Megan turned and walked the length of the path that ran by the ground floor of the building where the crew was quartered. A hundred yards away, razor wire glittered atop the Cyclone fence surrounding the compound. She heard the distant cough of a security Jeep as it ground its way around the perimeter. The security at the Cape was both impressive and unobtrusive. The uniformed air police were the most visible, always a magnet for the television cameras. But beyond them were the plainclothes detachments that roved the entire facility twenty-four hours a day, making sure that no one and nothing interfered with the launch.
Megan was about to head back to her room when she heard footsteps nearby. Turning, she saw a figure move from the shadows of the building into the light.
Dylan Reed?
It was a standing joke that not only did Reed not hear his alarm clock, but that he could sleep through liftoff if allowed to do so. So what was he doing up and about an hour before roll call?
Raising her arm, Megan was about to call out to him when a bright headlight appeared around the corner. Instinctively, she drew back as a sedan with the NASA logo on the door slipped close to where Reed was standing. Staying in the shadows, Megan watched an older man get out of the car and approach Reed.
Someone he was expecting. Who? And why break the quarantine?
Quarantine was a vital part of the launch process, although this time its duration had been reduced, of necessity, from the usual seven days. Allowing an outsider to come into direct contact with a crew member at this late stage was unheard of.
As the visitor and Reed moved away from her and into a pool of light, Megan saw something around the man’s neck: a health stabilization card, indicating that whoever he was, the visitor had been given a clean bill of health by NASA doctors.
Satisfied that Reed’s guest was cleared to be in a restricted area, Megan started to move away. But something in the back of her mind resisted. She’d always relied on her intuition and instinct; listening to both had saved her life more than once. They whispered to her now that she should not do the polite thing and walk away, giving Reed his privacy.
Megan hung back. Because the two men stood facing each other, she couldn’t hear what they were saying. But there was no mistaking that something passed from the visitor to Reed: a shiny, metallic cylinder about four inches long. Megan saw it only for a split second before it disappeared into the pocket of Reed’s overalls.
Megan watched the visitor grip Reed’s shoulder, then get back into his car and drive away. Reed seemed to gaze after the taillights until they were reduced to two pinpricks, then he turned and began walking toward his quarters.
He has preflight jitters, just like the rest of us. Someone close to him came out to see him off.
But the explanation rang hollow. Reed was a veteran of six shuttle missions, almost nonchalant about the process. Nor could it have been a relative. Once the quarantine was in effect, family members had no contact with the crew. They were relegated to a special viewing area three miles from the launch.
Someone in the program. Someone I never met.
Before heading for the mess hall where the crew would have their last real meal until they returned, Megan stopped off at her room. She considered her options, one of which was to casually broach the subject with Reed. After all, he had been her supporter ever since she had arrived at NASA; over time, she’d come to think of him as a friend. Then she remembered Adam Treloar, the missing smallpox, and the desperate search that was secretly under way. Klein’s directive had been unequivocal: she was to report anything suspicious. Although Megan was certain that there was a perfectly innocent explanation for Reed’s behavior, she nonetheless reached for the phone.
__________
At six-thirty, the crew entered the clean room to suit up. Since Megan was the only woman on the mission, she had a cubicle to herself. Closing the door, she cast a critical eye over her launch/entry suit or LES. Made to measure and weighing a hefty ninety pounds, it was comprised of more than fifteen individual pieces, including a flotation device, gravity pants, and a diaper. Megan had questioned the need for the latter until Reed had explained to her exactly how much pressure was exerted on the body during the entry into orbit. It was virtually impossible for the bladder not to void.
“Looking very stylish, Megan,” Frank Stone, the mission pilot, commented when she stepped into the men’s changing area.
“I like the patches best,” Megan replied.
“Tell my wife that,” Bill Karol, the commander piped up. “She designed them.”
Each mission had a unique patch, designed either by the crewmembers or their relatives. This one depicted the shuttle racing into space. Inside the round borders were stitched the names of the crew.
The crew paired off to check each other’s suits, making sure that every piece was snug and secure. Then one of the mission specialists, David Carter, led the group in a brief prayer. The moment helped lift the pall created by Adam Treloar’s untimely death.
With a little over three hours to liftoff, they trooped out of their quarters and into a blaze of camera lights. The walkout was the last chance for outside observers, all carefully screened and wearing special passes, to see the astronauts. Passing through the gauntlet, Megan waved briefly for the media. When she smiled, a reporter called out, “One more! Just like that.”
The ride to the gantry in the UPS-style van took only a few minutes. Once there, the crew boarded an elevator that took them up 195 feet to the white room, the final staging area where they put on their parachutes, harnesses, communications hats, helmets, and gloves.
“How are you holding up?”
Megan turned to see Reed beside her, dressed and ready.
“Okay, I guess.”
“Preflight butterflies?”
“Is that what’s going on inside my stomach?”
He leaned closer. “Don’t go spreading this, but I get them too.”
“Not you!”
“Especially me.”
Maybe it was the way she was looking at him that brought out his next words: “Is anything wrong? You look like you want to ask me something.”
Megan brushed the air with her hand. “It’s the moment, I guess. You dream and train and work for it, and then one day, it’s there.”
Reed patted her shoulder. “You’ll do fine. Just remember what Allenby said: we’re all counting on those experiments you have scheduled.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s that time,” one of the prep crew called out.
Megan breathed a sigh of relief as Reed turned away. During her telephone conversation with Klein, the head of Covert-One said that he would immediately check on Reed’s mysterious visitor, try to establish a solid ID, and get back to her. Since she hadn’t heard from him, Megan assumed that Klein was either still checking or that he had come up with a perfectly satisfactory answer that he hadn’t been able to relay to her.
“Showtime,” Reed announced. He gestured at Megan. “After you, ma’am.”
Megan took a deep breath, crouched, and ducked through the flight-deck hatch. Making her way to the ladder, she descended to the mid-deck where, in addition to the sleep stations, food and storage lockers, and the bathroom, were three special liftoff chairs for her, Randall Wallace, another mission specialist, and David Carter, the payload specialist.
Settling herself in the take-down chair, which would be folded and stored after liftoff, Megan found herself on her back, her knees pointed at the ceiling.
“Third mission and I still can’t get used to these seats,” Carter grumbled as he slipped into the chair beside hers.
“That’s because you keep putting on the pounds, my man,” Wallace needled him. “All that home cooking.”
“At least I have a home to come back to,” Carter shot back.
Tapping an imaginary cigar, Wallace did his imitation of Groucho Marx. “Must be love.”
The banter died as the prep crew came in and strapped the astronauts into the seats.
“Mikes?”
Megan tested hers and nodded as much as she could, given the tight leeway. As her mates were strapped in, she listened to the orbiter crew going through the liftoff checklist with mission control.
Their work finished, the prep crew stepped back. Although Megan couldn’t see them, she imagined how solemn their expressions were.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Godspeed. Come home safely.”
“Amen to that,” Carter muttered.
“I should have brought a good book to read,” Wallace mused. “Megan, how are you doing there?”
“Just peachy, thank you. Now if you boys don’t mind, I have my own checklist to review.”
__________
Several hundred miles to the northeast, Jon Smith finished his second cup of coffee and checked his watch. By now, Kirov would have had enough time to settle into position in Dupont Circle. On his way out, Smith took one last look at the monitors connected to the exterior security cameras. Located on a corner lot, his house was bordered by tall trees that effectively hid it from its neighbors. The backyard was all lawn, with no bushes or shrubs where an intruder could hide. Motion sensors embedded in the stone walls of the house continually scanned the area.