Apparently, a Russian-manned Dutch rocket had lost control in space, slamming into Mir. Split in two, half the station was missing after the accident. The other section had spiraled into a higher planetary orbit.
A link at the bottom of the story connected to a related article. Mark's eye had not even scanned the entire story before his questing fingers accessed the link. He blinked in surprise as the computer switched to the next page.
This was just part of an ability he possessed that Mark had never fully understood. His fingers sometimes seemed to know more than his mind and helped steer him in the right direction. It was as if some unconscious part of his brain was always three steps ahead of his conscious self. He called this intuitive sense the Feeling, although he kept both ability and name to himself. An abnormal sixth sense wasn't an easy thing to explain to friends and family.
The second story was a wire report that had been updated eight times over the past twenty-four hours. In addition to Mir, there was another great ongoing catastrophe in space. Two dozen satellites had been rendered inoperable in the past day. The current speculation blamed a hail of meteors so small they were barely larger than dust fragments.
Mark had heard about the satellites. However, he had no idea that the number damaged had gotten so high.
At the bottom of the article, Zipp Codwin, the director of NASA, was quoted as saying, "We would already have the means to combat this terrible problem of killer stellar dust agents if only we had the funding to do so. According to NASA's own Director for the Eradication of Cosmic Dust and Interplanetary Space Soot, lack of proper funding has made us ripe for this kind of extra-earthly Mars dirt attack."
Howard frowned. Such talk was typical for NASA these days. Every problem existed due to lack of funding.
He closed out the story. When he leaned back in his chair his head bumped the wall. He automatically grabbed at his head, whacking his cast against the wall.
"Perfect," he groaned.
More carefully he pressed his head against the wall. He rested there for a moment, the elbow of his cast arm braced gingerly against his good wrist.
The Feeling was telling him there was more to what was going on in space than an errant cloud of dust. Something far bigger was at work.
After a moment's consideration he shut down his computer. As the monitor was slipping back into its hidden recess, he was squirming out from behind the desk.
Mark stepped into the hallway. When he entered Smith's office suite a few moments later, the Folcroft director's secretary looked up from her work. "Oh, hello," she said uncertainly.
Mrs. Mikulka still seemed unsure what to make of this young man who in less than twenty-four hours had somehow gone from being a simple medical-supplies salesman to associate director of Folcroft Sanitarium.
"I need to see Dr. Smith," Howard said.
"Of course," Mrs. Mikulka nodded.
She started to buzz him inside, but then hesitated. So many young men these days were so impolite. Keenan, her eldest son, had been like that. But here was a man unlike the rest of his generation. He had been so nice the previous day after waiting for hours. She had been thinking that this was part of some plan and that Dr. Smith had been testing him somehow. Whatever the case, right then and there Eileen Mikulka decided that she would do her level best to make this young man feel welcome at Folcroft. As Mark passed her desk, she offered a knowing, motherly smile.
"He can be a bit intimidating," she confided in a whisper. "Very much a creature of habit. But don't let that bother you, just as long as you don't vary from the routine he establishes for you, you'll do fine here."
Advice delivered, she pressed the intercom buzzer.
When Mark entered the inner office, Smith was just picking up the ringing White House phone. As the intercom buzzed and the door popped open, Smith froze. The old man's gaunt face was perturbed as he looked up at the intruder.
Seeing it was Howard, he frowned.
Smith's first impulse had always been to hide anything related to CURE from all prying eyes. It was axiomatic that this would include phone conversations with the President of the United States. It would take some time for him to get used to the fact that he was now going to have to include someone else in matters regarding the secret agency.
"Please take a seat," Smith instructed. With an arthritic hand he gestured to the chair in front of his desk.
As Mark sat, Smith answered the red phone. "Yes, Mr. President," the CURE director said tersely.
"We just got another e-mail, Smith," the President's worried voice announced. "This one's from some Russian by the name of Feyodov. My people here say he was a general in Chechnya a while back."
"That is correct, although he is no longer connected to the military," Smith said. "He is currently involved in his country's black market. As far as we have been able to ascertain, it is he who is responsible for smuggling the particle-beam weapon to California."
"Sounds like he's not content with using satellites for target practice," the President said grimly. "Looks like now he's got his heart set on World War III."
Smith's chair squeaked softly. "Please explain," the CURE director said, his voice perfectly level. Even as he was asking the President to elaborate, Smith's nimble fingers attacked his keyboard in order to access the White House e-mail system.
In programming the CURE mainframes to sort through any e-mail related to Barkley, California, or its council, Smith had neglected to list Boris Feyodov's name, assuming the Russian was merely a behind-the-scenes employee.
"It sounds like this Feyodov character has staged a coup from those secession kooks," the President said. "He says that he's got control of the weapon now, and that he's going to keep using it no matter what we do. And that's not all. He also claims the Russians tested the thing once years ago."
Smith's hands stopped dead over his glowing keyboard. As he read the note he'd just accessed, his own shocked face was reflected in the desk's gleaming black surface.
"My God," Smith croaked.
Sitting in his hard-backed chair, Mark Howard's face darkened at Smith's tone. The old man's skin abruptly went from sickly gray to deathly white.
"I take it you've just seen the letter," the President said dryly.
Smith was trying to absorb what he'd just read. Already the gears of his mind were turning at rapid speed.
"Feyodov is claiming that the Russians destroyed the space shuttle Challenger," Smith stated. Across the desk, Mark Howard's eyes grew wide. He shot to his feet and hurried around the desk. Looking over Smith's shoulder at the buried monitor, he scanned the note. Although the CURE director was uncomfortable with Howard's presence, he was too shocked to shoo the young man away.
"It sounds crazy, I know," the President admitted.
"No," Smith said, thinking rapidly. "No, it doesn't." The initial surprise was wearing off. "There were rumors of Russian involvement even at the time. Most thinking people dismissed the notion as ludicrous. But given what we now know, it is not so great a logical leap to take."
Howard had just finished reading Feyodov's letter. Knuckles leaning on the edge of Smith's desk, he glanced down at the seated CURE director. His youthful face was grim.
With a single troubled glance at Mark Howard, Smith leaned back in his chair.
"Given the current state of the Russian economy, it would be impossible for them to develop such a device now," Smith continued. "Since we know one exists, we must conclude that it was built prior to the collapse of the Iron Curtain. As he mentioned in his letter, Feyodov was in command of the base where such a weapon would have logically been developed. This latter fact has been independently confirmed by my people. At the time in question the Soviet Union was on the verge of military, social and economic collapse. Having built such a device they might have-in a desperate hour-decided to test it on a high-profile enemy target. They would not have differentiated between civilian or military."