Seen And Not Seen (The Veil Book 1) (8 page)

“We’re being watched?” she says. “I thought you said Trinity was blind automation. No member state has access. They shouldn’t be able to see us.”

Robert puts a ‘shush’ finger to his lips and attends to Toor. She silently shows him something she has found.

Landelle’s attention snaps to the Messiah vials on the table. Both are turning black.

“Bob!”

Robert snatches up the vials to inspect them, “Dammit. The radiation.”

* * *

Garr is with Lucius and Felton. A grim Robert briefs them via video link from the VTOL; still at the Trinity facility.

“Looks like they used the garden Embies to load up a drone freight shuttle. One of the Embies logged it leaving for Las Vegas. It ties in with an unscheduled shipment from San Francisco to New York. Traced that to Manhattan, dock side. No trace of it after that so it could still be there.”

“We’ll arrange a full-scale search. Can’t hide this anymore,” says Garr.

“It’ll take us an hour to get back to the Afrika facility, so New York inside of eight hours. We can move on it then,” says Robert.

“We can’t wait,” she says, “Not now the samples have been destroyed.”

It’s not what Robert wants to hear, “Alka…”

Garr observes Robert’s frustration, but she has no choice. “Get back here as soon as you can.” She ends the call.

Robert kicks out at an equipment box, “Dammit!”

A moment staring out at the desert before turning to an equally frustrated Landelle and Toor.

“We should tell them the truth,” says Landelle.

“Can’t let the government—any government—get their hands on Messiah. I’ve got to end this,” he says.

“We’ll never get back in time,” says Landelle.

“The
children
,” pleads Toor.

Robert looks away, angry but guilty-faced.

“Alka will have to inform Blake. You’ll be arrested the moment you set foot in New York.”

* * *

From ten thousand feet the Trinity facility is encircled by a barrier six kilometers in diameter, sliced on one side by a deep canyon. What clouds there are drift slowly, their shadows marking the passage of time; an hour or so.

In the far distance a dot expands in size.

The
Pegasus
space plane thunders by.

PEGASUS

Robert is in the pilot’s seat, Toor next to him, and Landelle behind. All three are in helmeted flight suits, tight seat restraints securing them as the
Pegasus
powers its way through the atmosphere. The flight console displays the power gradient of two hypersonic scramjets at full throttle. It’s a rough, white-knuckle ride, with the occasional violent buffeting. Toor and Landelle grip their seats with grim determination. Robert is devoid of all expression.

The buffeting abates as the
Pegasus
soars gracefully into the thin air of the upper atmosphere, its engines automatically cutting out. Ahead, through the forward windows, the curvature of Earth rises into view. Weightlessness. Robert punches a button on the flight console.

“Autopilot disengaging,” the console says.

“This is not the time for showing off,” says Landelle.

He ignores her and takes the stick. A gentle nudge and the space plane barrel-rolls over the North American continent to take up a new flight path. The horizon re-orientates, rising before them as they begin their descent.

* * *

At the National Air Traffic Control Center in Virginia a controller takes a call.

“Virginia.”

He listens intently, a deep concern creeping onto his face, his body stiffening.

“Say again?”

A reply. He quickly looks about to find the head controller.

“Harry.”

Head controller Harry joins him, “What you got?”

The controller takes a breath, “An unscheduled
Pegasus
test flight has run into trouble.”

Harry stares blankly back at his colleague, “Cantor’s space plane?”

“Coming in hot to New York. Limited control. They’re lined up for LaGuardia, with JFK and Newark as secondaries.”

“What? Jesus Christ. New York isn’t set up for that. Can’t they get them into a military base?”

The controller shrugs his shoulders. Harry takes over the call.

“We can’t put a space plane into a civilian facility—” A reply interrupts him briefly. “What?” More hurried discourse, “
How
fast?” Harry can’t believe what he is hearing, “What’s the ETA?” The final response hits home with a shock. He hangs up the phone and anxiously runs his hands over his head. A moment of tense thought presages a decision. He snaps commands out to his team of controllers.

“Stop everything into New York. I want completely empty airspace as of now. Get all traffic on the ground or push it elsewhere—hell, Canada if you have to.” He turns to a group of others, “Get onto Air Defense and tell them to scramble some jets ASAP, get New York on the line and somebody get CNN up on the board.”

* * *

New York air traffic control is ready and waiting. A controller sits at his screen, a supervisor standing over him.

“Is Virginia sure about this? All I got is regular traffic skirting round us…”

“New York, this is
Pegasus
inbound,” Toor’s steady voice cutting across him over is headset.

The controller doesn’t miss a beat, “This is New York air traffic control,
Pegasus
. Affirm you are inbound and we are aware of your circumstances.”

“Be advised we have impaired flight control and require an emergency landing at LaGuardia. We are five hundred miles out descending from sixty thousand feet.”

“Stand by,
Pegasus
.” The controller mutes his line, “Five hundred miles out? Switching to long range.” The screen’s view expands, the controller immediately pointing to a target dropping from sixty thousand. The screen refreshes to show its new position—it’s a big jump.

“Holy shit! That’s over Mach four.”

“We gotta get him someplace else,” says the supervisor. Other controllers take an interest, with those not busy crowding around.

“
Pegasus
, we have you and are tracking. Be advised that we are looking at alternates.”

Toor comes back immediately, “LaGuardia only viable primary for this scenario, New York, JFK or Newark a possible secondary. Limited control and fuel for other options.”

The controller looks to his supervisor for guidance, but it is another colleague that makes the decisive observation.

“They’re going to be on top of us in less than ten minutes.”

The supervisor takes a moment before snapping into action.

“OK, people, I want nothing—
nothing
—within thirty miles, ’cept them jets. Somebody find out where the hell they are.”

“They’re going to shoot them down?”

The controllers shift uneasily. The supervisor seeks to calm them, “Let’s not get carried away. We’ve got a job to do.” Turning his attention to the controller at the screen, “Bring ’em in.”

At twenty thousand feet the
Pegasus
weaves its way through a field of mountainous cumulus clouds at supersonic speeds, the sheer scale of the cloud field rendering the motion graceful.

“What are they doing?” a colleague asks.

“Feathering,” says the controller. “To lose speed.
Pegasus
, you are go for runway 13 31. Shed as much airspeed as you can.”

“Thirty-one long enough?” asks his colleague.

“No… maybe. Christ, I don’t know.

NO CIGAR

F.B.I. Agent Prior bursts out onto the viewing deck of the Empire State Building, his badge clearly visible. A quick scan about and he makes straight for a tourist at one of the deck’s telescopes, flashing his badge and pushing the hapless man to one side.

“Hey!” The badge and Prior’s full throttle intent deter any further challenges.

Eyes glued to the telescope, Prior scours the airspace to the east. The shoved man and the other tourists look on with bewilderment, before turning their own eyes in the same direction. In the distance is the
Pegasus
approaching LaGuardia.

Prior whips a cell phone to his ear, a call already in progress.

“It’s for real. I want him nailed as soon as he lands. And get us some presence at JFK and Newark. He’s not dodging us this time.”

* * *

Dockside a massive search is underway. Police, fire trucks, and the National Guard—Justice Garr and Senator Blake’s combined resources have pulled out all the stops. They are at the command post with Lucius and Felton when the phones start ringing. All but Lucius’s. He turns to a rolling news broadcast, just as it is interrupted by a bulletin.

* * *

Ahead the runway is approaching fast, with Robert in full manual control.

“Come on, come on. Call it.” They’re running out of time.

The cool, calm, and collected controller stares intently at his screen. His colleagues around him are not so calm. He makes a snap decision.

“You’re too hot,
Pegasus
. Go again. Repeat, go again.”

Robert allows himself a solemn smile.

“Bingo.”

He reaches for the independent thrust controls. Following co-pilot protocol, Toor’s hand follows behind his as backup. They have one shot.

LaGuardia airside, ground crew look on agape as the
Pegasus
passes overhead, powering down the runway at just one hundred feet, gear up, its engines spitting thunder.

With no time for an evacuation, the general public have been kept in the terminal buildings. From here they have a clear view of the space plane’s passage. The heavy glass windows rumble violently from the thruster-shockwaves, the crowds within surging back with a collective gasp.

In the control tower the
Pegasus
is tracked down the runway through binoculars, giving a foreshortened view of the flight deck front and side. Toor is clearly visible, perched on the co-pilot’s seat looking all about for hazards. The tower controller can also make out Robert and Landelle. He whips the binoculars away to get a full view.

“Good God.”

The passage complete, the
Pegasus
arcs gracefully up into the sky.

At the air traffic control center the controller watches the space plane’s ascent with an increasingly puzzled look.

“He’s not going again.
Pegasus
, confirm you are heading to alternate.”

“Just a moment. Just a moment,” is all he gets from Toor.

Puzzlement becomes a picture of confusion and concern as the controller gnaws at his finger. He looks to his colleagues, “Does that look like limited control to you?” Back into his headset he gives them one more try, “
Pegasus
, confirm you are heading to Newark.”

The
Pegasus
glides over the cityscape below, the sun glinting on its wings, a heat haze from its engines, its path a long, slow turn. The bright sunshine pours into the flight deck, crisp shadow lines tracking across the console as the tilted city slides by.

Agent Prior looks on from the Empire State Building. He can’t believe his luck—first to get to Cantor again. He won’t miss this time.

“He’s headed for Newark,” he says into his phone and hangs up the call. “Nice try, Cantor, but no cigar.”

The controller has all but lost any vestige of composure.

“
Pegasus
, what’s your status?”

Silence on the airwaves.

“Air defense jets inbound,” a colleague calls out.

Two markers appear on the controller’s screen, but he doesn’t give them a second thought. In his mind a penny is beginning to drop. The realization complete, he rests back into his chair.

“We’ve been had.”

Agent Prior sees it, pulling his eyes away from the telescope in disbelief at the victory now being snatched away from him. “
No
.”

CIGAR

The rapidly approaching Hudson River stretches out before them. If it were possible for Landelle to grip her seat any tighter, she would.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yep.” Robert could not be more focused.

Raymond Fellowes casts off from a harbor mooring, the motor of his classic 1930s speedboat gurgling at an idle. Having concluded that he is unlikely to be returning to his office today, and that being something the local authorities are likely to have a hand in, he has opted to dress for the occasion. The hula shirt and sunglasses underscore, he feels, the fact that he doesn’t really give a damn.

The
Pegasus
is on its approach, the military jets rounding on it. He guns the motor, spinning the wheel to take him out as the space plane thunders low overhead, the jets flying on by to disappear from view.

Landelle and Toor brace themselves. The autopilot, not being in control, is equally anxious.

“Terrain. Terrain.”

Toor silences it. She knows better than to back-seat-drive Robert, but given this particular situation the pilot in her can’t help herself.

“Get that nose up. Get it up…” she says under her breath.

“Have a little faith, Shaz.”

The traffic on the Hudson is routine, but light. The
Pegasus
, its engines cut, whooshes over the water, skimming the surface. The rear makes contact first, spewing out a wide curtain of spray either side. The space plane plows on for a short distance before gracefully belly flopping and sliding to a halt—chucking a huge wall of water forward.

The sudden halt throws all three sharply into their seat harnesses, a torrent of water cascading down the windows.

The river traffic keeps its distance, the only movement being Fellowes approaching in his speedboat. A hatch blows off the side of the
Pegasus
. The speed boat pulls alongside just as Landelle appears, minus her flight helmet. She wastes no time in lowering herself down to the boat, Fellowes hauling her onboard. Toor follows, then Robert. Fellowes takes the wheel and pushes the throttle fully forward, the speedboat surging away toward Manhattan.

Fellowes turns to his motley crew with a big Cheshire Cat grin.

“You know we’re all going to jail for this.”

The three remain grim-faced.

“Not yet we aren’t,” says Robert.

Some distance away river police boats appear, sirens faint. Further away still police VTOLs emerge, heading out over the water.

It’s a short run to the jetty, Robert hopping out as the speedboat pulls alongside. He turns to Fellowes.

“Thanks, Ray. Good luck,” says Robert, offering his hand to Fellowes. A brief clasp.

“I hope to God you know what you’re doing.” A solemn Fellowes turns his gaze to the approaching river police.

“STAY WHERE YOU ARE,” booms out from loudspeakers.

Robert is already running up the jetty, Landelle and Toor right behind him.