Energized (28 page)

Jonas shrugged. “Not up to me. Nor you, either.”

“But it
is,
” Dillon insisted. “By now, we must have made whatever point Yakov wanted made. If we agree among ourselves that something prevents us from continuing—say, that we've run out of oh-two reserves—who is to know otherwise?”

“What do you suggest?” Felipe asked.

“We take hoppers back to Phoebe or The Space Place. Take escape pods…” Dillon trailed off, wondering where they could go. Not home, ever again. Not anywhere with extradition. “I know we can't steer the pods. Time our departure to land in Russia.” And then? Witness protection, maybe, or secret identities. He had begun to appreciate the vast scale of this operation. Yakov must have great influence in Russia to have pulled it all together.

Maybe, someday, through a trusted third party, contact could be made with Crystal. Maybe she could be convinced to join him.

“You were right, chief,” Felipe said. “Insufficiently committed.”

“Then as we discussed,” Jonas said.

Dillon looked around wildly. The hoppers were docked across the powersat. Between him and escape were two men with drawn coil guns.

“Back into your cubbyhole,” Jonas ordered. “I won't ask twice.”

“Why don't you just shoot me?” Dillon screamed. “What's one more death?”

“Whatever you believe, I don't enjoy killing. Especially up close. So don't make me.”

Dillon made his way to the nearest shelter. The tiny door shook with finality as someone slammed and latched it from outside.

*   *   *

Ambassador Anatoly Vladimirovich Sokolov had furnished his private retreat at the Washington embassy more like a dacha than an office. A dacha fit for a czar, to be sure, but still a dacha. Sofas and chairs were all made for relaxation. Hot and cold dishes lined the long buffet table. The disguised freezer offered only vodka bottles.

Behind the ambassador, the room's true windows overlooked the embassy's central courtyard. Floor-to-ceiling displays on the other walls could show anything. When the ambassador worked, Yakov supposed, these walls would seem book-lined or darkly paneled. Today the holos offered deserted Black Sea beaches. Comfortable on a leather sofa, Yakov approved of—everything.

Dmitrii Federovich Aminov, FSB station chief and Yakov's nominal superior, sat at ease on a great leather wing chair. He was the ambassador's only other guest.

“To our success,” the ambassador said. They were several rounds past long-winded toasts. He raised his glass.

They downed their shots and the ambassador poured refills. Everyone nibbled from the buffet, one zakuska or another to buffer some of the free-flowing alcohol.

In address, as in setting, formalities had been waived. They were here to celebrate. “Thank you, Anatoly Vladimirovich,” Yakov said. “The operation indeed goes well.”

“You are too modest.” Sokolov smiled. “The president himself asked me to extend his congratulations.”

President Khristenko, clearly. Not the hapless, clueless occupant of the White House.

Yakov nodded. “I am honored.” And I trust that soon I will receive such thanks in person, in Moscow.

“A thing of beauty,” Dmitrii Federovich said. “Alternatives to petroleum set back for years. Greedy partners unwilling to limit their exports will now do well even to meet their production quotas—with no one to blame but the Americans.” He raised his glass. “To the Americans. Our customers for as long as the oil lasts.”

They drained their shots, and Dmitrii poured the next round.

“If I might,” Yakov began.

“Naturally, Yakov Nikolayevich,” the ambassador beamed. He picked up his glass for the expected toast.

“A suggestion,” Yakov said. “The American authorities are trying to blame everything on some cabal from The Space Place. Hoping to shift the blame.”

Because the FBI, at least after the fact, was not entirely inept, and investigators had seized Dillon's condo and business. Had they not made the association, Yakov would have arranged the anonymous release of video of Dillon bringing saboteurs onto the OTEC platform.

“Anatoly Vladimirovich, when you next speak to the press, perhaps you might remind them that every flight to The Space Place originates from the United States. That every item of cargo delivered to the hotel or to Phoebe is both X-rayed and hand-searched. That every passenger, too, was X-rayed. So unless the Americans wish to implicate their own TSA…”

“As either fellow terrorists or criminally careless.” The ambassador roared with laughter. “Excellent.”

Yakov raised his glass. “To the TSA.”

 

Saturday, predawn, September 30

Exhausted, her brain reduced to mush, Valerie had reluctantly checked out the quarters assigned to her. Tyler Pope had spirited her away only that morning—but it already seemed a lifetime ago. Mount Weather was like another world from Green Bank.

The room looked comfortable enough, but despite the late hour she knew she could not sleep. She checked e-mail with the datasheet she had been using. A short note from Patrick: Simon and her parents coping okay; no signal detected from Phoebe. Telemetry had resumed from The Space Place, he supposed from a normal automatic reboot. No other comm detectable from the hotel; guests and staff presumed still absent.

Military satellites had reported the same reboot, with analysts making the same inference about The Space Place.

She sent Patrick a thank-you e-mail. She sent a short,
Be good, and Mommy misses you,
note to Simon. She switched on the 3-V but lasted only a couple minutes: every channel showed news and the news remained appalling. She checked out toiletries in the bathroom and clothing in an array of sizes in the closet and dresser. Apparently anyone staying beneath Mount Weather was expected to have arrived on a moment's notice. A faded scribble on the bottom of a dresser drawer declared:
Dick Cheney slept here.
She tried to remember who that was.

She went to bed, only to toss and turn.

Several times that day, she had asked about plans for a rescue. Haranguing or cajoling, bargaining or pleading, the method made no difference. “We'll discuss that later,” devolved into stony silence.

Giving up on sleep, she prowled her room some more. One drawer had a “guest services” booklet, as though this place were a hotel. She began flipping through. The tunnel complex, called Area B, comprised almost fourteen acres! Rather than a hotel, it was a small town.

She located a twenty-four-hour dining room on the Area B map. She navigated through deserted halls to the eatery, got coffee and a stale scone, and carried her snack to an empty table.

Ten minutes later an Air Force major exited the cafeteria line. He saw Valerie, hesitated, then came her way. She thought she recognized him from one of the brainstorming sessions. To save her life, she could not have said which meeting. Garcia, she thought his name was.

“Dr. Clayburn, right?” he asked. “May I join you?”

“Sure, Major.”

“It's Walt.” He sat. “How are you holding up?”

“Swell. Oh, and call me Valerie.” She broke tiny pieces off her scone.

“Waiting is hard.” Walt glanced around the room. To see who might be listening? “No one asked, but I'm going to be the voice of unpleasant reality. Because facts are facts.

“Since the attacks from space began, PS-1, Phoebe, and the hotel have all been monitored. From Earth. With space assets. There's encrypted radio chatter on PS-1. No one has overheard a peep from Phoebe. No one has seen anyone stir.” And very reluctantly, “Not a single escape pod has been used.”

Because if anyone could, doubtless someone would have bailed by now from Phoebe. That no one has—you naïve woman—means they are all dead. So no one sees any reason to put lives at risk in another rescue mission.

She would be damned if she would acquiesce. “So what's the big plan, Walt? To conclude from an
absence
of evidence that they're all dead? That no one need waste a thought on them?”

“I don't know,” he said. “Honest. But a lot of smart people are working on it.”

Not a single escape pod has been used.

“I'm not ready to give up on them.” On Marcus.

Walt would not meet her eyes.

“I'm
not
!”

*   *   *

Marcus looked around. Maybe two-thirds of the people wore helmets and counterpressure suits. The rest, those without suits in the shelter, had collected across the room. Of course putting on vacuum gear was only a precaution.

Famous last words?

Taking turns, Marcus, Savvy, and Dino Agnelli had scraped a more-or-less round hole through a wall panel's inner layer of aluminum. The insulating foam beneath had scooped right out. Savvy had just finished scribing a circle in the outer layer. The way the aluminum flexed, whatever lay beyond was less than rigid. Good: it would be faster to excavate.

The hole-in-progress sucked heat from the shelter.

Dino studied the ragged gap. “We're getting there,” he declared.

Agnelli was a Kendricks employee, an electrical engineer, and one of the Phoebe old hands. He had the sort of open, honest face that people instinctively trusted. Marcus knew him from PS-1 telecons, had always liked the guy, and was glad finally to have met him.

Not so happy about the circumstances.

“Agreed,” Marcus said. “Everyone ready?”

“Go for it,” Thad said.

In a crouch, Marcus reached into the opening. Savvy knelt beside him, ready to do her part. From above, Dino shone a flashlight into the gap.

The screwdriver in Marcus's hand, the one with which they had started, had worn down to more of an ice pick. He stabbed.

Air whistled as he pushed and pried, then pulled back to bend up a tongue of aluminum sheet. “Go!” he shouted to Savvy.

People had, in theory, secured loose papers, food wrappers, and the like. Plenty still swirled about, pelting Marcus and getting sucked onto the little hole. His suit heater kicked on as Phoebe sucked more heat from the room.

Savvy brushed aside detritus to grip the metal tongue with insulated pliers. She tugged, cursing as the pliers slipped free.

“Slow and steady,” Marcus said.

She grabbed hold again and, more slowly, peeled back a strip of metal. The whistling swelled. In the shelter, a couple of people moaned. “Back to you,” Savvy said.

Marcus hacked with the screwdriver at the ice and grit behind the panel. Chunks broke off and shattered. He had to scoop the area clear, because the out-rushing air tried to hold the debris in place.

“Looks big enough!” Savvy called.

Hands reached over Marcus's shoulder. He grabbed the scavenged helmet radio with its improvised antenna and maneuvered the equipment into the opening. Damn! The hole was not yet deep enough. He handed back the radio and, in a frenzy of overhand stabs, made a deep puncture into the frozen dirt for the antenna.

The whistling had ominously faded.

“Try again,” Marcus said. With the antenna nestled into its deeper hole, the radio fit. Scavenged fiber-optic cable trailed from the radio back into the shelter. “Cover!” he shouted, kicking away from the wall. Savvy kicked away at the same time.

Two women whose names Marcus had forgotten lowered the cabinet door—till suction ripped it from their hands. It slammed into the wall. As best Marcus could hear through his helmet, the hole was plugged, but people kept slapping pressure patches around the edge of the door. A bit of paper he held pinched between his gloved fingers wavered, but that might be only from people moving around.

“I'm releasing some oh-two,” Thad called out.

“Shall we try?” Savvy asked. She had a datasheet under her arm, and had taken off her helmet.

“Do it,” Dino said.

Savvy jacked the dangling end of the cable into her datasheet, then tapped away on the virtual keypad. “I'm connected to the outside radio,” she announced to cheers.

“What's
it
connected to?” Dino asked.

“Nothing yet,” she said.

Welcoming her optimism, Marcus could not help but wonder how long—especially after the oh-two that had just gushed out—they had left.

“It's going to work,” Marcus told everyone. Himself included.

*   *   *

Boulders and dirt patches. Gravel fields, glints of ice, and twisty crevasses. The stark landscape undulating in the familiarly peculiar perambulation of a Phoebe tourist bot. Only Valerie felt nothing familiar in this trek, and not merely for exploring without Marcus.

The bot corral had returned to service, just as The Space Place and other satellites by the hundreds had roused themselves from standby mode or awakened to commands radioed from Earth. And why wouldn't they have returned to operations? The supposed CME had not been real.

Making the ongoing silence from Phoebe base all the scarier.

“
Faster
,” she snarled at the dark holo that hung over her datasheet. Her words, like her frustrated hand gestures, did nothing. Once she had mastered the keyboard commands with which she had to make do without a game controller, she had pushed the bot to its fastest pace.

And that was a crawl.

On the other hand, her quixotic search could not hurt. Then why
not
attempt it? She squirmed in her chair, then fidgeted, then (succumbing to the habit she would have thought broken decades ago) gnawed on her nails. Gradually the scenery changed. A long, taut cable came into sight.

She typed a new order to the bot, setting it on a course parallel to the cable.

Toward Phoebe base.

*   *   *

Huddled together beneath blankets most people in the shelter slept, or at least they tried. To move took more energy—hence, more oxygen—than to remain still. To sleep used the least oxygen of all. To sleep took some of the load off the overtaxed air scrubbers.