first turn came up fast, but the end of Elkhart’s front straightaway was bordered by a spacious run-off area instead of a catch fence. The Skyward plowed into it, sending a tsunami of sand to either side, and came to a halt.

The sudden silence was deafening. Tyler got out of his chair and went over to Jess.

“Are you all right?”

Jess nodded and unhooked her belt. She stood, shaking. But when she removed her helmet, Tyler could see it wasn’t because she was terrified.

“After that, bungee jumping just won’t have the same rush,” she said with a huge smile. “You think my company can offer this as a ride?”

The rest of the day was a blur for Tyler. The police took him and Jess to the Milwaukee FBI office for interrogation before the phalanx of journalists that had descended upon Wisconsin could start hounding them for information. It had been quickly verified that the Killswitch had been on board the spaceplane because of the container found in the Weeks hangar with the spaceplane’s gagged original crew, all of whom attested that Tyler and Jess had also been hostages of Colchev and Zotkin.

Tyler told the FBI that the spaceplane had been over the lake when the weapon was tossed out, so they’d have to plumb its depths if they ever wanted to retrieve the Killswitch. A search for it began immediately.

Colchev’s bloody mess of a corpse was found by a rancher on a property near Lake Michigan. His two accomplices, the ones that Morgan and Grant subdued at the air show, had regained consciousness and were spirited away to an undisclosed location.

It wasn’t until that evening that Fay and Grant, who had endured their own questioning, were allowed to see them. While Jess and Fay talked, Tyler went into one of the conference rooms where he found Grant staring at the table. Tyler put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and sat next to him.

The agents had told Tyler about Morgan’s sacrifice with the T-38. He saw that Grant was mourning more than just the loss of a colleague, but now wasn’t the time to go into it. Tyler recalled when people tried to console him after his wife’s death. Words of sympathy rang hollow, but they were appreciated all the same.

“I’m so sorry about Morgan,” Tyler said.

Grant swallowed hard. “She tricked me into ejecting before she rammed the Lodestar. Stupid. She promised.”

“She’s a hero,” Tyler said. “Without her, Jess and I would be at the bottom of Lake Michigan, and Colchev would be celebrating the ruination of the United States.”

Grant flashed a joyless smile, then changed the subject. “Do you think they’ll ever find the Killswitch?”

Tyler sighed. “Possibly. The search area is going to be huge, and the weapon was probably destroyed on impact, but the xenobium will be intact. If they can find the radiation signature in all the muck at the bottom, they’ll get it. Maybe they’ll even restart the program, although that may be difficult without Kessler’s expertise.”

“One thing’s for sure,” Grant said. “If they do find it, we’ll never know about it.”

Tyler nodded, and he silently pondered what other secrets the government had kept quiet for the last sixty-five years.