Part 6 (1/2)

Executive Office Building. The room had a table, two chairs, a PC, and no orbs. ”Thanks for bearing with me.””Telling me my office is bugged is a surefire way to get my attention.” Britt sat on the edge of the table.

”So who's bugging it, and how do you know?”

”The F'thk, that's who. And you won't like the 'how' any better. The orbs are recording devices.”

”Which would mean that every officeholder of any significance in this town is bugged, starting with the

President.”Kyle didn't care for the skepticism implicit in would mean. Instead of commenting, he popped a CDROM into the computer. The PC was Tempest-rated, specially designed to suppress the electromagnetic emissions that-in an ordinary computer-would allow skilled eavesdroppers to recreate the monitor image. On-screen, Hammond Matthews summarized a series of experiments upon orbs.

Every orb that the lab had tested showed the same behaviors. If immersed in an actively changing

environment-people moving, music playing-the crystalline depths of an orb also changed quickly. When triggered by the proper microwave interrogation pulse, the stimulated orb had a lengthy response. The same orb, observed by videocam in an empty and silent room, changed its appearance very slowly; when interrogated, it had a short response. The experiment was repeated with consistent results using orbs labeled Was.h.i.+ngton, Tokyo, Moscow, Beijing, and London-units that Darlene had had emba.s.sy staff obtain overseas and s.h.i.+p home by diplomatic pouch. Everyone was being spied upon, whatever their political school.

Britt tugged an ear thoughtfully. ”If I'm following, these devices are usually inert, pa.s.sively recording the images and sounds that impinge on them. Only when they get this interrogation signal are they active.”

”Right. The recording portion, the crystalline globe, needs no power. Think of it as very advanced, electronically readable film. The readout-and-reply portion in the base, beneath the bowl-shaped antenna, is externally powered-it takes its energy from a microwave interrogation signal. Now that we know to look, we've detected such interrogation signals. Orbs are routinely probed in and around all major national capitals-everywhere a 'Friends.h.i.+p Station' was left.

”Better, we can triangulate back to the origins of the triggering signals. Those sources turn out to be

satellites. They're radar stealthed, which is why NORAD hadn't noticed them as part of the routine tracking of orbital s.p.a.ce junk. They're also very dark, which makes them hard to detect visually even when you know where to look. Still, the satellites soak up a lot of energy from the sun. Infrared instruments on NASA satellites can spot these satellites easily.”

”Can we be sure these aren't Russian or Chinese, or other Earth-originated satellites? Someone working

with the F'thk?”

Kyle popped the CD from the computer. ”There are no stealth launches-when something blasts off from anywhere on Earth our spysats know it. These birds had to have been deposited directly into orbit from s.p.a.ce, not launched from this planet.”

”Which brings us to more pressing issues, like the escalating mortality rate of our spysats.””Related issues. We know instantly when our birds get fried, because we're in constant communication. We don't have such immediate knowledge of Russian satellites. It turns out, though, that their spysats are starting to tumble in orbit, as if out of control. More and more of their birds are acting just like our known dead ones.”

The tiny room fell silent as Britt struggled to absorb the enormity of these discoveries. At long last, he

shook his head sadly. ”So the F'thk go from capital to capital spreading suspicions. With bugging devices by the millions spread across the great capitals of the world, they know what b.u.t.tons to push, and they watch how we all react when our b.u.t.tons are pushed. They're disabling everyone's spysats, which has us and the Russians escalating our strategic alert status-which keeps feeding the distrust. The Chinese don't trust either of us, and now they're on heightened alert, too.”

”Yup, that pretty much sums it up.”Britt gave him a hard look. ”So why, exactly, are you smiling?””I'm just glad to have friends in high places who share my sense of the danger.”

* * * The video, shot from a distance with a telephoto lens, was grainy and jerky. The voice-over, apart from the raw emotion in the narration, was unintelligible. Neither distraction diminished the horror.

The footage of the spectacular launch and even more spectacular explosion of a Russian Proton 2 rocket had been captured by an enterprising Korean journalist. Debris rained down on the sun-baked steppes surrounding the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan. Kyle could not see the enormous fireball blossom without recalling the Atlantis, without a lump forming in his throat.

At Britt's gesture, Kyle muted the sound on the CNN feed. An aide was whispering into the President's ear, something about President Chernykov. Moments later, the Moscow hotline connection was active and on speakerphone. The pleasantries were perfunctory and abrupt.

”Dmitri Pyetrovich, we had hoped that a joint scientific project would help to diffuse the recent tensions.

Needless to say, today's fiasco will not contribute to this aim.””Fiasco?” The booming accompaniment was probably a hand slapping an unseen desk in emphasis. ”An American fiasco, I say. Your shuttle carried the first version of this satellite, and it blew up. Now one of our most reliable rockets carries a hurriedly upgraded lab model of the same observatory-and again there is an explosion. If you look to a.s.sign blame, look to your own people.”

”My people tell me it was a launcher failure . . . ””Your spies, you mean.” Another background rumble punctuated the Russian's intense voice. ”Our experts are still a.n.a.lyzing telemetry, and have released nothing.”President Robeson scowled at the speakerphone. ”Calm down, Dmitri.””Don't tell me to calm down. Judging from past incidents, the Kazakhs are likely to demand some sort of penalty payment from us for supposed environmental damages. The cosmodrome immediately suspended all further launches of the Proton 2 until they complete an investigation, which shuts down our commercial delivery business for heavy comsats.” There was whispering in the background. ”One of my aides wonders if you wanted this disaster, even arranged it, to favor your own aeros.p.a.ce companies and their launch-service businesses.”

Accusations and veiled insults flew. Leaders of the two great nuclear powers growled and fumed. At last, the President had had enough. ”I think we can agree continuing this conversation is not to anyone's advantage. But before we end the call, perhaps you will tell me this, Dmitri. Have your experts found anything surprising in the telemetry?”

There was impatient finger tapping, and an unseen Russian sighed. A new voice, that Kyle recognized as Sergei Arbatov, spoke up. ”No. Nothing unexpected. It is all a mystery.”

* * * ”d.a.m.ned Russians,” snapped President Robeson for the benefit of the orb on his desk. ”I need to stretch my legs. Walk with me.” He stormed from the well-wired Camp David office, followed by Britt, Kyle, and a Secret Service retinue. Without further comment, he led them into the moonlit Catoctin Mountain woods. The house was soon hidden from sight by the trees. ”Give us some s.p.a.ce,” the President told the chief of the protection detail. The agents faded into the woods, their attention turned outward. ”Good show, Kyle.” ”Thank you, sir.” His mind's eye kept flas.h.i.+ng back to cataclysmic fireb.a.l.l.s. ”I wish I'd been wrong.” ”But you weren't,” said Britt. ”You were right all along the line. The Galactics targeted the Baikonur launch, as you predicted. The arrangements were made by phone and Internet-and surely many of the relevant details were arranged out of range of the d.a.m.ned orbs-so your theory that they can monitor all of our electronic communications is apparently also right.”

Kyle retrieved and began to fidget with a pine cone. ”When the opportunity arises, thank Sergei.” Sergei who had somehow expedited the launch. Sergei whose theatrical tone of resignation disguised the agreed upon code phrase: nothing unexpected.

For the Galactics had no reason to suspect what the conspiring human scientists now expected: microwaves. Steerable microwave beams from stealthy satellites, beams that converged on the Proton's fuel tank. Enormous energies focused onto the metal sh.e.l.l of the rocket, metal that instantly conducted the energy as heat to the liquid hydrogen within. Kyle pictured a sealed metal container of gasoline in a microwave oven. First, the liquid heated, expanding and evaporating, until the pressure burst open the container. The pressure-driven spray rapidly mixed with air, to be exploded by the first spark.

Nothing unexpected . . . but microwave-borne sabotage was expected. That meant the sensors Sergei was to have secreted on the Proton had, before the explosion halted telemetry, reported back in some innocuous guise the presence of strong incident microwave radiation. Russian-placed sensors read out by Russian telemetry equipment-the latest evidence would surely allay any doubts President Chernykov might have had.

”Dr. Gustafson. Sir?”

He shrugged off the reverie into which excited exhaustion had taken him. A Secret Service women had

emerged from the woods. ”Yes?”

”Call for you, sir.” She handed him a cell phone.

”Sorry, sir,” he told the President. To the phone, he added, ”Gustafson.”

”h.e.l.lo, pardner.” The voice was Hammond Matthews's. They exchanged a few pleasantries and touched