Fade Out (8 page)

Connors stood up as they walked through. He smiled at the First Lady. ‘You see, you made it.'

‘Yes, I know – isn't it silly?' She gave a half laugh. ‘I think it's because they look so much like insects that I – ' A shrug completed the rationale.

Lieutenant Jean Seagren, the cabin staff supervisor aboard Air Force One, opened the door to the private suite and ushered the President and his wife through. As the door closed behind them, Connors and the other passengers sat down and strapped themselves in.

The big Boeing rolled away smoothly into the darkness. Looking out through the window, Connors saw the blue lights that edged the perimeter track drift past under the wing like lazy tracer bullets. He settled back and tried to blot out the pictures of aeroplane crash sites that kept coming up like a slide show inside his head. It was always the same. On every takeoff and landing he was gripped by the same anxiety. He unclenched his hands and made
a conscious effort to relax as Air Force One made another right turn and rolled straight out on to the runway.

Pressed back in to his seat by the sudden surge of acceleration, Connors found himself wishing once again he could be up front driving it. He closed his eyes and reminded himself he was on board the safest aeroplane in the world. There was nothing ahead of them for at least thirty minutes. The Air Traffic rules governing Presidential flights ensured that Air Force One would be safely wrapped in a large chunk of clear sky all the way to Washington.

Wedderkind had worked out that the spacecraft's flight path would cross theirs, more or less at right angles, somewhere east of the Rockies. ‘But don't worry,' Arnold had said. ‘He'll be nine hundred miles higher than we are.'

Air Force General Clayson and Mel Fraser had flown together to NORAD Headquarters near Colorado Springs to discuss how the air defence network might counter further radar fade-outs. From there, Clayson planned to go with representatives of the FAA – the Federal Aviation Administration – to discuss emergency flight procedures with the ICAO – the International Civil Aviation Organization in Montreal.

The Monday papers in the USA and Europe would probably contain some mention of Jodrell Bank's sighting of the ‘Jupiter probe'. Before leaving California, Wedderkind had telephoned Chris Matson, NASA's director at Houston, to make sure that NASA didn't squelch the story in its own press releases. Cargill's passion for seeing his own name in print was well known in Houston. Matson agreed not to rock the boat in return for Wedderkind's promise to tell all – at a later date.

As far as the ICAO or anyone else was concerned, the fade-out was caused by freak solar radiation. There was to be no mention that the spacecraft lacked an identifiable owner, or that it appeared to be the source of the
interference. Delegates from Europe, Russia, and Japan were also expected in Montreal, and the meeting could result in a temporary ban on all bad-weather flying – and night flights such as this…

‘Would you like me to get you a pillow?'

Connors opened his eyes and saw Jean Seagren.

‘Pillow?'

‘Yeah, good idea. Thanks.'

Connors eyed her mechanically as she reached up and pulled one off the rack. Not bad, Lieutenant J. Seagren. You have a very passable pair of knees. Pity I don't really care about that kind of thing any more. Not enough, anyway.

Seagren tucked the pillow down behind Connors' head.

Connors remembered nothing more till he woke to the faint smell of grilled bacon, fresh rolls, and coffee. Jean Seagren hovered over him.

‘We'll be landing at Andrews in half an hour. Would you like some coffee?'

‘I'll have some of everything.' What the hell, let's live a little. For most of the people on board and for almost everybody on the ground below, it was just another Monday. They had no idea that ever since Friday morning, while they had been living, loving, laughing, and lousing things up, the possible end of their world had been silently circling overhead. Today was Armageddon + 3. No time to worry about dieting. Maybe it would go
away, as Arnold had said. Maybe. After coming this far? Like hell it would…

Jo Magill, another long-time member of Air Force One's cabin staff, opened up the table flap in front of him then Jean Seagren covered it with a breakfast tray. Orange juice, toast, two helpings of crisp bacon just the way he liked it, butter, cream – the works.

‘That looks great.'

‘My pleasure.'

Connors sat up, straightened his tie and unfolded his napkin. Seagren started to move away. Be generous, Connors. You can afford a little warm humanity on a day like this.

‘Miss Seagren.'

‘Yes?'

‘You have a beautiful pair of knees.'

‘Why – thank you very much, sir.'

‘My pleasure,' said Connors, master of the common touch.

As they filed out through the door at Andrews Field, Seagren was there in her smart little cap along with the rest of the cabin crew. Good-bye. Good-bye. Good-bye. Then it was Connors' turn.

‘Good-bye, sir. Hope you enjoyed the flight.'

As Connors stepped over the doorsill he glanced back over his shoulder half-expecting to catch Seagren's eye but she was already giving Press Secretary Silvermann the same smiling good-bye line.

In addition to his office down the hall from the President, Connors had a small room with a fold-up bed and a cupboard where he kept a change of clothes. The phone rang as he was zipping up a fresh pair of pants.

It was Charlotte Annhauser. Her family was in the top third of the Washington social register and still rising. They had met about nine months ago. Not only had her parents approved, they had actually started the rumour that the two of them were going steady.

‘Bob?'

‘Hi, Charly. Just got back in.'

‘I thought you were going to call me this weekend.' Her voice had a plaintive edge to it.

‘That's what I thought too.'

‘What happened?'

‘Oh… it all got kind of busy.' Connors began to load up the pockets of his clean suit with the contents of his old one.

‘I see.' A pause. ‘Are we going to be able to get together this week?'

‘Yeah, we might just about make it.'

‘It would be nice if I could show you off at the Schumans' on Friday. Could you bear having supper with them?'

‘I was hoping I might get to see you before that.'

‘Well, you're the one with the key.'

Connors pulled his reading glasses out of the breast pocket of his old jacket and found a piece of folded paper. ‘Charly, listen, whatever happens, I'll definitely call you tonight. Okay?'

‘Okay.'

‘And we'll fix up something.' Connors began to unfold the small piece of paper.

‘Bob – '

‘Yeah?'

‘Do you know anything about this big Russian thing?'

‘What big Russian thing?'

‘Well, there's a rumour going around that they've put some kind of huge bomb up there in space.'

Where the hell could that idea have come from? thought Connors. And just how far had it spread?

‘People have been talking about it all weekend.'

‘Really? Oh…' He tried to sound bored. ‘What does it say in the papers?'

‘Hardly anything. The
Post
gave it about eight lines on an inside page. But they only say what someone in England thinks it is.'

‘What have the Russians said?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Then there's your answer.'

‘I know. That's what worries me. If it's nothing, why is everyone keeping so quiet about it?'

I can't fight logic like that, thought Connors. ‘Charly – ' he began.

‘I know, you have to go.'

‘I'll call you this evening. I promise.'

‘Okay, but listen – if the Russians have done something sneaky and we're all about to get blown to pieces, you'd tell
me,
wouldn't you?'

‘Charly, don't worry about the Russians. It's all under control. Believe me.'

‘I knew it,' said Charly. ‘Something terrible's happened. Is it the Chinese?'

‘Good-bye, Charly.'

Connors hung up and looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. On it, in firm feminine handwriting, was the name, address, and phone number of Lieutenant Jean Seagren. It must have got into his pocket while he was asleep. Neat. Connors folded the slip of paper in half, then slowly tore it into sixteen small pieces.

Connors walked back to his office and found McKenna waiting. He'd arrived a few minutes earlier. JoAnne, a
smooth-looking brunette with matching shorthand, had just given him a cup of coffee.

‘Make that two,' said Connors. ‘Any news of Wedderkind?'

‘Yes, he just called in.from his car. Got a little snarled up in the traffic. He should be here any minute.'

‘Okay.'

JoAnne brought Connors a coffee and left.

‘Are any of your staff in on this?' asked McKenna.

‘No – but I think I'll need to pull in Greg Mitchell. He runs the office for me. He's got a maximum security clearance.'

‘This operation may require a new classification of its own.'

‘I realize that.' Connors dropped two sweeteners into his coffee. ‘The point is I'm going to need someone to run around for me, so it might as well be Greg. If you run him through your computer I think you'll find he checks out. But then, I imagine, the Agency already knows more about the two of us than we would care to remember.'

McKenna's lips remained sealed. His eyes gave nothing away either. Nature had clearly intended him to run the most powerful intelligence operation west of the Iron Curtain. And faced with that steely gaze, Connors was reminded that his most noted predecessor, Heinrich Himmler, had also favoured rimless glasses.

‘And if they're not covered by you, then the FBI is bound to have files on all the scientists Arnold plans to recruit. The Air Force will process their people – and you can look after your own. Hell, we don't need to make a big deal of this thing. All we're looking for are people who aren't Russian agents, aren't psychotic – and who can keep their mouths shut.'

‘Uh-huh… well, that gives us the broad guidelines,'
said McKenna. ‘What kind of a deal are you planning to offer the people you recruit on to the project?'

‘Mack, I haven't even had time to think about that yet. It'll have to cover things like compensation for dependants – all the usual junk. The CIA must already have contracts like this.'

‘Do you want us to draft something for you to look at?'

‘Listen, if it satisfies you, then I don't need to see it. It would be great if you could handle all that side of it.'

‘Okay, I'll put one of our lawyers on that right away.' McKenna pulled out a slim black notebook and jotted down a reminder in small, neat handwriting. ‘If you just let me have Arnold's shopping list, we'll go round and sign them up.'

‘Great.' Connors' phone rang. He picked it up, listened, then covered the mouthpiece. ‘It's Chuck Clayson. He's phoning from Colorado.'

Ent Air Force Base, Colorado. Headquarters of NORAD – the North American Air Defense Command – and also the control centre of the SPACETRACK network.

‘Chuck, hi… yes, sure, go ahead. It's a very clear line… uh-huh… uh-huh… and there's absolutely no possibility of a mistake?'

McKenna watched Connors' eyes flicker nervously. ‘Trouble?'

Connors held up his hand and frowned as he listened to what Air Force General Clayson had to say. ‘Does Fraser –?… Ah, he's with you… Yeah, fine, okay, Chuck, keep me posted if there are any developments… Okay, g'bye.' Connors put the receiver back and held it down with his hand – almost as if he wanted to stop it ever ringing again.

McKenna waited. Connors let go of the telephone, put his elbows on the desk and rubbed his face with both hands. He looked up at McKenna.

‘The Air Force have had their tracking telescopes and cameras locked on to the spacecraft's orbit all night and… they haven't been able to make visual contact – in spite of the fact that they are still skin-tracking it with their radar.'

McKenna frowned. ‘You mean it's up there, but they can't see it?'

‘Exactly. The Air Force thinks it must have a matt-black, non-reflective type of surface – which makes it impossible for us to see it.' Connors stood up. ‘I'd better break the news to the President. While I'm gone, why don't you phone your legal department?'

Connors met Arnold Wedderkind outside in the corridor. He told him about Clayson's call as they walked to the President's office. Marion told them to go straight in. Connors broke the news to the President, and Wedderkind followed it up with an explanation.

‘All our satellites have an outer skin of highly-reflective material which insulates them from the heat of the sun – and enables us to see them as they circle the Earth. It looks as if this craft is absorbing the sun's light and heat – converting it to some other form of energy, the way our solar panels produce electricity.'

‘But there is nothing wrong with our equipment?'

‘No,' said Wedderkind. ‘We've photographed a six-inch diameter Vanguard satellite at a range of twenty-four hundred miles. There's nothing wrong with the cameras. But there may be another reason why we can't see it.'

The President sat back warily and pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘What's that, Arnold?'

‘Well, we may not be able to see it because it may be fluorescing on a different wavelength.'

‘Keep it simple, Arnold.'

‘It
is
simple. We see everything around us because the
light falling on objects is reflected back on wavelengths we can see. But there are certain molecular structures that possess a physical property known as fluorescence – '