Legacy (40 page)

Thinking quickly, and only because they were seconds away from an automated program sending out the impulse to separate the first and second stages, the pilot of Ariane 1 flipped the switch, bypassing the programmed separation. They saw the explosion of the rocket boosters. They saw the flash and gas release of the first stage from the second just as the debris from the solid boosters struck the fast-igniting second stage. The shrapnel tore into the lunar lander that was tucked away inside the third stage, but the Ariane continued to rise into the upper reaches of the atmosphere. Trailing far more than just the exhaust plume of the second stage, the mission flew on. With holes punched in the all-important second and third stages, Ariane 1 fought for its life to get into its natural element—space.

As the world watched, a second mission to the Moon was now limping its way along a shallow orbit where it was losing a battle to stay aloft an hour after achieving orbit. The Chinese had repaired their systems, but the ESA mission was now in serious doubt. They had lost ten men and women on Ariane 2, and now if they didn’t do some fast patching they would lose everyone on Ariane 1.

The world was now wondering if God truly was angry.

EVENT GROUP COMPLEX, NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA

Niles Compton watched as the doctors worked on Virginia Pollock. Her heart had stopped twice as they struggled to save her life. Three ribs had fractured and punctured both lungs. She was concussed and bleeding heavily inside her chest cavity. Normally she would have been transferred to the Nellis facilities or, if her condition warranted, to the far better facilities in Las Vegas. However, Virginia had run out of time and, luckily for the assistant director of the Event Group, two of the better surgeons in the Southwest had been recruited just after their retirement from Johns Hopkins and the UCLA Medical Center. They were on their first official visit to the complex for their initial orientation; thus Virginia had the best care possible and she hadn’t needed to be moved. Her surgery was being conducted in the medical clinic on Level 9.

Niles watched through the observation glass as the two men worked furiously to get the bleeding stopped.

“Sir?” Event Group Dr. Denise Gilliam said.

Niles cleared his throat and faced his staff doctor.

“Engineering said they have the mineral in total containment. They are now devising a way of getting it out of the complex by the heavy equipment elevator.”

Niles just nodded his head without speaking. Denise placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“She’s lucky. So many more weren’t. Here’s the list of who we lost.” She held out a piece of paper.

Niles looked at it and turned away. He watched the two surgeons working on his friend.

“I’ve made the biggest error in judgment of my career in planning the Moon missions for the president. I’m sending men and women to gather, or stop this material from being recovered, when I just should have recommended a nuclear strike on that crater, no matter what we face in the future.” He finally turned and faced Denise. “People are going to die and my arrogance designed it all.”

Before Denise could say anything, one of the surgeons opened the sealed door and stepped out while removing his face mask.

“She’ll make it. We managed to stop the bleeding, but we have to evacuate her to the surface as soon as we get her sewn up.”

Niles swallowed and nodded his head. He found he had lost his voice as he was informed he wouldn’t be losing one more person, at least for the rest of the day.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Denise Gilliam said for Niles.

Compton turned away and walked a few feet away as the surgeon left the observation room. He put his hands in his pocket and looked up at the monitor, where Europa had placed the view of the events in the Nuclear Sciences Lab. He watched as the engineers and nuclear sciences people, Virginia’s men and women, started taking core temperatures to confirm the cooling of the mud and concrete cocoon. As he watched, he found he wasn’t seeing the destroyed lab; he was looking at the monitor itself. As Denise became concerned with his stillness, Niles ran from the observation room.

Compton practically sprinted for the elevators as men and women passed by with curious looks on their faces. They had never seen their director walk at even a fast pace before. As the elevator carried him back up to Level 7, his thoughts turned to the note that had been forwarded by Jack through the American embassy in Berlin. When the elevator doors finally opened, Niles ran into his office and past his assistants. Once inside the office he slammed into his seat and hit the intercom.

“Europa, bring up the Faith Channel on broadcast television please.”

“Yes, Dr. Compton.”

Niles watched the main screen monitor blaze to life and, a moment later, Compton was looking at the Reverend Samuel Rawlins as he treated his congregation to ridicule of the president of the United States and his blatantly obvious attempt at destabilizing the faith of billions across the globe.

As Niles watched, the good Reverend reminded him of the old films of Adolf Hitler as he screamed his manifesto to fanatical countrymen in 1939. As he watched, he thought about the attacks being launched against the efforts around the globe. This man couldn’t be responsible; no one man could have that much reach without a government backing him. He had heard that Rawlins was rich beyond easy measurement, but even wealth couldn’t provide a madman access to terrorist cells around the globe. They would disdain his American wealth. Niles’s thought processes hit a snag as he thought the question over from another point of view. Terrorists around the globe and the fundamentalist wings of certain religions did have a common goal, the retardation of scientific advancement and the eventual withdrawal of anything that didn’t match their interpretation of the future—the strict adherence to the Bible or the Koran.

Niles stood from his desk and approached the screen. He watched the white-suited Rawlins as he was joined onstage by a young woman of about sixteen. He introduced her as his younger daughter and swore he would protect her from the community of nonbelievers that threatened her future and the future of all true believers. He screamed for his followers to take action, to take the battle for the Lord to the steps of the White House.

At that moment Niles saw something that really caught his attention. Right in the middle of this tirade a dozen of his followers slowly stood and made their way from their seats. The camera view immediately switched back to Rawlins, who chose not to recognize the rebuke by his congregation, though Niles could see the large man stumble a bit as he hailed the calamity that had just befallen the ESA Moon shots. Instead of the large crowd cheering and applauding or shouting the amens that usually accompanied his outrageous pronouncements, the audience was silent. The Reverend stumbled again but continued with a quick change of tactic.

“These brave men and women of the misguided space organizations of the world were sacrificed in the name of science, in the name of advancing the curse of warfare. These poor souls were ordered to fight the will of God, a will that dictates we stay on the planet he created. His heavens are off limits—off limits to those who refuse to believe in his divine word.”

This time Compton heard a smattering of applause, but he knew that for some reason the Reverend had lost the crowd of over two thousand. The director of the TV program was no longer showing congregation shots. The views were locked in on the Reverend and his daughter, who were both looking very uncomfortable. This seemed to infuriate the man on the subject of the president.

“The man who is now preparing to send our men and women, our brave astronauts, to seek the hoax that is being perpetrated just to continue a space program that is and has been a drain on every economy the world over is directed—no, that’s not the right word—it’s being manipulated by one man, a man who swore there would be no future attempts at landing on the Moon, a man who lied about cutting the budget for this continual drain on the poor of this nation, a man who cares not for the word and warnings of God! This man is the president of the United States!”

Niles made a decision—Jack was telling him that this is what he was uncovering, and that meant that he had found a connection with Columbus to the man he was watching on television.

“Europa, cut the feed,” he said as he sat back down at his desk. He immediately hit the intercom. “Jimmy, get me the direct link to the president. No video, just audio.”

“Yes, sir,” came the answer.

Niles waited and then hit another switch. This time he connected with the Computer Center.

“Yes, sir,” came the voice of the man subbing for Pete Golding.

“I want everything you can dig up on Samuel Rawlins, and his corporation, Faith Ministries.”

“Sir?” the tech asked.

“I need it ASAP, and get me a link with Colonel Collins. He’s in the air on his way to Ecuador.”

“Yes, sir.”

Niles waited a moment and then his assistant stuck his head through the double oak doors.

“Sir, the president is on his way to Annapolis to watch the Ares mission launch from Vandenberg. He’s just now preparing to leave the White House on Marine One.”

“Thank you,” Compton said, leaning back in his large chair. For some reason that Niles couldn’t fathom at the moment, he had a dreadful feeling that he had been too late in heeding Jack’s cryptic message from Germany. “Europa, put CNN on the main viewer please.”

On the main screen at the center of the room he saw a reporter standing on the back lawn of the White House, just as his friend, the president of the United States, began waving at the onlookers lining the roped-off area. He saw him turn and salute the Marine guard and then bound up the short set of stairs into the helicopter designated Marine One. His wife and daughters weren’t traveling with him to Annapolis that day, and for that Niles felt relieved. He reached out and hit the intercom one last time.

“Jimmy, the president will be airborne in just a minute. Give him a moment and then contact him with a 5656 priority message. I have to speak with him.”

Niles clicked the intercom off before he received an answer from his outer office. He stood and walked toward the screen again, watching the giant rotors of Marine One start to turn.

HAPSBURG OFFICE BUILDING, 1 MILE SOUTH OF THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Laurel Rawlins watched through binoculars as Marine One started spooling its twin turbine-driven engines. From her vantage point, she could only see the extreme top of the rotor. She moved the glasses to the right and saw two identical helicopters with the exact same paint scheme as Marine One. One came from the direction of Andrews Air Force Base and the other from the east, following the Potomac River. She smiled. That old fool Darby had said in passing one day many years before that the president had not one but three Marine One Sikorsky helicopters that rose into the air at exactly the same moment when the president was utilizing the aircraft—one carrying the head of state, the other two flying as decoys in case someone attempted exactly what she was about to attempt.

Laurel lowered the glasses and reached for the small radio clipped to the inside of her jacket. She felt an adrenaline rush accompanying the action she was about to perform. From the day her high school counselor informed her father that his daughter had a severe problem with authority, she had thought her wealth precluded her from any form of normal social function. She smiled at the memory and lifted the small microphone attached to her coat collar.

“Site one, are you ready?” she asked, the smile lingering on her lips as she actually started shaking with excitement.

“Site one, prepared to lock on to target.”

“Site two, are you tracking?” she asked into the microphone.

“Site two is tracking.”

“Site three?”

“Three is prepared to do the will of God.”

Laurel wanted to laugh at the phrase coming from position three. She wanted to scream that it was
her
will, not God’s, that was controlling the fate of the nation today. Instead, she allowed the coat collar to fall back without commenting on the foolishness spouted by site three.

The men had been chosen by the Mechanic and had been taught extensively in the use of the FIM-92 Stinger missile system. The infrared targeting system would lock on to the exhaust of Marine One and send the 10.1 kilogram missile into the proximity of the engine compartment. The Raytheon theft was about to pay off once more.

Just as Laurel was about to start down the winding staircase to the ground floor so she could make a hasty retreat, her cell phone rang and she stopped halfway to the tenth-floor exit.

“What?” she said angrily into the phone.

“My dear, may I ask what it is you are doing?” McCabe said from three thousand miles away. He had just witnessed the culmination of a major portion of his plan and wasn’t happy about the failure of the missiles from Devil’s Island in not bringing down the first Ariane rocket.

“Doing something that you don’t have the balls to do, James. I’m betting heavily that the Americans won’t launch tonight, that’s what I’m doing. Your plan has failed completely. Now you not only have one but two missions on their way to the Moon.”

“Listen to me very carefully, Laurel. The Chinese system will eventually fail. It is far too complicated for a damaged ship to make the trip and land safely. They have a three-day journey and they won’t make it. The ESA platform is heavily damaged, so they’re also ill-fated. Now stop what it is you are doing because this action will not prevent the United States from following a presidential directive. You are making us all look like amateurs.”