insidiously, malignly insane. Yes.”
Mein stared at him. “Bauer…”
“And Richardson, Price, Treloar, Lara Telegin…”
“To nail Bauer, we need hard evidence, Jon. We can try to trace his communications?”
Smith shook his head. “There's no time. Here's the way I see it: we assume there's a bioweapon onboard the shuttle and that Reed is in control of it. Bauer and his accomplices will want to destroy all the evidence of what happened up there. Also, I'm sure that we'll find no evidence of any dealings with either Richardson or Price. But Bauer still has to make sure that the shuttle comes down safely. He has to get Reed and the sample out of there. When is NASA bringing down the orbiter?”
“In about eight hours. They have to wait for an atmospheric window to open in order to land it at Edwards Air Force Base in California.”
Smith leaned forward. “Can you get me in to see the president ? right now?”
Two hours later, after speaking with the president, Smith and Klein found themselves in the small conference room next to the Oval Office. While they waited for the president to finish his meeting, Klein received a call from the Cape.
“Mr. Klein? It's Harry Landon at mission control. I have that information you were asking for.”
Klein listened in silence and thanked Landon. Before hanging up, he asked: “What is the status of the descent?”
“We're bringing her down as gently as we can,” Landon replied. “I have to tell you, we've never done anything like this ? outside of simulations, that is. But we'll get our people down. You have my word on that.”
“Thank you, Mr. Landon. I'll stay in touch.”
He turned to Smith. “Landon called everyone in the Black Book ? and someone who Reed personally asked for.”
“Let me guess. Karl Bauer.”
“On the money.”
“Makes sense,” Smith said. “He'd want to be on-site when Reed comes down with his baby.”
Klein nodded and pointed to the closed-circuit monitor that suddenly showed a picture. “Showtime.”
Despite the nest of worry lines and crow's-feet, the president, seated behind his desk, projected an image of authority and control. As he waited for the last member of the working group to arrive, he surveyed the individuals around him.
The Central Intelligence Agency was represented by Bill Dodge, cool, austere, his expression betraying nothing as he leafed through the latest update from NASA.
Martha Nesbitt, the national security adviser, sat next to Dodge. A veteran of the State Department, Marti, as she was called, was famous for the speed with which she assessed a situation, formulated a decision, and got the ball rolling.
Opposite her was the secretary of state, Gerald Simon, picking nonexistent lint off his hand-tailored suit, a ritual indicating that he was racked by indecision.
“I hope you've had time to gather your thoughts,” the president said. “Because under the circumstances, we have to make the right decision the first time around.”
He looked around the group. “As of now Discovery will reach its `window' to reenter the earth's atmosphere in approximately one hour At that point, it will be another four hours before it begins its descent procedure. Seventy-five minutes later, it will land at Edwards. The question before us is simple: do we allow the craft to land?”
“I have a question, sir,” Martha Nesbitt spoke up. “At what point do we lose the ability to destroy the orbiter?”
“There's really no such cutoff point,” the president replied. “The fact that the shuttle carries an autodestruct package of high explosives has, for obvious reasons, never been publicized. However, using satellite relays, we can activate the mechanism at any point between the orbiter's present position and touchdown.”
“But the package, Mr. President, was really designed to blow the orbiter in space,” Bill Dodge said. “The whole point being not to introduce any contaminants into our atmosphere.”
“That's true,” Castilla agreed.
“What's also true is that we have no idea what really happened onboard Discovery,” Gerald Simon weighed in. He glanced around the room. “Five dedicated people are dead. We don't know how or why. But one is still alive. On the battlefield, we always bring out our dead. And if there's a survivor out there, we damn well go out and get him.”
“I agree,” Marti Nesbitt said. “First of all, according to the latest information, the orbiter is sound, mechanically speaking. Second, NASA is still checking into what could have taken down the crew. Rightly, they're focusing on the food and fluids supplies. We know that bacteria grow very rapidly in microgravity. It's entirely possible that something that is harmless on earth mutated in a grotesque way and overpowered its victims before they could respond.”
“But isn't that exactly why we can't risk bringing down the shuttle?” Gerald Simon asked. “I have to look at this from the state department's perspective. We know we have something lethal on that ship, but we're going to bring it down anyway? What kind of danger are we exposing ourselves ? and the rest of the world ? to?”
“Maybe no danger at all,” Bill Dodge responded. “This isn't an Andromeda-strain scenario, Gerry. Or some X- file about an extraterrestrial plague that somehow invaded the shuttle. Whatever killed those people came from earth. But here, it obviously didn't have the lethal capacity. Take away the microgravity environment and the damn thing dies.”
“You're willing to bet the country on that theory?” Simon retorted. “Or the planet?”
“I think you're overreacting, Gerry.”
“And I think your attitude is a little too cavalier!”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The president's words silenced the room. “Debate, questions, comments, fine. But no arguing or backbiting. We don't have the time.”
“Does NASA have any reasonable expectation of determining what happened up there?” the national security adviser asked.
The president shook his head. “I asked Harry Landon that same question. The answer is no. Although the survivor, Dylan Reed, is a medical doctor, he doesn't have the time, facilities, or help to conduct any kind of meaningful investigation. We have a general description of the bodies' condition, but certainly not enough to determine the cause of death.”
He looked around the room. “There is one thing I can say for sure: Harry Landon does not believe that there's even a consideration of destroying the shuttle. Therefore, neither he nor anyone from NASA can be permitted into our discussions. Having said that, and since you've all had a chance to examine the facts as we know them, we need to take a preliminary vote. Bill, we'll start with you: salvage or abort?”
“Salvage.”
“Marti?”
“Abort.”
“Gerry?”
“Abort.”
As the president steepled his fingers, Bill Dodge spoke up.
“Sir, I can understand why my colleagues voted the way they did. But we can't lose sight of the fact that we have a survivor up there.”
“No one's losing sight of that, Bill,” Marti Nesbitt started to say.
“Let me finish, Marti. I believe I have a solution.” Dodge turned to the group. “As you're all aware, I wear a couple of hats, one of them being the codirector of the Space Security Division. Prior to his tragic accident, Frank Richardson shared that responsibility. Now we've anticipated that at some point in time, a biological incident ? if that's what occurred ? might take place onboard a manned or unmanned flight. We looked specifically at the shuttle and engineered a special facility for just such a contingency.”
“And where would this facility be?” Gerald Simon asked.
