Deception Point (6 page)

The President offered Rachel one of the three executive chairs facing his desk. She sat. Rachel expected him to sit behind his desk, but instead he pulled one of the chairs up and sat next to her.

Equal footing,
she realized.
The master of rapport.

“Well, Rachel,” Herney said, sighing tiredly as he settled into his chair. “I imagine you’ve got to be pretty damned confused to be sitting here right now, am I right?”

Whatever was left of Rachel’s guard crumbled away with the candor in the man’s voice. “Actually, sir, I’m baffled.”

Herney laughed out loud. “Terrific. It’s not every day I can baffle someone from the NRO.”

“It’s not every day someone from the NRO is invited aboard Air Force One by a President in hiking boots.”

The President laughed again.

A quiet rap on the office door announced the arrival of coffee. One of the flight crew entered with a steaming pewter pot and two pewter mugs on a tray. At the President’s bidding, she laid the tray on the desk and disappeared.

“Cream and sugar?” the President asked, standing up to pour.

“Cream, please.” Rachel savored the rich aroma.
The President of the United States is personally serving me coffee?

Zach Herney handed her a heavy pewter mug. “Authentic Paul Revere,” he said. “One of the little luxuries.”

Rachel sipped the coffee. It was the best she had ever tasted.

“Anyhow,” the President said, pouring himself a cup and sitting back down, “I’ve got limited time here, so let’s get to business.” The President plopped a sugar cube in his coffee and gazed up at her. “I imagine Bill Pickering warned you that the only reason I would want to see you would be to use you to my political advantage?”

“Actually, sir, that’s
exactly
what he said.”

The President chuckled. “Always the cynic.”

“So he’s wrong?”

“Are you kidding?” The President laughed. “Bill Pickering is never wrong. He’s dead-on as usual.”

G
abrielle Ashe gazed absently out the window of Senator Sexton’s limousine as it moved through the morning traffic toward Sexton’s office building. She wondered how the hell she had arrived at this point in her life. Personal assistant to Senator Sedgewick Sexton. This was exactly what she had wanted, wasn’t it?

I’m sitting in a limousine with the next President of the United States.

Gabrielle stared across the car’s plush interior at the senator, who seemed to be far away in his own thoughts. She admired his handsome features and perfect attire. He looked presidential.

Gabrielle had first seen Sexton speak when she was a polisci major at Cornell University three years ago. She would never forget how his eyes probed the audience, as if sending a message directly to her—
trust me.
After Sexton’s speech, Gabrielle waited in line to meet him.

“Gabrielle Ashe,” the senator said, reading her name tag. “A lovely name for a lovely young woman.” His eyes were reassuring.

“Thank you, sir,” Gabrielle replied, feeling the man’s strength as she shook his hand. “I was really impressed by your message.”

“Glad to hear it!” Sexton thrust a business card into her hand. “I’m always looking for bright young minds who share
my vision. When you get out of school, track me down. My people may have a job for you.”

Gabrielle opened her mouth to thank him, but the senator was already on to the next person in line. Nonetheless, in the months that followed, Gabrielle found herself following Sexton’s career on television. She watched with admiration as he spoke out against big government spending—spearheading budget cuts, streamlining the IRS to work more effectively, trimming fat at the DEA, and even abolishing redundant civil service programs. Then, when the senator’s wife died suddenly in a car crash, Gabrielle watched in awe as Sexton somehow turned the negative into a positive. Sexton rose above his personal pain and declared to the world that he would be running for the presidency and dedicating the remainder of his public service to his wife’s memory. Gabrielle decided right then and there that she wanted to work closely with Senator Sexton’s presidential campaign.

Now she had gotten as close as anyone could get.

Gabrielle recalled the night she had spent with Sexton in his plush office, and she cringed, trying to block out the embarrassing images in her mind.
What was I thinking?
She knew she should have resisted, but somehow she’d found herself unable. Sedgewick Sexton had been an idol of hers for so long . . . and to think he wanted
her.

The limousine hit a bump, jarring her thoughts back to the present.

“You okay?” Sexton was watching her now.

Gabrielle flashed a hurried smile. “Fine.”

“You aren’t still thinking about that drudge, are you?”

She shrugged. “I’m still a little worried, yeah.”

“Forget it. The drudge was the best thing that ever happened to my campaign.”

A drudge, Gabrielle had learned the hard way, was the political equivalent of leaking information that your rival used a penis enlarger or subscribed to
Stud Muffin
magazine. Drudging wasn’t a glamorous tactic, but when it paid off, it paid off big.

Of course, when it backfired . . .

And backfire, it had. For the White House. About a month ago, the President’s campaign staff, unsettled by the slipping polls, had decided to get aggressive and leak a story they suspected to be true—that Senator Sexton had engaged in an affair with his personal assistant, Gabrielle Ashe. Unfortunately for the White House, there was no hard evidence. Senator Sexton, a firm believer in the best defense is a strong offense, seized the moment for attack. He called a national press conference to proclaim his innocence and outrage.
I cannot believe,
he said, gazing into the cameras with pain in his eyes,
that the President would dishonor my wife’s memory with these malicious lies.

Senator Sexton’s performance on TV was so convincing that Gabrielle herself practically believed they had not slept together. Seeing how effortlessly he lied, Gabrielle realized that Senator Sexton was indeed a dangerous man.

Lately, although Gabrielle was certain she was backing the
strongest
horse in this presidential race, she had begun to question whether she was backing the
best
horse. Working closely with Sexton had been an eye-opening experience—akin to a behind-the-scenes tour of Universal Studios, where one’s childlike awe over the movies is sullied by the realization that Hollywood isn’t magic after all.

Although Gabrielle’s faith in Sexton’s message remained intact, she was beginning to question the messenger.

“W
hat I am about to tell you, Rachel,” the President said, “is classified ‘UMBRA.’ Well beyond your current security clearance.”

Rachel felt the walls of Air Force One closing in around her. The President had flown her to Wallops Island, invited her onboard
his plane, poured her coffee, told her flat out that he intended to use her to political advantage against her own father, and now he was announcing he intended to give her classified information illegally. However affable Zach Herney appeared on the surface, Rachel Sexton had just learned something important about him. This man took control in a hurry.

“Two weeks ago,” the President said, locking eyes with her, “NASA made a discovery.”

The words hung a moment in the air before Rachel could process them.
A NASA discovery?
Recent intelligence updates had suggested nothing out of the ordinary going on with the space agency. Of course, these days a “NASA discovery” usually meant realizing they’d grossly underbudgeted some new project.

“Before we talk further,” the President said, “I’d like to know if you share your father’s cynicism over space exploration.”

Rachel resented the comment. “I certainly hope you didn’t call me here to ask me to control my father’s rants against NASA.”

He laughed. “Hell, no. I’ve been around the Senate long enough to know that
nobody
controls Sedgewick Sexton.”

“My father is an opportunist, sir. Most successful politicians are. And unfortunately NASA has made itself an opportunity.” The recent string of NASA errors had been so unbearable that one either had to laugh or cry—satellites that disintegrated in orbit, space probes that never called home, the International Space Station budget rising tenfold and member countries bailing out like rats from a sinking ship. Billions were being lost, and Senator Sexton was riding it like a wave—a wave that seemed destined to carry him to the shores of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

“I will admit,” the President continued, “NASA has been a walking disaster area lately. Every time I turn around, they give me yet another reason to slash their funding.”

Rachel saw her opening for a foothold and took it. “And yet, sir, didn’t I just read that you bailed them out last week with another three million in emergency funding to keep them solvent?”

The President chuckled. “Your father was pleased with that one, wasn’t he?”

“Nothing like sending ammunition to your executioner.”

“Did you hear him on
Nightline?
‘Zach Herney is a space addict, and the taxpayers are funding his habit.’ “

“But you keep proving him right, sir.”

Herney nodded. “I make it no secret that I’m an enormous fan of NASA. I always have been. I was a child of the space race—
Sputnik,
John Glenn,
Apollo 11
—and I have never hesitated to express my feelings of admiration and national pride for our space program. In my mind, the men and women of NASA are history’s modern pioneers. They attempt the impossible, accept failure, and then go back to the drawing board while the rest of us stand back and criticize.”

Rachel remained silent, sensing that just below the President’s calm exterior was an indignant rage over her father’s endless anti-NASA rhetoric. Rachel found herself wondering what the hell NASA had found. The President was certainly taking his time coming to the point.

“Today,” Herney said, his voice intensifying, “I intend to change your entire opinion of NASA.”

Rachel eyed him with uncertainty. “You have my vote already, sir. You may want to concentrate on the rest of the country.”

“I intend to.” He took a sip of coffee and smiled. “And I’m going to ask you to help me.” Pausing, he leaned toward her. “In a most unusual way.”

Rachel could now feel Zach Herney scrutinizing her every move, like a hunter trying to gauge if his prey intended to run or fight. Unfortunately, Rachel saw nowhere to run.

“I assume,” the President said, pouring them both more coffee, “that you’re aware of a NASA project called EOS?”

Rachel nodded. “Earth Observation System. I believe my father has mentioned EOS once or twice.”

The weak attempt at sarcasm drew a frown from the President. The truth was that Rachel’s father mentioned the Earth Observation System every chance he got. It was one of NASA’s most controversial big-ticket ventures—a constellation of five satellites designed to look down from space and analyze the
planet’s environment: ozone depletion, polar ice melt, global warming, rainforest defoliation. The intent was to provide environmentalists with never before seen macroscopic data so that they could plan better for earth’s future.

Unfortunately, the EOS project had been wrought with failure. Like so many NASA projects of late, it had been plagued with costly overruns right from the start. And Zach Herney was the one taking the heat. He had used the support of the environmental lobby to push the $1.4 billion EOS project through Congress. But rather than delivering the promised contributions to global earth science, EOS had spiraled quickly into a costly nightmare of failed launches, computer malfunctions, and somber NASA press conferences. The only smiling face lately was that of Senator Sexton, who was smugly reminding voters just how much of
their
money the President had spent on EOS and just how lukewarm the returns had been.

The President dropped a sugar cube into his mug. “As surprising as this may sound, the NASA discovery I’m referring to was
made
by EOS.”

Now Rachel felt lost. If EOS had enjoyed a recent success, NASA certainly would have announced it, wouldn’t they? Her father had been crucifying EOS in the media, and the space agency could use any good news they could find.

“I’ve heard nothing,” Rachel said, “about any EOS discovery.”

“I know. NASA prefers to keep the good news to themselves for a while.”

Rachel doubted it. “In my experience, sir, when it comes to NASA, no news is generally bad news.” Restraint was not a forte of the NASA public relations department. The standing joke at the NRO was that NASA held a press conference every time one of their scientists so much as farted.

The President frowned. “Ah, yes. I forget I’m talking to one of Pickering’s NRO security disciples. Is he still moaning and groaning about NASA’s loose lips?”

“Security is his business, sir. He takes it very seriously.”

“He damn well better. I just find it hard to believe that two agencies with so much in common constantly find something to fight about.”

Rachel had learned early in her tenure under William Pickering that although both NASA and the NRO were space-related agencies, they had philosophies that were polar opposites. The NRO was a defense agency and kept all of its space activities classified, while NASA was academic and excitedly publicized all of its breakthroughs around the globe—often, William Pickering argued, at the risk of national security. Some of NASA’s finest technologies—high-resolution lenses for satellite telescopes, long-range communications systems, and radio imaging devices—had a nasty habit of appearing in the intelligence arsenal of hostile countries and being used to spy against us. Bill Pickering often grumbled that NASA scientists had big brains . . . and even bigger mouths.

A more pointed issue between the agencies, however, was the fact that because NASA handled the NRO’s satellite launches, many of NASA’s recent failures directly affected the NRO. No failure had been more dramatic than that of August 12, 1998, when a NASA/Air Force Titan 4 rocket blew up forty seconds into launch and obliterated its payload—a
$1.2 billion
NRO satellite code-named Vortex 2. Pickering seemed particularly unwilling to forget that one.