Douglas Preston - Impact

And then, over channel 72, a voice grated out: "Daddy's awake. Want to say hello?"

80

The agents escorted Ford into the conference room. As soon as he came in, Lockwood leapt up from his position at the head of a large conference table, ringed by suits and uniforms, surrounded by flat-panel screens. By the dark and serious looks on their faces he knew they must be at least partially aware of what was going on.

"Good God, Wyman, we've been trying to reach you for hours! We've got an extraordinary situation on our hands. The president needs a recommendation by seven."

"I have some information for you of critical value," Ford said, laying the briefcase on the table and gazing around, assessing his audience. Lockwood was flanked by Gen. Mickelson, his grizzled hair roughly combed, his casual uniform rumpled, the athletic frame uncharacteristically tense. A contingency of NPF people occupied one side of the table, among which he recognized Chaudry and Derkweiler, along with an Asian woman with a badge that said Leung. A smattering of OSTP scientists and national security officials sat at the far end; conferenced in on flat-panel screens were the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the national security advisor Manfred, the head of NASA, and the director of national intelligence. The long cherry-wood table was littered with legal pads, paper, and laptops. Various secretaries and assistants sat in chairs along the walls, taking notes. The atmosphere was one of tension, verging on desperation.

Ford opened his briefcase and took out the fake hard drive, setting it down gently on the table like it was a piece of Baccarat crystal. Then he took out the large print of Voltaire33, the clearest one of the batch which he had blown up at Kinko's, and unrolled it. "This, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "This is an image taken by the Mars Mapping Orbiter back on March twenty-third."

He let a beat pass and he showed it around. "It depicts an object on the surface of Mars. I believe this object fired on the Earth in April, and fired at the Moon tonight."

Another moment of shocked stasis, and then the table erupted with talk, questions, expostulations. Ford waited for the hubbub to die down and said, "The image came from that classified hard drive there."

"Where on Mars is it?" the woman named Leung spoke up.

"It's all on the drive," said Ford. "Everything." He added, lying, "I don't know the exact coordinates offhand."

"Impossible!" cried Derkweiler. "We would have seen that in our general reviews long ago!"

"You didn't see it before because it was hidden in the shadow of a crater, almost invisible. The image here required enormous processing time and skill to tease it out of the darkness."

Chaudry rose from the table and, giving Ford a suspicious glance, reached out and picked up the drive. He turned it over in his mahogany hands, his black eyes examining it intensely, his California ponytail out of place among the suited Washington crowd.

"This isn't an NPF drive." He looked at Ford, his eyes narrowing. "Where'd you get this drive?"

"From the late Mark Corso," said Ford.

Chaudry paled slightly. "No one can copy or remove a drive like this from NPF. Our data encryption and security procedures are fail-safe."

"Is anything really impossible to a skillful computer technician? If you doubt it, check the serial number on the side."

Chaudry examined it further. "It does seem to be an NPF serial number. But this . . . this image of yours. I'd like to see the original. This could be Photoshopped for all we know."

"Proof of it is right there on the drive, in the original binary data from the MRO." Ford removed a piece of paper from his suit pocket and held it up to the group. "Problem is, the NPF password on this drive has been changed. I have the new password to unlock it--without which the drive is useless." He gave the paper a little shake. "Trust me, it's real ."

The woman named Marjory Leung had risen from her seat. "Excuse me, did you say the late Mark Corso?"

"Yes. Mark Corso was murdered two days ago."

Leung swayed, like she might collapse. " Murdered ?"

"That's right. And it seems his predecessor, Dr. Freeman, was also murdered--and not by a homeless man. Both he and Corso were killed by a professional--someone looking for that very drive on the table."

A deep silence settled over the room.

"So you see," said Ford, "we have a big job ahead of us. Because not only is the world apparently under attack, but someone on our side has betrayed us."

81

Burr handed the VHF mike to the lobsterman, placing it in his manacled hands. It didn't matter what he said now; Burr just wanted to remind the girl her father was alive and in desperate straits, keep her terrified, panicked, easier to handle.

"Dad? Dad ? Are you okay?"

"Abbey! Get the hell off the water! Your boat can't take it! Go!"

"Dad." There was a choking silence. "We're out of fuel."

"Good God, Abbey, he's got a gun. Call the Coast Guard! Don't be fooled--"

Burr snatched back the mike. It was an obscure, unused channel and they were broadcasting at a quarter watt, a range that wouldn't reach the mainland, especially in this weather--but why take chances?

"You hear that?" he said into the mike. "Everything's going to be okay, you'll get your father back. I need you alive, I can't get the drive otherwise. Think about it--you're more useful to me alive than dead. We need to figure this out, but let's do it in a place where we're not going to drown. You hear me?"

"I hear you," Abbey said tersely.

He clicked off, thinking that they probably didn't believe it but what could they do? He was holding all the cards. Sure, they might have some stupid plan but it wasn't going to work.

The boat rose on a wave and lurched to starboard. Christ, he hadn't been paying attention. A rogue wave was approaching, a two-story wall of water, black as Guinness with a breaking crest. He turned the wheel toward the wave, the boat lifting fast. But he couldn't get it all the way around before the roaring crest slammed into the hull, knocking the boat sideways, and it fell back as ebony water burst over the gunwale, pushing the boat down and heeling it over.

The boat tipped into the trough, the water boiling out the scuppers, the deck tilting thirty degrees from the horizontal, while he clung to the wheel, speechless with fear. He tried to turn the wheel, but it was as if a huge weight was pushing back, pressing the boat down. He shoved the throttle forward but heard no answering rumble from the engine, just the creaking strain of thousands of pounds of water roaring over the boat. And then the wheel began to loosen up and the boat shuddered as the weight of the sea lessened, the water pouring off the bow and gunwales. Gradually it righted itself.

Burr had never been so frightened in his life. He looked at the chartplotter; they were halfway to Devil's Limb. Behind the reef they could at least get into the lee of this crazy sea. They were going six knots--how much longer would it take? Ten minutes. Ten more minutes of hell.

"Let me take the helm," said the fisherman. "You're going to sink this boat."

"Fuck off." Burr braced himself as another whitecapped comber came at them, the boat rising swiftly to meet the boiling mountain of water, which slammed into it, the pilothouse shuddering and groaning as if about to come apart at the seams. If it fried the electronics . . . he'd be helpless.

He clung to the wheel, the boat sinking precipitously down the backside into another bottomless trough of the wave, the water swirling around his feet and rushing for the scuppers.

"Unlock me," said Straw. "Otherwise we're both going to the bottom."