Deception Point (51 page)

Tonight qualifies,
she thought.

She opened the closet.

The interior was cramped, packed with cleansers, mops, and shelves of paper supplies. A month ago, Gabrielle had been searching for paper towels when she’d made an unusual discovery. Unable to reach the paper off the top shelf, she’d used the end of a broom to coax a roll to fall. In the process, she’d knocked out a ceiling tile. When she climbed up to replace the tile, she was surprised to hear Senator Sexton’s voice.

Crystal clear.

From the echo, she realized the senator was talking to himself while in his office’s private bathroom, which apparently was separated from this supply closet by nothing more than removable, fiberboard ceiling tiles.

Now, back in the closet tonight for far more than toilet paper, Gabrielle kicked off her shoes, climbed up the shelves, popped out the fiberboard ceiling tile, and pulled herself up.
So much for national security,
she thought, wondering how many state and federal laws she was about to break.

Lowering herself through the ceiling of Sexton’s private
restroom, Gabrielle placed her stockinged feet on his cold, porcelain sink and then dropped to the floor. Holding her breath, she exited into Sexton’s private office.

His oriental carpets felt soft and warm.

T
hirty miles away, a black Kiowa gunship chopper tore over the scrub pine treetops of northern Delaware. Delta-One checked the coordinates locked in the auto navigation system.

Although Rachel’s shipboard transmission device and Pickering’s cellphone were encrypted to protect the contents of their communication, intercepting
content
had not been the goal when the Delta Force pulse-snitched Rachel’s call from sea. Intercepting the caller’s
position
had been the goal. Global Positioning Systems and computerized triangulation made pinpointing transmission coordinates a significantly easier task than decrypting the actual content of the call.

Delta-One was always amused to think that most cellphone users had no idea that every time they made a call, a government listening post, if so inclined, could detect their position to within ten feet anywhere on earth—a small hitch the cellphone companies failed to advertise. Tonight, once the Delta Force had gained access to the reception frequencies of William Pickering’s cellular phone, they could easily trace the coordinates of his incoming calls.

Flying now on a direct course toward their target, Delta-One closed to within twenty miles. “Umbrella primed?” he asked, turning to Delta-Two, who was manning the radar and weapons system.

“Affirmative. Awaiting five-mile range.”

Five miles,
Delta-One thought. He had to fly this bird well
within his target’s radar scopes to get within range to use the Kiowa’s weapons systems. He had little doubt that someone onboard the
Goya
was nervously watching the skies, and because the Delta Force’s current task was to eliminate the target without giving them a chance to radio for help, Delta-One now had to advance on his prey without alarming them.

At fifteen miles out, still safely out of radar range, Delta-One abruptly turned the Kiowa thirty-five degrees off course to the west. He climbed to three thousand feet—small airplane range—and adjusted his speed to 110 knots.

•   •   •

On the deck of the
Goya,
the Coast Guard helicopter’s radar scope beeped once as a new contact entered the ten-mile perimeter. The pilot sat up, studying the screen. The contact appeared to be a small cargo plane headed west up the coast.

Probably for Newark.

Although this plane’s current trajectory would bring it within four miles of the
Goya,
the flight path obviously was a matter of chance. Nonetheless, being vigilant, the Coast Guard pilot watched the blinking dot trace a slow-moving 110-knot line across the right side of his scope. At its closest point, the plane was about four miles west. As expected, the plane kept moving—heading away from them now.

4.1 miles. 4.2 miles.

The pilot exhaled, relaxing.

And then the strangest thing happened.

•   •   •

“Umbrella now engaged,” Delta-Two called out, giving the thumbs-up from his weapons control seat on the port side of the Kiowa gunship. “Barrage, modulated noise, and cover pulse are all activated and locked.”

Delta-One took his cue and banked hard to the right, putting the craft on a direct course with the
Goya.
This maneuver would be invisible to the ship’s radar.

“Sure beats bales of tinfoil!” Delta-Two called out.

Delta-One agreed. Radar jamming had been invented in WWII when a savvy British airman began throwing bales of hay wrapped in tinfoil out of his plane while on bombing runs. The Germans’ radar spotted so many reflective contacts they
had no idea what to shoot. The techniques had been improved on substantially since then.

The Kiowa’s onboard “umbrella” radar-jamming system was one of the military’s most deadly electronic combat weapons. By broadcasting an umbrella of background noise into the atmosphere above a given set of surface coordinates, the Kiowa could erase the eyes, ears, and voice of their target. Moments ago, all radar screens aboard the
Goya
had most certainly gone blank. By the time the crew realized they needed to call for help, they would be unable to transmit. On a ship, all communications were radio- or microwave-based—no solid phone lines. If the Kiowa got close enough, all of the
Goya
’s communications systems would stop functioning, their carrier signals blotted out by the invisible cloud of thermal noise broadcast in front of the Kiowa like a blinding headlight.

Perfect isolation,
Delta-One thought.
They have no defenses.

Their targets had made a fortunate and cunning escape from the Milne Ice Shelf, but it would not be repeated. In choosing to leave shore, Rachel Sexton and Michael Tolland had chosen poorly. It would be the last bad decision they ever made.

Inside the White House, Zach Herney felt dazed as he sat up in bed holding the telephone receiver. “Now? Ekstrom wants to speak to me
now?”
Herney squinted again at the bedside clock.
3:17
A.M
.

“Yes, Mr. President,” the communications officer said. “He says it’s an emergency.”

W
hile Corky and Xavia huddled over the electron microprobe measuring the zirconium content in the chondrules, Rachel followed Tolland across the lab into an adjoining room. Here Tolland turned on another computer.
Apparently the oceanographer had one more thing he wanted to check.

As the computer powered up, Tolland turned to Rachel, his mouth poised as if he wanted to say something. He paused.

“What is it?” Rachel asked, surprised how physically drawn to him she felt, even in the midst of all this chaos. She wished she could block it all out and be with him—just for a minute.

“I owe you an apology,” Tolland said, looking remorseful.

“For what?”

“On the deck? The hammerheads? I was excited. Sometimes I forget how frightening the ocean can be to a lot of people.”

Face-to-face with him, Rachel felt like a teenager standing on the doorstep with a new boyfriend. “Thanks. No problem at all. Really.” Something inside her sensed Tolland wanted to kiss her.

After a beat, he turned shyly away. “I know. You want to get to shore. We should get to work.”

“For now.” Rachel smiled softly.

“For now,” Tolland repeated, taking a seat at the computer.

Rachel exhaled, standing close behind now, savoring the privacy of the small lab. She watched Tolland navigate a series of files. “What are we doing?”

“Checking the database for big ocean lice. I want to see if we can find any prehistoric marine fossils that resemble what we saw in the NASA meteorite.” He pulled up a search page with bold letters across the top:
PROJECT DIVERSITAS
.

Scrolling through the menus, Tolland explained, “Diversitas is essentially a continuously updated index of oceanic biodata. When a marine biologist discovers a new ocean species or fossil, he can toot his horn and share his find by uploading data and photos to a central databank. Because there’s so much new data discovered on a weekly basis, this is really the only way to keep research up-to-date.”

Rachel watched Tolland navigating the menus. “So you’re accessing the Web now?”

“No. Internet access is tricky at sea. We store all this data onboard on an enormous array of optical drives in the other room. Every time we’re in port, we tie into Project Diversitas and update our databank with the newest finds. This way, we
can access data at sea without a Web connection, and the data is never more than a month or two out of date.” Tolland chuckled as he began typing search keywords into the computer. “You’ve probably heard of the controversial music file-sharing program called Napster?”

Rachel nodded.

“Diversitas is considered the marine biologist’s version of Napster. We call it LOBSTER—Lonely Oceanic Biologists Sharing Totally Eccentric Research.”

Rachel laughed. Even in this tense situation, Michael Tolland exuded a wry humor that eased her fears. She was beginning to realize she’d had entirely too little laughter in her life lately.

“Our database is enormous,” Tolland said, completing the entry of his descriptive keywords. “Over ten tera-bytes of descriptions and photos. There’s information in here nobody has ever seen—and nobody ever will. Ocean species are simply too numerous.” He clicked the “search” button. “Okay, let’s see if anyone has ever seen an oceanic fossil similar to our little space bug.”

After a few seconds, the screen refreshed, revealing four listings of fossilized animals. Tolland clicked on each listing one by one and examined the photos. None looked remotely like the fossils in the Milne meteorite.

Tolland frowned. “Let’s try something else.” He removed the word “fossil” from his search string and hit “search.” “We’ll search all
living
species. Maybe we can find a living descendant that has some of the physiological characteristics of the Milne fossil.”

The screen refreshed.

Again Tolland frowned. The computer had returned hundreds of entries. He sat a moment, stroking his now stubble-darkened chin. “Okay, this is too much. Let’s refine the search.”

Rachel watched as he accessed a drop-down menu marked “habitat.” The list of options looked endless: tide pool, marsh, lagoon, reef, mid-oceanic ridge, sulfur vents. Tolland scrolled down the list and chose an option that read:
DESTRUCTIVE MARGINS/OCEANIC TRENCHES
.

Smart,
Rachel realized. Tolland was limiting his search only
to species that lived near the environment where these chondrulelike features were hypothesized to form.

The page refreshed. This time Tolland smiled. “Great. Only three entries.”

Rachel squinted at the first name on the list.
Limulus poly . . . something.

Tolland clicked the entry. A photo appeared; the creature looked like an oversized horseshoe crab without a tail.

“Nope,” Tolland said, returning to the previous page.

Rachel eyed the second item on the list.
Shrimpus Uglius From Hellus.
She was confused. “Is that name for real?”

Tolland chuckled. “No. It’s a new species not yet classified. The guy who discovered it has a sense of humor. He’s suggesting
Shrimpus uglius
as the official taxonomical classification.” Tolland clicked open the photo, revealing an exceptionally ugly shrimplike creature with whiskers and fluorescent pink antennae.

“Aptly named,” Tolland said. “But not our space bug.” He returned to the index. “The final offering is . . .” He clicked on the third entry, and the page came up.

“Bathynomous giganteus . . .”
Tolland read aloud as the text appeared. The photograph loaded. A full-color close-up.

Rachel jumped. “My God!” The creature staring back at her gave her chills.

Tolland drew a low breath. “Oh boy. This guy looks kind of familiar.”

Rachel nodded, speechless.
Bathynomous giganteus.
The creature resembled a giant swimming louse. It looked very similar to the fossil species in the NASA rock.

“There are some subtle differences,” Tolland said, scrolling down to some anatomical diagrams and sketches. “But it’s damn close. Especially considering it has had 190 million years to evolve.”

Close is right,
Rachel thought.
Too close.

Tolland read the description on the screen: “ ‘Thought to be one of the oldest species in the ocean, the rare and recently classified species
Bathynomous giganteus
is a deepwater scavenging isopod resembling a large pill bug. Up to two feet in length, this species exhibits a chitinous exoskeleton
segmented into head, thorax, abdomen. It possesses paired appendages, antennae, and compound eyes like those of land-dwelling insects. This bottom-dwelling forager has no known predators and lives in barren pelagic environments previously thought to be uninhabitable.” Tolland glanced up. “Which could explain the lack of other fossils in the sample!”

Rachel stared at the creature on-screen, excited and yet uncertain she completely understood what all of this meant.

“Imagine,” Tolland said excitedly, “that 190 million years ago, a brood of these
Bathynomous
creatures got buried in a deep ocean mud slide. As the mud turns into rock, the bugs get fossilized in stone. Simultaneously, the ocean floor, which is continuously moving like a slow conveyer belt toward the oceanic trenches, carries the fossils into a high-pressure zone where the rock forms chondrules!” Tolland was talking faster now. “And if part of the fossilized, chondrulized crust broke off and ended up on the trench’s accretionary wedge, which is not at all uncommon, it would be in a perfect position to be discovered!”

“But if NASA . . . ,” Rachel stammered. “I mean, if this is all a lie, NASA
must
have known that sooner or later someone would find out this fossil resembles a sea creature, right? I mean
we
just found out!”