107
   Thirty miles away, a black Kiowa gunship chopper tore over the scrub pine treetops of northern Delaware. Delta-One checked the coordinates locked in the auto navigation system.
   Although Rachel’s shipboard transmission device and Pickering’s cellphone were encrypted to protect the contents of their communication, intercepting content had not been the goal when the Delta Force pulse-snitched Rachel’s call from sea. Intercepting the caller’s position had been the goal. Global Positioning Systems and computerized triangulation made pinpointing transmission coordinates a significantly easier task than decrypting the actual content of the call.
   Delta-One was always amused to think that most cellphone users had no idea that every time they made a call, a government listening post, if so inclined, could detect their position to within ten feet anywhere on earth—a small hitch the cellphone companies failed to advertise. Tonight, once the Delta Force had gained access to the reception frequencies of William Pickering’s cellular phone, they could easily trace the coordinates of his incoming calls.
   Flying now on a direct course toward their target, Delta-One closed to within twenty miles. “Umbrella primed?” he asked, turning to Delta-Two, who was manning the radar and weapons system.
   “Affirmative. Awaiting five-mile range.”
   Five miles, Delta-One thought. He had to fly this bird well within his target’s radar scopes to get within range to use the Kiowa’s weapons systems. He had little doubt that someone onboard the Goya was nervously watching the skies, and because the Delta Force’s current task was to eliminate the target without giving them a chance to radio for help, Delta-One now had to advance on his prey without alarming them.
   At fifteen miles out, still safely out of radar range, Delta-One abruptly turned the Kiowa thirty-five degrees off course to the west. He climbed to three thousand feet—small airplane range—and adjusted his speed to 110 knots.

* * *

   On the deck of the Goya, the Coast Guard helicopter’s radar scope beeped once as a new contact entered the ten-mile perimeter. The pilot sat up, studying the screen. The contact appeared to be a small cargo plane headed west up the coast.
   Probably for Newark.
   Although this plane’s current trajectory would bring it within four miles of the Goya, the flight path obviously was a matter of chance. Nonetheless, being vigilant, the Coast Guard pilot watched the blinking dot trace a slow-moving 110-knot line across the right side of his scope. At its closest point, the plane was about four miles west. As expected, the plane kept moving—heading away from them now.
   4.1 miles. 4.2 miles.
   The pilot exhaled, relaxing.
   And then the strangest thing happened.

* * *

   “Umbrella now engaged,” Delta-Two called out, giving the thumbs-up from his weapons control seat on the port side of the Kiowa gunship. “Barrage, modulated noise, and cover pulse are all activated and locked.”
   Delta-One took his cue and banked hard to the right, putting the craft on a direct course with the Goya. This maneuver would be invisible to the ship’s radar.
   “Sure beats bales of tinfoil!” Delta-Two called out.
   Delta-One agreed. Radar jamming had been invented in WWII when a savvy British airman began throwing bales of hay wrapped in tinfoil out of his plane while on bombing runs. The Germans’ radar spotted so many reflective contacts they had no idea what to shoot. The techniques had been improved on substantially since then.
   The Kiowa’s onboard “umbrella” radar-jamming system was one of the military’s most deadly electronic combat weapons. By broadcasting an umbrella of background noise into the atmosphere above a given set of surface coordinates, the Kiowa could erase the eyes, ears, and voice of their target. Moments ago, all radar screens aboard the Goya had most certainly gone blank. By the time the crew realized they needed to call for help, they would be unable to transmit. On a ship, all communications were radio– or microwave-based—no solid phone lines. If the Kiowa got close enough, all of the Goya ‘s communications systems would stop functioning, their carrier signals blotted out by the invisible cloud of thermal noise broadcast in front of the Kiowa like a blinding headlight.
   Perfect isolation, Delta-One thought. They have no defenses.
   Their targets had made a fortunate and cunning escape from the Milne Ice Shelf, but it would not be repeated. In choosing to leave shore, Rachel Sexton and Michael Tolland had chosen poorly. It would be the last bad decision they ever made.
   Inside the White House, Zach Herney felt dazed as he sat up in bed holding the telephone receiver. “Now? Ekstrom wants to speak to me now?” Herney squinted again at the bedside clock. 3:17 a.m.
   “Yes, Mr. President,” the communications officer said. “He says it’s an emergency.”

 108
   While Corky and Xavia huddled over the electron microprobe measuring the zirconium content in the chondrules, Rachel followed Tolland across the lab into an adjoining room. Here Tolland turned on another computer. Apparently the oceanographer had one more thing he wanted to check.
   As the computer powered up, Tolland turned to Rachel, his mouth poised as if he wanted to say something. He paused.
   “What is it?” Rachel asked, surprised how physically drawn to him she felt, even in the midst of all this chaos. She wished she could block it all out and be with him—just for a minute.
   “I owe you an apology,” Tolland said, looking remorseful.
   “For what?”
   “On the deck? The hammerheads? I was excited. Sometimes I forget how frightening the ocean can be to a lot of people.”
   Face-to-face with him, Rachel felt like a teenager standing on the doorstep with a new boyfriend. “Thanks. No problem at all. Really.” Something inside her sensed Tolland wanted to kiss her.
   After a beat, he turned shyly away. “I know. You want to get to shore. We should get to work.”
   “For now.” Rachel smiled softly.
   “For now,” Tolland repeated, taking a seat at the computer.
   Rachel exhaled, standing close behind now, savoring the privacy of the small lab. She watched Tolland navigate a series of files. “What are we doing?”
   “Checking the database for big ocean lice. I want to see if we can find any prehistoric marine fossils that resemble what we saw in the NASA meteorite.” He pulled up a search page with bold letters across the top:

Project Diversitas

   Scrolling through the menus, Tolland explained, “Diversitas is essentially a continuously updated index of oceanic biodata. When a marine biologist discovers a new ocean species or fossil, he can toot his horn and share his find by uploading data and photos to a central databank. Because there’s so much new data discovered on a weekly basis, this is really the only way to keep research up-to-date.”
   Rachel watched Tolland navigating the menus. “So you’re accessing the Web now?”
   “No. Internet access is tricky at sea. We store all this data onboard on an enormous array of optical drives in the other room. Every time we’re in port, we tie into Project Diversitas and update our databank with the newest finds. This way, we can access data at sea without a Web connection, and the data is never more than a month or two out of date.” Tolland chuckled as he began typing search keywords into the computer. “You’ve probably heard of the controversial music file-sharing program called Napster?”
   Rachel nodded.
   “Diversitas is considered the marine biologist’s version of Napster. We call it LOBSTER—Lonely Oceanic Biologists Sharing Totally Eccentric Research.”
   Rachel laughed. Even in this tense situation, Michael Tolland exuded a wry humor that eased her fears. She was beginning to realize she’d had entirely too little laughter in her life lately.
   “Our database is enormous,” Tolland said, completing the entry of his descriptive keywords. “Over ten terabytes of descriptions and photos. There’s information in here nobody has ever seen—and nobody ever will. Ocean species are simply too numerous.” He clicked the “search” button. “Okay, let’s see if anyone has ever seen an oceanic fossil similar to our little space bug.”
   After a few seconds, the screen refreshed, revealing four listings of fossilized animals. Tolland clicked on each listing one by one and examined the photos. None looked remotely like the fossils in the Milne meteorite.
   Tolland frowned. “Let’s try something else.” He removed the word “fossil” from his search string and hit “search.” “We’ll search all living species. Maybe we can find a living descendant that has some of the physiological characteristics of the Milne fossil.”
   The screen refreshed.
   Again Tolland frowned. The computer had returned hundreds of entries. He sat a moment, stroking his now stubble-darkened chin. “Okay, this is too much. Let’s refine the search.”
   Rachel watched as he accessed a drop-down menu marked “habitat.” The list of options looked endless: tide pool, marsh, lagoon, reef, mid-oceanic ridge, sulfur vents. Tolland scrolled down the list and chose an option that read: DESTRUCTIVE MARGINS/OCEANIC TRENCHES.
   Smart, Rachel realized. Tolland was limiting his search only to species that lived near the environment where these chondrulelike features were hypothesized to form.
   The page refreshed. This time Tolland smiled. “Great. Only three entries.”
   Rachel squinted at the first name on the list. Limulus poly... something.
   Tolland clicked the entry. A photo appeared; the creature looked like an oversized horseshoe crab without a tail.
   “Nope,” Tolland said, returning to the previous page.
   Rachel eyed the second item on the list. Shrimpus Uglius From Hellus. She was confused. “Is that name for real?”
   Tolland chuckled. “No. It’s a new species not yet classified. The guy who discovered it has a sense of humor. He’s suggesting Shrimpus Uglius as the official taxonomical classification.” Tolland clicked open the photo, revealing an exceptionally ugly shrimplike creature with whiskers and fluorescent pink antennae.
   “Aptly named,” Tolland said. “But not our space bug.” He returned to the index. “The final offering is...” He clicked on the third entry, and the page came up.
   “Bathynomous giganteus...” Tolland read aloud as the text appeared. The photograph loaded. A full-color close-up.
   Rachel jumped. “My God!” The creature staring back at her gave her chills.
   Tolland drew a low breath. “Oh boy. This guy looks kind of familiar.”
   Rachel nodded, speechless. Bathynomous giganteus. The creature resembled a giant swimming louse. It looked very similar to the fossil species in the NASA rock.
   “There are some subtle differences,” Tolland said, scrolling down to some anatomical diagrams and sketches. “But it’s damn close. Especially considering it has had 190 million years to evolve.”
   Close is right, Rachel thought. Too close.
   Tolland read the description on the screen: “‘Thought to be one of the oldest species in the ocean, the rare and recently classified species Bathynomous giganteus is a deepwater scavenging isopod resembling a large pill bug. Up to two feet in length, this species exhibits a chitinous exoskeleton segmented into head, thorax, abdomen. It possesses paired appendages, antennae, and compound eyes like those of land-dwelling insects. This bottom-dwelling forager has no known predators and lives in barren pelagic environments previously thought to be uninhabitable.” Tolland glanced up. “Which could explain the lack of other fossils in the sample!”
   Rachel stared at the creature on-screen, excited and yet uncertain she completely understood what all of this meant.
   “Imagine,” Tolland said excitedly, “that 190 million years ago, a brood of these Bathynomous creatures got buried in a deep ocean mud slide. As the mud turns into rock, the bugs get fossilized in stone. Simultaneously, the ocean floor, which is continuously moving like a slow conveyer belt toward the oceanic trenches, carries the fossils into a high-pressure zone where the rock forms chondrules!” Tolland was talking faster now. “And if part of the fossilized, chondrulized crust broke off and ended up on the trench’s accretionary wedge, which is not at all uncommon, it would be in a perfect position to be discovered!”
   “But if NASA...,” Rachel stammered. “I mean, if this is all a lie, NASA must have known that sooner or later someone would find out this fossil resembles a sea creature, right? I mean we just found out!”
   Tolland began printing the Bathynomous photos on a laser printer. “I don’t know. Even if someone stepped forward and pointed out the similarities between the fossils and a living sea louse, their physiologies are not identical. It almost proves NASA’s case more strongly.”
   Rachel suddenly understood. “Panspermia.” Life on earth was seeded from space.
   “Exactly. Similarities between space organisms and earth organisms make excellent scientific sense. This sea louse actually strengthens NASA’s case.”
   “Except if the meteorite’s authenticity is in question.”
   Tolland nodded. “Once the meteorite comes into question, then everything collapses. Our sea louse turns from NASA friend to NASA linchpin.”
   Rachel stood in silence as the Bathynomous pages rolled out of the printer. She tried to tell herself this was all an honest NASA mistake, but she knew it was not. People who made honest mistakes didn’t try to kill people.
   The nasal voice of Corky echoed suddenly across the lab. “Impossible!”
   Both Tolland and Rachel turned.
   “Measure the damn ratio again! It makes no sense!”
   Xavia came hurrying in with a computer printout clutched in her hand. Her face was ashen. “Mike, I don’t know how to say this...” Her voice cracked. “The titanium/zirconium ratios we’re seeing in this sample?” She cleared her throat. “It’s pretty obvious that NASA made a huge mistake. Their meteorite is an ocean rock.”
   Tolland and Rachel looked at each other but neither spoke a word. They knew. Just like that, all the suspicions and doubts had swelled up like the crest of a wave, reaching the breaking point.
   Tolland nodded, a sadness in his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks, Xavia.”
   “But I don’t understand,” Xavia said. “The fusion crust... the location in the ice—”
   “We’ll explain on the way to shore,” Tolland said. “We’re leaving.”
   Quickly, Rachel collected all the papers and evidence they now had. The evidence was shockingly conclusive: the GPR printout showing the insertion shaft in the Milne Ice Shelf; photos of a living sea louse resembling NASA’s fossil; Dr. Pollock’s article on ocean chondrules; and microprobe data showing ultradepleted zirconium in the meteorite.
   The conclusion was undeniable. Fraud.
   Tolland looked at the stack of papers in Rachel’s hands and heaved a melancholy sigh. “Well, I’d say William Pickering has his proof.”
   Rachel nodded, again wondering why Pickering had not answered his phone.
   Tolland lifted the receiver of a nearby phone, holding it out for her. “You want to try him again from here?”
   “No, let’s get moving. I’ll try to contact him from the chopper.” Rachel had already decided if she could not make contact with Pickering, she’d have the Coast Guard fly them directly to the NRO, only about 180 miles.
   Tolland began to hang up the phone, but he paused. Looking confused, he listened to the receiver, frowning. “Bizarre. No dial tone.”
   “What do you mean?” Rachel said, wary now.
   “Weird,” Tolland said. “Direct COMSAT lines never lose carrier—”
   “Mr. Tolland?” The Coast Guard pilot came rushing into the lab, his face white.
   “What is it?” Rachel demanded. “Is someone coming?”
   “That’s the problem,” the pilot said. “I don’t know. All onboard radar and communications have just gone dead.”
   Rachel stuffed the papers deep inside her shirt. “Get in the helicopter. We’re leaving. NOW!”

 109
   Gabrielle’s heart was racing as she crossed the darkened office of Senator Sexton. The room was as expansive as it was elegant—ornate wood-paneled walls, oil paintings, Persian carpets, leather rivet chairs, and a gargantuan mahogany desk. The room was lit only by the eerie neon glow of Sexton’s computer screen.
   Gabrielle moved toward his desk.
   Senator Sexton had embraced the “digital office” to maniacal proportions, eschewing the overflow of file cabinets for the compact, searchable simplicity of his personal computer, into which he fed enormous amounts of information—digitized meeting notes, scanned articles, speeches, brainstorms. Sexton’s computer was his sacred ground, and he kept his office locked at all times to protect it. He even refused to connect to the Internet for fear of hackers infiltrating his sacred digital vault.
   A year ago Gabrielle would never have believed any politician would be stupid enough to store copies of self-incriminating documents, but Washington had taught her a lot. Information is power. Gabrielle had been amazed to learn that a common practice among politicians who accepted questionable campaign contributions was to keep actual proof of those donations—letters, bank records, receipts, logs—all hidden away in a safe place. This counterblackmail tactic, euphemistically known in Washington as “Siamese insurance,” protected candidates from donors who felt their generosity somehow authorized them to assert undue political pressure on a candidate. If a contributor got too demanding, the candidate could simply produce evidence of the illegal donation and remind the donor that both parties had broken the law. The evidence ensured that candidates and donors were joined at the hip forever—like Siamese twins.
   Gabrielle slipped behind the senator’s desk and sat down. She took a deep breath, looking at his computer. If the senator is accepting SFF bribes, any evidence would be in here.
   Sexton’s computer screensaver was an ongoing slideshow of the White House and its grounds created for him by one of his gung-ho staffers who was big into visualization and positive thinking. Around the images crawled a ticker-tape banner that read: President of the United States Sedgewick Sexton... President of the United States Sedgewick Sexton... President of the...
   Gabrielle jostled the mouse, and a security dialogue box came up.
   ENTER PASSWORD:
   She expected this. It would not be a problem. Last week, Gabrielle had entered Sexton’s office just as the senator was sitting down and logging onto his computer. She saw him type three short keystrokes in rapid succession.
   “That’s a password?” she challenged from the doorway as she walked in.
   Sexton glanced up. “What?”
   “And here I thought you were concerned about security,” Gabrielle scolded good-naturedly. “Your password’s only three keys? I thought the tech guys told us all to use at least six.”
   “The tech guys are teenagers. They should try remembering six random letters when they’re over forty. Besides, the door has an alarm. Nobody can get in.”
   Gabrielle walked toward him, smiling. “What if someone slipped in while you’re in the loo?”
   “And tried every combination of passwords?” He gave a skeptical laugh. “I’m slow in the bathroom, but not that slow.”
   “Dinner at Davide says I can guess your password in ten seconds.”
   Sexton looked intrigued and amused. “You can’t afford Davide, Gabrielle.”
   “So you’re saying you’re chicken?”
   Sexton appeared almost sorry for her as he accepted the challenge. “Ten seconds?” He logged off and motioned for Gabrielle to sit down and give it a try. “You know I only order the saltimbocca at Davide. And that ain’t cheap.”
   She shrugged as she sat down. “It’s your money.”
   ENTER PASSWORD:
   “Ten seconds,” Sexton reminded.
   Gabrielle had to laugh. She would need only two. Even from the doorway she could see that Sexton had entered his three-key password in very rapid succession using only his index finger. Obviously all the same key. Not wise. She could also see that his hand had been positioned over the far left side of his keyboard—cutting the possible alphabet down to only about nine letters. Choosing the letter was simple; Sexton had always loved the triple alliteration of his title. Senator Sedgewick Sexton.
   Never underestimate the ego of a politician.
   She typed SSS, and the screensaver evaporated.
   Sexton’s jaw hit the floor.
   That had been last week. Now, as Gabrielle faced his computer again, she was certain Sexton would not have taken time yet to figure out how to set up a different password. Why would he? He trusts me implicitly.
   She typed in SSS.

INVALID PASSWORD—ACCESS DENIED

   Gabrielle stared in shock.
   Apparently she had overestimated her senator’s level of trust.

 110
   The attack came without warning. Low out of the southwest sky above the Goya, the lethal silhouette of a gunship helicopter bore down like a giant wasp. Rachel had no doubt what it was, or why it was here.
   Through the darkness, a staccato burst from the nose of the chopper sent a torrent of bullets chewing across the Goya’s fiberglass deck, slashing a line across the stern. Rachel dove for cover too late and felt the searing slash of a bullet graze her arm. She hit the ground hard, then rolled, scrambling to get behind the bulbous transparent dome of the Triton submersible.
   A thundering of rotors exploded overhead as the chopper swooped past the ship. The noise evaporated with an eerie hiss as the chopper rocketed out over the ocean and began a wide bank for a second pass.
   Lying trembling on the deck, Rachel held her arm and looked back at Tolland and Corky. Apparently having lunged to cover behind a storage structure, the two men were now staggering to their feet, their eyes scanning the skies in terror. Rachel pulled herself to her knees. The entire world suddenly seemed to be moving in slow motion.
   Crouched behind the transparent curvature of the Triton sub, Rachel looked in panic toward their only means of escape—the Coast Guard helicopter. Xavia was already climbing into the chopper’s cabin, frantically waving for everyone to get aboard. Rachel could see the pilot lunging into the cockpit, wildly throwing switches and levers. The blades began to turn... ever so slowly.
   Too slowly.
   Hurry!
   Rachel felt herself standing now, preparing to run, wondering if she could make it across the deck before the attackers made another pass. Behind her, she heard Corky and Tolland dashing toward her and the waiting helicopter. Yes! Hurry!
   Then she saw it.
   A hundred yards out, up in the sky, materializing out of empty darkness, a pencil-thin beam of red light slanted across the night, searching the Goya’s deck. Then, finding its mark, the beam came to a stop on the side of the waiting Coast Guard chopper.
   The image took only an instant to register. In that horrific moment, Rachel felt all the action on the deck of the Goya blur into a collage of shapes and sounds. Tolland and Corky dashing toward her—Xavia motioning wildly in the helicopter—the stark red laser slicing across the night sky.
   It was too late.
   Rachel spun back toward Corky and Tolland, who were running full speed now toward the helicopter. She lunged outward into their path, arms outstretched trying to stop them. The collision felt like a train wreck as the three of them crashed to the deck in a tangle of arms and legs.
   In the distance, a flash of white light appeared. Rachel watched in disbelief and horror as a perfectly straight line of exhaust fire followed the path of the laser beam directly toward the helicopter.
   When the Hellfire missile slammed into the fuselage, the helicopter exploded apart like a toy. The concussion wave of heat and noise thundered across the deck as flaming shrapnel rained down. The helicopter’s flaming skeleton lurched backward on its shattered tail, teetered a moment, and then fell off the back of the ship, crashing into the ocean in a hissing cloud of steam.
   Rachel closed her eyes, unable to breathe. She could hear the flaming wreckage gurgling and sputtering as it sank, being dragged away from the Goya by the heavy currents. In the chaos, Michael Tolland’s voice was yelling. Rachel felt his powerful hands trying to pull her to her feet. But she could not move.
   The Coast Guard pilot and Xavia are dead.
   We’re next.

 111
   The weather on the Milne Ice Shelf had settled, and the habisphere was quiet. Even so, NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom had not even tried to sleep. He had spent the hours alone, pacing the dome, staring into the extraction pit, running his hands over the grooves in the giant charred rock.
   Finally, he’d made up his mind.
   Now he sat at the videophone in the habisphere’s PSC tank and looked into the weary eyes of the President of the United States. Zach Herney was wearing a bathrobe and did not look at all amused. Ekstrom knew he would be significantly less amused when he learned what Ekstrom had to tell him.
   When Ekstrom finished talking, Herney had an uncomfortable look on his face—as if he thought he must still be too asleep to have understood correctly.
   “Hold on,” Herney said. “We must have a bad connection. Did you just tell me that NASA intercepted this meteorite’s coordinates from an emergency radio transmission—and then pretended that PODS found the meteorite?”
   Ekstrom was silent, alone in the dark, willing his body to awake from this nightmare.
   The silence clearly did not sit well with the President. “For Christ’s sake, Larry, tell me this isn’t true!”
   Ekstrom’s mouth went dry. “The meteorite was found, Mr. President. That is all that’s relevant here.”
   “I said tell me this is not true!”
   The hush swelled to a dull roar in Ekstrom’s ears. I had to tell him, Ekstrom told himself. It’s going to get worse before it gets better. “Mr. President, the PODS failure was killing you in the polls, sir. When we intercepted a radio transmission that mentioned a large meteorite lodged in the ice, we saw a chance to get back in the fight.”
   Herney sounded stunned. “By faking a PODS discovery?”
   “PODS was going to be up and running soon, but not soon enough for the election. The polls were slipping, and Sexton was slamming NASA, so...”
   “Are you insane! You lied to me, Larry!”
   “The opportunity was staring us in the face, sir. I decided to take it. We intercepted the radio transmission of the Canadian who made the meteorite discovery. He died in a storm. Nobody else knew the meteorite was there. PODS was orbiting in the area. NASA needed a victory. We had the coordinates.”
   “Why are you telling me this now?”
   “I thought you should know.”
   “Do you know what Sexton would do with this information if he found out?”
   Ekstrom preferred not to think about it.
   “He’d tell the world that NASA and the White House lied to the American people! And you know what, he’d be right!”
   “You did not lie, sir, I did. And I will step down if—”
   “Larry, you’re missing the point. I’ve tried to run this presidency on truth and decency! Goddamn it! Tonight was clean. Dignified. Now I find out I lied to the world?”
   “Only a small lie, sir.”
   “There’s no such thing, Larry,” Herney said, steaming.
   Ekstrom felt the tiny room closing in around him. There was so much more to tell the President, but Ekstrom could see it should wait until morning. “I’m sorry to have woken you, sir. I just thought you should know.”

* * *

   Across town, Sedgewick Sexton took another hit of cognac and paced his apartment with rising irritation.
   Where the hell is Gabrielle?

 112
   Gabrielle Ashe sat in the darkness at Senator Sexton’s desk and gave his computer a despondent scowl.

INVALID PASSWORD—ACCESS DENIED

   She had tried several other passwords that seemed likely possibilities, but none had worked. After searching the office for any unlocked drawers or stray clues, Gabrielle had all but given up. She was about to leave when she spotted something odd, shimmering on Sexton’s desk calendar. Someone had outlined the date of the election in a red, white, and blue glitter pen. Certainly not the senator. Gabrielle pulled the calendar closer. Emblazoned across the date was a frilly, glittering exclamation: POTUS!
   Sexton’s ebullient secretary had apparently glitterpainted some more positive thinking for him for election day. The acronym POTUS was the U.S. Secret Service’s code name for President of the United States. On election day, if all went well, Sexton would become the new POTUS.
   Preparing to leave, Gabrielle realigned the calendar on his desk and stood up. She paused suddenly, glancing back at the computer screen.

ENTER PASSWORD:

   She looked again at the calendar.

POTUS.

   She felt a sudden surge of hope. Something about POTUS struck Gabrielle as being a perfect Sexton password. Simple, positive, self-referential.
   She quickly typed in the letters.

POTUS

   Holding her breath, she hit “return.” The computer beeped.

INVALID PASSWORD—ACCESS DENIED

   Slumping, Gabrielle gave up. She headed back toward the bathroom door to exit the way she had come. She was halfway across the room, when her cellphone rang. She was already on edge, and the sound startled her. Stopping short, she pulled out her phone and glanced up to check the time on Sexton’s prized Jourdain grandfather clock. Almost 4:00 a.m. At this hour, Gabrielle knew the caller could only be Sexton. He was obviously wondering where the hell she was. Do I pick up or let it ring? If she answered, Gabrielle would have to lie. But if she didn’t, Sexton would get suspicious.
   She took the call. “Hello?”
   “Gabrielle?” Sexton sounded impatient. “What’s keeping you?”
   “The FDR Memorial,” Gabrielle said. “The taxi got hemmed in, and now we’re—”
   “You don’t sound like you’re in a taxi.”
   “No,” she said, her blood pumping now. “I’m not. I decided to stop by my office and pick up some NASA documents that might be relevant to PODS. I’m having some trouble finding them.”
   “Well, hurry up. I want to schedule a press conference for the morning, and we need to talk specifics.”
   “I’m coming soon,” she said.
   There was a pause on the line. “You’re in your office?” He sounded suddenly confused.
   “Yeah. Another ten minutes and I’ll be on my way over.”
   Another pause. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
   Gabrielle hung up, too preoccupied to notice the loud and distinctive triple-tick of Sexton’s prized Jourdain grandfather clock only a few feet away.

 113
   Michael Tolland did not realize Rachel was hurt until he saw the blood on her arm as he pulled her to cover behind the Triton. He sensed from the catatonic look on her face that she was not aware of any pain. Steadying her, Tolland wheeled to find Corky. The astrophysicist scrambled across the deck to join them, his eyes blank with terror.
   We’ve got to find cover, Tolland thought, the horror of what had just happened not yet fully registering. Instinctively, his eyes raced up the tiers of decks above them. The stairs leading up to the bridge were all in the open, and the bridge itself was a glass box—a transparent bull’s-eye from the air. Going up was suicide, which left only one other direction to go.
   For a fleeting instant, Tolland turned a hopeful gaze to the Triton submersible, wondering perhaps if he could get everyone underwater, away from the bullets.
   Absurd. The Triton had room for one person, and the deployment winch took a good ten minutes to lower the sub through the trap door in the deck to the ocean thirty feet below. Besides, without properly charged batteries and compressors, the Triton would be dead in the water.
   “Here they come!” Corky shouted, his voice shrill with fear as he pointed into the sky.
   Tolland didn’t even look up. He pointed to a nearby bulkhead, where an aluminum ramp descended belowdecks. Corky apparently needed no encouragement. Keeping his head low, Corky scurried toward the opening and disappeared down the incline. Tolland put a firm arm around Rachel’s waist and followed. The two of them disappeared belowdecks just as the helicopter returned, spraying bullets overhead.
   Tolland helped Rachel down the grated ramp to the suspended platform at the bottom. As they arrived, Tolland could feel Rachel’s body go suddenly rigid. He wheeled, fearing maybe she’d been hit by a ricocheting bullet.
   When he saw her face, he knew it was something else. Tolland followed her petrified gaze downward and immediately understood.

* * *

   Rachel stood motionless, her legs refusing to move. She was staring down at the bizarre world beneath her.
   Because of its SWATH design, the Goya had no hull but rather struts like a giant catamaran. They had just descended through the deck onto a grated catwalk that hung above an open chasm, thirty feet straight down to the raging sea. The noise was deafening here, reverberating off the underside of the deck. Adding to Rachel’s terror was the fact that the ship’s underwater spotlights were still illuminated, casting a greenish effulgence deep into the ocean directly beneath her. She found herself gazing down at six or seven ghostly silhouettes in the water. Enormous hammerhead sharks, their long shadows swimming in place against the current—rubbery bodies flexing back and forth.
   Tolland’s voice was in her ear. “Rachel, you’re okay. Eyes straight ahead. I’m right behind you.” His hands were reaching around from behind, gently trying to coax her clenched fists off the banister. It was then that Rachel saw the crimson droplet of blood roll off her arm and fall through the grating. Her eyes followed the drip as it plummeted toward the sea. Although she never saw it hit the water, she knew the instant it happened because all at once the hammerheads spun in unison, thrusting with their powerful tails, crashing together in a roiling frenzy of teeth and fins.
   Enhanced telencephalon olfactory lobes...
   They smell blood a mile away.
   “Eyes straight ahead,” Tolland repeated, his voice strong and reassuring. “I’m right behind you.”
   Rachel felt his hands on her hips now, urging her forward. Blocking out the void beneath her, Rachel started down the catwalk. Somewhere above she could hear the rotors of the chopper again. Corky was already well out in front of them, reeling across the catwalk in a kind of drunken panic.
   Tolland called out to him. “All the way to the far strut, Corky! Down the stairs!”
   Rachel could now see where they were headed. Up ahead, a series of switchback ramps descended. At water level, a narrow, shelflike deck extended the length of the Goya. Jutting off this deck were several small, suspended docks, creating a kind of miniature marina stationed beneath the ship. A large sign read:

DIVE AREA
Swimmers May Surface without Warning
—Boats Proceed with Caution—

   Rachel could only assume Michael did not intend for them to do any swimming. Her trepidation intensified when Tolland stopped at a bank of wire-mesh storage lockers flanking the catwalk. He pulled open the doors to reveal hanging wetsuits, snorkels, flippers, life jackets, and spearguns. Before she could protest, he reached in and grabbed a flare gun. “Let’s go.”
   They were moving again.
   Up ahead, Corky had reached the switchback ramps and was already halfway down. “I see it!” he shouted, his voice sounding almost joyous over the raging water.
   See what? Rachel wondered as Corky ran along the narrow walkway. All she could see was a shark-infested ocean lapping dangerously close. Tolland urged her forward, and suddenly Rachel could see what Corky was so excited about. At the far end of the decking below, a small powerboat was moored. Corky ran toward it.
   Rachel stared. Outrun a helicopter in a motorboat?
   “It has a radio,” Tolland said. “And if we can get far enough away from the helicopter’s jamming...”
   Rachel did not hear another word he said. She had just spied something that made her blood run cold. “Too late,” she croaked, extending a trembling finger. We’re finished...

* * *

   When Tolland turned, he knew in an instant it was over.
   At the far end of the ship, like a dragon peering into the opening of a cave, the black helicopter had dropped down low and was facing them. For an instant, Tolland thought it was going to fly directly at them through the center of the boat. But the helicopter began to turn at an angle, taking aim.
   Tolland followed the direction of the gun barrels. No!
   Crouched beside the powerboat untying the moorings, Corky glanced up just as the machine guns beneath the chopper erupted in a blaze of thunder. Corky lurched as if hit. Wildly, he scrambled over the gunwale and dove into the boat, sprawled himself on the floor for cover. The guns stopped. Tolland could see Corky crawling deeper into the powerboat. The lower part of his right leg was covered with blood. Crouched below the dash, Corky reached up and fumbled across the controls until his fingers found the key. The boat’s 250 hp Mercury engine roared to life.
   An instant later, a red laser beam appeared, emanating from the nose of the hovering chopper, targeting the powerboat with a missile.
   Tolland reacted on instinct, aiming the only weapon he had.
   The flare gun in his hand hissed when he pulled the trigger, and a blinding streak tore away on a horizontal trajectory beneath the ship, heading directly toward the chopper. Even so, Tolland sensed he had acted too late. As the streaking flare bore down on the helicopter’s windshield, the rocket launcher beneath the chopper emitted its own flash of light. At the same exact instant that the missile launched, the aircraft veered sharply and pulled up out of sight to avoid the incoming flare.
   “Look out!” Tolland yelled, yanking Rachel down onto the catwalk.
   The missile sailed off course, just missing Corky, coming the length of the Goya and slamming into the base of the strut thirty feet beneath Rachel and Tolland.
   The sound was apocalyptic. Water and flames erupted beneath them. Bits of twisted metal flew in the air and scattered the catwalk beneath them. Metal on metal ground together as the ship shifted, finding a new balance, slightly askew.
   As the smoke cleared, Tolland could see that one of the Goya’s four main struts had been severely damaged. Powerful currents tore past the pontoon, threatening to break it off. The spiral stairway descending to the lower deck looked to be hanging by a thread.
   “Come on!” Tolland yelled, urging Rachel toward it. We’ve got to get down!
   But they were too late. With a surrendering crack, the stairs peeled away from the damaged strut and crashed into the sea.

* * *

   Over the ship, Delta-One grappled with the controls of the Kiowa helicopter and got it back under control. Momentarily blinded by the incoming flare, he had reflexively pulled up, causing the Hellfire missile to miss its mark. Cursing, he hovered now over the bow of the ship and prepared to drop back down and finish the job.
   Eliminate all passengers. The controller’s demands had been clear.
   “Shit! Look!” Delta-Two yelled from the rear seat, pointing out the window. “Speedboat!”
   Delta-One spun and saw a bullet-riddled Crestliner speedboat skimming away from the Goya into the darkness.
   He had a decision to make.

 114
   Corky’s bloody hands gripped the wheel of the Crestliner Phantom 2100 as it pounded out across the sea. He rammed the throttle all the way forward, trying to eke out maximum speed. It was not until this moment that he felt the searing pain. He looked down and saw his right leg spurting blood. He instantly felt dizzy.
   Propping himself against the wheel, he turned and looked back at the Goya, willing the helicopter to follow him. With Tolland and Rachel trapped up on the catwalk, Corky had not been able to reach them. He’d been forced to make a snap decision.
   Divide and conquer.
   Corky knew if he could lure the chopper far enough away from the Goya, maybe Tolland and Rachel could radio for help. Unfortunately, as he looked over his shoulder at the illuminated ship, Corky could see the chopper still hovering there, as if undecided.
   Come on, you bastards! Follow me!
   But the helicopter did not follow. Instead it banked over the stern of the Goya, aligned itself, and dropped down, landing on the deck. No! Corky watched in horror, now realizing he’d left Tolland and Rachel behind to be killed.
   Knowing it was now up to him to radio for help, Corky groped the dashboard and found the radio. He flicked the power switch. Nothing happened. No lights. No static. He turned the volume knob all the way up. Nothing. Come on! Letting go of the wheel, he knelt down for a look. His leg screamed in pain as he bent down. His eyes focused on the radio. He could not believe what he was looking at. The dashboard had been strafed by bullets, and the radio dial was shattered. Loose wires hung out the front. He stared, incredulous.
   Of all the goddamned luck...
   Weak-kneed, Corky stood back up, wondering how things could get any worse. As he looked back at the Goya, he got his answer. Two armed soldiers jumped out of the chopper onto the deck. Then the chopper lifted off again, turning in Corky’s direction and coming after him at full speed.
   Corky slumped. Divide and conquer. Apparently he was not the only one with that bright idea tonight.

* * *

   As Delta-Three made his way across the deck and approached the grated ramp leading belowdecks, he heard a woman shouting somewhere beneath him. He turned and motioned to Delta-Two that he was going belowdecks to check it out. His partner nodded, remaining behind to cover the upper level. The two men could stay in contact via CrypTalk; the Kiowa’s jamming system ingeniously left an obscure bandwidth open for their own communications.
   Clutching his snub-nose machine gun, Delta-Three moved quietly toward the ramp that led belowdecks. With the vigilance of a trained killer, he began inching downward, gun leveled.
   The incline provided limited visibility, and Delta-Three crouched low for a better view. He could hear the shouting more clearly now. He kept descending. Halfway down the stairs he could now make out the twisted maze of walkways attached to the underside of the Goya. The shouting grew louder.
   Then he saw her. Midway across the traversing catwalk, Rachel Sexton was peering over a railing and calling desperately toward the water for Michael Tolland.
   Did Tolland fall in? Perhaps in the blast?
   If so, Delta-Three’s job would be even easier than expected. He only needed to descend another couple of feet to have an open shot. Shooting fish in a barrel. His only vague concern was Rachel standing near an open equipment locker, which meant she might have a weapon—a speargun or a shark rifle—although neither would be any match for his machine gun. Confident he was in control of the situation, Delta-Three leveled his weapon and took another step down. Rachel Sexton was almost in perfect view now. He raised the gun.
   One more step.
   The flurry of movement came from beneath him, under the stairs. Delta-Three was more confused than frightened as he looked down and saw Michael Tolland thrusting an aluminum pole out toward his feet. Although Delta-Three had been tricked, he almost laughed at this lame attempt to trip him up.
   Then he felt the tip of the stick connect with his heel.
   A blast of white-hot pain shot through his body as his right foot exploded out from under him from a blistering impact. His balance gone, Delta-Three flailed, tumbling down the stairs. His machine gun clattered down the ramp and went overboard as he collapsed on the catwalk. In anguish, he curled up to grip his right foot, but it was no longer there.

* * *

   Tolland was standing over his attacker immediately with his hands still clenching the smoking bang-stick—a five-foot Powerhead Shark-Control Device. The aluminum pole had been tipped with a pressure-sensitive, twelve-gauge shotgun shell and was intended for self-defense in the event of shark attack. Tolland had reloaded the bang-stick with another shell, and now held the jagged, smoldering point to his attacker’s Adam’s apple. The man lay on his back as if paralyzed, staring up at Tolland with an expression of astonished rage and agony.
   Rachel came running up the catwalk. The plan was for her to take the man’s machine gun, but unfortunately the weapon had gone over the edge of the catwalk into the ocean.
   The communications device on the man’s belt crackled. The voice coming out was robotic. “Delta-Three? Come in. I heard a shot.”
   The man made no move to answer.
   The device crackled again. “Delta-Three? Confirm. Do you need backup?”
   Almost immediately, a new voice crackled over the line. It was also robotic but distinguishable by the sound of a helicopter noise in the background. “This is Delta-One,” the pilot said. “I’m in pursuit of the departing vessel. Delta-Three, confirm. Are you down? Do you need backup?”
   Tolland pressed the bang-stick into the man’s throat. “Tell the helicopter to back off that speedboat. If they kill my friend, you die.”
   The soldier winced in pain as he lifted his communication device to his lips. He looked directly at Tolland as he pressed the button and spoke. “Delta-Three, here. I’m fine. Destroy the departing vessel.”

 115
   Gabrielle Ashe returned to Sexton’s private bathroom, preparing to climb back out of his office. Sexton’s phone call had left her feeling anxious. He had definitely hesitated when she told him she was in her office—as if he knew somehow she was lying. Either way, she’d failed to get into Sexton’s computer and now was unsure of her next move.
   Sexton is waiting.
   As she climbed up onto the sink, getting ready to pull herself up, she heard something clatter to the tile floor. She looked down, irritated to see that she’d knocked off a pair of Sexton’s cuff links that had apparently been sitting on the edge of the sink.
   Leave things exactly as you found them.
   Climbing back down Gabrielle picked up the cuff links and put them back on the sink. As she began to climb back up, she paused, glancing again at the cuff links. On any other night, Gabrielle would have ignored them, but tonight their monogram caught her attention. Like most of Sexton’s monogrammed items, they had two intertwining letters. SS. Gabrielle flashed on Sexton’s initial computer password—SSS. She pictured his calendar... POTUS... and the White House screensaver with its optimistic ticker tape crawling around the screen ad infinitum.
   President of the United States Sedgewick Sexton... President of the United States Sedgewick Sexton... President of the...
   Gabrielle stood a moment and wondered. Could he be that confident?
   Knowing it would take only an instant to find out, she hurried back into Sexton’s office, went to his computer, and typed in a seven-letter password.

POTUSSS

   The screensaver evaporated instantly.
   She stared, incredulous.
   Never underestimate the ego of a politician.

 . 116
   Corky Marlinson was no longer at the helm of the Crestliner Phantom as it raced into the night. He knew the boat would travel in a straight line with or without him at the wheel. The path of least resistance...
   Corky was in the back of the bouncing boat, trying to assess the damage to his leg. A bullet had entered the front part of his calf, just missing his shinbone. There was no exit wound on the back of his calf, so he knew the bullet must still be lodged in his leg. Foraging around for something to stem the bleeding, he found nothing—some fins, a snorkel, and a couple of life jackets. No first-aid kit. Frantically, Corky opened a small utility chest and found some tools, rags, duct tape, oil, and other maintenance items. He looked at his bloody leg and wondered how far he had to go to be out of shark territory.
   A hell of a lot farther than this.

* * *

   Delta-One kept the Kiowa chopper low over the ocean as he scanned the darkness for the departing Crestliner. Assuming the fleeing boat would head for shore and attempt to put as much distance as possible between itself and the Goya, Delta-One had followed the Crestliner’s original trajectory away from the Goya.
   I should have overtaken him by now.
   Normally, tracking the fleeing boat would be a simple matter of using radar, but with the Kiowa’s jamming systems transmitting an umbrella of thermal noise for several miles, his radar was worthless. Turning off the jamming system was not an option until he got word that everyone onboard the Goya was dead. No emergency phone calls would be leaving the Goya this evening.
   This meteorite secret dies. Right here. Right now.
   Fortunately, Delta-One had other means of tracking. Even against this bizarre backdrop of heated ocean, pinpointing a powerboat’s thermal imprint was simple. He turned on his thermal scanner. The ocean around him registered a warm ninety-five degrees. Fortunately, the emissions of a racing 250 hp outboard engine were hundreds of degrees hotter.

* * *

   Corky Marlinson’s leg and foot felt numb.
   Not knowing what else to do, he had wiped down his injured calf with the rag and wrapped the wound in layer after layer of duct tape. By the time the tape was gone, his entire calf, from ankle to knee, was enveloped in a tight silver sheath. The bleeding had stopped, although his clothing and hands were still covered with blood.
   Sitting on the floor of the runaway Crestliner, Corky felt confused about why the chopper hadn’t found him yet. He looked out now, scanning the horizon behind him, expecting to see the distant Goya and incoming helicopter. Oddly, he saw neither. The lights of the Goya had disappeared. Certainly he hadn’t come that far, had he?
   Corky suddenly felt hopeful he might escape. Maybe they had lost him in the dark. Maybe he could get to shore!
   It was then he noticed that the wake behind his boat was not straight. It seemed to curve gradually away from the back of his boat, as if he were traveling in an arc rather than a straight line. Confused by this, he turned his head to follow the wake’s arc, extrapolating a giant curve across the ocean. An instant later, he saw it.
   The Goya was directly off his port side, less than a half mile away. In horror, Corky realized his mistake too late. With no one at the wheel, the Crestliner’s bow had continuously realigned itself with the direction of the powerful current—the megaplume’s circular water flow. I’m driving in a big friggin’ circle!
   He had doubled back on himself.
   Knowing he was still inside the shark-filled megaplume, Corky recalled Tolland’s grim words. Enhanced telencephalon olfactory lobes... hammerheads can smell a droplet of blood a mile away. Corky looked at his bloody duct-taped leg and hands.
   The chopper would be on him soon.
   Ripping off his bloody clothing, Corky scrambled naked toward the stern. Knowing no sharks could possibly keep pace with the boat, he rinsed himself as best as he could in the powerful blast of the wake.
   A single droplet of blood...
   As Corky stood up, fully exposed to the night, he knew there was only one thing left to do. He had learned once that animals marked their territory with urine because uric acid was the most potent-smelling fluid the human body made.
   More potent than blood, he hoped. Wishing he’d had a few more beers tonight, Corky heaved his injured leg up onto the gunwale and tried to urinate on the duct tape. Come on! He waited. Nothing like the pressure of having to piss all over yourself with a helicopter chasing you.
   Finally it came. Corky urinated all over the duct tape, soaking it fully. He used what little was left in his bladder to soak a rag, which he then swathed across his entire body. Very pleasant.
   In the dark sky overhead, a red laser beam appeared, slanting toward him like the shimmering blade of an enormous guillotine. The chopper appeared from an oblique angle, the pilot apparently confused that Corky had looped back toward the Goya.
   Quickly donning a high-float life vest, Corky moved to the rear of the speeding craft. On the boat’s bloodstained floor, only five feet from where Corky was standing, a glowing red dot appeared.
   It was time.

* * *

   Onboard the Goya, Michael Tolland did not see his Crestliner Phantom 2100 erupt in flames and tumble through the air in a cartwheel of fire and smoke.
   But he heard the explosion.