77
   The U.S. military’s fleet of “repo” aircraft repossessed during drug-trade arrests consisted of over a dozen private jets, including three reconditioned G4s used for transporting military VIPs. A half hour ago, one of those G4s had lifted off the Thule runway, fought its way above the storm, and was now pounding southward into the Canadian night en route to Washington. Onboard, Rachel Sexton, Michael Tolland, and Corky Marlinson had the eight-seat cabin to themselves, looking like some kind of disheveled sports team in their matching blue U.S.S. Charlotte jumpsuits and caps.
   Despite the roar of the Grumman engines, Corky Marlinson was asleep in the rear. Tolland sat near the front, looking exhausted as he gazed out the window at the sea. Rachel was beside him, knowing she could not sleep even if she’d been sedated. Her mind churned through the mystery of the meteorite, and, most recently, the dead room conversation with Pickering. Before signing off, Pickering had given Rachel two additional pieces of disturbing information.
   First, Marjorie Tench claimed to possess a video recording of Rachel’s private deposition to the White House staff. Tench was now threatening to use the video as evidence if Rachel tried to go back on her confirmation of the meteorite data. The news was particularly unsettling because Rachel had specifically told Zach Herney that her remarks to the staff were for in-house use only. Apparently Zach Herney had ignored that request.
   The second bit of troubling news dealt with a CNN debate her father had attended earlier in the afternoon. Apparently, Marjorie Tench had made a rare appearance and deftly baited Rachel’s father into crystallizing his position against NASA. More specifically, Tench had cajoled him into crudely proclaiming his skepticism that extraterrestrial life would ever be found.
   Eat his hat? That’s what Pickering said her father had offered to do if NASA ever found extraterrestrial life. Rachel wondered how Tench had managed to coax out that propitious little sound bite. Clearly, the White House had been setting the stage carefully—ruthlessly lining up all the dominoes, preparing for the big Sexton collapse. The President and Marjorie Tench, like some sort of political tag team wrestling duo, had maneuvered for the kill. While the President remained dignified outside the ring, Tench had moved in, circling, cunningly lining up the senator for the presidential body slam.
   The President had told Rachel he’d asked NASA to delay announcing the discovery in order to provide time to confirm the accuracy of the data. Rachel now realized there were other advantages to waiting. The extra time had given the White House time to dole out the rope with which the senator would hang himself.
   Rachel felt no sympathy for her father, and yet she now realized that beneath the warm and fuzzy exterior of President Zach Herney, a shrewd shark lurked. You did not become the most powerful man in the world without a killer instinct. The question now was whether this shark was an innocent bystander—or a player.
   Rachel stood, stretching her legs. As she paced the aisle of the plane, she felt frustrated that the pieces to this puzzle seemed so contradictory. Pickering, with his trademark chaste logic, had concluded the meteorite must be fake. Corky and Tolland, with scientific assurance, insisted the meteorite was authentic. Rachel only knew what she had seen—a charred, fossilized rock being pulled from the ice.
   Now, as she passed beside Corky, she gazed down at the astrophysicist, battered from his ordeal on the ice. The swelling on his cheek was going down now, and the stitches looked good. He was asleep, snoring, his pudgy hands clutching the disk-shaped meteorite sample like some kind of security blanket.
   Rachel reached down and gently slipped the meteorite sample away from him. She held it up, studying the fossils again. Remove all assumptions, she told herself, forcing herself to reorganize her thoughts. Reestablish the chain of substantiation. It was an old NRO trick. Rebuilding a proof from scratch was a process known as a “null start”—something all data analysts practiced when the pieces didn’t quite fit.
   Reassemble the proof.
   She began pacing again.
   Does this stone represent proof of extraterrestrial life?
   Proof, she knew, was a conclusion built on a pyramid of facts, a broad base of accepted information on which more specific assertions were made.
   Remove all the base assumptions. Start again.
   What do we have?
   A rock.
   She pondered that for a moment. A rock. A rock with fossilized creatures. Walking back toward the front of the plane, she took her seat beside Michael Tolland.
   “Mike, let’s play a game.”
   Tolland turned from the window, looking distant, apparently deep in his own thoughts. “A game?”
   She handed him the meteorite sample. “Let’s pretend you’re seeing this fossilized rock for the first time. I’ve told you nothing about where it came from or how it was found. What would you tell me it is?”
   Tolland heaved a disconsolate sigh. “Funny you should ask. I just had the strangest thought...”

* * *

   Hundreds of miles behind Rachel and Tolland, a strange-looking aircraft stayed low as it tore south above a deserted ocean. Onboard, the Delta Force was silent. They had been pulled out of locations in a hurry, but never like this.
   Their controller was furious.
   Earlier, Delta-One had informed the controller that unexpected events on the ice shelf had left his team with no option but to exercise force—force that had included killing four civilians, including Rachel Sexton and Michael Tolland.
   The controller reacted with shock. Killing, although an authorized last resort, obviously never had been part of the controller’s plan.
   Later, the controller’s displeasure over the killings turned to outright rage when he learned the assassinations had not gone as planned.
   “Your team failed!” the controller seethed, the androgynous tone hardly masking the person’s rage. “Three of your four targets are still alive!”
   Impossible! Delta-One had thought. “But we witnessed—”
   “They made contact with a submarine and are now en route to Washington.”
   “What!”
   The controller’s tone turned lethal. “Listen carefully. I am about to give you new orders. And this time you will not fail.”

 78
   Senator Sexton was actually feeling a flicker of hope as he walked his unexpected visitor back out to the elevator. The head of the SFF, as it turned out, had not come to chastise Sexton, but rather to give him a pep talk and tell him the battle was not yet over.
   A possible chink in NASA’s armor.
   The videotape of the bizarre NASA press conference had convinced Sexton that the old man was right—PODS mission director Chris Harper was lying. But why? And if NASA never fixed the PODS software, how did NASA find the meteorite?
   As they walked to the elevator, the old man said, “Sometimes all it takes to unravel something is a single strand. Perhaps we can find a way to eat away at NASA’s victory from within. Cast a shadow of distrust. Who knows where it will lead?” The old man locked his tired eyes on Sexton. “I am not ready to lay down and die, senator. And I trust nor are you.”
   “Of course not,” Sexton said, mustering resolve in his voice. “We’ve come too far.”
   “Chris Harper lied about fixing PODS,” the man said as he boarded the elevator. “And we need to know why.”
   “I will get that information as fast as I can,” Sexton replied. I have just the person.
   “Good. Your future depends on it.”
   As Sexton headed back toward his apartment, his step was a little lighter, his head a little clearer. NASA lied about PODS. The only question was how Sexton could prove it.
   His thoughts had already turned to Gabrielle Ashe. Wherever she was at the moment, she had to be feeling like shit. Gabrielle had no doubt seen the press conference and was now standing on a ledge somewhere getting ready to jump. Her proposition of making NASA a major issue in Sexton’s campaign had turned out to be the biggest mistake of Sexton’s career.
   She owes me, Sexton thought. And she knows it.
   Gabrielle already had proven she had a knack for obtaining NASA secrets. She has a contact, Sexton thought. She’d been scoring insider information for weeks now. Gabrielle had connections she was not sharing. Connections she could pump for information on PODS. Moreover, tonight Gabrielle would be motivated. She had a debt to repay, and Sexton suspected she would do anything to regain his favor.
   As Sexton arrived back at his apartment door, his bodyguard nodded. “Evening, senator. I trust I did the right thing by letting Gabrielle in earlier? She said it was critical she talk to you.”
   Sexton paused. “I’m sorry?”
   “Ms. Ashe? She had important information for you earlier tonight. That’s why I let her in.”
   Sexton felt his body stiffen. He looked at his apartment door. What the hell is this guy talking about?
   The guard’s expression changed to one of confusion and concern. “Senator, are you okay? You remember, right? Gabrielle arrived during your meeting. She talked to you, right? She must have. She was in there quite a while.”
   Sexton stared a long moment, feeling his pulse skyrocket. This moron let Gabrielle into my apartment during a private SFF meeting? She stuck around inside and then departed without a word? Sexton could only imagine what Gabrielle might have overheard. Swallowing his anger, he forced a smile to his guard. “Oh, yes! I’m sorry. I’m exhausted. Had a couple of drinks, too. Ms. Ashe and I did indeed speak. You did the right thing.”
   The guard looked relieved.
   “Did she say where she went when she left?”
   The guard shook his head. “She was in a big hurry.”
   “Okay, thanks.”
   Sexton entered his apartment fuming. How complicated were my goddamn directions? No visitors! He had to assume if Gabrielle had been inside for any length of time and then snuck out without a word, she must have heard things she was not meant to hear. Tonight of all nights.
   Senator Sexton knew above all he could not afford to lose Gabrielle Ashe’s trust; women could become vengeful and stupid when they felt deceived. Sexton needed to bring her back. Tonight more than ever, he needed her in his camp.

 79
   On the fourth floor of the ABC television studios, Gabrielle Ashe sat alone in Yolanda’s glass-walled office and stared at the fraying carpet. She had always prided herself on good instincts and knowing whom she could trust. Now, for the first time in years, Gabrielle felt alone, uncertain which way to turn.
   The sound of her cellphone lifted her gaze from the carpet. Reluctant, she picked up. “Gabrielle Ashe.”
   “Gabrielle, it’s me.”
   She recognized the timbre of Senator Sexton’s voice immediately, although he sounded surprisingly calm considering what had just transpired.
   “It’s been one hell of a night over here,” he said, “so just let me talk. I’m sure you saw the President’s conference. Christ, did we play the wrong cards. I’m sick over it. You’re probably blaming yourself. Don’t. Who the hell would have guessed? Not your fault. Anyhow, listen up. I think there may be a way to get our feet back under us.”
   Gabrielle stood up, unable to imagine what Sexton could be talking about. This was hardly the reaction she had expected.
   “I had a meeting tonight,” Sexton said, “with representatives from private space industries, and—”
   “You did?” Gabrielle blurted, stunned to hear him admit it. “I mean... I had no idea.”
   “Yeah, nothing major. I would have asked you to sit in, but these guys are touchy about privacy. Some of them are donating money to my campaign. It’s not something they like to advertise.”
   Gabrielle felt totally disarmed. “But... isn’t that illegal?”
   “Illegal? Hell no! All the donations are under the two-thousand-dollar cap. Small potatoes. These guys barely make a dent, but I listen to their gripes anyway. Call it an investment in the future. I’m quiet about it because, frankly, the appearances aren’t so great. If the White House caught wind, they’d spin the hell out of it. Anyhow, look, that’s not the point. I called to tell you that after tonight’s meeting, I was talking to the head of the SFF...”
   For several seconds, although Sexton was still talking, all Gabrielle could hear was the blood rushing in shame to her face. Without the slightest challenge from her, the senator had calmly admitted tonight’s meeting with private space companies. Perfectly legal. And to think what Gabrielle had almost considered doing! Thank God Yolanda had stopped her. I almost jumped ship to Marjorie Tench!
   “... and so I told the head of the SFF,” the senator was saying, “that you might be able to get that information for us.”
   Gabrielle tuned back in. “Okay.”
   “The contact from whom you’ve been getting all your inside NASA information these past few months? I assume you still have access?”
   Marjorie Tench. Gabrielle cringed knowing she could never tell the senator that the informant had been manipulating her all along. “Um... I think so,” Gabrielle lied.
   “Good. There’s some information I need from you. Right away.”
   As she listened, Gabrielle realized just how badly she had been underestimating Senator Sedgewick Sexton lately. Some of the man’s luster had worn off since she’d first begun following his career. But tonight, it was back. In the face of what appeared to be the ultimate death blow to his campaign, Sexton was plotting a counterattack. And although it had been Gabrielle who led him down this inauspicious path, he was not punishing her. Instead, he was giving her a chance to redeem herself.
   And redeem herself she would.
   Whatever it took.

 80
   William Pickering gazed out his office window at the distant line of headlights on Leesburg Highway. He often thought about her when he stood up here alone at the top of the world.
   All this power... and I couldn’t save her.
   Pickering’s daughter, Diana, had died in the Red Sea while stationed aboard a small navy escort ship, training to become a navigator. Her ship had been anchored in safe harbor on a sunny afternoon when a handmade dory loaded with explosives and powered by two suicide terrorists motored slowly across the harbor and exploded on contact with the hull. Diana Pickering and thirteen other young American soldiers had been killed that day.
   William Pickering had been devastated. The anguish overwhelmed him for weeks. When the terrorist attack was traced to a known cell whom the CIA had been tracking unsuccessfully for years, Pickering’s sadness turned into rage. He had marched into CIA headquarters and demanded answers.
   The answers he got were hard to swallow.
   Apparently the CIA had been prepared to move on this cell months before and was simply waiting for the high-res satellite photos so that they could plan a pinpoint attack on the terrorists’ mountain hideout in Afghanistan. Those photos were scheduled to be taken by the $1.2 billion NRO satellite code-named Vortex 2, the same satellite that had been blown up on the launchpad by its NASA launch vehicle. Because of the NASA accident, the CIA strike had been postponed, and now Diana Pickering had died.
   Pickering’s mind told him that NASA had not been directly responsible, but his heart found it hard to forgive. The investigation of the rocket explosion revealed that the NASA engineers responsible for the fuel injections system had been forced to use second-rate materials in an effort to stay on budget.
   “For nonmanned flights,” Lawrence Ekstrom explained in a press conference, “NASA strives for cost-effectiveness above all. In this case, the results were admittedly not optimal. We will be looking into it.”
   Not optimal. Diana Pickering was dead.
   Furthermore, because the spy satellite was classified, the public never learned that NASA had disintegrated a $1.2 billion NRO project, and along with it, indirectly, numerous American lives.
   “Sir?” Pickering’s secretary’s voice came over his intercom, startling him. “Line one. It’s Marjorie Tench.”
   Pickering shook himself out of his daze and looked at his telephone. Again? The blinking light on line one seemed to pulse with an irate urgency. Pickering frowned and took the call.
   “Pickering here.”
   Tench’s voice was seething mad. “What did she tell you?”
   “I’m sorry?”
   “Rachel Sexton contacted you. What did she tell you? She was on a submarine, for God’s sake! Explain that!”
   Pickering could tell immediately that denying the fact was not an option; Tench had been doing her homework. Pickering was surprised she’d found out about the Charlotte, but she’d apparently thrown her weight around until she got some answers. “Ms. Sexton contacted me, yes.”
   “You arranged a pickup. And you didn’t contact me?”
   “I arranged transport. That is correct.” Two hours remained until Rachel Sexton, Michael Tolland, and Corky Marlinson were scheduled to arrive at the nearby Bollings Air Force Base.
   “And yet you chose not to inform me?”
   “Rachel Sexton has made some very disturbing accusations.”
   “Regarding the authenticity of the meteorite... and some kind of attack on her life?”
   “Among other things.”
   “Obviously, she is lying.”
   “You are aware she is with two others who corroborate her story?”
   Tench paused. “Yes. Most disturbing. The White House is very concerned by their claims.”
   “The White House? Or you personally?”
   Her tone turned razor sharp. “As far as you are concerned, director, there is no difference tonight.”
   Pickering was unimpressed. He was no stranger to blustering politicians and support staff trying to establish footholds over the intel community. Few put up as strong a front as Marjorie Tench. “Does the President know you’re calling me?”
   “Frankly, director, I’m shocked that you would even entertain these lunatic ravings.”
   You didn’t answer my question. “I see no logical reason for these people to lie. I have to assume they are either telling the truth, or they have made an honest mistake.”
   “Mistake? Claims of attacks? Flaws in the meteorite data that NASA never saw? Please! This is an obvious political ploy.”
   “If so, the motives escape me.”
   Tench sighed heavily and lowered her voice. “Director, there are forces at work here of which you might not be aware. We can speak about that at length later, but at the moment I need to know where Ms. Sexton and the others are. I need to get to the bottom of this before they do any lasting damage. Where are they?”
   “That is not information I am comfortable sharing. I will contact you after they arrive.”
   “Wrong. I will be there to greet them when they arrive.”
   You and how many Secret Service agents? Pickering wondered. “If I inform you of their arrival time and location, will we all have a chance to chat like friends, or do you intend to have a private army take them into custody?”
   “These people pose a direct threat to the President. The White House has every right to detain and question them.”
   Pickering knew she was right. Under Title 18, Section 3056 of the United States Code, agents of the U.S. Secret Service can carry firearms, use deadly force, and make “un-warranted” arrests simply on suspicion that a person has committed or is intending to commit a felony or any act of aggression against the president. The service possessed carte blanche. Regular detainees included unsavory loiterers outside the White House and school kids who sent threatening e-mail pranks.
   Pickering had no doubt the service could justify dragging Rachel Sexton and the others into the basement of the White House and keeping them there indefinitely. It would be a dangerous play, but Tench clearly realized the stakes were huge. The question was what would happen next if Pickering allowed Tench to take control. He had no intention of finding out.
   “I will do whatever is necessary,” Tench declared, “to protect the President from false accusations. The mere implication of foul play will cast a heavy shadow on the White House and NASA. Rachel Sexton has abused the trust the President gave her, and I have no intention of seeing the President pay the price.”
   “And if I request that Ms. Sexton be permitted to present her case to an official panel of inquiry?”
   “Then you would be disregarding a direct presidential order and giving her a platform from which to make a goddamn political mess! I will ask you one more time, director. Where are you flying them?”
   Pickering exhaled a long breath. Whether or not he told Marjorie Tench that the plane was coming into Bollings Air Force Base, he knew she had the means to find out. The question was whether or not she would do it. He sensed from the determination in her voice that she would not rest. Marjorie Tench was scared.
   “Marjorie,” Pickering said, with unmistakable clarity of tone. “Someone is lying to me. Of this I am certain. Either it is Rachel Sexton and two civilian scientists—or it is you. I believe it is you.”
   Tench exploded. “How dare—”
   “Your indignity has no resonance with me, so save it. You would be wise to know that I have absolute proof NASA and the White House broadcast untruths tonight.”
   Tench fell suddenly silent.
   Pickering let her reel a moment. “I’m not looking for a political meltdown any more than you are. But there have been lies. Lies that cannot stand. If you want me to help you, you’ve got to start by being honest with me.”
   Tench sounded tempted but wary. “If you’re so certain there were lies, why haven’t you stepped forward?”
   “I don’t interfere in political matters.”
   Tench muttered something that sounded a lot like “bullshit.”
   “Are you trying to tell me, Marjorie, that the President’s announcement tonight was entirely accurate?”
   There was a long silence on the line.
   Pickering knew he had her. “Listen, we both know this is a time bomb waiting to explode. But it’s not too late. There are compromises we can make.”
   Tench said nothing for several seconds. Finally she sighed. “We should meet.”
   Touchdown, Pickering thought.
   “I have something to show you,” Tench said. “And I believe it will shed some light on this matter.”
   “I’ll come to your office.”
   “No,” she said hurriedly. “It’s late. Your presence here would raise concerns. I’d prefer to keep this matter between us.”
   Pickering read between the lines. The President knows nothing about this. “You’re welcome to come here,” he said.
   Tench sounded distrusting. “Let’s meet somewhere discreet.”
   Pickering had expected as much.
   “The FDR Memorial is convenient to the White House,” Tench said. “It will be empty at this time of night.”
   Pickering considered it. The FDR Memorial sat midway between the Jefferson and Lincoln memorials, in an extremely safe part of town. After a long beat, Pickering agreed.
   “One hour,” Tench said, signing off. “And come alone.”

* * *

   Immediately upon hanging up, Marjorie Tench phoned NASA administrator Ekstrom. Her voice was tight as she relayed the bad news.
   “Pickering could be a problem.”

 81
   Gabrielle Ashe was brimming with new hope as she stood at Yolanda Cole’s desk in the ABC production room and dialed directory assistance.
   The allegations Sexton had just conveyed to her, if confirmed, had shocking potential. NASA lied about PODS? Gabrielle had seen the press conference in question and recalled thinking it was odd, and yet she’d forgotten all about it; PODS was not a critical issue a few weeks ago. Tonight, however, PODS had become the issue.
   Now Sexton needed inside information, and he needed it fast. He was relying on Gabrielle’s “informant” to get the information. Gabrielle had assured the senator she would do her best. The problem, of course, was that her informant was Marjorie Tench, who would be no help at all. So Gabrielle would have to get the information another way.
   “Directory assistance,” the voice on the phone said.
   Gabrielle told them what she needed. The operator came back with three listings for a Chris Harper in Washington. Gabrielle tried them all.
   The first number was a law firm. The second had no answer. The third was now ringing.
   A woman answered on the first ring. “Harper residence.”
   “Mrs. Harper?” Gabrielle said as politely as possible. “I hope I haven’t woken you?”
   “Heavens no! I don’t think anyone’s asleep tonight.” She sounded excited. Gabrielle could hear the television in the background. Meteorite coverage. “You’re calling for Chris, I assume?”
   Gabrielle’s pulse quickened. “Yes, ma’am.”
   “I’m afraid Chris isn’t here. He raced off to work as soon as the President’s address was over.” The woman chuckled to herself. “Of course, I doubt there’s any work going on. Most likely a party. The announcement came as quite a surprise to him, you know. To everyone. Our phone’s been ringing all night. I bet the whole NASA crew’s over there by now.”
   “E Street complex?” Gabrielle asked, assuming the woman meant NASA headquarters.
   “Righto. Take a party hat.”
   “Thanks. I’ll track him down over there.”
   Gabrielle hung up. She hurried out onto the production room floor and found Yolanda, who was just finishing prepping a group of space experts who were about to give enthusiastic commentary on the meteorite.
   Yolanda smiled when she saw Gabrielle coming. “You look better,” she said. “Starting to see the silver lining here?”
   “I just talked to the senator. His meeting tonight wasn’t what I thought.”
   “I told you Tench was playing you. How’s the senator taking the meteorite news?”
   “Better than expected.”
   Yolanda looked surprised. “I figured he’d jumped in front of a bus by now.”
   “He thinks there may be a snag in the NASA data.”
   Yolanda let out a dubious snort. “Did he see the same press conference I just saw? How much more confirmation and reconfirmation can anyone need?”
   “I’m going over to NASA to check on something.”
   Yolanda’s penciled eyebrows raised in cautionary arches. “Senator Sexton’s right-hand aide is going to march into NASA headquarters? Tonight? Can you say ‘public stoning’?”
   Gabrielle told Yolanda about Sexton’s suspicion that the PODS section manager Chris Harper had lied about fixing the anomaly software.
   Yolanda clearly wasn’t buying it. “We covered that press conference, Gabs, and I’ll admit, Harper was not himself that night, but NASA said he was sick as a dog.”
   “Senator Sexton is convinced he lied. Others are convinced too. Powerful people.”
   “If the PODS anomaly-detection software wasn’t fixed, how did PODS spot the meteorite?”
   Sexton’s point exactly, Gabrielle thought. “I don’t know. But the senator wants me to get him some answers.”
   Yolanda shook her head. “Sexton is sending you into a hornet’s nest on a desperate pipe dream. Don’t go. You don’t owe him a thing.”
   “I totally screwed up his campaign.”
   “Rotten luck screwed up his campaign.”
   “But if the senator is right and the PODS section manager actually lied—”
   “Honey, if the PODS section manager lied to the world, what makes you think he’ll tell you the truth.”
   Gabrielle had considered that and was already formulating her plan. “If I find a story over there, I’ll call you.”
   Yolanda gave a skeptical laugh. “If you find a story over there, I’ll eat my hat.”

 82
   Erase everything you know about this rock sample.
   Michael Tolland had been struggling with his own disquieting ruminations about the meteorite, but now, with Rachel’s probing questions, he was feeling an added unease over the issue. He looked down at the rock slice in his hand.
   Pretend someone handed it to you with no explanation of where it was found or what it is. What would your analysis be?
   Rachel’s question, Tolland knew, was loaded, and yet as an analytical exercise, it proved powerful. By discarding all the data he had been given on his arrival at the habisphere, Tolland had to admit that his analysis of the fossils was profoundly biased by a singular premise—that the rock in which the fossils were found was a meteorite.
   What if I had NOT been told about the meteorite? he asked himself. Although still unable to fathom any other explanation, Tolland allowed himself the leeway of hypothetically removing “the meteorite” as a pre-supposition, and when he did, the results were somewhat unsettling. Now Tolland and Rachel, joined by a groggy Corky Marlinson, were discussing the ideas.
   “So,” Rachel repeated, her voice intense, “Mike, you’re saying that if someone handed you this fossilized rock with no explanation whatsoever, you would have to conclude it was from earth.”
   “Of course,” Tolland replied. “What else could I conclude? It’s a far greater leap to assert you’ve found extraterrestrial life than it is to assert you’ve found a fossil of some previously undiscovered terrestrial species. Scientists discover dozens of new species every year.”
   “Two-foot-long lice?” Corky demanded, sounding incredulous. “You would assume a bug that big is from earth?”
   “Not now, maybe,” Tolland replied, “but the species doesn’t necessarily have to be currently living. It’s a fossil. It’s 170 million years old. About the same age as our Jurassic. A lot of prehistoric fossils are oversized creatures that look shocking when we discover their fossilized remains—enormous winged reptiles, dinosaurs, birds.”
   “Not to be the physicist here, Mike,” Corky said, “but there’s a serious flaw in your argument. The prehistoric creatures you just named—dinosaurs, reptiles, birds—they all have internal skeletons, which gives them the capability to grow to large sizes despite the earth’s gravity. But this fossil...” He took the sample and held it up. “These guys have exo skeletons. They’re arthropods. Bugs. You yourself said that any bug this big could only have evolved in a low-gravity environment. Otherwise its outer skeleton would have collapsed under its own weight.”
   “Correct,” Tolland said. “This species would have collapsed under its own weight if it walked around on earth.”
   Corky’s brow furrowed with annoyance. “Well, Mike, unless some caveman was running an antigravity louse farm, I don’t see how you could possibly conclude a two-foot-long bug is earthly in origin.”
   Tolland smiled inwardly to think Corky was missing such a simple point. “Actually, there is another possibility.” He focused closely on his friend. “Corky, you’re used to looking up. Look down. There’s an abundant antigravity environment right here on earth. And it’s been here since prehistoric times.”
   Corky stared. “What the hell are you talking about?”
   Rachel also looked surprised.
   Tolland pointed out the window at the moonlit sea glistening beneath the plane. “The ocean.”
   Rachel let out a low whistle. “Of course.”
   “Water is a low-gravity environment,” Tolland explained. “Everything weighs less underwater. The ocean supports enormous fragile structures that could never exist on land—jellyfish, giant squid, ribbon eels.”
   Corky acquiesced, but only slightly. “Fine, but the prehistoric ocean never had giant bugs.”
   “Sure, it did. And it still does, in fact. People eat them everyday. They’re a delicacy in most countries.”
   “Mike, who the hell eats giant sea bugs!”
   “Anyone who eats lobsters, crabs, and shrimp.”
   Corky stared.
   “Crustaceans are essentially giant sea bugs,” Tolland explained. “They’re a suborder of the phylum Arthropoda—lice, crabs, spiders, insects, grasshoppers, scorpions, lobsters—they’re all related. They’re all species with jointed appendages and external skeletons.”
   Corky suddenly looked ill.
   “From a classification standpoint, they look a lot like bugs,” Tolland explained. “Horseshoe crabs resemble giant trilobites. And the claws of a lobster resemble those of a large scorpion.”
   Corky turned green. “Okay, I’ve eaten my last lobster roll.”
   Rachel looked fascinated. “So arthropods on land stay small because the gravity selects naturally for smallness. But in the water, their bodies are buoyed up, so they can grow very large.”
   “Exactly,” Tolland said. “An Alaskan king crab could be wrongly classified as a giant spider if we had limited fossil evidence.”
   Rachel’s excitement seemed to fade now to concern. “Mike, again barring the issue of the meteorite’s apparent authenticity, tell me this: Do you think the fossils we saw at Milne could possibly have come from the ocean? Earth’s ocean?”
   Tolland felt the directness of her gaze and sensed the true weight of her question. “Hypothetically, I would have to say yes. The ocean floor has sections that are 190 million years old. The same age as the fossils. And theoretically the oceans could have sustained life-forms that looked like this.”
   “Oh please!” Corky scoffed. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing here. Barring the issue of the meteorite’s authenticity? The meteorite is irrefutable. Even if earth has ocean floor the same age as that meteorite, we sure as hell don’t have ocean floor that has fusion crust, anomalous nickel content, and chondrules. You’re grasping at straws.”
   Tolland knew Corky was right, and yet imagining the fossils as sea creatures had robbed Tolland of some of his awe over them. They seemed somehow more familiar now.
   “Mike,” Rachel said, “why didn’t any of the NASA scientists consider that these fossils might be ocean creatures? Even from an ocean on another planet?”
   “Two reasons, really. Pelagic fossil samples—those from the ocean floor—tend to exhibit a plethora of intermingled species. Anything living in the millions of cubic feet of life above the ocean floor will eventually die and sink to the bottom. This means the ocean floor becomes a graveyard for species from every depth, pressure, and temperature environment. But the sample at Milne was clean—a single species. It looked more like something we might find in the desert. A brood of similar animals getting buried in a sandstorm, for example.”
   Rachel nodded. “And the second reason you guessed land rather than sea?”
   Tolland shrugged. “Gut instinct. Scientists have always believed space, if it were populated, would be populated by insects. And from what we’ve observed of space, there’s a lot more dirt and rock out there than water.”
   Rachel fell silent.
   “Although...,” Tolland added. Rachel had him thinking now. “I’ll admit there are very deep parts of the ocean floor that oceanographers call dead zones. We don’t really understand them, but they are areas in which the currents and food sources are such that almost nothing lives there. Just a few species of bottom-dwelling scavengers. So from that standpoint, I suppose a single-species fossil is not entirely out of the question.”
   “Hello?” Corky grumbled. “Remember the fusion crust? The mid-level nickel content? The chondrules? Why are we even talking about this?”
   Tolland did not reply.
   “This issue of the nickel content,” Rachel said to Corky. “Explain this to me again. The nickel content in earth rocks is either very high or very low, but in meteorites the nickel content is within a specific midrange window?”
   Corky bobbed his head. “Precisely.”
   “And so the nickel content in this sample falls precisely within the expected range of values.”
   “Very close, yes.”
   Rachel looked surprised. “Hold on. Close? What’s that supposed to mean?”
   Corky looked exasperated. “As I explained earlier, all meteorite mineralogies are different. As scientists find new meteorites, we constantly need to update our calculations as to what we consider an acceptable nickel content for meteorites.”
   Rachel looked stunned as she held up the sample. “So, this meteorite forced you to reevaluate what you consider acceptable nickel content in a meteorite? It fell outside the established midrange nickel window?”
   “Only slightly,” Corky fired back.
   “Why didn’t anyone mention this?”
   “It’s a nonissue. Astrophysics is a dynamic science which is constantly being updated.”
   “During an incredibly important analysis?”
   “Look,” Corky said with a huff, “I can assure you the nickel content in that sample is a helluva lot closer to other meteorites than it is to any earth rock.”
   Rachel turned to Tolland. “Did you know about this?”
   Tolland gave a reluctant nod. It hadn’t seemed a major issue at the time. “I was told this meteorite exhibited slightly higher nickel content than seen in other meteorites, but the NASA specialists seemed unconcerned.”
   “For good reason!” Corky interjected. “The mineralogical proof here is not that the nickel content is conclusively meteoritelike, but rather that it is conclusively non–earth-like.”
   Rachel shook her head. “Sorry, but in my business that’s the kind of faulty logic that gets people killed. Saying a rock is non–earth-like doesn’t prove it’s a meteorite. It simply proves that it’s not like anything we’ve ever seen on earth.”
   “What the hell’s the difference!”
   “Nothing,” Rachel said. “If you’ve seen every rock on earth.”
   Corky fell silent a moment. “Okay,” he finally said, “ignore the nickel content if it makes you nervous. We still have a flawless fusion crust and chondrules.”
   “Sure,” Rachel said, sounding unimpressed. “Two out of three ain’t bad.”

 83
   The structure housing the NASA central headquarters was a mammoth glass rectangle located at 300 E Street in Washington, D.C. The building was spidered with over two hundred miles of data cabling and thousands of tons of computer processors. It was home to 1,134 civil servants who oversee NASA’s $15 billion annual budget and the daily operations of the twelve NASA bases nationwide.
   Despite the late hour, Gabrielle was not at all surprised to see the building’s foyer filling with people, an apparent convergence of excited media crews and even more excited NASA personnel. Gabrielle hurried inside. The entryway resembled a museum, dominated dramatically by full-size replicas of famous mission capsules and satellites suspended overhead. Television crews were staking claims on the expansive marble floor, seizing wide-eyed NASA employees who came through the door.
   Gabrielle scanned the crowd, but did not see anyone who looked like PODS mission director Chris Harper. Half the people in the lobby had press passes and half had NASA photo IDs around their necks. Gabrielle had neither. She spotted a young woman with a NASA ID and hurried over to her.
   “Hi. I’m looking for Chris Harper?”
   The woman eyed Gabrielle strangely, as if she recognized her from somewhere and couldn’t quite place it. “I saw Dr. Harper go through a while ago. I think he headed upstairs. Do I know you?”
   “I don’t think so,” Gabrielle said, turning away. “How do I get upstairs?”
   “Do you work for NASA?”
   “No, I don’t.”
   “Then you can’t get upstairs.”
   “Oh. Is there a phone I might use to—”
   “Hey,” the woman said, looking suddenly angry. “I know who you are. I’ve seen you on television with Senator Sexton. I can’t believe you would have the nerve—”
   Gabrielle was already gone, disappearing into the crowd. Behind her, she could hear the woman angrily telling others Gabrielle was here.
   Terrific. Two seconds through the door, and I’m already on the Most Wanted List.
   Gabrielle kept her head down as she hurried to the far side of the lobby. A building directory was mounted on the wall. She scanned the listings, looking for Chris Harper. Nothing. The directory showed no names at all. It was arranged by department.
   PODS? she wondered, scanning the list for anything that had to do with the Polar Orbiting Density Scanner. She saw nothing. She was afraid to glance over her shoulder, half expecting to see a crew of angry NASA employees coming to stone her. All she saw on the list that looked even remotely promising was on the fourth floor:

Earth Science Enterprise,
PHASE II
Earth Observing System (EOS)

   Keeping her head turned away from the crowd, Gabrielle made her way toward an alcove that housed a bank of elevators and a water fountain. She searched for the elevator call buttons, but saw only slits. Damn. The elevators were security controlled—key card ID access for employees only.
   A group of young men came hurrying toward the elevators, talking exuberantly. They wore NASA photo IDs around their necks. Gabrielle quickly bent over the fountain, watching behind her. A pimple-faced man inserted his ID into the slot and opened the elevator. He was laughing, shaking his head in amazement.
   “The guys in SETI must be going nuts!” he said as everyone boarded the elevator. “Their horn carts traced drift fields under two hundred milliJanskys for twenty years, and the physical proof was buried in the ice here on earth the whole time!”
   The elevator doors closed, and the men disappeared.
   Gabrielle stood up, wiping her mouth, wondering what to do. She looked around for an interoffice phone. Nothing. She wondered if she could somehow steal a key card, but something told her that was probably unwise. Whatever she did, she knew she had to do it fast. She could now see the woman she’d first spoken to out in the lobby, moving through the crowd with a NASA security officer.
   A trim, bald man came around the corner, hustling toward the elevators. Gabrielle again bent over the fountain. The man did not seem to notice her. Gabrielle watched in silence as the man leaned forward and inserted his ID card into the slit. Another set of elevator doors slid open, and the man stepped on.
   Screw it, Gabrielle thought, making up her mind. Now or never.
   As the elevator slid closed, Gabrielle spun from the fountain and ran over, sticking her hand out and catching the door. The doors bounced back open, and she stepped in, her face bright with excitement. “You ever seen it like this?” she gushed to the startled bald man. “My God. It’s crazy!”
   The man gave her an odd look.
   “The guys at SETI must be going nuts!” Gabrielle said. “Their horn carts traced drift fields under two hundred milliJanskys for twenty years, and the physical proof was buried in the ice here on earth the whole time!”
   The man looked surprised. “Well... yes, it’s quite...” He glanced at her neck, apparently troubled not to see an ID. “I’m sorry, do you—”
   “Fourth floor please. Came in such a hurry I barely remembered to put on my underwear!” She laughed, stealing a quick look at the guy’s ID:

JAMES THEISEN,
Finance Administration.

   “Do you work here?” The man looked uncomfortable. “Miss...?”
   Gabrielle let her mouth fall slack. “Jim! I’m hurt! Nothing like making a woman feel unmemorable!”
   The man went pale for a moment, looking uneasy, and running an embarrassed hand across his head. “I’m sorry. All this excitement, you know. I admit, you do look very familiar. What program are you working on?”
   Shit. Gabrielle flashed a confident smile. “EOS.”
   The man pointed to the illuminated fourth floor button. “Obviously. I mean specifically, which project?”
   Gabrielle felt her pulse quicken. She could only think of one. “PODS.”
   The man looked surprised. “Really? I thought I’d met everyone on Dr. Harper’s team.”
   She gave an embarrassed nod. “Chris keeps me hidden away. I’m the idiot programmer who screwed up voxel index on the anomaly software.”
   Now it was the bald man whose jaw dropped. “That was you?”
   Gabrielle frowned. “I haven’t slept in weeks.”
   “But Dr. Harper took all the heat for that!”
   “I know. Chris is that kind of guy. At least he got it straightened out. What an announcement tonight, though, isn’t it? This meteorite. I’m just in shock!”
   The elevator stopped on the fourth floor. Gabrielle jumped out. “Great seeing you, Jim. Give my best to the boys in budgeting!”
   “Sure,” the man stammered as the doors slid shut. “Nice seeing you again.”

 84
   Zach Herney, like most presidents before him, survived on four or five hours of sleep a night. Over the last few weeks, however, he had survived on far less. As the excitement of the evening’s events slowly began to ebb, Herney felt the late hour settling in his limbs.
   He and some of his upper level staff were in the Roosevelt Room enjoying celebratory champagne and watching the endless loop of press conference replays, Tolland documentary excerpts, and pundit recaps on network television. On-screen at the moment, an exuberant network correspondent stood in front of the White House gripping her microphone.
   “Beyond the mind-numbing repercussions for mankind as a species,” she announced, “this NASA discovery has some harsh political repercussions here in Washington. The unearthing of these meteoric fossils could not have come at a better time for the embattled President.” Her voice grew somber. “Nor at a worse time for Senator Sexton.” The broadcast cut to a replay of the now infamous CNN debate from earlier in the day.
   “After thirty-five years,” Sexton declared, “I think it’s pretty obvious we’re not going to find extraterrestrial life!”
   “And if you’re wrong?” Marjorie Tench replied.
   Sexton rolled his eyes. “Oh, for heavens sake, Ms. Tench, if I’m wrong I’ll eat my hat.”
   Everyone in the Roosevelt Room laughed. Tench’s cornering of the senator could have played as cruel and heavy-handed in retrospect, and yet viewers didn’t seem to notice; the haughty tone of the senator’s response was so smug that Sexton appeared to be getting exactly what he deserved.
   The President looked around the room for Tench. He had not seen her since before his press conference, and she was not here now. Odd, he thought. This is her celebration as much as it is mine.
   The news report on television was wrapping up, outlining yet again the White House’s quantum political leap forward and Senator Sexton’s disastrous slide.
   What a difference a day makes, the President thought. In politics, your world can change in an instant.
   By dawn he would realize just how true those words could be.

 85
   Pickering could be a problem, Tench had said.
   Administrator Ekstrom was too preoccupied with this new information to notice that the storm outside the habisphere was raging harder now. The howling cables had increased in pitch, and the NASA staff was nervously milling and chatting rather than going to sleep. Ekstrom’s thoughts were lost in a different storm—an explosive tempest brewing back in Washington. The last few hours had brought many problems, all of which Ekstrom was trying to deal with. And yet one problem now loomed larger than all the others combined.
   Pickering could be a problem.
   Ekstrom could think of no one on earth against whom he’d less rather match wits than William Pickering. Pickering had ridden Ekstrom and NASA for years now, trying to control privacy policy, lobbying for different mission priorities, and railing against NASA’s escalating failure ratio.
   Pickering’s disgust with NASA, Ekstrom knew, went far deeper than the recent loss of his billion-dollar NRO SIGINT satellite in a NASA launchpad explosion, or the NASA security leaks, or the battle over recruiting key aerospace personnel. Pickering’s grievances against NASA were an ongoing drama of disillusionment and resentment.
   NASA’s X-33 space plane, which was supposed to be the shuttle replacement, had run five years overdue, meaning dozens of NRO satellite maintenance and launch programs were scrapped or put on hold. Recently, Pickering’s rage over the X-33 reached a fever pitch when he discovered NASA had canceled the project entirely, swallowing an estimated $900 million loss.
   Ekstrom arrived at his office, pulled the curtain aside, and entered. Sitting down at his desk he put his head in his hands. He had some decisions to make. What had started as a wonderful day was becoming a nightmare unraveling around him. He tried to put himself in the mindset of William Pickering. What would the man do next? Someone as intelligent as Pickering had to see the importance of this NASA discovery. He had to forgive certain choices made in desperation. He had to see the irreversible damage that would be done by polluting this moment of triumph.
   What would Pickering do with the information he had? Would he let it ride, or would he make NASA pay for their shortcomings?
   Ekstrom scowled, having little doubt which it would be.
   After all, William Pickering had deeper issues with NASA... an ancient personal bitterness that went far deeper than politics.

 86
   Rachel was quiet now, staring blankly at the cabin of the G4 as the plane headed south along the Canadian coastline of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Tolland sat nearby, talking to Corky. Despite the majority of evidence suggesting the meteorite was authentic, Corky’s admission that the nickel content was “outside the preestablished midrange values” had served to rekindle Rachel’s initial suspicion. Secretly planting a meteorite beneath the ice only made sense as part of a brilliantly conceived fraud.
   Nonetheless, the remaining scientific evidence pointed toward the meteorite’s validity.
   Rachel turned from the window, glancing down at the disk-shaped meteorite sample in her hand. The tiny chondrules shimmered. Tolland and Corky had been discussing these metallic chondrules for some time now, talking in scientific terms well over Rachel’s head—equilibrated olivine levels, metastable glass matrices, and metamorphic rehomogenation. Nonetheless, the upshot was clear: Corky and Tolland were in agreement that the chondrules were decidedly meteoric. No fudging of that data.
   Rachel rotated the disk-shaped specimen in her hand, running a finger over the rim where part of the fusion crust was visible. The charring looked relatively fresh—certainly not three hundred years old—although Corky had explained that the meteorite had been hermetically sealed in ice and avoided atmospheric erosion. This seemed logical. Rachel had seen programs on television where human remains were dug from the ice after four thousand years and the person’s skin looked almost perfect.
   As she studied the fusion crust, an odd thought occurred to her—an obvious piece of data had been omitted. Rachel wondered if it had simply been an oversight in all the data that was thrown at her or did someone simply forget to mention it.
   She turned suddenly to Corky. “Did anyone date the fusion crust?”
   Corky glanced over, looking confused. “What?”
   “Did anyone date the burn. That is, do we know for a fact that the burn on the rock occurred at exactly the time of the Jungersol Fall?”
   “Sorry,” Corky said, “that’s impossible to date. Oxidation resets all the necessary isotopic markers. Besides, radioisotope decay rates are too slow to measure anything under five hundred years.”
   Rachel considered that a moment, understanding now why the burn date was not part of the data. “So, as far as we know, this rock could have been burned in the Middle Ages or last weekend, right?”
   Tolland chuckled. “Nobody said science had all the answers.”
   Rachel let her mind wander aloud. “A fusion crust is essentially just a severe burn. Technically speaking, the burn on this rock could have happened at any time in the past half century, in any number of different ways.”
   “Wrong,” Corky said. “Burned in any number of different ways? No. Burned in one way. Falling through the atmosphere.”
   “There’s no other possibility? How about in a furnace?”
   “A furnace?” Corky said. “These samples were examined under an electron microscope. Even the cleanest furnace on earth would have left fuel residue all over the stone—nuclear, chemical, fossil fuel. Forget it. And how about the striations from streaking through the atmosphere? You wouldn’t get those in a furnace.”
   Rachel had forgotten about the orientation striations on the meteorite. It did indeed appear to have fallen through the air. “How about a volcano?” she ventured. “Ejecta thrown violently from an eruption?”
   Corky shook his head. “The burn is far too clean.”
   Rachel glanced at Tolland.
   The oceanographer nodded. “Sorry, I’ve had some experience with volcanoes, both above and below water. Corky’s right. Volcanic ejecta is penetrated by dozens of toxins—carbon dioxide, sulfur dioxide, hydrogen sulfide, hydrochloric acid—all of which would have been detected in our electronic scans. That fusion crust, whether we like it or not, is the result of a clean atmospheric friction burn.”
   Rachel sighed, looking back out the window. A clean burn. The phrase stuck with her. She turned back to Tolland. “What do you mean by a clean burn?”
   He shrugged. “Simply that under an electron microscope, we see no remnants of fuel elements, so we know heating was caused by kinetic energy and friction, rather than chemical or nuclear ingredients.”
   “If you didn’t find any foreign fuel elements, what did you find? Specifically, what was the composition of the fusion crust?”
   “We found,” Corky said, “exactly what we expected to find. Pure atmospheric elements. Nitrogen, oxygen, hydrogen. No petroleums. No sulfurs. No volcanic acids. Nothing peculiar. All the stuff we see when meteorites fall through the atmosphere.”
   Rachel leaned back in her seat, her thoughts focusing now.
   Corky leaned forward to look at her. “Please don’t tell me your new theory is that NASA took a fossilized rock up in the space shuttle and sent it hurtling toward earth hoping nobody would notice the fireball, the massive crater, or the explosion?”
   Rachel had not thought of that, although it was an interesting premise. Not feasible, but interesting all the same. Her thoughts were actually closer to home. All natural atmospheric elements. Clean burn. Striations from racing through the air. A faint light had gone off in a distant corner of her mind. “The ratios of the atmospheric elements you saw,” she said. “Were they exactly the same ratios you see on every other meteorite with a fusion crust?”
   Corky seemed to hedge slightly at the question. “Why do you ask?”
   Rachel saw him hesitate and felt her pulse quicken. “The ratios were off, weren’t they?”
   “There is a scientific explanation.”
   Rachel’s heart was suddenly pounding. “Did you by any chance see an unusually high content of one element in particular?”
   Tolland and Corky exchanged startled looks. “Yes,” Corky said, “but—”
   “Was it ionized hydrogen?”
   The astrophysicist’s eyes turned to saucers. “How could you possibly know that!”
   Tolland also looked utterly amazed.
   Rachel stared at them both. “Why didn’t anyone mention this to me?”
   “Because there’s a perfectly sound scientific explanation!” Corky declared.
   “I’m all ears,” Rachel said.
   “There was surplus ionized hydrogen,” Corky said, “because the meteorite passed through the atmosphere near the North Pole, where the earth’s magnetic field causes an abnormally high concentration of hydrogen ions.”
   Rachel frowned. “Unfortunately, I have another explanation.”