The Antiterrorist: A Jake Corby Sci-Fi Thriller (Mysterious Events Book 2) (3 page)

“It would, but it seems that the target must be in the vacuum of space. Otherwise, we think the charge just bleeds off into the air, and …”

A breathless aide flew into the conference room and turned to Hallstrom, “Sir. There’s a fire on the International Space Station, and the president wants you and Dr. McGraw in the Situation Room immediately.”

* * *

Hallstrom asked me to tag along. I was ready to collapse back into my hotel bed, and my stomach was rebelling against all the drugs the docs had given me, but how often does one get to go to the world-famous Situation Room?

Hallstrom, McGraw, Charli, and I piled into a black SUV, as if heading off on a high-school field trip.

McGraw snapped his cell phone shut. “It’s a bad situation. There are six crew members on the international space station and two Soyuz capsules docked to it. Each Soyuz can carry three astronauts. A fire has cut off access to one of them. This is all apparently caused by a near miss from the terrorists’ power-pulse weapon. That’s all I know right now.”

On the seven-block drive to the White House we passed a Radio Shack with a wide-screen TV in the window. Pedestrians had stopped to watch the coverage, and the tightly-packed crowd filled the sidewalk.

At the White House I got to feel special at the security checkpoint. The metal detectors got all hot and bothered when they discovered the miniature hardware store I have in my ankle, courtesy of a college football accident. I offered to stick my leg into the x-ray machine, but they waved me through. No sense of humor.

Secret Service agents ushered us to the basement of the West Wing. The Situation Room oozed seriousness with deep-blue carpeting and large leather chairs, half of which were occupied.

All eyes were glued to the monitors. No one spoke. The tension felt like a room-filling plasma that induced shallow breathing and strained muscles.

The screens displayed the inside of the Johnson Space Center and several camera views within the space station. Secretary of State Clinton and the others pretty much ignored us, but President Obama stood and shook hands with Seth McGraw.

“I’m glad you’re here, Dr. McGraw,” he whispered. “You can translate the NASA jargon for us.”

Obama turned to me, and I saw that flash of shock I was getting used to. “Mr. Corby, welcome. Thank you for your—”

A transmission to the ISS cut him off. “Station, Houston for Catherine. We’re showing ventilation off and power off in node two, JEM, Destiny and MRM1. Can you confirm?”

“Affirm, Houston. Stand by.” While Catherine spoke, hissing and snapping noises played out in the background.

One screen showed a strange ball of fire with sparks around the edges. It reminded me of the “Great Ball of Fire” that my brother had cooked up with July Fourth sparklers. The smoke came and went. An astronaut with a fire extinguisher was against one wall, gripping equipment with his legs. I guess that kept him from floating away. He sent bursts of foam into the fire.

If I were there, I’d be freaking out, but the voices sounded routine, as they do during spacewalks. Perhaps they were even more focused and business-like than usual. Occasionally, a voice cracked or went up in pitch, but in general, it sounded like business as usual—just another day in space. I guess that comes from hundreds of hours of emergency training. Plus, NASA probably weeds out scaredy-cats like me.

An astronaut I recognized from a YouTube tour of the ISS floated past a camera. Catherine Pettit, the mission’s medical officer, had been smiling and kidding around during the tour, with dark hair that flowed out in all directions as if she were underwater.

There was no joking around now, of course, but also no panic in her voice. No indication that she was in imminent danger of dying a horrible death.

“Station, Houston on two for Catherine. Can you adjust camera hotel-tango-four upwards so we can get eyes on the fire?”

Pettit replied, “Willco, Houston.” After a delay we saw the image in the monitor shift, and she asked, “Better?”

“That’s perfect, Catherine. Can you give me a general status report at this time?” Each transmission was punctuated with the characteristic NASA beep I’ve heard nowhere else.

“Copy. Yuri is behind me preparing the aft Soyuz for evacuation. His vision has improved, but he’s still almost blind. Ray is in Destiny fighting the fire in Node Two. It is burning itself out. Marko is fighting the fire in MRM1 that’s cutting us off from Ray and preventing access to the Soyuz on MRM1. That one is worse. I’m in the Central Post. Satoshi is still—stand by.”

Catherine finished her report. “And Satoshi is still missing.”

The whole world loved Satoshi Takahasi. He’d been a YouTube sensation when he performed a funny rap video with his wife and seven-year-old daughter.

“Houston, Shepard on two. The fire in node two is out, but it’s too hot to go through. Stand by … Satoshi? Satoshi? Damn.”

I’d never heard an astronaut swear during a transmission. After a few seconds Shepard’s deep breaths came to us via his headset.

“Station, Commander Shepard, say status. Do you copy?”

“Houston, go to Comm Seven, please.”

“Copy, station. Stand by.”

McGraw turned to the president. “Comm Seven shuts off public transmission, but we’ll still be able to—”

“Go ahead, Ray.”

“Houston, Satoshi is dead.”

A small gasp came through the speakers, probably from Catherine. She had been on station with Satoshi for four months. They must have been close.

Ray Shepard continued. “I was able to look into the JEM for an instant, in spite of the heat. I saw his body. He’d received severe burns on his upper body and head.”

“Copy, Ray, is there any chance—”

“No, Houston, he’s definitely gone. His head was burned to a … no, he’s gone.”

A shockwave pulsed up from my gut and I winced. I have an ironclad stomach, but I guess the image in my mind was too clear.

Shepard took a breath. “I’m going to work on the Unity fire now.”

“Ray, we’re all very sorry to hear about Satoshi. I have a question.”

“Go ahead, CAPCOM.”

“What is your current prognosis? Will you need to evacuate?”

“Ah, at this point, I don’t think we can save the station. We may get the fire under control, but without attitude control, the remaining solar arrays can’t give us enough power.”

The smoke was getting worse, and the fire was just a glow.

McGraw walked over to a monitor and pointed. “If this wall is breached, there will be a decompression of the ISS.”

I pictured the James Bond scene in which Goldfinger is sucked out the broken window of a jet. Probably worse than that in space.

“Station, Houston on two for Catherine.”

“Go ahead, Houston.”

“We’ve made a decision on the evac. Yuri, Marko, and Sasha are to begin pre-evac immediately.”

I turned to the screen. An astronaut, presumably Marko, shook his head vigorously. He wore a full mask.

Catherine said, “Houston, ah, we’d like you to reconsider that decision.”

“Understood, Catherine. We’ve been discussing it. We have no choice.”

“Houston, the general feeling here is everyone goes or no one goes.”

Difficult decision. I rubbed the back of my neck. Who would want to be known as the astronaut who left his comrades to die? Or worse, the one who abandoned ship only to have it saved. “I was just following orders” wouldn’t cut it.

Marko appeared and disappeared in the smoke like a full moon behind passing clouds. Catherine floated into view, bringing him a fire extinguisher, presumably retrieved from another module. That’s when everything changed.

The image flashed to white for a split second. Marko’s head snapped back. He somersaulted and bounced off a hull wall like a rag doll before disappearing from view. The extinguisher he’d been holding floated slowly toward the camera then hit it, causing the image to shake.

“Houston, Marko has been injured. Stand by.”

“Copy, Catherine.”

“That didn’t look good,” Clinton said.

The president leaned toward the monitors, and we waited.

“Houston, Marko has … stand by, please ...” Catherine drifted into view pushing Marko against a wall with a medical kit open. A red globule the size of a grapefruit ballooned out from his head but didn’t detach. The strange fire glowed behind them, still sending out sparks. Catherine hunched over the cosmonaut’s head, working furiously, and occasionally grabbed instruments or gauze from the med kit.

She spoke faster now. “Houston. Marko Randova has sustained a traumatic head injury. He is unconscious, and his right pupil is blown and unresponsive. I’ve slowed the bleeding, but I can do nothing more for him here. He won’t survive without a hospital.”

“We copy.”

I rubbed the stitches on my forehead. At least that resolved the issue of heroics. Marko had to evac, so two others had no choice but to go with him.

English with a heavy Russian accent filled the room. “Pre-evac complete. Starting emergency evac. Sasha is helping me get Marko strapped in.”

“Copy, Yuri. Station, say status of fire.”

Shepard’s deep voice boomed from the speakers. “Houston, the fire is out. Stand by.”

After ten minutes, rapid Russian speech was overlaid with a translation in a woman’s voice. “We have physical separation. Undocking confirmed.”

That was quick. It can take me longer than that to leave the house. My stomach gave a lurch, which was weird, because I wasn’t in the Soyuz.

The reply from the Russian craft was slower, in accented English. “We have eyes on Soyuz Two. Is heavily damaged. Instrumentation module has melted and descent module is … is not usable.”

Was this a death sentence for Catherine and Ray? Would they die slowly in a crippled space station while the world watched? I blinked. Someone was strapping me into a gurney.
What?

President Obama leaned over me. He wore a small, friendly grin. “Mr. Corby, I would consider it a personal favor if you would be the government’s guest at Walter Reed until they feel you are ready to be released.”

What is going on? What is happening?
I rasped out, “Thank you, Mr. President.” I had a terrible taste in my mouth.

The president turned away as I was wheeled out. “And don’t worry. The FBI will cover the dry-cleaning bill.” From his tone, it sounded a little like a joke, but I had no idea what he meant.

Charli Keller had been watching from the hall. She and a doctorish fellow, possibly the president’s personal physician, walked beside the gurney. The ceiling rolled by, and passing faces of West Wing employees held curious expressions.

“Charli, what just happened?”

“You don’t want to know.” She grinned.

“I
do
want to know. Come on. What’s going on?”

“You just unconsciously supplied comic relief to a tense situation.”

“Spill it.”

“You passed out and upchucked on the leader of the free world.” She laughed.

“The president?”

“No, Einstein, the other leader of the free world.”

“What are you saying?” I asked. “I wasn’t sitting anywhere near him.”

She seemed to be trying to keep her laughter under control. An astronaut had died, after all. She looked me in the eye as I was being loaded into the ambulance. “Two words, Jake. Projectile vomiting.”

No. Please make this a dream.

CHAPTER THREE

I felt better the next day. A glass wall separated my hospital room from the hall, and a steady stream of medical personnel passed by, getting a look at the hospital’s new attraction: The man who threw up on the president.

My doctor popped through the door to my room without looking up from her clipboard. She was a willowy redhead with a huge nose that gave character to her otherwise everyday face. She picked up my chart, and the muscles around her mouth battled against a grin. The grin won.

“How are you feeling today, Mr. Corby?” She had an upper-class British accent.

“Go ahead. You can laugh.”

She did.

“I’m feeling better,” I said. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

She leaned in, shined a light in each eye and had me squeeze her hands. “There’s nothing to worry about. We think you had a bad reaction to the combination of drugs you received. The main problem, however, was too much activity before you were ready, you silly bugger.” She stood back up and made some notes on my chart. “We’re going to keep an eye on you, and tomorrow I’ll figure out when we can send you home. Are you ready for some visitors?”

I nodded, and she popped back out the door. Doctors came and went pretty quickly in that place. Hallstrom stuck his head into the room and wrinkled his brow while biting his lip. “Is it safe to come in here?”

I rolled my eyes. “Very funny. Come on in.”

He and Charli smiled their way to my bed. Hallstrom’s grin faded as he got another look at my injuries. “Feeling any better?”