The MMU had twenty-four separate jets. Twelve primary jets and twelve for backup. That meant twenty-four tubes coming out of the nitrogen tanks, controlled by twenty-four valves. The way Jones had gone out of control told Kessler that there had to be more than just one jet misfiring; otherwise Jones would have had plenty of working jets to counter a malfunctioning jet. Also, Jones’s nitrogen supply, designed to last for several hours in “normal” operation, had lasted but a minute. These two facts told Kessler that something had overridden the hand controls and commanded the valves to open and close at random, quickly depleting the load of compressed nitrogen in the MMU tanks. There was no other explanation. Either that or several valves had malfunctioned at the same time. Kessler could accept one or two valves going bad at once, but more than that? He couldn’t buy it. Something had overridden the hand controls.
Kessler shifted his gaze to a point to the right of the array of wires, where all the wires converged before going in a number of directions to their appropriate valves.
What the hell?
Kessler blinked twice and refocused his vision on what appeared to be a small timer attached to the circuitry that translated the digital pulses from the hand controls into the electric current that drove the valves.
A timer? Why? Then he understood, and the revelation sent chills through his body. The small timer, its tiny display showing 0:00:00, had two wires coming out of the front. The wires were connected so that they would short-circuit the translator circuitry of both the primary and the backup jets. That meant that the moment the timer went off, the translator circuitry got roasted and the valves received random electric surges.
Jesus Christ!
Kessler inhaled deeply, held it, and then slowly exhaled. He spoke into his voice-activated headset.
“Houston? Lightning.”
“Ah… Michael? You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“Houston, I’m afraid I’ve got pretty bad news for all of us, particularly for us two up here.”
“What’s that, Lightning?”
“Someone sabotaged Jones’s MMU.” Kessler closed the MMU back panel and secured it. He unclipped his safety line and gently pushed himself toward the front of the payload bay.
“What? Say again, Lightning.”
“Sabotage, Houston. I have found a tampering device in the translator circuit of Jones’s MMU. I’m in the process of checking mine.” He reached his MMU and quickly opened the back panel. His eyes now knew what to look for. Nothing. His MMU had not been tampered with, at least as far as the translator circuit was concerned. “Mine appears clean. Houston. I think it would be best if we head back down to Earth as soon as possible.”
“That’s our thinkning down here as well, Lightning, especially in light of what you just found out. We should have an answer on the missing tile situation within the next few hours. In the meantime get some rest. You’ll need it.”
“Roger, Houston.”
“Now, get some sleep. That’s an order. We’ll wake you up in five hours.”
Kessler considered that as he floated into the air lock. Sleep was about the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.
Vanderhoff threw the copy of The New York Times against the wall. His initial plan had failed. Lightning had somehow reached orbit, but although the press did not mention any problems, he knew the orbiter was wounded. It had to be. The main engine sabotage was fool proof. It had to work. NASA was doing a superb job of covering it up. Vanderhoff was also certain that the contingent sabotage of the OMS engines had left the orbiter almost stranded.
He got up from the leather couch and walked toward the windows behind his desk. He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. It was two-thirty in the afternoon.
He stared at the Athena V rocket nearly ready for launch. That would be the final nail in NASA’s coffin.
He nodded as he visualized the headlines in the Times. Lightning, the failure of the decade, right behind the Endeavour disaster and the Hubble telescope. The entire world will finally realize, he reflected, that NASA just doesn’t have what it takes to prevent accidents from happening. No one will suspect sabotage as long as Lightning is destroyed. Vanderhoff felt certain that if NASA scientists ever got their hands on Lightning, they would discover the sabotage, but that, he decided as his lips curved upward, would not happen. Lightning would never make it back to Earth.
He turned around and stared at the Athena rocket once more. Nine hours, he reflected. Nine hours and it will all be over.
He frowned. There was still the issue of Higgins. The CIA official was in trouble. His phone call the night before had been distressful. The Head of Clandestine Services was after him, and Vanderhoff knew that if captured, Higgins could directly incriminate the network. The chain reaction that would follow such exposure would be devastating. A decade’s worth of planning and investing to position Europe as the world superpower by the end of the century would go astray the moment European leaders discovered such a conspiracy right under their noses. No, Higgins had become a liability — the reason Vanderhoff had made an additional phone call after he’d hung up with Higgins. It had to be done. Nothing personal, he thought. The EEC’s plans for the future of Europe in space came first.
Higgins walked toward the rendezvous point, where Vanderhoff’s people would be waiting to pull him out. A death would be staged. No one would look for a dead person. The idea had been Higgins’s and Vanderhoff had loved it. Clean, professional, safe. A body would be planted in Higgins’s place. A mutilated, charred body with no chance of physical identification. Higgins’s personal items would be with the body. Care would be taken in making sure no one could trace the body for dental records. Beyond that, Higgins had no special body markings that would lead anyone to believe the planted body wasn’t his.
What had amazed Higgins the most had been the fact that Vanderhoff would be able to pull it off on such short notice. Higgins had indeed underestimated the German’s resources. But it didn’t matter. In less than twenty-four hours he would be enjoying life in one of Vanderhoff’s South American estates surrounded by as many luxuries as he desired. That was the reward for putting his neck on the line for the EEC and Athena. The EEC leaders would take care of him.
He approached a worn-down, abandoned red-brick building located in one of the worst neighborhoods in Washington, the warehouse where Vanderhoff’s local contact had instructed him to go.
Wearing a gray jogging outfit and tennis shoes, Higgins walked through a large opening in the front, where a sliding gate once stood. He carried a briefcase with him containing the few personal items he couldn’t leave behind. He’d left all his bank accounts alone. With Vanderhoff, money would be unnecessary. Besides, that way no one would notice anything out of the ordinary. A simple disappearance and then a body found in one of the city’s worst areas. Higgins’s body. He had no family, no wife, no kids. A clean break, simple, elegant. He’d left nothing behind that he would miss, yet plenty would be waiting for him with Vanderhoff.