84

Zach Herney, like most presidents before him, survived on four or five hours of sleep a night. Over the last few weeks, however, he had survived on far less. As the excitement of the evening's events slowly began to ebb, Herney felt the late hour settling in his limbs.

He and some of his upper level staff were in the Roosevelt Room enjoying celebratory champagne and watching the endless loop of press conference replays, Tolland documentary excerpts, and pundit recaps on network television. On-screen at the moment, an exuberant network correspondent stood in front of the White House gripping her microphone.

"Beyond the mind-numbing repercussions for mankind as a species," she announced, "this NASA discovery has some harsh political repercussions here in Washington. The unearthing of these meteoric fossils could not have come at a better time for the embattled President." Her voice grew somber. "Nor at a worse time for Senator Sexton." The broadcast cut to a replay of the now infamous CNN debate from earlier in the day.

"After thirty-five years," Sexton declared, "I think it's pretty obvious we're not going to find extraterrestrial life!"

"And if you're wrong?" Marjorie Tench replied.

Sexton rolled his eyes. "Oh, for heavens sake, Ms. Tench, if I'm wrong I'll eat my hat."

Everyone in the Roosevelt Room laughed. Tench's cornering of the senator could have played as cruel and heavy-handed in retrospect, and yet viewers didn't seem to notice; the haughty tone of the senator's response was so smug that Sexton appeared to be getting exactly what he deserved.

The President looked around the room for Tench. He had not seen her since before his press conference, and she was not here now. Odd, he thought. This is her celebration as much as it is mine.

The news report on television was wrapping up, outlining yet again the White House's quantum political leap forward and Senator Sexton's disastrous slide.

What a difference a day makes, the President thought. In politics, your world can change in an instant.

By dawn he would realize just how true those words could be.

85

Pickering could be a problem, Tench had said.

Administrator Ekstrom was too preoccupied with this new information to notice that the storm outside the habisphere was raging harder now. The howling cables had increased in pitch, and the NASA staff was nervously milling and chatting rather than going to sleep. Ekstrom's thoughts were lost in a different storm-an explosive tempest brewing back in Washington. The last few hours had brought many problems, all of which Ekstrom was trying to deal with. And yet one problem now loomed larger than all the others combined.

Pickering could be a problem.

Ekstrom could think of no one on earth against whom he'd less rather match wits than William Pickering. Pickering had ridden Ekstrom and NASA for years now, trying to control privacy policy, lobbying for different mission priorities, and railing against NASA's escalating failure ratio.

Pickering's disgust with NASA, Ekstrom knew, went far deeper than the recent loss of his billion-dollar NRO SIGINT satellite in a NASA launchpad explosion, or the NASA security leaks, or the battle over recruiting key aerospace personnel. Pickering's grievances against NASA were an ongoing drama of disillusionment and resentment.

NASA's X-33 space plane, which was supposed to be the shuttle replacement, had run five years overdue, meaning dozens of NRO satellite maintenance and launch programs were scrapped or put on hold. Recently, Pickering's rage over the X-33 reached a fever pitch when he discovered NASA had canceled the project entirely, swallowing an estimated $900 million loss.

Ekstrom arrived at his office, pulled the curtain aside, and entered. Sitting down at his desk he put his head in his hands. He had some decisions to make. What had started as a wonderful day was becoming a nightmare unraveling around him. He tried to put himself in the mindset of William Pickering. What would the man do next? Someone as intelligent as Pickering had to see the importance of this NASA discovery. He had to forgive certain choices made in desperation. He had to see the irreversible damage that would be done by polluting this moment of triumph.

What would Pickering do with the information he had? Would he let it ride, or would he make NASA pay for their shortcomings?

Ekstrom scowled, having little doubt which it would be.

After all, William Pickering had deeper issues with NASA... an ancient personal bitterness that went far deeper than politics.

86

Rachel was quiet now, staring blankly at the cabin of the G4 as the plane headed south along the Canadian coastline of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Tolland sat nearby, talking to Corky. Despite the majority of evidence suggesting the meteorite was authentic, Corky's admission that the nickel content was "outside the preestablished midrange values" had served to rekindle Rachel's initial suspicion. Secretly planting a meteorite beneath the ice only made sense as part of a brilliantly conceived fraud.

Nonetheless, the remaining scientific evidence pointed toward the meteorite's validity.

Rachel turned from the window, glancing down at the disk-shaped meteorite sample in her hand. The tiny chondrules shimmered. Tolland and Corky had been discussing these metallic chondrules for some time now, talking in scientific terms well over Rachel's head-equilibrated olivine levels, metastable glass matrices, and metamorphic rehomogenation. Nonetheless, the upshot was clear: Corky and Tolland were in agreement that the chondrules were decidedly meteoric. No fudging of that data.

Rachel rotated the disk-shaped specimen in her hand, running a finger over the rim where part of the fusion crust was visible. The charring looked relatively fresh-certainly not three hundred years old-although Corky had explained that the meteorite had been hermetically sealed in ice and avoided atmospheric erosion. This seemed logical. Rachel had seen programs on television where human remains were dug from the ice after four thousand years and the person's skin looked almost perfect.

As she studied the fusion crust, an odd thought occurred to her-an obvious piece of data had been omitted. Rachel wondered if it had simply been an oversight in all the data that was thrown at her or did someone simply forget to mention it.

She turned suddenly to Corky. "Did anyone date the fusion crust?"

Corky glanced over, looking confused. "What?"

"Did anyone date the burn. That is, do we know for a fact that the burn on the rock occurred at exactly the time of the Jungersol Fall?"

"Sorry," Corky said, "that's impossible to date. Oxidation resets all the necessary isotopic markers. Besides, radioisotope decay rates are too slow to measure anything under five hundred years."

Rachel considered that a moment, understanding now why the burn date was not part of the data. "So, as far as we know, this rock could have been burned in the Middle Ages or last weekend, right?"

Tolland chuckled. "Nobody said science had all the answers."

Rachel let her mind wander aloud. "A fusion crust is essentially just a severe burn. Technically speaking, the burn on this rock could have happened at any time in the past half century, in any number of different ways."

"Wrong," Corky said. "Burned in any number of different ways? No. Burned in one way. Falling through the atmosphere."

"There's no other possibility? How about in a furnace?"

"A furnace?" Corky said. "These samples were examined under an electron microscope. Even the cleanest furnace on earth would have left fuel residue all over the stone-nuclear, chemical, fossil fuel. Forget it. And how about the striations from streaking through the atmosphere? You wouldn't get those in a furnace."

Rachel had forgotten about the orientation striations on the meteorite. It did indeed appear to have fallen through the air. "How about a volcano?" she ventured. "Ejecta thrown violently from an eruption?"

Corky shook his head. "The burn is far too clean."

Rachel glanced at Tolland.

The oceanographer nodded. "Sorry, I've had some experience with volcanoes, both above and below water. Corky's right. Volcanic ejecta is penetrated by dozens of toxins-carbon dioxide, sulfur dioxide, hydrogen sulfide, hydrochloric acid-all of which would have been detected in our electronic scans. That fusion crust, whether we like it or not, is the result of a clean atmospheric friction burn."

Rachel sighed, looking back out the window. A clean burn. The phrase stuck with her. She turned back to Tolland. "What do you mean by a clean burn?"

He shrugged. "Simply that under an electron microscope, we see no remnants of fuel elements, so we know heating was caused by kinetic energy and friction, rather than chemical or nuclear ingredients."

"If you didn't find any foreign fuel elements, what did you find? Specifically, what was the composition of the fusion crust?"

"We found," Corky said, "exactly what we expected to find. Pure atmospheric elements. Nitrogen, oxygen, hydrogen. No petroleums. No sulfurs. No volcanic acids. Nothing peculiar. All the stuff we see when meteorites fall through the atmosphere."

Rachel leaned back in her seat, her thoughts focusing now.

Corky leaned forward to look at her. "Please don't tell me your new theory is that NASA took a fossilized rock up in the space shuttle and sent it hurtling toward earth hoping nobody would notice the fireball, the massive crater, or the explosion?"

Rachel had not thought of that, although it was an interesting premise. Not feasible, but interesting all the same. Her thoughts were actually closer to home. All natural atmospheric elements. Clean burn. Striations from racing through the air. A faint light had gone off in a distant corner of her mind. "The ratios of the atmospheric elements you saw," she said. "Were they exactly the same ratios you see on every other meteorite with a fusion crust?"

Corky seemed to hedge slightly at the question. "Why do you ask?"

Rachel saw him hesitate and felt her pulse quicken. "The ratios were off, weren't they?"

"There is a scientific explanation."

Rachel's heart was suddenly pounding. "Did you by any chance see an unusually high content of one element in particular?"

Tolland and Corky exchanged startled looks. "Yes," Corky said, "but-"

"Was it ionized hydrogen?"

The astrophysicist's eyes turned to saucers. "How could you possibly know that!"

Tolland also looked utterly amazed.

Rachel stared at them both. "Why didn't anyone mention this to me?"

"Because there's a perfectly sound scientific explanation!" Corky declared.

"I'm all ears," Rachel said.

"There was surplus ionized hydrogen," Corky said, "because the meteorite passed through the atmosphere near the North Pole, where the earth's magnetic field causes an abnormally high concentration of hydrogen ions."

Rachel frowned. "Unfortunately, I have another explanation."

87

The fourth floor of NASA headquarters was less impressive than the lobby-long sterile corridors with office doors equally spaced along the walls. The corridor was deserted. Laminated signs pointed in all directions.

LANDSAT 7

TERRA

ACRIMSAT

JASON 1

AQUA

PODS

Gabrielle followed the signs for PODS. Winding her way down a series of long corridors and intersections, she came to a set of heavy steel doors. The stencil read:

Polar Orbiting Density Scanner (PODS)
Section Manager, Chris Harper

The doors were locked, secured both by key card and a PIN pad access. Gabrielle put her ear to the cold metal door. For a moment, she thought she heard talking. Arguing. Maybe not. She wondered if she should just bang on the door until someone inside let her in. Unfortunately, her plan for dealing with Chris Harper required a bit more subtlety than banging on doors. She looked around for another entrance but saw none. A custodial alcove stood adjacent to the door, and Gabrielle stepped in, searching the dimly lit niche for a janitor's key ring or key card. Nothing. Just brooms and mops.

Returning to the door, she put her ear to the metal again. This time she definitely heard voices. Getting louder. And footsteps. The latch engaged from inside.

Gabrielle had no time to hide as the metal door burst open. She jumped to the side, plastering herself against the wall behind the door as a group of people hurried through, talking loudly. They sounded angry.

"What the hell is Harper's problem? I thought he'd be on cloud nine!"

"On a night like tonight," another said as the group passed by, "he wants to be alone? He should be celebrating!"

As the group moved away from Gabrielle, the heavy door started swinging closed on pneumatic hinges, revealing her location. She remained rigid as the men continued down the hall. Waiting as long as she possibly could, until the door was only inches from closing, Gabrielle lunged forward and caught the door handle with just inches to spare. She stood motionless as the men turned the corner down the hall, too engaged in their conversation to look back.

Heart pounding, Gabrielle pulled open the door and stepped into the dimly lit area beyond. She quietly closed the door.

The space was a wide open work area that reminded her of a college physics laboratory: computers, work islands, electronic gear. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Gabrielle could see blueprints and sheets of calculations scattered around. The entire area was dark except for an office on the far side of the lab, where a light shone under the door. Gabrielle walked over quietly. The door was closed, but through the window she could see a man sitting at a computer. She recognized the man from the NASA press conference. The nameplate on the door read:

Chris Harper
Section Manager, PODS

Having come this far, Gabrielle suddenly felt apprehensive, wondering if she could actually pull this off. She reminded herself how certain Sexton was that Chris Harper had lied. I would bet my campaign on it, Sexton had said. Apparently there were others who felt the same, others who were waiting for Gabrielle to uncover the truth so they could close in on NASA, attempting to gain even a tiny foothold after tonight's devastating developments. After the way Tench and the Herney administration had played Gabrielle this afternoon, she was eager to help.

Gabrielle raised her hand to knock on the door but paused, Yolanda's voice running through her mind. If Chris Harper lied to the world about PODS, what makes you think he'll tell YOU the truth?

Fear, Gabrielle told herself, having almost fallen victim to it herself today. She had a plan. It involved a tactic she'd seen the senator use on occasion to scare information out of political opponents. Gabrielle had absorbed a lot under Sexton's tutelage, and not all of it attractive or ethical. But tonight she needed every advantage. If she could persuade Chris Harper to admit he had lied-for whatever reason-Gabrielle would open a small door of opportunity for the senator's campaign. Beyond that, Sexton was a man who, if given an inch to maneuver, could wriggle his way out of almost any jam.

Gabrielle's plan for dealing with Harper was something Sexton called "overshooting"-an interrogation technique invented by the early Roman authorities to coax confessions from criminals they suspected were lying. The method was deceptively simple:

Assert the information you want confessed.

Then allege something far worse.

The object was to give the opponent a chance to choose the lesser of two evils-in this case, the truth.

The trick was exuding confidence, something Gabrielle was not feeling at the moment. Taking a deep breath, Gabrielle ran through the script in her mind, and then knocked firmly on the office door.

"I told you I'm busy!" Harper called out, his English accent familiar.

She knocked again. Louder.

"I told you I'm not interested in coming down!"

This time she banged on the door with her fist.

Chris Harper came over and yanked open the door. "Bloody hell, do you-" He stopped short, clearly surprised to see Gabrielle.

"Dr. Harper," she said, infusing her voice with intensity.

"How did you get up here?"

Gabrielle's face was stern. "Do you know who I am?"

"Of course. Your boss has been slamming my project for months. How did you get in?"

"Senator Sexton sent me."

Harper's eyes scanned the lab behind Gabrielle. "Where is your staff escort?"

"That's not your concern. The senator has influential connections."

"In this building?" Harper looked dubious.

"You've been dishonest, Dr. Harper. And I'm afraid the senator has called a special senatorial justice board to look into your lies."

A pall crossed Harper's face. "What are you talking about?"

"Smart people like yourself don't have the luxury of playing stupid, Dr. Harper. You're in trouble, and the senator sent me up here to offer you a deal. The senator's campaign took a huge hit tonight. He's got nothing left to lose, and he's ready to take you down with him if he needs to."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

Gabrielle took a deep breath and made her play. "You lied in your press conference about the PODS anomaly-detection software. We know that. A lot of people know that. That's not the issue." Before Harper could open his mouth to argue, Gabrielle steamed onward. "The senator could blow the whistle on your lies right now, but he's not interested. He's interested in the bigger story. I think you know what I'm talking about."

"No, I-"

"Here's the senator's offer. He'll keep his mouth shut about your software lies if you give him the name of the top NASA executive with whom you're embezzling funds."

Chris Harper's eyes seemed to cross for a moment. "What? I'm not embezzling!"

"I suggest you watch what you say, sir. The senatorial committee has been collecting documentation for months now. Did you really think you two would slip by undetected? Doctoring PODS paperwork and redirecting allocated NASA funds to private accounts? Lying and embezzling can put you in jail, Dr. Harper."

"I did no such thing!"

"You're saying you didn't lie about PODS?"

"No, I'm saying I bloody well didn't embezzle money!"

"So, you're saying you did lie about PODS."

Harper stared, clearly at a loss for words.

"Forget about the lying," Gabrielle said, waving it off. "Senator Sexton is not interested in the issue of your lying in a press conference. We're used to that. You guys found a meteorite, nobody cares how you did it. The issue for him is the embezzlement. He needs to take down someone high in NASA. Just tell him who you're working with, and he'll steer the investigation clear of you entirely. You can make it easy and tell us who the other person is, or the senator will make it ugly and start talking about anomaly-detection software and phony work-arounds."

"You're bluffing. There are no embezzled funds."

"You're an awful liar, Dr. Harper. I've seen the documentation. Your name is on all the incriminating paperwork. Over and over."

"I swear I know nothing about any embezzlement!"

Gabrielle let out a disappointed sigh. "Put yourself in my position, Dr. Harper. I can only draw two conclusions here. Either you're lying to me, the same way you lied in that press conference. Or you're telling the truth, and someone powerful in the agency is setting you up as a fall guy for his own misdealings."

The proposition seemed to give Harper pause.

Gabrielle checked her watch. "The senator's deal is on the table for an hour. You can save yourself by giving him the name of the NASA exec with whom you're embezzling taxpayers' money. He doesn't care about you. He wants the big fish. Obviously the individual in question has some power here at NASA; he or she has managed to keep his or her identity off the paper trail, allowing you to be the fall guy."

Harper shook his head. "You're lying."

"Would you like to tell that to a court?"

"Sure. I'll deny the whole thing."

"Under oath?" Gabrielle grunted in disgust. "Suppose you'll also deny you lied about fixing the PODS software?" Gabrielle's heart was pounding as she stared straight into the man's eyes. "Think carefully about your options here, Dr. Harper. American prisons can be most unpleasant."

Harper glared back, and Gabrielle willed him to fold. For a moment she thought she saw a glimmer of surrender, but when Harper spoke, his voice was like steel.

"Ms. Ashe," he declared, anger simmering in his eyes, "you are clutching at thin air. You and I both know there is no embezzlement going on at NASA. The only liar in this room is you."

Gabrielle felt her muscles go rigid. The man's gaze was angry and sharp. She wanted to turn and run. You tried to bluff a rocket scientist. What the hell did you expect? She forced herself to hold her head high. "All I know," she said, feigning utter confidence and indifference to his position, "is the incriminating documents I've seen-conclusive evidence that you and another are embezzling NASA funds. The senator simply asked me to come here tonight and offer you the option of giving up your partner instead of facing the inquiry alone. I will tell the senator you prefer to take your chances with a judge. You can tell the court what you told me-you're not embezzling funds and you didn't lie about the PODS software." She gave a grim smile. "But after that lame press conference you gave two weeks ago, somehow I doubt it." Gabrielle spun on her heel and strode across the darkened PODS laboratory. She wondered if maybe she'd be seeing the inside of a prison instead of Harper.

Gabrielle held her head high as she walked off, waiting for Harper to call her back. Silence. She pushed her way through the metal doors and strode out into the hallway, hoping the elevators up here were not key-card operated like the lobby. She'd lost. Despite her best efforts, Harper wasn't biting. Maybe he was telling the truth in his PODS press conference, Gabrielle thought.

A crash resounded down the hall as the metal doors behind her burst open. "Ms. Ashe," Harper's voice called out. "I swear I know nothing about any embezzlement. I'm an honest man!"

Gabrielle felt her heart skip a beat. She forced herself to keep walking. She gave a casual shrug and called out over her shoulder. "And yet you lied in your press conference."

Silence. Gabrielle kept moving down the hallway.

"Hold on!" Harper yelled. He came jogging up beside her, his face pale. "This embezzlement thing," he said, lowering his voice. "I think I know who set me up."

Gabrielle stopped dead in her tracks, wondering if she had heard him correctly. She turned as slowly and casually as she could. "You expect me to believe someone is setting you up?"

Harper sighed. "I swear I know nothing about embezzlement. But if there's evidence against me... "

"Mounds of it."

Harper sighed. "Then it's all been planted. To discredit me if need be. And there's only one person who would have done that."

"Who?"

Harper looked her in the eye. "Lawrence Ekstrom hates me."

Gabrielle was stunned. "The administrator of NASA?"

Harper gave a grim nod. "He's the one who forced me to lie in that press conference."