Edward Lee - Operator B

“They’d know it was us,” Wentz agreed.

“And considering the upcoming trade agreements pending in Congress,” Ashton reminded, “we’d lose all economic ties with the Japanese forever, and the Russians would more than likely freeze all U.S. investment assets currently in place.”

“So you see our dilemma,” Jones said. “If we sabotage their return mission on its way back, we risk an economic war that could put us in a true depression. And if we tell them of our knowledge of the nature of the bacteria—that we’ve secretly installed the equivalent of analytical eaves-dropping devices on their space missions, then the news will hit every wire service in the world, and we’ll lose every ally we have.”

Wentz couldn’t believe the knit-picking here. “What are you guys? Republicans? You consider positive U.S. foreign relations more important than preventing a potential plague?”

“It wouldn’t be a potential plague, sir,” Ashton explained. “All the spectrographic and chromatographic analysis of the data we intercepted from the QSR4 sample-collector indicates a viral component with exponential contagion attributes. If that return stage succeeds in bringing the Tharsus bacteria back to earth—”

Jones’ voice grated, “Millions, and potentially billions, could die. A virus like that…could wipe out all mammalian life on the planet.”

Wentz shook his head in complete outrage. “So like I just told you. To hell with foreign relations and the economy. This is more important. Tell them. Admit that we’ve been slipping taps on their space-flight missions and tell them to abort the damn return stage.”

“Again,” Jones said, “it’s not quite that simple. Don’t you read the papers?”

“Hell, no,” Wentz said. “They’re all bias. I watch Fox News, that’s it.”

“Well, then, you might be aware that the Russian parliament is squeezing the executive branch to sign a non-aggression pact with Red China.”

“Sure, but it’ll never happen. Putin would never bend to that. He’d disband the entire parliament first. He’d shut down the government.”

“Not if he’s dead,” Ashton said. “And not if his government is replaced.”

Wentz’s eyes narrowed. “I guess you people know something I don’t.”

“Putin’s government is on the verge of collapse,” Jones said. “The opposition parties have been trying to kill him for two years. That last heart attack? It wasn’t natural causes. A radical element of the GRU managed to get some potassium dichlorate in his food. It was a U.S. team of cardiologists from Johns Hopkins that saved his life. The fact of the matter is, Putin won’t last till Christmas; his government will topple.”

Ashton again: “And whatever party takes over will sign the pact with Red China because it’s the easiest way to cut defense funding and pump it into the economy, avoid a revolution. China is still technically our enemy, and if they sign a pact with Russia?”

“Russia becomes a potential enemy again too,” Wentz realized. “And the Cold War starts all over again.”

Jones stood up, aiming a wooden pointer at the mural depicting the QSR4’s return trip to earth. “Exactly, and if Russia and Red China become allies…what do you think they’ll do if they find out that return-stage is bringing back a virus deadlier than anything the planet has ever known?”

Wentz’s eyes widened to the size of slot-machine slugs. “They might not abort the stage. They might let it return and retrieve it.” Wentz’s throat went dry. “They might try to contain the virus.”

“That’s right, General,” Ashton said. “They might try to contain it, and preserve it as a weapon.”

“A weapon we’d have no defense against,” Jones tacked on.

Ashton looked right into Wentz’s eyes. “So, General, we’re asking you to undertake a mission which would circumvent what is potentially the worst catastrophe in human history, an event that could wipe out the human race…”

—

CHAPTER 9

“They’re always best when you catch them yourself,” Pete said, then smacked a claw with the wooden mallet.

“They sure are,” Joyce Wentz agreed. The kitchen swam in spicy aromas of Old Bay and vinegar. A quick glance out the window showed the yard darkening, the sun going down. It was nearing 9 p.m. “And you did a great job cooking them,” she added. “These are the best I’ve had.”

The heap of cooked crabs lay on the newspaper-covered table. They were starting to get cool. Joyce suspected that her son knew full well that she was placating him—anything to avoid the issue. Soon she couldn’t think of anything to say as they sat there in silence plucking tender white crabmeat. The hardest part was simply containing her rage.

The son of a bitch should’ve at least called…

Pete finished his third crab; usually he ate six or eight. Eventually he said, “I guess Dad’s not coming back tonight, huh, Mom?”

“Probably not.”

“But he did say he’s retiring tomorrow, right? He said for us to be there at noon.”

“That, right, that’s what he said.”

“I guess he just had some last-minute things to do at the base, secret papers to sign and all.”

“That’s probably it, Pete,” Joyce said, struggling for all she was worth to hold back the tears of her anger. That son of a bitch! He’s got no right to do this to us!

Pete stood up, his shirt flecked with specks of red spice. He began to transfer the rest of the crabs to a big platter. “I’ll put the rest in the fridge. Dad’ll want some tomorrow after his retirement ceremony.”

More silence then. Joyce tempered herself, picking up the kitchen. She hoisted the black-enameled crab pot to the sink, prepared to clean it.

“I’ll do that, Mom,” Pete said after he put the crabs away. “Dad always says, the guy who messes up the kitchen cleans the kitchen.”

“No, honey, you go ahead. Your shows are coming on. I’ll clean up.”

“Thanks, Mom!” Pete turned to head for the TV room but stopped short. “Oh, and I was thinking. I think when I get out of college, I want to join the Air Force. I want to be a pilot like Dad.”

Pete trotted from the room. Moments later, the TV could be heard.

Joyce Wentz unconsciously squeezed the Brillo pad so hard it cut her skin. Her tears plipped into the sink, all the while she kept thinking That son of a bitch, that goddamn son of a bitch!

««—»»

Back in the main hangar, Wentz, Ashton, and Jones strolled idly around the OEV. Its temporary paint job was done, the maintenance techs gone.

“It’s your duty, General,” Jones said. “There’s no other choice, and there’s no one more qualified.”

Wentz stared at the craft. “Jesus… You want me to fly this thing to friggin’ Mars, and then—”

“And destroy the QSR4 collector,” Ashton explained. “When it stops relaying its navigational signals, the Japanese and the Russians will terminate the return stage. Sixty-five million miles away they can’t possibly suspect sabotage on our part. They’ll deduce that a tectonic fault or crustic surface quake destroyed the collector. They’ll have nothing to bring back and no way to investigate.”

But Wentz only partially understood. “Fly to Mars, blow up a probe. But you know something, folks? I don’t see any Hellfires or Mavericks on this thing…”

“Externally mounted bombs or missiles aren’t possible,” Jones specified. “Even if we could find a way to attach some hard-points to the exterior hull, any ordnance would break apart or even detonate once the OEV accelerated past light speed.”

Wentz hadn’t considered that. “Which means—”