7
   Senator Sedgewick Sexton savored the privacy of his Lincoln stretch limousine as it snaked through Washington’s morning traffic toward his office. Across from him, Gabrielle Ashe, his twenty-four-year-old personal assistant, read him his daily schedule. Sexton was barely listening.
   I love Washington, he thought, admiring the assistant’s perfect shape beneath her cashmere sweater. Power is the greatest aphrodisiac of all... and it brings women like this to D.C. in droves.
   Gabrielle was a New York Ivy Leaguer with dreams of being a senator herself one day. She’ll make it too, Sexton thought. She was incredible-looking and sharp as a whip. Above all, she understood the rules of the game.
   Gabrielle Ashe was black, but her tawny coloring was more of a deep cinnamon or mahogany, the kind of comfortable in-between that Sexton knew bleeding heart “whites” could endorse without feeling like they were giving away the farm. Sexton described Gabrielle to his cronies as Halle Berry’s looks with Hillary Clinton’s brains and ambition, although sometimes he thought even that was an understatement.
   Gabrielle had been a tremendous asset to his campaign since he’d promoted her to his personal campaign assistant three months ago. And to top it all off, she was working for free. Her compensation for a sixteen-hour workday was learning the ropes in the trenches with a seasoned politician.
   Of course, Sexton gloated, I’ve persuaded her to do a bit more than just work. After promoting Gabrielle, Sexton had invited her to a late night “orientation session” in his private office. As expected, his young assistant arrived starstruck and eager to please. With a slow-moving patience mastered over decades, Sexton worked his magic... building up Gabrielle’s trust, carefully stripping away her inhibitions, exhibiting tantalizing control, and finally seducing her right there in his office.
   Sexton had little doubt the encounter had been one of the most sexually gratifying experiences of the young woman’s life, and yet, in the light of the day, Gabrielle clearly regretted the indiscretion. Embarrassed, she offered to resign. Sexton refused. Gabrielle stayed on, but she made her intentions very clear. The relationship had been strictly business ever since.
   Gabrielle’s pouty lips were still moving. “... don’t want you to be lackadaisical going into this CNN debate this afternoon. We still don’t know who the White House is sending as opposition. You’ll want to peruse these notes I typed.” She handed him a folder.
   Sexton took the folder, savoring the scent of her perfume mixed with the plush leather seats.
   “You aren’t listening,” she said.
   “Certainly am.” He grinned. “Forget about this CNN debate. Worst case scenario, the White House snubs me by sending some low-level campaign intern. Best case scenario, they send a bigwig, and I eat him for lunch.”
   Gabrielle frowned. “Fine. I’ve included a list of the most probable hostile topics in your notes.”
   “The usual suspects no doubt.”
   “With one new entry. I think you might face some hostile backlash from the gay community for your comments last night on Larry King. ”
   Sexton shrugged, barely listening. “Right. The same-sex marriage thing.”
   Gabrielle gave him a disapproving look. “You did come out against it pretty strongly.”
   Same-sex marriages, Sexton thought in disgust. If it were up to me, the faggots wouldn’t even have the right to vote. “Okay, I’ll turn it down a notch.”
   “Good. You’ve been pushing the envelope a bit on some of these hot topics lately. Don’t get cocky. The public can turn in an instant. You’re gaining now, and you have momentum. Just ride it out. There’s no need to hit the ball out of the park today. Just keep it in play.”
   “Any news from the White House?”
   Gabrielle looked pleasantly baffled. “Continued silence. It’s official; your opponent has become the ‘Invisible Man.’“
   Sexton could barely believe his good fortune lately. For months, the President had been working hard on the campaign trail. Then suddenly, a week ago, he had locked himself in the Oval Office, and nobody had seen or heard from him since. It was as if the President simply could not face Sexton’s groundswell of voter support.
   Gabrielle ran a hand through her straightened black hair. “I hear the White House campaign staff is as confused as we are. The President is offering no explanation for his vanishing act, and everyone over there is furious.”
   “Any theories?” Sexton asked.
   Gabrielle gazed at him over her scholarly glasses. “As it turns out, I got some interesting data this morning from a contact of mine in the White House.”
   Sexton recognized the look in her eyes. Gabrielle Ashe had scored some insider information again. Sexton wondered if she were giving some presidential aide backseat blow jobs in exchange for campaign secrets. Sexton didn’t care... so long as the information kept coming.
   “Rumor has it,” his assistant said, lowering her voice, “the President’s strange behavior all started last week after an emergency private briefing with the administrator of NASA. Apparently the President emerged from the meeting looking dazed. He immediately cleared his schedule, and he’s been in close contact with NASA ever since.”
   Sexton certainly liked the sound of that. “You think maybe NASA delivered some more bad news?”
   “Seems a logical explanation,” she said hopefully. “Although it would have to be pretty critical to make the President drop everything.”
   Sexton considered it. Obviously, whatever was going on with NASA had to be bad news. Otherwise the President would throw it in my face. Sexton had been pounding the President pretty hard on NASA funding lately. The space agency’s recent string of failed missions and gargantuan budget overruns had earned NASA the dubious honor of becoming Sexton’s unofficial poster child against big government overspending and inefficiency. Admittedly, attacking NASA—one of the most prominent symbols of American pride—was not the way most politicians would think of winning votes, but Sexton had a weapon few other politicians had—Gabrielle Ashe. And her impeccable instincts.
   The savvy young woman had come to Sexton’s attention several months ago when she was working as a coordinator in Sexton’s Washington campaign office. With Sexton trailing badly in the primary polls and his message of government overspending falling on deaf ears, Gabrielle Ashe wrote him a note suggesting a radical new campaign angle. She told the senator he should attack NASA’s huge budget overruns and continued White House bailouts as the quintessential example of President Herney’s careless overspending.
   “NASA is costing Americans a fortune,” Gabrielle wrote, including a list of financial figures, failures, and bailouts. “Voters have no idea. They would be horrified. I think you should make NASA a political issue.”
   Sexton groaned at her naпvetй. “Yeah, and while I’m at it, I’ll rail against singing the national anthem at baseball games.”
   In the weeks that followed, Gabrielle continued to send information about NASA across the senator’s desk. The more Sexton read, the more he realized this young Gabrielle Ashe had a point. Even by government agency standards, NASA was an astounding money pit—expensive, inefficient, and, in recent years, grossly incompetent.
   One afternoon Sexton was doing an on-air interview about education. The host was pressing Sexton about where he would find funding for his promised overhaul of public schools. In response, Sexton decided to test Gabrielle’s NASA theory with a half-joking response. “Money for education?” he said. “Well, maybe I’ll cut the space program in half. I figure if NASA can spend fifteen billion a year in space, I should be able to spend seven and a half billion on the kids here on earth.”
   In the transmission booth, Sexton’s campaign managers gasped in horror at the careless remark. After all, entire campaigns had been sunk by far less than taking a potshot at NASA. Instantly, the phone lines at the radio station lit up. Sexton’s campaign managers cringed; the space patriots were circling for the kill.
   Then something unexpected happened.
   “Fifteen billion a year?” the first caller said, sounding shocked. “With a B? Are you telling me that my son’s math class is overcrowded because schools can’t afford enough teachers, and NASA is spending fifteen billion dollars a year taking pictures of space dust?”
   “Um... that’s right,” Sexton said warily.
   “Absurd! Does the President have the power to do something about that?”
   “Absolutely,” Sexton replied, gaining confidence. “A President can veto the budget request of any agency he or she deems overfunded.”
   “Then you have my vote, Senator Sexton. Fifteen billion for space research, and our kids don’t have teachers. It’s outrageous! Good luck, sir. I hope you go all the way.”
   The next caller came on the line. “Senator, I just read that NASA’s International Space Station is way overbudget and the President is thinking of giving NASA emergency funding to keep the project going. Is that true?”
   Sexton jumped at this one. “True!” He explained that the space station was originally proposed as a joint venture, with twelve countries sharing the costs. But after construction began, the station’s budget spiraled wildly out of control, and many countries dropped out in disgust. Rather than scrapping the project, the President decided to cover everyone’s expenses. “Our cost for the ISS project,” Sexton announced, “has risen from the proposed eight billion to a staggering one hundred billion dollars!”
   The caller sounded furious. “Why the hell doesn’t the President pull the plug!”
   Sexton could have kissed the guy. “Damn good question. Unfortunately, one third of the building supplies are already in orbit, and the President spent your tax dollars putting them there, so pulling the plug would be admitting he made a multibillion-dollar blunder with your money.”
   The calls kept coming. For the first time, it seemed Americans were waking up to the idea that NASA was an option—not a national fixture.
   When the show was over, with the exception of a few NASA diehards calling in with poignant overtures about man’s eternal quest for knowledge, the consensus was in: Sexton’s campaign had stumbled onto the holy grail of campaigning—a new “hot button”—a yet untapped controversial issue that struck a nerve with voters.
   In the weeks that followed, Sexton trounced his opponents in five crucial primaries. He announced Gabrielle Ashe as his new personal campaign assistant, praising her for her work in bringing the NASA issue to the voters. With the wave of a hand, Sexton had made a young African-American woman a rising political star, and the issue of his racist and sexist voting record disappeared overnight.
   Now, as they sat together in the limousine, Sexton knew Gabrielle had yet again proven her worth. Her new information about last week’s secret meeting between the NASA administrator and the President certainly suggested more NASA troubles were brewing—perhaps another country pulling funding from the space station.
   As the limousine passed the Washington Monument, Senator Sexton could not help but feel he had been anointed by destiny.

 8
   Despite having ascended to the most powerful political office in the world, President Zachary Herney was average in height, with a slender build and narrow shoulders. He had a freckled face, bifocals, and thinning black hair. His unimposing physique, however, stood in stark contrast to the almost princely love the man commanded from those who knew him. It was said that if you met Zach Herney once, you would walk to the ends of the earth for him.
   “So glad you could make it,” President Herney said, reaching out to shake Rachel’s hand. His grasp was warm and sincere.
   Rachel fought the frog in her throat. “Of... course, Mr. President. An honor to meet you.”
   The President gave her a comforting grin, and Rachel sensed firsthand the legendary Herney affability. The man possessed an easygoing countenance political cartoonists loved because no matter how skewed a rendition they drew, no one ever mistook the man’s effortless warmth and amiable smile. His eyes mirrored sincerity and dignity at all times.
   “If you follow me,” he said in a cheery voice, “I’ve got a cup of coffee with your name on it.”
   “Thank you, sir.”
   The President pressed the intercom and called for some coffee in his office.
   As Rachel followed the President through the plane, she could not help but notice that he looked extremely happy and well-rested for a man who was down in the polls. He was also very casually dressed—blue jeans, a polo shirt, and L.L. Bean hiking boots.
   Rachel tried to make conversation. “Doing... some hiking, Mr. President?”
   “Not at all. My campaign advisers have decided this should be my new look. What do you think?”
   Rachel hoped for his sake that he wasn’t serious. “It’s very... um... manly, sir.”
   Herney was deadpan. “Good. We’re thinking it will help me win back some of the women’s vote from your father.” After a beat, the President broke into a broad smile. “Ms. Sexton, that was a joke. I think we both know I’ll need more than a polo shirt and blue jeans to win this election.”
   The President’s openness and good humor were quickly evaporating any tension Rachel felt about being there. What this President lacked in physical brawn, he more than made up for in diplomatic rapport. Diplomacy was about people skills, and Zach Herney had the gift.
   Rachel followed the President toward the back of the plane. The deeper they went, the less the interior resembled a plane—curved hallways, wallpapered walls, even an exercise room complete with StairMaster and rowing machine. Oddly, the plane seemed almost entirely deserted.
   “Traveling alone, Mr. President?”
   He shook his head. “Just landed, actually.”
   Rachel was surprised. Landed from where? Her intel briefs this week had included nothing about presidential travel plans. Apparently he was using Wallops Island to travel quietly.
   “My staff deplaned right before you arrived,” the President said. “I’m headed back to the White House shortly to meet them, but I wanted to meet you here instead of my office.”
   “Trying to intimidate me?”
   “On the contrary. Trying to respect you, Ms. Sexton. The White House is anything but private, and news of a meeting between the two of us would put you in an awkward position with your father.”
   “I appreciate that, sir.”
   “It seems you’re managing a delicate balancing act quite gracefully, and I see no reason to disrupt that.”
   Rachel flashed on her breakfast meeting with her father and doubted that it qualified as “graceful.” Nonetheless, Zach Herney was going out of his way to be decent, and he certainly didn’t have to.
   “May I call you Rachel?” Herney asked.
   “Of course.” May I call you Zach?
   “My office,” the President said, ushering her through a carved maple door.
   The office aboard Air Force One certainly was cozier than its White House counterpart, but its furnishings still carried an air of austerity. The desk was mounded with papers, and behind it hung an imposing oil painting of a classic, three-masted schooner under full sail trying to outrun a raging storm. It seemed a perfect metaphor for Zach Herney’s presidency at the moment.
   The President offered Rachel one of the three executive chairs facing his desk. She sat. Rachel expected him to sit behind his desk, but instead he pulled one of the chairs up and sat next to her.
   Equal footing, she realized. The master of rapport.
   “Well, Rachel,” Herney said, sighing tiredly as he settled into his chair. “I imagine you’ve got to be pretty damned confused to be sitting here right now, am I right?”
   Whatever was left of Rachel’s guard crumbled away with the candor in the man’s voice. “Actually, sir, I’m baffled.”
   Herney laughed out loud. “Terrific. It’s not every day I can baffle someone from the NRO.”
   “It’s not every day someone from the NRO is invited aboard Air Force One by a President in hiking boots.”
   The President laughed again.
   A quiet rap on the office door announced the arrival of coffee. One of the flight crew entered with a steaming pewter pot and two pewter mugs on a tray. At the President’s bidding, she laid the tray on the desk and disappeared.
   “Cream and sugar?” the President asked, standing up to pour.
   “Cream, please.” Rachel savored the rich aroma. The President of the United States is personally serving me coffee?
   Zach Herney handed her a heavy pewter mug. “Authentic Paul Revere,” he said. “One of the little luxuries.”
   Rachel sipped the coffee. It was the best she had ever tasted.
   “Anyhow,” the President said, pouring himself a cup and sitting back down, “I’ve got limited time here, so let’s get to business.” The President plopped a sugar cube in his coffee and gazed up at her. “I imagine Bill Pickering warned you that the only reason I would want to see you would be to use you to my political advantage?”
   “Actually, sir, that’s exactly what he said.”
   The President chuckled. “Always the cynic.”
   “So he’s wrong?”
   “Are you kidding?” the President laughed. “Bill Pickering is never wrong. He’s dead-on as usual.”

 9
   Gabrielle Ashe gazed absently out the window of Senator Sexton’s limousine as it moved through the morning traffic toward Sexton’s office building. She wondered how the hell she had arrived at this point in her life. Personal assistant to Senator Sedgewick Sexton. This was exactly what she had wanted, wasn’t it?
   I’m sitting in a limousine with the next President of the United States.
   Gabrielle stared across the car’s plush interior at the senator, who seemed to be far away in his own thoughts. She admired his handsome features and perfect attire. He looked presidential.
   Gabrielle had first seen Sexton speak when she was a poli-sci major at Cornell University three years ago. She would never forget how his eyes probed the audience, as if sending a message directly to her—trust me. After Sexton’s speech, Gabrielle waited in line to meet him.
   “Gabrielle Ashe,” the senator said, reading her name tag. “A lovely name for a lovely young woman.” His eyes were reassuring.
   “Thank you, sir,” Gabrielle replied, feeling the man’s strength as she shook his hand. “I was really impressed by your message.”
   “Glad to hear it!” Sexton thrust a business card into her hand. “I’m always looking for bright young minds who share my vision. When you get out of school, track me down. My people may have a job for you.”
   Gabrielle opened her mouth to thank him, but the senator was already on to the next person in line. Nonetheless, in the months that followed, Gabrielle found herself following Sexton’s career on television. She watched with admiration as he spoke out against big government spending—spearheading budget cuts, streamlining the IRS to work more effectively, trimming fat at the DEA, and even abolishing redundant civil service programs. Then, when the senator’s wife died suddenly in a car crash, Gabrielle watched in awe as Sexton somehow turned the negative into a positive. Sexton rose above his personal pain and declared to the world that he would be running for the presidency and dedicating the remainder of his public service to his wife’s memory. Gabrielle decided right then and there that she wanted to work closely with Senator Sexton’s presidential campaign.
   Now she had gotten as close as anyone could get.
   Gabrielle recalled the night she had spent with Sexton in his plush office, and she cringed, trying to block out the embarrassing images in her mind. What was I thinking? She knew she should have resisted, but somehow she’d found herself unable. Sedgewick Sexton had been an idol of hers for so long... and to think he wanted her.
   The limousine hit a bump, jarring her thoughts back to the present.
   “You okay?” Sexton was watching her now.
   Gabrielle flashed a hurried smile. “Fine.”
   “You aren’t still thinking about that drudge, are you?”
   She shrugged. “I’m still a little worried, yeah.”
   “Forget it. The drudge was the best thing that ever happened to my campaign.”
   A drudge, Gabrielle had learned the hard way, was the political equivalent of leaking information that your rival used a penis enlarger or subscribed to Stud Muffin magazine. Drudging wasn’t a glamorous tactic, but when it paid off, it paid off big.
   Of course, when it backfired...
   And backfire, it had. For the White House. About a month ago, the President’s campaign staff, unsettled by the slipping polls, had decided to get aggressive and leak a story they suspected to be true—that Senator Sexton had engaged in an affair with his personal assistant, Gabrielle Ashe. Unfortunately for the White House, there was no hard evidence. Senator Sexton, a firm believer in the best defense is a strong offense, seized the moment for attack. He called a national press conference to proclaim his innocence and outrage. I cannot believe, he said, gazing into the cameras with pain in his eyes, that the President would dishonor my wife’s memory with these malicious lies.
   Senator Sexton’s performance on TV was so convincing that Gabrielle herself practically believed they had not slept together. Seeing how effortlessly he lied, Gabrielle realized that Senator Sexton was indeed a dangerous man.
   Lately, although Gabrielle was certain she was backing the strongest horse in this presidential race, she had begun to question whether she was backing the best horse. Working closely with Sexton had been an eye-opening experience—akin to a behind-the-scenes tour of Universal Studios, where one’s childlike awe over the movies is sullied by the realization that Hollywood isn’t magic after all.
   Although Gabrielle’s faith in Sexton’s message remained intact, she was beginning to question the messenger.

 10
   “What I am about to tell you, Rachel,” the President said, “is classified ‘UMBRA.’ Well beyond your current security clearance.”
   Rachel felt the walls of Air Force One closing in around her. The President had flown her to Wallops Island, invited her onboard his plane, poured her coffee, told her flat out that he intended to use her to political advantage against her own father, and now he was announcing he intended to give her classified information illegally. However affable Zach Herney appeared on the surface, Rachel Sexton had just learned something important about him. This man took control in a hurry.
   “Two weeks ago,” the President said, locking eyes with her, “NASA made a discovery.”
   The words hung a moment in the air before Rachel could process them. A NASA discovery? Recent intelligence updates had suggested nothing out of the ordinary going on with the space agency. Of course, these days a “NASA discovery” usually meant realizing they’d grossly under budgeted some new project.
   “Before we talk further,” the President said, “I’d like to know if you share your father’s cynicism over space exploration.”
   Rachel resented the comment. “I certainly hope you didn’t call me here to ask me to control my father’s rants against NASA.”
   He laughed. “Hell, no. I’ve been around the Senate long enough to know that nobody controls Sedgewick Sexton.”
   “My father is an opportunist, sir. Most successful politicians are. And unfortunately NASA has made itself an opportunity.” The recent string of NASA errors had been so unbearable that one either had to laugh or cry—satellites that disintegrated in orbit, space probes that never called home, the International Space Station budget rising tenfold and member countries bailing out like rats from a sinking ship. Billions were being lost, and Senator Sexton was riding it like a wave—a wave that seemed destined to carry him to the shores of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
   “I will admit,” the President continued, “NASA has been a walking disaster area lately. Every time I turn around, they give me yet another reason to slash their funding.”
   Rachel saw her opening for a foothold and took it. “And yet, sir, didn’t I just read that you bailed them out last week with another three million in emergency funding to keep them solvent?”
   The President chuckled. “Your father was pleased with that one, wasn’t he?”
   “Nothing like sending ammunition to your executioner.”
   “Did you hear him on Nightline? ‘Zach Herney is a space addict, and the taxpayers are funding his habit.’“
   “But you keep proving him right, sir.”
   Herney nodded. “I make it no secret that I’m an enormous fan of NASA. I always have been. I was a child of the space race—Sputnik, John Glenn, Apollo 11— and I have never hesitated to express my feelings of admiration and national pride for our space program. In my mind, the men and women of NASA are history’s modern pioneers. They attempt the impossible, accept failure, and then go back to the drawing board while the rest of us stand back and criticize.”
   Rachel remained silent, sensing that just below the President’s calm exterior was an indignant rage over her father’s endless anti-NASA rhetoric. Rachel found herself wondering what the hell NASA had found. The President was certainly taking his time coming to the point.
   “Today,” Herney said, his voice intensifying, “I intend to change your entire opinion of NASA.”
   Rachel eyed him with uncertainty. “You have my vote already, sir. You may want to concentrate on the rest of the country.”
   “I intend to.” He took a sip of coffee and smiled. “And I’m going to ask you to help me.” Pausing, he leaned toward her. “In a most unusual way.”
   Rachel could now feel Zach Herney scrutinizing her every move, like a hunter trying to gauge if his prey intended to run or fight. Unfortunately, Rachel saw nowhere to run.
   “I assume,” the President said, pouring them both more coffee, “that you’re aware of a NASA project called EOS?”
   Rachel nodded. “Earth Observation System. I believe my father has mentioned EOS once or twice.”
   The weak attempt at sarcasm drew a frown from the President. The truth was that Rachel’s father mentioned the Earth Observation System every chance he got. It was one of NASA’s most controversial big-ticket ventures—a constellation of five satellites designed to look down from space and analyze the planet’s environment: ozone depletion, polar ice melt, global warming, rainforest defoliation. The intent was to provide environmentalists with never before seen macroscopic data so that they could plan better for earth’s future.
   Unfortunately, the EOS project had been wrought with failure. Like so many NASA projects of late, it had been plagued with costly overruns right from the start. And Zach Herney was the one taking the heat. He had used the support of the environmental lobby to push the $1.4 billion EOS project through Congress. But rather than delivering the promised contributions to global earth science, EOS had spiraled quickly into a costly nightmare of failed launches, computer malfunctions, and somber NASA press conferences. The only smiling face lately was that of Senator Sexton, who was smugly reminding voters just how much of their money the President had spent on EOS and just how lukewarm the returns had been.
   The President dropped a sugar cube into his mug. “As surprising as this may sound, the NASA discovery I’m referring to was made by EOS.”
   Now Rachel felt lost. If EOS had enjoyed a recent success, NASA certainly would have announced it, wouldn’t they? Her father had been crucifying EOS in the media, and the space agency could use any good news they could find.
   “I’ve heard nothing,” Rachel said, “about any EOS discovery.”
   “I know. NASA prefers to keep the good news to themselves for a while.”
   Rachel doubted it. “In my experience, sir, when it comes to NASA, no news is generally bad news.” Restraint was not a forte of the NASA public relations department. The standing joke at the NRO was that NASA held a press conference every time one of their scientists so much as farted.
   The President frowned. “Ah, yes. I forget I’m talking to one of Pickering’s NRO security disciples. Is he still moaning and groaning about NASA’s loose lips?”
   “Security is his business, sir. He takes it very seriously.”
   “He damn well better. I just find it hard to believe that two agencies with so much in common constantly find something to fight about.”
   Rachel had learned early in her tenure under William Pickering that although both NASA and the NRO were space-related agencies, they had philosophies that were polar opposites. The NRO was a defense agency and kept all of its space activities classified, while NASA was academic and excitedly publicized all of its breakthroughs around the globe—often, William Pickering argued, at the risk of national security. Some of NASA’s finest technologies—high-resolution lenses for satellite telescopes, long-range communications systems, and radio imaging devices—had a nasty habit of appearing in the intelligence arsenal of hostile countries and being used to spy against us. Bill Pickering often grumbled that NASA scientists had big brains... and even bigger mouths.
   A more pointed issue between the agencies, however, was the fact that because NASA handled the NRO’s satellite launches, many of NASA’s recent failures directly affected the NRO. No failure had been more dramatic than that of August 12, 1998, when a NASA/Air Force Titan 4 rocket blew up forty seconds into launch and obliterated its payload—a $1.2 billion NRO satellite code-named Vortex 2. Pickering seemed particularly unwilling to forget that one.
   “So why hasn’t NASA gone public about this recent success?” Rachel challenged. “They certainly could use some good news right now.”
   “NASA is being silent,” the President declared, “because I ordered them to be.”
   Rachel wondered if she had heard him correctly. If so, the President was committing some kind of political hara-kiri that she did not understand.
   “This discovery,” the President said, “is... shall we say... nothing short of astounding in its ramifications.”
   Rachel felt an uneasy chill. In the world of intelligence, “astounding ramifications” seldom meant good news. She now wondered if all the EOS secrecy was on account of the satellite system having spotted some impending environmental disaster. “Is there a problem?”
   “No problem at all. What EOS discovered is quite wonderful.”
   Rachel fell silent.
   “Suppose, Rachel, that I told you NASA has just made a discovery of such scientific importance... such earth-shattering significance... that it validated every dollar Americans have ever spent in space?”
   Rachel could not imagine.
   The President stood up. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

 11
   Rachel followed President Herney out onto the glistening gangway of Air Force One. As they descended the stairs, Rachel felt the bleak March air clearing her mind. Unfortunately, clarity only made the President’s claims seem more outlandish than before.
   NASA made a discovery of such scientific importance that it validates every dollar Americans have ever spent in space?
   Rachel could only imagine that a discovery of that magnitude would only center on one thing—the holy grail of NASA—contact with extraterrestrial life. Unfortunately, Rachel knew enough about that particular holy grail to know it was utterly implausible.
   As an intelligence analyst, Rachel constantly fielded questions from friends who wanted to know about the alleged government cover-ups of alien contact. She was consistently appalled by the theories her “educated” friends bought into—crashed alien saucers hidden in secret government bunkers, extraterrestrial corpses kept on ice, even unsuspecting civilians being abducted and surgically probed.
   It was all absurd, of course. There were no aliens. No cover-ups.
   Everyone in the intelligence community understood that the vast majority of sightings and alien abductions were simply the product of active imaginations or moneymaking hoaxes. When authentic photographic UFO evidence did exist, it had a strange habit of occurring near U.S. military airbases that were testing advanced classified aircraft. When Lockheed began air-testing a radical new jet called the Stealth Bomber, UFO sightings around Edwards Air Force Base increased fifteen-fold.
   “You have a skeptical look on your face,” the President said, eyeing her askance.
   The sound of his voice startled Rachel. She glanced over, unsure how to respond. “Well...” She hesitated. “May I assume, sir, that we are not talking about alien spacecrafts or little green men?”
   The President looked quietly amused. “Rachel, I think you’ll find this discovery far more intriguing than science fiction.”
   Rachel was relieved to hear NASA had not been so desperate as to try selling the President on an alien story. Nonetheless, his comment served only to deepen the mystery. “Well,” she said, “whatever NASA found, I must say the timing is exceptionally convenient.”
   Herney paused on the gangway. “Convenient? How so?”
   How so? Rachel stopped and stared. “Mr. President, NASA is currently in a life or death battle to justify its very existence, and you are under attack for continuing to fund it. A major NASA breakthrough right now would be a panacea for both NASA and your campaign. Your critics will obviously find the timing highly suspect.”
   “So... are you calling me a liar or a fool?”
   Rachel felt a knot rise in her throat. “I meant no disrespect, sir. I simply—”
   “Relax.” A faint grin grew on Herney’s lips, and he started to descend again. “When the NASA administrator first told me about this discovery, I flat out rejected it as absurd. I accused him of masterminding the most transparent political sham in history.”
   Rachel felt the knot in her throat dissolve somewhat.
   At the bottom of the ramp, Herney stopped and looked at her. “One reason I’ve asked NASA to keep their discovery under wraps is to protect them. The magnitude of this find is well beyond anything NASA has ever announced. It will make landing men on the moon seem insignificant. Because everyone, myself included, has so much to gain—and lose—I thought it prudent for someone to double-check the NASA data before we step into the world spotlight with a formal announcement.”
   Rachel was startled. “Certainly you can’t mean me, sir?”
   The President laughed. “No, this is not your area of expertise. Besides, I’ve already achieved verification through extragovernmental channels.”
   Rachel’s relief gave way to a new mystification. “Extragovernmental, sir? You mean you used the private sector? On something this classified?”
   The President nodded with conviction. “I put together an external confirmation team—four civilian scientists—non-NASA personnel with big names and serious reputations to protect. They used their own equipment to make observations and come to their own conclusions. Over the past forty-eight hours, these civilian scientists have confirmed the NASA discovery beyond the shadow of a doubt.”
   Now Rachel was impressed. The President had protected himself with typical Herney aplomb. By hiring the ultimate team of skeptics—outsiders who had nothing to gain by confirming the NASA discovery—Herney had immunized himself against suspicions that this might be a desperate NASA ploy to justify its budget, reelect their NASA-friendly President, and ward off Senator Sexton’s attacks.
   “Tonight at eight p.m.,” Herney said, “I will be calling a press conference at the White House to announce this discovery to the world.”
   Rachel felt frustrated. Herney had essentially told her nothing. “And this discovery is what, precisely?”
   The President smiled. “You will find patience a virtue today. This discovery is something you need to see for yourself. I need you to understand this situation fully before we proceed. The administrator of NASA is waiting to brief you. He will tell you everything you need to know. Afterward, you and I will further discuss your role.”
   Rachel sensed an impending drama in the President’s eyes and recalled Pickering’s hunch that the White House had something up its sleeve. Pickering, it appeared, was right, as usual.
   Herney motioned to a nearby airplane hangar. “Follow me,” he said, walking toward it.
   Rachel followed, confused. The building before them had no windows, and its towering bay doors were sealed. The only access seemed to be a small entryway on the side. The door was ajar. The President guided Rachel to within a few feet of the door and stopped.
   “End of the line for me,” he said, motioning to the door. “You go through there.”
   Rachel hesitated. “You’re not coming?”
   “I need to return to the White House. I’ll speak to you shortly. Do you have a cellphone?”
   “Of course, sir.”
   “Give it to me.”
   Rachel produced her phone and handed it to him, assuming he intended to program a private contact number into it. Instead, he slipped her phone into his pocket.
   “You’re now off-the-grid,” the President said. “All your responsibilities at work have been covered. You will not speak to anyone else today without express permission from myself or the NASA administrator. Do you understand?”
   Rachel stared. Did the President just steal my cell-phone?
   “After the administrator briefs you on the discovery, he will put you in contact with me via secure channels. I’ll talk to you soon. Good luck.”
   Rachel looked at the hangar door and felt a growing uneasiness.
   President Herney put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and nodded toward the door. “I assure you, Rachel, you will not regret assisting me in this matter.”
   Without another word, the President strode toward the PaveHawk that had brought Rachel in. He climbed aboard, and took off. He never once looked back.

 12
   Rachel Sexton stood alone on the threshold of the isolated Wallops hangar and peered into the blackness beyond. She felt like she was on the cusp of another world. A cool and musty breeze flowed outward from the cavernous interior, as if the building were breathing.
   “Hello?” she called out, her voice wavering slightly.
   Silence.
   With rising trepidation, she stepped over the threshold. Her vision went blank for an instant as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness.
   “Ms. Sexton, I presume?” a man’s voice said, only yards away.
   Rachel jumped, wheeling toward the sound. “Yes, sir.”
   The hazy shape of a man approached.
   As Rachel’s vision cleared, she found herself standing face to face with a young, stone-jawed buck in a NASA flight suit. His body was fit and muscle-bound, his chest bedecked with patches.
   “Commander Wayne Loosigian,” the man said. “Sorry if I startled you, ma’am. It’s pretty dark in here. I haven’t had a chance to open the bay doors yet.” Before Rachel could respond, the man added, “It will be my honor to be your pilot this morning.”
   “Pilot?” Rachel stared at the man. I just had a pilot. “I’m here to see the administrator.”
   “Yes, ma’am. My orders are to transport you to him immediately.”
   It took a moment for the statement to sink in. When it hit her, she felt a stab of deceit. Apparently, her travels were not over. “Where is the administrator?” Rachel demanded, wary now.
   “I do not have that information,” the pilot replied. “I will receive his coordinates after we are airborne.”
   Rachel sensed that the man was telling the truth. Apparently she and Director Pickering were not the only two people being kept in the dark this morning. The President was taking the issue of security very seriously, and Rachel felt embarrassed by how quickly and effortlessly the President had taken her “off-the-grid.” Half an hour in the field, and I’m already stripped of all communication, and my director has no idea where I am.
   Standing now before her stiff-backed NASA pilot, Rachel had little doubt her morning plans were cast in stone. This carnival ride was leaving with Rachel onboard whether she liked it or not. The only question was where it was headed.
   The pilot strode over to the wall and pressed a button. The far side of the hangar began sliding loudly to one side. Light poured in from the outside, silhouetting a large object in the center of the hangar.
   Rachel’s mouth fell open. God help me.
   There in the middle of the hangar stood a ferocious-looking black fighter jet. It was the most streamlined aircraft Rachel had ever seen.
   “You are joking,” she said.
   “Common first reaction, ma’am, but the F-14 Tomcat Split-tail is a highly proven craft.”
   It’s a missile with wings.
   The pilot led Rachel toward his craft. He motioned to the dual cockpit. “You’ll be riding in back.”
   “Really?” She gave him a tight smile. “And here I thought you wanted me to drive.”

* * *

   After donning a thermal flight suit over her clothes, Rachel found herself climbing into the cockpit. Awkwardly, she wedged her hips into the narrow seat.
   “NASA obviously has no fat-assed pilots,” she said.
   The pilot gave a grin as he helped Rachel buckle herself in. Then he slid a helmet over her head.
   “We’ll be flying pretty high,” he said. “You’ll want oxygen.” He pulled an oxygen mask from the side dash and began snapping it onto her helmet.
   “I can manage,” Rachel said, reaching up and taking over.
   “Of course, ma’am.”
   Rachel fumbled with the molded mouthpiece and then finally snapped it onto her helmet. The mask’s fit was surprisingly awkward and uncomfortable.
   The commander stared at her for a long moment, looking vaguely amused.
   “Is something wrong?” she demanded.
   “Not at all, ma’am.” He seemed to be hiding a smirk. “Hack sacks are under your seat. Most people get sick their first time in a split-tail.”
   “I should be fine,” Rachel assured him, her voice muffled by the smothering fit of the mask. “I’m not prone to motion sickness.”
   The pilot shrugged. “A lot of Navy Seals say the same thing, and I’ve cleaned plenty of Seal puke out of my cockpit.”
   She nodded weakly. Lovely.
   “Any questions before we go?”
   Rachel hesitated a moment and then tapped on the mouthpiece cutting into her chin. “It’s cutting off my circulation. How do you wear these things on long flights?”
   The pilot smiled patiently. “Well, ma’am, we don’t usually wear them upside down.”

* * *

   Poised at the end of the runway, engines throbbing beneath her, Rachel felt like a bullet in a gun waiting for someone to pull the trigger. When the pilot pushed the throttle forward, the Tomcat’s twin Lockheed 345 engines roared to life, and the entire world shook. The brakes released, and Rachel slammed backward in her seat. The jet tore down the runway and lifted off within a matter of seconds. Outside, the earth dropped away at a dizzying rate.
   Rachel closed her eyes as the plane rocketed skyward. She wondered where she had gone wrong this morning. She was supposed to be at a desk writing gists. Now she was straddling a testosterone-fueled torpedo and breathing through an oxygen mask.
   By the time the Tomcat leveled out at forty-five thousand feet, Rachel was feeling queasy. She willed herself to focus her thoughts elsewhere. Gazing down at the ocean nine miles below, Rachel felt suddenly far from home.
   Up front, the pilot was talking to someone on the radio. When the conversation ended, the pilot hung up the radio, and immediately banked the Tomcat sharply left. The plane tipped almost to the vertical, and Rachel felt her stomach do a somersault. Finally, the plane leveled out again.
   Rachel groaned. “Thanks for the warning, hotshot.”
   “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ve just been given the classified coordinates of your meeting with the administrator.”
   “Let me guess,” Rachel said. “Due north?”
   The pilot seemed confused. “How did you know that!”
   Rachel sighed. You gotta love these computer-trained pilots. “It’s nine a.m., sport, and the sun is on our right. We’re flying north.”
   There was a moment of silence from the cockpit. “Yes, ma’am, we’ll be traveling north this morning.”
   “And how far north are we going?”
   The pilot checked the coordinates. “Approximately three thousand miles.”
   Rachel sat bolt upright. “What!” She tried to picture a map, unable even to imagine what was that far north. “That’s a four-hour flight!”
   “At our current speed, yes,” the pilot said. “Hold on, please.”
   Before Rachel could respond, the man retracted the F-14’s wings into low-drag position. An instant later, Rachel felt herself slammed into her seat yet again as the plane shot forward as though it had been standing still. Within a minute they were cruising at almost 1,500 miles per hour.
   Rachel was feeling dizzy now. As the sky tore by with blinding speed, she felt an uncontrollable wave of nausea hit her. The President’s voice echoed faintly. I assure you, Rachel, you will not regret assisting me in this matter.
   Groaning, Rachel reached for her hack sack. Never trust a politician.

 13
   Although he disliked the menial filth of public taxis, Senator Sedgewick Sexton had learned to endure the occasional demeaning moment along his road to glory. The grungy Mayflower cab that had just deposited him in the lower parking garage of the Purdue Hotel afforded Sexton something his stretch limousine could not—anonymity.
   He was pleased to find this lower level deserted, only a few dusty cars dotting a forest of cement pillars. As he made his way diagonally across the garage on foot, Sexton glanced at his watch.
   11:15 a.m. Perfect.
   The man with whom Sexton was meeting was always touchy about punctuality. Then again, Sexton reminded himself, considering who the man represented, he could be touchy about any damned thing he wanted.
   Sexton saw the white Ford Windstar minivan parked in exactly the same spot as it had been for every one of their meetings—in the eastern corner of the garage, behind a row of trash bins. Sexton would have preferred to meet this man in a suite upstairs, but he certainly understood the precautions. This man’s friends had not gotten to where they were by being careless.
   As Sexton moved toward the van, he felt the familiar edginess that he always experienced before these encounters. Forcing himself to relax his shoulders, he climbed into the passenger’s seat with a cheery wave. The dark-haired gentleman in the driver’s seat did not smile. The man was almost seventy years old, but his leathery complexion exuded a toughness appropriate to his post as figurehead of an army of brazen visionaries and ruthless entrepreneurs.
   “Close the door,” the man said, his voice callous.
   Sexton obeyed, tolerating the man’s gruffness graciously. After all, this man represented men who controlled enormous sums of money, much of which had been pooled recently to poise Sedgewick Sexton on the threshold of the most powerful office in the world. These meetings, Sexton had come to understand, were less strategy sessions than they were monthly reminders of just how beholden the senator had become to his benefactors. These men were expecting a serious return on their investment. The “return,” Sexton had to admit, was a shockingly bold demand; and yet, almost more incredibly, it was something that would be within Sexton’s sphere of influence once he took the Oval Office.
   “I assume,” Sexton said, having learned how this man liked to get down to business, “that another installment has been made?”
   “It has. And as usual, you are to use these funds solely for your campaign. We have been pleased to see the polls shifting consistently in your favor, and it appears your campaign managers have been spending our money effectively.”
   “We’re gaining fast.”
   “As I mentioned to you on the phone,” the old man said, “I have persuaded six more to meet with you tonight.”
   “Excellent.” Sexton had blocked off the time already.
   The old man handed Sexton a folder. “Here is their information. Study it. They want to know you understand their concerns specifically. They want to know you are sympathetic. I suggest you meet them at your residence.”
   “My home? But I usually meet—”
   “Senator, these six men run companies that possess resources well in excess of the others you have met. These men are the big fish, and they are wary. They have more to gain and therefore more to lose. I’ve worked hard to persuade them to meet with you. They will require special handling. A personal touch.”
   Sexton gave a quick nod. “Absolutely. I can arrange a meeting at my home.”
   “Of course, they will want total privacy.”
   “As will I.”
   “Good luck,” the old man said. “If tonight goes well, it could be your last meeting. These men alone can provide what is needed to push the Sexton campaign over the top.”
   Sexton liked the sound of that. He gave the old man a confident smile. “With luck, my friend, come election time, we will all claim victory.”
   “Victory?” The old man scowled, leaning toward Sexton with ominous eyes. “Putting you in the White House is only the first step toward victory, senator. I assume you have not forgotten that.”

 14
   The White House is one of the smallest presidential mansions in the world, measuring only 170 feet in length, 85 feet in depth, and sitting on a mere 18 acres of landscaped grounds. Architect James Hoban’s plan for a box-like stone structure with a hipped roof, balustrade, and columnar entrance, though clearly unoriginal, was selected from the open design contest by judges who praised it as “attractive, dignified, and flexible.”
   President Zach Herney, even after three and a half years in the White House, seldom felt at home here among the maze of chandeliers, antiques, and armed Marines. At the moment, however, as he strode toward the West Wing, he felt invigorated and oddly at ease, his feet almost weightless on the plush carpeting.
   Several members of the White House staff looked up as the President approached. Herney waved and greeted each by name. Their responses, though polite, were subdued and accompanied by forced smiles.
   “Good morning, Mr. President.”
   “Nice to see you, Mr. President.”
   “Good day, sir.”
   As the President made his way toward his office, he sensed whisperings in his wake. There was an insurrection afoot inside the White House. For the past couple of weeks, the disillusionment at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue had been growing to a point where Herney was starting to feel like Captain Bligh—commanding a struggling ship whose crew was preparing for mutiny.
   The President didn’t blame them. His staff had worked grueling hours to support him in the upcoming election, and now, all of a sudden, it seemed the President was fumbling the ball.
   Soon they will understand, Herney told himself. Soon I’ll be the hero again.
   He regretted having to keep his staff in the dark for so long, but secrecy was absolutely critical. And when it came to keeping secrets, the White House was known as the leakiest ship in Washington.
   Herney arrived in the waiting room outside the Oval Office and gave his secretary a cheery wave. “You look nice this morning, Dolores.”
   “You too, sir,” she said, eyeing his casual attire with unveiled disapproval.
   Herney lowered his voice. “I’d like you to organize a meeting for me.”
   “With whom, sir?”
   “The entire White House staff.”
   His secretary glanced up. “Your entire staff, sir? All 145 of them?”
   “Exactly.”
   She looked uneasy. “Okay. Shall I set it up in... the Briefing Room?”
   Herney shook his head. “No. Let’s set it up in my office.”
   Now she stared. “You want to see your entire staff inside the Oval Office?”
   “Exactly.”
   “All at once, sir?”
   “Why not? Set it up for four p.m.”
   The secretary nodded as though humoring a mental patient. “Very well, sir. And the meeting is regarding...?”
   “I have an important announcement to make to the American people tonight. I want my staff to hear it first.”
   A sudden dejected look swept across his secretary’s face, almost as if she had secretly been dreading this moment. She lowered her voice. “Sir, are you pulling out of the race?”
   Herney burst out laughing. “Hell no, Dolores! I’m gearing up to fight!”
   She looked doubtful. The media reports had all been saying President Herney was throwing the election.
   He gave her a reassuring wink. “Dolores, you’ve done a terrific job for me these past few years, and you’ll do a terrific job for me for another four. We’re keeping the White House. I swear it.”
   His secretary looked like she wanted to believe it. “Very well, sir. I’ll alert the staff. Four p.m.”

* * *

   As Zach Herney entered the Oval Office, he couldn’t help but smile at the image of his entire staff crammed into the deceptively small chamber.
   Although this great office had enjoyed many nicknames over the years—the Loo, Dick’s Den, the Clinton Bedroom—Herney’s favorite was “the Lobster Trap.” It seemed most fitting. Each time a newcomer entered the Oval Office, disorientation set in immediately. The symmetry of the room, the gently curving walls, the discreetly disguised doorways in and out, all gave visitors the dizzying sense they’d been blindfolded and spun around. Often, after a meeting in the Oval Office, a visiting dignitary would stand up, shake hands with the President, and march straight into a storage closet. Depending on how the meeting had gone, Herney would either stop the guest in time or watch in amusement as the visitor embarrassed himself.
   Herney had always believed the most dominating aspect of the Oval Office was the colorful American eagle emblazoned on the room’s oval carpet. The eagle’s left talon clutched an olive branch and his right a bundle of arrows. Few outsiders knew that during times of peace, the eagle faced left—toward the olive branch. But in times of war, the eagle mysteriously faced right—toward the arrows. The mechanism behind this little parlor trick was the source of quiet speculation among White House staff because it was traditionally known only by the President and the head of housekeeping. The truth behind the enigmatic eagle, Herney had found to be disappointingly mundane. A storage room in the basement contained the second oval carpet, and housekeeping simply swapped the carpets in the dead of night.
   Now, as Herney gazed down at the peaceful, left-gazing eagle, he smiled to think that perhaps he should swap carpets in honor of the little war he was about to launch against Senator Sedgewick Sexton.

 15
   The U.S. Delta Force is the sole fighting squad whose actions are granted complete presidential immunity from the law.
   Presidential Decision Directive 25 (PDD 25) grants Delta Force soldiers “freedom from all legal accountability,” including exception from the 1876 Posse Comitatus Act, a statute imposing criminal penalties for anyone using the military for personal gain, domestic law enforcement, or unsanctioned covert operations. Delta Force members are handpicked from the Combat Applications Group (CAG), a classified organization within the Special Operations Command in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Delta Force soldiers are trained killers—experts in SWAT operations, rescuing hostages, surprise raids, and elimination of covert enemy forces.
   Because Delta Force missions usually involve high levels of secrecy, the traditional multitiered chain of command is often circumvented in favor of “monocaput” management—a single controller who holds authority to control the unit as he or she sees fit. The controller tends to be a military or government powerbroker with sufficient rank or influence to run the mission. Regardless of the identity of their controller, Delta Force missions are classified at the highest level, and once a mission is completed, Delta Force soldiers never speak of it again—not to one another, and not to their commanding officers within Special Ops.
   Fly. Fight. Forget.
   The Delta team currently stationed above the Eighty-second Parallel was doing no flying or fighting. They were simply watching.
   Delta-One had to admit that this had been a most unusual mission so far, but he had learned long ago never to be surprised by what he was asked to do. In the past five years he had been involved in Middle East hostage rescues, tracking and exterminating terrorist cells working inside the United States, and even the discreet elimination of several dangerous men and women around the globe.
   Just last month his Delta team had used a flying microbot to induce a lethal heart attack in a particularly malicious South American drug lord. Using a microbot equipped with a hairline titanium needle containing a potent vasoconstrictor, Delta-Two had flown the device into the man’s house through an open second-story window, found the man’s bedroom, and then pricked him on the shoulder while he was sleeping. The microbot was back out the window and “feet dry” before the man woke up with chest pain. The Delta team was already flying home by the time its victim’s wife was calling the paramedics.
   No breaking and entering.
   Death by natural causes.
   It had been a thing of beauty.
   More recently, another microbot stationed inside a prominent senator’s office to monitor his personal meetings had captured images of a lurid sexual encounter. The Delta team jokingly referred to that mission as “insertion behind enemy lines.”
   Now, after being trapped on surveillance duty inside this tent for the last ten days, Delta-One was ready for this mission to be over.
   Remain in hiding.
   Monitor the structure—inside and out.
   Report to your controller any unexpected developments.
   Delta-One had been trained never to feel any emotion regarding his assignments. This mission, however, had certainly raised his heart rate when he and his team were first briefed. The briefing had been “faceless”—every phase explained via secure electronic channels. Delta-One had never met the controller responsible for this mission.
   Delta-One was preparing a dehydrated protein meal when his watch beeped in unison with the others. Within seconds the CrypTalk communications device beside him blinked on alert. He stopped what he was doing and picked up the handheld communicator. The other two men watched in silence.
   “Delta-One,” he said, speaking into the transmitter.
   The two words were instantly identified by the voice recognition software inside the device. Each word was then assigned a reference number, which was encrypted and sent via satellite to the caller. On the caller’s end, at a similar device, the numbers were decrypted, translated back into words using a predetermined, self-randomizing dictionary. Then the words were spoken aloud by a synthetic voice. Total delay, eighty milliseconds.
   “Controller, here,” said the person overseeing the operation. The robotic tone of the CrypTalk was eerie—inorganic and androgynous. “What is your op status?”
   “Everything proceeding as planned,” Delta-One replied.
   “Excellent. I have an update on the time frame. The information goes public tonight at eight p.m. Eastern.”
   Delta-One checked his chronograph. Only eight more hours. His job here would be finished soon. That was encouraging.
   “There is another development,” the controller said. “A new player has entered the arena.”
   “What new player?”
   Delta-One listened. An interesting gamble. Someone out there was playing for keeps. “Do you think she can be trusted?”
   “She needs to be watched very closely.”
   “And if there is trouble?”
   There was no hesitation on the line. “Your orders stand.”

 16
   Rachel Sexton had been flying due north for over an hour. Other than a fleeting glimpse of Newfoundland, she had seen nothing but water beneath the F-14 for the entire journey.
   Why did it have to be water? she thought, grimacing. Rachel had plunged through the ice on a frozen pond while ice-skating when she was seven. Trapped beneath the surface, she was certain she would die. It had been her mother’s powerful grasp that finally yanked Rachel’s waterlogged body to safety. Ever since that harrowing ordeal, Rachel had battled a persistent case of hydrophobia—a distinct wariness of open water, especially cold water. Today, with nothing but the North Atlantic as far as Rachel could see, her old fears had come creeping back.
   Not until the pilot checked his bearings with Thule airbase in northern Greenland did Rachel realize how far they had traveled. I’m above the Arctic Circle? The revelation intensified her uneasiness. Where are they taking me? What has NASA found? Soon the blue-gray expanse below her became speckled with thousands of stark white dots.
   Icebergs.
   Rachel had seen icebergs only once before in her life, six years ago when her mother persuaded Rachel to join her on an Alaskan mother-daughter cruise. Rachel had suggested a number of alternative land –based vacations, but her mother was insistent. “Rachel, honey,” her mother had said, “two thirds of this planet is covered with water, and sooner or later, you’ve got to learn to deal with it.” Mrs. Sexton was a resilient New Englander intent on raising a strong daughter.
   The cruise had been the last trip Rachel and her mother ever took.
   Katherine Wentworth Sexton. Rachel felt a distant pang of loneliness. Like the howling wind outside the plane, the memories came tearing back, pulling at her the way they always did. Their final conversation had been by phone. Thanksgiving morning.
   “I’m so sorry, Mom,” Rachel said, phoning home from a snowbound O’Hare airport. “I know our family has never spent Thanksgiving Day apart. It looks like today will be our first.”
   Rachel’s mom sounded crushed. “I was so looking forward to seeing you.”
   “Me too, Mom. Think of me eating airport food while you and Dad feast on turkey.”
   There was a pause on the line. “Rachel, I wasn’t going to tell you until you got here, but your father says he has too much work to make it home this year. He’ll be staying at his D.C. suite for the long weekend.”
   “What!” Rachel’s surprise gave way immediately to anger. “But, it’s Thanksgiving. The Senate isn’t in session! He’s less than two hours away. He should be with you!”
   “I know. He says he’s exhausted—far too tired to drive. He’s decided he needs to spend this weekend curled up with his backlog of work.”
   Work? Rachel was skeptical. A more likely guess was that Senator Sexton would be curled up with another woman. His infidelities, though discreet, had been going on for years. Mrs. Sexton was no fool, but her husband’s affairs were always accompanied by persuasive alibis and pained indignity at the mere suggestion he could be unfaithful. Finally, Mrs. Sexton saw no alternative but to bury her pain by turning a blind eye. Although Rachel had urged her mother to consider divorce, Katherine Wentworth Sexton was a woman of her word. Till death do us part, she told Rachel. Your father blessed me with you—a beautiful daughter—and for that I thank him. He will have to answer for his actions to a higher power someday.
   Now, standing in the airport, Rachel’s anger was simmering. “But, this means you’ll be alone for Thanksgiving!” She felt sick to her stomach. The senator deserting his family on Thanksgiving Day was a new low, even for him.
   “Well...” Mrs. Sexton said, her voice disappointed but decisive. “I obviously can’t let all this food go to waste. I’ll drive it up to Aunt Ann’s. She’s always invited us up for Thanksgiving. I’ll give her a call right now.”
   Rachel felt only marginally less guilty. “Okay. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I love you, Mom.”
   “Safe flight, sweetheart.”
   It was 10:30 that night when Rachel’s taxi finally pulled up the winding driveway of the Sextons’ luxurious estate. Rachel immediately knew something was wrong. Three police cars sat in the driveway. Several news vans too. All the house lights were on. Rachel dashed in, her heart racing.
   A Virginia State policeman met her at the doorway. His face was grim. He didn’t have to say a word. Rachel knew. There had been an accident.
   “Route Twenty-five was slick with freezing rain,” the officer said. “Your mother went off the road into a wooded ravine. I’m sorry. She died on impact.”
   Rachel’s body went numb. Her father, having returned immediately when he got the news, was now in the living room holding a small press conference, stoically announcing to the world that his wife had passed away in a crash on her way back from Thanksgiving dinner with family.
   Rachel stood in the wings, sobbing through the entire event.
   “I only wish,” her father told the media, his eyes tearful, “that I had been home for her this weekend. This never would have happened.”
   You should have thought of that years ago, Rachel cried, her loathing for her father deepening with every passing instant.
   From that moment on, Rachel divorced herself from her father in the way Mrs. Sexton never had. The senator barely seemed to notice. He suddenly had gotten very busy using his late wife’s fortunes to begin courting his party’s nomination for president. The sympathy vote didn’t hurt either.
   Cruelly now, three years later, even at a distance the senator was making Rachel’s life lonely. Her father’s run for the White House had put Rachel’s dreams of meeting a man and starting a family on indefinite hold. For Rachel it had become far easier to take herself completely out of the social game than to deal with the endless stream of power-hungry Washingtonian suitors hoping to snag a grieving, potential “first daughter” while she was still in their league.

* * *

   Outside the F-14, the daylight had started to fade. It was late winter in the Arctic—a time of perpetual darkness. Rachel realized she was flying into a land of permanent night.
   As the minutes passed, the sun faded entirely, dropping below the horizon. They continued north, and a brilliant three-quarter moon appeared, hanging white in the crystalline glacial air. Far below, the ocean waves shimmered, the icebergs looking like diamonds sewn into a dark sequin mesh.
   Finally, Rachel spotted the hazy outline of land. But it was not what she had expected. Looming out of the ocean before the plane was an enormous snowcapped mountain range.
   “Mountains?” Rachel asked, confused. “There are mountains north of Greenland?”
   “Apparently,” the pilot said, sounding equally surprised.
   As the nose of the F-14 tipped downward, Rachel felt an eerie weightlessness. Through the ringing in her ears she could hear a repeated electronic ping in the cockpit. The pilot had apparently locked on to some kind of directional beacon and was following it in.
   As they passed below three thousand feet, Rachel stared out at the dramatic moonlit terrain beneath them. At the base of the mountains, an expansive, snowy plain swept wide. The plateau spread gracefully seaward about ten miles until it ended abruptly at a sheer cliff of solid ice that dropped vertically into the ocean.
   It was then that Rachel saw it. A sight like nothing she had ever seen anywhere on earth. At first she thought the moonlight must be playing tricks on her. She squinted down at the snowfields, unable to comprehend what she was looking at. The lower the plane descended, the clearer the image became.
   What in the name of God?
   The plateau beneath them was striped... as if someone had painted the snow with three huge striations of silver paint. The glistening strips ran parallel to the coastal cliff. Not until the plane dropped past five hundred feet did the optical illusion reveal itself. The three silver stripes were deep troughs, each one over thirty yards wide. The troughs had filled with water and frozen into broad, silvery channels that stretched in parallel across the plateau. The white berms between them were mounded dikes of snow.
   As they dropped toward the plateau, the plane started bucking and bouncing in heavy turbulence. Rachel heard the landing gear engage with a heavy clunk, but she still saw no landing strip. As the pilot struggled to keep the plane under control, Rachel peered out and spotted two lines of blinking strobes straddling the outermost ice trough. She realized to her horror what the pilot was about to do.
   “We’re landing on ice?” she demanded.
   The pilot did not respond. He was concentrating on the buffeting wind. Rachel felt a drag in her gut as the craft decelerated and dropped toward the ice channel. High snow berms rose on either side of the aircraft, and Rachel held her breath, knowing the slightest miscalculation in the narrow channel would mean certain death. The wavering plane dropped lower between the berms, and the turbulence suddenly disappeared. Sheltered there from the wind, the plane touched down perfectly on the ice.
   The Tomcat’s rear thrusters roared, slowing the plane. Rachel exhaled. The jet taxied about a hundred yards farther and rolled to a stop at a red line spray-painted boldly across the ice.
   The view to the right was nothing but a wall of snow in the moonlight—the side of an ice berm. The view on the left was identical. Only through the windshield ahead of them did Rachel have any visibility... an endless expanse of ice. She felt like she had landed on a dead planet. Aside from the line on the ice, there were no signs of life.
   Then Rachel heard it. In the distance, another engine was approaching. Higher pitched. The sound grew louder until a machine came into view. It was a large, multitreaded snow tractor churning toward them up the ice trough. Tall and spindly, it looked like a towering futuristic insect grinding toward them on voracious spinning feet. Mounted high on the chassis was an enclosed Plexiglas cabin with a rack of floodlights illuminating its way.
   The machine shuddered to a halt directly beside the F-14. The door on the Plexiglas cabin opened, and a figure climbed down a ladder onto the ice. He was bundled from head to foot in a puffy white jumpsuit that gave the impression he had been inflated.
   Mad Max meets the Pillsbury Dough Boy, Rachel thought, relieved at least to see this strange planet was inhabited.
   The man signaled for the F-14 pilot to pop the hatch.
   The pilot obeyed.
   When the cockpit opened, the gust of air that tore through Rachel’s body chilled her instantly to the core.
   Close the damn lid!
   “Ms. Sexton?” the figure called up to her. His accent was American. “On behalf of NASA, I welcome you.”
   Rachel was shivering. Thanks a million.
   “Please unhook your flight harness, leave your helmet in the craft, and deplane by using the fuselage toe-holds. Do you have any questions?”
   “Yes,” Rachel shouted back. “Where the hell am I?”