The man started, slowly. Every once in a while he would stumble onto a word whose meaning he knew only in French. He would use the French equivalent, pause, and wait for a reaction from Cameron, who would simply nod and motion for him to continue. It took only a few minutes. When the man finished, Cameron closed his eyes and simply inhaled and exhaled deeply several times, trying to come to terms with what he had just learned, forcing his logical mind to assimilate the incredible revelation. He turned to Marie. Her eyes were on him, waiting for his reaction. He glanced back across the table.
“So, let me get this straight. Athena tested this… killer satellite on a Russian spacecraft to check its accuracy before trying it on an American orbiter?”
“Oui.”
“How long before Athena launches this satellite?”
“Three days.”
“How long before Lightning’s launch?”
“Tomorrow—”
A blast. An ear-piercing blast, instantly followed by a powerful shock wave that sent Cameron flying across the room. A shower of glass from shattered lights fell everywhere. Cameron braced himself as he crashed hard against the far left wall. He bounced and landed hard on his back on the wet concrete floor, rolling as trained reflexes took command.
He saw several dark figures enter the room through the large hole blasted in the opposite wall. Their silhouettes were sharp against the bright sun gleaming through the opening. Cameron couldn’t see much at first. He lost precious seconds trying to discern the long thin extensions at the ends of the figures’ hands.
Sound-suppressed pistols!
He reached for his Beretta as his eyes scanned the room. Marie had to be somewhere. But where? Where was she before the blast? Standing to my right. My right, my right. That means she has to be in front of me somewhere. Between me and the guns.
He heard one, two, three muffled shots. Detected the spitting sounds of a suppressed semiautomatic. He gazed around the room, found their origins. A figure lay still on the floor in the middle of the room.
Bastards!
He counted six intruders. The Beretta had fifteen rounds, and he didn’t have an extra magazine. It was his day off. No more than two rounds each. Cameron spotted the long table lying on its side ten feet away.
He heard three more spitting sounds followed by a low cry. Another two spits. Another cry.
Cameron rolled toward the table and stopped inches from its wooden surface. He rose to a deep crouch. Clutching the Beretta with both hands, he used the edge of the table for support.
“Fuck off, you assholes!” Cameron looked to his right. Marie!
His gun sights sought the dark form standing in front of Marie. Fired once. Twice. Both rounds aimed at the midsection. The target came up off his feet and fell to the left as both 9-mm Parabellum rounds transferred their energy. As he fired, Cameron quickly rolled away from his position. His weapon did not have a flash suppressor or silencer attachment. By firing he’d given his position away. The remaining five targets brought their weapons around and fired where he’d been merely seconds ago.
He had to get closer to Marie. Get to a new position and perhaps take out one or two more targets. His right shoulder crashed against the wall. Something gave; not the wall.
Damn.
He brought the Beretta around and trained it on a man still firing into the table, now twenty feet away. One shot. The target fell to his knees. Before he collapsed, Cameron already had another one lined up in his sights. He fired once more. Three down.
“Cameron… here…”
He heard her words, heard her pain. She was hurt. Cameron bolted up and raced the ten feet that separated them, sliding in beside her, next to the first target he’d killed. He looked to his left and spotted two targets leveling their weapons at him. Instinctively, Cameron grabbed the body of the dead target and pulled it up in front of him as he protected Marie with his own. He braced himself but death never came. Instead, he heard four loud blasts.
Confused, he focused on the right side of the room, where he’d seen the muzzle flashes. Jean-Francois! Relief fell victim to dread as three silenced shots foretold the end of Jean-Francois.
Cameron spotted the target. He trained the Beretta on him and fired twice. Both rounds hit. The man fell. Cameron scanned the room once more but saw no more targets. He turned to Marie.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I think just bruised. Don’t feel anything brok—” Her words were cut short by the sound of blaring sirens in the distance. Help. But not for him. This was no longer a local matter. He needed his case officer, needed to report. He remembered what he’d been told. Remembered a Roman candle called Challenger. Remembered a young schoolteacher and a country grief-stricken.
They left the warehouse through the hole blasted by the intruders and ran to the end of the block, slowed down, and walked casually for several blocks. The embassy was thirty minutes away. Help was there, support was there. He needed them. The future of America in space depended on them.
Kessler and Jones approached the mob of reporters. They had been briefed by NASA officials on what they could and could not say in public.
The NASA administrator standing by the mike looked in their direction.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Michael Kessler and Clayton Jones, the crew of Lightning!”
The audience of reporters and NASA personnel began to applaud. Kessler looked at Jones, who rolled his eyes.
“This is incredible, Mike,” Jones whispered. “I mean, look at them. They all think we can walk on water. I doubt we can do any wrong in their eyes.”
Kessler smiled.
The administrator pulled out a single sheet of paper.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press. Launch time for Lightning’s maiden flight has been set for tomorrow morning at 6:54 Eastern Standard Time. Navy Captain Michael Kessler will be mission commander. Mission pilot will be Captain Clayton Jones from the Air Force. With that I’ll open for questions.”
“Captain Kessler,” a lady asked from the back of the room. “Martha Warren, UPI.”
Kessler approached the mike. “Yes, Ms. Warren?”
“Isn’t it a little strange for you to go up in space as mission commander?”
Kessler narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, rookies like yourself usually get their feet wet by going up as mission pilots before commanding a shuttle.”
Jones was about to step up to the mike when Kessler motioned for him to calm down. Kessler stared at the reporter. He spoke slowly, his words measured. “I have to agree with you in the sense that it isn’t common for an astronaut to go up in space for the first time as mission commander, but on the other hand, why not? Look at the facts. Look at the training we’ve received. The hundreds of hours spent inside the Shuttle Mission Simulator at Johnson Space Center going over the launch, ascent, orbit, docking, deorbit, landing, and quite a number of emergencies that could occur in space. The simulator is by far much more demanding than the real shuttle. It tested us with situations that were far worse than anything that has ever happened in flight to date. We’ve gone over every problem faced by previous missions. In addition, both Jones and I have logged over five hundred hours of dead-stick approaches on the Gulfstream trainer, which also happens to be more demanding than the shuttle in terms of control and stability. We’re ready, we’re going up, and we will succeed. Next question, please.”
Before anyone could ask a question, the same woman spoke again. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re going up so soon when there’s a long list of astronauts waiting for their chance to go. Some have been waiting for over a decade. Isn’t it a little unfair for you to go up so fast? It would seem that you haven’t paid your dues yet.”