Deception Point (29 page)

Then Delta-One and his partner cleared back up onto the top of the berm and waited. This would be a sight to behold.

Even in her delirious state of mind, Rachel Sexton had a very good idea what the attackers had just dropped into the crevasse. Whether Michael Tolland also knew or whether he
was reading the fear in her eyes was unclear, but she saw him go pale, shooting a horrified glance down at the mammoth slab of ice on which they were stranded, clearly realizing the inevitable.

Like a storm cloud lit by an internal flash of lightning, the ice beneath Rachel illuminated from within. The eerie white translucence shot out in all directions. For a hundred yards around them, the glacier flashed white. The concussion came next. Not a rumble like an earthquake, but a deafening shock wave of gut-churning force. Rachel felt the impact tearing up through the ice into her body.

Instantly, as if a wedge had been driven between the ice shelf and the block of ice supporting them, the cliff began to shear off with a sickening crack. Rachel’s eyes locked with Tolland’s in a freeze-frame of terror. Corky let out a scream nearby.

The bottom dropped out.

Rachel felt weightless for an instant, hovering over the multimillion-pound block of ice. Then they were riding the iceberg down—plummeting into the frigid sea.

T
he deafening grating of ice against ice assaulted Rachel’s ears as the massive slab slid down the face of the Milne Ice Shelf, sending towering plumes of spray into the air. As the slab splashed downward, it slowed, and Rachel’s previously weightless body crashed down onto the top of the ice. Tolland and Corky landed hard nearby.

As the block’s downward momentum plunged it deeper into the sea, Rachel could see the foaming surface of the ocean racing upward with a kind of taunting deceleration, like the ground beneath a bungee-jumper whose cord was a few feet too long. Rising . . . rising . . . and then it was there. Her childhood
nightmare was back.
The ice . . . the water . . . the darkness.
The dread was almost primal.

The top of the slab slipped below the waterline, and the frigid Arctic Ocean poured over the edges in a torrent. As the ocean rushed in all around her, Rachel felt herself sucked under. The bare skin on her face tightened and burned as the saltwater hit. The flooring of ice disappeared beneath her, and Rachel fought her way back to the surface, buoyed by the gel in her suit. She took in a mouthful of saltwater, sputtering to the surface. She could see the others floundering nearby, all of them tangled in tethers. Just as Rachel righted herself, Tolland yelled out.

“It’s coming back up!”

As his words echoed above the tumult, Rachel felt an eerie upwelling in the water beneath her. Like a massive locomotive straining to reverse direction, the slab of ice had groaned to a stop underwater and was now beginning its ascent directly beneath them. Fathoms below, a sickening low frequency rumble resonated upward through the water as the gigantic submerged sheet began scraping its way back up the face of the glacier.

The slab rose fast, accelerating as it came, swooping up from the darkness. Rachel felt herself rising. The ocean roiled all around as the ice met her body. She scrambled in vain, trying to find her balance as the ice propelled her skyward along with millions of gallons of seawater. Buoying upward, the giant sheet bobbed above the surface, heaving and teetering, looking for its center of gravity. Rachel found herself scrambling in waist-deep water across the enormous, flat expanse. As the water began pouring off the surface, the current swallowed Rachel and dragged her toward the edge. Sliding, splayed flat on her stomach, Rachel could see the edge looming fast.

Hold on!
Rachel’s mother’s voice was calling the same way it had when Rachel was just a child floundering beneath the icy pond.
Hold on! Don’t go under!

The wrenching yank on her harness expelled what little air Rachel had left in her lungs. She jerked to a dead stop only yards from the edge. The motion spun her in place. Ten yards away, she could see Corky’s limp body, still tethered to her, also
jolting to a stop. They had been flowing off the sheet in opposite directions and his momentum had stopped her. As the water ran off and grew more shallow, another dark form appeared over near Corky. He was on his hands and knees, grasping Corky’s tether and vomiting saltwater.

Michael Tolland.

As the last of the wake drained past her and flowed off the iceberg, Rachel lay in terrified silence, listening to the sounds of the ocean. Then, feeling the onset of deadly cold, she dragged herself onto her hands and knees. The ’berg was still bobbing back and forth, like a giant ice cube. Delirious and in pain, she crawled back toward the others.

High above on the glacier, Delta-One peered through his night-vision goggles at the water churning around the Arctic Ocean’s newest tabular iceberg. Although he saw no bodies in the water, he was not surprised. The ocean was dark, and his quarry’s weather suits and skullcaps were black.

As he passed his gaze across the surface of the enormous floating sheet of ice, he had a hard time keeping it in focus. It was receding quickly, already heading out to sea in the strong offshore currents. He was about to turn his gaze back to the sea when he saw something unexpected. Three specks of black on the ice.
Are those bodies?
Delta-One tried to bring them into focus.

“See something?” Delta-Two asked.

Delta-One said nothing, focusing in with his magnifier. In the pale tint of the iceberg, he was stunned to see three human forms huddled motionless on the island of ice. Whether they were alive or dead, Delta-One had no idea. It hardly mattered. If they were alive, even in weather suits, they’d be dead within the hour; they were wet, a storm was coming in, and they were drifting seaward into one of the most deadly oceans on the planet. Their bodies would never be found.

“Just shadows,” Delta-One said, turning from the cliff. “Let’s get back to base.”

S
enator Sedgewick Sexton set his snifter of Courvoisier on the mantelpiece of his Westbrook apartment and stoked the fire for several moments, gathering his thoughts. The six men in the den with him sat in silence now . . . waiting. The small talk was over. It was time for Senator Sexton to make his pitch. They knew it. He knew it.

Politics was sales.

Establish trust. Let them know you understand their problems.

“As you may know,” Sexton said, turning toward them, “over the past months, I have met with many men in your same position.” He smiled and sat down, joining them on their level. “You are the only ones I have ever brought into my home. You are extraordinary men, and I am honored to meet you.”

Sexton folded his hands and let his eyes circle the room, making personal contact with each of his guests. Then he focused in on his first mark—the heavyset man in the cowboy hat.

“Space Industries of Houston,” Sexton said. “I’m glad you came.”

The Texan grunted. “I hate this town.”

“I don’t blame you. Washington has been unfair to you.”

The Texan stared out from beneath the rim of his hat but said nothing.

“Twelve years back,” Sexton began, “you made an offer to the U.S. government. You proposed to build them a U.S. space station for a mere five billion dollars.”

“Yeah, I did. I still have the blueprints.”

“And yet NASA convinced the government that a U.S. space station should be a
NASA
project.”

“Right. NASA started building almost a decade ago.”

“A decade. And not only is the NASA space station not yet fully operational, but the project so far has cost
twenty
times your bid. As an American taxpayer, I am sickened.”

A grumble of agreement circled the room. Sexton let his eyes move, reconnecting with the group.

“I am well aware,” the senator said, addressing everyone now, “that several of your companies have offered to launch private space shuttles for as little as fifty million dollars per flight.”

More nods.

“And yet NASA undercuts you by charging only thirty-eight million dollars per flight . . . even though their
actual
per flight cost is over one hundred and fifty million dollars!”

“It’s how they keep us out of space,” one of the men said. “The private sector cannot possibly compete with a company that can afford to run shuttle flights at a four hundred percent loss and still stay in business.”

“Nor should you
have
to,” Sexton said.

Nods all around.

Sexton turned now to the austere entrepreneur beside him, a man whose file Sexton had read with interest. Like many of the entrepreneurs funding Sexton’s campaign, this man was a former military engineer who had become disillusioned with low wages and government bureaucracy and had abandoned his military post to seek his fortune in aerospace.

“Kistler Aerospace,” Sexton said, shaking his head in despair. “Your company has designed and manufactured a rocket that can launch payloads for as little as two thousand dollars per pound compared to NASA’s costs of
ten thousand dollars
per pound.” Sexton paused for effect. “And yet you have no clients.”

“Why
would
I have any clients?” the man replied. “Last week NASA undercut us by charging Motorola only eight hundred and twelve dollars per pound to launch a telecomm satellite. The government launched that satellite at a nine hundred percent loss!”

Sexton nodded. Taxpayers were unwittingly subsidizing an agency that was ten times less efficient than its competition. “It has become painfully clear,” he said, his voice darkening, “that NASA is working very hard to stifle competition in space. They crowd out private aerospace businesses by pricing services below market value.”

“It’s the Wal-Marting of space,” the Texan said.

Damn good analogy,
Sexton thought.
I’ll have to remember that.
Wal-Mart was notorious for moving into a new territory,
selling products below market value, and driving all local competition out of business.

“I’m goddamned sick and tired,” the Texan said, “of having to pay millions in business taxes so Uncle Sam can use that money to steal my clients!”

“I hear you,” Sexton said. “I understand.”

“It’s the lack of corporate sponsorships that’s killing Rotary Rocket,” a sharply dressed man said. “The laws against sponsorship are criminal!”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Sexton had been shocked to learn that another way NASA entrenched its monopoly of space was by passing federal mandates banning advertisements on space vehicles. Instead of allowing private companies to secure funding through corporate sponsorships and advertising logos—the way, for example, professional race car drivers did—space vehicles could only display the words USA and the company name. In a country that spent $185 billion a year on advertising, not one advertising dollar ever found its way into the coffers of private space companies.

“It’s robbery,” one of the men snapped. “My company hopes to stay in business long enough to launch the country’s first tourist-shuttle prototype next May. We expect enormous press coverage. The Nike Corporation just offered us seven million in sponsorship dollars to paint the Nike swoosh and ‘Just do it!’ on the side of the shuttle. Pepsi offered us twice that for ‘Pepsi: The choice of a new generation.’ But according to federal law, if our shuttle displays advertising, we are prohibited from launching it!”

“That’s right,” Senator Sexton said. “And if elected, I will work to abolish that antisponsorship legislation. That is a promise. Space should be open for advertising the way every square inch of earth is open to advertising.”

Sexton gazed out now at his audience, his eyes locking in, his voice growing solemn. “We all need to be aware, however, that the biggest obstacle to privatization of NASA is not laws, but rather, it is public perception. Most Americans still hold a romanticized view of the American space program. They still believe NASA is a
necessary
government agency.”

“It’s those goddamned Hollywood movies!” one man said.
“How many NASA-saves-the-world-from-a-killer-asteroid movies can Hollywood make, for Christ’s sake? It’s propaganda!”

The plethora of NASA movies coming out of Hollywood, Sexton knew, was simply a matter of economics. Following the wildly popular movie
Top Gun
—a Tom Cruise jet pilot blockbuster that played like a two-hour advertisement for the U.S. Navy—NASA realized the true potential of Hollywood as a public relations powerhouse. NASA quietly began offering film companies
free
filming access to all of NASA’s dramatic facilities—launchpads, mission control, training facilities. Producers, who were accustomed to paying enormous on-site licensing fees when they filmed anywhere else, jumped at the opportunity to save millions in budget costs by making NASA thrillers on “free” sets. Of course, Hollywood only got access if NASA approved the script.

“Public brainwashing,” a Hispanic grunted. “The movies aren’t half as bad as the publicity stunts. Sending a senior citizen into space? And now NASA is planning an all-female shuttle crew? All for publicity!”

Sexton sighed, his tone turning tragic. “True, and I know I don’t have to remind you what happened back in the eighties when the Department of Education was bankrupt and cited NASA as wasting millions that could be spent on education. NASA devised a PR stunt to prove NASA was education-friendly. They sent a public school teacher into space.” Sexton paused. “You all remember Christa McAuliffe.”

The room fell silent.

“Gentlemen,” Sexton said, stopping dramatically in front of the fire. “I believe it is time Americans understood the truth, for the good of all of our futures. It’s time Americans understand that NASA is not leading us skyward, but rather is stifling space exploration. Space is no different than any other industry, and keeping the private sector grounded verges on a criminal act. Consider the computer industry, in which we see such an explosion of progress that we can barely keep up from week to week! Why? Because the computer industry is a free-market system: It rewards efficiency and vision with
profits.
Imagine if the computer industry were government-run? We would still be in the dark ages. We’re stagnating in space. We should put space exploration
into the hands of the private sector where it belongs. Americans would be stunned by the growth, jobs, and realized dreams. I believe we should let the free-market system spur us to new heights in space. If elected, I will make it my personal mission to unlock the doors to the final frontier and let them swing wide open.”