I, Judas the 5th Gospel (15 page)

He had believed that and lived his life with that mantra up until four years ago. He’d never married, never had children, and had never even really been in an intimate relationship. His entire focus had been on getting into the space program, via the Air Force Academy and becoming a fighter pilot, then test pilot. He’d punched his tickets one by one, making his way up the ladder as others with the same dream fell by the wayside, sidetracked in his opinion by those things he considered trivial and had never wasted time on. Four years ago, he had finally been selected as co-pilot on a shuttle mission and looked forward to it as the pinnacle of his life.

Then it had all fallen apart. Two weeks before launch he’d experienced a great deal of discomfort in his stomach. He’d chalked it up to nerves for a couple of days, but when it persisted, he did as duty required and went to see the flight surgeon, a Dr. Lee. After a thorough examination, Lee had called Forster into his office and delivered the news succinctly.

Leukemia.

Forster’s first reaction was that he was going to be taken off flight status when he was so close to achieving his life’s dream. The larger implications didn’t hit him at all. Lee, one of the doctors that NASA rotated on staff, knew of Forster’s passion. And he made the astronaut an offer that Forster couldn’t refuse. Lee would not report the leukemia, leaving Forster on flight status and good to go for the flight, as long as he went only to Lee for treatment. The other part of the pact seemed an after-thought as Lee handed Forster a Bible and told him to read the passages he had marked.

Lee gave him medication, and Forster’s stomach calmed down and he felt fine. He made it to launch day, his condition a secret between him and his doctor.

All had gone as he had expected through the launch and getting into orbit. He’d been busy at his job, totally concentrated on the tasks at hand, until the shuttle got into a stable orbit and rotated over, top facing the Earth.

His first glimpse of the planet startled him. It was so small and white and blue and fragile-looking. He could put out his hand and make it look like the world was resting in his palm. It was only then that the deeper implications of Lee’s prognosis began to sink in.

For the first time in his life, Forster felt mortal and realized that the power of the mind was not going to get him through this. He would need something more, a purpose beyond the one he was currently fulfilling. Because when he got back to Earth, he will have fulfilled what he had set his entire life toward.

The mission took eight days. The sixth day brought the moment that changed his entire life. He was on duty for the ‘night’ shift on the flight deck by himself. Everyone else was on the middle deck in their bunks, getting their mandatory eight hours of sleep. The last one to sack out had been the payload specialist who’d brought him a cup of coffee from the galley before retiring.

Forster had spent the first hour of his shift sipping coffee and staring out the windshield at the surface of the Earth racing by. He could see a large storm brewing in the middle of the Pacific. For the first time since that fateful meeting, Forster took out the Bible and began reading as Lee had asked.

By the time he returned to Earth, Forster was a different man. He went back to Lee and entrusted his care to the doctor. And now, four years later, he was still alive; his illness, according to Lee, still at bay, and not just because of the treatment, but again according to Lee, because of his faith.

Satisfied he was on course for interception, Forster turned from the computer to the worn Bible Lee had given him four years ago. He fervently read aloud, his voice echoing off the close walls of the life-pod.

A beeping noise startled him out of his praying.

It was time.

Forster reached back and began to attach the PLSS, Primary Life Support System, to his back, sealing his suit. He glanced at the computer display as he switched on the oxygen flow. The craft was less than forty meters from the satellite. Close enough.

Forster hit a switch and the upper hatch opened, venting all the air from the cargo compartment. From now until the end, he would be reliant on the oxygen flow to the suit. Unsealing the pod, Forster hooked his lifeline to an attaching point. With a slight push, he exited the pod. He adjusted his trajectory with a slight tap on the cargo bay wall.

Secured against the wall was a MMU, Manned Maneuvering Unit. Forster slid his boots into the loops at the base. The PLSS on his back pressed against the MMU. Carefully he belted himself into the MMU. Then he ran a system check. The MMU had control arms extending around his sides. A propulsion system held two nitrogen-under-pressure fuel tanks. There were twenty-four holes on the exterior of the MMU, which the nitrogen could be directed through to provide thrust. Since he would be doing eight walks, extra nitrogen had been jammed into the cargo bay to supplement the extra oxygen.

The most difficult thing about EVAing was the three dimensional aspect and the two types of movement involved—translation and rotation. Translation was straight-line movement while rotation was spinning movement. It got complicated when the two were combined, because there were three types of translation: up or down, forward or back and right and left. And three types of rotation: pitch, yaw and roll. Three times three equaled nine ways of movement.

Forster’s left hand controlled translation while his right dictated rotation. He had trained with the MMU so often in the pool at NASA, that his movements, like those of a helicopter pilot, had become instinctual.

Forster checked his helmet display and the small control panel on his right wrist. All green. He released the MMU from the cargo bay wall. He was no longer an astronaut but a satellite. He was free of everything: of Earth, of gravity, of the X-37. Forster could move in any direction with just a slight movement of his hands. Despite the sense of power, there was also an overwhelming feeling of being very, very small against the vastness of space.

Forster jetted over the pod to the far wall. There was a belt with eight egg carton sized metal boxes attached. He clipped the belt to his suit. With a twitch of the controls he headed away from the X-37 and toward the GPS satellite. There wasn’t much thrust from the holes in the MMU, just the equivalent of 7.56 Newtons of power, but in space it was more than enough.

The satellite was easy to spot, its large solar panels glittering against the blackness of space. Below him, the blue-white orb of Earth was a spectacular panorama. The troubles of those billions of people and their pending fate seemed distant.

He reached the satellite, braking with small blasts of nitrogen as he got closer. He tethered himself to the satellite, shortening the length of nylon so that he could use it as an anchor for his work. He took a power drill from his tool belt and opened a panel on the side.

He opened the top of the box, revealing a set of tools and another lid below the first. Taking out what he needed, he unbolted the panel on the front of the satellite and made sure each bolt, and the panel itself, were secure, using magnets on top of the left thruster control. He took one of the eight metal boxes from the belt. He unreeled a cord from the side of the box and inserted it into a socket in the mainframe computer for the GPS. He ran a systems check and everything came back green. He screwed the panel back into place.

With a deft touch of the controls, Forster spun about, facing the X-37. He jetted toward the cargo bay. He landed smoothly, and backed the MMU back into its cradle in the wall. He unbuckled from the maneuvering unit and crawled into the pod. Above him, the cargo door swung shut.

When it sealed, he hit the execute button on the control panel.

The X-37 thrusters fired, moving away from the satellite and taking a course toward the second GPS satellite he was to modify.

Seed One had been planted.

Xingu River, Amazon

The ten men jumped at fifteen thousand feet, spreading their arms and legs akimbo immediately after stepping off the back ramp of the cargo plane. They stabilized and plummeted earthward at terminal velocity. The jungle below them was a dark mass, but the fork in the river was clearly visible with the moonlight reflecting off the water. It was difficult to determine their rapidly declining altitude. Each man was constantly checking the glowing face of the altimeter strapped to his wrist.

Two thousand feet above the treetops, parachutes blossomed.

Nine of them.

The tenth man looked at the ripcord grip in his hand for a moment of surprise, having felt no opening shock, then his training took over. He let go of it and scrambled to pull his reserve. He jerked the ripcord and the parachute exploded outward. A second too late as he hit the trees just short of terminal velocity. He’d have screamed, but the branch that impaled him shredded his lungs. His reserve parachute settled down over his body and the tree; a funeral shroud.

The other nine landed as planned, splashing into the Xingu River, just meters downstream from the Devil’s Fork. They shrugged out of their harnesses and waded ashore, regrouping at the arranged rally point, readying their weapons as they moved.

As the men efficiently began setting up the ambush, the team leader silently did a head count, and noted one man missing. Each man was doing the same mental calculation, taking that missing man’s ten million dollars and dividing it by nine.

That’s why they were mercenaries.

*****

It was that gray moment just before the sun rose. Angelique’s favorite time in the jungle. The transition from night to day. From the time when the predators ruled to a more peaceful jungle. She’d spent time in the jungle alone, at night. The first times had been somewhat terrifying, but as she’d grown accustomed to it. She had learned what the sounds represented and her fear had decreased. But it had never completely gone away. The old hunter from the Kaiyapo who had taught the ways of the land had told her that one must always have fear. It was a tool. A survival tool.

Death could come quickly in the jungle. From the large cats to the tiny poisonous snakes to the unseen diseases. Angelique respected the jungle and all that lived in it. It was a respect tinged with the fear the old hunter had told her to hold on to. Angelique knew most people never spent a night outdoors in nature alone in their entire lives. At school she had seen how everyone seemed to be attached to some electronic device, from television, to radio, to the Internet, to little boxes they carried with earplugs that filled their head with music all the time. She’d wondered how those people could ever see into themselves with so many distractions. How could they ever connect outward to the great world that surrounded them? There was a wonderful pulse in nature that Angelique loved.

After her morning prayer, she walked down the path to the river, her pack slung over her shoulder. It didn’t appear that any of the others were up, as all the tents were zipped shut. She paused as she came into sight of the wooden pier where the two rubber boats were docked. There was a dark figure silhouetted against the faint light tinting the sky. Sensing her presence, the figure turned, a weapon in hand and at the ready.

“Morning,” Captain Gates greeted her, lowering the muzzle of the sub-machinegun. “Sorry,” he added, noting her focus on it. “Habit.”

“Some habits are good to have.” She joined him on the small pier. The two boats were ready to go, loaded with gear. “I thought everyone was still sleeping.”

Gates nodded at the gray sky. “BMNT.”

“What?”

“Beginning morning nautical twilight. It’s a term we use in the military. Since the beginning of warfare, this was the opportune time to attack. So it’s the time military units in the field always ‘stand to.’ Be ready to defend against an attack.”

Angelique looked around. “You expect an attack?”

“I don’t know what to expect,” Gates said frankly. “Do you?”

“I’ve never gone up-river beyond Devil’s Fork,” Angelique said. “Up to there, it will be a bit dangerous. There are the rebels, the river, the jungle, the Devil’s Gorge, and—”

“I’m not talking about that,” Gates said. “Do you really believe we’re going to find Judas out there?” He nodded vaguely upstream.

“Father DiSalvo seems pretty sure of it.”

“You trust DiSalvo?”

“I just met him for the first time yesterday,” Angelique said. “But he is a priest.”

Gates snorted. “And? That makes him the word of God?”

“You don’t trust him?”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“Not even God?”

That question gave Gates pause.

Angelique pressed on. “Then why are you here if you don’t believe?”

“To do my duty.”

“Do
you
think we’re going to find Judas?” Angelique asked.

“You never answered me when I asked you that,” Gates noted. He shrugged. “Something’s up there. The Brotherhood wouldn’t have brought us together if they weren’t pretty sure of it.” He paused. “I thought I heard something earlier. A plane high overhead.”

“Are you sure?”

Gates shook his head. “No.”

“But you sensed it?”

“Yes.”

“Then one must have flown overhead,” Angelique said.

“How can
you
be sure?” Gates asked.