Sabotage (10 page)

“You don't expect me to watch this from behind glass, do you?”

“I'm sorry, sir. Standard protocol. You read the manual.”

The flight had been rough, all ten hours spent reading reports of previous successes.

Responsibility rested in the hands of his contractor, giving him a well-anticipated break after years of preparation. He had worked tirelessly, spending more hours over the past months in the cabin of a jetliner than in the comfort of his Virginia office.

“I'm sure you make allowances every now and then,” Chatham said. He climbed down the stairs and shook hands with his escort. “Take me to the control room, Airman Gibbs.”

Over the dying hum of his jet, Chatham heard a voice crackle through the airman's walkie-talkie. It was cool and efficient. “Gibbs, have you greeted the Glitnir president?”

“Yes, Colonel. Mr. Chatham and I are on our way.” He clicked off and beckoned the new arrival. “Follow me, sir.”

Chatham noted the difference in perspective as he experienced the terrain from ground level. His aerial view had given him a sense of the island's small size—it was no more than a speck in the great blue—but as he'd gazed out the window of the jet, the nighttime darkness had shrouded all hints of Omelek's flatness. Now he wondered what happened when storms struck. It seemed a ten-foot wave would wash right over the landmass. So shallow was the island's perimeter that its gently sloping edges were visible beneath the water as low as a gull's view.

Omelek was a part of the Kwajalein Atoll, a crescent-shaped ring stretching over sixty nautical miles within the Marshall Islands. The atoll was home to many military launch areas, among them the Ronald Reagan Ballistic Missile Defense Site. This zone belonged to Skyvault, a private space transport company that launched reusable, liquid-propelled carrier rockets into low-Earth orbit. The company had recently launched its Griffin-7 vehicle for the fourth time, achieving a new milestone in the reliability of private spacecraft. The first successful Griffin prototype had thrust its own thirty thousand kilograms into the sky with a simulated payload of over a metric ton. Since then, the rocket's family had been responsible for fifteen commercial launches. Relying on state-of-the-art avionics and an equally cutting-edge computing infrastructure, the Griffin-7's design exemplified simplicity as elegance. Skyvault had also achieved breakthrough modernization of space access with its Cricket capsule, offering trustworthy shipment of crew and cargo to the International Space Station. Having taken a personal interest in the company, Chatham felt assured its technology would protect tonight's haul.

Another warm gust swept over the land. He removed his jacket and flung it over a shoulder. When the wind died, the air fell silent. He knew the hush wouldn't last. He focused on the sound of his own footsteps crunching on gravel. It took his mind off a puzzling, insidious anxiety that had wormed into his sleep the night before and nagged at him the past ten hours. Strange, the thought hadn't bothered him in the years building up to tonight. But he couldn't ignore the fact that he'd been thinking of the myth of Prometheus. Maybe some gifts were never meant to be given, some things never meant to be built. Funny how he hadn't felt the butterflies till now.

As they rounded the bend, a white structure cut a sliver of smooth curvature out of the nightfall. The slender construction reached skyward like a spout of light from a springhead, supported by meshes of ultramodern scaffolding, its naked beams careening in a web of severe angles. The frame looked physically cold, mounted around a tapering pillar drenched in the light. Reinforced concrete at the base of the figure was charred, brutalized by the extreme temperatures of past launches.

The path wound about a cluster of trees. The rocket loomed over them, towering like a sequoia over surrounding woodland, its surface reflecting a pearly sheen over space-grade aluminum alloy. Chatham admired its luster.

“Something so sleek was never meant to stay grounded.”

Gibbs didn't comment. He gestured toward a building shaped like a greenhouse. “This way, sir.”

Chatham followed. Inside the building, fifteen scientists typed into computers and spoke into headsets, their desks united by a single panel running along the wall, above which hung monitors displaying images of the rocket from eight angles. Staff manipulated the images from their computers, zeroing in on any details requiring attention. Hours earlier, the room had been abuzz with activity. A stillness had since settled, but the intensity persisted.

A man at the far end of the room approached. His hand shot out and enveloped Chatham's with a crushing shake.

“An honor to meet you, Mr. Chatham. I'm Colonel Rumby, the launch director on Omelek. I'll be conducting tonight's operation.” The colonel had a wiry build, crew cut, and polite demeanor. Chatham had the feeling he was a man who did not like to be disturbed from his work. “We've eagerly anticipated your arrival.” He did not smile when he greeted Chatham, but his greeting sounded heartfelt.

“That's nice of you, Colonel,” Chatham replied, rubbing his knuckles. “Wouldn't miss it for the world. I've looked forward to this for some time. Years, actually.”

“I only wish I knew what was inside the rocket. Corporate's kept me in the dark.”

“Sorry to hear that, Colonel.” He felt a peculiar pleasure at withholding information he knew would have left the man dumbfounded. “I wish I could tell you, and I wish I could have introduced you to the designer. He wanted to be here tonight, but couldn't.” Chatham added believably, but untruthfully, “Depending on how tonight goes, maybe soon you'll know what's inside.”

If Rumby was disappointed, he was not letting it show. “My job is to facilitate. Our team has prepared the Griffin's flight.”

Gibbs chimed in. “Mr. Chatham, these headphones are for your protection. With a missile over 21 meters tall, 1.7 meters wide, requiring 347 kilo-Newtons of thrust on liftoff, you can imagine how earsplitting launches can be. If you're not careful, even deafening. Propellant feeds down a shaft, which is part of the ‘turbo-pump' controlling a cycle of gas generation. Kerosene flows into a combustion chamber, where it ignites and eventually—”

“That's all right,” said Chatham, patting the airman's shoulder. He seated the headphones around his neck. “I gathered enough in the reading material your company sent me. Right about now, I'm ready to watch this megalith soar.”

Rumby gave a curt nod to his team and ran through one final checklist.

“Initialize launch sequence.”

Outside, the Griffin-7's scaffolding shifted with a metallic groan. Two clawlike arms released their grip on the missile they'd been hugging.

Under Rumby's oversight in the control room, the squad of scientists studied the monitors for any sign of error. The building had fallen quiet but for the hum of electronics.

While the task of launch distracted the Skyvault employees, Chatham made for the door and found a sheltered alcove from which to observe. This was the inauguration of a new age, he thought. The metal frame quavered, and he listened as the thrusters mounted from a steady growl to a heroic bellow.

Blinding light emanated from the regeneratively cooled engines. Clouds of dust and leaves kicked across the launch pad, bending the surrounding trees outward as the white missile lifted off and joined the stars.

Climbing higher, the rocket left behind a small silver halo. The shell broke away, somewhere a parachute opened, and the airborne beast unfurled its wings.

 

EIGHT

Rove cinched a half-Windsor in front of the mirror, the gold buttons of his jacket shining from recent polish. Rounding out his look with khaki slacks and Sperry Top-Siders, he could have passed for a yachtsman.

He checked his watch. Five minutes till he met the escort. He ran a comb through his short hair and walked over to Fawkes's stateroom. Through the walls he heard faint crooning, the lyrics and melody improvised on the subject of a scrumptious meal.

Rove knocked.

“Coming!” the old man croaked. “Be there in a moment, cowbells and all.”

The ship listed starboard as he waited. He'd rarely set foot on vessels large enough to dispel the sway. He'd grown used to the perpetual motion, which now afforded him a degree of comfort.

He checked his watch again. The hands nearly marked the hour. His steward's door opened.

“Ready as they come,” Fawkes said, grinning through his spectacles and fixing a pair of onyx studs that matched his cuff links. He brushed the tails of his tuxedo, and with an agility that belied his years, threw up his hand as if conducting an orchestra. A pleated cummerbund complemented the waves of his silver hair.

“Very sharp,” Rove replied. “Should I have worn a tux?”

“Not unless you want to. I've a particularly good reason to dress tonight: a dinner date with a lovely, stalk-eyed crustacean. And perhaps others in her family.”

“Does her family approve?” Rove asked.

A few hours playing cards with Fawkes the night before, and the steward had already broken the barriers of Rove's humor—one that had lain dormant for a while.

“The Homaridae adore me as I do them. I've seen quite a few get steamy. Perhaps I could introduce you to a few decadent decapods. But first, the tour. To deck fourteen we go.”

They descended a flight of stairs, and a junior officer waited by the elevators.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said.

Rove unfolded his invitation and handed it to the man.

“I'm Jake Rove. My guest is my steward, Lachlan Fawkes.”

“Pleased to meet you, Major Rove and Mr. Fawkes. The captain will now see you for a private tour of the bridge. Right this way.” The escort ushered them through a vestibule beyond a
Crew Only
portal. They passed a row of officers' quarters before the maze of corridors led them to a new entrance. “Here we are.”

The door opened to a panorama of seascape as seen through a 180-degree arc of clear panels. There was an island of computers behind which the bridge officers monitored systems. The staff looked relaxed; much of their work was automated. The wall of shelves behind them stored maps, star charts, an array of special cruise documents, as well as the flags of every country they would visit tucked neatly into individual cubbyholes. In the center of the room stood two uniformed men, hands at their sides, expressions cordial. The taller of the two, a man of stocky build and olive complexion, wore a mustache level with the bottom of his meticulously groomed sideburns, stray whiskers pruned to avoid disrupting the line of curls.

“Welcome, Major Rove. I am Giacomo Selvaggio, proud captain of this ship. The man beside me is my first officer, Trevor Kent.”

“I'm honored by your tour and dinner invitation,” Rove said. “You're giving me a trip down Memory Lane. Seeing the bridge reminds me of my Coast Guard days.” They shook hands. “This is my guest, Lachlan Fawkes. Seeing as we have four months at sea, I thought this would be a good way to get to know my steward.”

The captain nodded and smiled at the old man. “Good to see you again, Mr. Fawkes. We met a few years ago while I was captaining a ship through the Greek Islands. As I remember, you attracted a harem of Mikonos goddesses who could hardly hold back their tears by departure time.”

“You sure that was me?” Fawkes said with feigned ignorance.

“A shame we had to leave port, if your luck by day foretold your luck by night. Heh!”

“Guilty as charged, I suppose,” Fawkes muttered.

Selvaggio motioned to his counterpart. “Mr. Kent is my right-hand man. Without him, captaining the
Pearl Enchantress
would be impossible.”

“Nice to have you on the bridge,” Kent said.

His hair was parted at the side over a stern face with vestiges of a German heritage. He stood at stiff attention relative to Selvaggio's ease.

“Right now you're standing in the humble control room of a 114-kiloton piece of machinery,” said the captain. “Registered in Bermuda, the
Pearl Enchantress
is one of the largest cruise vessels on the seas. Her nineteen decks can house 3,600 passengers and 1,300 crew. She's more than 120 feet in beam, and three and a half football fields in length.”

“Impressive,” Rove said, mentally comparing the ship with an aircraft carrier. “How fast is she?”

“Twenty-four knots, max. She's equipped with diesel electric propulsion.”

“How many hands usually man the bridge?”

“Our deck officers man the bridge on a twenty-four-hour basis. It's imperative that the operational center of the ship, accountable for all navigational and chief safety systems, remain under constant supervision. Every four hours, we introduce a new shift—a pair of deck officers and a pair of Able Seamen. Responsibility for the ship's safe navigation lies in the hands of the officer of the watch while the Able Seamen keep lookout and report to the officer. The Able Seamen also direct the helm. When heavy traffic, stormy weather, or difficult maneuvering call for additional hands, Mr. Kent and I join the fray.”

Selvaggio preened, smoothing his mustache with a forefinger, and continued his practiced monologue. “Information from six main data sources displays on one easy-to-read console. With real-time figures streaming in from multiple sources, the computer consolidates data for the officer of the watch to avoid information overload.”

Rove glanced over at the console, where an officer stared at a green line rotating around a sprinkling of dots.

“That's the radar, one of the six main sources/sensors along with the gyro compass, speed log, satellite nav, echo sounder, and ECDIS, or electronic chart display and information system. As I'm sure you know, radar helps us monitor proximity to other ships, up to one hundred fifty kilometers, allowing us to travel in zero visibility. The tallest navigation mast holds three radar scanners. The other two are located at the bow and the stern. We also have an automatic identification system that taps into the Maritime Domain Awareness network. It tells us about other vessels in our immediate vicinity. For example, by using this click-down screen, I can tell that this little green dot”—he pointed over the officer's shoulder at the screen—“is a small merchant ship thirty nautical miles to our west, delivering cargo to Aruba with an expected arrival in sixteen days. This one right here is a logging craft sailing to the Baltic. And this one is a survey ship researching an endangered marine mammal.”