Deception Point (11 page)

“Not until PODS calculated the density of this rock did we get excited. We immediately flew a team up here to analyze it. As it turns out, the rock in the ice beneath us is significantly
more
dense than any type of rock found here on Ellesmere Island. More dense, in fact, than any type of rock found within a four-hundred-mile radius.”

Rachel gazed down at the ice beneath her feet, picturing the huge rock down there somewhere. “You’re saying someone
moved
it here?”

Ekstrom looked vaguely amused. “The stone weighs more than eight tons. It is embedded under two
hundred
feet of solid ice, meaning it has been there untouched for over three hundred years.”

Rachel felt tired as she followed the administrator into the mouth of a long, narrow corridor, passing between two armed NASA workers who stood guard. Rachel glanced at Ekstrom. “I assume there’s a logical explanation for the stone’s presence here . . . and for all this secrecy?”

“There most certainly is,” Ekstrom said, deadpan. “The rock PODS found is a meteorite.”

Rachel stopped dead in the passageway and stared at the administrator. “A
meteorite?”
A surge of disappointment washed over her. A meteorite seemed utterly anticlimactic after the President’s big buildup.
This discovery will single-handedly justify
all of NASA’s past expenditures and blunders?
What was Herney thinking? Meteorites were admittedly one of the rarest rocks on earth, but NASA discovered meteorites all the time.

“This meteorite is one of the largest ever found,” Ekstrom said, standing rigid before her. “We believe it is a fragment of a larger meteorite documented to have hit the Arctic Ocean in the seventeen hundreds. Most likely, this rock was thrown as ejecta from that ocean impact, landed on the Milne Glacier, and was slowly buried by snow over the past three hundred years.”

Rachel scowled. This discovery changed nothing. She felt a growing suspicion that she was witnessing an overblown publicity stunt by a desperate NASA and White House—two struggling entities attempting to elevate a propitious find to the level of earth-shattering NASA victory.

“You don’t look too impressed,” Ekstrom said.

“I guess I was just expecting something . . . else.”

Ekstrom’s eyes narrowed. “A meteorite of this size is a very rare find, Ms. Sexton. There are only a few larger in the world.”

“I realize—”

“But the
size
of the meteorite is not what excites us.”

Rachel glanced up.

“If you would permit me to finish,” Ekstrom said, “you will learn that
this
meteorite displays some rather astonishing characteristics never before seen in any meteorite. Large or small.” He motioned down the passageway. “Now, if you would follow me, I’ll introduce you to someone more qualified than I am to discuss this find.”

Rachel was confused. “Someone more qualified than the administrator of NASA?”

Ekstrom’s Nordic eyes locked in on hers. “More qualified, Ms. Sexton, insofar as he is a civilian. I had assumed because you are a professional data analyst that you would prefer to get your data from an
unbiased
source.”

Touché.
Rachel backed off.

She followed the administrator down the narrow corridor, where they dead-ended at a heavy, black drapery. Beyond the drape, Rachel could hear the reverberant murmur of a crowd of voices rumbling on the other side, echoing as if in a giant open space.

Without a word, the administrator reached up and pulled aside the curtain. Rachel was blinded by a dazzling brightness. Hesitant, she stepped forward, squinting into the glistening space. As her eyes adjusted, she gazed out at the massive room before her and drew an awestruck breath.

“My God,” she whispered.
What is this place?

T
he CNN production facility outside of Washington, D.C., is one of 212 studios worldwide that link via satellite to the global headquarters of Turner Broadcasting System in Atlanta.

It was 1:45
P.M.
when Senator Sedgewick Sexton’s limousine pulled into the parking lot. Sexton was feeling smug as he got out and strode toward the entrance. He and Gabrielle were greeted inside by a pot-bellied CNN producer who wore an effusive smile.

“Senator Sexton,” the producer said. “Welcome. Great news. We just found out who the White House sent as a sparring partner for you.” The producer gave a foreboding grin. “I hope you brought your game face.” He motioned through the production glass out into the studio.

Sexton looked through the glass and almost fell over. Staring back at him, through the smoky haze of her cigarette, was the ugliest face in politics.

“Marjorie Tench?” Gabrielle blurted. “What the hell is
she
doing here?”

Sexton had no idea, but whatever the reason, her presence here was fantastic news—a clear sign that the President was in desperation mode. Why else would he send his senior adviser to the front lines? President Zach Herney was rolling out the big guns, and Sexton welcomed the opportunity.

The bigger the foe, the harder they fall.

The senator had no doubt that Tench would be a sly opponent, but gazing now at the woman, Sexton could not help but think that the President had made a serious error in judgment. Marjorie Tench was hideous-looking. At the moment, she sat slouched in her chair, smoking a cigarette, her right arm moving in languid rhythm back and forth to her thin lips like a giant praying mantis feeding.

Jesus,
Sexton thought,
if there was ever a face that should stick to radio.

The few times Sedgewick Sexton had seen the White House senior adviser’s jaundiced mug in a magazine, he could not believe he was looking at one of the most powerful faces in Washington.

“I don’t like this,” Gabrielle whispered.

Sexton barely heard her. The more he considered the opportunity, the more he liked it. Even more fortuitous than Tench’s media-unfriendly face was Tench’s reputation on one key issue: Marjorie Tench was extremely vocal that America’s leadership role in the future could only be secured through technological superiority. She was an avid supporter of high-tech government R&D programs, and, most important—NASA. Many believed it was Tench’s behind-the-scenes pressure that kept the President positioned so staunchly behind the failing space agency.

Sexton wondered if perhaps the President was now punishing Tench for all the bad advice about supporting NASA.
Is he throwing his senior adviser to the wolves?

•   •   •

Gabrielle Ashe gazed through the glass at Marjorie Tench and felt a growing uneasiness. This woman was smart as hell
and
she was an unexpected twist. Those two facts had her instincts tingling. Considering the woman’s stance on NASA, the President sending her to face-off against Senator Sexton seemed ill-advised. But the President was certainly no fool. Something told Gabrielle this interview was bad news.

Gabrielle already sensed the senator salivating over his odds, which did little to curb her concern. Sexton had a habit of going overboard when he got cocky. The NASA issue had been a welcome boost in the polls, but Sexton had been pushing very hard lately, she thought. Plenty of campaigns had been
lost by candidates who went for the knockout when all they needed was to finish the round.

The producer looked eager for the impending blood match. “Let’s get you set up, senator.”

As Sexton headed for the studio, Gabrielle caught his sleeve. “I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered. “But just be smart. Don’t go overboard.”

“Overboard? Me?” Sexton grinned.

“Remember this woman is very good at what she does.”

Sexton gave her a suggestive smirk. “So am I.”

T
he cavernous main chamber of NASA’s habisphere would have been a strange sight anywhere on earth, but the fact that it existed on an Arctic ice shelf made it that much more difficult for Rachel Sexton to assimilate.

Staring upward into a futuristic dome crafted of white interlocking triangular pads, Rachel felt like she had entered a colossal sanatorium. The walls sloped downward to a floor of solid ice, where an army of halogen lamps stood like sentinels around the perimeter, casting stark light skyward and giving the whole chamber an ephemeral luminosity.

Snaking across the ice floor, black foam carpet-runners wound like boardwalks through a maze of portable scientific work stations. Amid the electronics, thirty or forty white-clad NASA personnel were hard at work, conferring happily and talking in excited tones. Rachel immediately recognized the electricity in the room.

It was the thrill of new discovery.

As Rachel and the administrator circled the outer edge of the dome, she noted the surprised looks of displeasure from those who recognized her. Their whispers carried clearly in the reverberant space.

Isn’t that Senator Sexton’s daughter?

What the hell is SHE doing here?

I can’t believe the administrator is even speaking to her!

Rachel half expected to see voodoo dolls of her father dangling everywhere. The animosity around her, though, was not the only emotion in the air; Rachel also sensed a distinct smugness—as if NASA clearly knew who would be having the last laugh.

The administrator led Rachel toward a series of tables where a lone man sat at a computer work station. He was dressed in a black turtleneck, wide-wale corduroys, and heavy boat shoes, rather than the matching NASA weather gear everyone else seemed to be wearing. He had his back to them.

The administrator asked Rachel to wait as he went over and spoke to the stranger. After a moment, the man in the turtleneck gave him a congenial nod and started shutting down his computer. The administrator returned.

“Mr. Tolland will take it from here,” he said. “He’s another one of the President’s recruits, so you two should get along fine. I’ll join you later.”

“Thank you.”

“I assume you’ve heard of Michael Tolland?”

Rachel shrugged, her brain still taking in the incredible surroundings. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

The man in the turtleneck arrived, grinning. “Doesn’t ring a bell?” His voice was resonant and friendly. “Best news I’ve heard all day. Seems I never get a chance to make a first impression anymore.”

When Rachel glanced up at the newcomer, her feet froze in place. She knew the man’s handsome face in an instant. Everyone in America did.

“Oh,” she said, blushing as the man shook her hand. “You’re
that
Michael Tolland.”

When the President had told Rachel he had recruited top-notch civilian scientists to authenticate NASA’s discovery, Rachel had imagined a group of wizened nerds with monogrammed calculators. Michael Tolland was the antithesis. One of the best known “science celebrities” in America today, Tolland hosted a weekly documentary called
Amazing Seas,
during
which he brought viewers face-to-face with spellbinding oceanic phenomena—underwater volcanoes, ten-foot sea worms, killer tidal waves. The media hailed Tolland as a cross between Jacques Cousteau and Carl Sagan, crediting his knowledge, unpretentious enthusiasm, and lust for adventure as the formula that had rocketed
Amazing Seas
to the top of the ratings. Of course, most critics admitted, Tolland’s rugged good looks and self-effacing charisma probably didn’t hurt his popularity with the female audience.

“Mr. Tolland . . . ,” Rachel said, fumbling the words a bit. “I’m Rachel Sexton.”

Tolland smiled a pleasant, crooked smile. “Hi, Rachel. Call me Mike.”

Rachel found herself uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Sensory overload was setting in . . . the habisphere, the meteorite, the secrets, finding herself unexpectedly face-to-face with a television star. “I’m surprised to see you here,” she said, attempting to recover. “When the President told me he’d recruited civilian scientists for authentication of a NASA find, I guess I expected . . .” She hesitated.

“
Real
scientists?” Tolland grinned.

Rachel flushed, mortified. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tolland said. “That’s all I’ve heard since I got here.”

The administrator excused himself, promising to catch up with them later. Tolland turned now to Rachel with a curious look. “The administrator tells me your father is Senator Sexton?”

Rachel nodded.
Unfortunately.

“A Sexton spy behind enemy lines?”

“Battle lines are not always drawn where you might think.”

An awkward silence.

“So tell me,” Rachel said quickly, “what’s a world-famous oceanographer doing on a glacier with a bunch of NASA rocket scientists?”

Tolland chuckled. “Actually, some guy who looked a lot like the President asked me to do him a favor. I opened my mouth to say ‘Go to hell,’ but somehow I blurted, ‘Yes, sir.’”

Rachel laughed for the first time all morning. “Join the club.”

Although most celebrities seemed smaller in person, Rachel thought Michael Tolland appeared taller. His brown eyes were just as vigilant and passionate as they were on television, and his voice carried the same modest warmth and enthusiasm. Looking to be a weathered and athletic forty-five, Michael Tolland had coarse black hair that fell in a permanent windswept tuft across his forehead. He had a strong chin and a carefree mannerism that exuded confidence. When he’d shaken Rachel’s hand, the callused roughness of his palms reminded her he was not a typical “soft” television personality but rather an accomplished seaman and hands-on researcher.

“To be honest,” Tolland admitted, sounding sheepish, “I think I was recruited more for my PR value than for my scientific knowledge. The president asked me to come up and make a documentary for him.”

“A documentary? About a
meteorite?
But you’re an oceanographer.”

“That’s exactly what I told him! But he said he didn’t know of any meteorite documentarians. He told me my involvement would help bring mainstream credibility to this find. Apparently he plans to broadcast my documentary as part of tonight’s big press conference when he announces the discovery.”