A Triple Thriller Fest (97 page)

McHugh cleared his throat.  “Apparently, Messinger gave the order to abandon the Watch Station after the attacking vessel had destroyed
Benthic Ranger One
and was making another move toward the Watch Station.  If some terrorist nation were to get this weapon, we’d better get going.  Our whole nuclear fleet could be in jeopardy.  The unidentified attacker also withstood a direct hit with a uranium torpedo.”

“What?” said Senator Thurgood Bensen, a proponent of nuclear disarmament.

“The uranium torpedo has a uranium head to help penetrate any metal that we know of.  The depleted uranium doesn’t contain any radioactive material to speak of; it is used solely for its atomic weight.  Once the uranium head penetrates the hull of an enemy, the conventional explosives behind the head ignite.  Our experts believed that this weapon was invincible.  The crew of
Benthic Ranger One
even blasted the attacker with a blue green laser, an experimental weapon — to no avail.”

“Do we know what happened to Messinger and
Benthic Ranger Two
?” said Admiral Smith.

“The submersible and its crew are gone, disappeared.  There was no trace of the submersible anywhere in the search area,” said McHugh.

“Do we think the Russians have this sonic technology?” said the President.

“None of our intelligence agencies have been able to detect anything like that in the Russian arsenal,” said Gooding.

“What if it came from the Sentinel?” said Tillingham.

“I would recommend some planning for that eventuality,” said McHugh.

The President looked up toward McHugh, as if hearing the word for the first time.  “How’s the integration of the military going at CSAC, Bob?”

“Very well, Mr. President.  As you know, we have been quietly building up our military response capabilities.  All Delta Force level men and, er, women under a unified command.  Couldn’t have asked for a more dedicated team — all seasoned troops, Granada, Iraq, Afghan, Bosnia, name it.”

“Afghan?” said Secretary Littleton.

“Yes, Jason,” said the President.  “Some things are better left unasked.”

His face flushed at the last remark, but Littleton knew when to press a point, and this was not the right time.

“What about the attacks on our CSAC agents?” said Reddington.

Judge Alexander nodded.  “My agents uncovered a KGB ring of moles that had been sent to infiltrate American society.  The KGB colonel general and resident agent for this group, code-named Project Cicada, was acting on his own.  The leader, as he was called, didn’t want his life’s work to go down the drain with the rest of the USSR.  When the Kremlin fell apart, General Lechenkov decided to freelance, to demonstrate the importance of his group.

“His agent in the Pentagon, who incidentally was his illegitimate son — a natural born American, had tapped into the CSAC communications network and knew the travel plans of our agent/couriers.  We believe that we’ve been able to eradicate the main force behind this cell of spies.  Lechenkov left some pretty good records, which we’re going through at this moment.  We think that we can wrap up this ring in short order.

“One critical part of the ring, an agent with the code name Dimitri, did manage to escape, but we’ve alerted Interpol.  This Dimitri used an auto repair shop as a cover.  He is apparently quite good at what he does and may give us more headaches in the future.”

The President turned to General Ryder who was sitting to his right.  “General, where do we stand with the strategic defense initiative?”

“Mr. President, the latest round of debates frankly has us scared.  It seems that too many people are demanding the so-called ‘peace dividend’ right away.  Although we anticipated some fall-out from the collapse of the Soviet Empire, we didn’t expect that SDI would be curtailed so drastically.  We’re doing our best, sir, but we need more funds.”

Turning to Bo Reddington, the President said, “Bo, what are SDI’s chances in Congress?”

“Not good, Mr. President.  The other guys are clamoring for the peace dividend just like General Ryder said.  It’s become a hot topic.”

“What about the strategy that we need this technology for Nemesis?”

“We’ve made some progress on that front.  Seems we struck a chord with some civilian scientists who have been monitoring asteroids and their orbits.  The theory that the dinosaurs were annihilated by a comet crashing into the Yucatan Peninsula has captured the popular imagination.  The possibility of a dark star, Nemesis, somewhere flinging comets and other debris at the Earth has also captivated the people.  But, with all candor, Mr. President, I think we need to have a high level meeting with Speaker Ronerson.”

The President winced at the name of his own nemesis.  Speaker Mitchell Ronerson, the current speaker of the House of Representatives was from the opposition party.  He had made it his mission in life to make the President’s life, to say the least, interesting.  The President did not like the portly gentleman from Montana and thinking that he would have to win his vote on this critical matter seemed abhorrent.

“Thank you.  What about the message?” said the President.

“Here it is, Mr. President,” said Mike, taking the metallic file from his briefcase and handing it to the President.

The President ran the file through the encoder device held out by Mike and opened the folder.  He sat down behind his desk in the Oval Room and read the short message.

The message read:

Third Planet, NG-33 System, Galaxy 1530-G, 1300 Starlengths.  Planet under Severe Environmental Stress.  Despite Our Efforts to Stabilize Political Imbalances By Elimination of One Competitor, Species Unable to Unify for Environmental Action.  Ozone Depletion Approaching Critical Phase.  Species Can Not Be Depended Upon to Further Manage This Asset.  Council Has Directed Management of Resources To Be Fundamental Component of Utilization Plan for Third Planet.  Intervention Imperative to Preserve Resources.  Estimated 1300.2 Starlengths.

The President reread the short message several times, the import of the message sinking deeper and deeper with each reading.  Finally, he put down the slip of paper and looked up to McHugh and Mike.

“What does starlength mean?”

“Apparently, each starlength equates to one of our centuries.  Therefore, Starlength 1300.2 probably means 2013, about twenty years from this date,” said McHugh.

Looking past McHugh and Mike to the assembled group, the President said, “Gentlemen, it looks as if we have our work cut out for us.  God, let’s hope that SDI works.”

- End -

The author of
Falling Star
is Philip Chen, like the character of Mike Liu, was involved with ocean research engineering during his early career and later moved on to other endeavors including trial law and investment banking.  This is his first novel.

A Triple Thriller Fest

State of Rebellion

Falling Star

State of Siege

STATE OF SIEGE

State of Siege

By Michael Wallace

Chapter One:

Tess Burgess had invited herself to the party under false pretenses. If she ran into the wrong person, said the wrong thing, she’d risk more than social embarrassment.

She glanced at Dmitri, but if he was nervous, he didn’t show it. He studied a marble pillar, wrenched like a gleaming white molar from a ruin in the Tunisian countryside. A statue of Minerva sat atop the pillar.

“This might look good in the atrium,” she said as a waiter approached with a tray of drinks. Tess took one, if for no other reason than to keep the waiter from returning a few minutes later. The host wanted his customers to drink and keep drinking.

“Don’t you think it would clash with the Rodin?” Dmitri said. He took his own drink. “But maybe we could…” He stopped the charade as soon as the waiter passed out of earshot. “You don’t see Peter?”

“No,” Tess said, “the bastard isn’t here.” Truth was, she was disappointed not to see him. She needed to talk to Peter, but wouldn’t admit that to Dmitri. “What about Borisenko, do you see him?”

Her ex-boyfriend, Peter Gagné and his friend Alexander Borisenko—the Russian Oil Minister—were obsessive collectors of Roman and Byzantine artifacts like those on display at the party. One of them, at least, should be here.

“Not Borisenko himself, but he sent someone,” Dmitri said.

Tess felt a twinge of alarm. “It’s not his wife, is it?”

“No, look. It’s that guy with the huge diamonds in his ears, standing on the edge of the terrace. I don’t think he’d recognize me.”

That was good. Either Borisenko or his wife would know about her break-up with Peter, which would puncture Tess’s reasons for being here. But what about Peter himself? She could hardly believe what she’d heard in the last several months, how he was immersing himself in this illegal collecting.

“Let’s look for the head.”

The Akkadian King was a bronze head that had been one of the jewels of the Baghdad Museum before the city fell and mobs looted the collection. The committee, with its worthless meetings and faxes to Interpol, knew only that it was in North Africa somewhere, but was too helpless—or cowardly, depending on your point of view—to do what it took to get it back.

The villa sat on the hillside overlooking Sidi Bou Said, north of Tunis. It was the same white-washed, blue-shuttered construction as the village itself, only on a massive scale. The patio was tiled with Roman mosaics of gods and animals and heroes fighting monsters. Tess felt every clack of her stiletto heels on those two thousand year old tiles.

A man approached as they passed a display of gold coins on a table beneath a glass case. “It’s Tess Burgess, isn’t it? I didn’t recognize you at first. You looked Tunisian.”

She forced herself to sound friendly, in spite of her apprehension. “You’re not the first one to say that since I got here. Must be my Italian mother. You are—?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Lars Nilsson, I don’t know if you remember me from Denmark, at the medieval festival in Moesgaard a couple of years back.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. Did we meet through my boyfriend? He was a donor.”

“Yes, I remember, but that’s not how we met. I work at the museum. We talked after your ballista demonstration, and later I saw you sword fighting—impressive—so I picked up your book. The dust jacket says you teach at Columbia?”

“I do, but I’m in France for the next six months, doing research.” After the breakup, she’d cashed in her sabbatical to work on siege engines in Provence, work on her book, and do this stuff for the Baghdad Museum on the side.

Lars Nilsson looked out of place, dressed in a suit which didn’t hold his bulging muscles. Tess usually had a good memory for faces, but his didn’t look familiar.

She shook her head. “Sorry I really don’t remember you.”

He looked disappointed. “Is Mr. Gagné coming, or did he stay in France?”

Dmitri nudged her, but the warning was unnecessary. “Is there something you want, Mr. Nilsson?” she asked.

He looked around, then said, “Please, I’m just looking for Peter, but maybe you can help me instead. I’ve heard that you—well, can you come here for a second? There’s something I want to show you. It’s just over here, by the Babylonian stuff.”

She glanced at Dmitri, then nodded. Better to act casually interested until she knew what this man wanted. “Sure, what is it?”

They followed the man to the edge of the patio. Yachts lounged in the marina at the base of the hill and the Cap Bon Peninsula jutted into the clouds on the other side of the azure-blue bay. A woman in a black dress and an older, silver-haired man admired a pair of stone lions to their right, while in front of them lay a glass case with an illuminated manuscript.

“It’s called the Damascene by scholars,” Lars told Tess and Dmitri after the couple walked away. “An Eighth-Century bible, hand-copied in Syriac. Used to be in the Baghdad Museum.”

That drew her attention. She thought about the Akkadian King.

“Is there anything else here from the museum?” Dmitri asked.

“You mean looted stuff, no,” Lars said. “Officially, the Damascene was never stolen. Saddam Hussein gave it to the Turkish ambassador in ’98, when he was trying to win allies against the American sanctions. Iraq wants it back, of course, and so do the Syrians.”

“Are you going to buy it?” Tess asked.

“Yes, that was the plan. I offered half a million euros, which is what it’s worth in its current condition.”

“That’s a lot of money for a guy who works at a museum.”