“This could be something very big, Peter,” Smith said quietly. “I have to get back to the States but I also need to know about those two killers— who they were and, as important, who they were working for.”
Howell regarded Smith thoughtfully. “Like I said. Even the remotest reference to Bioaparat is enough to keep me awake at nights. I have a few friends in Venice. Let me see what I can find out.” He paused. “Your friend, Danko— did he have family?”
Smith recalled the photo of a pretty, dark-haired woman and a child that Danko had once shown him.
“Yes, he did.”
“Then go do what you must. I know how to get hold of you if need be. And just in case— here’s the address outside of Washington I use occasionally. It has all the bells and whistles. Never know when you might need the privacy.”
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CHAPTER
FOUR
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The new NASA training facility on the outskirts of Houston consisted of, among other things, four giant hangars, each the size of a football field. Air force police patrolled the outermost perimeter; inside the Cyclone fence, motion sensors and cameras augmented surveillance.
The building designated G-3 housed a full mock-up of the latest generation of the space shuttle. Built along the lines of a commercial flight simulator used to train pilots, it provided the shuttle crew with the hands-on experience that they would carry with them into space.
Megan Olson was in the long tunnel that led from the shuttle’s mid-deck to the back of the payload bay. Dressed in baggy blue pants and a loose cotton shirt, she floated in the partial-gravity environment as gently as a falling feather.
A voice crackled in her headset: “You look like you’re having way too much fun in there.”
Megan gripped one of the rubber handles embedded in the tunnel wall and twisted around to face the camera that was tracking her progress. Her red hair, pulled back in a ponytail, floated in front of her and she brushed it aside.
“This is my favorite part of the whole experience,” she laughed. “It’s like scuba diving— without the fish.”
Megan floated to a monitor where she saw the face of Dr. Dylan Reed, head of NASA’s biomedical research program.
“The lab doors will open in ten seconds,” Reed cautioned her.
“On my way.”
Megan worked her way down at a forty-five-degree angle to the circular hatch door. Just as she touched the handle, she heard the hiss of compressed air releasing the cylinder bolts. She pushed on the door and it swung away smoothly.
“I’m in.”
She settled herself on the specially lined floor and felt the soles of her booties grip the Velcro-type material. Now she was stable. She closed the door, then punched in a code on the alphanumeric pad. The door bolts shot home.
She turned and faced the space lab’s work area, divided into a dozen modules. Each was the size of a broom closet; each was designed for a different function or experiment. Carefully, she walked down the center aisle, barely wide enough to accommodate her shoulders, past the Critical Point Facility and the SPE (Space Physiology Experiment), and up to her station, the Biorack.
Like the other stations, the Biorack was encased in titanium housing that resembled a large air-conditioning duct, four feet wide, seven feet high, with the top two feet tilted toward the user at a thirty-degree angle. This design was necessary since the entire lab was encased in a large cylinder.
“Today, we have a Chinese menu,” Reed said cheerfully. “Choose one from column A, and one from column B.”
Megan stationed herself in front of the Biorack and flipped the power switch. The uppermost module, the freezer, was the first to hum to life. Then, working down, the cooler, incubator A, the Glovebox, and incubator B, all came on. She checked the access and control panel, then finally, at knee-level, the power plant. The Biorack, or Bernie, as the unit had been nicknamed, was functioning flawlessly.
Megan checked the LCD readouts of the experiments to be performed. As Reed had joked, it was a Chinese menu of options.
“I think I’ll go with the flu, then add a little spice— Legionnaires’ disease.”
Reed chuckled. “Sounds fine. I’ll start the clock as soon as you’re in the Glovebox.”
The Glovebox was a shoebox-size unit that protruded ten inches from the Biorack. Modeled on the much larger containment units found in most labs, it was totally secure. But unlike its earthbound cousins, this box had been designed to be operated in microgravity. This allowed Megan and her fellow scientists to study organisms in a way not possible in any other setting.
She fitted her hands into thick rubber gloves that extended into the box. The seals between the gloves and the box were two inches of solid rubber, metal, and Keflex— a thick, virtually unbreakable glass. Even if a spill occurred, it would be contained within the box.
Good thing, too, she thought, given that she was handling Legionnaires’ disease.
Although the gloves appeared thick and ungainly, they were actually quite sensitive. Megan touched the control screen located inside the box and gently pressed a three-digit combination. Almost instantly, one of the fifty panels— no bigger than compartments for compact disks— slid forward. Instead of a CD nestled in the recess, there was a circular glass tray, three inches in diameter, a quarter inch deep. Even without the microscope, Megan saw the greenish gray liquid inside: Legionnaires’ disease.
Both her scientific training and her specialized work in biochemistry had instilled in her a profound respect for the cultures that she handled. Even under the most secure conditions, she never forgot what it was she was holding. Very carefully, she set down the glass tray on the pad. Then she removed the cover, exposing the bacteria.
Reed’s voice drifted through her headset: “The clock’s running. Remember, in partial gravity you only have thirty minutes for each of the experiments. On the shuttle you’ll be able to take your time.”
Megan was grateful for his professionalism. Reed never distracted his scientists by speaking to them in the course of an experiment. Once she had opened the sample, she was on her own.
Megan brought forward the microscope fixed to the top of the shoebox and took a deep breath. She stared at the specimen. She had worked with Legionnaires’ disease before; it was like looking at an old friend.
“Okay, fella,” she said out loud. “Let’s see if you can get it up when you don’t weigh so much.”
She touched the button that activated the video recorder and went to work.
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Two hours later, Megan Olson floated from the Spacelab back to the mid-deck, which housed the sleep stations, food lockers, washrooms, and storage lockers. From there, she climbed the ladder to the flight deck, deserted now, and maneuvered her way to the intercom.
“Okay, guys. Let me out.”
She steadied herself as the air pressure inside the mock-up was equalized. After half a day of partial weightlessness, her body felt extremely heavy. It was a sensation she had never quite gotten used to. She had to reassure herself that she weighed a perfect 118 pounds, almost all of it highly toned muscle.
When the pressure was correct, the cockpit hatch swung open. The air-conditioned breeze that hit her as she stepped out made her clothes stick to her skin. Her first thought after a training session was always the same: Thank God I can have a real shower. Onboard the mock-up, she had practiced taking towel baths.
You’ll settle for towel baths i f you get to go at all, she reminded herself.
“You did very well in there.”
Dylan Reed, a tall, distinguished-looking man in his late forties, greeted Megan as she came out.
“Do we have a printout of the results?” she asked.
“The computers are crunching as we speak.”
“This is the third test we’ve run with Legionnaires’. I’ll bet you dinner at Sherlock’s that these results will be the same as the other two: Legionnaires’ multiplies ferociously, even in the small adjustment to gravity that we’ve been able to make. Imagine when we can run the experiments in microgravity conditions.”
“Do you really think I would bet against you?” Reed laughed.
Megan followed him across the platform to the elevator that took them to ground level. When she got out, she paused and looked back at the mock-up, majestic under the blaze of a thousand lights.
“I’ll bet that’s the way she looks in space,” she said softly.
“One day, you’ll take a space walk and see for yourself,” Reed assured her.
Megan’s voice dropped. “One day…”
As one of the alternate crewmembers, Megan knew that her chance of going on the next mission, scheduled to leave in seven days, was slim to none. Reed’s group of scientists were in top condition. One of them would literally have to break a leg in order for her to move into the slot.