Klein had enough evidence to bring before the WHO and demand that Bioaparat be completely opened up. But politics was an issue. The current administration did not wish to antagonize Russia, which was threatening to revert to communist rule. Also, a number of the WHO inspectors were not inclined to take American-produced evidence at face value. Nor could their discretion be relied on. American intelligence agencies feared for the lives of those who had furnished him with the information, believing that if the Russians knew what information the West had, they could walk back the cat and discover who had passed it on.
“I have no choice,” Klein said grimly. “I must tell the president.”
“Which could make it a government-to-government situation,” Smith pointed out. “Then the question becomes: do we trust the Russians enough to go after the leak and the courier? We don't know whom we're dealing with at Bioaparat, how senior he is, or who gave him his marching orders. It's possible that this isn't some rogue scientist or researcher looking to make a quick buck by delivering a package to New York City. This could travel all the way up to the Kremlin.”
“You're saying that if the president were to speak to the Russian prime minister we might be tipping our hand ? to the wrong people. I agree ? but give me an alternative.”
It took Smith three minutes to lay out the contingency plan he had come up with during the flight. He noticed Klein's skeptical expression and was prepared to argue, but Klein surprised him.
“I agree. It's the only course of action we can take immediately ? and that has a chance of success. But I'll tell you this: the president won't give us much time. If you don't get results fast he'll have no choice but to come down hard on the Russians.”
Smith took a deep breath. “Give me two days. I'll check in every twelve hours. If I miss a signal by more than sixty minutes, assume that I won't be calling in at all.”
Klein shook his head. “That's a hell of a gamble, Jon. I don't like sending men in on a wing and a prayer.”
“A prayer is all we have right now, sir,” Smith said somberly. “There's something else you might want to tell him. We stopped manufacturing smallpox vaccine years ago. Right now, all we have are a hundred thousand inoculations ? at USAMRIID, strictly for military use. We couldn't inoculate even a fraction of our population.” He paused. “There's even a lousier scenario: if someone is stealing smallpox because they can't do Stage Two development in Russia, they're bringing it here because they can ? something's already waiting for the courier on this end. If that's the case, and the object is not only to create a mutant strain but to disperse it in this country, then we're defenseless. We could manufacture all the vaccine in the world, but none of it would be effective against a new strain of variola.”
Klein's eyes locked on Smith. His voice was low and harsh.
“Go and find out what kind of hell the Russians are letting loose. Find out fast!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Megan's heels echoed smartly off the polished concrete floor as she walked through the giant hangar and into daylight. Although she'd been in Houston for almost two months, she still wasn't used to its climate. It was April but already the air was humid. She was glad her training wouldn't extend into the summer.
Sandwiched between buildings G-3 and G-4 was the new visitors' center. Megan walked past the flotilla of NASA buses, which ferried guests from the main gates into the compound, and entered the atrium-style lobby. Suspended from the overhead girders was a halfsize mock-up of the shuttle. Slipping around groups of schoolchildren who were staring wide-eyed at the mock-up, she headed for the security desk. Visitors to NASA, as well as their destinations within the facility, were logged into a computer. Megan was wondering where she would find Jon Smith when she caught a glimpse of him walking beneath the mock-up.
“Jon!”
Smith was startled to hear his name, but his frown turned into a smile when he saw Megan.
“Megan… How wonderful to see you again.”
Megan came up to him and took his arm. “You look like a man on a mission ? all so serious. Don't tell me you weren't even going to look me up.”
Smith hesitated. His thoughts had wandered to Megan Olson but nothing had prepared him for actually running into her.
“I wouldn't have known where to begin to look for you,” he replied truthfully.
“And you being such a resourceful man,” Megan teased him. “What are you doing down here? Did you come in with the president's party?”
“Hardly. I had a meeting, something that came up at the last minute.”
“Uh-huh. And now you're galloping off. Do you at least have time for a drink or a cup of coffee?”
Although he was anxious to get back to Washington, Smith decided he didn't want to raise any suspicions, especially since Megan seemed to have accepted his vague explanation for his presence at NASA.
“I'd love a drink,” he said, then added, “You seemed to be looking for me ? or am I imagining things?”
“I was,” Megan replied, leading them toward the elevators. “Actually, a friend of yours, Dylan Reed, mentioned that he'd heard you were on-site.”
“Dylan… I see.”
“Where do you know him from?”
“Dylan and I worked together when NASA and USAMRIID were retooling the biochem program for the shuttle. That was a while back. I haven't seen him since.”
Which begs the question: how the hell would Reed or anyone else know that I was here?
Since the air space around NASA was restricted, the Gulfstream pilot would have filed a crew/passenger manifest with the NASA controllers, who would have passed it on to security. But that information should have remained confidential ?unless someone was monitoring flight arrivals.
Megan slid a card key into the slot of the glass-enclosed elevator that went up to the private dining room. Upstairs, she and Smith walked past the dining room's floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the center's air-training facilities. Megan couldn't help but smile when she saw a KC-135, a converted aerial tanker, lumber down the runway.
“Fond memories?” Smith asked her.
Megan laughed. “Only in retrospect. That one-thirty-five has been especially modified to pretest various experiments and equipment for the low gravity of shuttle flights. It climbs steeply until its acceleration reaches two Gs, then freefalls, creating a weightless environment for twenty or thirty seconds. When I took my first ride, I had no idea how greatly reduced gravity stresses the body's internal systems.” She grinned. “That's when I discovered why the one-thirty-five has onboard a generous supply of emesis bags.”
“And why they call it the Vomit Comet,” Smith added.
Megan was surprised. “Have you ever ridden in that thing?” she asked.
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
They took a table by the window. Megan ordered a beer but Smith, about to get back in the air, chose orange juice. When their drinks arrived, he raised his glass.
“May you reach the stars.”
Megan met his glance. “I hope so.”
“I know so.”
Smith and Megan glanced up to find Dr. Dylan Reed standing by their table.
“Jon, it's good to see you again. I was waiting for someone on another flight when I saw your name on the arrivals roster.”
Smith returned Reed's strong handshake and invited him to pull up a chair.
“Are you still with USAMRIID?” Reed asked.
“Still attached. And you've been down here for what, three years?”
“Four.”
“Are you onboard the next mission?”
Reed grinned. “Couldn't keep me away. I've become a shuttle junkie.”
