Death, in this forsaken place, could come in countless forms. Geologist Charles 
Brophy had endured the savage splendor of this terrain for years, and yet nothing 
could prepare him for a fate as barbarous and unnatural as the one about to befall 
him. 
As Brophys four huskies pulled his sled of geologic sensing equipment across the 
tundra, the dogs suddenly slowed, looking skyward. 
What is it, girls? Brophy asked, stepping off the sled. 
Beyond the gathering storm clouds, a twin-rotor transport helicopter arched in 
low, hugging the glacial peaks with military dexterity. 
Thats odd, he thought. He never saw helicopters this far north. The aircraft landed 
fifty yards away, kicking up a stinging spray of granulated snow. His dogs 
whined, looking wary. 
When the chopper doors slid open, two men descended. They were dressed in fullweather 
whites, armed with rifles, and moved toward Brophy with urgent intent. 

Dr. Brophy? one called. 
The geologist was baffled. How did you know my name? Who are you? 
Take out your radio, please. 
Im sorry? 
Just do it. 
Bewildered, Brophy pulled his radio from his parka. 
We need you to transmit an emergency communiqu. Decrease your radio 
frequency to one hundred kilohertz. 
One hundred kilohertz? Brophy felt utterly lost. Nobody can receive anything that 
low. Has there been an accident? 
The second man raised his rifle and pointed it at Brophys head. Theres no time 
to explain. Just do it. 
Trembling, Brophy adjusted his transmission frequency. 
The first man now handed him a note card with a few lines typed on it. Transmit 
this message. Now. 
Brophy looked at the card. I dont understand. This information is incorrect. I 
didnt 
The man pressed his rifle hard against the geologists temple. 
Brophys voice was shaking as he transmitted the bizarre message. 
Good, the first man said. Now get yourself and your dogs into the chopper. 

At gunpoint, Brophy maneuvered his reluctant dogs and sled up a skid ramp into 
the cargo bay. As soon as they were settled, the chopper lifted off, turning 
westward. 
Who the hell are you! Brophy demanded, breaking a sweat inside his parka. And 
what was the meaning of that message! 
The men said nothing. 
As the chopper gained altitude, the wind tore through the open door. Brophys 
four huskies, still rigged to the loaded sled, were whimpering now. 
At least close the door, Brophy demanded. Cant you see my dogs are 
frightened! 
The men did not respond. 
As the chopper rose to four thousand feet, it banked steeply out over a series of ice 
chasms and crevasses. Suddenly, the men stood. Without a word, they gripped the 
heavily laden sled and pushed it out the open door. Brophy watched in horror as 
his dogs scrambled in vain against the enormous weight. In an instant the animals 
disappeared, dragged howling out of the chopper. 
Brophy was already on his feet screaming when the men grabbed him. They 
hauled him to the door. Numb with fear, Brophy swung his fists, trying to fend off 
the powerful hands pushing him outward. 
It was no use. Moments later he was tumbling toward the chasms below. 
1 

Toulos Restaurant, adjacent to Capitol Hill, boasts a politically incorrect menu of 
baby veal and horse carpaccio, making it an ironic hotspot for the quintessential 
Washingtonian power breakfast. This morning Toulos was busya cacophony of 
clanking silverware, espresso machines, and cellphone conversations. 
The maitre d was sneaking a sip of his morning Bloody Mary when the woman 
entered. He turned with a practiced smile. 
Good morning, he said. May I help you? 
The woman was attractive, in her mid-thirties, wearing gray, pleated flannel pants, 
conservative flats, and an ivory Laura Ashley blouse. Her posture was 
straightchin raised ever so slightlynot arrogant, just strong. The womans hair 
was light brown and fashioned in Washingtons most popular stylethe anchorwoman
a lush feathering, curled under at the shoulderslong enough to be 
sexy, but short enough to remind you she was probably smarter than you. 
Im a little late, the woman said, her voice unassuming. I have a breakfast 
meeting with Senator Sexton. 
The maitre d felt an unexpected tingle of nerves. Senator Sedgewick Sexton. The 
senator was a regular here and currently one of the countrys most famous men. 
Last week, having swept all twelve Republican primaries on Super Tuesday, the 
senator was virtually guaranteed his partys nomination for President of the United 
States. Many believed the senator had a superb chance of stealing the White 
House from the embattled President next fall. Lately Sextons face seemed to be 
on every national magazine, his campaign slogan plastered all across America: 
Stop spending. Start mending. 
Senator Sexton is in his booth, the maitre d said. And you are? 
Rachel Sexton. His daughter. 
How foolish of me, he thought. The resemblance was quite apparent. The woman 
had the senators penetrating eyes and refined carriagethat polished air of 

resilient nobility. Clearly the senators classic good looks had not skipped 
generations, although Rachel Sexton seemed to carry her blessings with a grace 
and humility her father could learn from. 
A pleasure to have you, Ms. Sexton. 
As the maitre d led the senators daughter across the dining area, he was 
embarrassed by the gauntlet of male eyes following hersome discreet, others 
less so. Few women dined at Toulos and even fewer who looked like Rachel 
Sexton. 
Nice body, one diner whispered. Sexton already find himself a new wife? 
Thats his daughter, you idiot, another replied. 
The man chuckled. Knowing Sexton, hed probably screw her anyway. 
When Rachel arrived at her fathers table, the senator was on his cellphone talking 
loudly about one of his recent successes. He glanced up at Rachel only long 
enough to tap his Cartier and remind her she was late. 
I missed you, too, Rachel thought. 
Her fathers first name was Thomas, although hed adopted his middle name long 
ago. Rachel suspected it was because he liked the alliteration. Senator Sedgewick 
Sexton. The man was a silver-haired, silver-tongued political animal who had been 
anointed with the slick look of soap opera doctor, which seemed appropriate 
considering his talents of impersonation. 
Rachel! Her father clicked off his phone and stood to kiss her cheek. 
Hi, Dad. She did not kiss him back. 

You look exhausted. 
And so it begins, she thought. I got your message. Whats up? 
I cant ask my daughter out for breakfast? 
Rachel had learned long ago her father seldom requested her company unless he 
had some ulterior motive. 
Sexton took a sip of coffee. So, how are things with you? 
Busy. I see your campaigns going well. 
Oh, lets not talk business. Sexton leaned across the table, lowering his voice. 
Hows that guy at the State Department I set you up with? 
Rachel exhaled, already fighting the urge to check her watch. Dad, I really 
havent had time to call him. And I wish youd stop trying to 
Youve got to make time for the important things, Rachel. Without love, 
everything else is meaningless. 
A number of comebacks came to mind, but Rachel chose silence. Being the bigger 
person was not difficult when it came to her father. Dad, you wanted to see me? 
You said this was important. 
It is. Her fathers eyes studied her closely. 
Rachel felt part of her defenses melt away under his gaze, and she cursed the 
mans power. The senators eyes were his gifta gift Rachel suspected would 
probably carry him to the White House. On cue, his eyes would well with tears, 
and then, an instant later, they would clear, opening a window to an impassioned 
soul, extending a bond of trust to all. Its all about trust, her father always said. 
The senator had lost Rachels years ago, but he was quickly gaining the countrys. 

I have a proposition for you, Senator Sexton said. 
Let me guess, Rachel replied, attempting to refortify her position. Some 
prominent divorc looking for a young wife? 
Dont kid yourself, honey. Youre not that young anymore. 
Rachel felt the familiar shrinking sensation that so often accompanied meetings 
with her father. 
I want to throw you a life raft, he said. 
I wasnt aware I was drowning. 
Youre not. The President is. You should jump ship before its too late. 
Havent we had this conversation? 
Think about your future, Rachel. You can come work for me. 
I hope thats not why you asked me to breakfast. 
The senators veneer of calm broke ever so slightly. Rachel, cant you see that 
your working for him reflects badly on me. And on my campaign. 
Rachel sighed. She and her father had been through this. Dad, I dont work for 
the President. I havent even met the President. I work in Fairfax, for Gods sake! 
Politics is perception, Rachel. It appears you work for the President. 
Rachel exhaled, trying to keep her cool. I worked too hard to get this job, Dad. 
Im not quitting. 
The senators eyes narrowed. You know, sometimes your selfish attitude 
really 

Senator Sexton? A reporter materialized beside the table. 
Sextons demeanor thawed instantly. Rachel groaned and took a croissant from the 
basket on the table. 
Ralph Sneeden, the reporter said. Washington Post. May I ask you a few 
questions? 
The senator smiled, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. My pleasure, Ralph. Just 
make it quick. I dont want my coffee getting cold. 
The reporter laughed on cue. Of course, sir. He pulled out a minirecorder and 
turned it on. Senator, your television ads call for legislation ensuring equal 
salaries for women in the workplaceas well as for tax cuts for new families. Can 
you comment on your rationale? 
Sure. Im simply a huge fan of strong women and strong families. 
Rachel practically choked on her croissant. 
And on the subject of families, the reporter followed up, you talk a lot about 
education. Youve proposed some highly controversial budget cuts in an effort to 
allocate more funds to our nations schools. 
I believe the children are our future. 
Rachel could not believe her father had sunk to quoting pop songs. 
Finally, sir, the reporter said, youve taken an enormous jump in the polls these 
past few weeks. The President has got to be worried. Any thoughts on your recent 
success? 
I think it has to do with trust. Americans are starting to see that the President 
cannot be trusted to make the tough decisions facing this nation. Runaway 
government spending is putting this country deeper in debt every day, and 

Americans are starting to realize that its time to stop spending and start 
mending. 
Like a stay of execution from her fathers rhetoric, the pager in Rachels handbag 
went off. Normally the harsh electronic beeping was an unwelcome interruption, 
but at the moment, it sounded almost melodious. 
The senator glared indignantly at having been interrupted. 
Rachel fished the pager from her handbag and pressed a preset sequence of five 
buttons, confirming that she was indeed the person holding the pager. The beeping 
stopped, and the LCD began blinking. In fifteen seconds she would receive a 
secure text message. 
Sneeden grinned at the senator. Your daughter is obviously a busy woman. Its 
refreshing to see you two still find time in your schedules to dine together. 
As I said, family comes first. 
Sneeden nodded, and then his gaze hardened. Might I ask, sir, how you and your 
daughter manage your conflicts of interest? 
Conflicts? Senator Sexton cocked his head with an innocent look of confusion. 
What conflicts do you mean? 
Rachel glanced up, grimacing at her fathers act. She knew exactly where this was 
headed. Damn reporters, she thought. Half of them were on political payrolls. The 
reporters question was what journalists called a grapefruita question that was 
supposed to look like a tough inquiry but was in fact a scripted favor to the 
senatora slow lob pitch that her father could line up and smash out of the park, 
clearing the air about a few things. 
Well, sir The reporter coughed, feigning uneasiness over the question. The 
conflict is that your daughter works for your opponent. 

Senator Sexton exploded in laughter, defusing the question instantly. Ralph, first 
of all, the President and I are not opponents. We are simply two patriots who have 
different ideas about how to run the country we love. 
The reporter beamed. He had his sound bite. And second? 
Second, my daughter is not employed by the President; she is employed by the 
intelligence community. She compiles intel reports and sends them to the White 
House. Its a fairly low-level position. He paused and looked at Rachel. In fact, 
dear, Im not sure youve even met the President, have you? 
Rachel stared, her eyes smoldering. 
The beeper chirped, drawing Rachels gaze to the incoming message on the LCD 
screen. 
RPRT DIRNRO STAT 
She deciphered the shorthand instantly and frowned. The message was 
unexpected, and most certainly bad news. At least she had her exit cue. 
Gentlemen, she said. It breaks my heart, but I have to go. Im late for work. 
Ms. Sexton, the reporter said quickly, before you go, I was wondering if you 
could comment on the rumors that you called this breakfast meeting to discuss the 
possibility of leaving your current post to work for your fathers campaign? 
Rachel felt like someone had thrown hot coffee in her face. The question took her 
totally off guard. She looked at her father and sensed in his smirk that the question 
had been prepped. She wanted to climb across the table and stab him with a fork. 
The reporter shoved the recorder into her face. Miss Sexton? 
Rachel locked eyes with the reporter. Ralph, or whoever the hell you are, get this 
straight: I have no intention of abandoning my job to work for Senator Sexton, and 

if you print anything to the contrary, youll need a shoehorn to get that recorder 
out of your ass. 
The reporters eyes widened. He clicked off his recorder, hiding a grin. Thank 
you both. He disappeared. 
Rachel immediately regretted the outburst. She had inherited her fathers temper, 
and she hated him for it. Smooth, Rachel. Very smooth. 
Her father glared disapprovingly. Youd do well to learn some poise. 
Rachel began collecting her things. This meeting is over. 
The senator was apparently done with her anyway. He pulled out his cellphone to 
make a call. Bye, sweetie. Stop by the office one of these days and say hello. 
And get married, for Gods sake. Youre thirty-three years old. 
Thirty-four, she snapped. Your secretary sent a card. 
He clucked ruefully. Thirty-four. Almost an old maid. You know by the time I 
was thirty-four, Id already 
Married Mom and screwed the neighbor? The words came out louder than 
Rachel had intended, her voice hanging naked in an ill-timed lull. Diners nearby 
glanced over. 
Senator Sextons eyes flash-froze, two ice-crystals boring into her. You watch 
yourself, young lady. 
Rachel headed for the door. No, you watch yourself, senator. 

2
The three men sat in silence inside their ThermaTech storm tent. Outside, an icy 
wind buffeted the shelter, threatening to tear it from its moorings. None of the men 
took notice; each had seen situations far more threatening than this one. 
Their tent was stark white, pitched in a shallow depression, out of sight. Their 
communication devices, transport, and weapons were all state-of-the-art. The 
group leader was code-named Delta-One. He was muscular and lithe with eyes as 
desolate as the topography on which he was stationed. 
The military chronograph on Delta-Ones wrist emitted a sharp beep. The sound 
coincided in perfect unison with beeps emitted from the chronographs worn by the 
other two men. 
Another thirty minutes had passed. 
It was time. Again. 
Reflexively, Delta-One left his two partners and stepped outside into the darkness 
and pounding wind. He scanned the moonlit horizon with infrared binoculars. As 
always, he focused on the structure. It was a thousand meters awayan enormous 
and unlikely edifice rising from the barren terrain. He and his team had been 
watching it for ten days now, since its construction. Delta-One had no doubt that 
the information inside would change the world. Lives already had been lost to 
protect it. 
At the moment, everything looked quiet outside the structure. 
The true test, however, was what was happening inside. 
Delta-One reentered the tent and addressed his two fellow soldiers. Time for a 
flyby. 
Both men nodded. The taller of them, Delta-Two, opened a laptop computer and 

turned it on. Positioning himself in front of the screen, Delta-Two placed his hand 
on a mechanical joystick and gave it a short jerk. A thousand meters away, hidden 
deep within the building, a surveillance robot the size of a mosquito received his 
transmission and sprang to life. 
3
Rachel Sexton was still steaming as she drove her white Integra up Leesburg 
Highway. The bare maples of the Falls Church foothills rose stark against a crisp 
March sky, but the peaceful setting did little to calm her anger. Her fathers recent 
surge in the polls should have endowed him with a modicum of confident grace, 
and yet it seemed only to fuel his self-importance. 
The mans deceit was doubly painful because he was the only immediate family 
Rachel had left. Rachels mother had died three years ago, a devastating loss 
whose emotional scars still raked at Rachels heart. Rachels only solace was 
knowing that the death, with ironic compassion, had liberated her mother from a 
deep despair over a miserable marriage to the senator. 
Rachels pager beeped again, pulling her thoughts back to the road in front of her. 
The incoming message was the same. 
RPRT DIRNRO STAT 
Report to the director of NRO stat. She sighed. Im coming, for Gods sake! 
With rising uncertainty, Rachel drove to her usual exit, turned onto the private 
access road, and rolled to a stop at the heavily armed sentry booth. This was 14225 
Leesburg Highway, one of the most secretive addresses in the country. 
While the guard scanned her car for bugs, Rachel gazed out at the mammoth 

structure in the distance. The one-million-square-foot complex sat majestically on 
sixty-eight forested acres just outside D.C. in Fairfax, Virginia. The buildings 
facade was a bastion of one-way glass that reflected the army of satellite dishes, 
antennas, and rayodomes on the surrounding grounds, doubling their already aweinspiring 
numbers. 
Two minutes later, Rachel had parked and crossed the manicured grounds to the 
main entrance, where a carved granite sign announced 
NATIONAL RECONNAISSANCE OFFICE (NRO) 
The two armed Marines flanking the bulletproof revolving door stared straight 
ahead as Rachel passed between them. She felt the same sensation she always felt 
as she pushed through these doorsthat she was entering the belly of a sleeping 
giant. 
Inside the vaulted lobby, Rachel sensed the faint echoes of hushed conversations 
all around her, as if the words were sifting down from the offices above. An 
enormous tiled mosaic proclaimed the NRO directive: 
ENABLING U.S. GLOBAL INFORMATION 
SUPERIORITY, DURING PEACE AND THROUGH WAR. 
The walls here were lined with massive photographsrocket launches, submarine 
christenings, intercept installationstowering achievements that could be 
celebrated only within these walls. 
Now, as always, Rachel felt the problems of the outside world fading behind her. 
She was entering the shadow world. A world where the problems thundered in like 
freight trains, and the solutions were meted out with barely a whisper. 
As Rachel approached the final checkpoint, she wondered what kind of problem 
had caused her pager to ring twice in the last thirty minutes. 
Good morning, Ms. Sexton. The guard smiled as she approached the steel 

doorway. 
Rachel returned the smile as the guard held out a tiny swab for Rachel to take. 
You know the drill, he said. 
Rachel took the hermetically sealed cotton swab and removed the plastic covering. 
Then she placed it in her mouth like a thermometer. She held it under her tongue 
for two seconds. Then, leaning forward, she allowed the guard to remove it. The 
guard inserted the moistened swab into a slit in a machine behind him. The 
machine took four seconds to confirm the DNA sequences in Rachels saliva. 
Then a monitor flickered on, displaying Rachels photo and security clearance. 
The guard winked. Looks like youre still you. He pulled the used swab from 
the machine and dropped it through an opening, where it was instantly incinerated. 
Have a good one. He pressed a button and the huge steel doors swung open. 
As Rachel made her way into the maze of bustling corridors beyond, she was 
amazed that even after six years here she was still daunted by the colossal scope of 
this operation. The agency encompassed six other U.S. installations, employed 
over ten thousand agents, and had operating costs of over $10 billion per year. 
In total secrecy, the NRO built and maintained an astonishing arsenal of cuttingedge 
spy technologies: worldwide electronic intercepts; spy satellites; silent, 
embedded relay chips in telecomm products; even a global naval-recon network 
known as Classic Wizard, a secret web of 1,456 hydrophones mounted on 
seafloors around the world, capable of monitoring ship movements anywhere on 
the globe. 
NRO technologies not only helped the United States win military conflicts, but 
they provided an endless stream of peacetime data to agencies such as the CIA, 
NSA, and Department of Defense, helping them thwart terrorism, locate crimes 
against the environment, and give policymakers the data needed to make informed 
decisions on an enormous array of topics. 

Rachel worked here as a gister. Gisting, or data reduction, required analyzing 
complex reports and distilling their essence or gist into concise, single-page 
briefs. Rachel had proven herself a natural. All those years of cutting through my 
fathers bullshit, she thought. 
Rachel now held the NROs premier gisting postintelligence liaison to the 
White House. She was responsible for sifting through the NROs daily intelligence 
reports, deciding which stories were relevant to the President, distilling those 
reports into single-page briefs, and then forwarding the synopsized material to the 
Presidents National Security Adviser. In NRO-speak, Rachel Sexton 
manufactured finished product and serviced the customer. 
Although the job was difficult and required long hours, the position was a badge 
of honor for her, a way to assert her independence from her father. Senator Sexton 
had offered many times to support Rachel if she would quit the post, but Rachel 
had no intention of becoming financially beholden to a man like Sedgewick 
Sexton. Her mother was testimony to what could happen when a man like that 
held too many cards. 
The sound of Rachels pager echoed in the marble hall. 
Again? She didnt even bother to check the message. 
Wondering what the hell was going on, she boarded the elevator, skipped her own 
floor, and went straight to the top. 
4
To call the NRO director a plain man was in itself an overstatement. NRO 
Director William Pickering was diminutive, with pale skin, a forgettable face, a 
bald head, and hazel eyes, which despite having gazed upon the countrys deepest 

secrets, appeared as two shallow pools. Nonetheless, to those who worked under 
him, Pickering towered. His subdued personality and unadorned philosophies were 
legendary at the NRO. The mans quiet diligence, combined with his wardrobe of 
plain black suits, had earned him the nickname the Quaker. A brilliant strategist 
and the model of efficiency, the Quaker ran his world with an unrivaled clarity. 
His mantra: Find the truth. Act on it. 
When Rachel arrived in the directors office, he was on the phone. Rachel was 
always surprised by the sight of him: William Pickering looked nothing like a man 
who wielded enough power to wake the President at any hour. 
Pickering hung up and waved her in. Agent Sexton, have a seat. His voice had a 
lucid rawness to it. 
Thank you, sir. Rachel sat. 
Despite most peoples discomfort around William Pickerings blunt demeanor, 
Rachel had always liked the man. He was the exact antithesis of her 
fatherphysically unimposing, anything but charismatic, and he did his duty with 
a selfless patriotism, shunning the spotlight her father loved so much. 
Pickering removed his glasses and gazed at her. Agent Sexton, the President 
called me about a half hour ago. In direct reference to you. 
Rachel shifted in her seat. Pickering was known for getting to the point. One hell 
of an opening, she thought. Not a problem with one of my gists, I hope. 
On the contrary. He says the White House is impressed with your work. 
Rachel exhaled silently. So what did he want? 
A meeting with you. In person. Immediately. 
Rachels unease sharpened. A personal meeting? About what? 

Damn good question. He wouldnt tell me. 
Now Rachel was lost. Keeping information from the director of the NRO was like 
keeping Vatican secrets from the Pope. The standing joke in the intelligence 
community was that if William Pickering didnt know about it, it hadnt happened. 
Pickering stood, pacing now in front of his window. He asked that I contact you 
immediately and send you to meet with him. 
Right now? 
He sent transportation. Its waiting outside. 
Rachel frowned. The Presidents request was unnerving on its own account, but it 
was the look of concern on Pickerings face that really worried her. You 
obviously have reservations. 
I sure as hell do! Pickering showed a rare flash of emotion. The Presidents 
timing seems almost callow in its transparency. You are the daughter of the man 
who is currently challenging him in the polls, and he demands a private meeting 
with you? I find this highly inappropriate. Your father no doubt would agree. 
Rachel knew Pickering was rightnot that she gave a damn what her father 
thought. Do you not trust the Presidents motives? 
My oath is to provide intel support to the current White House administration, 
not pass judgment on their politics. 
Typical Pickering response, Rachel realized. William Pickering made no bones 
about his view of politicians as transitory figureheads who passed fleetingly across 
a chessboard whose real players were men like Pickering himselfseasoned 
lifers who had been around long enough to understand the game with some 
perspective. Two full terms in the White House, Pickering often said, was not 
nearly enough to comprehend the true complexities of the global political 
landscape. 

Maybe its an innocent request, Rachel offered, hoping the President was above 
trying some sort of cheap campaign stunt. Maybe he needs a reduction of some 
sensitive data. 
Not to sound belittling, Agent Sexton, but the White House has access to plenty 
of qualified gisting personnel if they need it. If its an internal White House job, 
the President should know better than to contact you. And if not, then he sure as 
hell should know better than to request an NRO asset and then refuse to tell me 
what he wants it for. 
Pickering always referred to his employees as assets, a manner of speech many 
found disconcertingly cold. 
Your father is gaining political momentum, Pickering said. A lot of it. The 
White House has got to be getting nervous. He sighed. Politics is a desperate 
business. When the President calls a secret meeting with his challengers daughter, 
Id guess theres more on his mind than intelligence gists. 
Rachel felt a distant chill. Pickerings hunches had an uncanny tendency to be 
dead on. And youre afraid the White House feels desperate enough to introduce 
me into the political mix? 
Pickering paused a moment. You are not exactly silent about your feelings for 
your father, and I have little doubt the Presidents campaign staff is aware of the 
rift. It occurs to me that they may want to use you against him somehow. 
Where do I sign up? Rachel said, only half-joking. 
Pickering looked unimpressed. He gave her a stern stare. A word of warning, 
Agent Sexton. If you feel that your personal issues with your father are going to 
cloud your judgment in dealing with the President, I strongly advise that you 
decline the Presidents request for a meeting. 
Decline? Rachel gave a nervous chuckle. I obviously cant refuse the 

President. 
No, the director said, but I can. 
His words rumbled a bit, reminding Rachel of the other reason Pickering was 
called the Quaker. Despite being a small man, William Pickering could cause 
political earthquakes if he were crossed. 
My concerns here are simple, Pickering said. I have a responsibility to protect 
the people who work for me, and I dont appreciate even the vague implication 
that one of them might be used as a pawn in a political game. 
What do you recommend I do? 
Pickering sighed. My suggestion is that you meet with him. Commit to nothing. 
Once the President tells you what the hell is on his mind, call me. If I think hes 
playing political hardball with you, trust me, Ill pull you out so fast the man 
wont know what hit him. 
Thank you, sir. Rachel sensed a protective aura from the director that she often 
longed for in her own father. And you said the President already sent a car? 
Not exactly. Pickering frowned and pointed out the window. 
Uncertain, Rachel went over and gazed out in the direction of Pickerings 
outstretched finger. 
A snub-nosed MH-60G PaveHawk helicopter sat idling on the lawn. One of the 
fastest choppers ever made, this PaveHawk was emblazoned with the White 
House insignia. The pilot stood nearby, checking his watch. 
Rachel turned to Pickering in disbelief. The White House sent a PaveHawk to 
take me fifteen miles into D.C.? 
Apparently the President hopes you are either impressed or intimidated. 

Pickering eyed her. I suggest you are neither. 
Rachel nodded. She was both. 
Four minutes later, Rachel Sexton exited the NRO and climbed into the waiting 
helicopter. Before she had even buckled herself in, the craft was airborne, banking 
hard across the Virginia woods. Rachel gazed out at the blur of trees beneath her 
and felt her pulse rising. It would have risen faster had she known this chopper 
would never reach the White House. 
5
The frigid wind battered the fabric of the ThermaTech tent, but Delta-One hardly 
noticed. He and Delta-Three were focused on their comrade, who was 
manipulating the joystick in his hand with surgical dexterity. The screen before 
them displayed a live video transmission from a pinpoint camera mounted aboard 
the microrobot. 
The ultimate surveillance tool, Delta-One thought, still amazed every time they 
powered it up. Lately, in the world of micromechanics, fact seemed to be outpacing 
fiction. 
Micro Electro Mechanical Systems (MEMS)microbotswere the newest tool 
in high-tech surveillancefly on the wall technology, they called it. 
Literally. 
Although microscopic, remote-controlled robots sounded like science fiction, in 
fact they had been around since the 1990s. Discovery magazine had run a cover 

story in May 1997 on microbots, featuring both flying and swimming models. 
The swimmersnanosubs the size of salt grainscould be injected into the 
human bloodstream  la the movie Fantastic Voyage. They were now being used 
by advanced medical facilities to help doctors navigate arteries by remote control, 
observe live intravenous video transmissions, and locate arterial blockages without 
ever lifting a scalpel. 
Contrary to intuition, building a flying microbot was even simpler business. The 
aerodynamics technology for getting a machine to fly had been around since Kitty 
Hawk, and all that remained had been the issue of miniaturization. The first flying 
microbots, designed by NASA as unmanned exploration tools for future Mars 
missions, had been several inches long. Now, however, advances in 
nanotechnology, lightweight energy-absorbent materials, and micromechanics had 
made the flying microbots a reality. 
The true breakthrough had come from the new field biomimicscopying Mother 
Nature. Miniature dragonflies, as it turned out, were the ideal prototype for these 
agile and efficient flying microbots. The PH2 model Delta-Two was currently 
flying was only one centimeter longthe size of a mosquitoand employed a 
dual pair of transparent, hinged, silicon-leaf wings, giving it unparalleled mobility 
and efficiency in the air. 
The microbots refueling mechanism had been another breakthrough. The first 
microbot prototypes could only recharge their energy cells by hovering directly 
beneath a bright light source, not ideal for stealth or use in dark locales. The newer 
prototypes, however, could recharge simply by parking within a few inches of a 
magnetic field. Conveniently, in modern society, magnetic fields were ubiquitous 
and discreetly placedpower outlets, computer monitors, electric motors, audio 
speakers, cellphonesit seemed there was never any shortage of obscure 
recharging stations. Once a microbot had been introduced successfully into a 
locale, it could transmit audio and video almost indefinitely. The Delta Forces 
PH2 had been transmitting for over a week now with no trouble whatsoever. 

Now, like an insect hovering inside a cavernous barn, the airborne microbot hung 
silently in the still air of the structures massive central room. With a birds-eye 
view of the space below, the microbot circled silently above unsuspecting 
occupantstechnicians, scientists, specialists in numerous fields of study. As the 
PH2 circled, Delta-One spotted two familiar faces engaged in conversation. They 
would be a telling mark. He told Delta-Two to drop down and have a listen. 
Manipulating the controls, Delta-Two switched on the robots sound sensors, 
oriented the microbots parabolic amplifier, and decreased the robots elevation 
until it was ten feet over the scientists heads. The transmission was faint, but 
discernible. 
I still cant believe it, one scientist was saying. The excitement in his voice had 
not diminished since his arrival here forty-eight hours ago. 
The man with whom he was talking obviously shared the enthusiasm. In your 
lifetimedid you ever think you would witness anything like this? 
Never, the scientist replied, beaming. Its all a magnificent dream. 
Delta-One had heard enough. Clearly everything inside was proceeding as 
expected. Delta-Two maneuvered the microbot away from the conversation and 
flew it back to its hiding place. He parked the tiny device undetected near the 
cylinder of an electric generator. The PH2s power cells immediately began 
recharging for the next mission. 
6
Rachel Sextons thoughts were lost in the mornings bizarre developments as her 
PaveHawk transport tore across the morning sky, and it was not until the 
helicopter rocketed out across Chesapeake Bay that she realized they were heading 

in entirely the wrong direction. The initial flash of confusion instantly gave way to 
trepidation. 
Hey! she yelled to the pilot. What are you doing? Her voice was barely 
audible over the rotors. Youre supposed to be taking me to the White House! 
The pilot shook his head. Sorry, maam. The President is not at the White House 
this morning. 
Rachel tried to remember if Pickering had specifically mentioned the White House 
or whether she had simply assumed. So where is the President? 
Your meeting with him is elsewhere. 
No shit. Where elsewhere? 
Not far now. 
Thats not what I asked. 
Sixteen more miles. 
Rachel scowled at him. This guy should be a politician. Do you dodge bullets as 
well as you dodge questions? 
The pilot did not answer. 
It took less than seven minutes for the chopper to cross the Chesapeake. When 
land was in sight again, the pilot banked north and skirted a narrow peninsula, 
where Rachel saw a series of runways and military-looking buildings. The pilot 
dropped down toward them, and Rachel then realized what this place was. The six 
launchpads and charred rocket towers were a good clue, but if that was not 
enough, the roof of one of the buildings had been painted with two enormous 

words: WALLOPS ISLAND. 
Wallops Island was one of NASAs oldest launch sites. Still used today for 
satellite launches and testing of experimental aircraft, Wallops was NASAs base 
away from the spotlight. 
The President is at Wallops Island? It made no sense. 
The chopper pilot aligned his trajectory with a series of three runways that ran the 
length of the narrow peninsula. They seemed to be heading for the far end of the 
center runway. 
The pilot began to slow. You will be meeting the President in his office. 
Rachel turned, wondering if the guy was joking. The President of the United 
States has an office on Wallops Island? 
The pilot looked dead serious. The President of the United States has an office 
wherever he likes, maam. 
He pointed toward the end of the runway. Rachel saw the mammoth shape 
glistening in the distance, and her heart almost stopped. Even at three hundred 
yards, she recognized the light blue hull of the modified 747. 
Im meeting him aboard the 
Yes, maam. His home away from home. 
Rachel stared out at the massive aircraft. The militarys cryptic designation for this 
prestigious plane was VC-25-A, although the rest of the world knew it by another 
name: Air Force One. 
Looks like youre in the new one this morning, the pilot said, motioning to the 
numbers on the planes tail fin. 

Rachel nodded blankly. Few Americans knew that there were actually two Air 
Force Ones in servicea pair of identical, specially configured 747-200-Bs, one 
with the tail number 28000 and the other 29000. Both planes had cruising speeds 
of 600 mph and had been modified for in-flight refueling, giving them virtually 
unlimited range. 
As the PaveHawk settled onto the runway beside the Presidents plane, Rachel 
now understood the references to Air Force One being the commander-in chiefs 
portable home court advantage. The machine was an intimidating sight. 
When the President flew to other countries to meet heads of state, he often 
requestedfor security purposesthat the meeting take place on the runway 
aboard his jet. Although some of the motives were security, certainly another 
incentive was to gain a negotiating edge through raw intimidation. A visit to Air 
Force One was far more intimidating than any trip to the White House. The sixfoot-
high letters along the fuselage trumpeted UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. A 
female English cabinet member had once accused President Nixon of waving his 
manhood in her face when he asked her to join him aboard Air Force One. Later 
the crew jokingly nicknamed the plane Big Dick. 
Ms. Sexton? A blazer-clad Secret Serviceman materialized outside the chopper 
and opened the door for her. The President is waiting for you. 
Rachel got out of the chopper and gazed up the steep gangway at the bulging hull. 
Into the flying phallus. She had once heard the flying Oval Office had over four 
thousand square feet of interior floor space, including four separate private 
sleeping quarters, berths for a twenty-six-member flight crew, and two galleys 
capable of providing food for fifty people. 
Climbing the stairway, Rachel felt the Secret Serviceman on her heels, urging her 
upward. High above, the cabin door stood open like a tiny puncture wound on the 
side of a gargantuan silver whale. She moved toward the darkened entryway and 
felt her confidence starting to ebb. 
Easy, Rachel. Its just a plane. 

On the landing, the Secret Serviceman politely took her arm and guided her into a 
surprisingly narrow corridor. They turned right, walked a short distance, and 
emerged into a luxurious and spacious cabin. Rachel immediately recognized it 
from photographs. 
Wait here, the serviceman said, and he disappeared. 
Rachel stood alone in Air Force Ones famous wood-paneled fore cabin. This was 
the room used for meetings, entertaining dignitaries, and, apparently, for scaring 
the hell out of first-time passengers. The room spanned the entire width of the 
plane, as did its thick tan carpeting. The furnishings were impeccablecordovan 
leather armchairs around a birds-eye maple meeting table, burnished brass floor 
lamps beside a continental sofa, and hand-etched crystal glassware on a mahogany 
wet bar. 
Supposedly, Boeing designers had carefully laid out this fore cabin to provide 
passengers with a sense of order mixed with tranquility. Tranquility, however, 
was the last thing Rachel Sexton was feeling at the moment. The only thing she 
could think of was the number of world leaders who had sat in this very room and 
made decisions that shaped the world. 
Everything about this room said power, from the faint aroma of fine pipe tobacco 
to the ubiquitous presidential seal. The eagle clasping the arrows and olive 
branches was embroidered on throw pillows, carved into the ice bucket, and even 
printed on the cork coasters on the bar. Rachel picked up a coaster and examined 
it. 
Stealing souvenirs already? a deep voice asked behind her. 
Startled, Rachel wheeled, dropping the coaster on the floor. She knelt awkwardly 
to retrieve it. As she grasped the coaster, she turned to see the President of the 
United States gazing down at her with an amused grin. 
Im not royalty, Ms. Sexton. Theres really no need to kneel. 

7
Senator Sedgewick Sexton savored the privacy of his Lincoln stretch limousine as 
it snaked through Washingtons morning traffic toward his office. Across from 
him, Gabrielle Ashe, his twenty-four-year-old personal assistant, read him his 
daily schedule. Sexton was barely listening. 
I love Washington, he thought, admiring the assistants perfect shape beneath her 
cashmere sweater. Power is the greatest aphrodisiac of alland it brings women 
like this to D.C. in droves. 
Gabrielle was a New York Ivy Leaguer with dreams of being a senator herself one 
day. Shell make it too, Sexton thought. She was incredible-looking and sharp as a 
whip. Above all, she understood the rules of the game. 
Gabrielle Ashe was black, but her tawny coloring was more of a deep cinnamon or 
mahogany, the kind of comfortable in-between that Sexton knew bleeding heart 
whites could endorse without feeling like they were giving away the farm. 
Sexton described Gabrielle to his cronies as Halle Berrys looks with Hillary 
Clintons brains and ambition, although sometimes he thought even that was an 
understatement. 
Gabrielle had been a tremendous asset to his campaign since hed promoted her to 
his personal campaign assistant three months ago. And to top it all off, she was 
working for free. Her compensation for a sixteen-hour workday was learning the 
ropes in the trenches with a seasoned politician. 
Of course, Sexton gloated, Ive persuaded her to do a bit more than just work. 
After promoting Gabrielle, Sexton had invited her to a late night orientation 
session in his private office. As expected, his young assistant arrived starstruck 

and eager to please. With a slow-moving patience mastered over decades, Sexton 
worked his magicbuilding up Gabrielles trust, carefully stripping away her 
inhibitions, exhibiting tantalizing control, and finally seducing her right there in 
his office. 
Sexton had little doubt the encounter had been one of the most sexually gratifying 
experiences of the young womans life, and yet, in the light of the day, Gabrielle 
clearly regretted the indiscretion. Embarrassed, she offered to resign. Sexton 
refused. Gabrielle stayed on, but she made her intentions very clear. The 
relationship had been strictly business ever since. 
Gabrielles pouty lips were still moving. dont want you to be lackadaisical 
going into this CNN debate this afternoon. We still dont know who the White 
House is sending as opposition. Youll want to peruse these notes I typed. She 
handed him a folder. 
Sexton took the folder, savoring the scent of her perfume mixed with the plush 
leather seats. 
You arent listening, she said. 
Certainly am. He grinned. Forget about this CNN debate. Worst case scenario, 
the White House snubs me by sending some low-level campaign intern. Best case 
scenario, they send a bigwig, and I eat him for lunch. 
Gabrielle frowned. Fine. Ive included a list of the most probable hostile topics in 
your notes. 
The usual suspects no doubt. 
With one new entry. I think you might face some hostile backlash from the gay 
community for your comments last night on Larry King. 
Sexton shrugged, barely listening. Right. The same-sex marriage thing. 

Gabrielle gave him a disapproving look. You did come out against it pretty 
strongly. 
Same-sex marriages, Sexton thought in disgust. If it were up to me, the faggots 
wouldnt even have the right to vote. Okay, Ill turn it down a notch. 
Good. Youve been pushing the envelope a bit on some of these hot topics lately. 
Dont get cocky. The public can turn in an instant. Youre gaining now, and you 
have momentum. Just ride it out. Theres no need to hit the ball out of the park 
today. Just keep it in play. 
Any news from the White House? 
Gabrielle looked pleasantly baffled. Continued silence. Its official; your 
opponent has become the Invisible Man. 
Sexton could barely believe his good fortune lately. For months, the President had 
been working hard on the campaign trail. Then suddenly, a week ago, he had 
locked himself in the Oval Office, and nobody had seen or heard from him since. 
It was as if the President simply could not face Sextons groundswell of voter 
support. 
Gabrielle ran a hand through her straightened black hair. I hear the White House 
campaign staff is as confused as we are. The President is offering no explanation 
for his vanishing act, and everyone over there is furious. 
Any theories? Sexton asked. 
Gabrielle gazed at him over her scholarly glasses. As it turns out, I got some 
interesting data this morning from a contact of mine in the White House. 
Sexton recognized the look in her eyes. Gabrielle Ashe had scored some insider 
information again. Sexton wondered if she were giving some presidential aide 
backseat blow jobs in exchange for campaign secrets. Sexton didnt careso long 
as the information kept coming. 

Rumor has it, his assistant said, lowering her voice, the Presidents strange 
behavior all started last week after an emergency private briefing with the 
administrator of NASA. Apparently the President emerged from the meeting 
looking dazed. He immediately cleared his schedule, and hes been in close 
contact with NASA ever since. 
Sexton certainly liked the sound of that. You think maybe NASA delivered some 
more bad news? 
Seems a logical explanation, she said hopefully. Although it would have to be 
pretty critical to make the President drop everything. 
Sexton considered it. Obviously, whatever was going on with NASA had to be bad 
news. Otherwise the President would throw it in my face. Sexton had been 
pounding the President pretty hard on NASA funding lately. The space agencys 
recent string of failed missions and gargantuan budget overruns had earned NASA 
the dubious honor of becoming Sextons unofficial poster child against big 
government overspending and inefficiency. Admittedly, attacking NASAone of 
the most prominent symbols of American pridewas not the way most politicians 
would think of winning votes, but Sexton had a weapon few other politicians 
hadGabrielle Ashe. And her impeccable instincts. 
The savvy young woman had come to Sextons attention several months ago when 
she was working as a coordinator in Sextons Washington campaign office. With 
Sexton trailing badly in the primary polls and his message of government 
overspending falling on deaf ears, Gabrielle Ashe wrote him a note suggesting a 
radical new campaign angle. She told the senator he should attack NASAs huge 
budget overruns and continued White House bailouts as the quintessential 
example of President Herneys careless overspending. 
NASA is costing Americans a fortune, Gabrielle wrote, including a list of 
financial figures, failures, and bailouts. Voters have no idea. They would be 
horrified. I think you should make NASA a political issue. 

Sexton groaned at her navet. Yeah, and while Im at it, Ill rail against singing 
the national anthem at baseball games. 
In the weeks that followed, Gabrielle continued to send information about NASA 
across the senators desk. The more Sexton read, the more he realized this young 
Gabrielle Ashe had a point. Even by government agency standards, NASA was an 
astounding money pitexpensive, inefficient, and, in recent years, grossly 
incompetent. 
One afternoon Sexton was doing an on-air interview about education. The host 
was pressing Sexton about where he would find funding for his promised overhaul 
of public schools. In response, Sexton decided to test Gabrielles NASA theory 
with a half-joking response. Money for education? he said. Well, maybe Ill cut 
the space program in half. I figure if NASA can spend fifteen billion a year in 
space, I should be able to spend seven and a half billion on the kids here on earth. 
In the transmission booth, Sextons campaign managers gasped in horror at the 
careless remark. After all, entire campaigns had been sunk by far less than taking a 
potshot at NASA. Instantly, the phone lines at the radio station lit up. Sextons 
campaign managers cringed; the space patriots were circling for the kill. 
Then something unexpected happened. 
Fifteen billion a year? the first caller said, sounding shocked. With a B? Are 
you telling me that my sons math class is overcrowded because schools cant 
afford enough teachers, and NASA is spending fifteen billion dollars a year taking 
pictures of space dust? 
Umthats right, Sexton said warily. 
Absurd! Does the President have the power to do something about that? 
Absolutely, Sexton replied, gaining confidence. A President can veto the 
budget request of any agency he or she deems overfunded. 

Then you have my vote, Senator Sexton. Fifteen billion for space research, and 
our kids dont have teachers. Its outrageous! Good luck, sir. I hope you go all the 
way. 
The next caller came on the line. Senator, I just read that NASAs International 
Space Station is way overbudget and the President is thinking of giving NASA 
emergency funding to keep the project going. Is that true? 
Sexton jumped at this one. True! He explained that the space station was 
originally proposed as a joint venture, with twelve countries sharing the costs. But 
after construction began, the stations budget spiraled wildly out of control, and 
many countries dropped out in disgust. Rather than scrapping the project, the 
President decided to cover everyones expenses. Our cost for the ISS project, 
Sexton announced, has risen from the proposed eight billion to a staggering one 
hundred billion dollars! 
The caller sounded furious. Why the hell doesnt the President pull the plug! 
Sexton could have kissed the guy. Damn good question. Unfortunately, one third 
of the building supplies are already in orbit, and the President spent your tax 
dollars putting them there, so pulling the plug would be admitting he made a 
multibillion-dollar blunder with your money. 
The calls kept coming. For the first time, it seemed Americans were waking up to 
the idea that NASA was an optionnot a national fixture. 
When the show was over, with the exception of a few NASA diehards calling in 
with poignant overtures about mans eternal quest for knowledge, the consensus 
was in: Sextons campaign had stumbled onto the holy grail of campaigninga 
new hot buttona yet untapped controversial issue that struck a nerve with 
voters. 
In the weeks that followed, Sexton trounced his opponents in five crucial 
primaries. He announced Gabrielle Ashe as his new personal campaign assistant, 
praising her for her work in bringing the NASA issue to the voters. With the wave 

of a hand, Sexton had made a young African-American woman a rising political 
star, and the issue of his racist and sexist voting record disappeared overnight. 
Now, as they sat together in the limousine, Sexton knew Gabrielle had yet again 
proven her worth. Her new information about last weeks secret meeting between 
the NASA administrator and the President certainly suggested more NASA 
troubles were brewingperhaps another country pulling funding from the space 
station. 
As the limousine passed the Washington Monument, Senator Sexton could not 
help but feel he had been anointed by destiny. 
8
Despite having ascended to the most powerful political office in the world, 
President Zachary Herney was average in height, with a slender build and narrow 
shoulders. He had a freckled face, bifocals, and thinning black hair. His 
unimposing physique, however, stood in stark contrast to the almost princely love 
the man commanded from those who knew him. It was said that if you met Zach 
Herney once, you would walk to the ends of the earth for him. 
So glad you could make it, President Herney said, reaching out to shake 
Rachels hand. His grasp was warm and sincere. 
Rachel fought the frog in her throat. Ofcourse, Mr. President. An honor to 
meet you. 
The President gave her a comforting grin, and Rachel sensed firsthand the 
legendary Herney affability. The man possessed an easygoing countenance 
political cartoonists loved because no matter how skewed a rendition they drew, 
no one ever mistook the mans effortless warmth and amiable smile. His eyes 

mirrored sincerity and dignity at all times. 
If you follow me, he said in a cheery voice, Ive got a cup of coffee with your 
name on it. 
Thank you, sir. 
The President pressed the intercom and called for some coffee in his office. 
As Rachel followed the President through the plane, she could not help but notice 
that he looked extremely happy and well-rested for a man who was down in the 
polls. He was also very casually dressedblue jeans, a polo shirt, and L.L. Bean 
hiking boots. 
Rachel tried to make conversation. Doingsome hiking, Mr. President? 
Not at all. My campaign advisers have decided this should be my new look. What 
do you think? 
Rachel hoped for his sake that he wasnt serious. Its veryummanly, sir. 
Herney was deadpan. Good. Were thinking it will help me win back some of the 
womens vote from your father. After a beat, the President broke into a broad 
smile. Ms. Sexton, that was a joke. I think we both know Ill need more than a 
polo shirt and blue jeans to win this election. 
The Presidents openness and good humor were quickly evaporating any tension 
Rachel felt about being there. What this President lacked in physical brawn, he 
more than made up for in diplomatic rapport. Diplomacy was about people skills, 
and Zach Herney had the gift. 
Rachel followed the President toward the back of the plane. The deeper they went, 
the less the interior resembled a planecurved hallways, wallpapered walls, even 
an exercise room complete with StairMaster and rowing machine. Oddly, the 
plane seemed almost entirely deserted. 

Traveling alone, Mr. President? 
He shook his head. Just landed, actually. 
Rachel was surprised. Landed from where? Her intel briefs this week had included 
nothing about presidential travel plans. Apparently he was using Wallops Island to 
travel quietly. 
My staff deplaned right before you arrived, the President said. Im headed back 
to the White House shortly to meet them, but I wanted to meet you here instead of 
my office. 
Trying to intimidate me? 
On the contrary. Trying to respect you, Ms. Sexton. The White House is anything 
but private, and news of a meeting between the two of us would put you in an 
awkward position with your father. 
I appreciate that, sir. 
It seems youre managing a delicate balancing act quite gracefully, and I see no 
reason to disrupt that. 
Rachel flashed on her breakfast meeting with her father and doubted that it 
qualified as graceful. Nonetheless, Zach Herney was going out of his way to be 
decent, and he certainly didnt have to. 
May I call you Rachel? Herney asked. 
Of course. May I call you Zach? 
My office, the President said, ushering her through a carved maple door. 
The office aboard Air Force One certainly was cozier than its White House 
counterpart, but its furnishings still carried an air of austerity. The desk was 

mounded with papers, and behind it hung an imposing oil painting of a classic, 
three-masted schooner under full sail trying to outrun a raging storm. It seemed a 
perfect metaphor for Zach Herneys presidency at the moment. 
The President offered Rachel one of the three executive chairs facing his desk. She 
sat. Rachel expected him to sit behind his desk, but instead he pulled one of the 
chairs up and sat next to her. 
Equal footing, she realized. The master of rapport. 
Well, Rachel, Herney said, sighing tiredly as he settled into his chair. I imagine 
youve got to be pretty damned confused to be sitting here right now, am I right? 
Whatever was left of Rachels guard crumbled away with the candor in the mans 
voice. Actually, sir, Im baffled. 
Herney laughed out loud. Terrific. Its not every day I can baffle someone from 
the NRO. 
Its not every day someone from the NRO is invited aboard Air Force One by a 
President in hiking boots. 
The President laughed again. 
A quiet rap on the office door announced the arrival of coffee. One of the flight 
crew entered with a steaming pewter pot and two pewter mugs on a tray. At the 
Presidents bidding, she laid the tray on the desk and disappeared. 
Cream and sugar? the President asked, standing up to pour. 
Cream, please. Rachel savored the rich aroma. The President of the United 
States is personally serving me coffee? 
Zach Herney handed her a heavy pewter mug. Authentic Paul Revere, he said. 
One of the little luxuries. 

Rachel sipped the coffee. It was the best she had ever tasted. 
Anyhow, the President said, pouring himself a cup and sitting back down, Ive 
got limited time here, so lets get to business. The President plopped a sugar cube 
in his coffee and gazed up at her. I imagine Bill Pickering warned you that the 
only reason I would want to see you would be to use you to my political 
advantage? 
Actually, sir, thats exactly what he said. 
The President chuckled. Always the cynic. 
So hes wrong? 
Are you kidding? the President laughed. Bill Pickering is never wrong. Hes 
dead-on as usual. 
9
Gabrielle Ashe gazed absently out the window of Senator Sextons limousine as it 
moved through the morning traffic toward Sextons office building. She wondered 
how the hell she had arrived at this point in her life. Personal assistant to Senator 
Sedgewick Sexton. This was exactly what she had wanted, wasnt it? 
Im sitting in a limousine with the next President of the United States. 
Gabrielle stared across the cars plush interior at the senator, who seemed to be far 
away in his own thoughts. She admired his handsome features and perfect attire. 
He looked presidential. 
Gabrielle had first seen Sexton speak when she was a poli-sci major at Cornell 

University three years ago. She would never forget how his eyes probed the 
audience, as if sending a message directly to hertrust me. After Sextons speech, 
Gabrielle waited in line to meet him. 
Gabrielle Ashe, the senator said, reading her name tag. A lovely name for a 
lovely young woman. His eyes were reassuring. 
Thank you, sir, Gabrielle replied, feeling the mans strength as she shook his 
hand. I was really impressed by your message. 
Glad to hear it! Sexton thrust a business card into her hand. Im always looking 
for bright young minds who share my vision. When you get out of school, track 
me down. My people may have a job for you. 
Gabrielle opened her mouth to thank him, but the senator was already on to the 
next person in line. Nonetheless, in the months that followed, Gabrielle found 
herself following Sextons career on television. She watched with admiration as he 
spoke out against big government spendingspearheading budget cuts, 
streamlining the IRS to work more effectively, trimming fat at the DEA, and even 
abolishing redundant civil service programs. Then, when the senators wife died 
suddenly in a car crash, Gabrielle watched in awe as Sexton somehow turned the 
negative into a positive. Sexton rose above his personal pain and declared to the 
world that he would be running for the presidency and dedicating the remainder of 
his public service to his wifes memory. Gabrielle decided right then and there that 
she wanted to work closely with Senator Sextons presidential campaign. 
Now she had gotten as close as anyone could get. 
Gabrielle recalled the night she had spent with Sexton in his plush office, and she 
cringed, trying to block out the embarrassing images in her mind. What was I 
thinking? She knew she should have resisted, but somehow shed found herself 
unable. Sedgewick Sexton had been an idol of hers for so longand to think he 
wanted her. 
The limousine hit a bump, jarring her thoughts back to the present. 

You okay? Sexton was watching her now. 
Gabrielle flashed a hurried smile. Fine. 
You arent still thinking about that drudge, are you? 
She shrugged. Im still a little worried, yeah. 
Forget it. The drudge was the best thing that ever happened to my campaign. 
A drudge, Gabrielle had learned the hard way, was the political equivalent of 
leaking information that your rival used a penis enlarger or subscribed to Stud 
Muffin magazine. Drudging wasnt a glamorous tactic, but when it paid off, it paid 
off big. 
Of course, when it backfired 
And backfire, it had. For the White House. About a month ago, the Presidents 
campaign staff, unsettled by the slipping polls, had decided to get aggressive and 
leak a story they suspected to be truethat Senator Sexton had engaged in an 
affair with his personal assistant, Gabrielle Ashe. Unfortunately for the White 
House, there was no hard evidence. Senator Sexton, a firm believer in the best 
defense is a strong offense, seized the moment for attack. He called a national 
press conference to proclaim his innocence and outrage. I cannot believe, he said, 
gazing into the cameras with pain in his eyes, that the President would dishonor 
my wifes memory with these malicious lies. 
Senator Sextons performance on TV was so convincing that Gabrielle herself 
practically believed they had not slept together. Seeing how effortlessly he lied, 
Gabrielle realized that Senator Sexton was indeed a dangerous man. 
Lately, although Gabrielle was certain she was backing the strongest horse in this 
presidential race, she had begun to question whether she was backing the best 
horse. Working closely with Sexton had been an eye-opening experienceakin to 

a behind-the-scenes tour of Universal Studios, where ones childlike awe over the 
movies is sullied by the realization that Hollywood isnt magic after all. 
Although Gabrielles faith in Sextons message remained intact, she was 
beginning to question the messenger. 
10 
What I am about to tell you, Rachel, the President said, is classified UMBRA. 
Well beyond your current security clearance. 
Rachel felt the walls of Air Force One closing in around her. The President had 
flown her to Wallops Island, invited her onboard his plane, poured her coffee, told 
her flat out that he intended to use her to political advantage against her own 
father, and now he was announcing he intended to give her classified information 
illegally. However affable Zach Herney appeared on the surface, Rachel Sexton 
had just learned something important about him. This man took control in a hurry. 
Two weeks ago, the President said, locking eyes with her, NASA made a 
discovery. 
The words hung a moment in the air before Rachel could process them. A NASA 
discovery? Recent intelligence updates had suggested nothing out of the ordinary 
going on with the space agency. Of course, these days a NASA discovery 
usually meant realizing theyd grossly under budgeted some new project. 
Before we talk further, the President said, Id like to know if you share your 
fathers cynicism over space exploration. 
Rachel resented the comment. I certainly hope you didnt call me here to ask me 
to control my fathers rants against NASA. 

He laughed. Hell, no. Ive been around the Senate long enough to know that 
nobody controls Sedgewick Sexton. 
My father is an opportunist, sir. Most successful politicians are. And 
unfortunately NASA has made itself an opportunity. The recent string of NASA 
errors had been so unbearable that one either had to laugh or crysatellites that 
disintegrated in orbit, space probes that never called home, the International Space 
Station budget rising tenfold and member countries bailing out like rats from a 
sinking ship. Billions were being lost, and Senator Sexton was riding it like a 
wavea wave that seemed destined to carry him to the shores of 1600 
Pennsylvania Avenue. 
I will admit, the President continued, NASA has been a walking disaster area 
lately. Every time I turn around, they give me yet another reason to slash their 
funding. 
Rachel saw her opening for a foothold and took it. And yet, sir, didnt I just read 
that you bailed them out last week with another three million in emergency 
funding to keep them solvent? 
The President chuckled. Your father was pleased with that one, wasnt he? 
Nothing like sending ammunition to your executioner. 
Did you hear him on Nightline? Zach Herney is a space addict, and the 
taxpayers are funding his habit. 
But you keep proving him right, sir. 
Herney nodded. I make it no secret that Im an enormous fan of NASA. I always 
have been. I was a child of the space raceSputnik, John Glenn, Apollo 11 and 
I have never hesitated to express my feelings of admiration and national pride for 
our space program. In my mind, the men and women of NASA are historys 
modern pioneers. They attempt the impossible, accept failure, and then go back to 

the drawing board while the rest of us stand back and criticize. 
Rachel remained silent, sensing that just below the Presidents calm exterior was 
an indignant rage over her fathers endless anti-NASA rhetoric. Rachel found 
herself wondering what the hell NASA had found. The President was certainly 
taking his time coming to the point. 
Today, Herney said, his voice intensifying, I intend to change your entire 
opinion of NASA. 
Rachel eyed him with uncertainty. You have my vote already, sir. You may want 
to concentrate on the rest of the country. 
I intend to. He took a sip of coffee and smiled. And Im going to ask you to 
help me. Pausing, he leaned toward her. In a most unusual way. 
Rachel could now feel Zach Herney scrutinizing her every move, like a hunter 
trying to gauge if his prey intended to run or fight. Unfortunately, Rachel saw 
nowhere to run. 
I assume, the President said, pouring them both more coffee, that youre aware 
of a NASA project called EOS? 
Rachel nodded. Earth Observation System. I believe my father has mentioned 
EOS once or twice. 
The weak attempt at sarcasm drew a frown from the President. The truth was that 
Rachels father mentioned the Earth Observation System every chance he got. It 
was one of NASAs most controversial big-ticket venturesa constellation of five 
satellites designed to look down from space and analyze the planets environment: 
ozone depletion, polar ice melt, global warming, rainforest defoliation. The intent 
was to provide environmentalists with never before seen macroscopic data so that 
they could plan better for earths future. 
Unfortunately, the EOS project had been wrought with failure. Like so many 

NASA projects of late, it had been plagued with costly overruns right from the 
start. And Zach Herney was the one taking the heat. He had used the support of 
the environmental lobby to push the $1.4 billion EOS project through Congress. 
But rather than delivering the promised contributions to global earth science, EOS 
had spiraled quickly into a costly nightmare of failed launches, computer 
malfunctions, and somber NASA press conferences. The only smiling face lately 
was that of Senator Sexton, who was smugly reminding voters just how much of 
their money the President had spent on EOS and just how lukewarm the returns 
had been. 
The President dropped a sugar cube into his mug. As surprising as this may 
sound, the NASA discovery Im referring to was made by EOS. 
Now Rachel felt lost. If EOS had enjoyed a recent success, NASA certainly would 
have announced it, wouldnt they? Her father had been crucifying EOS in the 
media, and the space agency could use any good news they could find. 
Ive heard nothing, Rachel said, about any EOS discovery. 
I know. NASA prefers to keep the good news to themselves for a while. 
Rachel doubted it. In my experience, sir, when it comes to NASA, no news is 
generally bad news. Restraint was not a forte of the NASA public relations 
department. The standing joke at the NRO was that NASA held a press conference 
every time one of their scientists so much as farted. 
The President frowned. Ah, yes. I forget Im talking to one of Pickerings NRO 
security disciples. Is he still moaning and groaning about NASAs loose lips? 
Security is his business, sir. He takes it very seriously. 
He damn well better. I just find it hard to believe that two agencies with so much 
in common constantly find something to fight about. 
Rachel had learned early in her tenure under William Pickering that although both 

NASA and the NRO were space-related agencies, they had philosophies that were 
polar opposites. The NRO was a defense agency and kept all of its space activities 
classified, while NASA was academic and excitedly publicized all of its 
breakthroughs around the globeoften, William Pickering argued, at the risk of 
national security. Some of NASAs finest technologieshigh-resolution lenses for 
satellite telescopes, long-range communications systems, and radio imaging 
deviceshad a nasty habit of appearing in the intelligence arsenal of hostile 
countries and being used to spy against us. Bill Pickering often grumbled that 
NASA scientists had big brainsand even bigger mouths. 
A more pointed issue between the agencies, however, was the fact that because 
NASA handled the NROs satellite launches, many of NASAs recent failures 
directly affected the NRO. No failure had been more dramatic than that of August 
12, 1998, when a NASA/Air Force Titan 4 rocket blew up forty seconds into 
launch and obliterated its payloada $1.2 billion NRO satellite code-named 
Vortex 2. Pickering seemed particularly unwilling to forget that one. 
So why hasnt NASA gone public about this recent success? Rachel challenged. 
They certainly could use some good news right now. 
NASA is being silent, the President declared, because I ordered them to be. 
Rachel wondered if she had heard him correctly. If so, the President was 
committing some kind of political hara-kiri that she did not understand. 
This discovery, the President said, isshall we saynothing short of 
astounding in its ramifications. 
Rachel felt an uneasy chill. In the world of intelligence, astounding 
ramifications seldom meant good news. She now wondered if all the EOS 
secrecy was on account of the satellite system having spotted some impending 
environmental disaster. Is there a problem? 
No problem at all. What EOS discovered is quite wonderful. 

Rachel fell silent. 
Suppose, Rachel, that I told you NASA has just made a discovery of such 
scientific importancesuch earth-shattering significancethat it validated every 
dollar Americans have ever spent in space? 
Rachel could not imagine. 
The President stood up. Lets take a walk, shall we? 
11 
Rachel followed President Herney out onto the glistening gangway of Air Force 
One. As they descended the stairs, Rachel felt the bleak March air clearing her 
mind. Unfortunately, clarity only made the Presidents claims seem more 
outlandish than before. 
NASA made a discovery of such scientific importance that it validates every 
dollar Americans have ever spent in space? 
Rachel could only imagine that a discovery of that magnitude would only center 
on one thingthe holy grail of NASAcontact with extraterrestrial life. 
Unfortunately, Rachel knew enough about that particular holy grail to know it was 
utterly implausible. 
As an intelligence analyst, Rachel constantly fielded questions from friends who 
wanted to know about the alleged government cover-ups of alien contact. She was 
consistently appalled by the theories her educated friends bought intocrashed 
alien saucers hidden in secret government bunkers, extraterrestrial corpses kept on 
ice, even unsuspecting civilians being abducted and surgically probed. 

It was all absurd, of course. There were no aliens. No cover-ups. 
Everyone in the intelligence community understood that the vast majority of 
sightings and alien abductions were simply the product of active imaginations or 
moneymaking hoaxes. When authentic photographic UFO evidence did exist, it 
had a strange habit of occurring near U.S. military airbases that were testing 
advanced classified aircraft. When Lockheed began air-testing aradical new jet 
called the Stealth Bomber, UFO sightings around Edwards Air Force Base 
increased fifteen-fold. 
You have a skeptical look on your face, the President said, eyeing her askance. 
The sound of his voice startled Rachel. She glanced over, unsure how to respond. 
Well She hesitated. May I assume, sir, that we are not talking about alien 
spacecrafts or little green men? 
The President looked quietly amused. Rachel, I think youll find this discovery 
far more intriguing than science fiction. 
Rachel was relieved to hear NASA had not been so desperate as to try selling the 
President on an alien story. Nonetheless, his comment served only to deepen the 
mystery. Well, she said, whatever NASA found, I must say the timing is 
exceptionally convenient. 
Herney paused on the gangway. Convenient? How so? 
How so? Rachel stopped and stared. Mr. President, NASA is currently in a life or 
death battle to justify its very existence, and you are under attack for continuing to 
fund it. A major NASA breakthrough right now would be a panacea for both 
NASA and your campaign. Your critics will obviously find the timing highly 
suspect. 
Soare you calling me a liar or a fool? 
Rachel felt a knot rise in her throat. I meant no disrespect, sir. I simply 

Relax. A faint grin grew on Herneys lips, and he started to descend again. 
When the NASA administrator first told me about this discovery, I flat out 
rejected it as absurd. I accused him of masterminding the most transparent 
political sham in history. 
Rachel felt the knot in her throat dissolve somewhat. 
At the bottom of the ramp, Herney stopped and looked at her. One reason Ive 
asked NASA to keep their discovery under wraps is to protect them. The 
magnitude of this find is well beyond anything NASA has ever announced. It will 
make landing men on the moon seem insignificant. Because everyone, myself 
included, has so much to gainand loseI thought it prudent for someone to 
double-check the NASA data before we step into the world spotlight with a formal 
announcement. 
Rachel was startled. Certainly you cant mean me, sir? 
The President laughed. No, this is not your area of expertise. Besides, Ive 
already achieved verification through extragovernmental channels. 
Rachels relief gave way to a new mystification. Extragovernmental, sir? You 
mean you used the private sector? On something this classified? 
The President nodded with conviction. I put together an external confirmation 
teamfour civilian scientistsnon-NASA personnel with big names and serious 
reputations to protect. They used their own equipment to make observations and 
come to their own conclusions. Over the past forty-eight hours, these civilian 
scientists have confirmed the NASA discovery beyond the shadow of a doubt. 
Now Rachel was impressed. The President had protected himself with typical 
Herney aplomb. By hiring the ultimate team of skepticsoutsiders who had 
nothing to gain by confirming the NASA discoveryHerney had immunized 
himself against suspicions that this might be a desperate NASA ploy to justify its 
budget, reelect their NASA-friendly President, and ward off Senator Sextons 

attacks. 
Tonight at eight P.M., Herney said, I will be calling a press conference at the 
White House to announce this discovery to the world. 
Rachel felt frustrated. Herney had essentially told her nothing. And this discovery 
is what, precisely? 
The President smiled. You will find patience a virtue today. This discovery is 
something you need to see for yourself. I need you to understand this situation 
fully before we proceed. The administrator of NASA is waiting to brief you. He 
will tell you everything you need to know. Afterward, you and I will further 
discuss your role. 
Rachel sensed an impending drama in the Presidents eyes and recalled 
Pickerings hunch that the White House had something up its sleeve. Pickering, it 
appeared, was right, as usual. 
Herney motioned to a nearby airplane hangar. Follow me, he said, walking 
toward it. 
Rachel followed, confused. The building before them had no windows, and its 
towering bay doors were sealed. The only access seemed to be a small entryway 
on the side. The door was ajar. The President guided Rachel to within a few feet of 
the door and stopped. 
End of the line for me, he said, motioning to the door. You go through there. 
Rachel hesitated. Youre not coming? 
I need to return to the White House. Ill speak to you shortly. Do you have a 
cellphone? 
Of course, sir. 

Give it to me. 
Rachel produced her phone and handed it to him, assuming he intended to 
program a private contact number into it. Instead, he slipped her phone into his 
pocket. 
Youre now off-the-grid, the President said. All your responsibilities at work 
have been covered. You will not speak to anyone else today without express 
permission from myself or the NASA administrator. Do you understand? 
Rachel stared. Did the President just steal my cell-phone? 
After the administrator briefs you on the discovery, he will put you in contact 
with me via secure channels. Ill talk to you soon. Good luck. 
Rachel looked at the hangar door and felt a growing uneasiness. 
President Herney put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and nodded toward the 
door. I assure you, Rachel, you will not regret assisting me in this matter. 
Without another word, the President strode toward the PaveHawk that had brought 
Rachel in. He climbed aboard, and took off. He never once looked back. 
12 
Rachel Sexton stood alone on the threshold of the isolated Wallops hangar and 
peered into the blackness beyond. She felt like she was on the cusp of another 
world. A cool and musty breeze flowed outward from the cavernous interior, as if 
the building were breathing. 
Hello? she called out, her voice wavering slightly. 

Silence. 
With rising trepidation, she stepped over the threshold. Her vision went blank for 
an instant as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness. 
Ms. Sexton, I presume? a mans voice said, only yards away. 
Rachel jumped, wheeling toward the sound. Yes, sir. 
The hazy shape of a man approached. 
As Rachels vision cleared, she found herself standing face to face with a young, 
stone-jawed buck in a NASA flight suit. His body was fit and muscle-bound, his 
chest bedecked with patches. 
Commander Wayne Loosigian, the man said. Sorry if I startled you, maam. 
Its pretty dark in here. I havent had a chance to open the bay doors yet. Before 
Rachel could respond, the man added, It will be my honor to be your pilot this 
morning. 
Pilot? Rachel stared at the man. I just had a pilot. Im here to see the 
administrator. 
Yes, maam. My orders are to transport you to him immediately. 
It took a moment for the statement to sink in. When it hit her, she felt a stab of 
deceit. Apparently, her travels were not over. Where is the administrator? 
Rachel demanded, wary now. 
I do not have that information, the pilot replied. I will receive his coordinates 
after we are airborne. 
Rachel sensed that the man was telling the truth. Apparently she and Director 
Pickering were not the only two people being kept in the dark this morning. The 
President was taking the issue of security very seriously, and Rachel felt 

embarrassed by how quickly and effortlessly the President had taken her off-thegrid. 
Half an hour in the field, and Im already stripped of all communication, 
and my director has no idea where I am. 
Standing now before her stiff-backed NASA pilot, Rachel had little doubt her 
morning plans were cast in stone. This carnival ride was leaving with Rachel 
onboard whether she liked it or not. The only question was where it was headed. 
The pilot strode over to the wall and pressed a button. The far side of the hangar 
began sliding loudly to one side. Light poured in from the outside, silhouetting a 
large object in the center of the hangar. 
Rachels mouth fell open. God help me. 
There in the middle of the hangar stood a ferocious-looking black fighter jet. It 
was the most streamlined aircraft Rachel had ever seen. 
You are joking, she said. 
Common first reaction, maam, but the F-14 Tomcat Split-tail is a highly proven 
craft. 
Its a missile with wings. 
The pilot led Rachel toward his craft. He motioned to the dual cockpit. Youll be 
riding in back. 
Really? She gave him a tight smile. And here I thought you wanted me to 
drive. 
After donning a thermal flight suit over her clothes, Rachel found herself climbing 
into the cockpit. Awkwardly, she wedged her hips into the narrow seat. 

NASA obviously has no fat-assed pilots, she said. 
The pilot gave a grin as he helped Rachel buckle herself in. Then he slid a helmet 
over her head. 
Well be flying pretty high, he said. Youll want oxygen. He pulled an oxygen 
mask from the side dash and began snapping it onto her helmet. 
I can manage, Rachel said, reaching up and taking over. 
Of course, maam. 
Rachel fumbled with the molded mouthpiece and then finally snapped it onto her 
helmet. The masks fit was surprisingly awkward and uncomfortable. 
The commander stared at her for a long moment, looking vaguely amused. 
Is something wrong? she demanded. 
Not at all, maam. He seemed to be hiding a smirk. Hack sacks are under your 
seat. Most people get sick their first time in a split-tail. 
I should be fine, Rachel assured him, her voice muffled by the smothering fit of 
the mask. Im not prone to motion sickness. 
The pilot shrugged. A lot of Navy Seals say the same thing, and Ive cleaned 
plenty of Seal puke out of my cockpit. 
She nodded weakly. Lovely. 
Any questions before we go? 
Rachel hesitated a moment and then tapped on the mouthpiece cutting into her 
chin. Its cutting off my circulation. How do you wear these things on long 
flights? 

The pilot smiled patiently. Well, maam, we dont usually wear them upside 
down. 
Poised at the end of the runway, engines throbbing beneath her, Rachel felt like a 
bullet in a gun waiting for someone to pull the trigger. When the pilot pushed the 
throttle forward, the Tomcats twin Lockheed 345 engines roared to life, and the 
entire world shook. The brakes released, and Rachel slammed backward in her 
seat. The jet tore down the runway and lifted off within a matter of seconds. 
Outside, the earth dropped away at a dizzying rate. 
Rachel closed her eyes as the plane rocketed skyward. She wondered where she 
had gone wrong this morning. She was supposed to be at a desk writing gists. Now 
she was straddling a testosterone-fueled torpedo and breathing through an oxygen 
mask. 
By the time the Tomcat leveled out at forty-five thousand feet, Rachel was feeling 
queasy. She willed herself to focus her thoughts elsewhere. Gazing down at the 
ocean nine miles below, Rachel felt suddenly far from home. 
Up front, the pilot was talking to someone on the radio. When the conversation 
ended, the pilot hung up the radio, and immediately banked the Tomcat sharply 
left. The plane tipped almost to the vertical, and Rachel felt her stomach do a 
somersault. Finally, the plane leveled out again. 
Rachel groaned. Thanks for the warning, hotshot. 
Im sorry, maam, but Ive just been given the classified coordinates of your 
meeting with the administrator. 
Let me guess, Rachel said. Due north? 
The pilot seemed confused. How did you know that! 

Rachel sighed. You gotta love these computer-trained pilots. Its nine A.M., sport, 
and the sun is on our right. Were flying north. 
There was a moment of silence from the cockpit. Yes, maam, well be traveling 
north this morning. 
And how far north are we going? 
The pilot checked the coordinates. Approximately three thousand miles. 
Rachel sat bolt upright. What! She tried to picture a map, unable even to 
imagine what was that far north. Thats a four-hour flight! 
At our current speed, yes, the pilot said. Hold on, please. 
Before Rachel could respond, the man retracted the F-14s wings into low-drag 
position. An instant later, Rachel felt herself slammed into her seat yet again as the 
plane shot forward as though it had been standing still. Within a minute they were 
cruising at almost 1,500 miles per hour. 
Rachel was feeling dizzy now. As the sky tore by with blinding speed, she felt an 
uncontrollable wave of nausea hit her. The Presidents voice echoed faintly. I 
assure you, Rachel, you will not regret assisting me in this matter. 
Groaning, Rachel reached for her hack sack. Never trust a politician. 
13 
Although he disliked the menial filth of public taxis, Senator Sedgewick Sexton 
had learned to endure the occasional demeaning moment along his road to glory. 
The grungy Mayflower cab that had just deposited him in the lower parking 

garage of the Purdue Hotel afforded Sexton something his stretch limousine could 
notanonymity. 
He was pleased to find this lower level deserted, only a few dusty cars dotting a 
forest of cement pillars. As he made his way diagonally across the garage on foot, 
Sexton glanced at his watch. 
11:15 A.M. Perfect. 
The man with whom Sexton was meeting was always touchy about punctuality. 
Then again, Sexton reminded himself, considering who the man represented, he 
could be touchy about any damned thing he wanted. 
Sexton saw the white Ford Windstar minivan parked in exactly the same spot as it 
had been for every one of their meetingsin the eastern corner of the garage, 
behind a row of trash bins. Sexton would have preferred to meet this man in a 
suite upstairs, but he certainly understood the precautions. This mans friends had 
not gotten to where they were by being careless. 
As Sexton moved toward the van, he felt the familiar edginess that he always 
experienced before these encounters. Forcing himself to relax his shoulders, he 
climbed into the passengers seat with a cheery wave. The dark-haired gentleman 
in the drivers seat did not smile. The man was almost seventy years old, but his 
leathery complexion exuded a toughness appropriate to his post as figurehead of 
an army of brazen visionaries and ruthless entrepreneurs. 
Close the door, the man said, his voice callous. 
Sexton obeyed, tolerating the mans gruffness graciously. After all, this man 
represented men who controlled enormous sums of money, much of which had 
been pooled recently to poise Sedgewick Sexton on the threshold of the most 
powerful office in the world. These meetings, Sexton had come to understand, 
were less strategy sessions than they were monthly reminders of just how 
beholden the senator had become to his benefactors. These men were expecting a 
serious return on their investment. The return, Sexton had to admit, was a 

shockingly bold demand; and yet, almost more incredibly, it was something that 
would be within Sextons sphere of influence once he took the Oval Office. 
I assume, Sexton said, having learned how this man liked to get down to 
business, that another installment has been made? 
It has. And as usual, you are to use these funds solely for your campaign. We 
have been pleased to see the polls shifting consistently in your favor, and it 
appears your campaign managers have been spending our money effectively. 
Were gaining fast. 
As I mentioned to you on the phone, the old man said, I have persuaded six 
more to meet with you tonight. 
Excellent. Sexton had blocked off the time already. 
The old man handed Sexton a folder. Here is their information. Study it. They 
want to know you understand their concerns specifically. They want to know you 
are sympathetic. I suggest you meet them at your residence. 
My home? But I usually meet 
Senator, these six men run companies that possess resources well in excess of the 
others you have met. These men are the big fish, and they are wary. They have 
more to gain and therefore more to lose. Ive worked hard to persuade them to 
meet with you. They will require special handling. A personal touch. 
Sexton gave a quick nod. Absolutely. I can arrange a meeting at my home. 
Of course, they will want total privacy. 
As will I. 
Good luck, the old man said. If tonight goes well, it could be your last meeting. 

These men alone can provide what is needed to push the Sexton campaign over 
the top. 
Sexton liked the sound of that. He gave the old man a confident smile. With luck, 
my friend, come election time, we will all claim victory. 
Victory? The old man scowled, leaning toward Sexton with ominous eyes. 
Putting you in the White House is only the first step toward victory, senator. I 
assume you have not forgotten that. 
14 
The White House is one of the smallest presidential mansions in the world, 
measuring only 170 feet in length, 85 feet in depth, and sitting on a mere 18 acres 
of landscaped grounds. Architect James Hobans plan for a box-like stone 
structure with a hipped roof, balustrade, and columnar entrance, though clearly 
unoriginal, was selected from the open design contest by judges who praised it as 
attractive, dignified, and flexible. 
President Zach Herney, even after three and a half years in the White House, 
seldom felt at home here among the maze of chandeliers, antiques, and armed 
Marines. At the moment, however, as he strode toward the West Wing, he felt 
invigorated and oddly at ease, his feet almost weightless on the plush carpeting. 
Several members of the White House staff looked up as the President approached. 
Herney waved and greeted each by name. Their responses, though polite, were 
subdued and accompanied by forced smiles. 
Good morning, Mr. President. 
Nice to see you, Mr. President. 

Good day, sir. 
As the President made his way toward his office, he sensed whisperings in his 
wake. There was an insurrection afoot inside the White House. For the past couple 
of weeks, the disillusionment at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue had been growing to a 
point where Herney was starting to feel like Captain Blighcommanding a 
struggling ship whose crew was preparing for mutiny. 
The President didnt blame them. His staff had worked grueling hours to support 
him in the upcoming election, and now, all of a sudden, it seemed the President 
was fumbling the ball. 
Soon they will understand, Herney told himself. Soon Ill be the hero again. 
He regretted having to keep his staff in the dark for so long, but secrecy was 
absolutely critical. And when it came to keeping secrets, the White House was 
known as the leakiest ship in Washington. 
Herney arrived in the waiting room outside the Oval Office and gave his secretary 
a cheery wave. You look nice this morning, Dolores. 
You too, sir, she said, eyeing his casual attire with unveiled disapproval. 
Herney lowered his voice. Id like you to organize a meeting for me. 
With whom, sir? 
The entire White House staff. 
His secretary glanced up. Your entire staff, sir? All 145 of them? 
Exactly. 
She looked uneasy. Okay. Shall I set it up inthe Briefing Room? 

Herney shook his head. No. Lets set it up in my office. 
Now she stared. You want to see your entire staff inside the Oval Office? 
Exactly. 
All at once, sir? 
Why not? Set it up for four P.M. 
The secretary nodded as though humoring a mental patient. Very well, sir. And 
the meeting is regarding? 
I have an important announcement to make to the American people tonight. I 
want my staff to hear it first. 
A sudden dejected look swept across his secretarys face, almost as if she had 
secretly been dreading this moment. She lowered her voice. Sir, are you pulling 
out of the race? 
Herney burst out laughing. Hell no, Dolores! Im gearing up to fight! 
She looked doubtful. The media reports had all been saying President Herney was 
throwing the election. 
He gave her a reassuring wink. Dolores, youve done a terrific job for me these 
past few years, and youll do a terrific job for me for another four. Were keeping 
the White House. I swear it. 
His secretary looked like she wanted to believe it. Very well, sir. Ill alert the 
staff. Four P.M. 
As Zach Herney entered the Oval Office, he couldnt help but smile at the image 

of his entire staff crammed into the deceptively small chamber. 
Although this great office had enjoyed many nicknames over the yearsthe Loo, 
Dicks Den, the Clinton BedroomHerneys favorite was the Lobster Trap. It 
seemed most fitting. Each time a newcomer entered the Oval Office, disorientation 
set in immediately. The symmetry of the room, the gently curving walls, the 
discreetly disguised doorways in and out, all gave visitors the dizzying sense 
theyd been blindfolded and spun around. Often, after a meeting in the Oval 
Office, a visiting dignitary would stand up, shake hands with the President, and 
march straight into a storage closet. Depending on how the meeting had gone, 
Herney would either stop the guest in time or watch in amusement as the visitor 
embarrassed himself. 
Herney had always believed the most dominating aspect of the Oval Office was 
the colorful American eagle emblazoned on the rooms oval carpet. The eagles 
left talon clutched an olive branch and his right a bundle of arrows. Few outsiders 
knew that during times of peace, the eagle faced lefttoward the olive branch. 
But in times of war, the eagle mysteriously faced righttoward the arrows. The 
mechanism behind this little parlor trick was the source of quiet speculation 
among White House staff because it was traditionally known only by the President 
and the head of housekeeping. The truth behind the enigmatic eagle, Herney had 
found to be disappointingly mundane. A storage room in the basement contained 
the second oval carpet, and housekeeping simply swapped the carpets in the dead 
of night. 
Now, as Herney gazed down at the peaceful, left-gazing eagle, he smiled to think 
that perhaps he should swap carpets in honor of the little war he was about to 
launch against Senator Sedgewick Sexton. 
15 

The U.S. Delta Force is the sole fighting squad whose actions are granted 
complete presidential immunity from the law. 
Presidential Decision Directive 25 (PDD 25) grants Delta Force soldiers freedom 
from all legal accountability, including exception from the 1876 Posse Comitatus 
Act, a statute imposing criminal penalties for anyone using the military for 
personal gain, domestic law enforcement, or unsanctioned covert operations. Delta 
Force members are handpicked from the Combat Applications Group (CAG), a 
classified organization within the Special Operations Command in Fort Bragg, 
North Carolina. Delta Force soldiers are trained killersexperts in SWAT 
operations, rescuing hostages, surprise raids, and elimination of covert enemy 
forces. 
Because Delta Force missions usually involve high levels of secrecy, the 
traditional multitiered chain of command is often circumvented in favor of 
monocaput managementa single controller who holds authority to control the 
unit as he or she sees fit. The controller tends to be a military or government 
powerbroker with sufficient rank or influence to run the mission. Regardless of the 
identity of their controller, Delta Force missions are classified at the highest level, 
and once a mission is completed, Delta Force soldiers never speak of it againnot 
to one another, and not to their commanding officers within Special Ops. 
Fly. Fight. Forget. 
The Delta team currently stationed above the Eighty-second Parallel was doing no 
flying or fighting. They were simply watching. 
Delta-One had to admit that this had been a most unusual mission so far, but he 
had learned long ago never to be surprised by what he was asked to do. In the past 
five years he had been involved in Middle East hostage rescues, tracking and 
exterminating terrorist cells working inside the United States, and even the 
discreet elimination of several dangerous men and women around the globe. 
Just last month his Delta team had used a flying microbot to induce a lethal heart 

attack in a particularly malicious South American drug lord. Using a microbot 
equipped with a hairline titanium needle containing a potent vasoconstrictor, Delta- 
Two had flown the device into the mans house through an open second-story 
window, found the mans bedroom, and then pricked him on the shoulder while he 
was sleeping. The microbot was back out the window and feet dry before the 
man woke up with chest pain. The Delta team was already flying home by the 
time its victims wife was calling the paramedics. 
No breaking and entering. 
Death by natural causes. 
It had been a thing of beauty. 
More recently, another microbot stationed inside a prominent senators office to 
monitor his personal meetings had captured images of a lurid sexual encounter. 
The Delta team jokingly referred to that mission as insertion behind enemy 
lines. 
Now, after being trapped on surveillance duty inside this tent for the last ten days, 
Delta-One was ready for this mission to be over. 
Remain in hiding. 
Monitor the structureinside and out. 
Report to your controller any unexpected developments. 
Delta-One had been trained never to feel any emotion regarding his assignments. 
This mission, however, had certainly raised his heart rate when he and his team 
were first briefed. The briefing had been facelessevery phase explained via 
secure electronic channels. Delta-One had never met the controller responsible for 
this mission. 
Delta-One was preparing a dehydrated protein meal when his watch beeped in 

unison with the others. Within seconds the CrypTalk communications device 
beside him blinked on alert. He stopped what he was doing and picked up the 
handheld communicator. The other two men watched in silence. 
Delta-One, he said, speaking into the transmitter. 
The two words were instantly identified by the voice recognition software inside 
the device. Each word was then assigned a reference number, which was 
encrypted and sent via satellite to the caller. On the callers end, at a similar 
device, the numbers were decrypted, translated back into words using a 
predetermined, self-randomizing dictionary. Then the words were spoken aloud by 
a synthetic voice. Total delay, eighty milliseconds. 
Controller, here, said the person overseeing the operation. The robotic tone of 
the CrypTalk was eerieinorganic and androgynous. What is your op status? 
Everything proceeding as planned, Delta-One replied. 
Excellent. I have an update on the time frame. The information goes public 
tonight at eight P.M. Eastern. 
Delta-One checked his chronograph. Only eight more hours. His job here would 
be finished soon. That was encouraging. 
There is another development, the controller said. A new player has entered the 
arena. 
What new player? 
Delta-One listened. An interesting gamble. Someone out there was playing for 
keeps. Do you think she can be trusted? 
She needs to be watched very closely. 
And if there is trouble? 

There was no hesitation on the line. Your orders stand. 
16 
Rachel Sexton had been flying due north for over an hour. Other than a fleeting 
glimpse of Newfoundland, she had seen nothing but water beneath the F-14 for the 
entire journey. 
Why did it have to be water? she thought, grimacing. Rachel had plunged through 
the ice on a frozen pond while ice-skating when she was seven. Trapped beneath 
the surface, she was certain she would die. It had been her mothers powerful 
grasp that finally yanked Rachels waterlogged body to safety. Ever since that 
harrowing ordeal, Rachel had battled a persistent case of hydrophobiaa distinct 
wariness of open water, especially cold water. Today, with nothing but the North 
Atlantic as far as Rachel could see, her old fears had come creeping back. 
Not until the pilot checked his bearings with Thule airbase in northern Greenland 
did Rachel realize how far they had traveled. Im above the Arctic Circle? The 
revelation intensified her uneasiness. Where are they taking me? What has NASA 
found? Soon the blue-gray expanse below her became speckled with thousands of 
stark white dots. 
Icebergs. 
Rachel had seen icebergs only once before in her life, six years ago when her 
mother persuaded Rachel to join her on an Alaskan mother-daughter cruise. 
Rachel had suggested a number of alternative land-based vacations, but her 
mother was insistent. Rachel, honey, her mother had said, two thirds of this 
planet is covered with water, and sooner or later, youve got to learn to deal with 
it. Mrs. Sexton was a resilient New Englander intent on raising a strong daughter. 

The cruise had been the last trip Rachel and her mother ever took. 
Katherine Wentworth Sexton. Rachel felt a distant pang of loneliness. Like the 
howling wind outside the plane, the memories came tearing back, pulling at her 
the way they always did. Their final conversation had been by phone. 
Thanksgiving morning. 
Im so sorry, Mom, Rachel said, phoning home from a snowbound OHare 
airport. I know our family has never spent Thanksgiving Day apart. It looks like 
today will be our first. 
Rachels mom sounded crushed. I was so looking forward to seeing you. 
Me too, Mom. Think of me eating airport food while you and Dad feast on 
turkey. 
There was a pause on the line. Rachel, I wasnt going to tell you until you got 
here, but your father says he has too much work to make it home this year. Hell 
be staying at his D.C. suite for the long weekend. 
What! Rachels surprise gave way immediately to anger. But, its 
Thanksgiving. The Senate isnt in session! Hes less than two hours away. He 
should be with you! 
I know. He says hes exhaustedfar too tired to drive. Hes decided he needs to 
spend this weekend curled up with his backlog of work. 
Work? Rachel was skeptical. A more likely guess was that Senator Sexton would 
be curled up with another woman. His infidelities, though discreet, had been going 
on for years. Mrs. Sexton was no fool, but her husbands affairs were always 
accompanied by persuasive alibis and pained indignity at the mere suggestion he 
could be unfaithful. Finally, Mrs. Sexton saw no alternative but to bury her pain 
by turning a blind eye. Although Rachel had urged her mother to consider divorce, 
Katherine Wentworth Sexton was a woman of her word. Till death do us part, she 
told Rachel. Your father blessed me with youa beautiful daughterand for that 

I thank him. He will have to answer for his actions to a higher power someday. 
Now, standing in the airport, Rachels anger was simmering. But, this means 
youll be alone for Thanksgiving! She felt sick to her stomach. The senator 
deserting his family on Thanksgiving Day was a new low, even for him. 
Well, Mrs. Sexton said, her voice disappointed but decisive. I obviously 
cant let all this food go to waste. Ill drive it up to Aunt Anns. Shes always 
invited us up for Thanksgiving. Ill give her a call right now. 
Rachel felt only marginally less guilty. Okay. Ill be home as soon as I can. I love 
you, Mom. 
Safe flight, sweetheart. 
It was 10:30 that night when Rachels taxi finally pulled up the winding driveway 
of the Sextons luxurious estate. Rachel immediately knew something was wrong. 
Three police cars sat in the driveway. Several news vans too. All the house lights 
were on. Rachel dashed in, her heart racing. 
A Virginia State policeman met her at the doorway. His face was grim. He didnt 
have to say a word. Rachel knew. There had been an accident. 
Route Twenty-five was slick with freezing rain, the officer said. Your mother 
went off the road into a wooded ravine. Im sorry. She died on impact. 
Rachels body went numb. Her father, having returned immediately when he got 
the news, was now in the living room holding a small press conference, stoically 
announcing to the world that his wife had passed away in a crash on her way back 
from Thanksgiving dinner with family. 
Rachel stood in the wings, sobbing through the entire event. 
I only wish, her father told the media, his eyes tearful, that I had been home for 
her this weekend. This never would have happened. 

You should have thought of that years ago, Rachel cried, her loathing for her 
father deepening with every passing instant. 
From that moment on, Rachel divorced herself from her father in the way Mrs. 
Sexton never had. The senator barely seemed to notice. He suddenly had gotten 
very busy using his late wifes fortunes to begin courting his partys nomination 
for president. The sympathy vote didnt hurt either. 
Cruelly now, three years later, even at a distance the senator was making Rachels 
life lonely. Her fathers run for the White House had put Rachels dreams of 
meeting a man and starting a family on indefinite hold. For Rachel it had become 
far easier to take herself completely out of the social game than to deal with the 
endless stream of power-hungry Washingtonian suitors hoping to snag a grieving, 
potential first daughter while she was still in their league. 
Outside the F-14, the daylight had started to fade. It was late winter in the 
Arctica time of perpetual darkness. Rachel realized she was flying into a land of 
permanent night. 
As the minutes passed, the sun faded entirely, dropping below the horizon. They 
continued north, and a brilliant three-quarter moon appeared, hanging white in the 
crystalline glacial air. Far below, the ocean waves shimmered, the icebergs 
looking like diamonds sewn into a dark sequin mesh. 
Finally, Rachel spotted the hazy outline of land. But it was not what she had 
expected. Looming out of the ocean before the plane was an enormous 
snowcapped mountain range. 
Mountains? Rachel asked, confused. There are mountains north of Greenland? 
Apparently, the pilot said, sounding equally surprised. 

As the nose of the F-14 tipped downward, Rachel felt an eerie weightlessness. 
Through the ringing in her ears she could hear a repeated electronic ping in the 
cockpit. The pilot had apparently locked on to some kind of directional beacon 
and was following it in. 
As they passed below three thousand feet, Rachel stared out at the dramatic 
moonlit terrain beneath them. At the base of the mountains, an expansive, snowy 
plain swept wide. The plateau spread gracefully seaward about ten miles until it 
ended abruptly at a sheer cliff of solid ice that dropped vertically into the ocean. 
It was then that Rachel saw it. A sight like nothing she had ever seen anywhere on 
earth. At first she thought the moonlight must be playing tricks on her. She 
squinted down at the snowfields, unable to comprehend what she was looking at. 
The lower the plane descended, the clearer the image became. 
What in the name of God? 
The plateau beneath them was stripedas if someone had painted the snow with 
three huge striations of silver paint. The glistening strips ran parallel to the coastal 
cliff. Not until the plane dropped past five hundred feet did the optical illusion 
reveal itself. The three silver stripes were deep troughs, each one over thirty yards 
wide. The troughs had filled with water and frozen into broad, silvery channels 
that stretched in parallel across the plateau. The white berms between them were 
mounded dikes of snow. 
As they dropped toward the plateau, the plane started bucking and bouncing in 
heavy turbulence. Rachel heard the landing gear engage with a heavy clunk, but 
she still saw no landing strip. As the pilot struggled to keep the plane under 
control, Rachel peered out and spotted two lines of blinking strobes straddling the 
outermost ice trough. She realized to her horror what the pilot was about to do. 
Were landing on ice? she demanded. 
The pilot did not respond. He was concentrating on the buffeting wind. Rachel felt 
a drag in her gut as the craft decelerated and dropped toward the ice channel. High 

snow berms rose on either side of the aircraft, and Rachel held her breath, 
knowing the slightest miscalculation in the narrow channel would mean certain 
death. The wavering plane dropped lower between the berms, and the turbulence 
suddenly disappeared. Sheltered there from the wind, the plane touched down 
perfectly on the ice. 
The Tomcats rear thrusters roared, slowing the plane. Rachel exhaled. The jet 
taxied about a hundred yards farther and rolled to a stop at a red line spray-painted 
boldly across the ice. 
The view to the right was nothing but a wall of snow in the moonlightthe side of 
an ice berm. The view on the left was identical. Only through the windshield 
ahead of them did Rachel have any visibilityan endless expanse of ice. She felt 
like she had landed on a dead planet. Aside from the line on the ice, there were no 
signs of life. 
Then Rachel heard it. In the distance, another engine was approaching. Higher 
pitched. The sound grew louder until a machine came into view. It was a large, 
multitreaded snow tractor churning toward them up the ice trough. Tall and 
spindly, it looked like a towering futuristic insect grinding toward them on 
voracious spinning feet. Mounted high on the chassis was an enclosed Plexiglas 
cabin with a rack of floodlights illuminating its way. 
The machine shuddered to a halt directly beside the F-14. The door on the 
Plexiglas cabin opened, and a figure climbed down a ladder onto the ice. He was 
bundled from head to foot in a puffy white jumpsuit that gave the impression he 
had been inflated. 
Mad Max meets the Pillsbury Dough Boy, Rachel thought, relieved at least to see 
this strange planet was inhabited. 
The man signaled for the F-14 pilot to pop the hatch. 
The pilot obeyed. 

When the cockpit opened, the gust of air that tore through Rachels body chilled 
her instantly to the core. 
Close the damn lid! 
Ms. Sexton? the figure called up to her. His accent was American. On behalf of 
NASA, I welcome you. 
Rachel was shivering. Thanks a million. 
Please unhook your flight harness, leave your helmet in the craft, and deplane by 
using the fuselage toe-holds. Do you have any questions? 
Yes, Rachel shouted back. Where the hell am I? 
17 
Marjorie Tenchsenior adviser to the Presidentwas a loping skeleton of a 
creature. Her gaunt six-foot frame resembled an Erector Set construction of joints 
and limbs. Overhanging her precarious body was a jaundiced face whose skin 
resembled a sheet of parchment paper punctured by two emotionless eyes. At fiftyone, 
she looked seventy. 
Tench was revered in Washington as a goddess in the political arena. She was said 
to possess analytical skills that bordered on the clairvoyant. Her decade running 
the State Departments Bureau of Intelligence and Research had helped hone a 
lethally sharp, critical mind. Unfortunately, accompanying Tenchs political savvy 
came an icy temperament that few could endure for more than a few minutes. 
Marjorie Tench had been blessed with all the brains of a supercomputerand the 
warmth of one, too. Nonetheless, President Zach Herney had little trouble 
tolerating the womans idiosyncrasies; her intellect and hard work were almost 

single-handedly responsible for putting Herney in office in the first place. 
Marjorie, the President said, standing to welcome her into the Oval Office. 
What can I do for you? He did not offer her a seat. The typical social graces did 
not apply to women like Marjorie Tench. If Tench wanted a seat, she would damn 
well take one. 
I see you set the staff briefing for four oclock this afternoon. Her voice was 
raspy from cigarettes. Excellent. 
Tench paced a moment, and Herney sensed the intricate cogs of her mind turning 
over and over. He was grateful. Marjorie Tench was one of the select few on the 
Presidents staff who was fully aware of the NASA discovery, and her political 
savvy was helping the President plan his strategy. 
This CNN debate today at one oclock, Tench said, coughing. Who are we 
sending to spar with Sexton? 
Herney smiled. A junior campaign spokesperson. The political tactic of 
frustrating the hunter by never sending him any big game was as old as debates 
themselves. 
I have a better idea, Tench said, her barren eyes finding his. Let me take the 
spot myself. 
Zach Herneys head shot up. You? What the hell is she thinking? Marjorie, you 
dont do media spots. Besides, its a midday cable show. If I send my senior 
adviser, what kind of message does that send? It makes us look like were 
panicking. 
Exactly. 
Herney studied her. Whatever convoluted scheme Tench was hatching, there was 
no way in hell Herney would permit her to appear on CNN. Anyone who had ever 
laid eyes on Marjorie Tench knew there was a reason she worked behind the 

scenes. Tench was a frightful-looking womannot the kind of face a President 
wanted delivering the White House message. 
I am taking this CNN debate, she repeated. This time she was not asking. 
Marjorie, the President maneuvered, feeling uneasy now, Sextons campaign 
will obviously claim your presence on CNN is proof the White House is running 
scared. Sending out our big guns early makes us look desperate. 
The woman gave a quiet nod and lit a cigarette. The more desperate we look, the 
better. 
For the next sixty seconds, Marjorie Tench outlined why the President would be 
sending her to the CNN debate instead of some lowly campaign staffer. When 
Tench was finished, the President could only stare in amazement. 
Once again, Marjorie Tench had proven herself a political genius. 
18 
The Milne Ice Shelf is the largest solid ice floe in the Northern Hemisphere. 
Located above the Eighty-second Parallel on the northernmost coast of Ellesmere 
Island in the high Arctic, the Milne Ice Shelf is four miles wide and reaches 
thicknesses of over three hundred feet. 
Now, as Rachel climbed into the Plexiglas enclosure atop the ice tractor, she was 
grateful for the extra parka and gloves waiting for her on her seat, as well as the 
heat pouring out of the tractors vents. Outside, on the ice runway, the F-14s 
engines roared, and the plane began taxiing away. 
Rachel looked up in alarm. Hes leaving? 

Her new host climbed into the tractor, nodding. Only science personnel and 
immediate NASA support team members are allowed on-site. 
As the F-14 tore off into the sunless sky, Rachel felt suddenly marooned. 
Well be taking the IceRover from here, the man said. The administrator is 
waiting. 
Rachel gazed out at the silvery path of ice before them and tried to imagine what 
the hell the administrator of NASA was doing up here. 
Hold on, the NASA man shouted, working some levers. With a grinding growl, 
the machine rotated ninety degrees in place like a treaded army tank. It was now 
facing the high wall of a snow berm. 
Rachel looked at the steep incline and felt a ripple of fear. Surely he doesnt intend 
to 
Rock and roll! The driver popped the clutch, and the craft accelerated directly 
toward the slope. Rachel let out a muffled cry and held on. As they hit the incline, 
the spiked treads tore into the snow, and the contraption began to climb. Rachel 
was certain they would tip over backward, but the cabin remained surprisingly 
horizontal as the treads clawed up the slope. When the huge machine heaved up 
onto the crest of the berm, the driver brought it to a stop and beamed at his whiteknuckled 
passenger. Try that in an SUV! We took the shock-system design from 
the Mars Pathfinder and popped it on this baby! Worked like a charm. 
Rachel gave a wan nod. Neat. 
Sitting now atop the snow berm, Rachel looked out at the inconceivable view. One 
more large berm stood before them, and then the undulations stopped abruptly. 
Beyond, the ice smoothed into a glistening expanse that was inclined ever so 
slightly. The moonlit sheet of ice stretched out into the distance, where it 
eventually narrowed and snaked up into the mountains. 

Thats the Milne Glacier, the driver said, pointing up into the mountains. Starts 
up there and flows down into this wide delta that were sitting on now. 
The driver gunned the engine again, and Rachel held on as the craft accelerated 
down the steep face. At the bottom, they clawed across another ice river and 
rocketed up the next berm. Mounting the crest and quickly skimming down the far 
side, they slid out onto a smooth sheet of ice and started crunching across the 
glacier. 
How far? Rachel saw nothing but ice in front of them. 
About two miles ahead. 
Rachel thought it seemed far. The wind outside pounded the IceRover in relentless 
gusts, rattling the Plexiglas as if trying to hurl them back toward the sea. 
Thats the katabatic wind, the driver yelled. Get used to it! He explained that 
this area had a permanent offshore gale called the katabaticGreek for flowing 
downhill. The relentless wind was apparently the product of heavy, cold air 
flowing down the glacial face like a raging river downhill. This is the only 
place on earth, the driver added, laughing, where hell actually freezes over! 
Several minutes later, Rachel began to see a hazy shape in the distance in front of 
themthe silhouette of an enormous white dome emerging from the ice. Rachel 
rubbed her eyes. What in the world? 
Big Eskimos up here, eh? the man joked. 
Rachel tried to make sense of the structure. It looked like a scaled-down Houston 
Astrodome. 
NASA put it up a week and a half ago, he said. Multistage inflatable 
plexipolysorbate. Inflate the pieces, affix them to one another, connect the whole 
thing to the ice with pitons and wires. Looks like an enclosed big top tent, but its 
actually the NASA prototype for the portable habitat we hope to use on Mars 

someday. We call it a habisphere. 
Habisphere? 
Yeah, get it? Because its not a whole sphere, its only habi-sphere. 
Rachel smiled and stared out at the bizarre building now looming closer on the 
glacial plain. And because NASA hasnt gone to Mars yet, you guys decided to 
have a big sleepover out here instead? 
The man laughed. Actually, I would have preferred Tahiti, but fate pretty much 
decided the location. 
Rachel gazed uncertainly up at the edifice. The off-white shell was a ghostly 
contour against a dark sky. As the IceRover neared the structure, it ground to a 
stop at a small door on the side of the dome, which was now opening. Light from 
inside spilled out onto the snow. A figure stepped out. He was a bulky giant 
wearing a black fleece pullover that amplified his size and made him look like a 
bear. He moved toward the IceRover. 
Rachel had no doubt who the huge man was: Lawrence Ekstrom, administrator of 
NASA. 
The driver gave a solacing grin. Dont let his size fool you. The guys a 
pussycat. 
More like a tiger, Rachel thought, well acquainted with Ekstroms reputation for 
biting the heads off those who stood in the way of his dreams. 
When Rachel climbed down from the IceRover, the wind almost blew her over. 
She wrapped the coat around herself and moved toward the dome. 
The NASA administrator met her halfway, extending a huge gloved paw. Ms. 
Sexton. Thank you for coming. 

Rachel nodded uncertainly and shouted over the howling wind. Frankly, sir, Im 
not sure I had much choice. 
   
A thousand meters farther up the glacier, Delta-One gazed through infrared 
binoculars and watched as the administrator of NASA ushered Rachel Sexton into 
the dome. 
19 
NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom was a giant of a man, ruddy and gruff, 
like an angry Norse god. His prickly blond hair was cropped military short above a 
furrowed brow, and his bulbous nose was spidered with veins. At the moment, his 
stony eyes drooped with the weight of countless sleepless nights. An influential 
aerospace strategist and operations adviser at the Pentagon before his appointment 
to NASA, Ekstrom had a reputation for surliness matched only by his 
incontestable dedication to whatever mission was at hand. 
As Rachel Sexton followed Lawrence Ekstrom into the habisphere, she found 
herself walking through an eerie, translucent maze of hallways. The labyrinthine 
network appeared to have been fashioned by hanging sheets of opaque plastic 
across tautly strung wires. The floor of the maze was nonexistenta sheet of solid 
ice, carpeted with strips of rubber matting for traction. They passed a rudimentary 
living area lined with cots and chemical toilets. 
Thankfully, the air in the habisphere was warm, albeit heavy with the mingled 
potpourri of indistinguishable smells that accompany humans in tight quarters. 
Somewhere a generator droned, apparently the source of the electricity that 
powered the bare bulbs hanging from draped extension cords in the hallway. 

Ms. Sexton, Ekstrom grunted, guiding her briskly toward some unknown 
destination. Let me be candid with you right from the start. His tone conveyed 
anything but pleasure to have Rachel as his guest. You are here because the 
President wants you here. Zach Herney is a personal friend of mine and a faithful 
NASA supporter. I respect him. I owe him. And I trust him. I do not question his 
direct orders, even when I resent them. Just so there is no confusion, be aware that 
I do not share the Presidents enthusiasm for involving you in this matter. 
Rachel could only stare. I traveled three thousand miles for this kind of 
hospitality? This guy was no Martha Stewart. With all due respect, she fired 
back, I am also under presidential orders. I have not been told my purpose here. I 
made this trip on good faith. 
Fine, Ekstrom said. Then I will speak bluntly. 
Youve made a damn good start. 
Rachels tough response seemed to jolt the administrator. His stride slowed a 
moment, his eyes clearing as he studied her. Then, like a snake uncoiling, he 
heaved a long sigh and picked up the pace. 
Understand, Ekstrom began, that you are here on a classified NASA project 
against my better judgment. Not only are you a representative of the NRO, whose 
director enjoys dishonoring NASA personnel as loose-lipped children, but you are 
the daughter of the man who has made it his personal mission to destroy my 
agency. This should be NASAs hour in the sun; my men and women have 
endured a lot of criticism lately and deserve this moment of glory. However, due 
to a torrent of skepticism spearheaded by your father, NASA finds itself in a 
political situation where my hardworking personnel are forced to share the 
spotlight with a handful of random civilian scientists and the daughter of the man 
who is trying to destroy us. 
I am not my father, Rachel wanted to shout, but this was hardly the moment to 
debate politics with the head of NASA. I did not come here for the spotlight, sir. 

Ekstrom glared. You may find you have no alternative. 
The comment took her by surprise. Although President Herney had said nothing 
specific about her assisting him in any sort of public way, William Pickering 
had certainly aired his suspicions that Rachel might become a political pawn. Id 
like to know what Im doing here, Rachel demanded. 
You and me both. I do not have that information. 
Im sorry? 
The President asked me to brief you fully on our discovery the moment you 
arrived. Whatever role he wants you to play in this circus is between you and 
him. 
He told me your Earth Observation System had made a discovery. 
Ekstrom glanced sidelong at her. How familiar are you with the EOS project? 
EOS is a constellation of five NASA satellites which scrutinize the earth in 
different waysocean mapping, geologic fault analyses, polar ice-melt 
observation, location of fossil fuel reserves 
Fine, Ekstrom said, sounding unimpressed. So youre aware of the newest 
addition to the EOS constellation? Its called PODS. 
Rachel nodded. The Polar Orbiting Density Scanner (PODS) was designed to help 
measure the effects of global warming. As I understand it, PODS measures the 
thickness and hardness of the polar ice cap? 
In effect, yes. It uses spectral band technology to take composite density scans of 
large regions and find softness anomalies in the iceslush spots, internal melting, 
large fissuresindicators of global warming. 
Rachel was familiar with composite density scanning. It was like a subterranean 

ultrasound. NRO satellites had used similar technology to search for subsurface 
density variants in Eastern Europe and locate mass burial sites, which confirmed 
for the President that ethnic cleansing was indeed going on. 
Two weeks ago, Ekstrom said, PODS passed over this ice shelf and spotted a 
density anomaly that looked nothing like anything wed expected to see. Two 
hundred feet beneath the surface, perfectly embedded in a matrix of solid ice, 
PODS saw what looked like an amorphous globule about ten feet in diameter. 
A water pocket? Rachel asked. 
No. Not liquid. Strangely, this anomaly was harder than the ice surrounding it. 
Rachel paused. Soits a boulder or something? 
Ekstrom nodded. Essentially. 
Rachel waited for the punch line. It never came. Im here because NASA found a 
big rock in the ice? 
Not until PODS calculated the density of this rock did we get excited. We 
immediately flew a team up here to analyze it. As it turns out, the rock in the ice 
beneath us is significantly more dense than any type of rock found here on 
Ellesmere Island. More dense, in fact, than any type of rock found within a fourhundred-
mile radius. 
Rachel gazed down at the ice beneath her feet, picturing the huge rock down there 
somewhere. Youre saying someone moved it here? 
Ekstrom looked vaguely amused. The stone weighs more than eight tons. It is 
embedded under two hundred feet of solid ice, meaning it has been there 
untouched for over three hundred years. 
Rachel felt tired as she followed the administrator into the mouth of a long, narrow 
corridor, passing between two armed NASA workers who stood guard. Rachel 

glanced at Ekstrom. I assume theres a logical explanation for the stones 
presence hereand for all this secrecy? 
There most certainly is, Ekstrom said, deadpan. The rock PODS found is a 
meteorite. 
Rachel stopped dead in the passageway and stared at the administrator. A 
meteorite? A surge of disappointment washed over her. A meteorite seemed 
utterly anti-climactic after the Presidents big buildup. This discovery will singlehandedly 
justify all of NASAs past expenditures and blunders? What was Herney 
thinking? Meteorites were admittedly one of the rarest rocks on earth, but NASA 
discovered meteorites all the time. 
This meteorite is one of the largest ever found, Ekstrom said, standing rigid 
before her. We believe it is a fragment of a larger meteorite documented to have 
hit the Arctic Ocean in the seventeen hundreds. Most likely, this rock was thrown 
as ejecta from that ocean impact, landed on the Milne Glacier, and was slowly 
buried by snow over the past three hundred years. 
Rachel scowled. This discovery changed nothing. She felt a growing suspicion 
that she was witnessing an overblown publicity stunt by a desperate NASA and 
White Housetwo struggling entities attempting to elevate a propitious find to the 
level of earth-shattering NASA victory. 
You dont look too impressed, Ekstrom said. 
I guess I was just expecting somethingelse. 
Ekstroms eyes narrowed. A meteorite of this size is a very rare find, Ms. Sexton. 
There are only a few larger in the world. 
I realize 
But the size of the meteorite is not what excites us. 

Rachel glanced up. 
If you would permit me to finish, Ekstrom said, you will learn that this 
meteorite displays some rather astonishing characteristics never before seen in any 
meteorite. Large or small. He motioned down the passageway. Now, if you 
would follow me, Ill introduce you to someone more qualified than I am to 
discuss this find. 
Rachel was confused. Someone more qualified than the administrator of NASA? 
Ekstroms Nordic eyes locked in on hers. More qualified, Ms. Sexton, insofar as 
he is a civilian. I had assumed because you are a professional data analyst that you 
would prefer to get your data from an unbiased source. 
Touch. Rachel backed off. 
She followed the administrator down the narrow corridor, where they dead-ended 
at a heavy, black drapery. Beyond the drape, Rachel could hear the reverberant 
murmur of a crowd of voices rumbling on the other side, echoing as if in a giant 
open space. 
Without a word, the administrator reached up and pulled aside the curtain. Rachel 
was blinded by a dazzling brightness. Hesitant, she stepped forward, squinting into 
the glistening space. As her eyes adjusted, she gazed out at the massive room 
before her and drew an awestruck breath. 
My God, she whispered. What is this place? 
20 
The CNN production facility outside of Washington, D.C., is one of 212 studios 

worldwide that link via satellite to the global headquarters of Turner Broadcasting 
System in Atlanta. 
It was 1:45 P.M. when Senator Sedgewick Sextons limousine pulled into the 
parking lot. Sexton was feeling smug as he got out and strode toward the entrance. 
He and Gabrielle were greeted inside by a pot-bellied CNN producer who wore an 
effusive smile. 
Senator Sexton, the producer said. Welcome. Great news. We just found out 
who the White House sent as a sparring partner for you. The producer gave a 
foreboding grin. I hope you brought your game face. He motioned through the 
production glass out into the studio. 
Sexton looked through the glass and almost fell over. Staring back at him, through 
the smoky haze of her cigarette, was the ugliest face in politics. 
Marjorie Tench? Gabrielle blurted. What the hell is she doing here? 
Sexton had no idea, but whatever the reason, her presence here was fantastic 
newsa clear sign that the President was in desperation mode. Why else would he 
send his senior adviser to the front lines? President Zach Herney was rolling out 
the big guns, and Sexton welcomed the opportunity. 
The bigger the foe, the harder they fall. 
The senator had no doubt that Tench would be a sly opponent, but gazing now at 
the woman, Sexton could not help but think that the President had made a serious 
error in judgment. Marjorie Tench was hideouslooking. At the moment, she sat 
slouched in her chair, smoking a cigarette, her right arm moving in languid rhythm 
back and forth to her thin lips like a giant praying mantis feeding. 
Jesus, Sexton thought, if there was ever a face that should stick to radio. 
The few times Sedgewick Sexton had seen the White House senior advisers 
jaundiced mug in a magazine, he could not believe he was looking at one of the 

most powerful faces in Washington. 
I dont like this, Gabrielle whispered. 
Sexton barely heard her. The more he considered the opportunity, the more he 
liked it. Even more fortuitous than Tenchs media-unfriendly face was Tenchs 
reputation on one key issue: Marjorie Tench was extremely vocal that Americas 
leadership role in the future could only be secured through technological 
superiority. She was an avid supporter of high-tech government R&D programs, 
and, most importantNASA. Many believed it was Tenchs behind-the-scenes 
pressure that kept the President positioned so staunchly behind the failing space 
agency. 
Sexton wondered if perhaps the President was now punishing Tench for all the bad 
advice about supporting NASA. Is he throwing his senior adviser to the wolves? 
Gabrielle Ashe gazed through the glass at Marjorie Tench and felt a growing 
uneasiness. This woman was smart as hell and she was an unexpected twist. Those 
two facts had her instincts tingling. Considering the womans stance on NASA, 
the President sending her to face-off against Senator Sexton seemed ill-advised. 
But the President was certainly no fool. Something told Gabrielle this interview 
was bad news. 
Gabrielle already sensed the senator salivating over his odds, which did little to 
curb her concern. Sexton had a habit of going overboard when he got cocky. The 
NASA issue had been a welcome boost in the polls, but Sexton had been pushing 
very hard lately, she thought. Plenty of campaigns had been lost by candidates 
who went for the knockout when all they needed was to finish the round. 
The producer looked eager for the impending blood match. Lets get you set up, 
senator. 
As Sexton headed for the studio, Gabrielle caught his sleeve. I know what youre 

thinking, she whispered. But just be smart. Dont go overboard. 
Overboard? Me? Sexton grinned. 
Remember this woman is very good at what she does. 
Sexton gave her a suggestive smirk. So am I. 
21 
The cavernous main chamber of NASAs habisphere would have been a strange 
sight anywhere on earth, but the fact that it existed on an Arctic ice shelf made it 
that much more difficult for Rachel Sexton to assimilate. 
Staring upward into a futuristic dome crafted of white interlocking triangular pads, 
Rachel felt like she had entered a colossal sanatorium. The walls sloped downward 
to a floor of solid ice, where an army of halogen lamps stood like sentinels around 
the perimeter, casting stark light skyward and giving the whole chamber an 
ephemeral luminosity. 
Snaking across the ice floor, black foam carpetrunners wound like boardwalks 
through a maze of portable scientific work stations. Amid the electronics, thirty or 
forty white-clad NASA personnel were hard at work, conferring happily and 
talking in excited tones. Rachel immediately recognized the electricity in the 
room. 
It was the thrill of new discovery. 
As Rachel and the administrator circled the outer edge of the dome, she noted the 
surprised looks of displeasure from those who recognized her. Their whispers 
carried clearly in the reverberant space. 

Isnt that Senator Sextons daughter? 
What the hell is SHE doing here? 
I cant believe the administrator is even speaking to her! 
Rachel half expected to see voodoo dolls of her father dangling everywhere. The 
animosity around her, though, was not the only emotion in the air; Rachel also 
sensed a distinct smugnessas if NASA clearly knew who would be having the 
last laugh. 
The administrator led Rachel toward a series of tables where a lone man sat at a 
computer work station. He was dressed in a black turtleneck, wide-wale 
corduroys, and heavy boat shoes, rather than the matching NASA weather gear 
everyone else seemed to be wearing. He had his back to them. 
The administrator asked Rachel to wait as he went over and spoke to the stranger. 
After a moment, the man in the turtleneck gave him a congenial nod and started 
shutting down his computer. The administrator returned. 
Mr. Tolland will take it from here, he said. Hes another one of the Presidents 
recruits, so you two should get along fine. Ill join you later. 
Thank you. 
I assume youve heard of Michael Tolland? 
Rachel shrugged, her brain still taking in the incredible surroundings. Name 
doesnt ring a bell. 
The man in the turtleneck arrived, grinning. Doesnt ring a bell? His voice was 
resonant and friendly. Best news Ive heard all day. Seems I never get a chance to 
make a first impression anymore. 
When Rachel glanced up at the newcomer, her feet froze in place. She knew the 

mans handsome face in an instant. Everyone in America did. 
Oh, she said, blushing as the man shook her hand. Youre that Michael 
Tolland. 
When the President had told Rachel he had recruited top-notch civilian scientists 
to authenticate NASAs discovery, Rachel had imagined a group of wizened nerds 
with monogrammed calculators. Michael Tolland was the antithesis. One of the 
best known science celebrities in America today, Tolland hosted a weekly 
documentary called Amazing Seas, during which he brought viewers face-to-face 
with spellbinding oceanic phenomenaunderwater volcanoes, ten-foot sea 
worms, killer tidal waves. The media hailed Tolland as a cross between Jacques 
Cousteau and Carl Sagan, crediting his knowledge, unpretentious enthusiasm, and 
lust for adventure as the formula that had rocketed Amazing Seas to the top of the 
ratings. Of course, most critics admitted, Tollands rugged good looks and selfeffacing 
charisma probably didnt hurt his popularity with the female audience. 
Mr. Tolland, Rachel said, fumbling the words a bit. Im Rachel Sexton. 
Tolland smiled a pleasant, crooked smile. Hi, Rachel. Call me Mike. 
Rachel found herself uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Sensory overload was 
setting inthe habisphere, the meteorite, the secrets, finding herself unexpectedly 
face-to-face with a television star. Im surprised to see you here, she said, 
attempting to recover. When the President told me hed recruited civilian 
scientists for authentication of a NASA find, I guess I expected She hesitated. 
Real scientists? Tolland grinned. 
Rachel flushed, mortified. Thats not what I meant. 
Dont worry about it, Tolland said. Thats all Ive heard since I got here. 
The administrator excused himself, promising to catch up with them later. Tolland 
turned now to Rachel with a curious look. The administrator tells me your father 

is Senator Sexton? 
Rachel nodded. Unfortunately. 
A Sexton spy behind enemy lines? 
Battle lines are not always drawn where you might think. 
An awkward silence. 
So tell me, Rachel said quickly, whats a world-famous oceanographer doing 
on a glacier with a bunch of NASA rocket scientists? 
Tolland chuckled. Actually, some guy who looked a lot like the President asked 
me to do him a favor. I opened my mouth to say Go to hell, but somehow I 
blurted, Yes, sir. 
Rachel laughed for the first time all morning. Join the club. 
Although most celebrities seemed smaller in person, Rachel thought Michael 
Tolland appeared taller. His brown eyes were just as vigilant and passionate as 
they were on television, and his voice carried the same modest warmth and 
enthusiasm. Looking to be a weathered and athletic forty-five, Michael Tolland 
had coarse black hair that fell in a permanent windswept tuft across his forehead. 
He had a strong chin and a carefree mannerism that exuded confidence. When 
hed shaken Rachels hand, the callused roughness of his palms reminded her he 
was not a typical soft television personality but rather an accomplished seaman 
and hands-on researcher. 
To be honest, Tolland admitted, sounding sheepish, I think I was recruited 
more for my PR value than for my scientific knowledge. The president asked me 
to come up and make a documentary for him. 
A documentary? About a meteorite? But youre an oceanographer. 

Thats exactly what I told him! But he said he didnt know of any meteorite 
documentarians. He told me my involvement would help bring mainstream 
credibility to this find. Apparently he plans to broadcast my documentary as part 
of tonights big press conference when he announces the discovery. 
A celebrity spokesman. Rachel sensed the savvy political maneuverings of Zach 
Herney at work. NASA was often accused of talking over the publics head. Not 
this time. Theyd pulled in the master scientific communicator, a face Americans 
already knew and trusted when it came to science. 
Tolland pointed kitty-corner across the dome to a far wall where a press area was 
being set up. There was a blue carpet on the ice, television cameras, media lights, 
a long table with several microphones. Someone was hanging a backdrop of a 
huge American flag. 
Thats for tonight, he explained. The NASA administrator and some of his top 
scientists will be connected live via satellite to the White House so they can 
participate in the Presidents eight oclock broadcast. 
Appropriate, Rachel thought, pleased to know Zach Herney didnt plan to cut 
NASA out of the announcement entirely. 
So, Rachel said with a sigh, is someone finally going to tell me whats so 
special about this meteorite? 
Tolland arched his eyebrows and gave her a mysterious grin. Actually, whats so 
special about this meteorite is best seen, not explained. He motioned for Rachel 
to follow him toward the neighboring work area. The guy stationed over here has 
plenty of samples he can show you. 
Samples? You actually have samples of the meteorite? 
Absolutely. Weve drilled quite a few. In fact, it was the initial core samples that 
alerted NASA to the importance of the find. 

Unsure of what to expect, Rachel followed Tolland into the work area. It appeared 
deserted. A cup of coffee sat on a desk scattered with rock samples, calipers, and 
other diagnostic gear. The coffee was steaming. 
Marlinson! Tolland yelled, looking around. No answer. He gave a frustrated 
sigh and turned to Rachel. He probably got lost trying to find cream for his 
coffee. Im telling you, I went to Princeton postgrad with this guy, and he used to 
get lost in his own dorm. Now hes a National Medal of Science recipient in 
astrophysics. Go figure. 
Rachel did a double take. Marlinson? You dont by any chance mean the famous 
Corky Marlinson, do you? 
Tolland laughed. One and the same. 
Rachel was stunned. Corky Marlinson is here? Marlinsons ideas on 
gravitational fields were legendary among NRO satellite engineers. Marlinson is 
one of the Presidents civilian recruits? 
Yeah, one of the real scientists. 
Real is right, Rachel thought. Corky Marlinson was as brilliant and respected as 
they came. 
The incredible paradox about Corky, Tolland said, is that he can quote you the 
distance to Alpha Centauri in millimeters, but he cant tie his own necktie. 
I wear clip-ons! a nasal, good-natured voice barked nearby. Efficiency over 
style, Mike. You Hollywood types dont understand that! 
Rachel and Tolland turned to the man now emerging from behind a large stack of 
electronic gear. He was squat and rotund, resembling a pug dog with bubble eyes 
and a thinning, comb-over haircut. When the man saw Tolland standing with 
Rachel, he stopped in his tracks. 

Jesus Christ, Mike! Were at the friggin North Pole and you still manage to meet 
gorgeous women. I knew I should have gone into television! 
Michael Tolland was visibly embarrassed. Ms. Sexton, please excuse Dr. 
Marlinson. What he lacks in tact, he more than makes up for in random bits of 
totally useless knowledge about our universe. 
Corky approached. A true pleasure, maam. I didnt catch your name. 
Rachel, she said. Rachel Sexton. 
Sexton? Corky let out a playful gasp. No relation to that shortsighted, depraved 
senator, I hope! 
Tolland winced. Actually, Corky, Senator Sexton is Rachels father. 
Corky stopped laughing and slumped. You know, Mike, its really no wonder 
Ive never had any luck with the ladies. 
22 
Prize-winning astrophysicist Corky Marlinson ushered Rachel and Tolland into his 
work area and began sifting through his tools and rock samples. The man moved 
like a tightly wound spring about to explode. 
All right, he said, quivering excitedly, Ms. Sexton, youre about to get the 
Corky Marlinson thirty-second meteorite primer. 
Tolland gave Rachel a be-patient wink. Bear with him. The man really wanted to 
be an actor. 

Yeah, and Mike wanted to be a respected scientist. Corky rooted around in a 
shoebox and produced three small rock samples and aligned them on his desk. 
These are the three main classes of meteorites in the world. 
Rachel looked at the three samples. All appeared as awkward spheroids about the 
size of golf balls. Each had been sliced in half to reveal its cross section. 
All meteorites, Corky said, consist of varying amounts of nickel-iron alloys, 
silicates, and sulfides. We classify them on the basis of their metal-to-silicate 
ratios. 
Rachel already had the feeling Corky Marlinsons meteorite primer was going to 
be more than thirty seconds. 
This first sample here, Corky said, pointing to a shiny, jet-black stone, is an 
iron-core meteorite. Very heavy. This little guy landed in Antarctica a few years 
back. 
Rachel studied the meteorite. It most certainly looked otherworldlya blob of 
heavy grayish iron whose outer crust was burned and blackened. 
That charred outer layer is called a fusion crust, Corky said. Its the result of 
extreme heating as the meteor falls through our atmosphere. All meteorites exhibit 
that charring. Corky moved quickly to the next sample. This next one is what 
we call a stony-iron meteorite. 
Rachel studied the sample, noting that it too was charred on the outside. This 
sample, however, had a light-greenish tint, and the cross section looked like a 
collage of colorful angular fragments resembling a kaleidoscopic puzzle. 
Pretty, Rachel said. 
Are you kidding, its gorgeous! Corky talked for a minute about the high olivine 
content causing the green luster, and then he reached dramatically for the third and 
final sample, handing it to Rachel. 

Rachel held the final meteorite in her palm. This one was grayish brown in color, 
resembling granite. It felt heavier than a terrestrial stone, but not substantially. The 
only indication suggesting it was anything other than a normal rock was its fusion 
crustthe scorched outer surface. 
This, Corky said with finality, is called a stony meteorite. Its the most 
common class of meteorite. More than ninety percent of meteorites found on earth 
are of this category. 
Rachel was surprised. She had always pictured meteorites more like the first 
samplemetallic, alien-looking blobs. The meteorite in her hand looked anything 
but extraterrestrial. Aside from the charred exterior, it looked like something she 
might step over on the beach. 
Corkys eyes were bulging now with excitement. The meteorite buried in the ice 
here at Milne is a stony meteoritea lot like the one in your hand. Stony 
meteorites appear almost identical to our terrestrial igneous rocks, which makes 
them tough to spot. Usually a blend of lightweight silicatesfeldspar, olivine, 
pyroxene. Nothing too exciting. 
Ill say, Rachel thought, handing the sample back to him. This one looks like a 
rock someone left in a fireplace and burned. 
Corky burst out laughing. One hell of a fireplace! The meanest blast furnace ever 
built doesnt come close to reproducing the heat a meteoroid feels when it hits our 
atmosphere. They get ravaged! 
Tolland gave Rachel an empathetic smile. This is the good part. 
Picture this, Corky said, taking the meteorite sample from Rachel. Lets 
imagine this little fella is the size of a house. He held the sample high over his 
head. Okayits in spacefloating across our solar systemcold-soaked from 
the temperature of space to minus one hundred degrees Celsius. 

Tolland was chuckling to himself, apparently already having seen Corkys 
reenactment of the meteorites arrival on Ellesmere Island. 
Corky began lowering the sample. Our meteorite is moving toward earthand as 
its getting very close, our gravity locks onacceleratingaccelerating 
Rachel watched as Corky sped up the samples trajectory, mimicking the 
acceleration of gravity. 
Now its moving fast, Corky exclaimed. Over ten miles per secondthirty-six 
thousand miles per hour! At 135 kilometers above the earths surface, the 
meteorite begins to encounter friction with the atmosphere. Corky shook the 
sample violently as he lowered it toward the ice. Falling below one hundred 
kilometers, its starting to glow! Now the atmospheric density is increasing, and 
the friction is incredible! The air around the meteoroid is becoming incandescent 
as the surface material melts from the heat. Corky started making burning and 
sizzling sound effects. Now its falling past the eighty-kilometer mark, and the 
exterior becomes heated to over eighteen hundred degrees Celsius! 
Rachel watched in disbelief as the presidential awardwinning astrophysicist 
shook the meteorite more fiercely, sputtering out juvenile sound effects. 
Sixty kilometers! Corky was shouting now. Our meteoroid encounters the 
atmospheric wall. The air is too dense! It violently decelerates at more than three 
hundred times the force of gravity! Corky made a screeching braking sound and 
slowed his descent dramatically. Instantly, the meteorite cools and stops glowing. 
Weve hit dark flight! The meteoroids surface hardens from its molten stage to a 
charred fusion crust. 
Rachel heard Tolland groan as Corky knelt on the ice to perform the coup de 
grceearth impact. 
Now, Corky said, our huge meteorite is skipping across our lower 
atmosphere On his knees, he arched the meteorite toward the ground on a 
shallow slant. Its headed toward the Arctic Oceanon an oblique 

anglefallinglooking almost like it will skip off the oceanfallingand 
He touched the sample to the ice. BAM! 
Rachel jumped. 
The impact is cataclysmic! The meteorite explodes. Fragments fly off, skipping 
and spinning across the ocean. Corky went into slow motion now, rolling and 
tumbling the sample across the invisible ocean toward Rachels feet. One piece 
keeps skimming, tumbling toward Ellesmere Island He brought it right up to 
her toe. It skips off the ocean, bouncing up onto land He moved it up and over 
the tongue of her shoe and rolled it to a stop on top of her foot near her ankle. 
And finally comes to rest high on the Milne Glacier, where snow and ice quickly 
cover it, protecting it from atmospheric erosion. Corky stood up with a smile. 
Rachels mouth fell slack. She gave an impressed laugh. Well, Dr. Marlinson, 
that explanation was exceptionally 
Lucid? Corky offered. 
Rachel smiled. In a word. 
Corky handed the sample back to her. Look at the cross section. 
Rachel studied the rocks interior a moment, seeing nothing. 
Tilt it into the light, Tolland prompted, his voice warm and kind. And look 
closely. 
Rachel brought the rock close to her eyes and tilted it against the dazzling 
halogens reflecting overhead. Now she saw ittiny metallic globules glistening in 
the stone. Dozens of them were peppered throughout the cross section like 
minuscule droplets of mercury, each only about a millimeter across. 
Those little bubbles are called chondrules, Corky said. And they occur only 
in meteorites. 

Rachel squinted at the droplets. Granted, Ive never seen anything like this in an 
earth rock. 
Nor will you! Corky declared. Chondrules are one geologic structure we 
simply do not have on earth. Some chondrules are exceptionally oldperhaps 
madeup of the earliest materials in the universe. Other chondrules are much 
younger, like the ones in your hand. The chondrules in that meteorite date only 
about 190 million years old. 
One hundred ninety million years is young? 
Heck, yes! In cosmological terms, thats yesterday. The point here, though, is that 
this sample contains chondrulesconclusive meteoric evidence. 
Okay, Rachel said. Chondrules are conclusive. Got it. 
And finally, Corky said, heaving a sigh, if the fusion crust and chondrules 
dont convince you, we astronomers have a foolproof method to confirm meteoric 
origin. 
Being? 
Corky gave a casual shrug. We simply use a petrographic polarizing microscope, 
an x-ray fluorescence spectrometer, a neutron activation analyzer, or an inductioncoupled 
plasma spectrometer to measure ferromagnetic ratios. 
Tolland groaned. Now hes showing off. What Corky means is that we can prove 
a rock is a meteorite simply by measuring its chemical content. 
Hey, ocean boy! Corky chided. Lets leave the science to the scientists, shall 
we? He immediately turned back to Rachel. In earth rocks, the mineral nickel 
occurs in either extremely high percentages or extremely low; nothing in the 
middle. In meteorites, though, the nickel content falls within a midrange set of 
values. Therefore, if we analyze a sample and find the nickel content reflects a 

midrange value, we can guarantee beyond the shadow of a doubt that the sample is 
a meteorite. 
Rachel felt exasperated. Okay, gentlemen, fusion crusts, chondrules, midrange 
nickel contents, all of which prove its from space. I get the picture. She laid the 
sample back on Corkys table. But why am I here? 
Corky heaved a portentous sigh. You want to see a sample of the meteorite 
NASA found in the ice underneath us? 
Before I die here, please. 
This time Corky reached in his breast pocket and produced a small, disk-shaped 
piece of stone. The slice of rock was shaped like an audio CD, about half an inch 
thick, and appeared to be similar in composition to the stony meteorite she had just 
seen. 
This is a slice of a core sample that we drilled yesterday. Corky handed the disk 
to Rachel. 
The appearance certainly was not earth-shattering. It was an orangish-white, heavy 
rock. Part of the rim was charred and black, apparently a segment of the 
meteorites outer skin. I see the fusion crust, she said. 
Corky nodded. Yeah, this sample was taken from near the outside of the 
meteorite, so it still has some crust on it. 
Rachel tilted the disk in the light and spotted the tiny metallic globules. And I see 
the chondrules. 
Good, Corky said, his voice tense with excitement. And I can tell you from 
having run this thing through a petrographic polarizing microscope that its nickel 
content is midrangenothing like a terrestrial rock. Congratulations, youve now 
successfully confirmed the rock in your hand came from space. 

Rachel looked up, confused. Dr. Marlinson, its a meteorite. Its supposed to 
come from space. Am I missing something here? 
Corky and Tolland exchanged knowing looks. Tolland put a hand on Rachels 
shoulder and whispered, Flip it over. 
Rachel turned the disk over so she could see the other side. It took only an instant 
for her brain to process what she was looking at. 
Then the truth hit her like a truck. 
Impossible! she gasped, and yet as she stared at the rock she realized her definition 
of impossible had just changed forever. Embedded in the stone was a form that 
in an earth specimen might be considered commonplace, and yet in a meteorite 
was utterly inconceivable. 
Its Rachel stammered, almost unable to speak the word. Itsa bug! This 
meteorite contains the fossil of a bug! 
Both Tolland and Corky were beaming. Welcome aboard, Corky said. 
The torrent of emotions that gripped Rachel left her momentarily mute, and yet 
even in her bewilderment, she could clearly see that this fossil, beyond question, 
had once been a living biological organism. The petrified impression was about 
three inches long and looked to be the underside of some kind of huge beetle or 
crawling insect. Seven pairs of hinged legs were clustered beneath a protective 
outer shell, which seemed to be segmented in plates like that of an armadillo. 
Rachel felt dizzy. An insect from space 
Its an isopod, Corky said. Insects have three pairs of legs, not seven. 
Rachel did not even hear him. Her head was spinning as she studied the fossil 
before her. 

You can clearly see, Corky said, that the dorsal shell is segmented in plates like 
a terrestrial pill bug, and yet the two prominent tail-like appendages differentiate it 
as something closer to a louse. 
Rachels mind had already tuned Corky out. The classification of the species was 
totally irrelevant. The puzzle pieces now came crashing into placethe 
Presidents secrecy, the NASA excitement 
There is a fossil in this meteorite! Not just a speck of bacteria or microbes, but an 
advanced life-form! Proof of life elsewhere in the universe! 
23 
Ten minutes into the CNN debate, Senator Sexton wondered how he could have 
been worried at all. Marjorie Tench was grossly overestimated as an opponent. 
Despite the senior advisers reputation for ruthless sagacity, she was turning out to 
be more of a sacrificial lamb than a worthy opponent. 
Granted, early in the conversation Tench had grabbed the upper hand by 
hammering the senators prolife platform as biased against women, but then, just 
as it seemed Tench was tightening her grip, shed made a careless mistake. While 
questioning how the senator expected to fund educational improvements without 
raising taxes, Tench made a snide allusion to Sextons constant scapegoating of 
NASA. 
Although NASA was a topic Sexton definitely intended to address toward the end 
of the discussion, Marjorie Tench had opened the door early. Idiot! 
Speaking of NASA, Sexton segued casually. Can you comment on the rumors I 
keep hearing that NASA has suffered another recent failure? 

Marjorie Tench did not flinch. Im afraid I have not heard that rumor. Her 
cigarette voice was like sandpaper. 
So, no comment? 
Im afraid not. 
Sexton gloated. In the world of media sound bites, no comment translated 
loosely to guilty as charged. 
I see, Sexton said. And how about the rumors of a secret, emergency meeting 
between the President and the administrator of NASA? 
This time Tench looked surprised. Im not sure what meeting youre referring to. 
The President takes many meetings. 
Of course, he does. Sexton decided to go straight at her. Ms. Tench, you are a 
great supporter of the space agency, is that right? 
Tench sighed, sounding tired of Sextons pet issue. I believe in the importance of 
preserving Americas technological edgebe that military, industry, intelligence, 
telecommunications. NASA is certainly part of that vision. Yes. 
In the production booth, Sexton could see Gabrielles eyes telling him to back off, 
but Sexton could taste blood. Im curious, maam, is it your influence behind the 
Presidents continued support of this obviously ailing agency? 
Tench shook her head. No. The President is also a staunch believer in NASA. He 
makes his own decisions. 
Sexton could not believe his ears. He had just given Marjorie Tench a chance to 
partially exonerate the President by personally accepting some of the blame for 
NASA funding. Instead, Tench had thrown it right back at the President. The 
President makes his own decisions. It seemed Tench was already trying to distance 
herself from a campaign in trouble. No big surprise. After all, when the dust 

settled, Marjorie Tench would be looking for a job. 
Over the next few minutes, Sexton and Tench parried. Tench made some weak 
attempts to change the subject, while Sexton kept pressing her on the NASA 
budget. 
Senator, Tench argued, you want to cut NASAs budget, but do you have any 
idea how many high-tech jobs will be lost? 
Sexton almost laughed in the womans face. This gal is considered the smartest 
mind in Washington? Tench obviously had something to learn about the 
demographics of this country. High-tech jobs were inconsequential in comparison 
to the huge numbers of hardworking blue-collar Americans. 
Sexton pounced. Were talking about billions in savings here, Marjorie, and if the 
result is that a bunch of NASA scientists have to get in their BMWs and take their 
marketable skills elsewhere, then so be it. Im committed to being tough on 
spending. 
Marjorie Tench fell silent, as if reeling from that last punch. 
The CNN host prompted, Ms. Tench? A reaction? 
The woman finally cleared her throat and spoke. I guess Im just surprised to hear 
that Mr. Sexton is willing to establish himself as so staunchly anti-NASA. 
Sextons eyes narrowed. Nice try, lady. I am not anti-NASA, and I resent the 
accusation. I am simply saying that NASAs budget is indicative of the kind of 
runaway spending that your President endorses. NASA said they could build the 
shuttle for five billion; it cost twelve billion. They said they could build the space 
station for eight billion; now its one hundred billion. 
Americans are leaders, Tench countered, because we set lofty goals and stick to 
them through the tough times. 

That national pride speech doesnt work on me, Marge. NASA has overspent its 
allowance three times in the past two years and crawled back to the President with 
its tail between its legs and asked for more money to fix its mistakes. Is that 
national pride? If you want to talk about national pride, talk about strong schools. 
Talk about universal health care. Talk about smart kids growing up in a country of 
opportunity. Thats national pride! 
Tench glared. May I ask you a direct question, senator? 
Sexton did not respond. He simply waited. 
The womans words came out deliberately, with a sudden infusion of grit. 
Senator, if I told you that we could not explore space for less than NASA is 
currently spending, would you act to abolish the space agency altogether? 
The question felt like a boulder landing in Sextons lap. Maybe Tench wasnt so 
stupid after all. She had just blindsided Sexton with a fence-bustera carefully 
crafted yes/no question designed to force a fence-straddling opponent to choose 
clear sides and clarify his position once and for all. 
Instinctively Sexton tried sidestepping. I have no doubt that with proper 
management NASA can explore space for a lot less than we are currently 
Senator Sexton, answer the question. Exploring space is a dangerous and costly 
business. Its much like building a passenger jet. We should either do it rightor 
not at all. The risks are too great. My question remains: If you become president, 
and you are faced with the decision to continue NASA funding at its current level 
or entirely scrap the U.S. space program, which would you choose? 
Shit. Sexton glanced up at Gabrielle through the glass. Her expression echoed 
what Sexton already knew. Youre committed. Be direct. No waffling. Sexton held 
his chin high. Yes. I would transfer NASAs current budget directly into our 
school systems if faced with that decision. I would vote for our children over 
space. 

The look on Marjorie Tenchs face was one of absolute shock. Im stunned. Did I 
hear you correctly? As president, you would act to abolish this nations space 
program? 
Sexton felt an anger simmering. Now Tench was putting words in his mouth. He 
tried to counter, but Tench was already talking. 
So youre saying, senator, for the record, that you would do away with the 
agency that put men on the moon? 
I am saying that the space race is over! Times have changed. NASA no longer 
plays a critical role in the lives of everyday Americans and yet we continue to 
fund them as though they do. 
So you dont think space is the future? 
Obviously space is the future, but NASA is a dinosaur! Let the private sector 
explore space. American taxpayers shouldnt have to open their wallets every time 
some Washington engineer wants to take a billion-dollar photograph of Jupiter. 
Americans are tired of selling out their childrens future to fund an outdated 
agency that provides so little in return for its gargantuan costs! 
Tench sighed dramatically. So little in return? With the exception perhaps of the 
SETI program, NASA has had enormous returns. 
Sexton was shocked that the mention of SETI had even escaped Tenchs lips. 
Major blunder. Thanks for reminding me. The Search for Extraterrestrial 
Intelligence was NASAs most abysmal money pit ever. Although NASA had 
tried to give the project a facelift by renaming it Origins and shuffling some of 
its objectives, it was still the same losing gamble. 
Marjorie, Sexton said, taking his opening, Ill address SETI only because you 
mention it. 
Oddly, Tench looked almost eager to hear this. 

Sexton cleared his throat. Most people are not aware that NASA has been 
looking for ET for thirty-five years now. And its a pricey treasure huntsatellite 
dish arrays, huge transceivers, millions in salaries to scientists who sit in the dark 
and listen to blank tape. Its an embarrassing waste of resources. 
Youre saying theres nothing up there? 
Im saying that if any other government agency had spent forty-five million over 
thirty-five years and had not produced one single result, they would have been 
axed a long time ago. Sexton paused to let the gravity of the statement settle in. 
After thirty-five years, I think its pretty obvious were not going to find 
extraterrestrial life. 
And if youre wrong? 
Sexton rolled his eyes. Oh, for heavens sake, Ms. Tench, if Im wrong Ill eat my 
hat. 
Marjorie Tench locked her jaundiced eyes on Senator Sexton. Ill remember you 
said that, senator. She smiled for the first time. I think we all will. 
Six miles away, inside the Oval Office, President Zach Herney turned off the 
television and poured himself a drink. As Marjorie Tench had promised, Senator 
Sexton had taken the baithook, line, and sinker. 
24 
Michael Tolland felt himself beaming empathetically as Rachel Sexton gaped in 
silence at the fossilized meteorite in her hand. The refined beauty of the womans 
face now seemed to dissolve into the expression of innocent wondera young girl 

who had just seen Santa Claus for the first time. 
I know just how you feel, he thought. 
Tolland had been struck the same way only forty-eight hours ago. He too had been 
stunned into silence. Even now, the scientific and philosophical implications of the 
meteorite astounded him, forcing him to rethink everything he had ever believed 
about nature. 
Tollands oceanographic discoveries included several previously unknown 
deepwater species, and yet this space bug was another level of breakthrough 
altogether. Despite Hollywoods propensity for casting extraterrestrials as little 
green men, astrobiologists and science buffs all agreed that given the sheer 
numbers and adaptability of earths insects, extraterrestrial life would in all 
probability be buglike if it were ever discovered. 
Insects were members of the phylum arthropodacreatures having hard outer 
skeletons and jointed legs. With over 1.25 million known species and an estimated 
five hundred thousand still to be classified, earths bugs outnumbered all of the 
other animals combined. They made up 95 percent of all the planets species and 
an astounding 40 percent of the planets biomass. 
It was not so much the bugs abundance that impressed as it was their resilience. 
From the Antarctic ice beetle to Death Valleys sun scorpion, bugs happily 
inhabited deadly ranges in temperature, dryness, and even pressure. They also had 
mastered exposure to the most deadly force known in the universeradiation. 
Following a nuclear test in 1945, air force officers had donned radiation suits and 
examined ground zero, only to discover cockroaches and ants happily carrying on 
as if nothing had happened. Astronomers realized that an arthropods protective 
exoskeleton made it a perfectly viable candidate to inhabit the countless radiationsaturated 
planets where nothing else could live. 
It appeared the astrobiologists had been right, Tolland thought. ET is a bug. 

Rachels legs felt weak beneath her. I cantbelieve it, she said, turning the 
fossil in her hands. I never thought 
Give it some time to sink in, Tolland said, grinning. Took me twenty-four 
hours to get my feet back under me. 
I see we have a newcomer, said an uncharacteristically tall Asian man, walking 
over to join them. 
Corky and Tolland seemed to deflate instantly with the mans arrival. Apparently 
the moment of magic had been shattered. 
Dr. Wailee Ming, the man said, introducing himself. Chairman of paleontology 
at UCLA. 
The man carried himself with the pompous rigidity of renaissance aristocracy, 
continuously stroking the out-of-place bow tie that he wore beneath his kneelength 
camel-hair coat. Wailee Ming was apparently not one to let a remote setting 
come in the way of his prim appearance. 
Im Rachel Sexton. Her hand was still trembling as she shook Mings smooth 
palm. Ming was obviously another of the Presidents civilian recruits. 
It would be my pleasure, Ms. Sexton, the paleontologist said, to tell you 
anything you want to know about these fossils. 
And plenty you dont want to know, Corky grumbled. 
Ming fingered his bow tie. My paleontologic specialty is extinct Arthropoda and 
Mygalomorphae. Obviously the most impressive characteristic of this organism 
is 
is that its from another friggin planet! Corky interjected. 

Ming scowled and cleared his throat. The most impressive characteristic of this 
organism is that it fits perfectly into our Darwinian system of terrestrial taxonomy 
and classification. 
Rachel glanced up. They can classify this thing? You mean kingdom, phylum, 
species, that sort of thing? 
Exactly, Ming said. This species, if found on earth, would be classified as the 
order Isopoda and would fall into a class with about two thousand species of lice. 
Lice? she said. But its huge. 
Taxonomy is not size specific. House cats and tigers are related. Classification is 
about physiology. This species is clearly a louse: It has a flattened body, seven 
pairs of legs, and a reproductive pouch identical in structure to wood lice, pill 
bugs, beach hoppers, sow bugs, and gribbles. The other fossils clearly reveal more 
specialized 
Other fossils? 
Ming glanced at Corky and Tolland. She doesnt know? 
Tolland shook his head. 
Mings face brightened instantly. Ms. Sexton, you havent heard the good part 
yet. 
There are more fossils, Corky interjected, clearly trying to steal Mings thunder. 
Lots more. Corky scurried over to a large manila envelope and retrieved a 
folded sheet of oversized paper. He spread it out on the desk in front of Rachel. 
After we drilled some cores, we dropped an x-ray camera down. This is a graphic 
rendering of the cross section. 
Rachel looked at the x-ray printout on the table, and immediately had to sit down. 
The three-dimensional cross section of the meteorite was packed with dozens of 

these bugs. 
Paleolithic records, Ming said, are usually found in heavy concentrations. 
Often times, mud slides trap organisms en masse, covering nests or entire 
communities. 
Corky grinned. We think the collection in the meteorite represents a nest. He 
pointed to one of the bugs on the printout. And theres mommy. 
Rachel looked at the specimen in question, and her jaw dropped. The bug looked 
to be about two feet long. 
Big-ass louse, eh? Corky said. 
Rachel nodded, dumbstruck, as she pictured lice the size of bread loaves 
wandering around on some distant planet. 
On earth, Ming said, our bugs stay relatively small because gravity keeps them 
in check. They cant grow larger than their exoskeletons can support. However, on 
a planet with diminished gravity, insects could evolve to much greater 
dimensions. 
Imagine swatting mosquitoes the size of condors, Corky joked, taking the core 
sample from Rachel and slipping it into his pocket. 
Ming scowled. You had better not be stealing that! 
Relax, Corky said. Weve got eight tons more where this came from. 
Rachels analytical mind churned through the data before her. But how can life 
from space be so similar to life on earth? I mean, youre saying this bug fits in our 
Darwinian classification? 
Perfectly, Corky said. And believe it or not, a lot of astronomers have predicted 
that extraterrestrial life would be very similar to life on earth. 

But why? she demanded. This species came from an entirely different 
environment. 
Panspermia. Corky smiled broadly. 
I beg your pardon? 
Panspermia is the theory that life was seeded here from another planet. 
Rachel stood up. Youre losing me. 
Corky turned to Tolland. Mike, youre the primordial seas guy. 
Tolland looked happy to take over. Earth was once a lifeless planet, Rachel. Then 
suddenly, as if overnight, life exploded. Many biologists think the explosion of life 
was the magical result of an ideal mixture of elements in the primordial seas. But 
weve never been able to reproduce that in a lab, so religious scholars have seized 
that failure as proof of God, meaning life could not exist unless God touched the 
primordial seas and infused them with life. 
But we astronomers, Corky declared, came up with another explanation for the 
overnight explosion of life on earth. 
Panspermia, Rachel said, now understanding what they were talking about. She 
had heard the panspermia theory before but didnt know its name. The theory that 
a meteorite splashed into the primordial soup, bringing the first seeds of microbial 
life to earth. 
Bingo, Corky said. Where they percolated and sprang to life. 
And if thats true, Rachel said, then the underlying ancestry of earths lifeforms 
and extraterrestrial life-forms would be identical. 
Double bingo. 

Panspermia, Rachel thought, still barely able to grasp the implications. So, not 
only does this fossil confirm that life exists elsewhere in the universe, but it 
practically proves panspermiathat life on earth was seeded from elsewhere in 
the universe. 
Triple bingo. Corky flashed her an enthusiastic nod. Technically, we may all be 
extraterrestrials. He put his fingers over his head like two antennas, crossed his 
eyes, and wagged his tongue like some kind of insect. 
Tolland looked at Rachel with a pathetic grin. And this guys the pinnacle of our 
evolution. 
25 
Rachel Sexton felt a dreamlike mist swirling around her as she walked across the 
habisphere, flanked by Michael Tolland. Corky and Ming followed close behind. 
You okay? Tolland asked, watching her. 
Rachel glanced over, giving a weak smile. Thanks. Its justso much. 
Her mind reeled back to the infamous 1996 NASA discoveryALH84001a 
Mars meteorite that NASA claimed contained fossil traces of bacterial life. Sadly, 
only weeks after NASAs triumphant press conference, several civilian scientists 
stepped forward with proof that the rocks signs of life were really nothing more 
than kerogen produced by terrestrial contamination. NASAs credibility had taken 
a huge hit over that gaffe. The New York Times took the opportunity to 
sarcastically redefine the agencys acronym: NASANOT ALWAYS 
SCIENTIFICALLY ACCURATE. 
In that same edition, paleobiologist Stephen Jay Gould summed up the problems 

with ALH84001 by pointing out that the evidence in it was chemical and 
inferential, rather than solid, like an unambiguous bone or shell. 
Now, however, Rachel realized NASA had found irrefutable proof. No skeptical 
scientist could possibly step forward and question these fossils. NASA was no 
longer touting blurry, enlarged photos of alleged microscopic bacteriathey were 
offering up real meteorite samples where bio-organisms visible to the naked eye 
had been embedded in the stone. Foot-long lice! 
Rachel had to laugh when she realized shed been a childhood fan of a song by 
David Bowie that referred to spiders from Mars. Few would have guessed how 
close the androgynous British pop star would come to foreseeing astrobiologys 
greatest moment. 
As the distant strains of the song ran through Rachels mind, Corky hurried up 
behind her. Has Mike bragged about his documentary yet? 
Rachel replied, No, but Id love to hear about it. 
Corky slapped Tolland on the back. Go for it, big boy. Tell her why the President 
decided that the most important moment in science history should be handed over 
to a snorkeling TV star. 
Tolland groaned. Corky, if you dont mind? 
Fine, Ill explain, Corky said, prying his way in between them. As you 
probably know, Ms. Sexton, the President will be giving a press conference 
tonight to tell the world about the meteorite. Because the vast majority of the 
world is made up of half-wits, the President asked Mike to come onboard and 
dumb everything down for them. 
Thanks, Corky, Tolland said. Very nice. He looked at Rachel. What Corkys 
trying to say is that because theres so much scientific data to convey, the 
President thought a short visual documentary about the meteorite might help make 
the information more accessible to mainstream America, many of whom, oddly, 

dont have advanced degrees in astrophysics. 
Did you know, Corky said to Rachel, that Ive just learned our nations 
President is a closet fan of Amazing Seas? He shook his head in mock disgust. 
Zach Herneythe ruler of the free worldhas his secretary tape Mikes program 
so he can decompress after a long day. 
Tolland shrugged. The mans got taste, what can I say? 
Rachel was now starting to realize just how masterful the Presidents plan was . 
Politics was a media game, and Rachel could already imagine the enthusiasm and 
scientific credibility the face of Michael Tolland on-screen would bring to the 
press conference. Zach Herney had recruited the ideal man to endorse his little 
NASA coup. Skeptics would be hard-pressed to challenge the Presidents data if it 
came from the nations top television science personality as well as several 
respected civilian scientists. 
Corky said, Mikes already taken video depositions from all of us civilians for his 
documentary, as well as from most of the top NASA specialists. And Ill bet my 
National Medal that youre next on his list. 
Rachel turned and eyed him. Me? What are you talking about? I have no 
credentials. Im an intelligence liaison. 
Then why did the President send you up here? 
He hasnt told me yet. 
An amused grin crossed Corkys lips. Youre a White House intelligence liaison 
who deals in clarification and authentication of data, right? 
Yes, but nothing scientific. 
And youre the daughter of the man who built a campaign around criticizing the 
money NASA has wasted in space? 

Rachel could hear it coming. 
You have to admit, Ms. Sexton, Ming chimed in, a deposition from you would 
give this documentary a whole new dimension of credibility. If the President sent 
you up here, he must want you to participate somehow. 
Rachel again flashed on William Pickerings concern that she was being used. 
Tolland checked his watch. We should probably head over, he said, motioning 
toward the center of the habisphere. They should be getting close. 
Close to what? Rachel asked. 
Extraction time. NASA is bringing the meteorite to the surface. It should be up 
any time now. 
Rachel was stunned. You guys are actually removing an eight-ton rock from 
under two hundred feet of solid ice? 
Corky looked gleeful. You didnt think NASA was going to leave a discovery 
like this buried in the ice, did you? 
No, but, Rachel had seen no signs of large-scale excavation equipment 
anywhere inside the habisphere. How the heck is NASA planning on getting the 
meteorite out? 
Corky puffed up. No problem. Youre in a room full of rocket scientists! 
Blather, Ming scoffed, looking at Rachel. Dr. Marlinson enjoys flexing other 
peoples muscles. The truth is that everyone here was stumped about how to get 
the meteorite out. It was Dr. Mangor who proposed a viable solution. 
I havent met Dr. Mangor. 
Glaciologist from the University of New Hampshire, Tolland said. The fourth 

and final civilian scientist recruited by the President. And Ming here is correct, it 
was Mangor who figured it out. 
Okay, Rachel said. So what did this guy propose? 
Gal, Ming corrected, sounding smitten. Dr. Mangor is a woman. 
Debatable, Corky grumbled. He looked over at Rachel. And by the way, Dr. 
Mangor is going to hate you. 
Tolland shot Corky an angry look. 
Well, she will! Corky defended. Shell hate the competition. 
Rachel felt lost. Im sorry? Competition? 
Ignore him, Tolland said. Unfortunately, the fact that Corky is a total moron 
somehow escaped the National Science Committee. You and Dr. Mangor will get 
along fine. She is a professional. Shes considered one of the worlds top 
glaciologists. She actually moved to Antarctica for a few years to study glacial 
movement. 
Odd, Corky said, I heard UNH took up a donation and sent her there so they 
could get some peace and quiet on campus. 
Are you aware, Ming snapped, seeming to have taken the comment personally, 
that Dr. Mangor almost died down there! She got lost in a storm and lived on seal 
blubber for five weeks before anyone found her. 
Corky whispered to Rachel, I heard no one was looking. 

26 
The limousine ride back from the CNN studio to Sextons office felt long for 
Gabrielle Ashe. The senator sat across from her, gazing out the window, obviously 
gloating over the debate. 
They sent Tench to an afternoon cable show, he said, turning with a handsome 
smile. The White House is getting frantic. 
Gabrielle nodded, noncommittal. Shed sensed a look of smug satisfaction on 
Marjorie Tenchs face as the woman drove off. It made her nervous. 
Sextons personal cellphone rang, and he fished in his pocket to grab it. The 
senator, like most politicians, had a hierarchy of phone numbers at which his 
contacts could reach him, depending on how important they were. Whoever was 
calling him now was at the top of the list; the call was coming in on Sextons 
private line, a number even Gabrielle was discouraged to call. 
Senator Sedgewick Sexton, he chimed, accentuating the musical quality of his 
name. 
Gabrielle couldnt hear the caller over the sound of the limo, but Sexton listened 
intently, replying with enthusiasm. Fantastic. Im so pleased you called. Im 
thinking six oclock? Super. I have an apartment here in D.C. Private. 
Comfortable. You have the address, right? Okay. Looking forward to meeting you. 
See you tonight then. 
Sexton hung up, looking pleased with himself. 
New Sexton fan? Gabrielle asked. 
Theyre multiplying, he said. This guys a heavy hitter. 
Must be. Meeting him in your apartment? Sexton usually defended the 
sanctified privacy of his apartment like a lion protecting its only remaining hiding 

place. 
Sexton shrugged. Yeah. Thought Id give him the personal touch. This guy might 
have some pull in the home stretch. Got to keep making those personal 
connections, you know. Its all about trust. 
Gabrielle nodded, pulling out Sextons daily planner. You want me to put him in 
your calendar? 
No need. Id planned to take a night at home anyway. 
Gabrielle found tonights page and noticed it was already shaded out in Sextons 
handwriting with the bold letters P.E.Sexton shorthand for either personal 
event, private evening, or piss-off everyone; nobody was quite sure which. From 
time to time, the senator scheduled himself a P.E. night so he could hole up in 
his apartment, take his phones off the hook, and do what he enjoyed mostsip 
brandy with old cronies and pretend hed forgotten about politics for the evening. 
Gabrielle gave him a surprised look. So youre actually letting business intrude 
on prescheduled P.E. time? Im impressed. 
This guy happened to catch me on a night when Ive got some time. Ill talk to 
him for a little while. See what he has to say. 
Gabrielle wanted to ask who this mystery caller was, but Sexton clearly was being 
intentionally vague. Gabrielle had learned when not to pry. 
As they turned off the beltway and headed back toward Sextons office building, 
Gabrielle glanced down again at the P.E. time blocked out in Sextons planner and 
had the strange sensation Sexton knew this call was coming. 

27 
The ice at the center of the NASA habisphere was dominated by an eighteen-foot 
tripod structure of composite scaffolding, which looked like a cross between an oil 
rig and an awkward model of the Eiffel Tower. Rachel studied the device, unable 
to fathom how it could be used to extract the enormous meteorite. 
Beneath the tower, several winches had been screwed into steel plates affixed to 
the ice with heavy bolts. Threaded through the winches, iron cables banked 
upward over a series of pulleys atop the tower. From there, the cables plunged 
vertically downward into narrow bore holes drilled in the ice. Several large NASA 
men took turns tightening the winches. With each new tightening, the cables 
slithered a few inches upward through the bore holes, as if the men were raising an 
anchor. 
Im clearly missing something, Rachel thought, as she and the others moved closer 
to the extraction site. The men seemed to be hoisting the meteorite directly 
through the ice. 
EVEN TENSION! DAMN IT! a womans voice screamed nearby, with all the 
grace of a chain saw. 
Rachel looked over to see a small woman in a bright yellow snowsuit smeared 
with grease. She had her back to Rachel, but even so, Rachel had no trouble 
guessing that she was in charge of this operation. Making notations on a clipboard, 
the woman stalked back and forth like a disgusted drillmaster. 
Dont tell me you ladies are tired! 
Corky called out, Hey, Norah, quit bossing those poor NASA boys and come flirt 
with me. 
The woman did not even turn around. Is that you, Marlinson? Id know that 
weenie little voice anywhere. Come back when you reach puberty. 

Corky turned to Rachel. Norah keeps us warm with her charm. 
I heard that, space boy, Dr. Mangor fired back, still making notes. And if 
youre checking out my ass, these snow pants add thirty pounds. 
No worries, Corky called. Its not your woolly-mammoth butt that drives me 
wild, its your winning personality. 
Bite me. 
Corky laughed again. I have great news, Norah. Looks like youre not the only 
woman the President recruited. 
No shit. He recruited you. 
Tolland took over. Norah? Have you got a minute to meet someone? 
At the sound of Tollands voice, Norah immediately stopped what she was doing 
and turned around. Her hardened demeanor dissolved instantly. Mike! She 
rushed over, beaming. Havent seen you in a few hours. 
Ive been editing the documentary. 
Hows my segment? 
You look brilliant and lovely. 
He used special effects, Corky said. 
Norah ignored the remark, glancing now at Rachel with a polite but standoffish 
smile. She looked back at Tolland. I hope youre not cheating on me, Mike. 
Tollands rugged face flushed slightly as he made introductions. Norah, Id like 
you to meet Rachel Sexton. Ms. Sexton works in the intelligence community and 
is here at the request of the President. Her father is Senator Sedgewick Sexton. 

The introduction brought a confused look to Norahs face. I wont even pretend 
to understand that one. Norah did not remove her gloves as she gave Rachels 
hand a half-hearted shake. Welcome to the top of the world. 
Rachel smiled. Thanks. She was surprised to see that Norah Mangor, despite the 
toughness of her voice, had a pleasant and impish countenance. Her pixie haircut 
was brown with streaks of gray, and her eyes were keen and sharptwo ice 
crystals. There was a steely confidence about her that Rachel liked. 
Norah, Tolland said. Have you got a minute to share what youre doing with 
Rachel? 
Norah arched her eyebrows. You two on a first-name basis already? My, my. 
Corky groaned. I told you, Mike. 
Norah Mangor showed Rachel around the base of the tower while Tolland and the 
others trailed behind, talking among themselves. 
See those boreholes in the ice under the tripod? Norah asked, pointing, her 
initial put-out tone softening now to one of rapt fervor for her work. 
Rachel nodded, gazing down at the holes in the ice. Each was about a foot in 
diameter and had a steel cable inserted into it. 
Those holes are left over from when we drilled core samples and took X rays of 
the meteorite. Now were using them as entry points to lower heavy-duty screw 
eyes down the empty shafts and screw them into the meteorite. After that, we 
dropped a couple hundred feet of braided cable down each hole, snagged the screw 
eyes with industrial hooks, and now were simply winching it up. Its taking these 
ladies several hours to get it to the surface, but its coming. 
Im not sure I follow, Rachel said. The meteorite is under thousands of tons of 

ice. How are you lifting it? 
Norah pointed to the top of the scaffolding where a narrow beam of pristine red 
light shone vertically downward toward the ice beneath the tripod. Rachel had 
seen it earlier and assumed it was simply some sort of visual indicatora pointer 
demarking the spot where the object was buried. 
Thats a gallium arsenide semiconductor laser, Norah said. 
Rachel looked more closely at the beam of light and now saw that it had actually 
melted a tiny hole in the ice and shone down into the depths. 
Very hot beam, Norah said. Were heating the meteorite as we lift. 
When Rachel grasped the simple brilliance of the womans plan, she was 
impressed. Norah had simply aimed the laser beam downward, melting through 
the ice until the beam hit the meteorite. The stone, being too dense to be melted by 
a laser, began absorbing the lasers heat, eventually getting warm enough to melt 
the ice around it. As the NASA men hoisted the hot meteorite, the heated rock, 
combined with the upward pressure, melted the surrounding ice, clearing a 
pathway to raise it to the surface. The melt water accumulating over the meteorite 
simply seeped back down around the edges of the stone to refill the shaft. 
Like a hot knife through a frozen stick of butter. 
Norah motioned to the NASA men on the winches. The generators cant handle 
this kind of strain, so Im using manpower to lift. 
Thats crap! one of the workers interjected. Shes using manpower because she 
likes to see us sweat! 
Relax, Norah fired back. You girls have been bitching for two days that youre 
cold . I cured that. Now keep pulling. 
The workers laughed. 

What are the pylons for? Rachel asked, pointing to several orange highway 
cones positioned around the tower at what appeared to be random locations. 
Rachel had seen similar cones dispersed around the dome. 
Critical glaciology tool, Norah said. We call them SHABAs. Thats short for 
step here and break ankle. She picked up one of the pylons to reveal a circular 
bore hole that plunged like a bottomless well into the depths of the glacier. Bad 
place to step. She replaced the pylon. We drilled holes all over the glacier for a 
structural continuity check. As in normal archeology, the number of years an 
object has been buried is indicated by how deep beneath the surface its found. 
The farther down one finds it, the longer its been there. So when an object is 
discovered under the ice, we can date that objects arrival by how much ice has 
accumulated on top of it. To make sure our core dating measurements are 
accurate, we check multiple areas of the ice sheet to confirm that the area is one 
solid slab and hasnt been disrupted by earthquake, fissuring, avalanche, what 
have you. 
So how does this glacier look? 
Flawless, Norah said. A perfect, solid slab. No fault lines or glacial turnover. 
This meteorite is what we call a static fall. Its been in the ice untouched and 
unaffected since it landed in 1716. 
Rachel did a double take. You know the exact year it fell? 
Norah looked surprised by the question. Hell, yes. Thats why they called me in. 
I read ice. She motioned to a nearby pile of cylindrical tubes of ice. Each looked 
like a translucent telephone pole and was marked with a bright orange tag. Those 
ice cores are a frozen geologic record. She led Rachel over to the tubes. If you 
look closely you can see individual layers in the ice. 
Rachel crouched down and could indeed see that the tube was made up of what 
appeared to be strata of ice with subtle differences in luminosity and clarity. The 
layers varied between paper thin to about a quarter of an inch thick. 

Each winter brings a heavy snowfall to the ice shelf, Norah said, and each 
spring brings a partial thaw. So we see a new compression layer every season. We 
simply start at the topthe most recent winterand count backward. 
Like counting rings on a tree. 
Its not quite that simple, Ms. Sexton. Remember, were measuring hundreds of 
feet of layerings. We need to read climatological markers to benchmark our 
workprecipitation records, airborne pollutants, that sort of thing. 
Tolland and the others joined them now. Tolland smiled at Rachel. She knows a 
lot about ice, doesnt she? 
Rachel felt oddly happy to see him. Yeah, shes amazing. 
And for the record, Tolland nodded, Dr. Mangors 1716 date is right on. NASA 
came up with the exact same year of impact well before we even got here. Dr. 
Mangor drilled her own cores, ran her own tests, and confirmed NASAs work. 
Rachel was impressed. 
And coincidentally, Norah said, 1716 is the exact year early explorers claimed 
to have seen a bright fire-ball in the sky over northern Canada. The meteor became 
known as the Jungersol Fall, after the name of the explorations leader. 
So, Corky added, the fact that the core dates and the historic record match is 
virtual proof that were looking at a fragment of the same meteorite that Jungersol 
recorded seeing in 1716. 
Dr. Mangor! one of the NASA workers called out Leader hasps are starting to 
show! 
Tours over, folks, Norah said. Moment of truth. She grabbed a folding chair, 
climbed up onto it, and shouted out at the top of her lungs. Surfacing in five 

minutes, everyone! 
All around the dome, like Pavlovian dogs responding to a dinner bell, the 
scientists dropped what they were doing and hurried toward the extraction zone. 
Norah Mangor put her hands on her hips and surveyed her domain. Okay, lets 
raise the Titanic. 
28 
Step aside! Norah hollered, moving through the growing crowd. The workers 
scattered. Norah took control, making a show of checking the cable tensions and 
alignments. 
Heave! one of the NASA men yelled. The men tightened their winches, and the 
cables ascended another six inches out of the hole. 
As the cables continued to move upward, Rachel felt the crowd inching forward in 
anticipation. Corky and Tolland were nearby, looking like kids at Christmas. On 
the far side of the hole, the hulking frame of NASA administrator Lawrence 
Ekstrom arrived, taking a position to watch the extraction. 
Hasps! one of the NASA men yelled. Leaders are showing! 
The steel cables rising through the boreholes changed from silver braid to yellow 
leader chains. 
Six more feet! Keep it steady! 
The group around the scaffolding fell into a rapt silence, like onlookers at a sance 
awaiting the appearance of some divine spectereveryone straining for the first 

glimpse. 
Then Rachel saw it. 
Emerging from the thinning layer of ice, the hazy form of the meteorite began to 
show itself. The shadow was oblong and dark, blurry at first, but getting clearer 
every moment as it melted its way upward. 
Tighter! a technician yelled. The men tightened the winches, and the scaffolding 
creaked. 
Five more feet! Keep the tension even! 
Rachel could now see the ice above the stone beginning to bulge upward like a 
pregnant beast about to give birth. Atop the hump, surrounding the lasers point of 
entry, a small circle of surface ice began to give way, melting, dissolving into a 
widening hole. 
Cervix is dilated! someone shouted. Nine hundred centimeters! 
A tense laughter broke the silence. 
Okay, kill the laser! 
Someone threw a switch, and the beam disappeared. 
And then it happened. 
Like the fiery arrival of some paleolithic god, the huge rock broke the surface with 
a hiss of steam. Through the swirling fog, the hulking shape rose out of the ice. 
The men manning the winches strained harder until finally the entire stone broke 
free of the frozen restraints and swung, hot and dripping, over an open shaft of 
simmering water. 
Rachel felt mesmerized. 

Dangling there on its cables, dripping wet, the meteorites rugged surface 
glistened in the fluorescent lights, charred and rippled with the appearance of an 
enormous petrified prune. The rock was smooth and rounded on one end, this 
section apparently blasted away by friction as it streaked through the atmosphere. 
Looking at the charred fusion crust, Rachel could almost see the meteor rocketing 
earthward in a furious ball of flames. Incredibly, that was centuries ago. Now, the 
captured beast hung there on its cables, water dripping from its body. 
The hunt was over. 
Not until this moment had the drama of this event truly struck Rachel. The object 
hanging before her was from another world, millions of miles away. And trapped 
within it was evidenceno, proofthat man was not alone in the universe. 
The euphoria of the moment seemed to grip everyone at the same instant, and the 
crowd broke into spontaneous hoots and applause. Even the administrator seemed 
caught up in it. He clapped his men and women on the back, congratulating them. 
Looking on, Rachel felt a sudden joy for NASA. Theyd had some tough luck in 
the past. Finally things were changing. They deserved this moment. 
The gaping hole in the ice now looked like a small swimming pool in the middle 
of the habisphere. The surface of the two-hundred-foot-deep pool of melted water 
sloshed for a while against the icy walls of the shaft and then finally grew calm. 
The waterline in the shaft was a good four feet beneath the glaciers surface, the 
discrepancy caused by both the removal of the meteorites mass and ices property 
of shrinking as it melts. 
Norah Mangor immediately set up SHABA pylons all around the hole. Although 
the hole was clearly visible, any curious soul who ventured too close and 
accidentally slipped in would be in dire jeopardy. The walls of the shaft were solid 
ice, with no footholds, and climbing out unassisted would be impossible. 
Lawrence Ekstrom came padding across the ice toward them. He moved directly 

to Norah Mangor and shook her hand firmly. Well done, Dr. Mangor. 
Ill expect lots of praise in print, Norah replied. 
Youll get it. The administrator turned now to Rachel. He looked happier, 
relieved. So, Ms. Sexton, is the professional skeptic convinced? 
Rachel couldnt help but smile. Stunned is more like it. 
Good. Then follow me. 
Rachel followed the administrator across the habisphere to a large metal box that 
resembled an industrial shipping container. The box was painted with military 
camouflage patterns and stenciled letters: P-S-C. 
Youll call the President from in here, Ekstrom said. 
Portable Secure Comm, Rachel thought. These mobile communications booths 
were standard battlefield installations, although Rachel had never expected to see 
one used as part of a peacetime NASA mission. Then again, Administrator 
Ekstroms background was the Pentagon, so he certainly had access to toys like 
this. From the stern faces on the two armed guards watching over the PSC, Rachel 
got the distinct impression that contact with the outside world was made only with 
express consent from Administrator Ekstrom. 
Looks like Im not the only one who is off-the-grid. 
Ekstrom spoke briefly with one of the guards outside the trailer and then returned 
to Rachel. Good luck, he said. Then he left. 
A guard rapped on the trailer door, and it opened from within. A technician 
emerged and motioned for Rachel to enter. She followed him in. 

The inside of the PSC was dark and stuffy. In the bluish glow of the lone computer 
monitor, Rachel could make out racks of telephone gear, radios, and satellite 
telecommunications devices. She already felt claustrophobic. The air inside was 
bitter, like a basement in winter. 
Sit here, please, Ms. Sexton. The technician produced a rolling stool and 
positioned Rachel in front of a flat-screen monitor. He arranged a microphone in 
front of her and placed a bulky pair of AKG headphones on her head. Checking a 
logbook of encryption passwords, the technician typed a long series of keys on a 
nearby device. A timer materialized on the screen in front of Rachel. 
00:60 SECONDS 
The technician gave a satisfied nod as the timer began to count down. One 
minute until connection. He turned and left, slamming the door behind him. 
Rachel could hear the bolt lock outside. 
Great. 
As she waited in the dark, watching the sixty-second clock slowly count down, she 
realized that this was the first moment of privacy shed had since early that 
morning. Shed woken up today without the slightest inkling of what lay ahead. 
Extraterrestrial life. As of today, the most popular modern myth of all time was no 
longer a myth. 
Rachel was just now starting to sense how truly devastating this meteorite would 
be to her fathers campaign. Although NASA funding had no business being on a 
political par with abortion rights, welfare, and health care, her father had made it 
an issue. Now it was going to blow up in his face. 
Within hours, Americans would feel the thrill of a NASA triumph all over again. 
There would be teary-eyed dreamers. Slack-jawed scientists. Childrens 
imaginations running free. Issues of dollars and cents would fade away as petty, 
overshadowed by this monumental moment. The President would emerge like a 
phoenix, transforming himself into a hero, while in the midst of the celebration, 

the businesslike senator would suddenly appear small-minded, a penny-pinching 
Scrooge with no American sense of adventure. 
The computer beeped, and Rachel glanced up. 
00:05 SECONDS 
The screen in front of her flickered suddenly, and a blurry image of the White 
House seal materialized on-screen. After a moment, the image dissolved into the 
face of President Herney. 
Hello, Rachel, he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. I trust youve had an 
interesting afternoon? 
29 
The office of Senator Sedgewick Sexton was located in the Philip A. Hart Senate 
Office Building on C Street to the northeast of the Capitol. The building was a neomodern 
grid of white rectangles that critics claimed looked more like a prison than 
an office building. Many who worked there felt the same. 
On the third floor, Gabrielle Ashes long legs paced briskly back and forth in front 
of her computer terminal. On the screen was a new e-mail message. She was not 
sure what to make of it. 
The first two lines read: 
SEDGEWICK WAS IMPRESSIVE ON CNN. 
I HAVE MORE INFORMATION FOR YOU. 
Gabrielle had been receiving messages like this for the last couple of weeks. The 

return address was bogus, although shed been able to track it to a 
whitehouse.gov domain. It seemed her mysterious informant was a White House 
insider, and whoever it was had become Gabrielles source for all kinds of 
valuable political information recently, including the news of a covert meeting 
between the NASA administrator and the President. 
Gabrielle had been leery of the e-mails at first, but when she checked out the tips, 
she was amazed to find the information consistently accurate and 
helpfulclassified information on NASA overexpenditures, costly upcoming 
missions, data showing that NASAs search for extraterrestrial life was grossly 
overfunded and pathetically unproductive, even internal opinion polls warning that 
NASA was the issue turning voters away from the President. 
To enhance her perceived value to the senator, Gabrielle had not informed him she 
was receiving unsolicited e-mail help from inside the White House. Instead, she 
simply passed the information to him as coming from one of her sources. Sexton 
was always appreciative and seemed to know better than to ask who her source 
was. She could tell he suspected Gabrielle was doing sexual favors. Troublingly, it 
didnt seem to bother him in the least. 
Gabrielle stopped pacing and looked again at the newly arrived message. The 
connotations of all the e-mails were clear: Someone inside the White House 
wanted Senator Sexton to win this election and was helping him do it by aiding his 
attack against NASA. 
But who? And why? 
A rat from a sinking ship, Gabrielle decided. In Washington it was not at all 
uncommon for a White House employee, fearing his President was about to be 
ousted from office, to offer quiet favors to the apparent successor in hopes of 
securing power or another position after the changeover. It seemed someone 
smelled Sexton victory and was buying stock early. 
The message currently on Gabrielles screen made her nervous. It was like none 
other she had ever received. The first two lines didnt bother her so much. It was 

the last two: 
EAST APPOINTMENT GATE, 4:30 P.M. 
COME ALONE. 
Her informant had never before asked to meet in person. Even so, Gabrielle would 
have expected a more subtle location for a face-to-face meeting. East Appointment 
Gate? Only one East Appointment Gate existed in Washington, as far as she knew. 
Outside the White House? Is this some kind of joke? 
Gabrielle knew she could not respond via e-mail; her messages were always 
bounced back as undeliverable. Her correspondents account was anonymous. Not 
surprising. 
Should I consult Sexton? She quickly decided against it. He was in a meeting. 
Besides, if she told him about this e-mail, shed have to tell him about the others. 
She decided her informants offer to meet in public in broad daylight must be to 
make Gabrielle feel safe. After all, this person had done nothing but help her for 
the last two weeks. He or she was obviously a friend. 
Reading the e-mail one last time, Gabrielle checked the clock. She had an hour. 
30 
The NASA administrator was feeling less edgy now that the meteorite was 
successfully out of the ice. Everything is falling into place, he told himself as he 
headed across the dome to the work area of Michael Tolland. Nothing can stop us 
now. 
Hows it coming? Ekstrom asked, striding up behind the television scientist. 

Tolland glanced up from his computer, looking tired but enthusiastic. Editing is 
almost done. Im just overlaying some of the extraction footage your people shot. 
Should be done momentarily. 
Good. The President had asked Ekstrom to upload Tollands documentary to the 
White House as soon as possible. 
Although Ekstrom had been cynical about the Presidents desire to use Michael 
Tolland on this project, seeing the rough cuts of Tollands documentary had 
changed Ekstroms mind. The television stars spirited narrative, combined with 
his interviews of the civilian scientists, had been brilliantly fused into a thrilling 
and comprehensible fifteen minutes of scientific programming. Tolland had 
achieved effortlessly what NASA so often failed to dodescribe a scientific 
discovery at the level of the average American intellect without being patronizing. 
When youre done editing, Ekstrom said, bring the finished product over to the 
press area. Ill have someone upload a digital copy to the White House. 
Yes, sir. Tolland went back to work. 
Ekstrom moved on. When he arrived at the north wall, he was encouraged to find 
the habispheres press area had come together nicely. A large blue carpet had 
been rolled out on the ice. Centered on the rug sat a long symposium table with 
several microphones, a NASA drape, and an enormous American flag as a 
backdrop. To complete the visual drama, the meteorite had been transported on a 
palette sled to its position of honor, directly in front of the symposium table. 
Ekstrom was pleased to see the mood in the press area was one of celebration. 
Much of his staff was now crowded around the meteorite, holding their hands out 
over its still-warm mass like campers around a campfire. 
Ekstrom decided that this was the moment. He walked over to several cardboard 
boxes sitting on the ice behind the press area. Hed had the boxes flown in from 
Greenland this morning. 

Drinks are on me! he yelled, handing out cans of beer to his cavorting staff. 
Hey, boss! someone yelled. Thanks! Its even cold! 
Ekstrom gave a rare smile. Ive been keeping it on ice. 
Everyone laughed. 
Wait a minute! someone else yelled, scowling good-naturedly at his can. This 
stuffs Canadian! Wheres your patriotism? 
Were on a budget, here, folks. Cheapest stuff I could find. 
More laughter. 
Attention shoppers, one of the NASA television crew yelled into a megaphone. 
Were about to switch to media lighting. You may experience temporary 
blindness. 
And no kissing in the dark, someone yelled. This is a family program! 
Ekstrom chuckled, enjoying the raillery as his crew made final adjustments to the 
spotlights and accent lighting. 
Switching to media lighting in five, four, three, two 
The domes interior dimmed rapidly as the halogen lamps shut down. Within 
seconds, all the lights were off. An impenetrable darkness engulfed the dome. 
Someone let out a mock scream. 
Who pinched my ass? someone yelled, laughing. 
The blackness lasted only a moment before it was pierced by the intense glare of 
media spotlights. Everyone squinted. The transformation was now complete; the 

north quadrant of the NASA habisphere had become a television studio. The 
remainder of the dome now looked like a gaping barn at night. The only light in 
the other sections was the muted reflection of the media lights reflecting off the 
arched ceiling and throwing long shadows across the now deserted work stations. 
Ekstrom stepped back into the shadows, gratified to see his team carousing around 
the illuminated meteorite. He felt like a father at Christmas, watching his kids 
enjoy themselves around the tree. 
God knows they deserve it, Ekstrom thought, never suspecting what calamity lay 
ahead. 
31 
The weather was changing. 
Like a mournful harbinger of impending conflict, the katabatic wind let out a 
plaintive howl and gusted hard against the Delta Forces shelter. Delta-One 
finished battening down the storm coverings and went back inside to his two 
partners. Theyd been through this before. It would soon pass. 
Delta-Two was staring at the live video feed from the microbot. You better look 
at this, he said. 
Delta-One came over. The inside of the habisphere was in total darkness except 
for the bright lighting on the north side of the dome near the stage. The remainder 
of the habisphere appeared only as a dim outline. Its nothing, he said. Theyre 
just testing their television lighting for tonight. 
The lightings not the problem. Delta-Two pointed to the dark blob in the 
middle of the icethe water-filled hole from which the meteorite had been 

extracted. Thats the problem. 
Delta-One looked at the hole. It was still surrounded by pylons, and the surface of 
the water appeared calm. I dont see anything. 
Look again. He maneuvered the joystick, spiraling the microbot down toward 
the surface of the hole. 
As Delta-One studied the darkened pool of melted water more closely, he saw 
something that caused him to recoil in shock. What the? 
Delta-Three came over and looked. He too looked stunned. My God. Is that the 
extraction pit? Is the water supposed to be doing that? 
No, Delta-One said. It sure as hell isnt. 
32 
Although Rachel Sexton was currently sitting inside a large metal box situated 
three thousand miles from Washington, D.C., she felt the same pressure as if shed 
been summoned to the White House. The videophone monitor before her 
displayed a crystal clear image of President Zach Herney seated in the White 
House communications room before the presidential seal. The digital audio 
connection was flawless, and with the exception of an almost imperceptible delay, 
the man could have been in the next room. 
Their conversation was upbeat and direct. The President seemed pleased, though 
not at all surprised, by Rachels favorable assessment of NASAs find and of his 
choice to use Michael Tollands captivating persona as a spokesman. The 
Presidents mood was good-natured and jocular. 

As Im sure you will agree, Herney said, his voice growing more serious now, 
in a perfect world, the ramifications of this discovery would be purely scientific 
in nature. He paused, leaning forward, his face filling the screen. Unfortunately, 
we dont live in a perfect world, and this NASA triumph is going to be a political 
football the moment I announce it. 
Considering the conclusive proof and who youve recruited for endorsements, I 
cant imagine how the public or any of your opposition will be able to do anything 
other than accept this discovery as confirmed fact. 
Herney gave an almost sad chuckle. My political opponents will believe what 
they see, Rachel. My concerns are that they wont like what they see. 
Rachel noted how careful the President was being not to mention her father. He 
spoke only in terms of the opposition or political opponents. And you think 
your opposition will cry conspiracy simply for political reasons? she asked. 
That is the nature of the game. All anyone needs to do is cast a faint doubt, 
saying that this discovery is some kind of political fraud concocted by NASA and 
the White House, and all of a sudden, Im facing an inquiry. The newspapers 
forget NASA has found proof of extraterrestrial life, and the media starts focusing 
on uncovering evidence of a conspiracy. Sadly, any innuendo of conspiracy with 
respect to this discovery will be bad for science, bad for the White House, bad for 
NASA, and, quite frankly, bad for the country. 
Which is why you postponed announcing until you had full confirmation and 
some reputable civilian endorsements. 
My goal is to present this data in so incontrovertible a way that any cynicism is 
nipped in the bud. I want this discovery celebrated with the untainted dignity it 
deserves. NASA merits no less. 
Rachels intuition was tingling now. What does he want from me? 
Obviously, he continued, youre in a unique position to help me. Your 

experience as an analyst as well as your obvious ties to my opponent give you 
enormous credibility with respect to this discovery. 
Rachel felt a growing disillusionment. He wants to use mejust like Pickering 
said he would! 
That said, Herney continued, I would like to ask that you endorse this 
discovery personally, for the record, as my White House intelligence liaisonand 
as the daughter of my opponent. 
There it was. On the table. 
Herney wants me to endorse. 
Rachel really had thought Zach Herney was above this kind of spiteful politics. A 
public endorsement from Rachel would immediately make the meteorite a 
personal issue for her father, leaving the senator unable to attack the discoverys 
credibility without attacking the credibility of his own daughtera death sentence 
for a families first candidate. 
Frankly, sir, Rachel said, looking into the monitor, Im stunned you would ask 
me to do that. 
The President looked taken aback. I thought you would be excited to help out. 
Excited? Sir, my differences with my father aside, this request puts me in an 
impossible position. I have enough problems with my father without going head-tohead 
with him in some kind of public death match. Despite my admitted dislike of 
the man, he is my father, and pitting me against him in a public forum frankly 
seems beneath you. 
Hold on! Herney waved his hands in surrender. 
Who said anything about a public forum? 

Rachel paused. I assume youd like me to join the administrator of NASA on the 
podium for the eight oclock press conference. 
Herneys guffaw boomed in the audio speakers. Rachel, what kind of man do you 
think I am? Do you really imagine Id ask someone to stab her father in the back 
on national television? 
But, you said 
And do you think I would make the NASA administrator share the limelight with 
the daughter of his arch enemy? Not to burst your bubble, Rachel, but this press 
conference is a scientific presentation. Im not sure your knowledge of meteorites, 
fossils, or ice structures would lend the event much credibility. 
Rachel felt herself flush. But thenwhat endorsement did you have in mind? 
One more appropriate to your position. 
Sir? 
You are my White House intelligence liaison. You brief my staff on issues of 
national importance. 
You want me to endorse this for your staff? 
Herney still looked amused by the misunderstanding. Yes, I do. The skepticism 
Ill face outside the White House is nothing compared to what Im facing from my 
staff right now. Were in the midst of a full-scale mutiny here. My credibility inhouse 
is shot. My staff has begged me to cut back NASA funding. Ive ignored 
them, and its been political suicide. 
Until now. 
Exactly. As we discussed this morning, this discoverys timing will seem suspect 
to political cynics, and nobodys as cynical as my staff is at the moment. 

Therefore, when they hear this information for the first time, I want it to come 
from 
You havent told your staff about the meteorite? 
Only a few top advisers. Keeping this discovery a secret has been a top priority. 
Rachel was stunned. No wonder hes facing a mutiny. But this is not my usual 
area. A meteorite could hardly be considered an intelligence-related gist. 
Not in the traditional sense, but it certainly has all the elements of your usual 
workcomplex data that needs to be distilled, substantial political 
ramifications 
I am not a meteorite specialist, sir. Shouldnt your staff be briefed by the 
administrator of NASA? 
Are you kidding? Everyone here hates him. As far as my staff is concerned, 
Ekstrom is the snake-oil salesman who has lured me into bad deal after bad deal. 
Rachel could see the point. How about Corky Marlinson? The National Medal in 
Astrophysics? Hes got far more credibility than I do. 
My staff is made up of politicians, Rachel, not scientists. Youve met Dr. 
Marlinson. I think hes terrific, but if I let an astrophysicist loose on my team of 
left-brain, think-inside-the-box intellectuals, Ill end up with a herd of deer in the 
headlights. I need someone accessible. Youre the one, Rachel. My staff knows 
your work, and considering your family name, youre about as unbiased a 
spokesperson as my staff could hope to hear from. 
Rachel felt herself being pulled in by the Presidents affable style. At least you 
admit my being the daughter of your opponent has something to do with your 
request. 
The President gave a sheepish chuckle. Of course it does. But, as you can 

imagine, my staff will be briefed one way or another, no matter what you decide. 
You are not the cake, Rachel, you are simply the icing. You are the individual 
most qualified to do this briefing, and you also happen to be a close relative of the 
man who wants to kick my staff out of the White House next term. Youve got 
credibility on two accounts. 
You should be in sales. 
As a matter of fact, I am. As is your father. And to be honest, Id like to close a 
deal for a change. The President removed his glasses and looked into Rachels 
eyes. She felt a touch of her fathers power in him. I am asking you as a favor, 
Rachel, and also because I believe it is part of your job. So which is it? Yes or no? 
Will you brief my staff on this matter? 
Rachel felt trapped inside the tiny PSC trailer. Nothing like the hard sell. Even 
from three thousand miles away, Rachel could feel the strength of his will pressing 
through the video screen. She also knew this was a perfectly reasonable request, 
whether she liked it or not. 
Id have conditions, Rachel said. 
Herney arched his eyebrows. Being? 
I meet your staff in private. No reporters. This is a private briefing, not a public 
endorsement. 
You have my word. Your meeting is already slated for a very private location. 
Rachel sighed. All right then. 
The President beamed. Excellent. 
Rachel checked her watch, surprised to see it was already a little past four oclock. 
Hold on, she said, puzzled, if youre going live at eight P.M., we dont have 
time. Even in that vile contraption you sent me up here in, I couldnt get back to 

the White House for another couple of hours at the very fastest. Id have to prepare 
my remarks and 
The President shook his head. Im afraid I didnt make myself clear. Youll be 
doing the briefing from where you are via video conference. 
Oh. Rachel hesitated. What time did you have in mind? 
Actually, Herney said, grinning. How about right now? Everyone is already 
assembled, and theyre staring at a big blank television set. Theyre waiting for 
you. 
Rachels body tensed. Sir, Im totally unprepared. I cant possibly 
Just tell them the truth. How hard is that? 
But 
Rachel, the President said, leaning toward the screen. Remember, you compile 
and relay data for a living. Its what you do. Just talk about whats going on up 
there. He reached up to flick a switch on his video transmission gear, but paused. 
And I think youll be pleased to find Ive set you up in a position of power. 
Rachel didnt understand what he meant, but it was too late to ask. The President 
threw the switch. 
The screen in front of Rachel went blank for a moment. When it refreshed, Rachel 
was staring at one of the most unnerving images she had ever seen. Directly in 
front of her was the White House Oval Office. It was packed. Standing room only. 
The entire White House staff appeared to be there. And every one of them was 
staring at her. Rachel now realized her view was from atop the Presidents desk. 
Speaking from a position of power. Rachel was sweating already. 
From the looks on the faces of the White House staffers, they were as surprised to 

see Rachel as she was to see them. 
Ms. Sexton? a raspy voice called out. 
Rachel searched the sea of faces and found who had spoken. It was a lanky woman 
just now taking a seat in the front row. Marjorie Tench. The womans distinctive 
appearance was unmistakable, even in a crowd. 
Thank you for joining us, Ms. Sexton, Marjorie Tench said, sounding smug. 
The President tells us you have some news? 
33 
Enjoying the darkness, paleontologist Wailee Ming sat alone in quiet reflection at 
his private work area. His senses were alive with anticipation for tonights event. 
Soon I will be the most famous paleontologist in the world. He hoped Michael 
Tolland had been generous and featured Mings comments in the documentary. 
As Ming savored his impending fame, a faint vibration shuddered through the ice 
beneath his feet, causing him to jump up. His earthquake instinct from living in 
Los Angeles made him hypersensitive to even the faintest palpitations of the 
ground. At the moment, though, Ming felt foolish to realize the vibration was 
perfectly normal. Its just ice calving, he reminded himself, exhaling. He still 
hadnt gotten used to it. Every few hours, a distant explosion rumbled through the 
night as somewhere along the glacial frontier a huge block of ice cracked off and 
fell into the sea. Norah Mangor had a nice way of putting it. New icebergs being 
born 
On his feet now, Ming stretched his arms. He looked across the habisphere, and 
off in the distance beneath the blaze of television spotlights, he could see a 
celebration was getting underway. Ming was not much for parties and headed in 

the opposite direction across the habisphere. 
The labyrinth of deserted work areas now felt like a ghost town, the entire dome 
taking on an almost sepulchral feel. A chill seemed to have settled inside, and 
Ming buttoned up his long, camel-hair coat. 
Up ahead he saw the extraction shaftthe point from which the most magnificent 
fossils in all of human history had been taken. The giant metal tripod had now 
been stowed and the pool sat alone, surrounded by pylons like some kind of 
shunned pothole on a vast parking lot of ice. Ming wandered over to the pit, 
standing a safe distance back, peering into the two-hundred-foot-deep pool of 
frigid water. Soon it would refreeze, erasing all traces that anyone had ever been 
here. 
The pool of water was a beautiful sight, Ming thought. Even in the dark. 
Especially in the dark. 
Ming hesitated at the thought. Then it registered. 
Theres something wrong. 
As Ming focused more closely on the water, he felt his previous contentedness 
give way to a sudden whirlwind of confusion. He blinked his eyes, stared again, 
and then quickly turned his gaze across the domefifty yards away toward the 
mass of people celebrating in the press area. He knew they could not see him way 
over here in the dark. 
I should tell someone about this, shouldnt I? 
Ming looked again at the water, wondering what he would tell them. Was he 
seeing an optical illusion? Some kind of strange reflection? 
Uncertain, Ming stepped beyond the pylons and squatted down at the edge of the 
pit. The water level was four feet below the ice level, and he leaned down to get a 

better look. Yes, something was definitely strange. It was impossible to miss, and 
yet it had not become visible until the lights in the dome had gone out. 
Ming stood up. Somebody definitely needed to hear about this. He started off at a 
hurried pace toward the press area. Completing only a few steps, Ming slammed 
on the brakes. Good God! He spun back toward the hole, his eyes going wide with 
realization. It had just dawned on him. 
Impossible! he blurted aloud. 
And yet Ming knew that was the only explanation. Think, carefully, he cautioned. 
There must be a more reasonable rationale. But the harder Ming thought, the more 
convinced he was of what he was seeing. There is no other explanation! He could 
not believe that NASA and Corky Marlinson had somehow missed something this 
incredible, but Ming wasnt complaining. 
This is Wailee Mings discovery now! 
Trembling with excitement, Ming ran to a nearby work area and found a beaker. 
All he needed was a little water sample. Nobody was going to believe this! 
34 
As intelligence liaison to the White House, Rachel Sexton was saying, trying to 
keep her voice from shaking as she addressed the crowd on the screen before her, 
my duties include traveling to political hot spots around the globe, analyzing 
volatile situations, and reporting to the President and White House staff. 
A bead of sweat formed just below her hairline and Rachel dabbed it away, 
silently cursing the President for dropping this briefing into her lap with zero 
warning. 

Never before have my travels taken me to quite this exotic a spot. Rachel 
motioned stiffly to the cramped trailer around her. Believe it or not, I am 
addressing you right now from above the Arctic Circle on a sheet of ice that is 
over three hundred feet thick. 
Rachel sensed a bewildered anticipation in the faces on the screen before her. 
They obviously knew they had been packed into the Oval Office for a reason, but 
certainly none of them imagined it would have anything to do with a development 
above the Arctic Circle. 
The sweat was beading again. Get it together, Rachel. This is what you do. I sit 
before you tonight with great honor, pride, andabove all, excitement. 
Blank looks. 
Screw it, she thought, angrily wiping the sweat away. I didnt sign up for this. 
Rachel knew what her mother would say if she were here now: When in doubt, 
just spit it out! The old Yankee proverb embodied one of her moms basic 
beliefsthat all challenges can be overcome by speaking the truth, no matter how 
it comes out. 
Taking a deep breath, Rachel sat up tall and looked straight into the camera. 
Sorry, folks, if youre wondering how I could be sweating my butt off above the 
Arctic CircleIm a little nervous. 
The faces before her seemed to jolt back a moment. Some uneasy laughter. 
In addition, Rachel said, your boss gave me about ten seconds warning before 
telling me I would be facing his entire staff. This baptism by fire is not exactly 
what I had in mind for my first visit to the Oval Office. 
More laughter this time. 
And, she said, glancing down at the bottom of the screen, I had certainly not 

imagined I would be sitting at the Presidents deskmuch less on it! 
This brought a hearty laugh and some broad smiles. Rachel felt her muscles 
starting to relax. Just give it to them straight. 
Heres the situation. Rachels voice now sounded like her own. Easy and clear. 
President Herney has been absent from the media spotlight this past week not 
because of his lack of interest in his campaign, but rather because he has been 
engrossed in another matter. One he felt was far more important. 
Rachel paused, her eyes making contact now with her audience. 
There has been a scientific discovery made in a location called the Milne Ice 
Shelf in the high Arctic. The President will be informing the world about it in a 
press conference tonight at eight oclock. The find was made by a group of 
hardworking Americans who have endured a string of tough luck lately and 
deserve a break. Im talking about NASA. You can be proud to know that your 
President, with apparent clairvoyant confidence, has made a point of standing 
beside NASA lately through thick and thin. Now, it appears his loyalty is going to 
be rewarded. 
It was not until that very instant that Rachel realized how historically momentous 
this was. A tightness rose in her throat, and she fought it off, plowing onward. 
As an intelligence officer who specializes in the analysis and verification of data, 
I am one of several people the President has called upon to examine the NASA 
data. I have examined it personally as well as conferring with several 
specialistsboth government and civilianmen and women whose credentials 
are beyond reproach and whose stature is beyond political influence. It is my 
professional opinion that the data I am about to present to you is factual in its 
origins and unbiased in its presentation. Moreover, it is my personal opinion that 
the President, in good faith to his office and the American people, has shown 
admirable care and restraint in delaying an announcement I know he would have 
loved to have made last week. 

Rachel watched the crowd before her exchanging puzzled looks. They all returned 
their gaze to her, and she knew she had their undivided attention. 
Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to hear what Im sure you will agree is one 
of the most exciting pieces of information ever revealed in this office. 
35 
The aerial view currently being transmitted to the Delta Force by the microbot 
circling inside the habisphere looked like something that would win an avantgarde 
film contestthe dim lighting, the glistening extraction hole, and the welldressed 
Asian lying on the ice, his camel-hair coat splayed around him like 
enormous wings. He was obviously trying to extract a water sample. 
Weve got to stop him, said Delta-Three. 
Delta-One agreed. The Milne Ice Shelf held secrets his team was authorized to 
protect with force. 
How do we stop him? Delta-Two challenged, still gripping the joystick. These 
microbots are not equipped. 
Delta-One scowled. The microbot currently hovering inside the habisphere was a 
recon model, stripped down for longer flight. It was about as lethal as a housefly. 
We should call the controller, Delta-Three stated. 
Delta-One stared intently at the image of the solitary Wailee Ming, perched 
precariously on the rim of the extraction pit. Nobody was anywhere near 
himand ice cold water had a way of muffling ones ability to scream. Give me 
the controls. 

What are you doing? the soldier on the joystick demanded. 
What we were trained to do, Delta-One snapped, taking over. Improvise. 
36 
Wailee Ming lay on his stomach beside the extraction hole, his right arm extended 
over the rim trying to extract a water sample. His eyes were definitely not playing 
tricks on him; his face, now only a yard or so from the water, could see everything 
perfectly. 
This is incredible! 
Straining harder, Ming maneuvered the beaker in his fingers, trying to reach down 
to the surface of the water. All he needed was another few inches. 
Unable to extend his arm any farther, Ming repositioned himself closer to the hole. 
He pressed the toes of his boots against the ice and firmly replanted his left hand 
on the rim. Again, he extended his right arm as far as he could. Almost. He shifted 
a little closer. Yes! The edge of the beaker broke the surface of the water. As the 
liquid flowed into the container, Ming stared in disbelief. 
Then, without warning, something utterly inexplicable occurred. Out of the 
darkness, like a bullet from a gun, flew a tiny speck of metal. Ming only saw it for 
a fraction of a second before it smashed into his right eye. 
The human instinct to protect ones eyes was so innately ingrained, that despite 
Mings brain telling him that any sudden movements risked his balance, he 
recoiled. It was a jolting reaction more out of surprise than pain. Mings left hand, 
closest to his face, shot up reflexively to protect the assaulted eyeball. Even as his 
hand was in motion, Ming knew he had made a mistake. With all of his weight 

leaning forward, and his only means of support suddenly gone, Wailee Ming 
teetered. He recovered too late. Dropping the beaker and trying to grab on to the 
slick ice to stop his fall, he slippedplummeting forward into the darkened hole. 
The fall was only four feet, and yet as Ming hit the icy water head first he felt like 
his face had hit pavement at fifty miles an hour. The liquid that engulfed his face 
was so cold it felt like burning acid. It brought an instantaneous spike of panic. 
Upside down and in the darkness, Ming was momentarily disoriented, not 
knowing which way to turn toward the surface. His heavy camel-hair coat kept the 
icy blast from his bodybut only for a second or two. Finally righting himself, 
Ming came sputtering up for air, just as the water found its way to his back and 
chest, engulfing his body in a lung-crushing vise of cold. 
Heelp, he gasped, but Ming could barely pull in enough air to let out a 
whimper. He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. 
Heeelp! His cries were inaudible even to himself. Ming clambered toward the 
side of the extraction pit and tried to pull himself out. The wall before him was 
vertical ice. Nothing to grab. Underwater, his boots kicked the side of the wall, 
searching for a foothold. Nothing. He strained upward, reaching for the rim. It was 
only a foot out of reach. 
Mings muscles were already having trouble responding. He kicked his legs 
harder, trying to propel himself high enough up the wall to grab the rim. His body 
felt like lead, and his lungs seemed to have shrunk to nothing, as if they were 
being crushed by a python. His water-laden coat was getting heavier by the 
second, pulling him downward. Ming tried to pull it off his body, but the heavy 
fabric stuck. 
Helpme! 
The fear came on in torrents now. 
Drowning, Ming had once read, was the most horrific death imaginable. He had 

never dreamed he would find himself on the verge of experiencing it. His muscles 
refused to cooperate with his mind, and already he was fighting just to keep his 
head above water. His soggy clothing pulled him downward as his numb fingers 
scratched the sides of the pit. 
His screams were only in his mind now. 
And then it happened. 
Ming went under. The sheer terror of being conscious of his own impending death 
was something he never imagined he would experience. And yet here he 
wassinking slowly down the sheer ice wall of a two-hundred-foot-deep hole in 
the ice. Multitudes of thoughts flashed before his eyes. Moments from his 
childhood. His career. He wondered if anyone would find him down here. Or 
would he simply sink to the bottom and freeze thereentombed in the glacier for 
all time. 
Mings lungs were screaming for oxygen. He held his breath, still trying to kick 
toward the surface. Breathe! He fought the reflex, clamping his insensate lips 
together. Breathe! He tried in vain to swim upward. Breathe! At that instant, in a 
deadly battle of human reflex against reason, Mings breathing instinct overcame 
his ability to keep his mouth closed. 
Wailee Ming inhaled. 
The water crashing into his lungs felt like scalding oil on his sensitive pulmonary 
tissue. He felt like he was burning from the inside out. Cruelly, water does not kill 
immediately. Ming spent seven horrifying seconds inhaling in the icy water, each 
breath more painful than the last, each inhalation offering none of what his body 
so desperately craved. 
Finally, as Ming slid downward into the icy darkness, he felt himself going 
unconscious. He welcomed the escape. All around him in the water Ming saw tiny 
glowing specks of light. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

37 
The East Appointment Gate of the White House is located on East Executive 
Avenue between the Treasury Department and the East Lawn. The reinforced 
perimeter fence and cement bollards installed after the attack on the Marine 
barracks in Beirut give this entry an air that is anything but welcoming. 
Outside the gate, Gabrielle Ashe checked her watch, feeling a growing 
nervousness. It was 4:45 P.M., and still nobody had made contact. 
EAST APPOINTMENT GATE, 4:30 P.M. COME ALONE. 
Here I am, she thought. Where are you? 
Gabrielle scanned the faces of the tourists milling about, waiting for someone to 
catch her eye. A few men looked her over and moved on. Gabrielle was beginning 
to wonder if this had been such a good idea. She sensed the Secret Serviceman in 
the sentry shack had his eye on her now. Gabrielle decided her informant had 
gotten cold feet. Gazing one last time through the heavy fence toward the White 
House, Gabrielle sighed and turned to go. 
Gabrielle Ashe? the Secret Serviceman called out behind her. 
Gabrielle wheeled, her heart catching in her throat. Yes? 
The man in the guard shack waved her over. He was lean with a humorless face. 
Your party is ready to see you now. He unlocked the main gate and motioned 
for her to enter. 
Gabrielles feet refused to move. Im coming inside? 

The guard nodded. I was asked to apologize for keeping you waiting. 
Gabrielle looked at the open doorway and still could not move. Whats going on! 
This was not at all what she had expected. 
You are Gabrielle Ashe, are you not? the guard demanded, looking impatient 
now. 
Yes, sir, but 
Then I strongly suggest you follow me. 
Gabrielles feet jolted into motion. As she stepped tentatively over the threshold, 
the gate slammed shut behind her. 
38 
Two days without sunlight had rearranged Michael Tollands biological clock. 
Although his watch said it was late afternoon, Tollands body insisted it was the 
middle of the night. Now, having put the finishing touches on his documentary, 
Michael Tolland had downloaded the entire video file onto a digital video disk and 
was making his way across the darkened dome. Arriving at the illuminated press 
area, he delivered the disk to the NASA media technician in charge of overseeing 
the presentation. 
Thanks, Mike, the technician said, winking as he held up the video disk. Kind 
of redefines must-see TV, eh? 
Tolland gave a tired chuckle. I hope the President likes it. 
No doubt. Anyhow, your work is done. Sit back and enjoy the show. 

Thanks. Tolland stood in the brightly lit press area and surveyed the convivial 
NASA personnel toasting the meteorite with cans of Canadian beer. Even though 
Tolland wanted to celebrate, he felt exhausted, emotionally drained. He glanced 
around for Rachel Sexton, but apparently she was still talking to the President. 
He wants to put her on-air, Tolland thought. Not that he blamed him; Rachel 
would be a perfect addition to the cast of meteorite spokespeople. In addition to 
her good looks, Rachel exuded an accessible poise and self-confidence that 
Tolland seldom saw in the women he met. Then again, most of the women 
Tolland met were in televisioneither ruthless power women or gorgeous on-air 
personalities who lacked exactly that. 
Now, slipping quietly away from the crowd of bustling NASA employees, Tolland 
navigated the web of pathways across the dome, wondering where the other 
civilian scientists had disappeared to. If they felt half as drained as he did, they 
should be in the bunking area grabbing a catnap before the big moment. Ahead of 
him in the distance, Tolland could see the circle of SHABA pylons around the 
deserted extraction pit. The empty dome overhead seemed to echo with the hollow 
voices of distant memories. Tolland tried to block them out. 
Forget the ghosts, he willed himself. They often haunted him at times like these, 
when he was tired or alonetimes of personal triumph or celebration. She should 
be with you right now, the voice whispered. Alone in the darkness, he felt himself 
reeling backward into oblivion. 
Celia Birch had been his sweetheart in graduate school. One Valentines Day, 
Tolland took her to her favorite restaurant. When the waiter brought Celias 
dessert, it was a single rose and a diamond ring. Celia understood immediately. 
With tears in her eyes, she spoke a single word that made Michael Tolland as 
happy as hed ever been. 
Yes. 
Filled with anticipation, they bought a small house near Pasadena, where Celia got 

a job as a science teacher. Although the pay was modest, it was a start, and it was 
also close to Scripps Institute of Oceanography in San Diego, where Tolland had 
landed his dream job aboard a geologic research ship. Tollands work meant he 
was away for three or four days at a time, but his reunions with Celia were always 
passionate and exciting. 
While at sea, Tolland began videotaping some of his adventures for Celia, making 
minidocumentaries of his work onboard the ship. After one trip, he returned with a 
grainy home video that hed shot out of the window of a deepwater 
submersiblethe first footage ever shot of a bizarre chemotropic cuttlefish that 
nobody even knew existed. On camera, as he narrated the video, Tolland was 
practically bursting out of the submarine with enthusiasm. 
Literally thousands of undiscovered species, he gushed, live in these depths! 
Weve barely scratched the surface! There are mysteries down here that none of us 
can imagine! 
Celia was enthralled with her husbands ebullience and concise scientific 
explanation. On a whim, she showed the tape to her science class, and it became 
an instant hit. Other teachers wanted to borrow it. Parents wanted to make copies. 
It seemed everyone was eagerly awaiting Michaels next installment. Celia 
suddenly had an idea. She called a college friend of hers who worked for NBC and 
sent her a videotape. 
Two months later, Michael Tolland came to Celia and asked her to take a walk 
with him on Kingman Beach. It was their special place, where they always went to 
share their hopes and dreams. 
I have something I want to tell you, Tolland said. 
Celia stopped, taking her husbands hands as the water lapped around their feet. 
What is it? 
Tolland was bursting. Last week, I got a call from NBC television. They think I 
should host an oceanic documentary series. Its perfect. They want to make a pilot 

next year! Can you believe it? 
Celia kissed him, beaming. I believe it. Youll be great. 
Six months later, Celia and Tolland were sailing near Catalina when Celia began 
complaining of pain in her side. They ignored it for a few weeks, but finally it got 
too much. Celia went in to have it checked out. 
In an instant, Tollands dream life shattered into a hellish nightmare. Celia was ill. 
Very ill. 
Advanced stages of lymphoma, the doctors explained. Rare in people her age, 
but certainly not unheard of. 
Celia and Tolland visited countless clinics and hospitals, consulting with 
specialists. The answer was always the same. Incurable. 
I will not accept that! Tolland immediately quit his job at Scripps Institute, forgot 
all about the NBC documentary, and focused all of his energy and love on helping 
Celia get well. She fought hard too, bearing the pain with a grace that only made 
him love her more. He took her for long walks on Kingman Beach, made her 
healthy meals, and told her stories of the things they would do when she got better. 
But it was not to be. 
Only seven months had passed when Michael Tolland found himself sitting beside 
his dying wife in a stark hospital ward. He no longer recognized her face. The 
savageness of the cancer was rivaled only by the brutality of the chemotherapy. 
She was left a ravaged skeleton. The final hours were the hardest. 
Michael, she said, her voice raspy. Its time to let go. 
I cant. Tollands eyes welled. 
Youre a survivor, Celia said. You have to be. Promise me youll find another 

love. 
Ill never want another. Tolland meant it. 
Youll have to learn. 
Celia died on a crystal clear Sunday morning in June. Michael Tolland felt like a 
ship torn from its moorings and thrown adrift in a raging sea, his compass 
smashed. For weeks he spun out of control. Friends tried to help, but his pride 
could not bear their pity. 
You have a choice to make, he finally realized. Work or die. 
Hardening his resolve, Tolland threw himself back into Amazing Seas. The 
program quite literally saved his life. In the four years that followed, Tollands 
show took off. Despite the matchmaking efforts of his friends, Tolland endured 
only a handful of dates. All were fiascos or mutual disappointments, so Tolland 
finally gave up and blamed his busy travel schedule for his lack of social life. His 
best friends knew better, though; Michael Tolland simply was not ready. 
The meteorite extraction pit loomed before Tolland now, pulling him from his 
painful reverie. He shook off the chill of his memories and approached the 
opening. In the darkened dome, the melt water in the hole had taken on an almost 
surreal and magical beauty. The surface of the pool was shimmering like a moonlit 
pond. Tollands eyes were drawn to specks of light on the top layer of the water, 
as if someone had sprinkled blue-green sparkles onto the surface. He stared a long 
moment at the shimmering. 
Something about it seemed peculiar. 
At first glance, he thought the gleaming water was simply reflecting the glow of 
the spotlights from across the dome. Now he saw this was not the case at all. The 
shimmers possessed a greenish tint and seemed to pulse in a rhythm, as if the 
surface of the water were alive, illuminating itself from within. 

Unsettled, Tolland stepped beyond the pylons for a closer look. 
Across the habisphere, Rachel Sexton exited the PSC trailer into darkness. She 
paused a moment, disoriented by the shadowy vault around her. The habisphere 
was now a gaping cavern, lit only by incidental effulgence radiating out from the 
stark media lights against the north wall. Unnerved by the darkness around her, 
she headed instinctively for the illuminated press area. 
Rachel felt pleased with the outcome of her briefing of the White House staff. 
Once shed recovered from the Presidents little stunt, shed smoothly conveyed 
everything she knew about the meteorite. As she spoke, she watched the 
expressions on the faces of the Presidents staff go from incredulous shock, to 
hopeful belief, and finally to awestruck acceptance. 
Extraterrestrial life? she had heard one of them exclaim. Do you know what 
that means? 
Yes, another replied. It means were going to win this election. 
As Rachel approached the dramatic press area, she imagined the impending 
announcement and couldnt help but wonder if her father really deserved the 
presidential steamroller that was about to blindside him, crushing his campaign in 
a single blow. 
The answer, of course, was yes. 
Whenever Rachel Sexton felt any soft spot for her father, all she had to do was 
remember her mother. Katherine Sexton. The pain and shame Sedgewick Sexton 
had brought on her was reprehensiblecoming home late every night, looking 
smug and smelling of perfume. The feigned religious zeal her father hid 
behindall the while lying and cheating, knowing Katherine would never leave 
him. 
Yes, she decided, Senator Sexton was about to get exactly what he deserved. 

The crowd in the press area was jovial. Everyone held beers. Rachel moved 
through the crowd feeling like a coed at a frat party. She wondered where Michael 
Tolland had gone. 
Corky Marlinson materialized beside her. Looking for Mike? 
Rachel startled. Wellnosort of. 
Corky shook his head in disgust. I knew it. Mike just left. I think he was headed 
back to go grab a few winks. Corky squinted across the dusky dome. Although 
it looks like you can still catch him. He gave her a puggish smile and pointed. 
Mike becomes mesmerized every time he sees water. 
Rachel followed Corkys outstretched finger toward the center of the dome, where 
the silhouette of Michael Tolland stood, gazing down into the water in the 
extraction pit. 
Whats he doing? she asked. Thats kind of dangerous over there. 
Corky grinned. Probably taking a leak. Lets go push him. 
Rachel and Corky crossed the darkened dome toward the extraction pit. As they 
drew close to Michael Tolland, Corky called out. 
Hey, aqua man! Forget your swimsuit? 
Tolland turned. Even in the dimness, Rachel could see his expression was 
uncharacteristically grave. His face looked oddly illuminated, as if he were being 
lit from below. 
Everything okay, Mike? she asked. 
Not exactly. Tolland pointed into the water. 
Corky stepped over the pylons and joined Tolland at the edge of the shaft. Corkys 

mood seemed to cool instantly when he looked in the water. Rachel joined them, 
stepping past the pylons to the edge of the pit. When she peered into the hole, she 
was surprised to see specks of blue-green light shimmering on the surface. Like 
neon dust particles floating in the water. They seemed to be pulsating green. The 
effect was beautiful. 
Tolland picked up a shard of ice off the glacial floor and tossed it into the water. 
The water phosphoresced at the point of impact, glowing with a sudden green 
splash. 
Mike, Corky said, looking uneasy, please tell me you know what that is. 
Tolland frowned. I know exactly what this is. My question is, what the hell is it 
doing here? 
39 
Weve got flagellates, Tolland said, staring into the luminescent water. 
Flatulence? Corky scowled. Speak for yourself. 
Rachel sensed Michael Tolland was in no joking mood. 
I dont know how it could have happened, Tolland said, but somehow this 
water contains bioluminescent dinoflagellates. 
Bioluminescent what? Rachel said . Speak English. 
Monocelled plankton capable of oxidizing a luminescent catalyst called 
luceferin. 

That was English? 
Tolland exhaled and turned to his friend. Corky, there any chance the meteorite 
we pulled out of that hole had living organisms on it? 
Corky burst out laughing. Mike, be serious! 
I am serious. 
No chance, Mike! Believe me, if NASA had any inkling whatsoever that there 
were extraterrestrial organisms living on that rock, you can be damn sure they 
never would have extracted it into the open air. 
Tolland looked only partially comforted, his relief apparently clouded by a deeper 
mystery. I cant be for sure without a microscope, Tolland said, but it looks to 
me like this is a bioluminescent plankton from the phylum Pyrrophyta . Its name 
means fire plant. The Arctic Ocean is filled with it. 
Corky shrugged. So whyd you ask if they were from space? 
Because, Tolland said, the meteorite was buried in glacial icefresh water 
from snowfalls. The water in that hole is glacial melt and has been frozen for three 
centuries. How could ocean creatures get in there? 
Tollands point brought a long silence. 
Rachel stood at the edge of the pool and tried to get her mind around what she was 
looking at. Bioluminescent plankton in the extraction shaft. What does it mean? 
Theres got to be a crack somewhere down there, Tolland said. Its the only 
explanation. The plankton must have entered the shaft through a fissure in the ice 
that allowed ocean water to seep in. 
Rachel didnt understand. Seep in? From where? She recalled her long IceRover 
ride in from the ocean. The coast is a good two miles from here. 

Both Corky and Tolland gave Rachel an odd look. Actually, Corky said, the 
ocean is directly underneath us. This slab of ice is floating. 
Rachel stared at the two men, feeling utterly perplexed. Floating? Butwere on 
a glacier. 
Yes, were on a glacier, Tolland said, but were not over land. Glaciers 
sometimes flow off a landmass and fan out over water. Because ice is lighter than 
water, the glacier simply continues to flow, floating out over the ocean like an 
enormous ice raft. Thats the definition of an ice shelfthe floating section of a 
glacier. He paused. Were actually almost a mile out to sea at the moment. 
Shocked, Rachel instantly became wary. As she adjusted her mental picture of her 
surroundings, the thought of standing over the Arctic Ocean brought with it a 
sense of fear. 
Tolland seemed to sense her uneasiness. He stamped his foot reassuringly on the 
ice. Dont worry. This ice is three hundred feet thick, with two hundred of those 
feet floating below the water like an ice cube in a glass. Makes the shelf very 
stable. You could build a skyscraper on this thing. 
Rachel gave a wan nod, not entirely convinced. The misgivings aside, she now 
understood Tollands theory about the origins of the plankton. He thinks theres a 
crack that goes all the way down to the ocean, allowing plankton to come up 
through it into the hole. It was feasible, Rachel decided, and yet it involved a 
paradox that bothered her. Norah Mangor had been very clear about the integrity 
of the glacier, having drilled dozens of test cores to confirm its solidity. 
Rachel looked at Tolland. I thought the glaciers perfection was the cornerstone 
of all the strata-dating records. Didnt Dr. Mangor say the glacier had no cracks or 
fissures? 
Corky frowned. Looks like the ice queen muffed it. 

Dont say that too loudly, Rachel thought, or youll get an ice pick in the back. 
Tolland stroked his chin as he watched the phosphorescing creatures. Theres 
literally no other explanation. There must be a crack. The weight of the ice shelf 
on top of the ocean must be pushing plankton-rich sea-water up into the hole. 
One hell of a crack, Rachel thought. If the ice here was three hundred feet thick 
and the hole was two hundred feet deep, then this hypothetical crack had to pass 
through a hundred feet of solid ice. Norah Mangors test cores showed no cracks. 
Do me a favor, Tolland said to Corky. Go find Norah. Lets hope to God she 
knows something about this glacier that shes not telling us. And find Ming, too, 
maybe he can tell us what these little glow-beasties are. 
Corky headed off. 
Better hurry, Tolland called after him, glancing back into the hole. I could 
swear this bioluminescence is fading. 
Rachel looked at the hole. Sure enough, the green was not so brilliant now. 
Tolland removed his parka and lay down on the ice next to the hole. 
Rachel watched, confused. Mike? 
I want to find out if theres any saltwater flowing in. 
By lying on the ice without a coat? 
Yup. Tolland crawled on his belly to the edge of the hole. Holding one sleeve of 
the coat over the edge, he let the other sleeve dangle down the shaft until the cuff 
skimmed the water. This is a highly accurate salinity test used by world-class 
oceanographers. Its called licking a wet jacket. 

Out on the ice shelf, Delta-One struggled with the controls, trying to keep the 
damaged microbot in flight over the group now assembled around the excavation 
pit. From the sounds of the conversation beneath, he knew things were unraveling 
fast. 
Call the controller, he said. Weve got a serious problem. 
40 
Gabrielle Ashe had taken the White House public tour many times in her youth, 
secretly dreaming of someday working inside the presidential mansion and 
becoming part of the elite team that charted the countrys future. At the moment, 
however, she would have preferred to be anywhere else in the world. 
As the Secret Serviceman from the East Gate led Gabrielle into an ornate foyer, 
she wondered what in the world her anonymous informant was trying to prove. 
Inviting Gabrielle into the White House was insane. What if Im seen? Gabrielle 
had become quite visible lately in the media as Senator Sextons right-hand aide. 
Certainly someone would recognize her. 
Ms. Ashe? 
Gabrielle looked up. A kind-faced sentry in the foyer gave her a welcoming smile. 
Look over there, please. He pointed. 
Gabrielle looked where he was pointing and was blinded by a flashbulb. 
Thank you, maam. The sentry led her to a desk and handed her a pen. Please 
sign the entry log. He pushed a heavy leather binder in front of her. 
Gabrielle looked at the log. The page before her was blank. She recalled hearing 

once that all White House visitors sign on their own blank page to preserve the 
privacy of their visit. She signed her name. 
So much for a secret meeting. 
Gabrielle walked through a metal detector, and was then given a cursory pat down. 
The sentry smiled. Enjoy your visit, Ms. Ashe. 
Gabrielle followed the Secret Serviceman fifty feet down a tiled hallway to a 
second security desk. Here, another sentry was assembling a guest pass that was 
just rolling out of a lamination machine. He punched a hole in it, affixed a neck 
cord, and slipped it over Gabrielles head. The plastic was still warm. The photo 
on the ID was the snapshot they had taken fifteen seconds earlier down the hall. 
Gabrielle was impressed. Who says government is inefficient? 
They continued, the Secret Serviceman leading her deeper into the White House 
complex. Gabrielle was feeling more uneasy with every step. Whoever had 
extended the mysterious invitation certainly was not concerned about keeping the 
meeting private. Gabrielle had been issued an official pass, signed the guest log, 
and was now being marched in plain view through the first floor of the White 
House where public tours were gathered. 
And this is the China Room, a tour guide was saying to a group of tourists, 
home of Nancy Reagans $952 per setting red-rimmed china that sparked a 
debate over conspicuous consumption back in 1981. 
The Secret Serviceman led Gabrielle past the tour toward a huge marble staircase, 
where another tour was ascending. You are about to enter the thirty-two-hundredsquare-
foot East Room, the guide was narrating, where Abigail Adams once 
hung John Adamss laundry. Then we will pass to the Red Room, where Dolley 
Madison liquored up visiting heads of state before James Madison negotiated with 
them. 

The tourists laughed. 
Gabrielle followed past the stairway through a series of ropes and barricades into a 
more private section of the building. Here they entered a room Gabrielle had only 
seen in books and on television. Her breath grew short. 
My God, this is the Map Room! 
No tour ever came in here. The rooms paneled walls could swing outward to 
reveal layer upon layer of world maps. This was the place where Roosevelt had 
charted the course of World War II. Unsettlingly, it was also the room from which 
Clinton had admitted his affair with Monica Lewinsky. Gabrielle pushed that 
particular thought from her mind. Most important, the Map Room was a 
passageway into the West Wingthe area inside the White House where the true 
powerbrokers worked. This was the last place Gabrielle Ashe had expected to be 
going. She had imagined her e-mail was coming from some enterprising young 
intern or secretary working in one of the complexs more mundane offices. 
Apparently not. 
Im going into the West Wing 
The Secret Serviceman marched her to the very end of a carpeted hallway and 
stopped at an unmarked door. He knocked. Gabrielles heart was pounding. 
Its open, someone called from inside. 
The man opened the door and motioned for Gabrielle to enter. 
Gabrielle stepped in. The shades were down, and the room was dim. She could see 
the faint outline of a person sitting at a desk in the darkness. 
Ms. Ashe? The voice came from behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. Welcome. 
As Gabrielles eyes accustomed to the dark, she began to make out an unsettlingly 
familiar face, and her muscles went taut with surprise. THIS is who has been 

sending me e-mail? 
Thank you for coming, Marjorie Tench said, her voice cold. 
Ms. Tench? Gabrielle stammered, suddenly unable to breathe. 
Call me Marjorie. The hideous woman stood up, blowing smoke out of her nose 
like a dragon. You and I are about to become best friends. 
41 
Norah Mangor stood at the extraction shaft beside Tolland, Rachel, and Corky and 
stared into the pitch-black meteorite hole. Mike, she said, youre cute, but 
youre insane. Theres no bioluminescence here. 
Tolland now wished hed thought to take some video; while Corky had gone to 
find Norah and Ming, the bioluminescence had begun fading rapidly. Within a 
couple of minutes, all the twinkling had simply stopped. 
Tolland threw another piece of ice into the water, but nothing happened. No green 
splash. 
Where did they go? Corky asked. 
Tolland had a fairly good idea. Bioluminescenceone of natures most ingenious 
defense mechanismswas a natural response for plankton in distress. A plankton 
sensing it was about to be consumed by larger organisms would begin flashing in 
hopes of attracting much larger predators that would scare off the original 
attackers. In this case, the plankton, having entered the shaft through a crack, 
suddenly found themselves in a primarily freshwater environment and 
bioluminesced in panic as the freshwater slowly killed them. I think they died. 

They were murdered, Norah scoffed. The Easter Bunny swam in and ate 
them. 
Corky glared at her. I saw the luminescence too, Norah. 
Was it before or after you took LSD? 
Why would we lie about this? Corky demanded. 
Men lie. 
Yeah, about sleeping with other women, but never about bioluminescent 
plankton. 
Tolland sighed. Norah, certainly youre aware that plankton do live in the oceans 
beneath the ice. 
Mike, she replied with a glare, please dont tell me my business. For the 
record, there are over two hundred species of diatoms that thrive under Arctic ice 
shelves. Fourteen species of autotrophic nannoflagellates, twenty heterotrophic 
flagellates, forty heterotrophic dinoflagellates, and several metazoans, including 
polychaetes, amphipods, copepods, euphausids, and fish. Any questions? 
Tolland frowned. Clearly you know more about Arctic fauna than I do, and you 
agree theres plenty of life underneath us. So why are you so skeptical that we saw 
bioluminescent plankton? 
Because, Mike, this shaft is sealed. Its a closed, freshwater environment. No 
ocean plankton could possibly get in here! 
I tasted salt in the water, Tolland insisted. Very faint, but present. Saltwater is 
getting in here somehow. 
Right, Norah said skeptically. You tasted salt. You licked the sleeve of an old 
sweaty parka, and now youve decided that the PODS density scans and fifteen 

separate core samples are inaccurate. 
Tolland held out the wet sleeve of his parka as proof. 
Mike, Im not licking your damn jacket. She looked into the hole. Might I ask 
why droves of alleged plankton decided to swim into this alleged crack? 
Heat? Tolland ventured. A lot of sea creatures are attracted by heat. When we 
extracted the meteorite, we heated it. The plankton may have been drawn 
instinctively toward the temporarily warmer environment in the shaft. 
Corky nodded. Sounds logical. 
Logical? Norah rolled her eyes. You know, for a prize-winning physicist and a 
world-famous oceanographer, youre a couple of pretty dense specimens. Has it 
occurred to you that even if there is a crackwhich I can assure you there is 
notit is physically impossible for any sea-water to be flowing into this shaft. 
She stared at both of them with pathetic disdain. 
But, Norah, Corky began. 
Gentlemen! Were standing above sea level here. She stamped her foot on the 
ice. Hello? This ice sheet rises a hundred feet above the sea. You might recall the 
big cliff at the end of this shelf? Were higher than the ocean. If there were a 
fissure into this shaft, the water would be flowing out of this shaft, not into it. Its 
called gravity. 
Tolland and Corky looked at each other. 
Shit, Corky said. I didnt think of that. 
Norah pointed into the water-filled shaft. You may also have noticed that the 
water level isnt changing? 
Tolland felt like an idiot. Norah was absolutely right. If there had been a crack, the 

water would be flowing out, not in. Tolland stood in silence a long moment, 
wondering what to do next. 
Okay. Tolland sighed. Apparently, the fissure theory makes no sense. But we 
saw bioluminescence in the water. The only conclusion is that this is not a closed 
environment after all. I realize much of your icedating data is built on the premise 
that the glacier is a solid block, but 
Premise? Norah was obviously getting agitated. Remember, this was not just 
my data, Mike. NASA made the same findings. We all confirmed this glacier is 
solid. No cracks. 
Tolland glanced across the dome toward the crowd gathered around the press 
conference area. Whatever is going on, I think, in good faith, we need to inform 
the administrator and 
This is bullshit! Norah hissed. Im telling you this glacial matrix is pristine. Im 
not about to have my core data questioned by a salt lick and some absurd 
hallucinations. She stormed over to a nearby supply area and began collecting 
some tools. Ill take a proper water sample, and show you this water contains no 
saltwater planktonliving or dead! 
Rachel and the others looked on as Norah used a sterile pipette on a string to 
harvest a water sample from the melt pool. Norah placed several drops in a tiny 
device that resembled a miniature telescope. Then she peered through the oculus, 
pointing the device toward the light emanating from the other side of the dome. 
Within seconds she was cursing. 
Jesus Christ! Norah shook the device and looked again. Damn it! Somethings 
got to be wrong with this refractometer! 
Saltwater? Corky gloated. 

Norah frowned. Partial. Its registering three percent brinewhich is totally 
impossible. This glacier is a snow pack. Pure freshwater. There should be no salt. 
Norah carried the sample to a nearby microscope and examined it. She groaned. 
Plankton? Tolland asked. 
G. polyhedra, she replied, her voice now sedate. Its one of the planktons we 
glaciologists commonly see in the oceans under ice shelves. She glanced over at 
Tolland. Theyre dead now. Obviously they didnt survive long in a three percent 
saltwater environment. 
The four of them stood in silence a moment beside the deep shaft. 
Rachel wondered what the ramifications of this paradox were for the overall 
discovery. The dilemma appeared minor when compared to the overall scope of 
the meteorite, and yet, as an intel analyst, Rachel had witnessed the collapse of 
entire theories based on smaller snags than this. 
Whats going on over here? The voice was a low rumble. 
Everyone looked up. The bearish frame of the NASA administrator emerged from 
the dark. 
Minor quandary with the water in the shaft, Tolland said. Were trying to sort it 
out. 
Corky sounded almost gleeful. Norahs ice data is screwed. 
Bite me twice, Norah whispered. 
The administrator approached, his furry eyebrows lowering. Whats wrong with 
the ice data. 
Tolland heaved an uncertain sigh. Were showing a three percent saltwater mix in 
the meteorite shaft, which contradicts the glaciology report that the meteorite was 

encased in a pristine freshwater glacier. He paused. Theres also plankton 
present. 
Ekstrom looked almost angry. Obviously thats impossible. There are no fissures 
in this glacier. The PODS scans confirmed that. This meteorite was sealed in a 
solid matrix of ice. 
Rachel knew Ekstrom was correct. According to NASAs density scans, the ice 
sheet was rock solid. Hundreds of feet of frozen glacier on all sides of the 
meteorite. No cracks. And yet as Rachel imagined how density scans were taken, a 
strange thought occurred to her 
In addition, Ekstrom was saying, Dr. Mangors core samples confirmed the 
solidity of the glacier. 
Exactly! Norah said, tossing the refractometer on a desk. Double corroboration. 
No fault lines in the ice. Which leaves us no explanation whatsoever for the salt 
and plankton. 
Actually, Rachel said, the boldness of her voice surprising even herself. There 
is another possibility. The brainstorm had hit her from the most unlikely of 
memories. 
Everyone was looking at her now, their skepticism obvious. 
Rachel smiled. Theres a perfectly sound rationale for the presence of salt and 
plankton. She gave Tolland a wry look. And frankly, Mike, Im surprised it 
didnt occur to you. 
42 

Plankton frozen in the glacier? Corky Marlinson sounded not at all sold on 
Rachels explanation. Not to rain on your parade, but usually when things freeze 
they die. These little buggers were flashing us, remember? 
Actually, Tolland said, giving Rachel an impressed look, she may have a point. 
There are a number of species that enter suspended animation when their 
environment requires it. I did an episode on that phenomenon once. 
Rachel nodded. You showed northern pike that got frozen in lakes and had to 
wait until the thaw to swim away. You also talked about micro-organisms called 
waterbears that became totally dehydrated in the desert, remained that way for 
decades, and then reinflated when rains returned. 
Tolland chuckled. So you really do watch my show? 
Rachel gave a slightly embarrassed shrug. 
Whats your point, Ms. Sexton? Norah demanded. 
Her point, Tolland said, which should have dawned on me earlier, is that one of 
the species I mentioned on that program was a kind of plankton that gets frozen in 
the polar ice cap every winter, hibernates inside the ice, and then swims away 
every summer when the ice cap thins. Tolland paused. Granted the species I 
featured on the show was not the bioluminescent species we saw here, but maybe 
the same thing happened. 
Frozen plankton, Rachel continued, excited to have Michael Tolland so 
enthusiastic about her idea, could explain everything were seeing here. At some 
point in the past, fissures could have opened in this glacier, filled with planktonrich 
saltwater, and then refroze. What if there were frozen pockets of saltwater in 
this glacier? Frozen saltwater containing frozen plankton? Imagine if while you 
were raising the heated meteorite through the ice, it passed through a frozen 
saltwater pocket. The saltwater ice would have melted, releasing the plankton 
from hibernation, and giving us a small percentage of salt mixed in the 
freshwater. 

Oh, for the love of God! Norah exclaimed with a hostile groan. Suddenly 
everyones a glaciologist! 
Corky also looked skeptical. But wouldnt PODS have spotted any brine ice 
pockets when it did its density scans? After all, brine ice and freshwater ice have 
different densities. 
Barely different, Rachel said. 
Four percent is a substantial difference, Norah challenged. 
Yes, in a lab, Rachel replied. But PODS takes its measurements from 120 
miles up in space. Its computers were designed to differentiate between the 
obviousice and slush, granite and limestone. She turned to the administrator. 
Am I right to assume that when PODS measures densities from space, it probably 
lacks the resolution to distinguish brine ice from fresh ice? 
The administrator nodded. Correct. A four percent differential is below PODSs 
tolerance threshold. The satellite would see brine ice and fresh ice as identical. 
Tolland now looked intrigued. This would also explain the static water level in 
the shaft. He looked at Norah. You said the plankton species you saw in the 
extraction shaft was called 
G. polyhedra, Norah declared. And now youre wondering if G. polyhedra is 
capable of hibernating inside the ice? Youll be pleased to know the answer is yes. 
Absolutely. G. polyhedra is found in droves around ice shelves, it bioluminesces, 
and it can hibernate inside the ice. Any other questions? 
Everyone exchanged looks. From Norahs tone, there was obviously some sort of 
butand yet it seemed she had just confirmed Rachels theory. 
So, Tolland ventured, youre saying its possible, right? This theory makes 
sense? 

Sure, Norah said, if youre totally retarded. 
Rachel glared. I beg your pardon? 
Norah Mangor locked stares with Rachel. I imagine in your business, a little bit 
of knowledge is a dangerous thing? Well, trust me when I tell you that the same 
holds true for glaciology. Norahs eyes shifted now, looking at each of the four 
people around her. Let me clarify this for everyone once and for all. The frozen 
brine pockets that Ms. Sexton has proposed do occur. They are what glaciologists 
call interstices. Interstices, however, form not as pockets of saltwater but rather as 
highly branched networks of brine ice whose tendrils are as wide as a human hair. 
That meteorite would have had to pass through one hell of a dense series of 
interstices to release enough saltwater to create a three percent mixture in a pool 
that deep. 
Ekstrom scowled. So is it possible or not? 
Not on your life, Norah said flatly. Totally impossible. I would have hit 
pockets of brine ice in my core samples. 
Core samples are drilled essentially in random spots, right? Rachel asked. Is 
there any chance the cores placements, simply by bad luck, could have missed a 
pocket of sea ice? 
I drilled directly down over the meteorite. Then I drilled multiple cores only a 
few yards on either side. You cant get any closer. 
Just asking. 
The point is moot, Norah said. Brine interstices occur only in seasonal iceice 
that forms and melts every season. The Milne Ice Shelf is fast iceice that forms 
in the mountains and holds fast until it migrates to the calving zone and falls into 
the sea. As convenient as frozen plankton would be for explaining this mysterious 
little phenomenon, I can guarantee there are no hidden networks of frozen 

plankton in this glacier. 
The group fell silent again. 
Despite the stark rebuttal of the frozen plankton theory, Rachels systematic 
analysis of the data refused to accept the rejection. Instinctively, Rachel knew that 
the presence of frozen plankton in the glacier beneath them was the simplest 
solution to the riddle. The Law of Parsimony, she thought. Her NRO instructors 
had driven it into her subconscious. When multiple explanations exist, the simplest 
is usually correct. 
Norah Mangor obviously had a lot to lose if her ice-core data was wrong, and 
Rachel wondered if maybe Norah had seen the plankton, realized shed made a 
mistake in claiming the glacier was solid, and was now simply trying to cover her 
tracks. 
All I know, Rachel said, is that I just briefed the entire White House staff and 
told them this meteorite was discovered in a pristine matrix of ice and had been 
sealed there, untouched by outside influence since 1716, when it broke off of a 
famous meteorite called the Jungersol. This fact now appears to be in some 
question. 
The NASA administrator was silent, his expression grave. 
Tolland cleared his throat. I have to agree with Rachel. There was saltwater and 
plankton in the pool. No matter what the explanation is, that shaft is obviously not 
a closed environment. We cant say it is. 
Corky was looking uncomfortable. Um, folks, not to sound like the astrophysicist 
here, but in my field when we make mistakes, were usually off by billions of 
years. Is this little plankton/saltwater mix-up really all that important? I mean, the 
perfection of the ice surrounding the meteorite in no way affects the meteorite 
itself, right? We still have the fossils. Nobody is questioning their authenticity. If 
it turns out weve made a mistake with the ice-core data, nobody will really care. 
All theyll care about is that we found proof of life on another planet. 

Im sorry, Dr. Marlinson, Rachel said, as someone who analyzes data for a 
living, I have to disagree. Any tiny flaw in the data NASA presents tonight has the 
potential to cast doubt over the credibility of the entire discovery. Including the 
authenticity of the fossils. 
Corkys jaw fell open. What are you talking about? Those fossils are irrefutable! 
I know that. You know that. But if the public catches wind that NASA knowingly 
presented ice-core data that was in question, trust me, they will immediately start 
wondering what else NASA lied about. 
Norah stepped forward, eyes flashing. My ice-core data is not in question. She 
turned to the administrator. I can prove to you, categorically, that there is no 
brine ice trapped anywhere in this ice shelf! 
The administrator eyed her a long moment. How? 
Norah outlined her plan. When she was done, Rachel had to admit, the idea 
sounded like a reasonable one. 
The administrator did not look so sure. And the results will be definitive? 
One hundred percent confirmation, Norah assured him. If theres one goddamn 
ounce of frozen saltwater anywhere near that meteorite shaft, you will see it. Even 
a few droplets will light up on my gear like Times Square. 
The administrators brow furrowed beneath his military buzz cut. Theres not 
much time. The press conference is in a couple of hours. 
I can be back in twenty minutes. 
How far out on the glacier did you say you have to go? 
Not far. Two hundred yards should do it. 

Ekstrom nodded. Are you certain its safe? 
Ill take flares, Norah replied. And Mike will go with me. 
Tollands head shot up. I will? 
You sure as hell will, Mike! Well be tethered. Id appreciate a strong set of arms 
out there if the wind whips up. 
But 
Shes right, the administrator said, turning to Tolland. If she goes, she cant go 
alone. Id send some of my men with her, but frankly, Id rather keep this plankton 
issue to ourselves until we figure out if its a problem or not. 
Tolland gave a reluctant nod. 
Id like to go too, Rachel said. 
Norah spun like a cobra. The hell you will. 
Actually, the administrator said, as if an idea had just occurred to him, I think 
Id feel safer if we used the standard quad tether configuration. If you go dual, and 
Mike slips, youll never hold him. Four people are a lot safer than two. He 
paused glancing at Corky. That would mean either you or Dr. Ming. Ekstrom 
glanced around the habisphere. Where is Dr. Ming, anyway? 
I havent seen him in a while, Tolland said. He might be catching a nap. 
Ekstrom turned to Corky. Dr. Marlinson, I cannot require that you go out with 
them, and yet 
What the hell? Corky said. Seeing as everyone is getting along so well. 
No! Norah exclaimed. Four people will slow us down. Mike and I are going 

alone. 
You are not going alone. The administrators tone was final. Theres a reason 
tethers are built as quads, and were going to do this as safely as possible. The last 
thing I need is an accident a couple hours before the biggest press conference in 
NASAs history. 
43 
Gabrielle Ashe felt a precarious uncertainty as she sat in the heavy air of Marjorie 
Tenchs office. What could this woman possibly want with me? Behind the 
rooms sole desk, Tench leaned back in her chair, her hard features seeming to 
radiate pleasure with Gabrielles discomfort. 
Does the smoke bother you? Tench asked, tapping a fresh cigarette from her 
pack. 
No, Gabrielle lied. 
Tench was already lighting up anyway. You and your candidate have taken quite 
an interest in NASA during this campaign. 
True, Gabrielle snapped, making no effort to hide her anger, thanks to some 
creative encouragement. Id like an explanation. 
Tench gave an innocent pout. You want to know why Ive been sending you email 
fodder for your attack on NASA? 
The information you sent me hurt your President. 
In the short run, yes. 

The ominous tone in Tenchs voice made Gabrielle uneasy. Whats that supposed 
to mean? 
Relax, Gabrielle. My e-mails didnt change things much. Senator Sexton was 
NASA-bashing long before I stepped in. I simply helped him clarify his message. 
Solidify his position. 
Solidify his position? 
Exactly. Tench smiled, revealing stained teeth. Which, I must say, he did quite 
effectively this afternoon on CNN. 
Gabrielle recalled the senators reaction to Tenchs fence-buster question. Yes, I 
would act to abolish NASA. Sexton had gotten himself cornered, but hed played 
out of the rough with a strong drive. It was the right move. Wasnt it? From 
Tenchs contented look, Gabrielle sensed there was information missing. 
Tench stood suddenly, her lanky frame dominating the cramped space. With the 
cigarette dangling from her lips, she walked over to a wall safe, removed a thick 
manila envelope, returned to the desk, and sat back down. 
Gabrielle eyed the burgeoning envelope. 
Tench smiled, cradling the envelope in her lap like a poker player holding a royal 
flush. Her yellowed fingertips flicked at the corner, making an annoying repetitive 
scratch, as if savoring the anticipation. 
Gabrielle knew it was just her own guilty conscience, but her first fears were that 
the envelope contained some kind of proof of her sexual indiscretion with the 
senator. Ridiculous, she thought. The encounter had occurred after hours in 
Sextons locked senatorial office. Not to mention, if the White House actually had 
any evidence, they would have gone public with it already. 
They may be suspicious, Gabrielle thought, but they dont have proof. 

Tench crushed out her cigarette. Ms. Ashe, whether or not you are aware, you are 
caught in the middle of a battle that has been raging behind the scenes in 
Washington since 1996. 
This opening gambit was not at all what Gabrielle expected. I beg your pardon? 
Tench lit another cigarette. Her spindly lips curled around it, and the tip glowed 
red. What do you know about a bill called the Space Commercialization 
Promotions Act? 
Gabrielle had never heard of it. She shrugged, lost. 
Really? Tench said. That surprises me. Considering your candidates platform. 
The Space Commercialization Promotions Act was proposed back in 1996 by 
Senator Walker. The bill, in essence, cites the failure of NASA to do anything 
worthwhile since putting a man on the moon. It calls for the privatization of 
NASA by immediately selling off NASA assets to private aerospace companies 
and allowing the free-market system to explore space more efficiently, thus 
relieving the burden NASA now places on taxpayers. 
Gabrielle had heard NASA critics suggest privatization as a solution to NASAs 
woes, but she was not aware the idea had actually taken the form of an official 
bill. 
This commercialization bill, Tench said, has been presented to Congress four 
times now. It is similar to bills that have successfully privatized government 
industries like uranium production. Congress has passed the space 
commercialization bill all four times it has seen it. Thankfully, the White House 
vetoed it on all occasions. Zachary Herney has had to veto it twice. 
Your point? 
My point is that this bill is one Senator Sexton will certainly support if he 
becomes President. I have reason to believe Sexton will have no qualms about 
selling off NASA assets to commercial bidders the first chance he gets. In short, 

your candidate would support privatization over having American tax dollars fund 
space exploration. 
To my knowledge, the senator has never commented publicly about his stance on 
any Space Commercialization Promotions Act. 
True. And yet knowing his politics, I assume you would not be surprised if he 
supported it. 
Free-market systems tend to breed efficiency. 
Ill take that as a yes. Tench stared. Sadly, privatizing NASA is an 
abominable idea, and there are countless reasons why every White House 
administration since the bills inception has shot it down. 
Ive heard the arguments against privatizing space, Gabrielle said, and I 
understand your concerns. 
Do you? Tench leaned toward her. Which arguments have you heard? 
Gabrielle shifted uneasily. Well, the standard academic fears mostlythe most 
common being that if we privatize NASA, our current pursuit of scientific space 
knowledge would be quickly abandoned in favor of profitable ventures. 
True. Space science would die in a heartbeat. Instead of spending money to study 
our universe, private space companies would strip-mine asteroids, build tourist 
hotels in space, offer commercial satellite launch services. Why would private 
companies bother studying the origins of our universe when it would cost them 
billions and show no financial return? 
They wouldnt, Gabrielle countered. But certainly a National Endowment for 
Space Science could be founded to fund academic missions. 
We already have that system in place. Its called NASA. 

Gabrielle fell silent. 
The abandonment of science in favor of profits is a side issue, Tench said. 
Hardly relevant compared to the utter chaos that would result by permitting the 
private sector to run free in space. We would have the wild west all over again. 
We would see pioneers staking claims on the moon and on asteroids and 
protecting those claims with force. Ive heard petitions from companies who want 
to build neon billboards that blink advertisements in the nighttime sky. Ive seen 
petitions from space hotels and tourist attractions whose proposed operations 
include ejecting their trash into the void of space and creating orbiting trash heaps. 
In fact, I just read a proposal yesterday from a company that wants to turn space 
into a mausoleum by launching the deceased into orbit. Can you imagine our 
telecommunications satellites colliding with dead bodies? Last week, I had a 
billionaire CEO in my office who was petitioning to launch a mission to a nearfield 
asteroid, drag it closer to earth, and mine it for precious minerals. I actually 
had to remind this guy that dragging asteroids into near earth orbit posed potential 
risks of global catastrophe! Ms. Ashe, I can assure you, if this bill passes, the 
throngs of entrepreneurs rushing into space will not be rocket scientists. They will 
be entrepreneurs with deep pockets and shallow minds. 
Persuasive arguments, Gabrielle said, and Im sure the senator would weigh 
those issues carefully if he ever found himself in a position to vote on the bill. 
Might I ask what any of this has to do with me? 
Tenchs gaze narrowed over her cigarette. A lot of people stand to make a lot of 
money in space, and the political lobby is mounting to remove all restrictions and 
open the floodgates. The veto power of the office of the President is the only 
remaining barrier against privatizationagainst complete anarchy in space. 
Then I commend Zach Herney for vetoing the bill. 
My fear is that your candidate would not be so prudent if elected. 
Again, I assume the senator would carefully weigh all the issues if he were ever 
in a position to pass judgment on the bill. 

Tench did not look entirely convinced. Do you know how much Senator Sexton 
spends on media advertising? 
The question came out of left field. Those figures are public domain. 
More than three million a month. 
Gabrielle shrugged. If you say so. The figure was close. 
Thats a lot of money to spend. 
Hes got a lot of money to spend. 
Yes, he planned well. Or rather, married well. Tench paused to blow smoke. 
Its sad about his wife, Katherine. Her death hit him hard. A tragic sigh 
followed, clearly feigned. Her death was not all that long ago, was it? 
Come to your point, or Im leaving. 
Tench let out a lung-shaking cough and reached for the burgeoning manila folder. 
She pulled out a small stack of stapled papers and handed them to Gabrielle. 
Sextons financial records. 
Gabrielle studied the documents in astonishment. The records went back several 
years. Although Gabrielle was not privy to the internal workings of Sextons 
finances, she sensed this data was authenticbanking accounts, credit card 
accounts, loans, stock assets, real estate assets, debts, capital gains and losses. 
This is private data. Where did you get this? 
My source is not your concern. But if you spend some time studying these 
figures, you will clearly see that Senator Sexton does not have the kind of money 
he is currently spending. After Katherine died, he squandered the vast majority of 
her legacy on bad investments, personal comforts, and buying himself what 
appears to be certain victory in the primaries. As of six months ago, your 

candidate was broke. 
Gabrielle sensed this had to be a bluff. If Sexton were broke, he sure wasnt acting 
it. He was buying advertising time in bigger and bigger blocks every week. 
Your candidate, Tench continued, is currently outspending the President four 
to one. And he has no personal money. 
We get a lot of donations. 
Yes, some of them legal. 
Gabrielles head shot up. I beg your pardon? 
Tench leaned across the desk, and Gabrielle could smell her nicotine breath. 
Gabrielle Ashe, I am going to ask you a question, and I suggest you think very 
carefully before you answer. It could affect whether you spend the next few years 
in jail or not. Are you aware that Senator Sexton is accepting enormous illegal 
campaign bribes from aerospace companies who have billions to gain from the 
privatization of NASA? 
Gabrielle stared. Thats an absurd allegation! 
Are you saying you are unaware of this activity? 
I think I would know if the senator were accepting bribes of the magnitude you 
are suggesting. 
Tench smiled coldly. Gabrielle, I understand that Senator Sexton has shared a lot 
of himself with you, but I assure you there is plenty you do not know about the 
man. 
Gabrielle stood up. This meeting is over. 
On the contrary, Tench said, removing the remaining contents of the folder and 

spreading it on the desk. This meeting is just beginning. 
44 
Inside the habispheres staging room, Rachel Sexton felt like an astronaut as she 
slid into one of NASAs Mark IX microclimate survival suits. The black, onepiece, 
hooded jumpsuit resembled an inflatable scuba suit. Its two-ply, memoryfoam 
fabric was fitted with hollow channels through which a dense gel was 
pumped to help the wearer regulate body temperature in both hot and cold 
environments. 
Now, as Rachel pulled the tight-fitting hood over her head, her eyes fell on the 
NASA administrator. He appeared as a silent sentinel at the door, clearly 
displeased with the necessity for this little mission. 
Norah Mangor was muttering obscenities as she got everyone outfitted. Heres an 
extra pudgy, she said, tossing Corky his suit. 
Tolland was already half into his. 
Once Rachel was fully zipped up, Norah found the stopcock on Rachels side and 
connected her to an infusion tube that coiled out of a silver canister resembling a 
large scuba tank. 
Inhale, Norah said, opening the valve. 
Rachel heard a hiss and felt gel being injected into the suit. The memory foam 
expanded, and the suit compressed around her, pressing down on her inner layer of 
clothing. The sensation reminded her of sticking her hand underwater while 
wearing a rubber glove. As the hood inflated around her head, it pressed in on her 
ears, making everything sound muffled. Im in a cocoon. 

Best thing about the Mark IX, Norah said, is the padding. You can fall on your 
ass and not feel a thing. 
Rachel believed it. She felt like she was trapped inside a mattress. 
Norah handed Rachel a series of toolsan ice ax, tether snaps, and carabiners, 
which she affixed to the belt harnessed on Rachels waist. 
All this? Rachel asked, eyeing the gear. To go two hundred yards? 
Norahs eyes narrowed. You want to come or not? 
Tolland gave Rachel a reassuring nod. Norahs just being careful. 
Corky connected to the infusion tank and inflated his suit, looking amused. I feel 
like Im wearing a giant condom. 
Norah gave a disgusted groan. Like youd know, virgin boy. 
Tolland sat down next to Rachel. He gave her a weak smile as she donned her 
heavy boots and crampons. You sure you want to come? His eyes had a 
protective concern that drew her in. 
Rachel hoped her confident nod belied her growing trepidation. Two hundred 
yardsnot far at all. And you thought you could find excitement only on the 
high seas. 
Tolland chuckled, talking as he attached his own crampons. Ive decided I like 
liquid water much better than this frozen stuff. 
Ive never been a big fan of either, Rachel said. I fell through the ice as a kid. 
Waters made me nervous ever since. 
Tolland glanced over, his eyes sympathetic. Sorry to hear that. When this is over, 
youll have to come out and visit me on the Goya. Ill change your mind about 

water. Promise. 
The invitation surprised her. The Goya was Tollands research shipwell-known 
both from its role in Amazing Seas as well as its reputation as one of the strangestlooking 
ships on the ocean. Although a visit to the Goya would be unnerving for 
Rachel, she knew it would be hard to pass up. 
Shes anchored twelve miles off the coast of New Jersey at the moment, Tolland 
said, struggling with his crampon latches. 
Sounds like an unlikely spot. 
Not at all. The Atlantic seaboard is an incredible place. We were gearing up to 
shoot a new documentary when I was so rudely interrupted by the President. 
Rachel laughed. Shooting a documentary on what? 
Sphyrna mokarran and megaplumes. 
Rachel frowned. Glad I asked. 
Tolland finished attaching his crampons and looked up. Seriously, Ill be filming 
out there for a couple weeks. Washingtons not that far from the Jersey coast. 
Come out when you get back home. No reason to spend your life afraid of the 
water. My crew would roll out the red carpet for you. 
Norah Mangors voice blared. Are we going outside, or should I get you two 
some candles and champagne? 
45 

Gabrielle Ashe had no idea what to make of the documents now spread out before 
her on Marjorie Tenchs desk. The pile included photocopied letters, faxes, 
transcripts of phone conversations, and they all seemed to support the allegation 
that Senator Sexton was in covert dialogue with private space companies. 
Tench pushed a couple of grainy black-and-white photographs toward Gabrielle. 
I assume this is news to you? 
Gabrielle looked at the photos. The first candid shot showed Senator Sexton 
getting out of a taxi in some kind of underground garage. Sexton never takes taxis. 
Gabrielle looked at the second shota telephoto of Sexton climbing into a parked 
white minivan. An old man appeared to be in the van waiting for him. 
Who is that? Gabrielle said, suspicious the photos might be faked. 
A big shot from the SFF. 
Gabrielle was doubtful. The Space Frontier Foundation? 
The SFF was like a union for private space companies. It represented aerospace 
contractors, entrepreneurs, venture capitalistsany private entity that wanted to 
go into space. They tended to be critical of NASA, arguing that the U.S. space 
program employed unfair business practices to prevent private companies from 
launching missions into space. 
The SFF, Tench said, now represents over a hundred major corporations, some 
very wealthy enterprises who are waiting eagerly for the Space Commercialization 
Promotions Act to be ratified. 
Gabrielle considered it. For obvious reasons the SFF was a vocal supporter of 
Sextons campaign, although the senator had been careful not to get too close to 
them because of their controversial lobbying tactics. Recently the SFF had 
published an explosive rant charging that NASA was in fact an illegal monopoly 
whose ability to operate at a loss and still stay in business represented unfair 
competition to private firms. According to the SFF, whenever AT&T needed a 

telecomm satellite launched, several private space companies offered to do the job 
at a reasonable $50 million. Unfortunately, NASA always stepped in and offered 
to launch AT&Ts satellites for a mere twenty-five million, even though it cost 
NASA five times that to do the job! Operating at a loss is one way NASA keeps 
its grip on space, the SFF lawyers accused. And taxpayers pick up the tab. 
This photo reveals, Tench said, that your candidate is holding secret meetings 
with an organization that represents private space enterprises. Tench motioned to 
several other documents on the table. We also have internal SFF memos calling 
for huge sums of money to be collected from SFF member companiesin 
amounts commensurate with their net worthand transferred to accounts 
controlled by Senator Sexton. In effect, these private space agencies are anteing up 
to put Sexton in office. I can only assume he has agreed to pass the 
commercialization bill and privatize NASA if elected. 
Gabrielle looked at the pile of papers, unconvinced. Do you expect me to believe 
that the White House has evidence that its opponent is engaged in profoundly 
illegal campaign financeand yet, for some reason, you are keeping it secret? 
What would you believe? 
Gabrielle glared. Frankly, considering your skills for manipulation, a more 
logical solution seems that you are plying me somehow with phony documents 
and photos produced by some enterprising White House staffer and his desktop 
publishing computer. 
Possible, I admit. But not true. 
No? Then how did you get all these internal documents from corporations? The 
resources required to steal all of this evidence from so many companies certainly 
exceeds the grasp of the White House. 
Youre right. This information arrived here as an unsolicited gift. 
Gabrielle was now lost. 

Oh yes, Tench said, we get a lot of it. The President has many powerful 
political allies who would like to see him stay in office. Remember, your 
candidate is suggesting cuts all over the placea lot of them right here in 
Washington. Senator Sexton certainly has no qualms about citing the FBIs 
bloated budget as an example of government overspending. Hes taken some 
potshots at the IRS, too. Maybe someone at the bureau or at the service got a little 
annoyed. 
Gabrielle got the implication. People at the FBI and IRS would have ways of 
getting this kind of information. They might then send it to the White House as an 
unsolicited favor to help the Presidents election. But what Gabrielle could not 
make herself believe was that Senator Sexton would ever be engaged in illegal 
campaign funding. If this data is accurate, Gabrielle challenged, which I 
strongly doubt it is, why havent you gone public? 
Why do you think? 
Because it was gathered illegally. 
How we got it makes no difference. 
Of course it makes a difference. Its inadmissible in a hearing. 
What hearing? Wed simply leak this to a newspaper, and theyd run it as a 
credible-source story with photos and documentation. Sexton would be guilty 
until proven innocent. His vocal anti-NASA stance would be virtual proof that he 
is taking bribes. 
Gabrielle knew it was true. Fine, she challenged, then why havent you leaked 
the information? 
Because its a negative. The President promised not to go negative in the 
campaign and he wants to stick to that promise as long as he can. 

Yeah, right! Youre telling me the President is so upstanding that he refuses to go 
public with this because people might consider it a negative? 
Its a negative for the country. It implicates dozens of private companies, many 
of which are made up of honest people. It besmirches the office of the U.S. Senate 
and is bad for the countrys morale. Dishonest politicians hurt all politicians. 
Americans need to trust their leaders. This would be an ugly investigation and 
would most likely send a U.S. senator and numerous prominent aerospace 
executives to jail. 
Although Tenchs logic did make sense, Gabrielle still doubted the allegations. 
What does any of this have to do with me? 
Simply put, Ms. Ashe, if we release these documents, your candidate will be 
indicted for illegal campaign financing, lose his Senate seat, and most likely do 
prison time. Tench paused. Unless 
Gabrielle saw a snakelike glint in the senior advisers eyes. Unless what? 
Tench took a long drag on her cigarette. Unless you decide to help us avoid all 
that. 
A murky silence settled over the room. 
Tench coughed roughly. Gabrielle, listen, I decided to share this unfortunate 
information with you for three reasons. First, to show you Zach Herney is a decent 
man who considers the governments well-being before his personal gain. Second, 
to inform you that your candidate is not as trustworthy as you might think. And 
third, to persuade you to accept the offer I am about to make. 
That offer being? 
Id like to offer you a chance to do the right thing. The patriotic thing. Whether 
you know it or not, youre in a unique position to spare Washington all kinds of 
unpleasant scandal. If you can do what I am about to ask, perhaps you could even 

earn yourself a place on the Presidents team. 
A place on the Presidents team? Gabrielle couldnt believe what she was hearing. 
Ms. Tench, whatever you have in mind, I do not appreciate being black-mailed, 
coerced, or talked down to. I work for the senators campaign because I believe in 
his politics. And if this is any indication of the way Zach Herney exerts political 
influence, I have no interest in being associated with him! If youve got something 
on Senator Sexton, then I suggest you leak it to the press. Frankly, I think this 
whole things a sham. 
Tench gave a dreary sigh. Gabrielle, your candidates illegal funding is a fact. 
Im sorry. I know you trust him. She lowered her voice. Look, heres the point. 
The President and I will go public with the funding issue if we must, but it will get 
ugly on a grand scale. This scandal involves several major U.S. corporations 
breaking the law. A lot of innocent people will pay the price. She took a long 
drag and exhaled. What the President and I are hoping for hereis some other 
way to discredit the senators ethics. A way that is more containedone in which 
no innocent parties get hurt. Tench set down her cigarette and folded her hands. 
Simply put, we would like you to publicly admit that you had an affair with the 
senator. 
Gabrielles entire body went rigid. Tench sounded utterly certain of herself. 
Impossible, Gabrielle knew. There was no proof. The sex had happened only once, 
behind locked doors in Sextons senatorial office. Tench has nothing. Shes 
fishing. Gabrielle fought to retain her steady tone. You assume a lot, Ms. Tench. 
Which? That you had an affair? Or that you would abandon your candidate? 
Both. 
Tench gave a curt smile and stood up. Well, lets put one of those facts to rest 
right now, shall we? She walked to her wall safe again and returned with a red 
manila folder. It was stamped with the White House seal. She unhooked the clasp, 
tipped the envelope over, and dumped the contents out on the desk in front of 
Gabrielle. 

As dozens of color photographs spilled out onto the desk, Gabrielle saw her entire 
career come crashing down before her. 
46 
Outside the habisphere, the katabatic wind roaring down off the glacier was 
nothing like the ocean winds Tolland was accustomed to. On the ocean, wind was 
a function of tides and pressure fronts and came in gusting ebbs and flows. The 
katabatic, however, was a slave to simple physicsheavy cold air rushing down a 
glacial incline like a tidal wave. It was the most resolute gale force Tolland had 
ever experienced. Had it been coming at twenty knots, the katabatic would have 
been a sailors dream, but at its current eighty knots it could quickly become a 
nightmare even for those on solid ground. Tolland found that if he paused and 
leaned backward, the stalwart squall could easily prop him up. 
Making the raging river of air even more unnerving to Tolland was the slight 
downwind grade of the ice shelf. The ice was sloped ever so slightly toward the 
ocean, two miles away. Despite the sharp spikes on the Pitbull Rapido crampons 
attached to his boots, Tolland had the uneasy feeling that any misstep might leave 
him caught up in a gale and sliding down the endless icy slope. Norah Mangors 
two-minute course in glacier safety now seemed dangerously inadequate. 
Piranha Ice ax, Norah had said, fastening a lightweight T-shaped tool to each of 
their belts as they suited up in the habisphere. Standard blade, banana blade, 
semitubular blade, hammer, and adze. All you need to remember is, if anyone slips 
or gets caught up in a gust, grab your ax with one hand on the head and one on the 
shaft, ram the banana blade into the ice, and fall on it, planting your crampons. 
With those words of assurance, Norah Mangor had affixed YAK belay harnesses 
to each of them. They all donned goggles, and headed out into the afternoon 

darkness. 
Now, the four figures made their way down the glacier in a straight line with ten 
yards of belay rope separating each of them. Norah was in the lead position, 
followed by Corky, then Rachel, and Tolland as anchor. 
As they moved farther away from the habisphere, Tolland felt a growing 
uneasiness. In his inflated suit, although warm, he felt like some kind of 
uncoordinated space traveler trekking across a distant planet. The moon had 
disappeared behind thick, billowing storm clouds, plunging the ice sheet into an 
impenetrable blackness. The katabatic wind seemed to be getting stronger by the 
minute, applying a constant pressure to Tollands back. As his eyes strained 
through his goggles to make out the expansive emptiness around them, he began 
to perceive a true danger in this place. Redundant NASA safety precautions or not, 
Tolland was surprised the administrator had been willing to risk four lives out here 
instead of two. Especially when the additional two lives were that of a senators 
daughter and a famous astrophysicist. Tolland was not surprised to feel a 
protective concern for Rachel and Corky. As someone who had captained a ship, 
he was used to feeling responsible for those around him. 
Stay behind me, Norah shouted, her voice swallowed by the wind. Let the sled 
lead the way. 
The aluminum sled on which Norah was transporting her testing gear resembled 
an oversized Flexible Flyer. The craft was prepacked with diagnostic gear and 
safety accessories shed been using on the glacier over the past few days. All of 
her gearincluding a battery pack, safety flares, and a powerful front-mounted 
spotlightwas bound under a secured, plastic tarp. Despite the heavy load, the 
sled glided effortlessly on long, straight runners. Even on the almost imperceptible 
incline, the sled moved downhill on its own accord, and Norah applied a gentle 
restraint, almost as if allowing the sled to lead the way. 
Sensing the distance growing between the group and the habisphere, Tolland 
looked over his shoulder. Only fifty yards away, the pale curvature of the dome 

had all but disappeared in the blustery blackness. 
You at all worried about finding our way back? Tolland yelled. The habisphere 
is almost invisi His words were cut short by the loud hiss of a flare igniting in 
Norahs hand. The sudden red-white glow illuminated the ice shelf in a ten-yard 
radius all around them. Norah used her heel to dig a small impression in the 
surface snow, piling up a protective ridge on the upwind side of the hole. Then she 
rammed the flare into the indentation. 
High-tech bread crumbs, Norah shouted. 
Bread crumbs? Rachel asked, shielding her eyes from the sudden light. 
Hansel and Gretel, Norah shouted. These flares will last an hourplenty of 
time to find our way back. 
With that, Norah headed out again, leading them down the glacierinto the 
darkness once again. 
47 
Gabrielle Ashe stormed out of Marjorie Tenchs office and practically knocked 
over a secretary in doing so. Mortified, all Gabrielle could see were the 
photographsimagesarms and legs intertwined. Faces filled with ecstasy. 
Gabrielle had no idea how the photos had been taken, but she knew damn well 
they were real. They had been taken in Senator Sextons office and seemed to 
have been shot from above as if by hidden camera. God help me. One of the 
photos showed Gabrielle and Sexton having sex directly on top of the senators 
desk, their bodies sprawled across a scatter of official-looking documents. 

Marjorie Tench caught up with Gabrielle outside the Map Room. Tench was 
carrying the red envelope of photos. I assume from your reaction that you believe 
these photos are authentic? The Presidents senior adviser actually looked like 
she was having a good time. Im hoping they persuade you that our other data is 
accurate as well. They came from the same source. 
Gabrielle felt her entire body flushing as she marched down the hall. Where the 
hell is the exit? 
Tenchs gangly legs had no trouble keeping up. Senator Sexton swore to the 
world that you two are platonic associates. His televised statement was actually 
quite convincing. Tench motioned smugly over her shoulder. In fact, I have a 
tape in my office if youd like to refresh your memory? 
Gabrielle needed no refresher. She remembered the press conference all too well. 
Sextons denial was as adamant as it was heartfelt. 
Its unfortunate, Tench said, sounding not at all disappointed, but Senator 
Sexton looked the American people in the eye and told a bald-faced lie. The public 
has a right to know. And they will know. Ill see to it personally. The only 
question now is how the public finds out. We believe its best coming from you. 
Gabrielle was stunned. You really think Im going to help lynch my own 
candidate? 
Tenchs face hardened. I am trying to take the high ground here, Gabrielle. Im 
giving you a chance to save everyone a lot of embarrassment by holding your head 
high and telling the truth. All I need is a signed statement admitting your affair. 
Gabrielle stopped short. What! 
Of course. A signed statement gives us the leverage we need to deal with the 
senator quietly, sparing the country this ugly mess. My offer is simple: Sign a 
statement for me, and these photos never need to see the light of day. 

You want a statement? 
Technically, I would need an affidavit, but we have a notary here in the building 
who could 
Youre crazy. Gabrielle was walking again. 
Tench stayed at her side, sounding more angry now. Senator Sexton is going 
down one way or another, Gabrielle, and Im offering you a chance to get out of 
this without seeing your own naked ass in the morning paper! The President is a 
decent man and doesnt want these photos publicized. If you just give me an 
affidavit and confess to the affair on your own terms, then all of us can retain a 
little dignity. 
Im not for sale. 
Well, your candidate certainly is. Hes a dangerous man, and hes breaking the 
law. 
Hes breaking the law? Youre the ones breaking into offices and taking illegal 
surveillance pictures! Ever heard of Watergate? 
We had nothing to do with gathering this dirt. These photos came from the same 
source as the SFF campaign-funding information. Someones been watching you 
two very closely. 
Gabrielle tore past the security desk where she had gotten her security badge. She 
ripped off the badge and tossed it to the wide-eyed guard. Tench was still on her 
tail. 
Youll need to decide fast, Ms. Ashe, Tench said as they neared the exit. Either 
bring me an affidavit admitting you slept with the senator, or at eight oclock 
tonight, the president will be forced to go public with everythingSextons 
financial dealings, the photos of you, the works. And believe me, when the public 
sees that you stood idly by and let Sexton lie about your relationship, youll go 

down in flames right beside him. 
Gabrielle saw the door and headed for it. 
On my desk by eight oclock tonight, Gabrielle. Be smart. Tench tossed her the 
folder of photographs on her way out. Keep them, sweetie. Weve got plenty 
more. 
48 
Rachel Sexton felt a growing chill inside as she moved down the ice sheet into a 
deepening night. Disquieting images swirled in her mindthe meteorite, the 
phosphorescent plankton, the implications if Norah Mangor had made a mistake 
with the ice cores. 
A solid matrix of freshwater ice, Norah had argued, reminding them all that she 
had drilled cores all around the area as well as directly over the meteorite. If the 
glacier contained saltwater interstices filled with plankton, she would have seen 
them. Wouldnt she? Nonetheless, Rachels intuition kept returning to the simplest 
solution. 
There are plankton frozen in this glacier. 
Ten minutes and four flares later, Rachel and the others were approximately 250 
yards from the habisphere. Without warning, Norah stopped short. This is the 
spot, she said, sounding like a water-witch diviner who had mystically sensed the 
perfect spot to drill a well. 
Rachel turned and glanced up the slope behind them. The habisphere had long 
since disappeared into the dim, moonlit night, but the line of flares was clearly 
visible, the farthest one twinkling reassuringly like a faint star. The flares were in 

a perfectly straight line, like a carefully calculated runway. Rachel was impressed 
with Norahs skills. 
Another reason we let the sled go first, Norah called out when she saw Rachel 
admiring the line of flares. The runners are straight. If we let gravity lead the sled 
and we dont interfere, were guaranteed to travel in a straight line. 
Neat trick, Tolland yelled. Wish there were something like that for the open 
sea. 
This IS the open sea, Rachel thought, picturing the ocean beneath them. For a split 
second, the most distant flame caught her attention. It had disappeared, as if the 
light had been blotted out by a passing form. A moment later, though, the light 
reappeared. Rachel felt a sudden uneasiness. Norah, she yelled over the wind, 
did you say there were polar bears up here? 
The glaciologist was preparing a final flare and either did not hear or was ignoring 
her. 
Polar bears, Tolland yelled, eat seals. They only attack humans when we 
invade their space. 
But this is polar bear country, right? Rachel could never remember which pole 
had bears and which had penguins. 
Yeah, Tolland shouted back. Polar bears actually give the Arctic its name. 
Arktos is Greek for bear. 
Terrific. Rachel gazed nervously into the dark. 
Antarctica has no polar bears, Tolland said. So they call it Anti-arktos. 
Thanks, Mike, Rachel yelled. Enough talk of polar bears. 
He laughed. Right. Sorry. 

Norah pressed a final flare into the snow. As before, the four of them were 
engulfed in a reddish glow, looking bloated in their black weather suits. Beyond 
the circle of light emanating from the flare, the rest of the world became totally 
invisible, a circular shroud of blackness engulfing them. 
As Rachel and the others looked on, Norah planted her feet and used careful 
overhand motions to reel the sled several yards back up the slope to where they 
were standing. Then, keeping the rope taut, she crouched and manually activated 
the sleds talon brakesfour angled spikes that dug into the ice to keep the sled 
stationary. That done, she stood up and brushed herself off, the rope around her 
waist falling slack. 
All right, Norah shouted. Time to go to work. 
The glaciologist circled to the downwind end of the sled and began unfastening 
the butterfly eyelets holding the protective canvas over the gear. Rachel, feeling 
like she had been a little hard on Norah, moved to help by unfastening the rear of 
the flap. 
Jesus, NO! Norah yelled, her head snapping up. Dont ever do that! 
Rachel recoiled, confused. 
Never unfasten the upwind side! Norah said. Youll create a wind sock! This 
sled would have taken off like an umbrella in a wind tunnel! 
Rachel backed off. Im sorry. I 
She glared. You and space boy shouldnt be out here. 
None of us should, Rachel thought. 
Amateurs, Norah seethed, cursing the administrators insistence on sending Corky 

and Sexton along. These clowns are going to get someone killed out here. The last 
thing Norah wanted right now was to play baby-sitter. 
Mike, she said, I need help lifting the GPR off the sled. 
Tolland helped her unpack the Ground Penetrating Radar and position it on the 
ice. The instrument looked like three miniature snowplow blades that had been 
affixed in parallel to an aluminum frame. The entire device was no more than a 
yard long and was connected by cables to a current attenuator and a marine battery 
on the sled. 
Thats radar? Corky asked, yelling over the wind. 
Norah nodded in silence. Ground Penetrating Radar was far more equipped to see 
brine ice than PODS was. The GPR transmitter sent pulses of electromagnetic 
energy through the ice, and the pulses bounced differently off substances of 
differing crystal structure. Pure freshwater froze in a flat, shingled lattice. 
However, seawater froze in more of a meshed or forked lattice on account of its 
sodium content, causing the GPR pulses to bounce back erratically, greatly 
diminishing the number of reflections. 
Norah powered up the machine. Ill be taking a kind of echo-location crosssectional 
image of the ice sheet around the extraction pit, she yelled. The 
machines internal software will render a cross section of the glacier and then print 
it out. Any sea ice will register as a shadow. 
Printout? Tolland looked surprised. You can print out here? 
Norah pointed to a cable from the GPR leading to a device still protected under the 
canopy. No choice but to print. Computer screens use too much valuable battery 
power, so field glaciologists print data to heat-transfer printers. Colors arent 
brilliant, but laser toner clumps below neg twenty. Learned that the hard way in 
Alaska. 
Norah asked everyone to stand on the downhill side of the GPR as she prepared to 

align the transmitter such that it would scan the area of the meteorite hole, almost 
three football fields away. But as Norah looked back through the night in the 
general direction from which they had come, she couldnt see a damn thing. 
Mike, I need to align the GPR transmitter with the meteorite site, but this flare 
has me blinded. Im going back up the slope just enough to get out of the light. Ill 
hold my arms in line with the flares, and you adjust the alignment on the GPR. 
Tolland nodded, kneeling down beside the radar device. 
Norah stamped her crampons into the ice and leaned forward against the wind as 
she moved up the incline toward the habisphere. The katabatic today was much 
stronger than shed imagined, and she sensed a storm coming in. It didnt matter. 
They would be done here in a matter of minutes. Theyll see Im right. Norah 
clomped twenty yards back toward the habisphere. She reached the edge of the 
darkness just as the belay rope went taut. 
Norah looked back up the glacier. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the line of 
flares slowly came into view several degrees to her left. She shifted her position 
until she was perfectly lined up with them. Then she held her arms out like a 
compass, turning her body, indicating the exact vector. Im in line with them 
now! she yelled. 
Tolland adjusted the GPR device and waved. All set! 
Norah took a final look up the incline, grateful for the illuminated pathway home. 
As she looked out, though, something odd occurred. For an instant, one of the 
nearest flares entirely disappeared from view. Before Norah could worry that it 
was dying out, the flare reappeared. If Norah didnt know better, she would 
assume something had passed between the flare and her location. Certainly 
nobody else was out hereunless of course the administrator had started to feel 
guilty and sent a NASA team out after them. Somehow Norah doubted it. 
Probably nothing, she decided. A gust of wind had momentarily killed the flame. 
Norah returned to the GPR. All lined up? 

Tolland shrugged. I think so. 
Norah went over to the control device on the sled and pressed a button. A sharp 
buzz emanated from the GPR and then stopped. Okay, she said. Done. 
Thats it? Corky said. 
All the work is in setup. The actual shot takes only a second. 
Onboard the sled, the heat-transfer printer had already begun to hum and click. 
The printer was enclosed in a clear plastic covering and was slowly ejecting a 
heavy, curled paper. Norah waited until the device had completed printing, and 
then she reached up under the plastic and removed the printout. Theyll see, she 
thought, carrying the printout over to the flare so that everyone could see it. There 
wont be any saltwater. 
Everyone gathered around as Norah stood over the flare, clutching the printout 
tightly in her gloves. She took a deep breath and uncurled the paper to examine the 
data. The image on the paper made her recoil in horror. 
Oh, God! Norah stared, unable to believe what she was looking at. As expected, 
the printout revealed a clear cross section of the water-filled meteorite shaft. But 
what Norah had never expected to see was the hazy grayish outline of a humanoid 
form floating halfway down the shaft. Her blood turned to ice. Oh Godtheres 
a body in the extraction pit. 
Everyone stared in stunned silence. 
The ghostlike body was floating head down in the narrow shaft. Billowing around 
the corpse like some sort of cape was an eerie shroudlike aura. Norah now realized 
what the aura was. The GPR had captured a faint trace of the victims heavy coat, 
what could only be a familiar, long, dense camel hair. 
ItsMing, she said in a whisper. He must have slipped. 

Norah Mangor never imagined that seeing Mings body in the extraction pit would 
be the lesser of the two shocks the printout would reveal, but as her eyes traced 
downward in the shaft, she saw something else. 
The ice beneath the extraction shaft 
Norah stared. Her first thought was that something had gone wrong with the scan. 
Then, as she studied the image more closely, an unsettling realization began to 
grow, like the storm gathering around them. The papers edges flapped wildly in 
the wind as she turned and looked more intently at the printout. 
Butthats impossible! 
Suddenly, the truth came crashing down. The realization felt like it was going to 
bury her. She forgot all about Ming. 
Norah now understood. The saltwater in the shaft! She fell to her knees in the 
snow beside the flare. She could barely breathe. Still clutching the paper in her 
hands, she began trembling. 
My Godit didnt even occur to me. 
Then, with a sudden eruption of rage, she spun her head in the direction of the 
NASA habisphere. You bastards! she screamed, her voice trailing off in the 
wind. You goddamned bastards! 
In the darkness, only fifty yards away, Delta-One held his CrypTalk device to his 
mouth and spoke only two words to his controller. They know. 

49 
Norah Mangor was still kneeling on the ice when the bewildered Michael Tolland 
pulled the Ground Penetrating Radars printout from her trembling hands. Shaken 
from seeing the floating body of Ming, Tolland tried to gather his thoughts and 
decipher the image before him. 
He saw the cross section of the meteorite shaft descending from the surface down 
to two hundred feet into the ice. He saw Mings body floating in the shaft. 
Tollands eyes drifted lower now, and he sensed something was amiss. Directly 
beneath the extraction shaft, a dark column of sea ice extended downward to the 
open ocean below. The vertical pillar of saltwater ice was massivethe same 
diameter as the shaft. 
My God! Rachel yelled, looking over Tollands shoulder. It looks like the 
meteorite shaft continues all the way through the ice shelf into the ocean! 
Tolland stood transfixed, his brain unable to accept what he knew to be the only 
logical explanation. Corky looked equally alarmed. 
Norah shouted, Someone drilled up under the shelf! Her eyes were wild with 
rage. Someone intentionally inserted that rock from underneath the ice! 
Although the idealist in Tolland wanted to reject Norahs words, the scientist in 
him knew she could easily be right. The Milne Ice Shelf was floating over the 
ocean with plenty of clearance for a submersible. Because everything weighed 
significantly less underwater, even a small submersible not much bigger than 
Tollands one-man research Triton easily could have transported the meteorite in 
its payload arms. The sub could have approached from the ocean, submerged 
beneath the ice shelf, and drilled upward into the ice. Then, it could have used an 
extending payload arm or inflatable balloons to push the meteorite up into the 
shaft. Once the meteorite was in place, the ocean water that had risen into the shaft 
behind the meteorite would begin to freeze. As soon as the shaft closed enough to 
hold the meteorite in place, the sub could retract its arm and disappear, leaving 

Mother Nature to seal the remainder of the tunnel and erase all traces of the 
deception. 
But why? Rachel demanded, taking the printout from Tolland and studying it. 
Why would someone do that? Are you sure your GPR is working? 
Of course, Im sure! And the printout perfectly explains the presence of 
phosphorescent bacteria in the water! 
Tolland had to admit, Norahs logic was chillingly sound. Phosphorescent 
dinoflagellates would have followed instinct and swum upward into the meteorite 
shaft, becoming trapped just beneath the meteorite and freezing into the ice. Later, 
when Norah heated the meteorite, the ice directly beneath would have melted, 
releasing the plankton. Again, they would swim upward, this time reaching the 
surface inside the habisphere, where they would eventually die for lack of 
saltwater. 
This is crazy! Corky yelled. NASA has a meteorite with extraterrestrial fossils 
in it. Why would they care where its found? Why would they go to the trouble to 
bury it under an ice shelf? 
Who the hell knows, Norah fired back, but GPR printouts dont lie. We were 
tricked. That meteorite isnt part of the Jungersol Fall. It was inserted in the ice 
recently. Within the last year, or the plankton would be dead! She was already 
packing up her GPR gear on the sled and fastening it down. Weve to get back 
and tell someone! The President is about to go public with all the wrong data! 
NASA tricked him! 
Wait a minute! Rachel yelled. We should at least run another scan to make 
sure. None of this makes sense. Who will believe it? 
Everyone, Norah said, preparing her sled. When I march into the habisphere 
and drill another core sample out of the bottom of the meteorite shaft and it comes 
up as saltwater ice, I guarantee you everyone will believe this! 

Norah disengaged the brakes on the equipment sled, redirected it toward the 
habisphere, and started back up the slope, digging her crampons into the ice and 
pulling the sled behind her with surprising ease. She was a woman on a mission. 
Lets go! Norah shouted, pulling the tethered group along as she headed toward 
the perimeter of the illuminated circle. I dont know what NASAs up to here, but 
I sure as hell dont appreciate being used as a pawn for their 
Norah Mangors neck snapped back as if shed been rammed in the forehead by 
some invisible force. She let out a guttural gasp of pain, wavered, and collapsed 
backward onto the ice. Almost instantly, Corky let out a cry and spun around as if 
his shoulder had been propelled backward. He fell to the ice, writhing in pain. 
Rachel immediately forgot all about the printout in her hand, Ming, the meteorite, 
and the bizarre tunnel beneath the ice. She had just felt a small projectile graze her 
ear, barely missing her temple. Instinctively, she dropped to her knees, yanking 
Tolland down with her. 
Whats going on! Tolland screamed. 
A hailstorm was all Rachel could imagineballs of ice blowing down off the 
glacierand yet from the force with which Corky and Norah had just been hit, 
Rachel knew the hailstones would have to be moving at hundreds of miles an 
hour. Eerily, the sudden barrage of marble-sized objects seemed now to focus on 
Rachel and Tolland, pelting all around them, sending up plumes of exploding ice. 
Rachel rolled onto her stomach, dug her crampons toe spikes into the ice, and 
launched toward the only cover available. The sled. Tolland arrived a moment 
later, scrambling and hunkering down beside her. 
Tolland looked out at Norah and Corky unprotected on the ice. Pull them in with 
the tether! he yelled, grabbing the rope and trying to pull. 
But the tether was wrapped around the sled. 

Rachel stuffed the printout in the Velcro pocket of her Mark IX suit, and 
scrambled on all fours toward the sled, trying to untangle the rope from the sled 
runners. Tolland was right behind her. 
The hailstones suddenly rained down in a barrage against the sled, as if Mother 
Nature had abandoned Corky and Norah and was taking direct aim at Rachel and 
Tolland. One of the projectiles slammed into the top of the sled tarp, partially 
embedding itself, and then bounced over, landing on the sleeve of Rachels coat. 
When Rachel saw it, she froze. In an instant, the bewilderment she had been 
feeling turned to terror. These hailstones were man-made. The ball of ice on her 
sleeve was a flawlessly shaped spheroid the size of a large cherry. The surface was 
polished and smooth, marred only by a linear seam around the circumference, like 
an old-fashioned lead musket ball, machined in a press. The globular pellets were, 
without a doubt, man-made. 
Ice bullets 
As someone with military clearance, Rachel was well acquainted with the new 
experimental IM weaponryImprovised Munitionssnow rifles that 
compacted snow into ice pellets, desert rifles that melted sand into glass 
projectiles, water-based firearms that shot pulses of liquid water with such force 
that they could break bones. Improvised Munitions weaponry had an enormous 
advantage over conventional weapons because IM weapons used available 
resources and literally manufactured munitions on the spot, providing soldiers 
unlimited rounds without their having to carry heavy conventional bullets. The ice 
balls being fired at them now, Rachel knew, were being compressed on demand 
from snow fed into the butt of the rifle. 
As was often the case in the intelligence world, the more one knew, the more 
frightening a scenario became. This moment was no exception. Rachel would have 
preferred blissful ignorance, but her knowledge of IM weaponry instantly led her 
to a sole chilling conclusion: They were being attacked by some kind of U.S. 
Special Ops force, the only forces in the country currently cleared to use these 

experimental IM weapons in the field. 
The presence of a military covert operations unit brought with it a second, even 
more terrifying realization: The probability of surviving this attack was close to 
zero. 
The morbid thought was terminated as one of the ice pellets found an opening and 
came screaming through the wall of gear on the sled, colliding with her stomach. 
Even in her padded Mark IX suit, Rachel felt like an invisible prizefighter had just 
gut-punched her. Stars began to dance around the periphery of her vision, and she 
teetered backward, grabbing gear on the sled for balance. Michael Tolland 
dropped Norahs tether and lunged to support Rachel, but he arrived too late. 
Rachel fell backward, pulling a pile of equipment with her. She and Tolland 
tumbled to the ice in a pile of electronic apparatus. 
Theyrebullets, she gasped, the air momentarily crushed from her lungs. 
Run! 
50 
The Washington MetroRail subway now leaving Federal Triangle station could 
not speed away from the White House fast enough for Gabrielle Ashe. She sat 
rigid in a deserted corner of the train as darkened shapes tore past outside in a blur. 
Marjorie Tenchs big red envelope lay in Gabrielles lap, pressing down like a tenton 
weight. 
Ive got to talk to Sexton! she thought, the train accelerating now in the direction 
of Sextons office building. Immediately! 
Now, in the dim, shifting light of the train, Gabrielle felt like she was enduring 
some kind of hallucinogenic drug trip. Muted lights whipped by overhead like 

slow-motion discotheque strobes. The ponderous tunnel rose on all sides like a 
deepening canyon. 
Tell me this is not happening. 
She gazed down at the envelope on her lap. Unclasping the flap, she reached 
inside and pulled out one of the photos. The internal lights of the train flickered 
for a moment, the harsh glare illuminating a shocking imageSedgewick Sexton 
lying naked in his office, his gratified face turned perfectly toward the camera 
while Gabrielles dark form lay nude beside him. 
She shivered, rammed the photo back inside, and fumbled to reclasp the envelope. 
Its over. 
As soon as the train exited the tunnel and climbed onto the aboveground tracks 
near LEnfant Plaza, Gabrielle dug out her cellphone and called the senators 
private cellular number. His voice mail answered. Puzzled, she phoned the 
senators office. The secretary answered. 
Its Gabrielle. Is he in? 
The secretary sounded peeved. Where have you been? He was looking for you. 
I had a meeting that ran long. I need to talk to him right away. 
Youll have to wait till morning. Hes at Westbrooke. 
Westbrooke Place Luxury Apartments was the building where Sexton kept his 
D.C. residence. Hes not picking up his private line, Gabrielle said. 
He blocked off tonight as a P.E., the secretary reminded. He left early. 
Gabrielle scowled. Personal Event. In all the excitement, shed forgotten Sexton 
had scheduled himself a night alone at home. He was very particular about not 

being disturbed during his P.E. blocks. Bang on my door only if the building is on 
fire, he would say. Other than that, it can wait until morning. Gabrielle decided 
Sextons building was definitely on fire. I need you to reach him for me. 
Impossible. 
This is serious, I really 
No, I mean literally impossible. He left his pager on my desk on his way out and 
told me he was not to be disturbed all night. He was adamant. She paused. More 
so than usual. 
Shit. Okay, thanks. Gabrielle hung up. 
LEnfant Plaza, a recording announced in the subway car. Connection all 
stations. 
Closing her eyes, Gabrielle tried to clear her mind, but devastating images rushed 
inthe lurid photos of herself and the senatorthe pile of documents alleging 
Sexton was taking bribes. Gabrielle could still hear Tenchs raspy demands. Do 
the right thing. Sign the affidavit. Admit the affair. 
As the train screeched into the station, Gabrielle forced herself to imagine what 
the senator would do if the photos hit the presses. The first thing to pop in her 
mind both shocked and shamed her. 
Sexton would lie. 
Was this truly her first instinct regarding her candidate? 
Yes. He would liebrilliantly. 
If these photos hit the media without Gabrielles having admitted the affair, the 
senator would simply claim the photos were a cruel forgery. This was the age of 
digital photo editing; anyone who had ever been on-line had seen the flawlessly 

retouched spoof photographs of celebrities heads digitally melded onto other 
peoples bodies, often those of porn stars engaged in lewd acts. Gabrielle had 
already witnessed the senators ability to look into a television camera and lie 
convincingly about their affair; she had no doubt he could persuade the world 
these photos were a lame attempt to derail his career. Sexton would lash out with 
indignant outrage, perhaps even insinuate that the President himself had ordered 
the forgery. 
No wonder the White House hasnt gone public. The photos, Gabrielle realized, 
could backfire just like the initial drudge. As vivid as the pictures seemed, they 
were totally inconclusive. 
Gabrielle felt a sudden surge of hope. 
The White House cant prove any of this is real! 
Tenchs powerplay on Gabrielle had been ruthless in its simplicity: Admit your 
affair or watch Sexton go to jail. Suddenly it made perfect sense. The White 
House needed Gabrielle to admit the affair, or the photos were worthless. A 
sudden glimmer of confidence brightened her mood. 
As the train sat idling and the doors slid open, another distant door seemed to open 
in Gabrielles mind, revealing an abrupt and heartening possibility. 
Maybe everything Tench told me about the bribery was a lie. 
After all, what had Gabrielle really seen? Yet again, nothing conclusivesome 
Xeroxed bank documents, a grainy photo of Sexton in a garage. All of it 
potentially counterfeit. Tench cunningly could have showed Gabrielle bogus 
financial records in the same sitting as the genuine sex photos, hoping Gabrielle 
would accept the entire package as true. It was called authentication by 
association, and politicians used it all the time to sell dubious concepts. 
Sexton is innocent, Gabrielle told herself. The White House was desperate, and 
they had decided to take a wild gamble on scaring Gabrielle into going public 

about the affair. They needed Gabrielle to desert Sexton publiclyscandalously. 
Get out while you can, Tench had told her. You have until eight oclock tonight. 
The ultimate pressure sales job. All of it fits, she thought. 
Except one thing 
The only confusing piece of the puzzle was that Tench had been sending Gabrielle 
anti-NASA e-mails. This certainly suggested NASA really did want Sexton to 
solidify his anti-NASA stance so they could use it against him. Or did it? Gabrielle 
realized that even the e-mails had a perfectly logical explanation. 
What if the e-mails were not really from Tench? 
It was possible Tench caught a traitor on staff sending Gabrielle data, fired that 
person, and then stepped in and e-mailed the final message herself, calling 
Gabrielle in for a meeting. Tench could have pretended she leaked all the NASA 
data on purposeto set Gabrielle up. 
The subway hydraulics hissed now in LEnfant Plaza, the doors preparing to close. 
Gabrielle stared out at the platform, her mind racing. She had no idea if her 
suspicions were making any sense or if they were just wishful thinking, but 
whatever the hell was going on, she knew she had to talk to the senator right 
awayP.E. night or not. 
Clutching the envelope of photographs, Gabrielle hurried off the train just as the 
doors hissed shut. She had a new destination. 
Westbrooke Place Apartments. 
51 

Fight or flight. 
As a biologist, Tolland knew that vast physiological changes occurred when an 
organism sensed danger. Adrenaline flooded the cerebral cortex, jolting the heart 
rate and commanding the brain to make the oldest and most intuitive of all 
biological decisionswhether to do battle or flee. 
Tollands instinct told him to flee, and yet reason reminded him he was still 
tethered to Norah Mangor. There was nowhere to flee anyway. The only cover for 
miles was the habisphere, and the attackers, whoever the hell they were, had 
positioned themselves high on the glacier and cut off that option. Behind him, the 
wide open sheet of ice fanned out into a two-mile-long plain that terminated in a 
sheer drop to a frigid sea. Flight in that direction meant death by exposure. The 
practical barriers to fleeing notwithstanding, Tolland knew he could not possibly 
leave the others. Norah and Corky were still out in the open, tethered to Rachel 
and Tolland. 
Tolland stayed down near Rachel as the ice pellets continued to slam into the side 
of the toppled equipment sled. He pillaged the strewn contents, searching for a 
weapon, a flare gun, a radioanything. 
Run! Rachel yelled, her breathing still strained. 
Then, oddly, the hailstorm of ice bullets abruptly stopped. Even in the pounding 
wind, the night felt suddenly calmas if a storm had let up unexpectedly. 
It was then, peering cautiously around the sled, that Tolland witnessed one of the 
most chilling sights he had ever seen. 
Gliding effortlessly out of the darkened perimeter into the light, three ghostly 
figures emerged, coasting silently in on skis. The figures wore full white weather 
suits. They carried no ski poles but rather large rifles that looked like no guns 
Tolland had ever seen. Their skis were bizarre as well, futuristic and short, more 
like elongated Rollerblades than skis. 

Calmly, as if knowing they had already won this battle, the figures coasted to a 
stop beside their closest victimthe unconscious Norah Mangor. Tolland rose 
shakily to his knees and peered over the sled at the attackers. The visitors stared 
back at him through eerie electronic goggles. They were apparently uninterested. 
At least for the moment. 
Delta-One felt no remorse as he stared down at the woman lying unconscious on 
the ice before him. He had been trained to carry out orders, not to question 
motives. 
The woman was wearing a thick, black, thermal suit and had a welt on the side of 
her face. Her breathing was short and labored. One of the IM ice rifles had found 
its mark and knocked her unconscious. 
Now it was time to finish the job. 
As Delta-One knelt down beside the oblivious woman, his teammates trained their 
rifles on the other targetsone on the small, unconscious man lying on the ice 
nearby, and one on the overturned sled where the two other victims were hiding. 
Although his men easily could have moved in to finish the job, the remaining three 
victims were unarmed and had nowhere to run. Rushing to finish them all off at 
once was careless. Never disperse your focus unless absolutely necessary. Face 
one adversary at a time. Exactly as they had been trained, the Delta Force would 
kill these people one at a time. The magic, however, was that they would leave no 
trace to suggest how they had died. 
Crouched beside the unconscious woman, Delta-One removed his thermal gloves 
and scooped up a handful of snow. Packing the snow, he opened the womans 
mouth and began stuffing it down her throat. He filled her entire mouth, ramming 
the snow as deep as he could down her windpipe. She would be dead within three 
minutes. 

This technique, invented by the Russian mafia, was called the byelaya 
smertwhite death. This victim would suffocate long before the snow in her 
throat melted. Once dead, however, her body would stay warm long enough to 
dissolve the blockage. Even if foul play were suspected, no murder weapon or 
evidence of violence would be apparent immediately. Eventually someone might 
figure it out, but it would buy them time. The ice bullets would fade into the 
environment, buried in the snow, and the welt on this womans head would look 
like shed taken a nasty spill on the icenot surprising in these gale force winds. 
The other three people would be incapacitated and killed in much the same way. 
Then Delta-One would load all of them on the sled, drag them several hundred 
yards off course, reattached their belay lines and arrange the bodies. Hours from 
now, the four of them would be found frozen in the snow, apparent victims of 
overexposure and hypothermia. Those who discovered them would be puzzled 
what they were doing off course, but nobody would be surprised that they were 
dead. After all, their flares had burned out, the weather was perilous, and getting 
lost on the Milne Ice Shelf could bring death in a hurry. 
Delta-One had now finished packing snow down the womans throat. Before 
turning his attention to the others, Delta-One unhooked the womans belay 
harness. He could reconnect it later, but at the moment, he did not want the two 
people behind the sled getting ideas about pulling his victim to safety. 
Michael Tolland had just witnessed a murderous act more bizarre than his darkest 
mind could imagine. Having cut Norah Mangor free, the three attackers were 
turning their attention to Corky. 
Ive got to do something! 
Corky had come to and was moaning, trying to sit up, but one of the soldiers 
pushed him back down on his back, straddled him, and pinned Corkys arms to the 
ice by kneeling on them. Corky let out a cry of pain that was instantly swallowed 

up by the raging wind. 
In a kind of demented terror, Tolland tore through the scattered contents of the 
overturned sled. There must be something here! A weapon! Something! All he 
saw was diagnostic ice gear, most of it smashed beyond recognition by the ice 
pellets. Beside him, Rachel groggily tried to sit up, using her ice ax to prop herself 
up. RunMike 
Tolland eyed the ax that was strapped to Rachels wrist. It could be a weapon. Sort 
of. Tolland wondered what his chances were attacking three armed men with a 
tiny ax. 
Suicide. 
As Rachel rolled and sat up, Tolland spied something behind her. A bulky vinyl 
bag. Praying against fate that it contained a flare gun or radio, he clambered past 
her and grabbed the bag. Inside he found a large, neatly folded sheet of Mylar 
fabric. Worthless. Tolland had something similar on his research ship. It was a 
small weather balloon, designed to carry payloads of observational weather gear 
not much heavier than a personal computer. Norahs balloon would be no help 
here, particularly without a helium tank. 
With the growing sounds of Corkys struggle, Tolland felt a helpless sensation he 
had not felt in years. Total despair. Total loss. Like the clich of ones life passing 
before ones eyes before death, Tollands mind flashed unexpectedly through long 
forgotten childhood images. For an instant he was sailing in San Pedro, learning 
the age-old sailors pastime of spinnaker-flyinghanging on a knotted rope, 
suspended over the ocean, plunging laughing into the water, rising and falling like 
a kid hanging on a belfry rope, his fate determined by a billowing spinnaker sail 
and the whim of the ocean breeze. 
Tollands eyes instantly snapped back to the Mylar balloon in his hand, realizing 
that his mind had not been surrendering, but rather it had been trying to remind 
him of a solution! Spinnaker flying. 

Corky was still struggling against his captor as Tolland yanked open the protective 
bag around the balloon. Tolland had no illusions that this plan was anything other 
than a long shot, but he knew remaining here was certain death for all of them. He 
clutched the folded mass of Mylar. The payload clip warned: CAUTION: NOT FOR 
USE IN WINDS OVER 10 KNOTS. 
The hell with that! Gripping it hard to keep it from unfurling, Tolland clambered 
over to Rachel, who was propped on her side. He could see the confusion in her 
eyes as he nestled close, yelling, Hold this! 
Tolland handed Rachel the folded pad of fabric and then used his free hands to slip 
the balloons payload clasp through one of the carabiners on his harness. Then, 
rolling on his side, he slipped the clasp through one of Rachels carabiners as well. 
Tolland and Rachel were now one. 
Joined at the hip. 
From between them, the loose tether trailed off across the snow to the struggling 
Corkyand ten yards farther to the empty clip beside Norah Mangor. 
Norah is already gone, Tolland told himself. Nothing you can do. 
The attackers were crouched over Corkys writhing body now, packing a handful 
of snow, and preparing to stuff it down Corkys throat. Tolland knew they were 
almost out of time. 
Tolland grabbed the folded balloon from Rachel. The fabric was as light as tissue 
paperand virtually indestructible. Here goes nothing. Hold on! 
Mike? Rachel said. What 
Tolland hurled the pad of wadded Mylar into the air over their heads. The howling 
wind snatched it up and spread it out like a parachute in a hurricane. The sheath 
filled instantly, billowing open with a loud snap. 

Tolland felt a wrenching yank on his harness, and he knew in an instant he had 
grossly underestimated the power of the katabatic wind. Within a fraction of a 
second, he and Rachel were half airborne, being dragged down the glacier. A 
moment later, Tolland felt a jerk as his tether drew taut on Corky Marlinson. 
Twenty yards back, his terrified friend was yanked out from under his stunned 
attackers, sending one of them tumbling backward. Corky let out a blood-curdling 
scream as he too accelerated across the ice, barely missing the overturned sled, 
then fishtailing inward. A second rope trailed limp beside Corkythe rope that 
had been connected to Norah Mangor. 
Nothing you can do, Tolland told himself. 
Like a tangled mass of human marionettes, the three bodies skimmed down the 
glacier. Ice pellets went sailing by, but Tolland knew the attackers had missed 
their chance. Behind him, the white-clad soldiers faded away, shrinking to 
illuminated specks in the glow of the flares. 
Tolland now felt the ice ripping beneath his padded suit with relentless 
acceleration, and the relief at having escaped faded fast. Less than two miles 
directly ahead of them, the Milne Ice Shelf came to an abrupt end at a precipitous 
cliffand beyond ita hundred-foot drop to the lethal pounding surf of the 
Arctic Ocean. 
52 
Marjorie Tench was smiling as she made her way downstairs toward the White 
House Communications Office, the computerized broadcast facility that 
disseminated press releases formulated upstairs in the Communications Bullpen. 
The meeting with Gabrielle Ashe had gone well. Whether or not Gabrielle was 
scared enough to turn over an affidavit admitting the affair was uncertain, but it 

sure as hell was worth a try. 
Gabrielle would be smart to bail out on him, Tench thought. The poor girl had no 
idea just how hard Sexton was about to fall. 
In a few hours, the Presidents meteoric press conference was going to cut Sexton 
down at the knees. That was in the bank. Gabrielle Ashe, if she cooperated, would 
be the death blow that sent Sexton crawling off in shame. In the morning, Tench 
could release Gabrielles affidavit to the press along with footage of Sexton 
denying it. 
One-two punch. 
After all, politics was not just about winning the election, it was about winning 
decisivelyhaving the momentum to carry out ones vision. Historically, any 
president who squeaked into office on a narrow margin accomplished much less; 
he was weakened right out of the gate, and Congress never seemed to let him 
forget it. 
Ideally, the destruction of Senator Sextons campaign would be comprehensivea 
two-pronged attack sacking both his politics and his ethics. This strategy, known 
in Washington as the high-low, was stolen from the art of military warfare. 
Force the enemy to battle on two fronts. When a candidate possessed a piece of 
negative information about his opponent, he often waited until he had a second 
piece and went public with both simultaneously. A double-edged attack was 
always more effective than a single shot, particularly when the dual attack 
incorporated separate aspects of his campaignthe first against his politics, the 
second against his character. Rebuttal of a political attack took logic, while 
rebuttal of a character attack took passion; disputing both simultaneously was an 
almost impossible balancing act. 
Tonight, Senator Sexton would find himself scrambling to extract himself from 
the political nightmare of an astounding NASA triumph, and yet his plight would 
deepen considerably if he were forced to defend his NASA position while being 
called a liar by a prominent female member of his staff. 

Arriving now at the doorway of the Communications Office, Tench felt alive with 
the thrill of the fight. Politics was war. She took a deep breath and checked her 
watch. 6:15 P.M. The first shot was about to be fired. 
She entered. 
The Communications Office was small not for lack of room, but for lack of 
necessity. It was one of the most efficient mass communications stations in the 
world and employed a staff of only five people. At the moment, all five employees 
stood over their banks of electronic gear looking like swimmers poised for the 
starting gun. 
They are ready, Tench saw in their eager gazes. 
It always amazed her that this tiny office, given only two hours head start, could 
contact more than one third of the worlds civilized population. With electronic 
connections to literally tens of thousands of global news sourcesfrom the largest 
television conglomerates to the smallest hometown newspapersthe White House 
Communications Office could, at the touch of a few buttons, reach out and touch 
the world. 
Fax-broadcast computers churned press releases into the in-boxes of radio, 
television, print, and Internet media outlets from Maine to Moscow. Bulk e-mail 
programs blanketed on-line news wires. Telephone autodialers phoned thousands 
of media content managers and played recorded voice announcements. A breaking 
news Web page provided constant updates and preformatted content. The livefeed-
capable news sourcesCNN, NBC, ABC, CBS, foreign syndicateswould 
be assaulted from all angles and promised free, live television feeds. Whatever 
else these networks were airing would come to a screeching halt for an emergency 
presidential address. 
Full penetration. 
Like a general inspecting her troops, Tench strode in silence over to the copy desk 

and picked up the printout of the flash release that now sat loaded in all the 
transmission machines like cartridges in a shotgun. 
When Tench read it, she had to laugh quietly to herself. By usual standards, the 
release loaded for broadcast was heavy-handedmore of an advertisement than an 
announcementbut the President had ordered the Communications Office to pull 
out all the stops. And that they had. This text was perfectkeyword-rich and 
content light. A deadly combination. Even the news wires that used automated 
keyword-sniffer programs to sort their incoming mail would see multiple flags 
on this one: 
From: White House Communications Office 
Subject: Urgent Presidential Address 
The President of the United States will be holding an urgent press conference 
tonight at 8:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time from the White House briefing room. 
The topic of his announcement is currently classified. Live A/V feeds will be 
available via customary outlets. 
Laying the paper back down on the desk, Marjorie Tench looked around the 
Communications Office and gave the staff an impressed nod. They looked eager. 
Lighting a cigarette, she puffed a moment, letting the anticipation build. Finally, 
she grinned. Ladies and gentlemen. Start your engines. 
53 
All logical reasoning had evaporated from Rachel Sextons mind. She held no 
thoughts for the meteorite, the mysterious GPR printout in her pocket, Ming, the 
horrific attack on the ice sheet. There was one matter at hand. 

Survival. 
The ice skimmed by in a blur beneath her like an endless, sleek highway. Whether 
her body was numb with fear or simply cocooned by her protective suit, Rachel 
did not know, but she felt no pain. She felt nothing. 
Yet. 
Lying on her side, attached to Tolland at the waist, Rachel lay face-to-face with 
him in an awkward embrace. Somewhere ahead of them, the balloon billowed, fat 
with wind, like a parachute on the back of a dragster. Corky trailed behind, 
swerving wildly like a tractor trailer out of control. The flare marking the spot 
where they had been attacked had all but disappeared in the distance. 
The hissing of their nylon Mark IX suits on the ice grew higher and higher in pitch 
as they continued to accelerate. She had no idea how fast they were going now, 
but the wind was at least sixty miles an hour, and the frictionless runway beneath 
them seemed to be racing by faster and faster with every passing second. The 
impervious Mylar balloon apparently had no intentions of tearing or relinquishing 
its hold. 
We need to release, she thought. They were racing away from one deadly 
forcedirectly toward another. The ocean is probably less than a mile ahead now! 
The thought of icy water brought back terrifying memories. 
The wind gusted harder, and their speed increased. Somewhere behind them 
Corky let out a scream of terror. At this speed, Rachel knew they had only a few 
minutes before they were dragged out over the cliff into the frigid ocean. 
Tolland was apparently having similar thoughts because he was now fighting with 
the payload clasp attached to their bodies. 
I cant unhook us! he yelled. Theres too much tension! 

Rachel hoped a momentary lull in the wind might give Tolland some slack, but the 
katabatic pulled on with relentless uniformity. Trying to help, Rachel twisted her 
body and rammed the toe cleat of one of her crampons into the ice, sending a 
rooster tail of ice shards into the air. Their velocity slowed ever so slightly. 
Now! she yelled, lifting her foot. 
For an instant the payload line on the balloon slackened slightly. Tolland yanked 
down, trying to take advantage of the loose line to maneuver the payload clip out 
of their carabiners. Not even close. 
Again! he yelled. 
This time they both twisted against one another and rammed their toe prongs into 
the ice, sending a double plume of ice into the air. This slowed the contraption 
more perceptibly. 
Now! 
On Tollands cue, they both let up. As the balloon surged forward again, Tolland 
rammed his thumb into the carabiner latch and twisted the hook, trying to release 
the clasp. Although closer this time, he still needed more slack. The carabiners, 
Norah had bragged, were first-rate, Joker safety clips, specifically crafted with an 
extra loop in the metal so they would never release if there were any tension on 
them at all. 
Killed by safety clips, Rachel thought, not finding the irony the least bit amusing. 
One more time! Tolland yelled. 
Mustering all her energy and hope, Rachel twisted as far as she could and rammed 
both of her toes into the ice. Arching her back, she tried to lift all her weight onto 
her toes. Tolland followed her lead until they were both angled roughly on their 
stomachs, the connection at their belt straining their harnesses. Tolland rammed 
his toes down and Rachel arched farther. The vibrations sent shock waves up her 

legs. She felt like her ankles were going to break. 
Hold ithold it Tolland contorted himself to release the Joker clip as their 
speed decreased. Almost 
Rachels crampons snapped. The metal cleats tore off of her boots and went 
tumbling backward into the night, bouncing over Corky. The balloon immediately 
lurched forward, sending Rachel and Tolland fishtailing to one side. Tolland lost 
his grasp on the clip. 
Shit! 
The Mylar balloon, as if angered at having been momentarily restrained, lurched 
forward now, pulling even harder, dragging them down the glacier toward the sea. 
Rachel knew they were closing fast on the cliff, although they faced danger even 
before the hundred-foot drop into the Arctic Ocean. Three huge snow berms stood 
in their path. Even protected by the padding in the Mark IX suits, the experience 
of launching at high speed up and over the snow mounds filled her with terror. 
Fighting in desperation with their harnesses, Rachel tried to find a way to release 
the balloon. It was then that she heard the rhythmic ticking on the icethe rapidfire 
staccato of lightweight metal on the sheet of bare ice. 
The ax. 
In her fear, she had entirely forgotten the ice ax attached to the rip cord on her 
belt. The lightweight aluminum tool was bouncing along beside her leg. She 
looked up at the payload cable on the balloon. Thick, heavy-duty braided nylon. 
Reaching down, she fumbled for the bouncing ax. She grasped the handle and 
pulled it toward her, stretching the elastic rip cord. Still on her side, Rachel 
struggled to raise her arms over her head, placing the axs serrated edge against 
the thick cord. Awkwardly, she began sawing the taut cable. 
Yes! Tolland yelled, fumbling now for his own ax. 

Sliding on her side, Rachel was stretched out, her arms above her, sawing at the 
taut cable. The line was strong, and the individual nylon strands were fraying 
slowly. Tolland gripped his own ax, twisted, raised his arms over his head, and 
tried to saw from underneath in the same spot. Their banana blades clicked 
together as they worked in tandem like lumberjacks. The rope began fraying on 
both sides now. 
Were going to do it, Rachel thought. This thing is going to break! 
Suddenly, the silver bubble of Mylar before them swooped upward as if it had hit 
an updraft. Rachel realized to her horror that it was simply following the contour 
of the land. 
They had arrived. 
The berms. 
The wall of white loomed only an instant before they were on it. The blow to 
Rachels side as they hit the incline drove the wind from her lungs and wrenched 
the ax from her hand. Like a tangled water-skier being dragged up over a jump, 
Rachel felt her body dragged up the face of the berm and launched. She and 
Tolland were suddenly catapulted in a dizzying upward snarl. The trough between 
the berms spread out far beneath them, but the frayed payload cable held fast, 
lifting their accelerated bodies upward, carrying them clear out over the first 
trough. For an instant, she glimpsed what lay ahead. Two more bermsa short 
plateauand then the drop-off to the sea. 
As if to give a voice to Rachels own dumbstruck terror, the high-pitched scream 
of Corky Marlinson cut through the air. Somewhere behind them, he sailed up 
over the first berm. All three of them went airborne, the balloon clawing upward 
like a wild animal trying to break its captors chains. 
Suddenly, like a gunshot in the night, a sudden snap echoed overhead. The frayed 
rope gave way, and the tattered end recoiled in Rachels face. Instantly, they were 
falling. Somewhere overhead the Mylar balloon billowed out of controlspiraling 

out to sea. 
Tangled in carabiners and harnesses, Rachel and Tolland tumbled back toward 
earth. As the white mound of the second berm rose up toward them, Rachel braced 
for impact. Barely clearing the top of the second berm, they crashed down the far 
side, the blow partially cushioned by their suits and the descending contour of the 
berm. As the world around her turned into a blur of arms and legs and ice, Rachel 
felt herself rocketing down the incline out onto the central ice trough. Instinctively 
she spread her arms and legs, trying to slow down before they hit the next berm. 
She felt them slowing, but only slightly, and it seemed only seconds before she 
and Tolland were sliding back up an incline. At the top, there was another instant 
of weightlessness as they cleared the crest. Then, filled with terror, Rachel felt 
them begin their dead slide down the other side and out onto the final plateauthe 
last eighty feet of the Milne Glacier. 
As they skidded toward the cliff, Rachel could feel the drag of Corky on the tether, 
and she knew they were all slowing down. She knew it was too little too late. The 
end of the glacier raced toward them, and Rachel let out a helpless scream. 
Then it happened. 
The edge of the ice slid out from underneath them. The last thing Rachel 
remembered was falling. 
54 
The Westbrooke Place Apartments are located at 2201 N Street NW and promote 
themselves as one of the few unquestionably correct addresses in Washington. 
Gabrielle hurried through the gilded revolving door into the marble lobby, where a 
deafening waterfall reverberated. 

The doorman at the front desk looked surprised to see her. Ms. Ashe? I didnt 
know you were stopping by tonight. 
Im running late. Gabrielle quickly signed in. The clock overhead read 6:22 P.M. 
The doorman scratched his head. The senator gave me a list, but you werent 
They always forget the people who help them most. She gave a harried smile 
and strode past him toward the elevator. 
Now the doorman looked uneasy. I better call up. 
Thanks, Gabrielle said, as she boarded the elevator and headed up. The senators 
phone is off the hook. 
Riding the elevator to the ninth floor, Gabrielle exited and made her way down the 
elegant hallway. At the end, outside Sextons doorway, she could see one of his 
bulky personal safety escortsglorified bodyguardssitting in the hall. He 
looked bored. Gabrielle was surprised to see security on duty, although apparently 
not as surprised as the guard was to see her. He jumped to his feet as she 
approached. 
I know, Gabrielle called out, still halfway down the hall. Its a P.E. night. He 
doesnt want to be disturbed. 
The guard nodded emphatically. He gave me very strict orders that no visitors 
Its an emergency. 
The guard physically blocked the doorway. Hes in a private meeting. 
Really? Gabrielle pulled the red envelope from under her arm. She flashed the 
White House seal in the mans face. I was just in the Oval Office. I need to give 
the senator this information. Whatever old pals hes schmoozing tonight are going 
to have to do without him for a few minutes. Now, let me in. 

The guard withered slightly at the sight of the White House seal on the envelope. 
Dont make me open this, Gabrielle thought. 
Leave the folder, he said. Ill take it into him. 
The hell you will. I have direct orders from the White House to hand-deliver this. 
If I dont talk to him immediately, we can all start looking for jobs tomorrow 
morning. Do you understand? 
The guard looked deeply conflicted, and Gabrielle sensed the senator had indeed 
been unusually adamant tonight about having no visitors. She moved in for the 
kill. Holding the White House envelope directly in his face, Gabrielle lowered her 
voice to a whisper and uttered the six words all Washington security personnel 
feared most. 
You do not understand the situation. 
Security personnel for politicians never understood the situation, and they hated 
that fact. They were hired guns, kept in the dark, never sure whether to stand firm 
in their orders or risk losing their jobs by mule-headedly ignoring some obvious 
crisis. 
The guard swallowed hard, eyeing the White House envelope again. Okay, but 
Im telling the senator you demanded to be let in. 
He unlocked the door, and Gabrielle pushed past him before he changed his mind. 
She entered the apartment and quietly closed the door behind her, relocking it. 
Now inside the foyer, Gabrielle could hear muffled voices in Sextons den down 
the hallmens voices. Tonights P.E. was obviously not the private meeting 
implied by Sextons earlier call. 
As Gabrielle moved down the hall toward the den, she passed an open closet 
where a half dozen expensive mens coats hung insidedistinctive wool and 

tweed. Several briefcases sat on the floor. Apparently work stayed in the hall 
tonight. Gabrielle would have walked right past the cases except that one of the 
briefcases caught her eye. The nameplate bore a distinctive company logo. A 
bright red rocket. 
She paused, kneeling down to read it: 
SPACE AMERICA, INC. 
Puzzled, she examined the other briefcases. 
BEAL AEROSPACE. MICROCOSM, INC. ROTARY ROCKET COMPANY. KISTLER 
AEROSPACE. 
Marjorie Tenchs raspy voice echoed in her mind. Are you aware that Sexton is 
accepting bribes from private aerospace companies? 
Gabrielles pulse began racing as she gazed down the darkened hallway toward the 
archway that led into the senators den. She knew she should speak up, announce 
her presence, and yet she felt herself inching quietly forward. She moved to within 
a few feet of the archway and stood soundlessly in the shadowslistening to the 
conversation beyond. 
55 
While Delta-Three stayed behind to collect Norah Mangors body and the sled, the 
other two soldiers accelerated down the glacier after their quarry. 
On their feet they wore ElektroTreadpowered skis. Modeled after the consumer 
Fast Trax motorized skis, the classified ElektroTreads were essentially snow skis 
with miniaturized tank treads affixedlike snowmobiles worn on the feet. Speed 

was controlled by pushing the tips of the index finger and thumb together, 
compressing two pressure plates inside the right-hand glove. A powerful gel 
battery was molded around the foot, doubling as insulation and allowing the skis 
to run silently. Ingeniously, the kinetic energy generated by gravity and the 
spinning treads as the wearer glided down a hill was automatically harvested to 
recharge the batteries for the next incline. 
Keeping the wind at his back, Delta-One crouched low, skimming seaward as he 
surveyed the glacier before him. His night vision system was a far cry from the 
Patriot model used by the Marines. Delta-One was looking through a hands-free 
face mount with a 40 x 90 mm six-element lens, three-element Magnification 
Doubler, and Super Long Range IR. The world outside appeared in a translucent 
tint of cool blue, rather than the usual greenthe color scheme especially 
designed for highly reflective terrains like the Arctic. 
As he approached the first berm, Delta-Ones goggles revealed several bright 
stripes of freshly disturbed snow, rising up and over the berm like a neon arrow in 
the night. Apparently the three escapees had either not thought to unhook their 
makeshift sail or had been unable to. Either way, if they had not released by the 
final berm, they were now somewhere out in the ocean. Delta-One knew his 
quarrys protective clothing would lengthen the usual life expectancy in the water, 
but the relentless offshore currents would drag them out to sea. Drowning would 
be inevitable. 
Despite his confidence, Delta-One had been trained never to assume. He needed to 
see bodies. Crouching low, he pressed his fingers together and accelerated up the 
first incline. 
   
Michael Tolland lay motionless, taking stock of his bruises. He was battered, but 
he sensed no broken bones. He had little doubt the gel-filled Mark IX had saved 
him any substantial trauma. As he opened his eyes, his thoughts were slow to 
focus. Everything seemed softer herequieter. The wind still howled, but with 

less ferocity. 
We went over the edgedidnt we? 
Focusing, Tolland found he was lying on ice, draped across Rachel Sexton, almost 
at right angles, their locked carabiners twisted. He could feel her breathing beneath 
him, but he could not see her face. He rolled off her, his muscles barely 
responding. 
Rachel? Tolland wasnt sure if his lips were making sound or not. 
Tolland recalled the final seconds of their harrowing ridethe upward drag of the 
balloon, the payload cable snapping, their bodies plummeting down the far side of 
the berm, sliding up and over the final mound, skimming toward the edgethe ice 
running out. Tolland and Rachel had fallen, but the fall had been oddly short. 
Rather than the expected plunge to the sea, they had fallen only ten feet or so 
before hitting another slab of ice and sliding to a stop with the dead weight of 
Corky in tow. 
Now, raising his head, Tolland looked toward the sea. Not far away, the ice ended 
in a sheer cliff, beyond which he could hear the sounds of the ocean. Looking back 
up the glacier, Tolland strained to see into the night. Twenty yards back, his eyes 
met a high wall of ice, which seemed to hang above them. It was then that he 
realized what had happened. Somehow they had slid off the main glacier onto a 
lower terrace of ice. This section was flat, as large as a hockey rink, and had 
partially collapsedpreparing to cleave off into the ocean at any moment. 
Ice calving, Tolland thought, eyeing the precarious platform of ice on which he 
was now lying. It was a broad square slab that hung off the glacier like a colossal 
balcony, surrounded on three sides by precipices to the ocean. The sheet of ice was 
attached to the glacier only at its back, and Tolland could see the connection was 
anything but permanent. The boundary where the lower terrace clung to the Milne 
Ice Shelf was marked by a gaping pressure fissure almost four feet across. Gravity 
was well on its way to winning this battle. 

Almost more frightening than seeing the fissure was Tollands seeing the 
motionless body of Corky Marlinson crumpled on the ice. Corky lay ten yards 
away at the end of a taut tether attached to them. 
Tolland tried to stand up, but he was still attached to Rachel. Repositioning 
himself, he began detaching their interlocking carabiners. 
Rachel looked weak as she tried to sit up. We didntgo over? Her voice was 
bewildered. 
We fell onto a lower block of ice, Tolland said, finally unfastening himself from 
her. Ive got to help Corky. 
Painfully, Tolland attempted to stand, but his legs felt feeble. He grabbed the 
tether and heaved. Corky began sliding toward them across the ice. After a dozen 
or so pulls, Corky was lying on the ice a few feet away. 
Corky Marlinson looked beaten. Hed lost his goggles, suffered a bad cut on his 
cheek, and his nose was bleeding. Tollands worries that Corky might be dead 
were quickly allayed when Corky rolled over and looked at Tolland with an angry 
glare. 
Jesus, he stammered. What the hell was that little trick! 
Tolland felt a wave of relief. 
Rachel sat up now, wincing. She looked around. We need toget off of here. 
This block of ice looks like its about to fall. 
Tolland couldnt have agreed more. The only question was how. 
They had no time to consider a solution. A familiar high-pitched whir became 
audible above them on the glacier. Tollands gaze shot up to see two white-clad 
figures ski effortlessly up onto the edge and stop in unison. The two men stood 
there a moment, peering down at their battered prey like chess masters savoring 

checkmate before the final kill. 
Delta-One was surprised to see the three escapees alive. He knew, however, this 
was a temporary condition. They had fallen onto a section of the glacier that had 
already begun its inevitable plunge to the sea. This quarry could be disabled and 
killed in the same manner as the other woman, but a far cleaner solution had just 
presented itself. A way in which no bodies would ever be found. 
Gazing downward over the lip, Delta-One focused on the gaping crevasse that had 
begun to spread like a wedge between the ice shelf and the clinging block of ice. 
The section of ice on which the three fugitives sat was dangerously 
perchedready to break away and fall into the ocean any day now. 
Why not today 
Here on the ice shelf, the night was rocked every few hours by deafening 
boomsthe sound of ice cracking off parts of the glacier and plummeting into the 
ocean. Who would take notice? 
Feeling the familiar warm rush of adrenaline that accompanied the preparation for 
a kill, Delta-One reached in his supply pack and pulled out a heavy, lemon-shaped 
object. Standard issue for military assault teams, the object was called a flashbang
a nonlethal concussion grenade that temporarily disoriented an enemy by 
generating a blinding flash and deafening concussion wave. Tonight, however, 
Delta-One knew this flash-bang would most certainly be lethal. 
He positioned himself near the edge and wondered how far the crevasse descended 
before tapering to a close. Twenty feet? Fifty feet? He knew it didnt matter. His 
plan would be effective regardless. 
With calm bred from the performance of countless executions, Delta-One dialed a 
ten-second delay into the grenades screw-dial, slid out the pin, and threw the 
grenade down into the chasm. The bomb plummeted into the darkness and 

disappeared. 
Then Delta-One and his partner cleared back up onto the top of the berm and 
waited. This would be a sight to behold. 
Even in her delirious state of mind, Rachel Sexton had a very good idea what the 
attackers had just dropped into the crevasse. Whether Michael Tolland also knew 
or whether he was reading the fear in her eyes was unclear, but she saw him go 
pale, shooting a horrified glance down at the mammoth slab of ice on which they 
were stranded, clearly realizing the inevitable. 
Like a storm cloud lit by an internal flash of lightning, the ice beneath Rachel 
illuminated from within. The eerie white translucence shot out in all directions. 
For a hundred yards around them, the glacier flashed white. The concussion came 
next. Not a rumble like an earthquake, but a deafening shock wave of gut-churning 
force. Rachel felt the impact tearing up through the ice into her body. 
Instantly, as if a wedge had been driven between the ice shelf and the block of ice 
supporting them, the cliff began to shear off with a sickening crack. Rachels eyes 
locked with Tollands in a freeze-frame of terror. Corky let out a scream nearby. 
The bottom dropped out. 
Rachel felt weightless for an instant, hovering over the multimillion-pound block 
of ice. Then they were riding the iceberg downplummeting into the frigid sea. 
56 
The deafening grating of ice against ice assaulted Rachels ears as the massive 
slab slid down the face of the Milne Ice Shelf, sending towering plumes of spray 
into the air. As the slab splashed downward, it slowed, and Rachels previously 

weightless body crashed down onto the top of the ice. Tolland and Corky landed 
hard nearby. 
As the blocks downward momentum plunged it deeper into the sea, Rachel could 
see the foaming surface of the ocean racing upward with a kind of taunting 
deceleration, like the ground beneath a bungee-jumper whose cord was a few feet 
too long. Risingrisingand then it was there. Her childhood nightmare was 
back. The icethe waterthe darkness. The dread was almost primal. 
The top of the slab slipped below the waterline, and the frigid Arctic Ocean 
poured over the edges in a torrent. As the ocean rushed in all around her, Rachel 
felt herself sucked under. The bare skin on her face tightened and burned as the 
saltwater hit. The flooring of ice disappeared beneath her, and Rachel fought her 
way back to the surface, buoyed by the gel in her suit. She took in a mouthful of 
saltwater, sputtering to the surface. She could see the others floundering nearby, 
all of them tangled in tethers. Just as Rachel righted herself, Tolland yelled out. 
Its coming back up! 
As his words echoed above the tumult, Rachel felt an eerie upwelling in the water 
beneath her. Like a massive locomotive straining to reverse direction, the slab of 
ice had groaned to a stop underwater and was now beginning its ascent directly 
beneath them. Fathoms below, a sickening low frequency rumble resonated 
upward through the water as the gigantic submerged sheet began scraping its way 
back up the face of the glacier. 
The slab rose fast, accelerating as it came, swooping up from the darkness. Rachel 
felt herself rising. The ocean roiled all around as the ice met her body. She 
scrambled in vain, trying to find her balance as the ice propelled her skyward 
along with millions of gallons of seawater. Buoying upward, the giant sheet 
bobbed above the surface, heaving and teetering, looking for its center of gravity. 
Rachel found herself scrambling in waist-deep water across the enormous, flat 
expanse. As the water began pouring off the surface, the current swallowed Rachel 
and dragged her toward the edge. Sliding, splayed flat on her stomach, Rachel 

could see the edge looming fast. 
Hold on! Rachels mothers voice was calling the same way it had when Rachel 
was just a child floundering beneath the icy pond. Hold on! Dont go under! 
The wrenching yank on her harness expelled what little air Rachel had left in her 
lungs. She jerked to a dead stop only yards from the edge. The motion spun her in 
place. Ten yards away, she could see Corkys limp body, still tethered to her, also 
jolting to a stop. They had been flowing off the sheet in opposite directions and his 
momentum had stopped her. As the water ran off and grew more shallow, another 
dark form appeared over near Corky. He was on his hands and knees, grasping 
Corkys tether and vomiting saltwater. 
Michael Tolland. 
As the last of the wake drained past her and flowed off the iceberg, Rachel lay in 
terrified silence, listening to the sounds of the ocean. Then, feeling the onset of 
deadly cold, she dragged herself onto her hands and knees. The berg was still 
bobbing back and forth, like a giant ice cube. Delirious and in pain, she crawled 
back toward the others. 
High above on the glacier, Delta-One peered through his night-vision goggles at 
the water churning around the Arctic Oceans newest tabular iceberg. Although he 
saw no bodies in the water, he was not surprised. The ocean was dark, and his 
quarrys weather suits and skullcaps were black. 
As he passed his gaze across the surface of the enormous floating sheet of ice, he 
had a hard time keeping it in focus. It was receding quickly, already heading out to 
sea in the strong offshore currents. He was about to turn his gaze back to the sea 
when he saw something unexpected. Three specks of black on the ice. Are those 
bodies? Delta-One tried to bring them into focus. 
See something? Delta-Two asked. 
Delta-One said nothing, focusing in with his magnifier. In the pale tint of the 

iceberg, he was stunned to see three human forms huddled motionless on the 
island of ice. Whether they were alive or dead, Delta-One had no idea. It hardly 
mattered. If they were alive, even in weather suits, theyd be dead within the hour; 
they were wet, a storm was coming in, and they were drifting seaward into one of 
the most deadly oceans on the planet. Their bodies would never be found. 
Just shadows, Delta-One said, turning from the cliff. Lets get back to base. 
57 
Senator Sedgewick Sexton set his snifter of Courvoisier on the mantelpiece of his 
Westbrook apartment and stoked the fire for several moments, gathering his 
thoughts. The six men in the den with him sat in silence nowwaiting. The small 
talk was over. It was time for Senator Sexton to make his pitch. They knew it. He 
knew it. 
Politics was sales. 
Establish trust. Let them know you understand their problems. 
As you may know, Sexton said, turning toward them, over the past months, I 
have met with many men in your same position. He smiled and sat down, joining 
them on their level. You are the only ones I have ever brought into my home. 
You are extraordinary men, and I am honored to meet you. 
Sexton folded his hands and let his eyes circle the room, making personal contact 
with each of his guests. Then he focused in on his first markthe heavyset man in 
the cowboy hat. 
Space Industries of Houston, Sexton said. Im glad you came. 

The Texan grunted. I hate this town. 
I dont blame you. Washington has been unfair to you. 
The Texan stared out from beneath the rim of his hat but said nothing. 
Twelve years back, Sexton began, you made an offer to the U.S. government. 
You proposed to build them a U.S. space station for a mere five billion dollars. 
Yeah, I did. I still have the blueprints. 
And yet NASA convinced the government that a U.S. space station should be a 
NASA project. 
Right. NASA started building almost a decade ago. 
A decade. And not only is the NASA space station not yet fully operational, but 
the project so far has cost twenty times your bid. As an American taxpayer, I am 
sickened. 
A grumble of agreement circled the room. Sexton let his eyes move, reconnecting 
with the group. 
I am well aware, the senator said, addressing everyone now, that several of 
your companies have offered to launch private space shuttles for as little as fifty 
million dollars per flight. 
More nods. 
And yet NASA undercuts you by charging only thirty-eight million dollars per 
flighteven though their actual per flight cost is over one hundred and fifty 
million dollars! 
Its how they keep us out of space, one of the men said. The private sector 
cannot possibly compete with a company that can afford to run shuttle flights at a 

four hundred percent loss and still stay in business. 
Nor should you have to, Sexton said. 
Nods all around. 
Sexton turned now to the austere entrepreneur beside him, a man whose file 
Sexton had read with interest. Like many of the entrepreneurs funding Sextons 
campaign, this man was a former military engineer who had become disillusioned 
with low wages and government bureaucracy and had abandoned his military post 
to seek his fortune in aerospace. 
Kistler Aerospace, Sexton said, shaking his head in despair. Your company has 
designed and manufactured a rocket that can launch payloads for as little as two 
thousand dollars per pound compared to NASAs costs of ten thousand dollars per 
pound. Sexton paused for effect. And yet you have no clients. 
Why would I have any clients? the man replied. Last week NASA undercut us 
by charging Motorola only eight hundred and twelve dollars per pound to launch a 
telecomm satellite. The government launched that satellite at a nine hundred 
percent loss! 
Sexton nodded. Taxpayers were unwittingly subsidizing an agency that was ten 
times less efficient than its competition. It has become painfully clear, he said, 
his voice darkening, that NASA is working very hard to stifle competition in 
space. They crowd out private aerospace businesses by pricing services below 
market value. 
Its the Wal-Marting of space, the Texan said. 
Damn good analogy, Sexton thought. Ill have to remember that. Wal-Mart was 
notorious for moving into a new territory, selling products below market value, 
and driving all local competition out of business. 
Im goddamned sick and tired, the Texan said, of having to pay millions in 

business taxes so Uncle Sam can use that money to steal my clients! 
I hear you, Sexton said. I understand. 
Its the lack of corporate sponsorships thats killing Rotary Rocket, a sharply 
dressed man said. The laws against sponsorship are criminal! 
I couldnt agree more. Sexton had been shocked to learn that another way 
NASA entrenched its monopoly of space was by passing federal mandates 
banning advertisements on space vehicles. Instead of allowing private companies 
to secure funding through corporate sponsorships and advertising logosthe way, 
for example, professional race car drivers didspace vehicles could only display 
the words USA and the company name. In a country that spent $185 billion a year 
on advertising, not one advertising dollar ever found its way into the coffers of 
private space companies. 
Its robbery, one of the men snapped. My company hopes to stay in business 
long enough to launch the countrys first tourist-shuttle prototype next May. We 
expect enormous press coverage. The Nike Corporation just offered us seven 
million in sponsorship dollars to paint the Nike swoosh and Just do it! on the 
side of the shuttle. Pepsi offered us twice that for Pepsi: The choice of a new 
generation. But according to federal law, if our shuttle displays advertising, we 
are prohibited from launching it! 
Thats right, Senator Sexton said. And if elected, I will work to abolish that 
antisponsorship legislation. That is a promise. Space should be open for 
advertising the way every square inch of earth is open to advertising. 
Sexton gazed out now at his audience, his eyes locking in, his voice growing 
solemn. We all need to be aware, however, that the biggest obstacle to 
privatization of NASA is not laws, but rather, it is public perception. Most 
Americans still hold a romanticized view of the American space program. They 
still believe NASA is a necessary government agency. 
Its those goddamned Hollywood movies! one man said. How many NASA

saves-the-world-from-a-killer-asteroid movies can Hollywood make, for Christs 
sake? Its propaganda! 
The plethora of NASA movies coming out of Hollywood, Sexton knew, was 
simply a matter of economics. Following the wildly popular movie Top Guna 
Tom Cruise jet pilot blockbuster that played like a two-hour advertisement for the 
U.S. NavyNASA realized the true potential of Hollywood as a public relations 
powerhouse. NASA quietly began offering film companies free filming access to 
all of NASAs dramatic facilitieslaunchpads, mission control, training facilities. 
Producers, who were accustomed to paying enormous on-site licensing fees when 
they filmed anywhere else, jumped at the opportunity to save millions in budget 
costs by making NASA thrillers on free sets. Of course, Hollywood only got 
access if NASA approved the script. 
Public brainwashing, a Hispanic grunted. The movies arent half as bad as the 
publicity stunts. Sending a senior citizen into space? And now NASA is planning 
an all-female shuttle crew? All for publicity! 
Sexton sighed, his tone turning tragic. True, and I know I dont have to remind 
you what happened back in the eighties when the Department of Education was 
bankrupt and cited NASA as wasting millions that could be spent on education. 
NASA devised a PR stunt to prove NASA was education-friendly. They sent a 
public school teacher into space. Sexton paused. You all remember Christa 
McAuliffe. 
The room fell silent. 
Gentlemen, Sexton said, stopping dramatically in front of the fire. I believe it is 
time Americans understood the truth, for the good of all of our futures. Its time 
Americans understand that NASA is not leading us skyward, but rather is stifling 
space exploration. Space is no different than any other industry, and keeping the 
private sector grounded verges on a criminal act. Consider the computer industry, 
in which we see such an explosion of progress that we can barely keep up from 
week to week! Why? Because the computer industry is a free-market system: It 

rewards efficiency and vision with profits. Imagine if the computer industry were 
government-run? We would still be in the dark ages. Were stagnating in space. 
We should put space exploration into the hands of the private sector where it 
belongs. Americans would be stunned by the growth, jobs, and realized dreams. I 
believe we should let the free-market system spur us to new heights in space. If 
elected, I will make it my personal mission to unlock the doors to the final frontier 
and let them swing wide open. 
Sexton lifted his snifter of cognac. 
My friends, you came here tonight to decide if I am someone worthy of your 
trust. I hope I am on the way to earning it. In the same way it takes investors to 
build a company, it takes investors to build a presidency. In the same way 
corporate stockholders expect returns, you as political investors expect returns. 
My message to you tonight is simple: Invest in me, and I will never forget you. 
Ever. Our missions are one and the same. 
Sexton extended his glass toward them in a toast. 
With your help, my friends, soon I will be in the White Houseand you will all 
be launching your dreams. 
Only fifteen feet away, Gabrielle Ashe stood in the shadows, rigid. From the den 
came the harmonious clink of crystal snifters and the crackle of the fire. 
58 
In a panic, the young NASA technician dashed through the habisphere. Something 
terrible has happened! He found Administrator Ekstrom alone near the press area. 

Sir, the technician gasped, running up. Theres been an accident! 
Ekstrom turned, looking distant, as if his thoughts were already deeply troubled 
with other matters. What did you say? An accident? Where? 
In the extraction pit. A body just floated up. Dr. Wailee Ming. 
Ekstroms face was blank. Dr. Ming? But 
We pulled him out, but it was too late. Hes dead. 
For Christs sake. How long has he been in there? 
We think about an hour. It looks like he fell in, sank to the bottom, but when his 
body bloated, he floated up again. 
Ekstroms reddish skin turned crimson. Goddamn it! Who else knows about 
this? 
Nobody, sir. Only two of us. We fished him out, but we thought we better tell 
you before 
You did the right thing. Ekstrom exhaled a weighty sigh. Stow Dr. Mings 
body immediately. Say nothing. 
The technician felt perplexed. But, sir, I 
Ekstrom put a large hand on the mans shoulder. Listen to me carefully. This is a 
tragic accident, one I deeply regret. Of course I will deal with it appropriately 
when the time comes. Now, however, is not the time. 
You want me to hide his body? 
Ekstroms cold Nordic eyes bore down. Think about it. We could tell everyone, 
but what would that accomplish? Were about an hour off from this press 

conference. Announcing that weve had a fatal accident would overshadow the 
discovery and have a devastating effect on morale. Dr. Ming made a careless 
mistake; I have no intention of making NASA pay for it. These civilian scientists 
have taken enough of the spotlight without my letting one of their slipshod errors 
cast a shadow over our public moment of glory. Dr. Mings accident remains a 
secret until after the press conference. Do you understand? 
The man nodded, pale. Ill stow his body. 
59 
Michael Tolland had been at sea enough times to know the ocean took victims 
without remorse or hesitation. As he lay in exhaustion on the expansive sheet of 
ice, he could just make out the ghostly outline of the towering Milne Ice Shelf 
receding in the distance. He knew the powerful Arctic current flowing off the 
Elizabethan Islands spiraled in an enormous loop around the polar ice cap and 
would eventually skirt land in northern Russia. Not that it mattered. That would be 
months from now. 
Weve got maybe thirty minutesforty-five at the most. 
Without the protective insulation of their gel-filled suits, Tolland knew they would 
be dead already. Thankfully, the Mark IXs had kept them drythe most critical 
aspect of surviving cold weather. The thermal gel around their bodies had not only 
cushioned their fall, but it was now helping their bodies retain what little heat they 
had left. 
Soon hypothermia would set in. It would start with a vague numbness in limbs as 
the blood retreated to the bodys core to protect the critical internal organs. 
Delirious hallucinations would come next, as the pulse and respiration slowed, 
cheating the brain of oxygen. Then, the body would make a final effort to 

conserve its remaining heat by shutting down all operations except the heart and 
respiration. Unconsciousness would follow. In the end, heart and respiration 
centers in the brain would stop functioning altogether. 
Tolland turned his gaze toward Rachel, wishing he could do something to save 
her. 
The numbness spreading through Rachel Sextons body was less painful than she 
would have imagined. Almost a welcome anesthetic. Natures morphine. She had 
lost her goggles in the collapse, and she could barely open her eyes against the 
cold. 
She could see Tolland and Corky on the ice nearby. Tolland was looking at her, 
eyes filled with regret. Corky was moving but obviously in pain. His right 
cheekbone was smashed and bloody. 
Rachels body trembled wildly as her mind searched for answers. Who? Why? Her 
thoughts were muddled by a growing heaviness inside her. Nothing was making 
sense. She felt like her body was slowly shutting down, lulled by an invisible force 
pulling her to sleep. She fought it. A fiery anger ignited within her now, and she 
tried to fan the flames. 
They tried to kill us! She peered out at the threatening sea and sensed their 
attackers had succeeded. Were already dead. Even now, knowing she would 
probably not live to learn the whole truth about the deadly game being played out 
on the Milne Ice Shelf, Rachel suspected she already knew who to blame. 
Administrator Ekstrom had the most to gain. He was the one who sent them out on 
the ice. He had ties to the Pentagon and Special Ops. But what did Ekstrom have 
to gain by inserting the meteorite beneath the ice? What did anyone have to gain? 
Rachel flashed on Zach Herney, wondering if the President was a coconspirator or 
an unknowing pawn? Herney knows nothing. Hes innocent. The President 

obviously had been duped by NASA. Now Herney was only about an hour away 
from making NASAs announcement. And he would do so armed with a video 
documentary containing endorsements from four civilian scientists. 
Four dead civilian scientists. 
Rachel could do nothing to stop the press conference now, but she vowed that 
whoever was responsible for this attack would not get away with it. 
Summoning her strength, Rachel tried to sit up. Her limbs felt like granite, all her 
joints screaming in pain as she bent her legs and arms. Slowly, she pulled herself 
to her knees, steadying herself on the flat ice. Her head spun. All around her the 
ocean churned. Tolland lay nearby, gazing up at her with inquisitive eyes. Rachel 
sensed he probably thought she was kneeling in prayer. She was not, of course, 
although prayer probably had as good a chance of saving them as what she was 
about to attempt. 
Rachels right hand fumbled across her waist and found the ice ax still bungeed to 
her belt. Her stiff fingers gripped the handle. She inverted the ax, positioning it 
like an upside down T. Then, with all her energy, she drove the butt downward 
into the ice. Thud. Again. Thud. The blood felt like cold molasses in her veins. 
Thud. Tolland looked on in obvious confusion. Rachel drove the ax down again. 
Thud. 
Tolland tried to lift himself onto his elbow. Rachel? 
She did not answer. She needed all her energy. Thud. Thud. 
I dont think, Tolland said, this far norththat the SAAcould hear 
Rachel turned, surprised. She had forgotten Tolland was an oceanographer and 
might have some idea what she was up to. Right ideabut Im not calling the 
SAA. 
She kept pounding. 

The SAA stood for a Suboceanic Acoustic Array, a relic of the Cold War now 
used by oceanographers worldwide to listen for whales. Because underwater 
sounds carried for hundreds of miles, the SAA network of fifty-nine underwater 
microphones around the world could listen to a surprisingly large percentage of 
the planets oceans. Unfortunately, this remote section of the Arctic was not part 
of that percentage, but Rachel knew there were others out there listening to the 
ocean floorothers that few on earth knew existed. She kept pounding. Her 
message was simple and clear. 
THUD. THUD. THUD. 
THUDTHUDTHUD 
THUD. THUD. THUD. 
Rachel had no delusions that her actions would save their lives; she could already 
feel a frosty tightness gripping her body. She doubted she had a half hour of life 
left in her. Rescue was beyond the realm of possibility now. But this was not about 
rescue. 
THUD. THUD. THUD. 
THUDTHUDTHUD 
THUD. THUD. THUD. 
Theresno time Tolland said. 
Its notabout us, she thought. Its about the information in my pocket. Rachel 
pictured the incriminating GPR printout inside the Velcro pocket of her Mark IX 
suit. I need to get the GPR printout into the hands of the NROand soon. 
Even in her delirious state, Rachel was certain her message would be received. In 
the mid-eighties, the NRO had replaced the SAA with an array thirty times as 

powerful. Total global coverage: Classic Wizard, the NROs $12 million ear to the 
ocean floor. In the next few hours the Cray supercomputers at the NRO/NSA 
listening post in Menwith Hill, England, would flag an anomalous sequence in one 
of the Arctics hydrophones, decipher the pounding as an SOS, triangulate the 
coordinates, and dispatch a rescue plane from Thule Air Force Base in Greenland. 
The plane would find three bodies on an iceberg. Frozen. Dead. One would be an 
NRO employeeand she would be carrying a strange piece of thermal paper in 
her pocket. 
A GPR printout. 
Norah Mangors final legacy. 
When the rescuers studied the printout, the mysterious insertion tunnel beneath the 
meteorite would be revealed. From there, Rachel had no idea what would happen, 
but at least the secret would not die with them here on the ice. 
60 
Every presidents transition into the White House involves a private tour of three 
heavily guarded warehouses containing priceless collections of past White House 
furniture: desks, silverware, bureaus, beds, and other items used by past presidents 
as far back as George Washington. During the tour, the transitioning president is 
invited to select any heirlooms he likes and use them as furnishings inside the 
White House during his term. Only the bed in the Lincoln Bedroom is a permanent 
White House fixture. Ironically, Lincoln never slept in it. 
The desk at which Zach Herney was currently sitting inside the Oval Office had 
once belonged to his idol, Harry Truman. The desk, though small by modern 
standards, served as a daily reminder to Zach Herney that the buck did indeed 
stop here, and that Herney was ultimately responsible for any shortcomings of his 

administration. Herney accepted the responsibility as an honor and did his best to 
instill in his staff the motivations to do whatever it took to get the job done. 
Mr. President? his secretary called out, peering into the office. Your call just 
went through. 
Herney waved. Thank you. 
He reached for his phone. He would have preferred some privacy for this call, but 
he sure as hell was not going to get any of that right now. Two makeup specialists 
hovered like gnats, poking and primping at his face and hair. Directly in front of 
his desk, a television crew was setting up, and an endless swarm of advisers and 
PR people scurried around the office, excitedly discussing strategy. 
T minus one hour 
Herney pressed the illuminated button on his private phone. Lawrence? You 
there? 
Im here. The NASA administrators voice sounded consumed, distant. 
Everything okay up there? 
Storms still moving in, but my people tell me the satellite link will not be 
affected. Were good to go. One hour and counting. 
Excellent. Spirits high, I hope. 
Very high. My staffs excited. In fact, we just shared some beers. 
Herney laughed. Glad to hear it. Look, I wanted to call and thank you before we 
do this thing. Tonights going to be one hell of a night. 
The administrator paused, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. That it will, 
sir. Weve been waiting a long time for this. 

Herney hesitated. You sound exhausted. 
I need some sunlight and a real bed. 
One more hour. Smile for the cameras, enjoy the moment, and then well get a 
plane up there to bring you back to D.C. 
Looking forward to it. The man fell silent again. 
As a skilled negotiator, Herney was trained to listen, to hear what was being said 
between the lines. Something in the administrators voice sounded off somehow. 
You sure everythings okay up there? 
Absolutely. All systems go. The administrator seemed eager to change the 
subject. Did you see the final cut of Michael Tollands documentary? 
Just watched it, Herney said. He did a fantastic job. 
Yes. You made a good call bringing him in. 
Still mad at me for involving civilians? 
Hell, yes. The administrator growled good-naturedly, his voice with the usual 
strength to it. 
It made Herney feel better. Ekstroms fine, Herney thought. Just a little tired. 
Okay, Ill see you in an hour via satellite. Well give em something to talk 
about. 
Right. 
Hey, Lawrence? Herneys voice grew low and solemn now. Youve done a hell 
of a thing up there. I wont ever forget it. 

Outside the habisphere, buffeted by wind, Delta-Three struggled to right and 
repack Norah Mangors toppled equipment sled. Once all the equipment was back 
onboard, he battened down the vinyl top and draped Mangors dead body across 
the top, tying her down. As he was preparing to drag the sled off course, his two 
partners came skimming up the glacier toward him. 
Change of plans, Delta-One called out above the wind. The other three went 
over the edge. 
Delta-Three was not surprised. He also knew what it meant. The Delta Forces 
plan to stage an accident by arranging four dead bodies on the ice shelf was no 
longer a viable option. Leaving a lone body would pose more questions than 
answers. Sweep? he asked. 
Delta-One nodded. Ill recover the flares and you two get rid of the sled. 
While Delta-One carefully retraced the scientists path, collecting every last clue 
that anyone had been there at all, Delta-Three and his partner moved down the 
glacier with the laden equipment sled. After struggling over the berms, they finally 
reached the precipice at the end of the Milne Ice Shelf. They gave a push, and 
Norah Mangor and her sled slipped silently over the edge, plummeting into the 
Arctic Ocean. 
Clean sweep, Delta-Three thought. 
As they headed back to base, he was pleased to see the wind obliterating the tracks 
made by their skis. 
61 
The nuclear submarine Charlotte had been stationed in the Arctic Ocean for five 

days now. Its presence here was highly classified. 
A Los Angelesclass sub, the Charlotte was designed to listen and not be heard. 
Its forty-two tons of turbine engines were suspended on springs to dampen any 
vibration they might cause. Despite its requirement for stealth, the LA-class sub 
had one of the largest footprints of any reconnaissance sub in the water. Stretching 
more than 360 feet from nose to stern, the hull, if placed on an NFL football field, 
would crush both goalposts and then some. Seven times the length of the U.S. 
Navys first Holland-class submarine, the Charlotte displaced 6,927 tons of water 
when fully submerged and could cruise at an astounding thirty-five knots. 
The vessels normal cruising depth was just below the thermocline, a natural 
temperature gradient that distorted sonar reflections from above and made the sub 
invisible to surface radar. With a crew of 148 and max dive depth of over fifteen 
hundred feet, the vessel represented the state-of-the-art submersible and was the 
oceanic workhorse of the United States Navy. Its evaporative electrolysis 
oxygenation system, two nuclear reactors, and engineered provisions gave it the 
ability to circumnavigate the globe twenty-one times without surfacing. Human 
waste from the crew, as on most cruise ships, was compressed into sixty-pound 
blocks and ejected into the oceanthe huge bricks of feces jokingly referred to as 
whale turds. 
The technician sitting at the oscillator screen in the sonar room was one of the best 
in the world. His mind was a dictionary of sounds and waveforms. He could 
distinguish between the sounds of several dozen Russian submarine propellers, 
hundreds of marine animals, and even pinpoint underwater volcanoes as far away 
as Japan. 
At the moment, however, he was listening to a dull, repetitive echo. The sound, 
although easily distinguishable, was most unexpected. 
You arent going to believe whats coming through my listening cans, he said to 
his catalog assistant, handing over the headphones. 

His assistant donned the headphones, an incredulous look crossing his face. My 
God. Its clear as day. What do we do? 
The sonar man was already on the phone to the captain. 
When the submarines captain arrived in the sonar room, the technician piped a 
live sonar feed over a small set of speakers. 
The captain listened, expressionless. 
THUD. THUD. THUD. 
THUDTHUDTHUD 
Slower. Slower. The pattern was becoming looser. More and more faint. 
What are the coordinates? the captain demanded. 
The technician cleared his throat. Actually, sir, its coming from the surface, 
about three miles to our starboard. 
62 
In the darkened hallway outside Senator Sextons den, Gabrielle Ashes legs were 
trembling. Not so much out of exhaustion from standing motionless, but from 
disillusionment over what she was listening to. The meeting in the next room was 
still going, but Gabrielle didnt have to hear another word. The truth seemed 
painfully obvious. 
Senator Sexton is taking bribes from private space agencies. Marjorie Tench had 
been telling the truth. 

The revulsion Gabrielle felt spreading through her now was one of betrayal. She 
had believed in Sexton. Shed fought for him. How can he do this? Gabrielle had 
seen the senator lie publicly from time to time to protect his private life, but that 
was politics. This was breaking the law. 
Hes not even elected yet, and hes already selling out the White House! 
Gabrielle knew she could no longer support the senator. Promising to deliver the 
NASA privatization bill could be done only with a contemptuous disregard for 
both the law and the democratic system. Even if the senator believed it would be 
in everyones best interest, to sell that decision flat out, in advance, slammed the 
door on the checks and balances of government, ignoring potentially persuasive 
arguments from Congress, advisers, voters, and lobbyists. Most important, 
guaranteeing the privatization of NASA, Sexton had paved the way for endless 
abuses of that advanced knowledgeinsider trading the most commonblatantly 
favoring the wealthy, inside cadre at the expense of honest public investors. 
Feeling sick to her stomach, Gabrielle wondered what she should do. 
A telephone rang sharply behind her, shattering the silence of the hallway. 
Startled, Gabrielle turned. The sound was coming from the closet in the foyera 
cellphone in the pocket of one of the visitors coats. 
Scuse me, friends, a Texas drawl said in the den. Thats me. 
Gabrielle could hear the man get up. Hes coming this way! Wheeling, she dashed 
back up the carpet the way shed come. Halfway up the hall, she cut left, ducking 
into the darkened kitchen just as the Texan exited the den and turned up the hall. 
Gabrielle froze, motionless in the shadows. 
The Texan strode by without noticing. 
Over the sound of her pounding heart, Gabrielle could hear him rustling in the 
closet. Finally, he answered the ringing phone. 

Yeah?When?Really? Well switch it on. Thanks. The man hung up and 
headed back toward the den, calling out as he went. Hey! Turn on the television. 
Sounds like Zach Herneys giving an urgent press conference tonight. Eight 
oclock. All channels. Either were declaring war on China, or the International 
Space Station just fell into the ocean. 
Now wouldnt that be something to toast! someone called out. 
Everyone laughed. 
Gabrielle felt the kitchen spinning around her now. An eight P.M. press 
conference? Tench, it seemed, had not been bluffing after all. She had given 
Gabrielle until 8:00 P.M. to give her an affidavit admitting the affair. Distance 
yourself from the senator before its too late, Tench had told her. Gabrielle had 
assumed the deadline was so the White House could leak the information to 
tomorrows papers, but now it seemed the White House intended to go public with 
the allegations themselves. 
An urgent press conference? The more Gabrielle considered it, though, the 
stranger it seemed. Herney is going live with this mess? Personally? 
The television came on in the den. Blaring. The news announcers voice was 
bursting with excitement. The White House has offered no clues as to the topic of 
tonights surprise presidential address, and speculation abounds. Some political 
analysts now think that following the Presidents recent absence on the campaign 
trail, Zach Herney may be preparing to announce he will not be running for a 
second term. 
A hopeful cheer arose in the den. 
Absurd, Gabrielle thought. With all the dirt the White House had on Sexton right 
now, there was no way in hell the President was throwing in the towel tonight. 
This press conference is about something else. Gabrielle had a sinking feeling 
shed already been warned what it was. 

With rising urgency, she checked her watch. Less than an hour. She had a decision 
to make, and she knew exactly to whom she needed to talk. Clutching the 
envelope of photos under her arm, she quietly exited the apartment. 
In the hallway, the bodyguard looked relieved. I heard some cheering inside. 
Sounds like you were a hit. 
She smiled curtly and headed for the elevator. 
Outside in the street, the settling night felt unusually bitter. Flagging a cab, she 
climbed in and tried to reassure herself she knew exactly what she was doing. 
ABC television studios, she told the driver. And hurry. 
63 
As Michael Tolland lay on his side on the ice, he rested his head on an 
outstretched arm, which he could no longer feel. Although his eyelids felt heavy, 
he fought to keep them open. From this odd vantage point, Tolland took in the 
final images of his worldnow just sea and icein a strange sideways tilt. It 
seemed a fitting end to a day in which nothing had been what it seemed. 
An eerie calm had begun to settle over the floating raft of ice. Rachel and Corky 
had both fallen silent, and the pounding had stopped. The farther from the glacier 
they floated, the calmer the wind became. Tolland heard his own body getting 
quieter too. With the tight skullcap over his ears, he could hear his own breathing 
amplified in his head. It was getting slowershallower. His body was no longer 
able to fight off the compressing sensation that accompanied his own blood racing 
from his extremities like a crew abandoning ship, flowing instinctively to his vital 
organs in a last-ditch effort to keep him conscious. 

A losing battle, he knew. 
Strangely, there was no pain anymore. He had passed through that stage. The 
sensation now was that of having been inflated. Numbness. Floating. As the first 
of his reflexive operationsblinkingbegan to shut down, Tollands vision 
blurred. The aqueous humor that circulated between his cornea and lens was 
freezing repeatedly. Tolland gazed back toward the blur of the Milne Ice Shelf, 
now only a faint white form in the hazy moonlight. 
He felt his soul admitting defeat. Teetering on the brink between presence and 
absence, he stared out at the ocean waves in the distance. The wind howled all 
around him. 
It was then that Tolland began hallucinating. Strangely, in the final seconds before 
unconsciousness, he did not hallucinate rescue. He did not hallucinate warm and 
comforting thoughts. His final delusion was a terrifying one. 
A leviathan was rising from the water beside the iceberg, breaching the surface 
with an ominous hiss. Like some mythical sea monster, it camesleek, black, and 
lethal, with water foaming around it. Tolland forced himself to blink his eyes. His 
vision cleared slightly. The beast was close, bumping up against the ice like a 
huge shark butting a small boat. Massive, it towered before him, its skin 
shimmering and wet. 
As the hazy image went black, all that was left were the sounds. Metal on metal. 
Teeth gnashing at the ice. Coming closer. Dragging bodies away. 
Rachel 
Tolland felt himself being grabbed roughly. 
And then everything went blank. 

64 
Gabrielle Ashe was at a full jog when she entered the third-floor production room 
of ABC News. Even so, she was moving slower than everyone else in the room. 
The intensity in production was at a fever pitch twenty-four hours a day, but at the 
moment the cubicle grid in front of her looked like the stock exchange on speed. 
Wild-eyed editors screamed to one another over the tops of their compartments, 
fax-waving reporters darted from cubicle to cubicle comparing notes, and frantic 
interns inhaled Snickers and Mountain Dew between errands. 
Gabrielle had come to ABC to see Yolanda Cole. 
Usually Yolanda could be found in productions high-rent districtthe glasswalled 
private offices reserved for the decision makers who actually required 
some quiet to think. Tonight, however, Yolanda was out on the floor, in the thick 
of it. When she saw Gabrielle, she let out her usual shriek of exuberance. 
Gabs! Yolanda was wearing a batik body-wrap and tortoiseshell glasses. As 
always, several pounds of garish costume jewelry were draped off her like tinsel. 
Yolanda waddled over, waving. Hug! 
Yolanda Cole had been a content editor with ABC News in Washington for 
sixteen years. A freckle-faced Pole, Yolanda was a squat, balding woman whom 
everyone affectionately called Mother. Her matronly presence and good humor 
disguised a street-savvy ruthlessness for getting the story. Gabrielle had met 
Yolanda at a Women in Politics mentoring seminar shed attended shortly after 
her arrival in Washington. Theyd chatted about Gabrielles background, the 
challenges of being a woman in D.C., and finally about Elvis Presleya passion 
they were surprised to discover they shared. Yolanda had taken Gabrielle under 
her wing and helped her make connections. Gabrielle still stopped by every month 
or so to say hello. 

Gabrielle gave her a big hug, Yolandas enthusiasm already lifting her spirits. 
Yolanda stepped back and looked Gabrielle over. You look like you aged a 
hundred years, girl! What happened to you? 
Gabrielle lowered her voice. Im in trouble, Yolanda. 
Thats not the word on the street. Sounds like your man is on the rise. 
Is there some place we can talk in private? 
Bad timing, honey. The President is holding a press conference in about half an 
hour, and we still havent a clue what its all about. Ive got to line up expert 
commentary, and Im flying blind. 
I know what the press conference is about. 
Yolanda lowered her glasses, looking skeptical. Gabrielle, our correspondent 
inside the White House is in the dark on this one. You say Sextons campaign has 
advance knowledge? 
No, Im saying I have advance knowledge. Give me five minutes. Ill tell you 
everything. 
Yolanda glanced down at the red White House envelope in Gabrielles hand. 
Thats a White House internal. Whered you get that? 
In a private meeting with Marjorie Tench this afternoon. 
Yolanda stared a long moment. Follow me. 
Inside the privacy of Yolandas glass-walled cubicle, Gabrielle confided in her 
trusted friend, confessing to a one-night affair with Sexton and the fact that Tench 
had photographic evidence. 

Yolanda smiled broadly and shook her head laughing. Apparently she had been in 
Washington journalism so long that nothing shocked her. Oh, Gabs, I had a 
hunch you and Sexton had probably hooked up. Not surprising. Hes got a 
reputation, and youre a pretty girl. Too bad about the photos. I wouldnt worry 
about it, though. 
Dont worry about it? 
Gabrielle explained that Tench had accused Sexton of taking illegal bribes from 
space companies and that Gabrielle had just overheard a secret SFF meeting 
confirming that fact! Again Yolandas expression conveyed little surprise or 
concernuntil Gabrielle told her what she was thinking of doing about it. 
Yolanda now looked troubled. Gabrielle, if you want to hand over a legal 
document saying you slept with a U.S. senator and stood by while he lied about it, 
thats your business. But Im telling you, its a very bad move for you. You need 
to think long and hard about what it could mean for you. 
Youre not listening. I dont have that kind of time! 
I am listening, and sweetheart, whether or not the clock is ticking, there are 
certain things you just do not do. You do not sell out a U.S. senator in a sex 
scandal. Its suicide. Im telling you, girl, if you take down a presidential 
candidate, you better get in your car and drive as far from D.C. as possible. Youll 
be a marked woman. A lot of people spend a lot of money to put candidates at the 
top. Theres big finances and power at stake herethe kind of power people kill 
for. 
Gabrielle fell silent now. 
Personally, Yolanda said, I think Tench was leaning on you in hopes youd 
panic and do something dumblike bail out and confess to the affair. Yolanda 
pointed to the red envelope in Gabrielles hands. Those shots of you and Sexton 
dont mean squat unless you or Sexton admit theyre accurate. The White House 
knows if they leak those photos, Sexton will just claim theyre phony and throw 

them back in the presidents face. 
I thought of that, but still the campaign finance bribery issue is 
Honey, think about it. If the White House hasnt gone public yet with bribery 
allegations, they probably dont intend to. The President is pretty serious about no 
negative campaigning. My guess is he decided to save an aerospace industry 
scandal and sent Tench after you with a bluff in hopes he might scare you out of 
hiding on the sex thing. Make you stab your candidate in the back. 
Gabrielle considered it. Yolanda was making sense, and yet something still felt 
odd. Gabrielle pointed through the glass at the bustling news room. Yolanda, you 
guys are gearing up for a big presidential press conference. If the President is not 
going public about bribery or sex, whats it all about? 
Yolanda looked stunned. Hold on. You think this press conference is about you 
and Sexton? 
Or the bribery. Or both. Tench told me I had until eight tonight to sign a 
confession or else the President was going to announce 
Yolandas laughter shook the entire glass cubicle. Oh please! Wait! Youre 
killing me! 
Gabrielle was in no mood for joking. What! 
Gabs, listen, Yolanda managed, between laughs, trust me on this. Ive been 
dealing with the White House for sixteen years, and theres no way Zach Herney 
has called together the global media to tell them he suspects Senator Sexton is 
accepting shady campaign financing or sleeping with you. Thats the kind of 
information you leak. Presidents dont gain popularity by interrupting regularly 
scheduled programming to bitch and moan about sex or alleged infractions of 
cloudy campaign finance laws. 
Cloudy? Gabrielle snapped. Flat out selling your decision on a space bill for 

millions in ad money is hardly a cloudy issue! 
Are you sure thats what he is doing? Yolandas tone hardened now. Are you 
sure enough to drop your skirt on national TV? Think about it. It takes a lot of 
alliances to get anything done these days, and campaign finance is complex stuff. 
Maybe Sextons meeting was perfectly legal. 
Hes breaking the law, Gabrielle said. Isnt he? 
Or so Marjorie Tench would have you believe. Candidates accept behind-thescenes 
donations all the time from big corporations. It may not be pretty, but its 
not necessarily illegal. In fact, most legal issues deal not with where the money 
comes from but how the candidate chooses to spend it. 
Gabrielle hesitated, feeling uncertain now. 
Gabs, the White House played you this afternoon. They tried to turn you against 
your candidate, and so far youve called their bluff. If I were looking for someone 
to trust, I think Id stick with Sexton before jumping ship to someone like Marjorie 
Tench. 
Yolandas phone rang. She answered, nodding, uh-huh-ing, taking notes. 
Interesting, she finally said. Ill be right there. Thanks. 
Yolanda hung up and turned with an arched brow. Gabs, sounds like youre off 
the hook. Just as I predicted. 
Whats going on? 
I dont have a specific yet, but I can tell you this muchthe presidents press 
conference has nothing to do with sex scandals or campaign finance. 
Gabrielle felt a flash of hope and wanted badly to believe her. How do you know 
that? 

Someone on the inside just leaked that the press conference is NASA-related. 
Gabrielle sat up suddenly. NASA? 
Yolanda winked. This could be your lucky night. My bet is President Herney is 
feeling so much pressure from Senator Sexton that hes decided the White House 
has no choice but to pull the plug on the International Space Station. That explains 
all the global media coverage. 
A press conference killing the space station? Gabrielle could not imagine. 
Yolanda stood up. That Tench attack this afternoon? It was probably just a lastditch 
effort to get a foothold over Sexton before the President had to go public 
with the bad news. Nothing like a sex scandal to take the attention away from 
another presidential flop. Anyhow, Gabs, Ive got work to do. My advice to 
youget yourself a cup of coffee, sit right here, turn on my television, and ride 
this out like the rest of us. Weve got twenty minutes until show time, and Im 
telling you, there is no way the President is going Dumpster-diving tonight. Hes 
got the whole world watching. Whatever he has to say carries some serious 
weight. She gave a reassuring wink. Now give me the envelope. 
What? 
Yolanda held out a demanding hand. These pictures are getting locked in my 
desk until this is over. I want to be sure you dont do something idiotic. 
Reluctantly, Gabrielle handed over the envelope. 
Yolanda locked the photos carefully in a desk drawer and pocketed the keys. 
Youll thank me, Gabs. I swear it. She playfully ruffled Gabrielles hair on her 
way out. Sit tight. I think good news is on the way. 
Gabrielle sat alone in the glass cubicle and tried to let Yolandas upbeat attitude 
lift her mood. All Gabrielle could think of, though, was the self-satisfied smirk on 
the face of Marjorie Tench this afternoon. Gabrielle could not imagine what the 

President was about to tell the world, but it was definitely not going to be good 
news for Senator Sexton. 
65 
Rachel Sexton felt like she was being burned alive. 
Its raining fire! 
She tried to open her eyes, but all she could make out were foggy shapes and 
blinding lights. It was raining all around her. Scalding hot rain. Pounding down on 
her bare skin. She was lying on her side and could feel hot tiles beneath her body. 
She curled more tightly into the fetal position, trying to protect herself from the 
scalding liquid falling from above. She smelled chemicals. Chlorine, maybe. She 
tried to crawl away, but she could not. Powerful hands pressed down on her 
shoulders, holding her down. 
Let me go! Im burning! 
Instinctively, she again fought to escape, and again she was rebuffed, the strong 
hands clamping down. Stay where you are, a mans voice said. The accent was 
American. Professional. It will be over soon. 
What will be over? Rachel wondered. The pain? My life? She tried to focus her 
vision. The lights in this place were harsh. She sensed the room was small. 
Cramped. Low ceilings. 
Im burning! Rachels scream was a whisper. 
Youre fine, the voice said. This water is lukewarm. Trust me. 

Rachel realized she was mostly undressed, wearing only her soaked underwear. 
No embarrassment registered; her mind was filled with too many other questions. 
The memories were coming back now in a torrent. The ice shelf. The GPR. The 
attack. Who? Where am I? She tried to put the pieces together, but her mind felt 
torpid, like a set of clogged gears. From out of the muddled confusion came a 
single thought: Michael and Corkywhere are they? 
Rachel tried to focus her bleary vision but saw only the men standing over her. 
They were all dressed in the same blue jumpsuits. She wanted to speak, but her 
mouth refused to formulate a single word. The burning sensation in her skin was 
now giving way to sudden deep waves of aching that rolled through the muscles 
like seismic tremors. 
Let it happen, the man over her said. The blood needs to flow back into your 
musculature. He spoke like a doctor. Try to move your limbs as much as you 
can. 
The pain racking Rachels body felt as if every muscle was being beaten with a 
hammer. She lay there on the tile, her chest contracting, and she could barely 
breathe. 
Move your legs and arms, the man insisted. No matter what it feels like. 
Rachel tried. Each movement felt like a knife being thrust into her joints. The jets 
of water grew hotter again. The scalding was back. The crushing pain went on. At 
the precise instant she thought she could not withstand another moment, Rachel 
felt someone giving her an injection. The pain seemed to subside quickly, less and 
less violent, releasing. The tremors slowed. She felt herself breathing again. 
A new sensation was spreading through her body now, the eerie bite of pins and 
needles. Everywherestabbingsharper and sharper. Millions of tiny needlepoint 
jabs, intensifying whenever she moved. She tried to hold motionless, but the 
water jets continued to buffet her. The man above her was holding her arms, 
moving them. 

God that hurts! Rachel was too weak to fight. Tears of exhaustion and pain poured 
down her face. She shut her eyes hard, blocking out the world. 
Finally, the pins and needles began to dissipate. The rain from above stopped. 
When Rachel opened her eyes, her vision was clearer. 
It was then that she saw them. 
Corky and Tolland lay nearby, quivering, half-naked and soaked. From the looks 
of anguish on their faces, Rachel sensed that they had just endured similar 
experiences. Michael Tollands brown eyes were bloodshot and glassy. When he 
saw Rachel, he managed a weak smile, his blue lips trembling. 
Rachel tried to sit up, to take in their bizarre surroundings. The three of them were 
lying in a trembling twist of half-naked limbs on the floor of a tiny shower room. 
66 
Strong arms lifted her. 
Rachel felt the powerful strangers drying her body and wrapping her in blankets. 
She was being placed on a medical bed of some sort and vigorously massaged on 
her arms, legs, and feet. Another injection in her arm. 
Adrenaline, someone said. 
Rachel felt the drug coursing through her veins like a life force, invigorating her 
muscles. Although she still felt an icy hollowness tight like a drum in her gut, 
Rachel sensed the blood slowly returning to her limbs. 

Back from the dead. 
She tried to focus her vision. Tolland and Corky were lying nearby, shivering in 
blankets as the men massaged their bodies and gave them injections as well. 
Rachel had no doubt that this mysterious assemblage of men had just saved their 
lives. Many of them were soaking wet, apparently having jumped into the showers 
fully clothed to help. Who they were or how they had gotten to Rachel and the 
others in time was beyond her. It made no difference at the moment. Were alive. 
Whereare we? Rachel managed, the simple act of trying to speak bringing on 
a crashing headache. 
The man massaging her replied, Youre on the medical deck of a Los Angeles 
class 
On deck! someone called out. 
Rachel sensed a sudden commotion all around her, and she tried to sit up. One of 
the men in blue helped, propping her up, and pulling the blankets up around her. 
Rachel rubbed her eyes and saw someone striding into the room. 
The newcomer was a powerful African-American man. Handsome and 
authoritative. His uniform was khaki. At ease, he declared, moving toward 
Rachel, stopping over her and gazing down at her with strong black eyes. Harold 
Brown, he said, his voice deep and commanding. Captain of the U.S.S. 
Charlotte. And you are? 
U.S.S. Charlotte, Rachel thought. The name seemed vaguely familiar. Sexton, 
she replied. Im Rachel Sexton. 
The man looked puzzled. He stepped closer, studying her more carefully. Ill be 
damned. So you are. 
Rachel felt lost. He knows me? Rachel was certain she did not recognize the man, 
although as her eyes dropped from his face to the patch on his chest, she saw the 

familiar emblem of an eagle clutching an anchor surrounded by the words U.S. 
NAVY. 
It now registered why she knew the name Charlotte. 
Welcome aboard, Ms. Sexton, the captain said. Youve gisted a number of this 
ships recon reports. I know who you are. 
But what are you doing in these waters? she stammered. 
His face hardened somewhat. Frankly, Ms. Sexton, I was about to ask you the 
same question. 
Tolland sat up slowly now, opening his mouth to speak. Rachel silenced him with 
a firm shake of her head. Not here. Not now. She had no doubt the first thing 
Tolland and Corky would want to talk about was the meteorite and the attack, but 
this was certainly not a topic to discuss in front of a Navy submarine crew. In the 
world of intelligence, regardless of crisis, CLEARANCE remained king; the 
meteorite situation remained highly classified. 
I need to speak to NRO director William Pickering, she told the captain. In 
private, and immediately. 
The captain arched his eyebrows, apparently unaccustomed to taking orders on his 
own ship. 
I have classified information I need to share. 
The captain studied her a long moment. Lets get your body temperature back, 
and then Ill put you in contact with the NRO director. 
Its urgent, sir. I Rachel stopped short. Her eyes had just seen a clock on the 
wall over the pharmaceutical closet. 
19:51 HOURS. 

Rachel blinked, staring. Isis that clock right? 
Youre on a navy vessel, maam. Our clocks are accurate. 
And is thatEastern time? 
7:51 P.M. Eastern Standard. Were out of Norfolk. 
My God! she thought, stunned. Its only 7:51P.M.? Rachel had the impression 
hours had passed since she passed out. It was not even past eight oclock? The 
President has not yet gone public about the meteorite! I still have time to stop him! 
She immediately slid down off the bed, wrapping the blanket around her. Her legs 
felt shaky. I need to speak to the President right away. 
The captain looked confused. The president of what? 
Of the United States! 
I thought you wanted William Pickering. 
I dont have time. I need the President. 
The captain did not move, his huge frame blocking her way. My understanding is 
that the President is about to give a very important live press conference. I doubt 
hes taking personal phone calls. 
Rachel stood as straight as she could on her wobbly legs and fixed her eyes on the 
captain. Sir, you do not have the clearance for me to explain the situation, but the 
President is about to make a terrible mistake. I have information he desperately 
needs to hear. Now. You need to trust me. 
The captain stared at her a long moment. Frowning, he checked the clock again. 
Nine minutes? I cant get you a secure connection to the White House in that 
short a time. All I could offer is a radiophone. Unsecured. And wed have to go to 
antenna depth, which will take a few 

Do it! Now! 
67 
The White House telephone switchboard was located on the lower level of the 
East Wing. Three switchboard operators were always on duty. At the moment, 
only two were seated at the controls. The third operator was at a full sprint toward 
the Briefing Room. In her hand, she carried a cordless phone. Shed tried to patch 
the call through to the Oval Office, but the President was already en route to the 
press conference. Shed tried to call his aides on their cellulars, but before 
televised briefings, all cellular phones in and around the Briefing Room were 
turned off so as not to interrupt the proceedings. 
Running a cordless phone directly to the President at a time like this seemed 
questionable at best, and yet when the White Houses NRO liaison called claiming 
she had emergency information that the President must get before going live, the 
operator had little doubt she needed to jump. The question now was whether she 
would get there in time. 
In a small medical office onboard the U.S.S. Charlotte, Rachel Sexton clutched a 
phone receiver to her ear and waited to talk to the President. Tolland and Corky 
sat nearby, still looking shaken. Corky had five stitches and a deep bruise on his 
cheekbone. All three of them had been helped into Thinsulate thermal underwear, 
heavy navy flight suits, oversized wool socks, and deck boots. With a hot cup of 
stale coffee in her hand, Rachel was starting to feel almost human again. 
Whats the holdup? Tolland pressed. Its seven fifty-six! 

Rachel could not imagine. She had successfully reached one of the White House 
operators, explained who she was and that this was an emergency. The operator 
seemed sympathetic, had placed Rachel on hold, and was now, supposedly, 
making it her top priority to patch Rachel through to the President. 
Four minutes, Rachel thought. Hurry up! 
Closing her eyes, Rachel tried to gather her thoughts. It had been one hell of a day. 
Im on a nuclear submarine, she said to herself, knowing she was damned lucky to 
be anywhere at all. According to the submarine captain, the Charlotte had been on 
a routine patrol in the Bering Sea two days ago and had picked up anomalous 
underwater sounds coming from the Milne Ice Shelfdrilling, jet noise, lots of 
encrypted radio traffic. They had been redirected and told to lie quietly and listen. 
An hour or so ago, theyd heard an explosion in the ice shelf and moved in to 
check it out. That was when they heard Rachels SOS call. 
Three minutes left! Tolland sounded anxious now as he monitored the clock. 
Rachel was definitely getting nervous now. What was taking so long? Why hadnt 
the President taken her call? If Zach Herney went public with the data as it 
stood 
Rachel forced the thought from her mind and shook the receiver. Pick up! 
As the White House operator dashed toward the stage entrance of the Briefing 
Room, she was met with a gathering throng of staff members. Everyone here was 
talking excitedly, making final preparations. She could see the President twenty 
yards away waiting at the entrance. The makeup people were still primping. 
Coming through! the operator said, trying to get through the crowd. Call for the 
President. Excuse me. Coming through! 
Live in two minutes! a media coordinator called out. 

Clutching the phone, the operator shoved her way toward the President. Call for 
the President! she panted. Coming through! 
A towering roadblock stepped into her path. Marjorie Tench. The senior advisers 
long face grimaced down in disapproval. Whats going on? 
I have an emergency! The operator was breathless. phone call for the 
President. 
Tench looked incredulous. Not now, you dont! 
Its from Rachel Sexton. She says its urgent. 
The scowl that darkened Tenchs face appeared to be more one of puzzlement than 
anger. Tench eyed the cordless phone. Thats a house line. Thats not secure. 
No, maam. But the incoming call is open anyway. 
Shes on a radiophone. She needs to speak to the President right away. 
Live in ninety seconds! 
Tenchs cold eyes stared, and she held out a spider-like hand. Give me the 
phone. 
The operators heart was pounding now. Ms. Sexton wants to speak to President 
Herney directly. She told me to postpone the press conference until shed talked to 
him. I assured 
Tench stepped toward the operator now, her voice a seething whisper. Let me tell 
you how this works. You do not take orders from the daughter of the Presidents 
opponent, you take them from me. I can assure you, this is as close as you are 
getting to the President until I find out what the hell is going on. 
The operator looked toward the President, who was now surrounded by 

microphone technicians, stylists, and several staff members talking him through 
final revisions of his speech. 
Sixty seconds! the television supervisor yelled. 
Onboard the Charlotte, Rachel Sexton was pacing wildly in the tight space when 
she finally heard a click on the telephone line. 
A raspy voice came on. Hello? 
President Herney? Rachel blurted. 
Marjorie Tench, the voice corrected. I am the Presidents senior adviser. 
Whoever this is, I must warn you that prank calls against the White House are in 
violation of 
For Christs sake! This is not a prank! This is Rachel Sexton. Im your NRO 
liaison and 
I am aware of who Rachel Sexton is, maam. And I am doubtful that you are she. 
Youve called the White House on an unsecured line telling me to interrupt a 
major presidential broadcast. That is hardly proper MO for someone with 
Listen, Rachel fumed, I briefed your whole staff a couple of hours ago on a 
meteorite. You sat in the front row. You watched my briefing on a television 
sitting on the Presidents desk! Any questions? 
Tench fell silent a moment. Ms. Sexton, what is the meaning of this? 
The meaning is that you have to stop the President! His meteorite data is all 
wrong! Weve just learned the meteorite was inserted from beneath the ice shelf. I 
dont know by whom, and I dont know why! But things are not what they seem 
up here! The President is about to endorse some seriously errant data, and I 

strongly advise 
Wait one goddamned minute! Tench lowered her voice. Do you realize what 
you are saying? 
Yes! I suspect the NASA administrator has orchestrated some kind of large-scale 
fraud, and President Herney is about to get caught in the middle. Youve at least 
got to postpone ten minutes so I can explain to him whats been going on up here. 
Someone tried to kill me, for Gods sake! 
Tenchs voice turned to ice. Ms. Sexton, let me give you a word of warning. If 
you are having second thoughts about your role in helping the White House in this 
campaign, you should have thought of that long before you personally endorsed 
that meteorite data for the President. 
What! Is she even listening? 
Im revolted by your display. Using an unsecured line is a cheap stunt. Implying 
the meteorite data has been faked? What kind of intelligence official uses a 
radiophone to call the White House and talk about classified information? 
Obviously you are hoping someone intercepts this message. 
Norah Mangor was killed over this! Dr. Ming is also dead. Youve got to 
warn 
Stop right there! I dont know what youre playing at, but I will remind youand 
anyone else who happens to be intercepting this phone callthat the White House 
possesses videotaped depositions from NASAs top scientists, several renowned 
civilian scientists, and yourself, Ms. Sexton, all endorsing the meteorite data as 
accurate. Why you are suddenly changing your story, I can only imagine. 
Whatever the reason, consider yourself relieved of your White House post as of 
this instant, and if you try to taint this discovery with any more absurd allegations 
of foul play, I assure you the White House and NASA will sue you for defamation 
so fast you wont have a chance to pack a suitcase before you go to jail. 

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. 
Zach Herney has been generous to you, Tench snapped, and frankly this 
smacks of a cheap Sexton publicity stunt. Drop it right now, or well press 
charges. I swear it. 
The line went dead. 
Rachels mouth was still hanging open when the captain knocked on the door. 
Ms. Sexton? the captain said, peering in. Were picking up a faint signal from 
Canadian National Radio. President Zach Herney has just begun his press 
conference. 
68 
Standing at the podium in the White House Briefing Room, Zach Herney felt the 
heat of the media lights and knew the world was watching. The targeted blitz 
performed by the White House Press Office had created a contagion of media 
buzz. Those who did not hear about the address via television, radio, or on-line 
news invariably heard about it from neighbors, coworkers, and family. By 8:00 
P.M., anyone not living in a cave was speculating about the topic of the Presidents 
address. In bars and living rooms over the globe, millions leaned toward their 
televisions in apprehensive wonder. 
It was during moments like thesefacing the worldthat Zach Herney truly felt 
the weight of his office. Anyone who said power was not addictive had never 
really experienced it. As he began his address, however, Herney sensed something 
was amiss. He was not a man prone to stage fright, and so the tingle of 
apprehension now tightening in his core startled him. 

Its the magnitude of the audience, he told himself. And yet he knew something 
else. Instinct. Something he had seen. 
It had been such a little thing, and yet 
He told himself to forget it. It was nothing. And yet it stuck. 
Tench. 
Moments ago, as Herney was preparing to take the stage, he had seen Marjorie 
Tench in the yellow hallway, talking on a cordless phone. This was strange in 
itself, but it was made more so by the White House operator standing beside her, 
her face white with apprehension. Herney could not hear Tenchs phone 
conversation, but he could see it was contentious. Tench was arguing with a 
vehemence and anger the President had seldom seeneven from Tench. He 
paused a moment and caught her eye, inquisitive. 
Tench gave him the thumbs-up. Herney had never seen Tench give anyone the 
thumbs-up. It was the last image in Herneys mind as he was cued onto the stage. 
On the blue rug in the press area inside the NASA habisphere on Ellesmere Island, 
Administrator Lawrence Ekstrom was seated at the center of the long symposium 
table, flanked by top NASA officials and scientists. On a large monitor facing 
them the Presidents opening statement was being piped in live. The remainder of 
the NASA crew was huddled around other monitors, teeming with excitement as 
their commander-in-chief launched into his press conference. 
Good evening, Herney was saying, sounding uncharacteristically stiff. To my 
fellow countrymen, and to our friends around the world 
Ekstrom gazed at the huge charred mass of rock displayed prominently in front of 
him. His eyes moved to a standby monitor, where he watched himself, flanked by 
his most austere personnel, against a backdrop of a huge American flag and 

NASA logo. The dramatic lighting made the setting look like some kind of 
neomodern paintingthe twelve apostles at the last supper. Zach Herney had 
turned this whole thing into a political sideshow. Herney had no choice. Ekstrom 
still felt like a televangelist, packaging God for the masses. 
In about five minutes the President would introduce Ekstrom and his NASA staff. 
Then, in a dramatic satellite linkup from the top of the world, NASA would join 
the President in sharing this news with the world. After a brief account of how the 
discovery was made, what it meant for space science, and some mutual 
backpatting, NASA and the President would hand duty off to celebrity scientist 
Michael Tolland, whose documentary would roll for just under fifteen minutes. 
Afterward, with credibility and enthusiasm at its peak, Ekstrom and the President 
would say their good-nights, promising more information to come in the days 
ahead via endless NASA press conferences. 
As Ekstrom sat and waited for his cue, he felt a cavernous shame settling inside 
him. Hed known he would feel it. Hed been expecting it. 
Hed told liesendorsed untruths. 
Somehow, though, the lies seemed inconsequential now. Ekstrom had a bigger 
weight on his mind. 
In the chaos of the ABC production room, Gabrielle Ashe stood shoulder to 
shoulder with dozens of strangers, all necks craned toward the bank of television 
monitors suspended from the ceiling. A hush fell as the moment arrived. Gabrielle 
closed her eyes, praying that when she opened them she would not be looking at 
images of her own naked body. 
The air inside Senator Sextons den was alive with excitement. All of his visitors 
were standing now, their eyes glued to the large-screen television. 

Zach Herney stood before the world, and incredibly, his greeting had been 
awkward. He seemed momentarily uncertain. 
He looks shaky, Sexton thought. He never looks shaky. 
Look at him, somebody whispered. It has to be bad news. 
The space station? Sexton wondered. 
Herney looked directly into the camera and took a deep breath. My friends, I 
have puzzled for many days now over how best to make this announcement 
Three easy words, Senator Sexton willed him. We blew it. 
Herney spoke for a moment about how unfortunate it was that NASA had become 
such an issue in this election and how, that being the case, he felt he needed to 
preface the timing of his impending statement with an apology. 
I would have preferred any other moment in history to make this announcement, 
he said. The political charge in the air tends to make doubters out of dreamers, 
and yet as your President, I have no choice but to share with you what I have 
recently learned. He smiled. It seems the magic of the cosmos is something 
which does not work on any human schedulenot even that of a president. 
Everyone in Sextons den seemed to recoil in unison. What? 
Two weeks ago, Herney said, NASAs new Polar Orbiting Density Scanner 
passed over the Milne Ice Shelf on Ellesmere Island, a remote landmass located 
above the Eightieth Parallel in the high Arctic Ocean. 
Sexton and the others exchanged confused looks. 
This NASA satellite, Herney continued, detected a large, high-density rock 
buried two hundred feet under the ice. Herney smiled now for the first time, 

finding his stride. On receiving the data, NASA immediately suspected PODS 
had found a meteorite. 
A meteorite? Sexton sputtered, standing. This is news? 
NASA sent a team up to the ice shelf to take core samples. It was then that 
NASA made He paused. 
Frankly, they made the scientific discovery of the century. 
Sexton took an incredulous step toward the television. No. His guests shifted 
uneasily. 
Ladies and gentlemen, Herney announced, several hours ago, NASA pulled 
from the Arctic ice an eight-ton meteorite, which contains The President 
paused again, giving the whole world time to lean forward. A meteorite which 
contains fossils of a life-form. Dozens of them. Unequivocal proof of 
extraterrestrial life. 
On cue, a brilliant image illuminated on the screen behind the Presidenta 
perfectly delineated fossil of an enormous buglike creature embedded in a charred 
rock. 
In Sextons den, six entrepreneurs jumped up in wide-eyed horror. Sexton stood 
frozen in place. 
My friends, the President said, the fossil behind me is 190 million years old. It 
was discovered in a fragment of a meteorite called the Jungersol Fall which hit the 
Arctic Ocean almost three centuries ago. NASAs exciting new PODS satellite 
discovered this meteorite fragment buried in an ice shelf. NASA and this 
administration have taken enormous care over the past two weeks to confirm 
every aspect of this momentous discovery before making it public. In the next half 
hour you will be hearing from numerous NASA and civilian scientists, as well as 
viewing a short documentary prepared by a familiar face whom Im sure you all 
will recognize. Before I go any further, though, I absolutely must welcome, live 

via satellite from above the Arctic Circle, the man whose leadership, vision, and 
hard work is solely responsible for this historic moment. It is with great honor that 
I present NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom. 
Herney turned to the screen on perfect cue. 
The image of the meteorite dramatically dissolved into a regal-looking panel of 
NASA scientists seated at a long table, flanked by the dominant frame of 
Lawrence Ekstrom. 
Thank you, Mr. President. Ekstroms air was stern and proud as he stood up and 
looked directly into the camera. It gives me great pride to share with all of you, 
thisNASAs finest hour. 
Ekstrom spoke passionately about NASA and the discovery. With a fanfare of 
patriotism and triumph, he segued flawlessly to a documentary hosted by civilian 
sciencecelebrity Michael Tolland. 
As he watched, Senator Sexton fell to his knees in front of the television, his 
fingers clutching at his silver mane. No! God, no! 
69 
Marjorie Tench was livid as she broke away from the jovial chaos outside the 
Briefing Room and marched back to her private corner in the West Wing. She was 
in no mood for celebration. The phone call from Rachel Sexton had been most 
unexpected. 
Most disappointing. 
Tench slammed her office door, stalked to her desk, and dialed the White House 

operator. William Pickering. NRO. 
Tench lit a cigarette and paced the room as she waited for the operator to track 
down Pickering. Normally, he might have gone home for the night, but with the 
White Houses big windup into tonights press conference, Tench guessed 
Pickering had been in his office all evening, glued to his television screen, 
wondering what could possibly be going on in the world about which the NRO 
director did not have prior knowledge. 
Tench cursed herself for not trusting her instincts when the President said he 
wanted to send Rachel Sexton to Milne. Tench had been wary, feeling it was an 
unnecessary risk. But the President had been convincing, persuading Tench that 
the White House staff had grown cynical over the past weeks and would be 
suspect of the NASA discovery if the news came from in-house. As Herney had 
promised, Rachel Sextons endorsement had squelched suspicions, prevented any 
skeptical in-house debate, and forced the White House staff to move forward with 
a unified front. Invaluable, Tench had to admit. And yet now Rachel Sexton had 
changed her tune. 
The bitch called me on an unsecured line. 
Rachel Sexton was obviously intent on destroying the credibility of this discovery, 
and Tenchs only solace was knowing the President had captured Rachels earlier 
briefing on videotape. Thank God. At least Herney had thought to obtain that 
small insurance. Tench was starting to fear they were going to need it. 
At the moment, however, Tench was trying to stem the bleeding in other ways. 
Rachel Sexton was a smart woman, and if she truly intended to go head-to-head 
with the White House and NASA, she would need to recruit some powerful allies. 
Her first logical choice would be William Pickering. Tench already knew how 
Pickering felt about NASA. She needed to get to Pickering before Rachel did. 
Ms. Tench? the transparent voice on the line said. William Pickering, here. To 
what do I owe this honor? 

Tench could hear the television in the backgroundNASA commentary. She 
could already sense in his tone that he was still reeling from the press conference. 
Do you have a minute, director? 
I expected youd be busy celebrating. Quite a night for you. Looks like NASA 
and the President are back in the fight. 
Tench heard stark amazement in his voice, combined with a tinge of 
acrimonythe latter no doubt on account of the mans legendary distaste for 
hearing breaking news at the same time as the rest of the world. 
I apologize, Tench said, trying to build an immediate bridge, that the White 
House and NASA were forced to keep you unapprised. 
You are aware, Pickering said, that the NRO detected NASA activity up there a 
couple weeks ago and ran an inquiry. 
Tench frowned. Hes pissed. Yes, I know. And yet 
NASA told us it was nothing. They said they were running some kind of extreme 
environment training exercises. Testing equipment, that sort of thing. Pickering 
paused. We bought the lie. 
Lets not call it a lie, Tench said. More of a necessary misdirection. 
Considering the magnitude of the discovery, I trust you understand NASAs need 
to keep this quiet. 
From the public, perhaps. 
Pouting was not in the repertoire of men like William Pickering, and Tench sensed 
this was as close as he would get. I only have a minute, Tench said, working to 
retain her dominant position, but I thought I should call and warn you. 
Warn me? Pickering waxed wry momentarily. Has Zach Herney decided to 
appoint a new, NASA-friendly NRO director? 

Of course not. The President understands your criticisms of NASA are simply 
issues of security, and he is working to plug those holes. Im actually calling about 
one of your employees. She paused. Rachel Sexton. Have you heard from her 
this evening? 
No. I sent her to the White House this morning at the Presidents request. Youve 
obviously kept her busy. She has yet to check in. 
Tench was relieved to have gotten to Pickering first. She took a drag on her 
cigarette and spoke as calmly as possible. I suspect you may be getting a call 
from Ms. Sexton sometime soon. 
Good. Ive been expecting one. Ive got to tell you, when the Presidents press 
conference began, I was concerned Zach Herney might have convinced Ms. 
Sexton to participate publicly. Im pleased to see he resisted. 
Zach Herney is a decent person, Tench said, which is more than I can say for 
Rachel Sexton. 
There was a long pause on the line. I hope I misunderstood that. 
Tench sighed heavily. No, sir, Im afraid you did not. Id prefer not to talk 
specifics on the phone, but Rachel Sexton, it seems, has decided she wants to 
undermine the credibility of this NASA announcement. I have no idea why, but 
after she reviewed and endorsed NASAs data earlier this afternoon, she has 
suddenly pulled an about-face and is spouting some of the most improbable 
allegations imaginable of NASA treachery and fraud. 
Pickering sounded intense now. Excuse me? 
Troubling, yes. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Ms. Sexton contacted me 
two minutes before the press conference and warned me to cancel the whole 
thing. 

On what grounds? 
Absurd ones, frankly. She said shed found serious flaws in the data. 
Pickerings long silence was more wary than Tench would have liked. Flaws? 
he finally said. 
Ridiculous, really, after two full weeks of NASA experimentation and 
I find it very hard to believe someone like Rachel Sexton would have told you to 
postpone the Presidents press conference unless she had a damn good reason. 
Pickering sounded troubled. Maybe you should have listened to her. 
Oh, please! Tench blurted, coughing. You saw the press conference. The 
meteorite data was confirmed and reconfirmed by countless specialists. Including 
civilians. Doesnt it seem suspicious to you that Rachel Sextonthe daughter of 
the only man whom this announcement hurtsis suddenly changing her tune? 
It seems suspicious, Ms. Tench, only because I happen to know that Ms. Sexton 
and her father are barely civil to one another. I cannot imagine why Rachel Sexton 
would, after years of service to the President, suddenly decide to switch camps and 
tell lies to support her father. 
Ambition, perhaps? I really dont know. Maybe the opportunity to be first 
daughter Tench let it hang. 
Pickerings tone hardened instantly. Thin ice, Ms. Tench. Very thin. 
Tench scowled. What the hell did she expect? She was accusing a prominent 
member of Pickerings staff of treason against the President. The man was going 
to be defensive. 
Put her on, Pickering demanded. Id like to speak to Ms. Sexton myself. 
Im afraid thats impossible, Tench replied. Shes not at the White House. 

Where is she? 
The President sent her to Milne this morning to examine the data firsthand. She 
has yet to return. 
Pickering sounded livid now. I was never informed 
I do not have time for hurt pride, director. I have simply called as a courtesy. I 
wanted to warn you that Rachel Sexton has decided to pursue her own agenda 
with respect to tonights announcement. She will be looking for allies. If she 
contacts you, you would be wise to know that the White House is in possession of 
a video taken earlier today in which she endorsed this meteorite data in its entirety 
in front of the President, his cabinet, and his entire staff. If now, for whatever 
motives she might have, Rachel Sexton attempts to besmirch the good name of 
Zach Herney or of NASA, then I swear to you the White House will see to it she 
falls hard and far. Tench waited a moment, to be sure her meaning had settled in. 
I expect you to repay the courtesy of this call by informing me immediately if 
Rachel Sexton contacts you. She is attacking the President directly, and the White 
House intends to detain her for questioning before she does any serious damage. I 
will be waiting for your call, director. Thats all. Good night. 
Marjorie Tench hung up, certain that William Pickering had never been talked to 
like that in his life. At least now he knew she was serious. 
   
On the top floor of the NRO, William Pickering stood at his window and stared 
into the Virginia night. The call from Marjorie Tench had been deeply troubling. 
He chewed at his lip as he tried to assemble the pieces in his mind. 
Director? his secretary said, knocking quietly. You have another phone call. 
Not now, Pickering said absently. 

Its Rachel Sexton. 
Pickering wheeled. Tench was apparently a fortune-teller. Okay. Patch her 
through, right away. 
Actually, sir, its an encrypted AV stream. Do you want to take it in the 
conference room? 
An AV stream? Where is she calling from? 
The secretary told him. 
Pickering stared. Bewildered, he hurried down the hall toward the conference 
room. This was something he had to see. 
70 
The Charlottes dead roomdesigned after a similar structure at Bell 
Laboratorieswas what was formally known as an anechoic chamber. An 
acoustical clean room containing no parallel or reflective surfaces, it absorbed 
sound with 99.4 percent efficiency. Because of the acoustically conductive nature 
of metal and water, conversations onboard submarines were always vulnerable to 
interception by nearby eavesdroppers or parasitic suction mics attached to the 
outer hull. The dead room was, in effect, a tiny chamber inside the submarine from 
which absolutely no sound could escape. All conversations inside this insulated 
box were entirely secure. 
The chamber looked like a walk-in closet whose ceiling, walls, and floor had been 
completely covered with foam spires jutting inward from all directions. It 
reminded Rachel of a cramped underwater cave where stalagmites had run wild, 
growing off every surface. Most unsettling, however, was the apparent lack of a 

floor. 
The floor was a taut, meshed chicken-wire grid strung horizontally across the 
room like a fishing net, giving the inhabitants the feeling that they were suspended 
midway up the wall. The mesh was rubberized and stiff beneath the feet. As 
Rachel gazed down through the webbed flooring, she felt like she was crossing a 
string bridge suspended over a surrealistic fractalized landscape. Three feet below, 
a forest of foam needles pointed ominously upward. 
Instantly upon entering Rachel had sensed the disorientating lifelessness to the air, 
as if every bit of energy had been sucked out. Her ears felt as if theyd been 
stuffed with cotton. Only her breath was audible inside her head. She called out, 
and the effect was that of speaking into a pillow. The walls absorbed every 
reverberation, making the only perceivable vibrations those inside her head. 
Now the captain had departed, closing the padded door behind him. Rachel, 
Corky, and Tolland were seated in the center of the room at a small U-shaped 
table that stood on long metal stilts that descended through the mesh. On the table 
were affixed several gooseneck microphones, headphones, and a video console 
with a fish-eye camera on top. It looked like a miniUnited Nations symposium. 
As someone who worked in the U.S. intelligence communitythe worlds 
foremost manufacturers of hard laser microphones, underwater parabolic 
eavesdroppers, and other hypersensitive listening devicesRachel was well aware 
there were few places on earth where one could have a truly secure conversation. 
The dead room was apparently one of those places. The mics and headphones on 
the table enabled a face-to-face conference call in which people could speak 
freely, knowing the vibrations of their words could not escape the room. Their 
voices, upon entering the microphones, would be heavily encrypted for their long 
journey through the atmosphere. 
Level check. The voice materialized suddenly inside their headphones, causing 
Rachel, Tolland, and Corky to jump. Do you read me, Ms. Sexton? 
Rachel leaned into the microphone. Yes. Thank you. Whoever you are. 

I have Director Pickering on the line for you. Hes accepting AV. I am signing 
off now. You will have your data stream momentarily. 
Rachel heard the line go dead. There was a distant whirr of static and then a rapid 
series of beeps and clicks in the headphones. With startling clarity, the video 
screen in front of them sprang to life, and Rachel saw Director Pickering in the 
NRO conference room. He was alone. His head snapped up and he looked into 
Rachels eyes. 
She felt oddly relieved to see him. 
Ms. Sexton, he said, his expression perplexed and troubled. What in the world 
is going on? 
The meteorite, sir, Rachel said. I think we may have a serious problem. 
71 
Inside the Charlottes dead room, Rachel Sexton introduced Michael Tolland and 
Corky Marlinson to Pickering. Then she took charge and launched into a quick 
account of the days incredible chain of events. 
The NRO director sat motionless as he listened. 
Rachel told him about the bioluminescent plankton in the extraction pit, their 
journey onto the ice shelf and discovery of an insertion shaft beneath the 
meteorite, and finally of their sudden attack by a military team she suspected was 
Special Ops. 
William Pickering was known for his ability to listen to disturbing information 

without so much as flinching an eye, and yet his gaze grew more and more 
troubled with each progression in Rachels story. She sensed disbelief and then 
rage when she talked about Norah Mangors murder and their own near-death 
escape. Although Rachel wanted to voice her suspicions of the NASA 
administrators involvement, she knew Pickering well enough not to point fingers 
without evidence. She gave Pickering the story as cold hard facts. When she was 
finished, Pickering did not respond for several seconds. 
Ms. Sexton, he finally said, all of you He moved his gaze to each of them. 
If what youre saying is true, and I cannot imagine why three of you would lie 
about this, you are all very lucky to be alive. 
They all nodded in silence. The President had called in four civilian 
scientistsand two of them were now dead. 
Pickering heaved a disconsolate sigh, as if he had no idea what to say next. The 
events clearly made little sense. Is there any way, Pickering asked, that this 
insertion shaft youre seeing in that GPR printout is a natural phenomenon? 
Rachel shook her head. Its too perfect. She unfolded the soggy GPR printout 
and held it up in front of the camera. Flawless. 
Pickering studied the image, scowling in agreement. Dont let that out of your 
hands. 
I called Marjorie Tench to warn her to stop the President, Rachel said. But she 
shut me down. 
I know. She told me. 
Rachel looked up, stunned. Marjorie Tench called you? That was fast. 
Just now. Shes very concerned. She feels you are attempting some kind of stunt 
to discredit the President and NASA. Perhaps to help your father. 

Rachel stood up. She waved the GPR printout and motioned to her two 
companions. We were almost killed! Does this look like some kind of stunt? And 
why would I 
Pickering held up his hands. Easy. What Ms. Tench failed to tell me was that 
there were three of you. 
Rachel could not recall if Tench had even given her time to mention Corky and 
Tolland. 
Nor did she tell me you had physical evidence, Pickering said. I was skeptical 
of her claims before I spoke to you, and now I am convinced she is mistaken. I do 
not doubt your claims. The question at this point is what it all means. 
There was a long silence. 
William Pickering rarely looked confused, but he shook his head, seeming lost. 
Lets assume for the moment that someone did insert this meteorite beneath the 
ice. That begs the obvious issue of why. If NASA has a meteorite with fossils in it, 
why would they, or anyone else for that matter, care where it is found? 
It appears, Rachel said, that the insertion was performed such that PODS 
would make the discovery, and the meteorite would appear to be a fragment from 
a known impact. 
The Jungersol Fall, Corky prompted. 
But of what value is the meteorites association with a known impact? Pickering 
demanded, sounding almost mad. Arent these fossils an astounding discovery 
anywhere and anytime? No matter what meteoritic event they are associated 
with? 
All three nodded. 
Pickering hesitated, looking displeased. Unlessof course 

Rachel saw the wheels turning behind the directors eyes. He had found the 
simplest explanation for placing the meteorite concurrent with the Jungersol strata, 
but the simplest explanation was also the most troubling. 
Unless, Pickering continued, the careful placement was intended to lend 
credibility to totally false data. He sighed, turning to Corky. Dr. Marlinson, what 
is the possibility that this meteorite is a counterfeit. 
Counterfeit, sir? 
Yes. A fake. Manufactured. 
A fake meteorite? Corky gave an awkward laugh. Utterly impossible! That 
meteorite was examined by professionals. Myself included. Chemical scans, 
spectrograph, rubidium-strontium dating. It is unlike any kind of rock ever seen on 
earth. The meteorite is authentic. Any astrogeologist would agree. 
Pickering seemed to consider this a long time, gently stroking his tie. And yet 
taking into account the amount NASA has to gain from this discovery right now, 
the apparent signs of tampering with evidence, and your being attackedthe first 
and only logical conclusion I can draw is that this meteorite is a well-executed 
fraud. 
Impossible! Corky sounded angry now. With all respect, sir, meteorites are not 
some Hollywood special effect that can be conjured up in a lab to fool a bunch of 
unsuspecting astrophysicists. They are chemically complex objects with unique 
crystalline structures and element ratios! 
I am not challenging you, Dr. Marlinson. I am simply following a logical chain of 
analysis. Considering someone wanted to kill you to keep you from revealing it 
was inserted under the ice, Im inclined to entertain all kinds of wild scenarios 
here. What specifically makes you certain this rock is indeed a meteorite? 
Specifically? Corkys voice cracked in the headphones. A flawless fusion crust, 

the presence of chondrules, a nickel ratio unlike anything ever found on earth. If 
youre suggesting that someone tricked us by manufacturing this rock in a lab, 
then all I can say is that the lab was about 190 million years old. Corky dug in his 
pocket and pulled out a stone shaped like a CD. He held it in front of the camera. 
We chemically dated samples like this with numerous methods. Rubidiumstrontium 
dating is not something you can fake! 
Pickering looked surprised. You have a sample? 
Corky shrugged. NASA had dozens of them floating around. 
You mean to tell me, Pickering said, looking at Rachel now, that NASA 
discovered a meteorite they think contains life, and theyre letting people walk off 
with samples? 
The point, Corky said, is that the sample in my hands is genuine. He held the 
rock close to the camera. You could give this to any petrologist or geologist or 
astronomer on earth, they would run tests, and they would tell you two things: one, 
it is 190 million years old; and two, it is chemically dissimilar from the kind of 
rock we have here on earth. 
Pickering leaned forward, studying the fossil embedded in the rock. He seemed 
momentarily transfixed. Finally, he sighed. I am not a scientist. All I can say is 
that if that meteorite is genuine, which it appears it is, I would like to know why 
NASA didnt present it to the world at face value? Why has someone carefully 
placed it under the ice as if to persuade us of its authenticity? 
At that moment, inside the White House, a security officer was dialing Marjorie 
Tench. 
The senior adviser answered on the first ring. Yeah? 
Ms. Tench, the officer said, I have the information you requested earlier. The 

radiophone call that Rachel Sexton placed to you earlier this evening. We have the 
trace. 
Tell me. 
Secret Service ops says the signal originated aboard the naval submarine U.S.S. 
Charlotte. 
What! 
They dont have coordinates, maam, but they are certain of the vessel code. 
Oh, for Christs sake! Tench slammed down the receiver without another word. 
72 
The muted acoustics of the Charlottes dead room were starting to make Rachel 
feel mildly nauseated. On-screen, William Pickerings troubled gaze moved now 
to Michael Tolland. Youre quiet, Mr. Tolland. 
Tolland glanced up like a student who had been called on unexpectedly. Sir? 
You just gave quite a convincing documentary on television, Pickering said. 
Whats your take on the meteorite now? 
Well, sir, Tolland said, his discomfort obvious, I have to agree with Dr. 
Marlinson. I believe the fossils and meteorite are authentic. Im fairly well versed 
in dating techniques, and the age of that stone was confirmed by multiple tests. 
The nickel content as well. These data cannot be forged. There exists no doubt the 
rock, formed 190 million years ago, exhibits nonterrestrial nickel ratios and 
contains dozens of confirmed fossils whose formation is also dated at 190 million 

years. I can think of no other possible explanation than that NASA has found an 
authentic meteorite. 
Pickering fell silent now. His expression was one of quandary, a look Rachel had 
never before seen on William Pickering. 
What should we do, sir? Rachel asked. Obviously we need to alert the 
President there are problems with the data. 
Pickering frowned. Lets hope the President doesnt already know. 
Rachel felt a knot rise in her throat. Pickerings implication was clear. President 
Herney could be involved. Rachel strongly doubted it, and yet both the President 
and NASA had plenty to gain here. 
Unfortunately, Pickering said, with the exception of this GPR printout 
revealing an insertion shaft, all of the scientific data points to a credible NASA 
discovery. He paused, dire. And this issue of your being attacked He looked 
up at Rachel. You mentioned special ops. 
Yes, sir. She told him again about the Improvised Munitions and tactics. 
Pickering looked more and more unhappy by the moment. Rachel sensed her boss 
was contemplating the number of people who might have access to a small 
military kill force. Certainly the President had access. Probably Marjorie Tench 
too, as senior adviser. Quite possibly NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom with 
his ties to the Pentagon. Unfortunately, as Rachel considered the myriad of 
possibilities, she realized the controlling force behind the attack could have been 
almost anyone with high-level political clout and the right connections. 
I could phone the President right now, Pickering said, but I dont think thats 
wise, at least until we know whos involved. My ability to protect you becomes 
limited once we involve the White House. In addition, Im not sure what I would 
tell him. If the meteorite is real, which you all feel it is, then your allegation of an 
insertion shaft and attack doesnt make sense; the President would have every 

right to question the validity of my claim. He paused as if calculating the options. 
Regardlesswhatever the truth is or who the players are, some very powerful 
people will take hits if this information goes public. I suggest we get you to safety 
right away, before we start rocking any boats. 
Get us to safety? The comment surprised Rachel. I think were fairly safe on a 
nuclear submarine, sir. 
Pickering looked skeptical. Your presence on that submarine wont stay secret 
long. Im pulling you out immediately. Frankly, Ill feel better when the three of 
you are sitting in my office. 
73 
Senator Sexton huddled alone on his couch feeling like a refugee. His Westbrooke 
Place apartment that had only an hour ago been filled with new friends and 
supporters now looked forsaken, scattered with the rubble of snifters and business 
cards, abandoned by men who had quite literally dashed out the door. 
Now Sexton crouched in solitude before his television, wanting more than 
anything to turn it off and yet being unable to pull himself from the endless media 
analyses. This was Washington, and it didnt take long for the analysts to rush 
through their pseudoscientific and philosophical hyperbole and lock in on the ugly 
stuffthe politics. Like torture masters rubbing acid in Sextons wounds, the 
newscasters were stating and restating the obvious. 
Hours ago, Sextons campaign was soaring, one analyst said. Now, with 
NASAs discovery, the senators campaign has crashed back to earth. 
Sexton winced, reaching for the Courvoisier and taking a hit right out of the bottle. 
Tonight, he knew, would be the longest and loneliest night of his life. He despised 

Marjorie Tench for setting him up. He despised Gabrielle Ashe for ever 
mentioning NASA in the first place. He despised the President for being so 
goddamned lucky. And he despised the world for laughing at him. 
Obviously, this is devastating for the senator, the analyst was saying. The 
President and NASA have claimed an incalculable triumph with this discovery. 
News like this would revitalize the Presidents campaign regardless of Sextons 
position on NASA, but with Sextons admission today that he would go so far as 
to abolish NASA funding outright if need bewell, this presidential 
announcement is a one-two punch from which the senator will not recover. 
I was tricked, Sexton said. The White House fucking set me up. 
The analyst was smiling now. All of the credibility NASA has lost with 
Americans recently has just been restored in spades. Theres a real feeling of 
national pride out there on the streets right now. 
As there should be. They love Zach Herney, and they were losing faith. Youve 
got to admit, the President was lying down and took some pretty big hits recently, 
but hes come out of it smelling like a rose. 
Sexton thought of the CNN debate that afternoon and hung his head, thinking he 
might be sick to his stomach. All of the NASA inertia he had so carefully built up 
over the last months had not only come to a screeching halt, but it had become an 
anchor around his neck. He looked like a fool. Hed been brazenly played by the 
White House. He was already dreading all the cartoons in tomorrows paper. His 
name would be the punch line to every joke in the country. Obviously, there 
would be no more quiet SFF campaign funding. Everything had changed. All of 
the men who had been in his apartment had just seen their dreams go down the 
toilet. The privatization of space had just struck a brick wall. 
Taking another hit of cognac, the senator stood up and walked unevenly to his 
desk. He gazed down at the unhooked phone receiver. Knowing it was an act of 
masochistic self-flagellation, he slowly replaced the phone receiver in its cradle 
and began counting the seconds. 

Onetwo The phone rang. He let the machine pick up. 
Senator Sexton, Judy Oliver from CNN. Id like to give you an opportunity to 
react to the NASA discovery this evening. Please call me. She hung up. 
Sexton started counting again. One The phone started ringing. He ignored it, 
letting the machine get it. Another reporter. 
Holding his bottle of Courvoisier, Sexton wandered toward the sliding door of his 
balcony. He pulled it aside and stepped out into the cool air. Leaning against the 
railing, he gazed out across town to the illuminated facade of the White House in 
the distance. The lights seemed to twinkle gleefully in the wind. 
Bastards, he thought. For centuries weve been looking for proof of life in the 
heavens. Now we find it in the same fucking year as my election? This wasnt 
propitious, this was goddamned clairvoyant. Every apartment window for as far as 
Sexton could see had a television on. Sexton wondered where Gabrielle Ashe was 
tonight. This was all her fault. Shed fed him NASA failure after NASA failure. 
He raised the bottle to take another swig. 
Goddamned Gabrielleshes the reason Im in this so deep. 
Across town, standing amid the chaos of the ABC production room, Gabrielle 
Ashe felt numb. The Presidents announcement had come out of left field, leaving 
her suspended in a semicatatonic haze. She stood, lock-kneed in the center of the 
production room floor, staring up at one of the television monitors while 
pandemonium raged around her. 
The initial seconds of the announcement had brought dead silence to the 
newsroom floor. It had lasted only moments before the place erupted into a 
deafening carnival of scrambling reporters. These people were professionals. They 

had no time for personal reflection. There would be time for that after the work 
was done. At the moment, the world wanted to know more, and ABC had to 
provide it. This story had everythingscience, history, political dramaan 
emotional mother lode. Nobody in the media was sleeping tonight. 
Gabs? Yolandas voice was sympathetic. Lets get you back into my office 
before someone realizes who you are and starts grilling you on what this means 
for Sextons campaign. 
Gabrielle felt herself guided through a haze into Yolandas glass-walled office. 
Yolanda sat her down and handed her a glass of water. She tried to force a smile. 
Look on the bright side, Gabs. Your candidates campaign is fucked, but at least 
youre not. 
Thanks. Terrific. 
Yolandas tone turned serious. Gabrielle, I know you feel like shit. Your 
candidate just got hit by a Mack truck, and if you ask me, hes not getting up. At 
least not in time to turn this thing around. But at least nobodys splashing your 
picture all over the television. Seriously. This is good news. Herney wont need a 
sex scandal now. Hes looking far too presidential right now to talk sex. 
It seemed a small consolation to Gabrielle. 
As for Tenchs allegations of Sextons illegal campaign finance Yolanda 
shook her head. I have my doubts. Granted, Herney is serious about no negative 
campaigning. And granted, a bribery investigation would be bad for the country. 
But is Herney really so patriotic that he would forgo a chance to crush his 
opposition, simply to protect national morale? My guess is Tench stretched the 
truth about Sextons finances in an effort to scare. She gambled, hoping youd 
jump ship and give the President a free sex scandal. And youve got to admit, 
Gabs, tonight would have been a hell of a night for Sextons morals to come into 
question! 
Gabrielle nodded vaguely. A sex scandal would have been a one-two punch from 

which Sextons career never would have recoveredever. 
You outlasted her, Gabs. Marjorie Tench went fishing, but you didnt bite. 
Youre home free. Therell be other elections. 
Gabrielle nodded vaguely, unsure what to believe anymore. 
Youve got to admit, Yolanda said, the White House played Sexton 
brilliantlyluring him down the NASA path, getting him to commit, coaxing him 
to put all his eggs in the NASA basket. 
Totally my fault, Gabrielle thought. 
And this announcement we just watched, my God, it was genius! The importance 
of the discovery entirely aside, the production values were brilliant. Live feeds 
from the Arctic? A Michael Tolland documentary? Good God, how can you 
compete? Zach Herney nailed it tonight. Theres a reason the guy is President. 
And will be for another four years 
Ive got to get back to work, Gabs, Yolanda said. You sit right there as long as 
you want. Get your feet under you. Yolanda headed out the door. Hon, Ill check 
back in a few minutes. 
Alone now, Gabrielle sipped her water, but it tasted foul. Everything did. Its all 
my fault, she thought, trying to ease her conscience by reminding herself of all the 
glum NASA press conferences of the past yearthe space station setbacks, the 
postponement of the X-33, all the failed Mars probes, continuous budget bailouts. 
Gabrielle wondered what she could have done differently. 
Nothing, she told herself. You did everything right. 
It had simply backfired. 

74 
The thundering navy SeaHawk chopper had been scrambled under a covert 
operation status out of Thule Air Force Base in northern Greenland. It stayed low, 
out of radar range, as it shot through the gale winds across seventy miles of open 
sea. Then, executing the bizarre orders they had been given, the pilots fought the 
wind and brought the craft to a hover above a pre-ordained set of coordinates on 
the empty ocean. 
Wheres the rendezvous? the copilot yelled, confused. They had been told to 
bring a chopper with a rescue winch, so he anticipated a search-and-retrieve 
operation. You sure these are the right coordinates? He scanned the choppy seas 
with a searchlight, but there was nothing below them except 
Holy shit! The pilot pulled back on the stick, jolting upward. 
The black mountain of steel rose before them out of the waves without warning. A 
gargantuan unmarked submarine blew its ballast and rose on a cloud of bubbles. 
The pilots exchanged uneasy laughs. Guess thats them. 
As ordered, the transaction proceeded under complete radio silence. The 
doublewide portal on the peak of the sail opened and a seaman flashed them 
signals with a strobe light. The chopper then moved over the sub and dropped a 
three-man rescue harness, essentially three rubberized loops on a retractable cable. 
Within sixty seconds, the three unknown danglers were swinging beneath the 
chopper, ascending slowly against the downdraft of the rotors. 
When the copilot hauled them aboardtwo men and a womanthe pilot flashed 
the sub the all clear. Within seconds, the enormous vessel disappeared beneath 
the windswept sea, leaving no trace it had ever been there. 

With the passengers safely aboard, the chopper pilot faced front, dipped the nose 
of the chopper, and accelerated south to complete his mission. The storm was 
closing fast, and these three strangers were to be brought safely back to Thule 
AFB for further jet transport. Where they were headed, the pilot had no idea. All 
he knew was that his orders had been from high up, and he was transporting very 
precious cargo. 
75 
When the Milne storm finally exploded, unleashing its full force on the NASA 
habisphere, the dome shuddered as if ready to lift off the ice and launch out to sea. 
The steel stabilizing cables pulled taut against their stakes, vibrating like huge 
guitar strings and letting out a doleful drone. The generators outside stuttered, 
causing the lights to flicker, threatening to plunge the huge room into total 
blackness. 
NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom strode across the interior of the dome. He 
wished he were getting the hell out of here tonight, but that was not to be. He 
would remain another day, giving additional on-site press conferences in the 
morning and overseeing preparations to transport the meteorite back to 
Washington. He wanted nothing more at the moment than to get some sleep; the 
days unexpected problems had taken a lot out of him. 
Ekstroms thoughts turned yet again to Wailee Ming, Rachel Sexton, Norah 
Mangor, Michael Tolland, and Corky Marlinson. Some of the NASA staff had 
begun noticing the civilians were missing. 
Relax, Ekstrom told himself. Everything is under control. 
He breathed deeply, reminding himself that everyone on the planet was excited 
about NASA and space right now. Extraterrestrial life hadnt been this exciting a 

topic since the famous Roswell incident back in 1947the alleged crash of an 
alien spaceship in Roswell, New Mexico, which was now the shrine to millions of 
UFO-conspiracy theorists even today. 
During Ekstroms years working at the Pentagon, he had learned that the Roswell 
incident had been nothing more than a military accident during a classified 
operation called Project Mogulthe flight test of a spy balloon being designed to 
listen in on Russian atomic tests. A prototype, while being tested, had drifted off 
course and crashed in the New Mexico desert. Unfortunately, a civilian found the 
wreckage before the military did. 
Unsuspecting rancher William Brazel had stumbled across a debris field of radical 
synthesized neoprene and lightweight metals unlike anything hed ever seen, and 
he immediately called in the sheriff. Newspapers carried the story of the bizarre 
wreckage, and public interest grew fast. Fueled by the militarys denial that the 
wreckage was theirs, reporters launched investigations, and the covert status of 
Project Mogul came into serious jeopardy. Just as it seemed the sensitive issue of a 
spy balloon was about to be revealed, something wonderful happened. 
The media drew an unexpected conclusion. They decided the scraps of futuristic 
substance could only have come from an extraterrestrial sourcecreatures more 
scientifically advanced than humans. The militarys denial of the incident 
obviously had to be one thing onlya cover-up of contact with aliens! Although 
baffled by this new hypothesis, the air force was not about to look a gift horse in 
the mouth. They grabbed the alien story and ran with it; the worlds suspicion that 
aliens were visiting New Mexico was far less a threat to national security than that 
of the Russians catching wind of Project Mogul. 
To fuel the alien cover story, the intelligence community shrouded the Roswell 
incident in secrecy and began orchestrating security leaksquiet murmurings of 
alien contacts, recovered spaceships, and even a mysterious Hangar 18 at 
Daytons Wright-Patterson Air Force Base where the government was keeping 
alien bodies on ice. The world bought the story, and Roswell fever swept the 
globe. From that moment on, whenever a civilian mistakenly spotted an advanced 

U.S. military aircraft, the intelligence community simply dusted off the old 
conspiracy. 
Thats not an aircraft, thats an alien spaceship! 
Ekstrom was amazed to think this simple deception was still working today. Every 
time the media reported a sudden flurry of UFO sightings, Ekstrom had to laugh. 
Chances were some lucky civilian had caught a glimpse of one of the NROs fiftyseven 
fast-moving, unmanned reconnaissance aircraft known as Global 
Hawksoblong, remote-controlled aircraft that looked like nothing else in the 
sky. 
Ekstrom found it pathetic that countless tourists still made pilgrimages to the New 
Mexico desert to scan the night skies with their video cameras. Occasionally one 
got lucky and captured hard evidence of a UFObright lights flitting around 
the sky with more maneuverability and speed than any aircraft humans had ever 
built. What these people failed to realize, of course, was that there existed a twelveyear 
lag between what the government could build and what the public knew 
about. These UFO-gazers were simply catching a glimpse of the next generation 
of U.S. aircraft being developed out at Area 51many of which were the 
brainstorms of NASA engineers. Of course, intelligence officials never corrected 
the misconception; it was obviously preferable that the world read about another 
UFO sighting than to have people learn the U.S. militarys true flight capabilities. 
But everything has changed now, Ekstrom thought. In a few hours, the 
extraterrestrial myth would become a confirmed reality, forever. 
Administrator? A NASA technician hurried across the ice behind him. You 
have an emergency secure call in the PSC. 
Ekstrom sighed, turning. What the hell could it be now? He headed for the 
communications trailer. 
The technician hurried along beside him. The guys manning the radar in the PSC 
were curious, sir 

Yeah? Ekstroms thoughts were still far away. 
The fat-body sub stationed off the coast here? We were wondering why you 
didnt mention it to us. 
Ekstrom glanced up. Im sorry? 
The submarine, sir? You could have at least told the guys on radar. Additional 
seaboard security is understandable, but it took our radar team off guard. 
Ekstrom stopped short. What submarine? 
The technician stopped now too, clearly not expecting the administrators surprise. 
Shes not part of our operation? 
No! Where is it? 
The technician swallowed hard. About three miles out. We caught her on radar 
by chance. Only surfaced for a couple minutes. Pretty big blip. Had to be a fatbody. 
We figured youd asked the navy to stand watch over this op without telling 
any of us. 
Ekstrom stared. I most certainly did not! 
Now the technicians voice wavered. Well, sir, then I guess I should inform you 
that a sub just rendezvoused with an aircraft right off the coast here. Looked like a 
personnel change. Actually, we were all pretty impressed anyone would attempt a 
wet-dry vertical in this kind of wind. 
Ekstrom felt his muscles stiffen. What the hell is a submarine doing directly off 
the coast of Ellesmere Island without my knowledge? Did you see what direction 
the aircraft flew after rendezvous? 
Back toward Thule air base. For connecting transport to the mainland, I assume. 

Ekstrom said nothing the rest of the way to the PSC. When he entered the cramped 
darkness, the hoarse voice on the line had a familiar rasp. 
Weve got a problem, Tench said, coughing as she spoke. Its about Rachel 
Sexton. 
76 
Senator Sexton was not sure how long he had been staring into space when he 
heard the pounding. When he realized the throbbing in his ears was not from the 
alcohol but rather from someone at his apartment door, he got up from the couch, 
stowed the bottle of Courvoisier, and made his way to the foyer. 
Who is it? Sexton yelled, in no mood for visitors. 
His bodyguards voice called in with the identity of Sextons unexpected guest. 
Sexton sobered instantly. That was fast. Sexton had hoped not to have to have this 
conversation until morning. 
Taking a deep breath and straightening his hair, Sexton opened the door. The face 
before him was all too familiartough and leathery despite the mans seventysomething 
years. Sexton had met with him only this morning in the white Ford 
Windstar minivan in a hotel parking garage. Was it only this morning? Sexton 
wondered. God, how things had changed since then. 
May I come in? the dark-haired man asked. 
Sexton stepped aside, allowing the head of the Space Frontier Foundation to pass. 
Did the meeting go well? the man asked, as Sexton closed the door. 

Did it go well? Sexton wondered if the man lived in a cocoon. Things were 
terrific until the President came on television. 
The old man nodded, looking displeased. Yes. An incredible victory. It will hurt 
our cause greatly. 
Hurt our cause? Here was an optimist. With NASAs triumph tonight, this guy 
would be dead and buried before the Space Frontier Foundation attained their 
goals of privatization. 
For years I have suspected proof was forthcoming, the old man said. I did not 
know how or when, but sooner or later we had to know for sure. 
Sexton was stunned. Youre not surprised? 
The mathematics of the cosmos virtually requires other life-forms, the man said, 
moving toward Sextons den. I am not surprised that this discovery has been 
made. Intellectually, I am thrilled. Spiritually, I am in awe. Politically, I am deeply 
disturbed. The timing could not be worse. 
Sexton wondered why the man had come. It sure as hell wasnt to cheer him up. 
As you know, the man said, SFF member companies have spent millions trying 
to open the frontier of space to private citizens. Recently, much of that money has 
gone to your campaign. 
Sexton felt suddenly defensive. I had no control over tonights fiasco. The White 
House baited me to attack NASA! 
Yes. The President played the game well. And yet, all may not be lost. There 
was an odd glint of hope in the old mans eyes. 
Hes senile, Sexton decided. All was definitely lost. Every station on television 
right now was talking about the destruction of the Sexton campaign. 

The old man showed himself into the den, sat on the couch, and fixed his tired 
eyes on the senator. Do you recall, the man said, the problems NASA initially 
had with the anomaly software onboard the PODS satellite? 
Sexton could not imagine where this was headed. What the hell difference does 
that make now? PODS found a goddamned meteorite with fossils! 
If you remember, the man said. The onboard software did not function properly 
at first. You made a big deal of it in the press. 
As I should have! Sexton said, sitting down opposite the man. It was another 
NASA failure! 
The man nodded. I agree. But shortly after that, NASA held a press conference 
announcing they had come up with a work-aroundsome sort of patch for the 
software. 
Sexton hadnt actually seen the press conference, but hed heard it was short, flat, 
and hardly newsworthythe PODS project leader giving a dull technical 
description of how NASA had overcome a minor glitch in PODSs anomalydetection 
software and gotten everything up and running. 
I have been watching PODS with interest ever since it failed, the man said. He 
produced a videocassette and walked to Sextons television, putting the video in 
the VCR. This should interest you. 
The video began to play. It showed the NASA press room at headquarters in 
Washington. A well-dressed man was taking the podium and greeting the 
audience. The subtitle beneath the podium read: 
CHRIS HARPER, Section Manager 
Polar Orbiting Density Scanner Satellite (PODS) 
Chris Harper was tall, refined, and spoke with the quiet dignity of a European 
American who still clung proudly to his roots. His accent was erudite and 

polished. He was addressing the press with confidence, giving them some bad 
news about PODS. 
Although the PODS satellite is in orbit and functioning well, we have a minor 
setback with the onboard computers. A minor programming error for which I take 
full responsibility. Specifically, the FIR filter has a faulty voxel index, which 
means the PODSs anomaly-detection software is not functioning properly. Were 
working on a fix. 
The crowd sighed, apparently accustomed to NASA letdowns. What does that 
mean for the current effectiveness of the satellite? someone asked. 
Harper took it like a pro. Confident and matter-of-fact. Imagine a perfect set of 
eyes without a functioning brain. Essentially the PODS satellite is seeing twentytwenty, 
but it has no idea what its looking at. The purpose of the PODS mission is 
to look for melt pockets in the polar ice cap, but without the computer to analyze 
the density data PODS receives from its scanners, PODS cannot discern where the 
points of interest are. We should have the situation remedied after the next shuttle 
mission can make an adjustment to the onboard computer. 
A groan of disappointment rose in the room. 
The old man glanced over at Sexton. He presents bad news pretty well, doesnt 
he? 
Hes from NASA, Sexton grumbled. Thats what they do. 
The VCR tape went blank for an instant and then switched to another NASA press 
conference. 
This second press conference, the old man said to Sexton, was given only a 
few weeks ago. Quite late at night. Few people saw it. This time Dr. Harper is 
announcing good news. 
The footage launched. This time Chris Harper looked disheveled and uneasy. I 

am pleased to announce, Harper said, sounding anything but pleased, that 
NASA has found a work-around for the PODS satellites software problem. He 
fumbled through an explanation of the work-aroundsomething about redirecting 
the raw data from PODS and sending it through computers here on earth rather 
than relying on the onboard PODS computer. Everyone seemed impressed. It all 
sounded quite feasible and exciting. When Harper was done, the room gave him 
an enthusiastic round of applause. 
So we can expect data soon? someone in the audience asked. 
Harper nodded, sweating. A couple of weeks. 
More applause. Hands shot up around the room. 
Thats all I have for you now, Harper said, looking ill as he packed up his 
papers. PODS is up and running. Well have data soon. He practically ran off 
the stage. 
Sexton scowled. He had to admit, this was odd. Why did Chris Harper look so 
comfortable giving bad news and so uncomfortable giving good news? It should 
have been in reverse. Sexton hadnt actually seen this press conference when it 
aired, although hed read about the software fix. The fix, at the time, seemed an 
inconsequential NASA salvage; the public perception remained 
unimpressedPODS was just another NASA project that had malfunctioned and 
was being awkwardly patched together with a less than ideal solution. 
The old man turned off the television. NASA claimed Dr. Harper was not feeling 
well that night. He paused. I happen to think Harper was lying. 
Lying? Sexton stared, his fuzzy thoughts unable to piece together any logical 
rationale for why Harper would have lied about the software. Still, Sexton had told 
enough lies in his life to recognize a poor liar when he saw one. He had to admit, 
Dr. Harper sure looked suspicious. 
Perhaps you dont realize? the old man said. This little announcement you just 

heard Chris Harper give is the single most important press conference in NASA 
history. He paused. That convenient software fix he just described is what 
allowed PODS to find the meteorite. 
Sexton puzzled. And you think he was lying about it? But, if Harper was lying, 
and the PODS software isnt really working, then how the hell did NASA find the 
meteorite? 
The old man smiled. Exactly. 
77 
The U.S. militarys 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 shed 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 Rachels 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 Rachels 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? Thats 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 carefullyruthlessly 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 hed 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 bystanderor 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 seena 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 startsomething all data analysts practiced when the pieces didnt 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, lets play a game. 

Tolland turned from the window, looking distant, apparently deep in his own 
thoughts. A game? 
She handed him the meteorite sample. Lets pretend youre seeing this fossilized 
rock for the first time. Ive 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 forceforce 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 controllers plan. 
Later, the controllers 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 persons 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 controllers 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 NASAs armor. 
The videotape of the bizarre NASA press conference had convinced Sexton that 
the old man was rightPODS 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 
NASAs 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. Weve 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 Sextons campaign had turned 
out to be the biggest mistake of Sextons 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. Shed 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. Im sorry? 
Ms. Ashe? She had important information for you earlier tonight. Thats 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 guards 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! Im sorry. Im 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 Ashes 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 
Yolandas 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, its me. 
She recognized the timbre of Senator Sextons voice immediately, although he 
sounded surprisingly calm considering what had just transpired. 
Its been one hell of a night over here, he said, so just let me talk. Im sure you 
saw the Presidents conference. Christ, did we play the wrong cards. Im sick over 
it. Youre probably blaming yourself. Dont. 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 meanI 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. Its not 
something they like to advertise. 
Gabrielle felt totally disarmed. Butisnt 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. Im quiet about it because, frankly, the appearances 
arent so great. If the White House caught wind, theyd spin the hell out of it. 

Anyhow, look, thats not the point. I called to tell you that after tonights 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 tonights 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 youve 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. UmI think so, Gabrielle 
lied. 
Good. Theres 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 mans luster had worn off since 
shed 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 powerand I couldnt save her. 
Pickerings 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, Pickerings 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. 

Pickerings 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? Pickerings secretarys voice came over his intercom, startling him. Line 
one. Its 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. 
Tenchs voice was seething mad. What did she tell you? 
Im sorry? 
Rachel Sexton contacted you. What did she tell you? She was on a submarine, for 
Gods sake! Explain that! 
Pickering could tell immediately that denying the fact was not an option; Tench 
had been doing her homework. Pickering was surprised shed found out about the 
Charlotte, but shed apparently thrown her weight around until she got some 
answers. Ms. Sexton contacted me, yes. 

You arranged a pickup. And you didnt 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 meteoriteand 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 youre calling me? 
Frankly, director, Im shocked that you would even entertain these lunatic 
ravings. 
You didnt 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 
scientistsor 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. Im 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, youve got to start by being honest with me. 

Tench sounded tempted but wary. If youre so certain there were lies, why 
havent you stepped forward? 
I dont interfere in political matters. 
Tench muttered something that sounded a lot like bullshit. 
Are you trying to tell me, Marjorie, that the Presidents 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 its 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. 
Ill come to your office. 
No, she said hurriedly. Its late. Your presence here would raise concerns. Id 
prefer to keep this matter between us. 
Pickering read between the lines. The President knows nothing about this. Youre 
welcome to come here, he said. 
Tench sounded distrusting. Lets 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 Coles 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 shed 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 
Gabrielles 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 havent woken 
you? 
Heavens no! I dont think anyones asleep tonight. She sounded excited. 
Gabrielle could hear the television in the background. Meteorite coverage. 
Youre calling for Chris, I assume? 
Gabrielles pulse quickened. Yes, maam. 
Im afraid Chris isnt here. He raced off to work as soon as the Presidents 
address was over. The woman chuckled to herself. Of course, I doubt theres 
any work going on. Most likely a party. The announcement came as quite a 
surprise to him, you know. To everyone. Our phones been ringing all night. I bet 
the whole NASA crews over there by now. 
E Street complex? Gabrielle asked, assuming the woman meant NASA 
headquarters. 
Righto. Take a party hat. 
Thanks. Ill 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 wasnt what I thought. 
I told you Tench was playing you. Hows the senator taking the meteorite news? 
Better than expected. 
Yolanda looked surprised. I figured hed 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? 
Im going over to NASA to check on something. 
Yolandas penciled eyebrows raised in cautionary arches. Senator Sextons righthand 
aide is going to march into NASA headquarters? Tonight? Can you say 
public stoning? 
Gabrielle told Yolanda about Sextons suspicion that the PODS section manager 
Chris Harper had lied about fixing the anomaly software. 
Yolanda clearly wasnt buying it. We covered that press conference, Gabs, and 
Ill 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 wasnt fixed, how did PODS spot the 
meteorite? 
Sextons point exactly, Gabrielle thought. I dont know. But the senator wants me 

to get him some answers. 
Yolanda shook her head. Sexton is sending you into a hornets nest on a 
desperate pipe dream. Dont go. You dont 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 
hell tell you the truth. 
Gabrielle had considered that and was already formulating her plan. If I find a 
story over there, Ill call you. 
Yolanda gave a skeptical laugh. If you find a story over there, Ill 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 Rachels 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? 
Rachels 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 premisethat 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, youre 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? Its a far greater leap 
to assert youve found extraterrestrial life than it is to assert youve 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 doesnt necessarily have to 
be currently living. Its a fossil. Its 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 remainsenormous winged reptiles, dinosaurs, 
birds. 
Not to be the physicist here, Mike, Corky said, but theres a serious flaw in 
your argument. The prehistoric creatures you just nameddinosaurs, reptiles, 
birdsthey all have internal skeletons, which gives them the capability to grow to 
large sizes despite the earths gravity. But this fossil He took the sample and 
held it up. These guys have exo skeletons. Theyre 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. 
Corkys brow furrowed with annoyance. Well, Mike, unless some caveman was 
running an antigravity louse farm, I dont 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, 
youre used to looking up. Look down. Theres an abundant antigravity 
environment right here on earth. And its 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 landjellyfish, 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. Theyre 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. Theyre a 
suborder of the phylum Arthropodalice, crabs, spiders, insects, grasshoppers, 
scorpions, lobsterstheyre all related. Theyre 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, Ive 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. 
Rachels excitement seemed to fade now to concern. Mike, again barring the 
issue of the meteorites apparent authenticity, tell me this: Do you think the fossils 
we saw at Milne could possibly have come from the ocean? Earths 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 cant believe what Im hearing here. Barring the 

issue of the meteorites authenticity? The meteorite is irrefutable. Even if earth has 
ocean floor the same age as that meteorite, we sure as hell dont have ocean floor 
that has fusion crust, anomalous nickel content, and chondrules. Youre 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 didnt 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 samplesthose from the ocean floortend 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 cleana 
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 weve observed of 
space, theres a lot more dirt and rock out there than water. 
Rachel fell silent. 
Although, Tolland added. Rachel had him thinking now. Ill admit there are 
very deep parts of the ocean floor that oceanographers call dead zones. We dont 
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? Whats 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 didnt anyone mention this? 
Its 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 hadnt 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 
nonearth-like. 
Rachel shook her head. Sorry, but in my business thats the kind of faulty logic 
that gets people killed. Saying a rock is nonearth-like doesnt prove its a 
meteorite. It simply proves that its not like anything weve ever seen on earth. 
What the hells the difference! 
Nothing, Rachel said. If youve 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 aint 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 NASAs $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 buildings 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. Im looking for Chris Harper? 
The woman eyed Gabrielle strangely, as if she recognized her from somewhere 
and couldnt quite place it. I saw Dr. Harper go through a while ago. I think he 
headed upstairs. Do I know you? 
I dont think so, Gabrielle said, turning away. How do I get upstairs? 
Do you work for NASA? 
No, I dont. 
Then you cant get upstairs. 
Oh. Is there a phone I might use to 
Hey, the woman said, looking suddenly angry. I know who you are. Ive seen 
you on television with Senator Sexton. I cant 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 Im 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 
controlledkey 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 shed 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. Its 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. Wellyes, its quite He glanced at her neck, 
apparently troubled not to see an ID. Im 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 guys ID: JAMES THEISEN, 
Finance Administration. 
Do you work here? The man looked uncomfortable. Miss? 
Gabrielle let her mouth fall slack. Jim! Im 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. Im 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 Id met everyone on Dr. Harpers 
team. 
She gave an embarrassed nod. Chris keeps me hidden away. Im 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 havent 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, isnt it? This meteorite. Im 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 evenings 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. Onscreen 
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 its pretty obvious were not 
going to find extraterrestrial life! 
And if youre wrong? Marjorie Tench replied. 
Sexton rolled his eyes. Oh, for heavens sake, Ms. Tench, if Im wrong Ill eat my 
hat. 
Everyone in the Roosevelt Room laughed. Tenchs cornering of the senator could 
have played as cruel and heavy-handed in retrospect, and yet viewers didnt seem 
to notice; the haughty tone of the senators 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 
Houses quantum political leap forward and Senator Sextons 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. Ekstroms thoughts were lost in a different storman 
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 hed 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 NASAs escalating failure ratio. 
Pickerings 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. 
Pickerings grievances against NASA were an ongoing drama of disillusionment 
and resentment. 
NASAs 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, Pickerings 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 NASAan 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, Corkys admission that the nickel content was outside 
the preestablished midrange values had served to rekindle Rachels 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 meteorites 
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 Rachels headequilibrated 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 
freshcertainly not three hundred years oldalthough 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 persons 
skin looked almost perfect. 
As she studied the fusion crust, an odd thought occurred to heran 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, thats 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. 
Theres 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 stonenuclear, chemical, fossil fuel. Forget it. And how about the 
striations from streaking through the atmosphere? You wouldnt 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, Ive had some experience with volcanoes, 

both above and below water. Corkys right. Volcanic ejecta is penetrated by 
dozens of toxinscarbon dioxide, sulfur dioxide, hydrogen sulfide, hydrochloric 
acidall 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 didnt 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 dont 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, werent 
they? 
There is a scientific explanation. 
Rachels 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 astrophysicists eyes turned to saucers. How could you possibly know that! 
Tolland also looked utterly amazed. 
Rachel stared at them both. Why didnt anyone mention this to me? 
Because theres a perfectly sound scientific explanation! Corky declared. 
Im all ears, Rachel said. 
There was surplus ionized hydrogen, Corky said, because the meteorite passed 
through the atmosphere near the North Pole, where the earths magnetic field 
causes an abnormally high concentration of hydrogen ions. 
Rachel frowned. Unfortunately, I have another explanation. 
87 
The fourth floor of NASA headquarters was less impressive than the lobbylong 

sterile corridors with office doors equally spaced along the walls. The corridor was 
deserted. Laminated signs pointed in all directions. 
arrow
LANDSAT 7 
TERRA
arrow 
arrow
ACRIMSAT 
arrow
JASON 1 
AQUA
arrow 
PODS
arrow 
Gabrielle followed the signs for PODS. Winding her way down a series of long 
corridors and intersections, she came to a set of heavy steel doors. The stencil 
read: 
POLAR ORBITING DENSITY SCANNER (PODS) 
Section Manager, Chris Harper 
The doors were locked, secured both by key card and a PIN pad access. Gabrielle 
put her ear to the cold metal door. For a moment, she thought she heard talking. 
Arguing. Maybe not. She wondered if she should just bang on the door until 
someone inside let her in. Unfortunately, her plan for dealing with Chris Harper 
required a bit more subtlety than banging on doors. She looked around for another 
entrance but saw none. A custodial alcove stood adjacent to the door, and 
Gabrielle stepped in, searching the dimly lit niche for a janitors key ring or key 
card. Nothing. Just brooms and mops. 
Returning to the door, she put her ear to the metal again. This time she definitely 
heard voices. Getting louder. And footsteps. The latch engaged from inside. 
Gabrielle had no time to hide as the metal door burst open. She jumped to the side, 

plastering herself against the wall behind the door as a group of people hurried 
through, talking loudly. They sounded angry. 
What the hell is Harpers problem? I thought hed be on cloud nine! 
On a night like tonight, another said as the group passed by, he wants to be 
alone? He should be celebrating! 
As the group moved away from Gabrielle, the heavy door started swinging closed 
on pneumatic hinges, revealing her location. She remained rigid as the men 
continued down the hall. Waiting as long as she possibly could, until the door was 
only inches from closing, Gabrielle lunged forward and caught the door handle 
with just inches to spare. She stood motionless as the men turned the corner down 
the hall, too engaged in their conversation to look back. 
Heart pounding, Gabrielle pulled open the door and stepped into the dimly lit area 
beyond. She quietly closed the door. 
The space was a wide open work area that reminded her of a college physics 
laboratory: computers, work islands, electronic gear. As her eyes became 
accustomed to the darkness, Gabrielle could see blueprints and sheets of 
calculations scattered around. The entire area was dark except for an office on the 
far side of the lab, where a light shone under the door. Gabrielle walked over 
quietly. The door was closed, but through the window she could see a man sitting 
at a computer. She recognized the man from the NASA press conference. The 
nameplate on the door read: 
Chris Harper 
Section Manager, PODS 
Having come this far, Gabrielle suddenly felt apprehensive, wondering if she 
could actually pull this off. She reminded herself how certain Sexton was that 
Chris Harper had lied. I would bet my campaign on it, Sexton had said. 
Apparently there were others who felt the same, others who were waiting for 
Gabrielle to uncover the truth so they could close in on NASA, attempting to gain 

even a tiny foothold after tonights devastating developments. After the way 
Tench and the Herney administration had played Gabrielle this afternoon, she was 
eager to help. 
Gabrielle raised her hand to knock on the door but paused, Yolandas voice 
running through her mind. If Chris Harper lied to the world about PODS, what 
makes you think hell tell YOU the truth? 
Fear, Gabrielle told herself, having almost fallen victim to it herself today. She 
had a plan. It involved a tactic shed seen the senator use on occasion to scare 
information out of political opponents. Gabrielle had absorbed a lot under 
Sextons tutelage, and not all of it attractive or ethical. But tonight she needed 
every advantage. If she could persuade Chris Harper to admit he had liedfor 
whatever reasonGabrielle would open a small door of opportunity for the 
senators campaign. Beyond that, Sexton was a man who, if given an inch to 
maneuver, could wriggle his way out of almost any jam. 
Gabrielles plan for dealing with Harper was something Sexton called 
overshootingan interrogation technique invented by the early Roman 
authorities to coax confessions from criminals they suspected were lying. The 
method was deceptively simple: 
Assert the information you want confessed. 
Then allege something far worse. 
The object was to give the opponent a chance to choose the lesser of two evilsin 
this case, the truth. 
The trick was exuding confidence, something Gabrielle was not feeling at the 
moment. Taking a deep breath, Gabrielle ran through the script in her mind, and 
then knocked firmly on the office door. 
I told you Im busy! Harper called out, his English accent familiar. 

She knocked again. Louder. 
I told you Im not interested in coming down! 
This time she banged on the door with her fist. 
Chris Harper came over and yanked open the door. Bloody hell, do you He 
stopped short, clearly surprised to see Gabrielle. 
Dr. Harper, she said, infusing her voice with intensity. 
How did you get up here? 
Gabrielles face was stern. Do you know who I am? 
Of course. Your boss has been slamming my project for months. How did you 
get in? 
Senator Sexton sent me. 
Harpers eyes scanned the lab behind Gabrielle. Where is your staff escort? 
Thats not your concern. The senator has influential connections. 
In this building? Harper looked dubious. 
Youve been dishonest, Dr. Harper. And Im afraid the senator has called a 
special senatorial justice board to look into your lies. 
A pall crossed Harpers face. What are you talking about? 
Smart people like yourself dont have the luxury of playing stupid, Dr. Harper. 
Youre in trouble, and the senator sent me up here to offer you a deal. The 
senators campaign took a huge hit tonight. Hes got nothing left to lose, and hes 
ready to take you down with him if he needs to. 

What the devil are you talking about? 
Gabrielle took a deep breath and made her play. You lied in your press 
conference about the PODS anomaly-detection software. We know that. A lot of 
people know that. Thats not the issue. Before Harper could open his mouth to 
argue, Gabrielle steamed onward. The senator could blow the whistle on your lies 
right now, but hes not interested. Hes interested in the bigger story. I think you 
know what Im talking about. 
No, I 
Heres the senators offer. Hell keep his mouth shut about your software lies if 
you give him the name of the top NASA executive with whom youre embezzling 
funds. 
Chris Harpers eyes seemed to cross for a moment. What? Im not embezzling! 
I suggest you watch what you say, sir. The senatorial committee has been 
collecting documentation for months now. Did you really think you two would 
slip by undetected? Doctoring PODS paperwork and redirecting allocated NASA 
funds to private accounts? Lying and embezzling can put you in jail, Dr. Harper. 
I did no such thing! 
Youre saying you didnt lie about PODS? 
No, Im saying I bloody well didnt embezzle money! 
So, youre saying you did lie about PODS. 
Harper stared, clearly at a loss for words. 
Forget about the lying, Gabrielle said, waving it off. Senator Sexton is not 
interested in the issue of your lying in a press conference. Were used to that. You 
guys found a meteorite, nobody cares how you did it. The issue for him is the 

embezzlement. He needs to take down someone high in NASA. Just tell him who 
youre working with, and hell steer the investigation clear of you entirely. You 
can make it easy and tell us who the other person is, or the senator will make it 
ugly and start talking about anomaly-detection software and phony workarounds. 
Youre bluffing. There are no embezzled funds. 
Youre an awful liar, Dr. Harper. Ive seen the documentation. Your name is on 
all the incriminating paperwork. Over and over. 
I swear I know nothing about any embezzlement! 
Gabrielle let out a disappointed sigh. Put yourself in my position, Dr. Harper. I 
can only draw two conclusions here. Either youre lying to me, the same way you 
lied in that press conference. Or youre telling the truth, and someone powerful in 
the agency is setting you up as a fall guy for his own misdealings. 
The proposition seemed to give Harper pause. 
Gabrielle checked her watch. The senators deal is on the table for an hour. You 
can save yourself by giving him the name of the NASA exec with whom youre 
embezzling taxpayers money. He doesnt care about you. He wants the big fish. 
Obviously the individual in question has some power here at NASA; he or she has 
managed to keep his or her identity off the paper trail, allowing you to be the fall 
guy. 
Harper shook his head. Youre lying. 
Would you like to tell that to a court? 
Sure. Ill deny the whole thing. 
Under oath? Gabrielle grunted in disgust. Suppose youll also deny you lied 
about fixing the PODS software? Gabrielles heart was pounding as she stared 

straight into the mans eyes. Think carefully about your options here, Dr. Harper. 
American prisons can be most unpleasant. 
Harper glared back, and Gabrielle willed him to fold. For a moment she thought 
she saw a glimmer of surrender, but when Harper spoke, his voice was like steel. 
Ms. Ashe, he declared, anger simmering in his eyes, you are clutching at thin 
air. You and I both know there is no embezzlement going on at NASA. The only 
liar in this room is you. 
Gabrielle felt her muscles go rigid. The mans gaze was angry and sharp. She 
wanted to turn and run. You tried to bluff a rocket scientist. What the hell did you 
expect? She forced herself to hold her head high. All I know, she said, feigning 
utter confidence and indifference to his position, is the incriminating documents 
Ive seenconclusive evidence that you and another are embezzling NASA funds. 
The senator simply asked me to come here tonight and offer you the option of 
giving up your partner instead of facing the inquiry alone. I will tell the senator 
you prefer to take your chances with a judge. You can tell the court what you told 
meyoure not embezzling funds and you didnt lie about the PODS software. 
She gave a grim smile. But after that lame press conference you gave two weeks 
ago, somehow I doubt it. Gabrielle spun on her heel and strode across the 
darkened PODS laboratory. She wondered if maybe shed be seeing the inside of a 
prison instead of Harper. 
Gabrielle held her head high as she walked off, waiting for Harper to call her back. 
Silence. She pushed her way through the metal doors and strode out into the 
hallway, hoping the elevators up here were not key-card operated like the lobby. 
Shed lost. Despite her best efforts, Harper wasnt biting. Maybe he was telling the 
truth in his PODS press conference, Gabrielle thought. 
A crash resounded down the hall as the metal doors behind her burst open. Ms. 
Ashe, Harpers voice called out. I swear I know nothing about any 
embezzlement. Im an honest man! 
Gabrielle felt her heart skip a beat. She forced herself to keep walking. She gave a 

casual shrug and called out over her shoulder. And yet you lied in your press 
conference. 
Silence. Gabrielle kept moving down the hallway. 
Hold on! Harper yelled. He came jogging up beside her, his face pale. This 
embezzlement thing, he said, lowering his voice. I think I know who set me up. 
Gabrielle stopped dead in her tracks, wondering if she had heard him correctly. 
She turned as slowly and casually as she could. You expect me to believe 
someone is setting you up? 
Harper sighed. I swear I know nothing about embezzlement. But if theres 
evidence against me 
Mounds of it. 
Harper sighed. Then its all been planted. To discredit me if need be. And theres 
only one person who would have done that. 
Who? 
Harper looked her in the eye. Lawrence Ekstrom hates me. 
Gabrielle was stunned. The administrator of NASA? 
Harper gave a grim nod. Hes the one who forced me to lie in that press 
conference. 
88 

Even with the Aurora aircrafts misted-methane propulsion system at half power, 
the Delta Force was hurtling through the night at three times the speed of 
soundover two thousand miles an hour. The repetitive throb of the Pulse 
Detonation Wave Engines behind them gave the ride a hypnotic rhythm. A 
hundred feet below, the ocean churned wildly, whipped up by the Auroras 
vacuum wake, which sucked fifty-foot rooster tails skyward in long parallel sheets 
behind the plane. 
This is the reason the SR-71 Blackbird was retired, Delta-One thought. 
The Aurora was one of those secret aircraft that nobody was supposed to know 
existed, but everyone did. Even the Discovery channel had covered Aurora and its 
testing out at Groom Lake in Nevada. Whether the security leaks had come from 
the repeated skyquakes heard as far away as Los Angeles, or the unfortunate 
eyewitness sighting by a North Sea oil-rig driller, or the administrative gaffe that 
left a description of Aurora in a public copy of the Pentagon budget, nobody 
would ever know. It hardly mattered. The word was out: The U.S. military had a 
plane capable of Mach 6 flight, and it was no longer on the drawing board. It was 
in the skies overhead. 
Built by Lockheed, the Aurora looked like a flattened American football. It was 
110 feet long, sixty feet wide, smoothly contoured with a crystalline patina of 
thermal tiles much like the space shuttle. The speed was primarily the result of an 
exotic new propulsion system known as a Pulse Detonation Wave Engine, which 
burned a clean, misted, liquid hydrogen and left a telltale pulse contrail in the sky. 
For this reason, it only flew at night. 
Tonight, with the luxury of enormous speed, the Delta Force was taking the long 
way home, out across the open ocean. Even so, they were overtaking their quarry. 
At this rate, the Delta Force would be arriving on the eastern seaboard in under an 
hour, a good two hours before its prey. There had been discussion of tracking and 
shooting down the plane in question, but the controller rightly feared a radar 
capture of the incident or the burned wreckage might bring on a massive 
investigation. It was best to let the plane land as scheduled, the controller had 

decided. Once it became clear where their quarry intended to land, the Delta Force 
would move in. 
Now, as Aurora streaked over the desolate Labrador Sea, Delta-Ones CrypTalk 
indicated an incoming call. He answered. 
The situation has changed, the electronic voice informed them. You have 
another mark before Rachel Sexton and the scientists land. 
Another mark. Delta-One could feel it. Things were unraveling. The controllers 
ship had sprung another leak, and the controller needed them to patch it as fast as 
possible. The ship would not be leaking, Delta-One reminded himself, if we had 
hit our marks successfully on the Milne Ice Shelf. Delta-One knew damn well he 
was cleaning up his own mess. 
A fourth party has become involved, the controller said. 
Who? 
The controller paused a momentand then gave them a name. 
The three men exchanged startled looks. It was a name they knew well. 
No wonder the controller sounded reluctant! Delta-One thought. For an operation 
conceived as a zero-casualty venture, the body count and target profile was 
climbing fast. He felt his sinews tighten as the controller prepared to inform them 
exactly how and where they would eliminate this new individual. 
The stakes have increased considerably, the controller said. Listen closely. I 
will give you these instructions only once. 

89 
High above northern Maine, a G4 jet continued speeding toward Washington. 
Onboard, Michael Tolland and Corky Marlinson looked on as Rachel Sexton 
began to explain her theory for why there might be increased hydrogen ions in the 
fusion crust of the meteorite. 
NASA has a private test facility called Plum Brook Station, Rachel explained, 
hardly able to believe she was going to talk about this. Sharing classified 
information out of protocol was not something she had ever done, but considering 
the circumstances, Tolland and Corky had a right to know this. Plum Brook is 
essentially a test chamber for NASAs most radical new engine systems. Two 
years ago I wrote a gist about a new design NASA was testing theresomething 
called an expander cycle engine. 
Corky eyed her suspiciously. Expander cycle engines are still in the theoretical 
stage. On paper. Nobodys actually testing. Thats decades away. 
Rachel shook her head. Sorry, Corky. NASA has prototypes. Theyre testing. 
What? Corky looked skeptical. ECEs run on liquid oxygen-hydrogen, which 
freezes in space, making the engine worthless to NASA. They said they were not 
even going to try to build an ECE until they overcame the freezing fuel problem. 
They overcame it. They got rid of the oxygen and turned the fuel into a slushhydrogen 
mixture, which is some kind of cryogenic fuel consisting of pure 
hydrogen in a semifrozen state. Its very powerful and very clean burning. Its also 
a contender for the propulsion system if NASA runs missions to Mars. 
Corky looked amazed. This cant be true. 
It better be true, Rachel said. I wrote a brief about it for the President. My boss 
was up in arms because NASA wanted to publicly announce slush-hydrogen as a 
big success, and Pickering wanted the White House to force NASA to keep slush

hydrogen classified. 
Why? 
Not important, Rachel said, having no intention of sharing more secrets than she 
had to. The truth was that Pickerings desire to classify slush-hydrogens success 
was to fight a growing national security concern few knew existedthe alarming 
expansion of Chinas space technology. The Chinese were currently developing a 
deadly for-hire launch platform, which they intended to rent out to high bidders, 
most of whom would be U.S. enemies. The implications for U.S. security were 
devastating. Fortunately, the NRO knew China was pursuing a doomed propulsionfuel 
model for their launch platform, and Pickering saw no reason to tip them off 
about NASAs more promising slush-hydrogen propellant. 
So, Tolland said, looking uneasy, youre saying NASA has a clean-burning 
propulsion system that runs on pure hydrogen? 
Rachel nodded. I dont have figures, but the exhaust temperatures of these 
engines are apparently several times hotter than anything ever before developed. 
Theyre requiring NASA to develop all kinds of new nozzle materials. She 
paused. A large rock, placed behind one of these slush-hydrogen engines, would 
be scalded by a hydrogen-rich blast of exhaust fire coming out at an 
unprecedented temperature. Youd get quite a fusion crust. 
Come on now! Corky said. Are we back to the fake meteorite scenario? 
Tolland seemed suddenly intrigued. Actually, thats quite an idea. The setup 
would be more or less like leaving a boulder on the launchpad under the space 
shuttle during liftoff. 
God save me, Corky muttered. Im airborne with idiots. 
Corky, Tolland said. Hypothetically speaking, a rock placed in an exhaust field 
would exhibit similar burn features to one that fell through the atmosphere, 
wouldnt it? Youd have the same directional striations and backflow of the 

melting material. 
Corky grunted. I suppose. 
And Rachels clean-burning hydrogen fuel would leave no chemical residue. 
Only hydrogen. Increased levels of hydrogen ions in the fusion pocking. 
Corky rolled his eyes. Look, if one of these ECE engines actually exists, and runs 
on slush-hydrogen, I suppose what youre talking about is possible. But its 
extremely far-fetched. 
Why? Tolland asked. The process seems fairly simple. 
Rachel nodded. All you need is a 190-million-year-old fossilized rock. Blast it in 
a slush-hydrogen-engine exhaust fire, and bury it in the ice. Instant meteorite. 
To a tourist, maybe, Corky said, but not to a NASA scientist! You still havent 
explained the chondrules! 
Rachel tried to recall Corkys explanation of how chondrules formed. You said 
chondrules are caused by rapid heating and cooling events in space, right? 
Corky sighed. Chondrules form when a rock, chilled in space, suddenly becomes 
superheated to a partial-melt stagesomewhere near 1550 Celsius. Then the rock 
must cool again, extremely rapidly, hardening the liquid pockets into chondrules. 
Tolland studied his friend. And this process cant happen on earth? 
Impossible, Corky said. This planet does not have the temperature variance to 
cause that kind of rapid shift. Youre talking here about nuclear heat and the 
absolute zero of space. Those extremes simply dont exist on earth. 
Rachel considered it. At least not naturally. 
Corky turned. Whats that supposed to mean? 

Why couldnt the heating and cooling event have occurred here on earth 
artificially? Rachel asked. The rock could have been blasted by a slushhydrogen 
engine and then rapidly cooled in a cryogenic freezer. 
Corky stared. Manufactured chondrules? 
Its an idea. 
A ridiculous one, Corky replied, flashing his meteorite sample. Perhaps you 
forget? These chondrules were irrefutably dated at 190 million years. His tone 
grew patronizing. To the best of my knowledge, Ms. Sexton, 190 million years 
ago, nobody was running slush-hydrogen engines and cryogenic coolers. 
Chondrules or not, Tolland thought, the evidence is piling up. He had been silent 
now for several minutes, deeply troubled by Rachels newest revelation about the 
fusion crust. Her hypothesis, though staggeringly bold, had opened all kinds of 
new doors and gotten Tolland thinking in new directions. If the fusion crust is 
explainablewhat other possibilities does that present? 
Youre quiet, Rachel said, beside him. 
Tolland glanced over. For an instant, in the muted lighting of the plane, he saw a 
softness in Rachels eyes that reminded him of Celia. Shaking off the memories, 
he gave her a tired sigh. Oh, I was just thinking 
She smiled. About meteorites? 
What else? 
Running through all the evidence, trying to figure out whats left? 
Something like that. 

Any thoughts? 
Not really. Im troubled by how much of the data has collapsed in light of 
discovering that insertion shaft beneath the ice. 
Hierarchical evidence is a house of cards, Rachel said. Pull out your primary 
assumption, and everything gets shaky. The location of the meteorite find was a 
primary assumption. 
Ill say. When I arrived at Milne, the administrator told me the meteorite had 
been found inside a pristine matrix of three-hundred-year-old ice and was more 
dense than any rock found anywhere in the area, which I took as logical proof that 
the rock had to fall from space. 
You and the rest of us. 
The midrange nickel content, though persuasive, is apparently not conclusive. 
Its close, Corky said nearby, apparently listening in. 
But not exact. 
Corky acquiesced with a reluctant nod. 
And, Tolland said, this never before seen species of space bug, though 
shockingly bizarre, in reality could be nothing more than a very old, deepwater 
crustacean. 
Rachel nodded. And now the fusion crust 
I hate to say it, Tolland said, glancing at Corky, but its starting to feel like 
theres more negative evidence than positive. 
Science is not about hunches, Corky said. Its about evidence. The chondrules 
in this rock are decidedly meteoric. I agree with you both that everything weve 

seen is deeply disturbing, but we cannot ignore these chondrules. The evidence in 
favor is conclusive, while the evidence against is circumstantial. 
Rachel frowned. So where does that leave us? 
Nowhere, Corky said. The chondrules prove we are dealing with a meteorite. 
The only question is why someone stuck it under the ice. 
Tolland wanted to believe his friends sound logic, but something just felt wrong. 
You dont look convinced, Mike, Corky said. 
Tolland gave his friend a bewildered sigh. I dont know. Two out of three wasnt 
bad, Corky. But were down to one out of three. I just feel like were missing 
something. 
90 
I got caught, Chris Harper thought, feeling a chill as he pictured an American 
prison cell. Senator Sexton knows I lied about the PODS software. 
As the PODS section manager escorted Gabrielle Ashe back into his office and 
closed the door, he felt his hatred of the NASA administrator grow deeper by the 
instant. Tonight Harper had learned just how deep the administrators lies truly 
ran. In addition to forcing Harper to lie about having fixed PODSs software, the 
administrator had apparently set up some insurance just in case Harper got cold 
feet and decided not to be a team player. 
Evidence of embezzlement, Harper thought. Blackmail. Very sly. After all, who 
would believe an embezzler trying to discredit the single greatest moment in 
American space history? Harper had already witnessed to what lengths the NASA 

administrator would go to save Americas space agency, and now with the 
announcement of a meteorite with fossils, the stakes had skyrocketed. 
Harper paced for several seconds around the widetable on which sat a scale model 
of the PODS satellitea cylindrical prism with multiple antennae and lenses 
behind reflective shields. Gabrielle sat down, her dark eyes watching, waiting. The 
nausea in Harpers gut reminded him of how he had felt during the infamous press 
conference. Hed put on a lousy show that night, and everyone had questioned him 
about it. Hed had to lie again and say he was feeling ill that night and was not 
himself. His colleagues and the press shrugged off his lackluster performance and 
quickly forgot about it. 
Now the lie had come back to haunt him. 
Gabrielle Ashes expression softened. Mr. Harper, with the administrator as an 
enemy, you will need a powerful ally. Senator Sexton could well be your only 
friend at this point. Lets start with the PODS software lie. Tell me what 
happened. 
Harper sighed. He knew it was time to tell the truth. I bloody well should have 
told the truth in the first place! The PODS launch went smoothly, he began. 
The satellite settled into a perfect polar orbit just as planned. 
Gabrielle Ashe looked bored. She apparently knew all this. Go on. 
Then came the trouble. When we geared up to start searching the ice for density 
anomalies, the onboard anomaly-detection software failed. 
Uhhuh. 
Harpers words came faster now. The software was supposed to be able to rapidly 
examine thousands of acres of data and find parts of the ice that fell outside the 
range of normal ice density. Primarily the software was looking for soft spots in 
the iceglobal warming indicatorsbut if it stumbled across other density 
incongruities, it was programmed to flag those as well. The plan was for PODS to 

scan the Arctic Circle over several weeks and identify any anomalies that we 
could use to measure global warming. 
But without functioning software, Gabrielle said, PODS was no good. NASA 
would have had to examine images of every square inch of the Arctic by hand, 
looking for trouble spots. 
Harper nodded, reliving the nightmare of his programming gaffe. It would take 
decades. The situation was terrible. Because of a flaw in my programming, PODS 
was essentially worthless. With the election coming up and Senator Sexton being 
so critical of NASA He sighed. 
Your mistake was devastating to NASA and the President. 
It couldnt have come at a worse time. The administrator was livid. I promised 
him I could fix the problem during the next shuttle missiona simple matter of 
swapping out the chip that held the PODS software system. But it was too little 
too late. He sent me home on leavebut essentially I was fired. That was a month 
ago. 
And yet you were back on television two weeks ago announcing youd found a 
work-around. 
Harper slumped. A terrible mistake. That was the day I got a desperate call from 
the administrator. He told me something had come up, a possible way to redeem 
myself. I came into the office immediately and met with him. He asked me to hold 
a press conference and tell everyone Id found a work-around for the PODS 
software and that we would have data in a few weeks. He said hed explain it to 
me later. 
And you agreed. 
No, I refused! But an hour later, the administrator was back in my officewith 
the White House senior adviser! 

What! Gabrielle looked astounded by this. Marjorie Tench? 
An awful creature, Harper thought, nodding. She and the administrator sat me 
down and told me my mistake had quite literally put NASA and the President on 
the brink of total collapse. Ms. Tench told me about the senators plans to 
privatize NASA. She told me I owed it to the President and space agency to make 
it all right. Then she told me how. 
Gabrielle leaned forward. Go on. 
Marjorie Tench informed me that the White House, by sheer good fortune, had 
intercepted strong geologic evidence that an enormous meteorite was buried in the 
Milne Ice Shelf. One of the biggest ever. A meteorite of that size would be a major 
find for NASA. 
Gabrielle looked stunned. Hold on, so youre saying someone already knew the 
meteorite was there before PODS discovered it? 
Yes. PODS had nothing to do with the discovery. The administrator knew the 
meteorite existed. He simply gave me the coordinates and told me to reposition 
PODS over the ice shelf and pretend PODS made the discovery. 
Youre kidding me. 
That was my reaction when they asked me to participate in the sham. They 
refused to tell me how theyd found out the meteorite was there, but Ms. Tench 
insisted it didnt matter and that this was the ideal opportunity to salvage my 
PODS fiasco. If I could pretend the PODS satellite located the meteorite, then 
NASA could praise PODS as a much needed success and boost the President 
before the election. 
Gabrielle was awestruck. And of course you couldnt claim PODS had detected a 
meteorite until youd announced that the PODS anomaly-detection software was 
up and running. 

Harper nodded. Hence the press conference lie. I was forced into it. Tench and 
the administrator were ruthless. They reminded me Id let everyone downthe 
President had funded my PODS project, NASA had spent years on it, and now Id 
ruined the whole thing with a programming blunder. 
So you agreed to help. 
I didnt have a choice. My career was essentially over if I didnt. And the reality 
was that if I hadnt muffed the software, PODS would have found that meteorite 
on its own. So, it seemed a small lie at the time. I rationalized it by telling myself 
that the software would be fixed in a few months when the space shuttle went up, 
so I would simply be announcing the fix a little early. 
Gabrielle let out a whistle. A tiny lie to take advantage of a meteoric 
opportunity. 
Harper was feeling ill just talking about it. SoI did it. Following the 
administrators orders, I held a press conference announcing that Id found a workaround 
for my anomaly-detection software, I waited a few days, and then I 
repositioned PODS over the administrators meteorite coordinates. Then, 
following the proper chain of command, I phoned the EOS director and reported 
that PODS had located a hard density anomaly in the Milne Ice Shelf. I gave him 
the coordinates and told him the anomaly appeared to be dense enough to be a 
meteorite. Excitedly, NASA sent a small team up to Milne to take some drill 
cores. Thats when the operation got very hush-hush. 
So, you had no idea the meteorite had fossils until tonight? 
Nobody here did. Were all in shock. Now everyone is calling me a hero for 
finding proof of extraterrestrial bioforms, and I dont know what to say. 
Gabrielle was silent a long moment, studying Harper with firm black eyes. But if 
PODS didnt locate the meteorite in the ice, how did the administrator know the 
meteorite was there? 

Someone else found it first. 
Someone else? Who? 
Harper sighed. A Canadian geologist named Charles Brophya researcher on 
Ellesmere Island. Apparently he was doing geologic ice soundings on the Milne 
Ice Shelf when he by chance discovered the presence of what appeared to be a 
huge meteorite in the ice. He radioed it in, and NASA happened to intercept the 
transmission. 
Gabrielle stared. But isnt this Canadian furious that NASA is taking all the 
credit for the find? 
No, Harper said, feeling a chill. Conveniently, hes dead. 
91 
Michael Tolland closed his eyes and listened to the drone of the G4 jet engine. He 
had given up trying to think anymore about the meteorite until they got back to 
Washington. The chondrules, according to Corky, were conclusive; the rock in the 
Milne Ice Shelf could only be a meteorite. Rachel had hoped to have a conclusive 
answer for William Pickering by the time they landed, but her thought 
experiments had run into a dead end with the chondrules. As suspicious as the 
meteorite evidence was, the meteorite appeared to be authentic. 
So be it. 
Rachel had obviously been shaken by the trauma in the ocean. Tolland was 
amazed, though, by her resilience. She was focused now on the issue at 
handtrying to find a way to debunk or authenticate the meteorite, and trying to 
assess who had tried to kill them. 

For most of the trip, Rachel had been in the seat beside Tolland. Hed enjoyed 
talking to her, despite the trying circumstances. Several minutes ago, shed headed 
back to the restroom, and now Tolland was surprised to find himself missing her 
beside him. He wondered how long it had been since hed missed a womans 
presencea woman other than Celia. 
Mr. Tolland? 
Tolland glanced up. 
The pilot was sticking his head into the cabin. You asked me to tell you when we 
were in telephone range of your ship? I can get you that connection if you want. 
Thanks. Tolland made his way up the aisle. 
Inside the cockpit, Tolland placed a call to his crew. He wanted to let them know 
he would not be back for another day or two. Of course, he had no intention of 
telling them what trouble hed run into. 
The phone rang several times, and Tolland was surprised to hear the ships 
SHINCOM 2100 communications system pick up. The outgoing message was not 
the usual professional-sounding greeting but rather the rowdy voice of one of 
Tollands crew, the onboard joker. 
Hiya, hiya, this is the Goya, the voice announced. Were sorry nobodys here 
right now, but weve all been abducted by very large lice! Actually, weve taken 
temporary shore leave to celebrate Mikes huge night. Gosh, are we proud! You 
can leave your name and number, and maybe well be back tomorrow when were 
sober. Ciao! Go, ET! 
Tolland laughed, missing his crew already. Obviously theyd seen the press 
conference. He was glad theyd gone ashore; hed abandoned them rather abruptly 
when the President called, and their sitting idle at sea was crazy. Although the 
message said everyone had gone ashore, Tolland had to assume they would not 

have left his ship unattended, particularly in the strong currents where it was now 
anchored. 
Tolland pressed the numeric code to play any internal voice mail messages theyd 
left for him. The line beeped once. One message. The voice was the same rowdy 
crewmember. 
Hi Mike, hell of a show! If youre hearing this, youre probably checking your 
messages from some swanky White House party and wondering where the hell we 
are. Sorry we abandoned ship, buddy, but this was not a dry-celebration kind of 
night. Dont worry, we anchored her really good and left the porch light on. Were 
secretly hoping she gets pirated so youll let NBC buy you that new boat! Just 
kidding, man. Dont worry, Xavia agreed to stay onboard and mind the fort. She 
said she preferred time alone to partying with a bunch of drunken fishmongers? 
Can you believe that? 
Tolland chuckled, relieved to hear someone was aboard watching the ship. Xavia 
was responsible, definitely not the partying type. A respected marine geologist, 
Xavia had the reputation for speaking her mind with a caustic honesty. 
Anyhow, Mike, the message went on, tonight was incredible. Kind of makes 
you proud to be a scientist, doesnt it? Everyones talking about how good this 
looks for NASA. Screw NASA, I say! This looks even better for us! Amazing 
Seas ratings must have gone up a few million points tonight. Youre a star, man. A 
real one. Congrats. Excellent job. 
There was hushed talking on the line, and the voice came back. Oh, yeah, and 
speaking of Xavia, just so you dont get too big a head, she wants to razz you 
about something. Here she is. 
Xavias razor voice came on the machine. Mike, Xavia, youre a God, yada yada. 
And because I love you so much, Ive agreed to baby-sit this antediluvian wreck 
of yours. Frankly, it will be nice to be away from these hoodlums you call 
scientists. Anyhow, in addition to baby-sitting the ship, the crew has asked me, in 
my role as onboard bitch, to do everything in my power to keep you from turning 

into a conceited bastard, which after tonight I realize is going to be difficult, but I 
had to be the first to tell you that you made a boo-boo in your documentary. Yes, 
you heard me. A rare Michael Tolland brain fart. Dont worry, there are only 
about three people on earth who will notice, and theyre all anal-retentive marine 
geologists with no sense of humor. A lot like me. But you know what they say 
about us geologistsalways looking for faults! She laughed. Anyhow, its 
nothing, a minuscule point about meteorite petrology. I only mention it to ruin 
your night. You might get a call or two about it, so I thought Id give you the 
heads-up so you dont end up sounding like the moron we all know you really 
are. She laughed again. Anyhow, Im not much of a party animal, so Im staying 
onboard. Dont bother calling me; I had to turn on the machine because the 
goddamned press have been calling all night. Youre a real star tonight, despite 
your screwup. Anyhow, Ill fill you in on it when you get back. Ciao. 
The line went dead. 
Michael Tolland frowned. A mistake in my documentary? 
Rachel Sexton stood in the restroom of the G4 and looked at herself in the mirror. 
She looked pale, she thought, and more frail than shed imagined. Tonights scare 
had taken a lot out of her. She wondered how long it would be before she would 
stop shivering, or before she would go near an ocean. Removing her U.S.S. 
Charlotte cap, she let her hair down. Better, she thought, feeling more like herself. 
Looking into her eyes, Rachel sensed a deep weariness. Beneath it, though, she 
saw the resolve. She knew that was her mothers gift. Nobody tells you what you 
can and cant do. Rachel wondered if her mother had seen what happened tonight. 
Someone tried to kill me, Mom. Someone tried to kill all of us 
Rachels mind, as it had for several hours now, scrolled through the list of names. 
Lawrence EkstromMarjorie TenchPresident Zach Herney. All had motives. 
And, more chillingly, all had means. The President is not involved, Rachel told 

herself, clinging to her hope that the President she respected so much more than 
her own father was an innocent bystander in this mysterious incident. 
We still know nothing. 
Not whonot ifnot why. 
Rachel had wanted to have answers for William Pickering but, so far, all shed 
managed to do was raise more questions. 
When Rachel left the restroom, she was surprised to see Michael Tolland was not 
in his seat. Corky was dozing nearby. As Rachel looked around, Mike stepped out 
of the cockpit as the pilot hung up a radiophone. His eyes were wide with concern. 
What is it? Rachel asked. 
Tollands voice was heavy as he told her about the phone message. 
A mistake in his presentation? Rachel thought Tolland was overreacting. Its 
probably nothing. She didnt tell you specifically what the error was? 
Something to do with meteorite petrology. 
Rock structure? 
Yeah. She said the only people who would notice the mistake were a few other 
geologists. It sounds like whatever error I made was related to the composition of 
the meteorite itself. 
Rachel drew a quick breath, understanding now. Chondrules? 
I dont know, but it seems pretty coincidental. 
Rachel agreed. The chondrules were the one remaining shred of evidence that 
categorically supported NASAs claim that this was indeed a meteorite. 

Corky came over, rubbing his eyes. Whats going on? 
Tolland filled him in. 
Corky scowled, shaking his head. Its not a problem with the chondrules, Mike. 
No way. All of your data came from NASA. And from me. It was flawless. 
What other petrologic error could I have made? 
Who the hell knows? Besides, what do marine geologists know about 
chondrules? 
I have no idea, but shes damned sharp. 
Considering the circumstances, Rachel said, I think we should talk to this 
woman before we talk to Director Pickering. 
Tolland shrugged. I called her four times and got the machine. Shes probably in 
the hydrolab and cant hear a damn thing anyway. She wont get my messages 
until morning at the earliest. Tolland paused, checking his watch. Although 
Although what? 
Tolland eyed her intensely. How important do you think it is that we talk to 
Xavia before we talk to your boss? 
If she has something to say about chondrules? Id say its critical. Mike, Rachel 
said, at the moment, weve got all kinds of contradictory data. William Pickering 
is a man accustomed to having clear answers. When we meet him, Id love to have 
something substantial for him to act on. 
Then we should make a stop. 
Rachel did a double take. On your ship? 

Its off the coast of New Jersey. Almost directly on our way to Washington. We 
can talk to Xavia, find out what she knows. Corky still has the meteorite sample, 
and if Xavia wants to run some geologic tests on it, the ship has a fairly wellequipped 
lab. I cant imagine it would take us more than an hour to get some 
conclusive answers. 
Rachel felt a pulse of anxiety. The thought of having to face the ocean again so 
soon was unnerving. Conclusive answers, she told herself, tempted by the 
possibility. Pickering will definitely want answers. 
92 
Delta-One was glad to be back on solid ground. 
The Aurora aircraft, despite running at only one-half power and taking a circuitous 
ocean route, had completed its journey in under two hours and afforded the Delta 
Force a healthy head start to take up position and prepare themselves for the 
additional kill the controller had requested. 
Now, on a private military runway outside D.C., the Delta Force left the Aurora 
behind and boarded their new transporta waiting OH-58D Kiowa Warrior 
helicopter. 
Yet again, the controller has arranged for the best, Delta-One thought. 
The Kiowa Warrior, originally designed as a light observation helicopter, had been 
expanded and improved to create the militarys newest breed of attack 
helicopter. The Kiowa boasted infrared thermal imaging capability enabling its 
designator/laser range finder to provide autonomous designation for laser-guided 
precision weapons like Air-to-Air Stinger missiles and the AGM-1148 Hellfire 
Missile System. A high-speed digital signal processor provided simultaneous 

multitarget tracking of up to six targets. Few enemies had ever seen a Kiowa up 
close and survived to tell the tale. 
Delta-One felt a familiar rush of power as he climbed into the Kiowa pilots seat 
and strapped himself in. He had trained on this craft and flown it in covert ops 
three times. Of course, never before had he been gunning for a prominent 
American official. The Kiowa, he had to admit, was the perfect aircraft for the job. 
Its Rolls-Royce Allison engine and twin semirigid blades were silent running, 
which essentially meant targets on the ground could not hear the chopper until it 
was directly over them. And because the aircraft was capable of flying blind 
without lights and was painted flat black with no reflective tail numbers, it was 
essentially invisible unless the target had radar. 
Silent black helicopters. 
The conspiracy theorists were going nuts over these. Some claimed the invasion of 
silent black helicopters was proof of New World Order storm troopers under the 
authority of the United Nations. Others claimed the choppers were silent alien 
probes. Still others who saw the Kiowas in tight formation at night were deceived 
into thinking they were looking at fixed running lights on a much larger crafta 
single flying saucer that was apparently capable of vertical flight. 
Wrong again. But the military loved the diversion. 
During a recent covert mission, Delta-One had flown a Kiowa armed with the 
most secretive new U.S. military technologyan ingenious holographic weapon 
nicknamed S&M. Despite conjuring associations with sadomasochism, S&M 
stood for smoke and mirrorsholographic images projected into the sky over 
enemy territory. The Kiowa had used S&M technology to project holograms of 
U.S. aircraft over an enemy anti-aircraft installation. The panicked anti-aircraft 
gunners fired maniacally at the circling ghosts. When all of their ammunition was 
gone, the United States sent in the real thing. 
As Delta-One and his men lifted off the runway, Delta-One could still hear the 
words of his controller. You have another mark. It seemed an egregious under

statement considering their new targets identity. Delta-One reminded himself, 
however, that it was not his place to question. His team had been given an order, 
and they would carry it out in the exact method instructedas shocking as that 
method was. 
I hope to hell the controller is certain this is the right move. 
As the Kiowa lifted off the runway, Delta-One headed southwest. He had seen the 
FDR Memorial twice, but tonight would be his first time from the air. 
93 
This meteorite was originally discovered by a Canadian geologist? Gabrielle 
Ashe stared in astonishment at the young programmer, Chris Harper. And this 
Canadian is now dead? 
Harper gave a grim nod. 
How long have you known this? she demanded. 
A couple of weeks. After the administrator and Marjorie Tench forced me to 
perjure myself in the press conference, they knew I couldnt go back on my word. 
They told me the truth about how the meteorite was really discovered. 
PODS is not responsible for finding the meteorite! Gabrielle had no idea where all 
of this information would lead, but clearly it was scandalous. Bad news for Tench. 
Great news for the senator. 
As I mentioned, Harper said, looking somber now, the true way the meteorite 
was discovered was through an intercepted radio transmission. Are you familiar 
with a program called INSPIRE? The Interactive NASA Space Physics Ionosphere 

Radio Experiment. 
Gabrielle had heard of it only vaguely. 
Essentially, Harper said, its a series of very low frequency radio receivers near 
the North Pole that listen to the sounds of the earthplasma wave emissions from 
the northern lights, broadband pulses from lightning storms, that sort of thing. 
Okay. 
A few weeks ago, one of INSPIREs radio receivers picked up a stray 
transmission from Ellesmere Island. A Canadian geologist was calling for help at 
an exceptionally low frequency. Harper paused. In fact, the frequency was so 
low that nobody other than NASAs VLF receivers could possibly have heard it. 
We assumed the Canadian was long-waving. 
Im sorry? 
Broadcasting at the lowest possible frequency to get maximum distance on his 
transmission. He was in the middle of nowhere, remember; a standard frequency 
transmission probably would not have made it far enough to be heard. 
What did his message say? 
The transmission was short. The Canadian said he had been out doing ice 
soundings on the Milne Ice Shelf, had detected an ultradense anomaly buried in 
the ice, suspected it was a giant meteorite, and while taking measurements had 
become trapped in a storm. He gave his coordinates, asked for rescue from the 
storm, and signed off. The NASA listening post sent a plane from Thule to rescue 
him. They searched for hours and finally discovered him, miles off course, dead at 
the bottom of a crevasse with his sled and dogs. Apparently he tried to outrun the 
storm, got blinded, went off course, and fell into a crevasse. 
Gabrielle considered the information, intrigued. So suddenly NASA knew about 
a meteorite that nobody else knew about? 

Exactly. And ironically, if my software had been working properly, the PODS 
satellite would have spotted that same meteoritea week before the Canadian 
did. 
The coincidence gave Gabrielle pause. A meteorite buried for three hundred 
years was almost discovered twice in the same week? 
I know. A little bizarre, but science can be like that. Feast or famine. The point is 
that the administrator felt like the meteorite should have been our discovery 
anywayif I had done my job correctly. He told me that because the Canadian 
was dead, nobody would be the wiser if I simply redirected PODS to the 
coordinates the Canadian had transmitted in his SOS. Then I could pretend to 
discover the meteorite from scratch, and we could salvage some respect from an 
embarrassing failure. 
And thats what you did. 
As I said, I had no choice. I had let down the mission. He paused. Tonight, 
though, when I heard the Presidents press conference and found out the meteorite 
Id pretended to discover contained fossils 
You were stunned. 
Bloody well floored, Id say! 
Do you think the administrator knew the meteorite contained fossils before he 
asked you to pretend PODS found it? 
I cant imagine how. That meteorite was buried and untouched until the first 
NASA team got there. My best guess is that NASA had no idea what theyd really 
found until they got a team up there to drill cores and x-ray. They asked me to lie 
about PODS, thinking theyd have a moderate victory with a big meteorite. Then 
when they got there, they realized just how big a find it really was. 

Gabrielles breath was shallow with excitement. Dr. Harper, will you testify that 
NASA and the White House forced you to lie about the PODS software? 
I dont know. Harper looked frightened. I cant imagine what kind of damage 
that would do to the agencyto this discovery. 
Dr. Harper, you and I both know this meteorite remains a wonderful discovery, 
regardless of how it came about. The point here is that you lied to the American 
people. They have a right to know that PODS is not everything NASA says it is. 
I dont know. I despise the administrator, but my coworkersthey are good 
people. 
And they deserve to know they are being deceived. 
And this evidence against me of embezzlement? 
You can erase that from your mind, Gabrielle said, having almost forgotten her 
con. I will tell the senator you know nothing of the embezzlement. It is simply a 
frame jobinsurance set up by the administrator to keep you quiet about PODS. 
Can the senator protect me? 
Fully. Youve done nothing wrong. You were simply following orders. Besides, 
with the information youve just given me about this Canadian geologist, I cant 
imagine the senator will even need to raise the issue of embezzlement at all. We 
can focus entirely on NASAs misinformation regarding PODS and the meteorite. 
Once the senator breaks the information about the Canadian, the administrator 
wont be able to risk trying to discredit you with lies. 
Harper still looked worried. He fell silent, somber as he pondered his options. 
Gabrielle gave him a moment. Shed realized earlier that there was another 
troubling coincidence to this story. She wasnt going to mention it, but she could 
see Dr. Harper needed a final push. 

Do you have dogs, Dr. Harper? 
He glanced up. Im sorry? 
I just thought it was odd. You told me that shortly after this Canadian geologist 
radioed in the meteorite coordinates, his sled dogs ran blindly into a crevasse? 
There was a storm. They were off course. 
Gabrielle shrugged, letting her skepticism show. Yeahokay. 
Harper clearly sensed her hesitation. What are you saying? 
I dont know. Theres just a lot of coincidence surrounding this discovery. A 
Canadian geologist transmits meteorite coordinates on a frequency that only 
NASA can hear? And then his sled dogs run blindly off a cliff? She paused. You 
obviously understand that this geologists death paved the way for this entire 
NASA triumph. 
The color drained from Harpers face. You think the administrator would kill 
over this meteorite. 
Big politics. Big money, Gabrielle thought. Let me talk to the senator and well 
be in touch. Is there a back way out of here? 
Gabrielle Ashe left a pale Chris Harper and descended a fire stairwell into a 
deserted alley behind NASA. She flagged down a taxi that had just dropped off 
more NASA celebrators. 
Westbrooke Place Luxury Apartments, she told the driver. She was about to 
make Senator Sexton a much happier man. 

94 
Wondering what she had agreed to, Rachel stood near the entrance of the G4 
cockpit, stretching a radio transceiver cable into the cabin so she could place her 
call out of earshot of the pilot. Corky and Tolland looked on. Although Rachel and 
NRO director William Pickering had planned to maintain radio silence until her 
arrival at Bollings Air Force Base outside of D.C., Rachel now had information 
she was certain Pickering would want to hear immediately. She had phoned his 
secure cellular, which he carried at all times. 
When William Pickering came on the line, he was all business. Speak with care, 
please. I cannot guarantee this connection. 
Rachel understood. Pickerings cellular, like most NRO field phones, had an 
indicator that detected unsecured incoming calls. Because Rachel was on a 
radiophone, one of the least secure communication modes available, Pickerings 
phone had warned him. This conversation would need to be vague. No names. No 
locations. 
My voice is my identity, Rachel said, using the standard field greeting in this 
situation. She had expected the directors response would be displeasure that she 
had risked contacting him, but Pickerings reaction sounded positive. 
Yes, I was about to make contact with you myself. We need to redirect. Im 
concerned you may have a welcoming party. 
Rachel felt a sudden trepidation. Someone is watching us. She could hear the 
danger in Pickerings tone. Redirect. He would be pleased to know she had called 
to make that exact request, albeit for entirely different reasons. 
The issue of authenticity, Rachel said. Weve been discussing it. We may have 
a way to confirm or deny categorically. 

Excellent. There have been developments, and at least then I would have solid 
ground on which to proceed. 
The proof involves our making a quick stop. One of us has access to a laboratory 
facility 
No exact locations, please. For your own safety. 
Rachel had no intention of broadcasting her plans over this line. Can you get us 
clearance to land at GAS-AC? 
Pickering was silent a moment. Rachel sensed he was trying to process the word. 
GAS-AC was an obscure NRO gisting shorthand for the Coast Guards Group Air 
Station Atlantic City. Rachel hoped the director would know it. 
Yes, he finally said. I can arrange that. Is that your final destination? 
No. We will require further helicopter transport. 
An aircraft will be waiting. 
Thank you. 
I recommend you exercise extreme caution until we know more. Speak to no one. 
Your suspicions have drawn deep concern among powerful parties. 
Tench, Rachel thought, wishing she had managed to make contact with the 
President directly. 
I am currently in my car, en route to meet the woman in question. She has 
requested a private meeting in a neutral location. It should reveal much. 
Pickering is driving somewhere to meet Tench? Whatever Tench was going to tell 
him must be important if she refused to tell him on the phone. 

Pickering said, Do not discuss your final coordinates with anyone. And no more 
radio contact. Is that clear? 
Yes, sir. Well be at GAS-AC in an hour. 
Transport will be arranged. When you reach your ultimate destination, you can 
call me via more secure channels. He paused. I cannot overstate the importance 
of secrecy to your safety. You have made powerful enemies tonight. Take 
appropriate caution. Pickering was gone. 
Rachel felt tense as she closed the connection and turned to Tolland and Corky. 
Change of destination? Tolland said, looking eager for answers. 
Rachel nodded, feeling reluctant. The Goya. 
Corky sighed, glancing down at the meteorite sample in his hand. I still cant 
imagine NASA could possibly have He faded off, looking more worried with 
every passing minute. 
Well know soon enough, Rachel thought. 
She went into the cockpit and returned the radio transceiver. Glancing out the 
windscreen at the rolling plateau of moonlit clouds racing beneath them, she had 
the unsettling feeling they were not going to like what they found onboard 
Tollands ship. 
95 
William Pickering felt an unusual solitude as he drove his sedan down the 
Leesburg Highway. It was almost 2:00 A.M., and the road was empty. It had been 

years since hed been driving this late. 
Marjorie Tenchs raspy voice still grated on his mind. Meet me at the FDR 
Memorial. 
Pickering tried to recall the last time he had seen Marjorie Tench face-toface
never a pleasant experience. It had been two months ago. At the White 
House. Tench was seated opposite Pickering at a long oak table surrounded by 
members of the National Security Council, Joint Chiefs, CIA, President Herney, 
and the administrator of NASA. 
Gentlemen, the head of the CIA had said, looking directly at Marjorie Tench. 
Yet again, I am before you to urge this administration to confront the ongoing 
security crisis of NASA. 
The declaration took no one in the room by surprise. NASAs security woes had 
become a tired issue in the intelligence community. Two days previously, more 
than three hundred high-resolution satellite photos from one of NASAs earthobserving 
satellites had been stolen by hackers out of a NASA database. The 
photosinadvertently revealing a classified U.S. military training facility in North 
Africahad turned up on the black market, where they had been purchased by 
hostile intelligence agencies in the Middle East. 
Despite the best of intentions, the CIA director said with a weary voice, NASA 
continues to be a threat to national security. Simply put, our space agency is not 
equipped to protect the data and technologies they develop. 
I realize, the President replied, that there have been indiscretions. Damaging 
leaks. And it troubles me deeply. He motioned across the table to the stern face of 
NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom. We are yet again looking into ways to 
tighten NASAs security. 
With due respect, the CIA director said, whatever security changes NASA 
implements will be ineffective as long as NASA operations remain outside the 
umbrella of the United States intelligence community. 

The statement brought an uneasy rustle from those assembled. Everyone knew 
where this was headed. 
As you know, the CIA director went on, his tone sharpening, all U.S. 
government entities who deal with sensitive intelligence information are governed 
by strict rules of secrecymilitary, CIA, NSA, NROall of them must abide by 
stringent laws regarding the concealment of the data they glean and the 
technologies they develop. I ask you all, yet again, why NASAthe agency 
currently producing the largest portion of cutting-edge aerospace, imaging, flight, 
software, reconnaissance, and telecom technologies used by the military and 
intelligence communityexists outside this umbrella of secrecy. 
The President heaved a weighty sigh. The proposal was clear. Restructure NASA 
to become part of the U.S. military intelligence community. Although similar 
restructurings had happened with other agencies in the past, Herney refused to 
entertain the idea of placing NASA under the auspices of the Pentagon, the CIA, 
the NRO, or any other military directive. The National Security Council was 
starting to splinter on the issue, many siding with the intelligence community. 
Lawrence Ekstrom never looked pleased at these meetings, and this was no 
exception. He shot an acrimonious glare toward the CIA director. At the risk of 
repeating myself, sir, the technologies NASA develops are for nonmilitary, 
academic applications. If your intelligence community wants to turn one of our 
space telescopes around and look at China, thats your choice. 
The CIA director looked like he was about to boil over. 
Pickering caught his eye and stepped in. Larry, he said, careful to keep an even 
tone, every year NASA kneels before Congress and begs for money. Youre 
running operations with too little funding, and youre paying the price in failed 
missions. If we incorporate NASA into the intelligence community, NASA will no 
longer need to ask Congress for help. You would be funded by the black budget at 
significantly higher levels. Its a win-win. NASA will have the money it needs to 
run itself properly, and the intelligence community will have peace of mind that 

NASA technologies are protected. 
Ekstrom shook his head. On principle, I cannot endorse painting NASA with that 
brush. NASA is about space science; we have nothing to do with national 
security. 
The CIA director stood up, something never done when the President was seated. 
Nobody stopped him. He glared down at the administrator of NASA. Are you 
telling me you think science has nothing to do with national security? Larry, they 
are synonymous, for Gods sake! It is only this countrys scientific and 
technological edge that keeps us secure, and whether we like it or not, NASA is 
playing a bigger and bigger part in developing those technologies. Unfortunately, 
your agency leaks like a sieve and has proven time and again that its security is a 
liability! 
The room fell silent. 
Now the administrator of NASA stood up and locked eyes with his attacker. So 
you suggest locking twenty thousand NASA scientists in airtight military labs and 
making them work for you? Do you really think NASAs newest space telescopes 
would have been conceived had it not been for our scientists personal desire to 
see deeper into space? NASA makes astonishing breakthroughs for one reason 
onlyour employees want to understand the cosmos more deeply. They are a 
community of dreamers who grew up staring at starry skies and asking themselves 
what was up there. Passion and curiosity are what drive NASAs innovation, not 
the promise of military superiority. 
Pickering cleared his throat, speaking softly, trying to lower the temperatures 
around the table. Larry, Im certain the director is not talking about recruiting 
NASA scientists to build military satellites. Your NASA mission statement would 
not change. NASA would carry on business as usual, except you would have 
increased funding and increased security. Pickering turned now to the President. 
Security is expensive. Everyone in this room certainly realizes that NASAs 
security leaks are a result of underfunding. NASA has to toot its own horn, cut 

corners on security measures, run joint projects with other countries so they can 
share the price tag. I am proposing that NASA remain the superb, scientific, 
nonmilitary entity it currently is, but with a bigger budget, and some discretion. 
Several members of the security council nodded in quiet agreement. 
President Herney stood slowly, staring directly at William Pickering, clearly not at 
all amused with the way Pickering had just taken over. Bill, let me ask you this: 
NASA is hoping to go to Mars in the next decade. How will the intelligence 
community feel about spending a hefty portion of the black budget running a 
mission to Marsa mission that has no immediate national security benefits? 
NASA will be able to do as they please. 
Bullshit, Herney replied flatly. 
Everyones eyes shot up. President Herney seldom used profanity. 
If there is one thing Ive learned as president, Herney declared, its that those 
who control the dollars control the direction. I refuse to put NASAs purse strings 
in the hands of those who do not share the objectives for which the agency was 
founded. I can only imagine how much pure science would get done with the 
military deciding which NASA missions are viable. 
Herneys eyes scanned the room. Slowly, purposefully, he returned his rigid gaze 
to William Pickering. 
Bill, Herney sighed, your displeasure that NASA is engaged in joint projects 
with foreign space agencies is painfully shortsighted. At least someone is working 
constructively with the Chinese and Russians. Peace on this planet will not be 
forged by military strength. It will be forged by those who come together despite 
their governments differences. If you ask me, NASAs joint missions do more to 
promote national security than any billion-dollar spy satellite, and with a hell of a 
lot better hope for the future. 

Pickering felt an anger welling deep within him. How dare a politician talk down 
to me this way! Herneys idealism played fine in a boardroom, but in the real 
world, it got people killed. 
Bill, Marjorie Tench interrupted, as if sensing Pickering was about to explode, 
we know you lost a child. We know this is a personal issue for you. 
Pickering heard nothing but condescension in her tone. 
But please remember, Tench said, that the White House is currently holding 
back a floodgate of investors who want us to open space to the private sector. If 
you ask me, for all its mistakes, NASA has been one hell of a friend to the intel 
community. You all might just want to count your blessings. 
A rumble strip on the shoulder of the highway jolted Pickerings mind back to the 
present. His exit was coming up. As he approached the exit for D.C., he passed a 
bloody deer lying dead by the side of the road. He felt an odd hesitationbut he 
kept driving. 
He had a rendezvous to keep. 
96 
The Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial is one of the largest memorials in the 
nation. With a park, waterfalls, statuary, alcoves, and basin, the memorial is 
divided into four outdoor galleries, one for each of FDRs terms in office. 
A mile from the memorial, a lone Kiowa Warrior coasted in, high over the city, its 
running lights dimmed. In a town boasting as many VIPs and media crews as 

D.C., helicopters in the skies were as common as birds flying south. Delta-One 
knew that as long as he stayed well outside what was known as the domea 
bubble of protected airspace around the White Househe should draw little 
attention. They would not be here long. 
The Kiowa was at twenty-one hundred feet when it slowed adjacent to, but not 
directly over, the darkened FDR Memorial. Delta-One hovered, checking his 
position. He looked to his left, where Delta-Two was manning the night vision 
telescopic viewing system. The video feed showed a greenish image of the entry 
drive of the memorial. The area was deserted. 
Now they would wait. 
This would not be a quiet kill. There were some people you simply did not kill 
quietly. Regardless of the method, there would be repercussions. Investigations. 
Inquiries. In these cases, the best cover was to make a lot of noise. Explosions, 
fire, and smoke made it appear you were making a statement, and the first thought 
would be foreign terrorism. Especially when the target was a high-profile official. 
Delta-One scanned the night-vision transmission of the tree-shrouded memorial 
below. The parking lot and entry road were empty. Soon, he thought. The location 
of this private meeting, though in an urban area, was fortuitously desolate at this 
hour. Delta-One turned his eyes from the screen to his own weapons controls. 
The Hellfire system would be the weapon of choice tonight. A laser-guided, antiarmor 
missile, the Hellfire provided fire-and-forget capability. The projectile 
could home in on a laser spot that was projected from ground observers, other 
aircraft, or the launching aircraft itself. Tonight, the missile would be guided 
autonomously through the laser designator in a mast-mounted sight. Once the 
Kiowas designator hadpainted the target with a laser beam, the Hellfire missile 
would be self-directing. Because the Hellfire could be fired either from the air or 
ground, its employment here tonight would not necessarily imply an aircrafts 
involvement. In addition, the Hellfire was a popular munition among black-market 
arms dealers, so terrorist activity could certainly be blamed. 

Sedan, Delta-Two said. 
Delta-One glanced at the transmission screen. A nondescript, black luxury sedan 
was approaching on the access road exactly on schedule. This was the typical 
motor pool car of large government agencies. The driver dimmed the cars 
headlights on entering the memorial. The car circled several times and then parked 
near a grove of trees. Delta-One watched the screen as his partner trained the 
telescopic night vision on the drivers side window. After a moment, the persons 
face came into view. 
Delta-One drew a quick breath. 
Target confirmed, his partner said. 
Delta-One looked at the night-vision screenwith its deadly crucifix of crosshairs
and he felt like a sniper aiming at royalty. Target confirmed. 
Delta-Two turned to the left side avionics compartment and activated the laser 
designator. He aimed, and two thousand feet below, a pinpoint of light appeared 
on the roof of the sedan, invisible to the occupant. Target painted, he said. 
Delta-One took a deep breath. He fired. 
A sharp hissing sound sizzled beneath the fuselage, followed by a remarkably dim 
trail of light streaking toward the earth. One second later, the car in the parking lot 
blew apart in a blinding eruption of flames. Twisted metal flew everywhere. 
Burning tires rolled into the woods. 
Kill complete, Delta-One said, already accelerating the helicopter away from the 
area. Call the controller. 
Less than two miles away, President Zach Herney was preparing for bed. The 
Lexan bullet-proof windows of the residence were an inch thick. Herney never 

heard the blast. 
97 
The Coast Guard Group Air Station Atlantic City is located in a secure section of 
William J. Hughes Federal Aviation Administration Technical Center at the 
Atlantic City International Airport. The groups area of responsibility includes the 
Atlantic seaboard from Asbury Park to Cape May. 
Rachel Sexton jolted awake as the planes tires screeched down on the tarmac of 
the lone runway nestled between two enormous cargo buildings. Surprised to find 
she had fallen asleep, Rachel groggily checked her watch. 
2:13A.M. She felt like shed been asleep for days. 
A warm onboard blanket was tucked carefully around her, and Michael Tolland 
was also just waking up beside her. He gave her a weary smile. 
Corky staggered up the aisle and frowned when he saw them. Shit, you guys are 
still here? I woke up hoping tonight had been a bad dream. 
Rachel knew exactly how he felt. Im headed back out to sea. 
The plane taxied to a stop, and Rachel and the others climbed out onto a barren 
runway. The night was over-cast, but the coastal air felt heavy and warm. In 
comparison to Ellesmere, New Jersey felt like the tropics. 
Over here! a voice called out. 
Rachel and the others turned to see one of the Coast Guards classic, crimsoncolored 
HH-65 Dolphin helicopters waiting nearby. Framed by the brilliant white 

stripe on the choppers tail, a fully suited pilot waved them over. 
Tolland gave Rachel an impressed nod. Your boss certainly gets things done. 
You have no idea, she thought. 
Corky slumped. Already? No dinner stop? 
The pilot welcomed them over and helped them aboard. Never asking their names, 
he spoke exclusively in pleasantries and safety precautions. Pickering had 
apparently made it clear to the Coast Guard that this flight was not an advertised 
mission. Nonetheless, despite Pickerings discretion, Rachel could see that their 
identities had remained a secret for only a matter of seconds; the pilot failed to 
hide his wide-eyed double take upon seeing television celebrity Michael Tolland. 
Rachel was already feeling tense as she buckled herself in beside Tolland. The 
Aerospatiale engine overhead shrieked to life, and the Dolphins sagging thirtynine-
foot rotors began to flatten out into a silver blur. The whine turned to a roar, 
and it lifted off the runway, climbing into the night. 
The pilot turned in the cockpit and called out, I was informed you would tell me 
your destination once we were airborne. 
Tolland gave the pilot the coordinates of an offshore location about thirty miles 
southeast of their current position. 
His ship is twelve miles off the coast, Rachel thought, feeling a shiver. 
The pilot typed the coordinates into his navigation system. Then he settled in and 
gunned the engines. The chopper tipped forward and banked southeast. 
As the dark dunes of the New Jersey coast slipped away beneath the aircraft, 
Rachel turned her eyes away from the blackness of the ocean spreading out 
beneath her. Despite the wariness of being back over the water again, she tried to 
take comfort in knowing she was accompanied by a man who had made the ocean 

a lifetime friend. Tolland was pressed close beside her in the narrow fuselage, his 
hips and shoulders touching hers. Neither made any attempt to shift positions. 
I know I shouldnt say this, the pilot sputtered suddenly, as if ready to burst with 
excitement, but youre obviously Michael Tolland, and Ive got to say, well, 
weve been watching you on TV all night! The meteorite! Its absolutely 
incredible! You must be in awe! 
Tolland nodded patiently. Speechless. 
The documentary was fantastic! You know, the networks keep playing it over 
and over. None of tonights duty pilots wanted this gig because everyone wanted 
to keep watching television, but I drew short straw. Can you believe it! Short 
straw! And here I am! If the boys had any idea Id be flying the actual 
We appreciate the ride, Rachel interrupted, and we need you to keep our 
presence here to yourself. Nobodys supposed to know were here. 
Absolutely, maam. My orders were very clear. The pilot hesitated, and then his 
expression brightened. Hey, we arent by any chance heading for the Goya, are 
we? 
Tolland gave a reluctant nod. We are. 
Holy shit! the pilot exclaimed. Excuse me. Sorry, but Ive seen her on your 
show. The twin-hull, right? Strange-looking beast! Ive never actually been on a 
SWATH design. I never dreamed yours would be the first! 
Rachel tuned the man out, feeling a rising uneasiness to be heading out to sea. 
Tolland turned to her. You okay? You could have stayed onshore. I told you 
that. 
I should have stayed onshore, Rachel thought, knowing pride would never have let 
her. No thanks, Im fine. 

Tolland smiled. Ill keep an eye on you. 
Thanks. Rachel was surprised how the warmth in his voice made her feel more 
secure. 
Youve seen the Goya on television, right? 
She nodded. Its auman interesting-looking ship. 
Tolland laughed. Yeah. She was an extremely progressive prototype in her day, 
but the design never quite caught on. 
Cant imagine why, Rachel joked, picturing the ships bizarre profile. 
Now NBC is pressuring me to use a newer ship. SomethingI dont know, 
flashier, sexier. Another season or two, and theyll make me part with her. 
Tolland sounded melancholy at the thought. 
You wouldnt love a brand-new ship? 
I dont knowa lot of memories onboard the Goya. 
Rachel smiled softly. Well, as my mom used to say, sooner or later weve all got 
to let go of our past. 
Tollands eyes held hers for a long moment. Yeah, I know. 
98 
Shit, the taxi driver said, looking over his shoulder at Gabrielle. Looks like an 
accident up ahead. We aint going nowhere. Not for a while. 

Gabrielle glanced out the window and saw the spinning lights of emergency 
vehicles piercing the night. Several policemen stood in the road ahead, halting 
traffic around the Mall. 
Must be a hell of an accident, the driver said, motioning toward some flames 
near the FDR Memorial. 
Gabrielle frowned at the flickering glow. Now, of all times. She needed to get to 
Senator Sexton with this new information about PODS and the Canadian 
geologist. She wondered if NASAs lies about how they found the meteorite 
would be a big enough scandal to breathe life back into Sextons campaign. 
Maybe not for most politicians, she thought, but this was Sedgewick Sexton, a 
man who had built his campaign on amplifying the failures of others. 
Gabrielle was not always proud of the senators ability to put negative ethical spin 
on opponents political misfortunes, but it was effective. Sextons mastery of 
innuendo and indignity could probably turn this one compartmentalized NASA fib 
into a sweeping question of character that infected the entire space agencyand 
by association, the President. 
Outside the window, the flames at the FDR Memorial seemed to climb higher. 
Some nearby trees had caught fire, and the fire trucks were now hosing them 
down. The taxi driver turned on the car radio and began channel-surfing. 
Sighing, Gabrielle closed her eyes and felt the exhaustion roll over her in waves. 
When shed first come to Washington, shed dreamed of working in politics 
forever, maybe someday in the White House. At the moment, however, she felt 
like shed had enough politics for a lifetimethe duel with Marjorie Tench, the 
lewd photographs of herself and the senator, all of NASAs lies 
A newscaster on the radio was saying something about a car bomb and possible 
terrorism. 
Ive got to get out of this town, Gabrielle thought for the first time since coming to 

the nations capital. 
99 
The controller seldom felt weary, but today had taken its toll. Nothing had gone as 
anticipatedthe tragic discovery of the insertion shaft in the ice, the difficulties of 
keeping the information a secret, and now the growing list of victims. 
Nobody was supposed to dieexcept the Canadian. 
It seemed ironic that the most technically difficult part of the plan had turned out 
to be the least problematic. The insertion, completed months ago, had come off 
without a hitch. Once the anomaly was in place, all that remained was to wait for 
the Polar Orbiting Density Scanner (PODS) satellite to launch. PODS was slated 
to scan enormous sections of the Arctic Circle, and sooner or later the anomaly 
software onboard would detect the meteorite and give NASA a major find. 
But the damned software didnt work. 
When the controller learned that the anomaly software had failed and had no 
chance of being fixed until after the election, the entire plan was in jeopardy. 
Without PODS, the meteorite would go undetected. The controller had to come up 
with some way to surreptitiously alert someone in NASA to the meteorites 
existence. The solution involved orchestrating an emergency radio transmission 
from a Canadian geologist in the general vicinity of the insertion. The geologist, 
for obvious reasons, had to be killed immediately and his death made to look 
accidental. Throwing an innocent geologist from a helicopter had been the 
beginning. Now things were unraveling fast. 
Wailee Ming. Norah Mangor. Both dead. 

The bold kill that had just taken place at the FDR Memorial. 
Soon to be added to the list were Rachel Sexton, Michael Tolland, and Dr. 
Marlinson. 
There is no other way, the controller thought, fighting the growing remorse. Far 
too much is at stake. 
100 
The Coast Guard Dolphin was still two miles from the Goyas coordinates and 
flying at three thousand feet when Tolland yelled up to the pilot. 
Do you have NightSight onboard this thing? 
The pilot nodded. Im a rescue unit. 
Tolland had expected as much. NightSight was Raytheons marine thermal 
imaging system, capable of locating wreck survivors in the dark. The heat given 
off by a swimmers head would appear as a red speck on an ocean of black. 
Switch it on, Tolland said. 
The pilot looked confused. Why? You missing someone? 
No. I want everyone to see something. 
We wont see a thing on thermal from this high up unless theres a burning oil 
slick. 
Just switch it on, Tolland said. 

The pilot gave Tolland an odd look and then adjusted some dials, commanding the 
thermal lens beneath the chopper to survey a three-mile swatch of ocean in front of 
them. An LCD screen on his dashboard lit up. The image came into focus. 
Holy shit! The helicopter lurched momentarily as the pilot recoiled in surprise 
and then recovered, staring at the screen. 
Rachel and Corky leaned forward, looking at the image with equal surprise. The 
black background of the ocean was illuminated by an enormous swirling spiral of 
pulsating red. 
Rachel turned to Tolland with trepidation. It looks like a cyclone. 
It is, Tolland said. A cyclone of warm currents. About a half mile across. 
The Coast Guard pilot chuckled in amazement. Thats a big one. We see these 
now and then, but I hadnt heard about this one yet. 
Just surfaced last week, Tolland said. Probably wont last more than another 
few days. 
What causes it? Rachel asked, understandably perplexed by the huge vortex of 
swirling water in the middle of the ocean. 
Magma dome, the pilot said. 
Rachel turned to Tolland, looking wary. A volcano? 
No, Tolland said. The East Coast typically doesnt have active volcanoes, but 
occasionally we get rogue pockets of magma that well up under the seafloor and 
cause hot spots. The hot spot causes a reverse temperature gradienthot water on 
the bottom and cooler water on top. It results in these giant spiral currents. Theyre 
called megaplumes. They spin for a couple of weeks and then dissipate. 
The pilot looked at the pulsating spiral on his LCD screen. Looks like this ones 

still going strong. He paused, checking the coordinates of Tollands ship, and 
then looked over his shoulder in surprise. Mr. Tolland, it looks like youre parked 
fairly near the middle of it. 
Tolland nodded. Currents are a little slower near the eye. Eighteen knots. Like 
anchoring in a fast-moving river. Our chains been getting a real workout this 
week. 
Jesus, the pilot said. Eighteen-knot current? Dont fall overboard! He laughed. 
Rachel did not laugh. Mike, you didnt mention this megaplume, magma dome, 
hot-current situation. 
He put a reassuring hand on her knee. Its perfectly safe, trust me. 
Rachel frowned. So this documentary you were making out here was about this 
magma dome phenomenon? 
Megaplumes and Sphyrna mokarran. 
Thats right. You mentioned that earlier. 
Tolland gave a coy smile. Sphyrna mokarran love warm water, and right now, 
every last one for a hundred miles is congregating in this mile-wide circle of 
heated ocean. 
Neat. Rachel gave an uneasy nod. And what, pray tell, are Sphyrna mokarran? 
Ugliest fish in the sea. 
Flounder? 
Tolland laughed. Great hammerhead shark. 
Rachel stiffened beside him. Youve got hammerhead sharks around your boat? 

Tolland winked. Relax, theyre not dangerous. 
You wouldnt say that unless they were dangerous. 
Tolland chuckled. I guess youre right. He called playfully up to the pilot. Hey, 
how long has it been since you guys saved anyone from an attack by a 
hammerhead? 
The pilot shrugged. Gosh. We havent saved anyone from a hammerhead in 
decades. 
Tolland turned to Rachel. See. Decades. No worries. 
Just last month, the pilot added, we had an attack where some idiot skin diver 
was chumming 
Hold on! Rachel said. You said you hadnt saved anyone in decades! 
Yeah, the pilot replied. Saved anyone. Usually, were too late. Those bastards 
kill in a hurry. 
101 
From the air, the flickering outline of the Goya loomed on the horizon. At half a 
mile, Tolland could make out the brilliant deck lights that his crewmember Xavia 
had wisely left glowing. When he saw the lights, he felt like a weary traveler 
pulling into his driveway. 
I thought you said only one person was onboard, Rachel said, looking surprised 
to see all the lights. 

Dont you leave a light on when youre home alone? 
One light. Not the entire house. 
Tolland smiled. Despite Rachels attempts to be lighthearted, he could tell she was 
extremely apprehensive about being out here. He wanted to put an arm around her 
and reassure her, but he knew there was nothing he could say. The lights are on 
for security. Makes the ship look active. 
Corky chuckled. Afraid of pirates, Mike? 
Nope. Biggest danger out here is the idiots who dont know how to read radar. 
Best defense against getting rammed is to make sure everyone can see you. 
Corky squinted down at the glowing vessel. See you? It looks like a Carnival 
Cruise line on New Years Eve. Obviously, NBC pays your electric. 
The Coast Guard chopper slowed and banked around the huge illuminated ship, 
and the pilot began maneuvering toward the helipad on the stern deck. Even from 
the air, Tolland could make out the raging current pulling at the ships hull struts. 
Anchored from its bow, the Goya was aimed into the current, straining at its 
massive anchor line like a chained beast. 
She really is a beauty, the pilot said, laughing. 
Tolland knew the comment was sarcastic. The Goya was ugly. Butt-ugly 
according to one television reviewer. One of only seventeen SWATH ships ever 
built, the Goyas Small-Waterplane-Area Twin-Hull was anything but attractive. 
The vessel was essentially a massive horizontal platform floating thirty feet above 
the ocean on four huge struts affixed to pontoons. From a distance, the ship looked 
like a low-slung drilling platform. Up close, it resembled a deck barge on stilts. 
The crew quarters, research labs, and navigation bridge were housed in a series of 
tiered structures on top, giving one the rough impression of a giant floating coffee 
table supporting a hodgepodge of multistaged buildings. 

Despite its less than streamlined appearance, the Goyas design enjoyed 
significantly less water-plane area, resulting in increased stability. The suspended 
platform enabled better filming, easier lab work, and fewer seasick scientists. 
Although NBC was pressuring Tolland to let them buy him something newer, 
Tolland had refused. Granted, there were better ships out there now, even more 
stable ones, but the Goya had been his home for almost a decade nowthe ship 
on which he had fought his way back after Celias death. Some nights he still 
heard her voice in the wind out on deck. If and when the ghosts ever disappeared, 
Tolland would consider another ship. 
Not yet. 
When the chopper finally set down on the Goyas stern deck, Rachel Sexton felt 
only half-relieved. The good news was that she was no longer flying over the 
ocean. The bad news was that she was now standing on it. She fought off the 
shaky sensation in her legs as she climbed onto the deck and looked around. The 
deck was surprisingly cramped, particularly with the helicopter on its pad. Moving 
her eyes toward the bow, Rachel gazed at the ungainly, stacked edifice that made 
up the bulk of the ship. 
Tolland stood close beside her. I know, he said, talking loudly over the sound of 
the raging current. It looks bigger on television. 
Rachel nodded. And more stable. 
This is one of the safest ships on the sea. I promise. Tolland put a hand on her 
shoulder and guided her across the deck. 
The warmth of his hand did more to calm Rachels nerves than anything he could 
have said. Nonetheless, as she looked toward the rear of the ship, she saw the 
roiling current streaming out behind them as though the ship was at full throttle. 
Were sitting on a megaplume, she thought. 

Centered on the foremost section of rear deck, Rachel spied a familiar, one-man 
Triton submersible hanging on a giant winch. The Tritonnamed for the Greek 
god of the sealooked nothing like its predecessor, the steel-encased Alvin. The 
Triton had a hemispherical acrylic dome in front, making it look more like a giant 
fishbowl than a sub. Rachel could think of few things more terrifying than 
submerging hundreds of feet into the ocean with nothing between her face and the 
ocean but a sheet of clear acrylic. Of course, according to Tolland, the only 
unpleasant part of riding in the Triton was the initial deploymentbeing slowly 
winched down through the trap door in the Goyas deck, hanging like a pendulum 
thirty feet above the sea. 
Xavia is probably in the hydrolab, Tolland said, moving across the deck. This 
way. 
Rachel and Corky followed Tolland across the stern deck. The Coast Guard pilot 
remained in his chopper with strict instructions not to use the radio. 
Have a look at this, Tolland said, pausing at the stern railing of the ship. 
Hesitantly, Rachel neared the railing. They were very high up. The water was a 
good thirty feet below them, and yet Rachel could still feel the heat rising off the 
water. 
Its about the temperature of a warm bath, Tolland said over the sound of the 
current. He reached toward a switch-box on the railing. Watch this. He flipped a 
switch. 
A wide arc of light spread through the water behind the ship, illuminating it from 
within like a lit swimming pool. Rachel and Corky gasped in unison. 
The water around the ship was filled with dozens of ghostly shadows. Hovering 
only feet below the illuminated surface, armies of sleek, dark forms swam in 
parallel against the current, their unmistakable hammer-shaped skulls wagging 
back and forth as if to the beat of some prehistoric rhythm. 

Christ, Mike, Corky stammered. So glad you shared this with us. 
Rachels body went rigid. She wanted to step back from the railing, but she could 
not move. She was transfixed by the petrifying vista. 
Incredible, arent they? Tolland said. His hand was on her shoulder again, 
comforting. Theyll tread water in the warm spots for weeks. These guys have the 
best noses in the seaenhanced telencephalon olfactory lobes. They can smell 
blood up to a mile away. 
Corky looked skeptical. Enhanced telencephalon olfactory lobes? 
Dont believe me? Tolland began rooting around in an aluminum cabinet 
adjacent to where they were standing. After a moment, he pulled out a small, dead 
fish. Perfect. He took a knife from the cooler and cut the limp fish in several 
places. It started to drip blood. 
Mike, for Gods sake, Corky said. Thats disgusting. 
Tolland tossed the bloody fish overboard and it fell thirty feet. The instant it hit 
the water, six or seven sharks darted in a tumbling ferocious brawl, their rows of 
silvery teeth gnashing wildly at the bloody fish. In an instant, the fish was gone. 
Aghast, Rachel turned and stared at Tolland, who was already holding another 
fish. Same kind. Same size. 
This time, no blood, Tolland said. Without cutting the fish, he threw it in the 
water. The fish splashed down, but nothing happened. The hammerheads seemed 
not to notice. The bait carried away on the current, having drawn no interest 
whatsoever. 
They attack only on sense of smell, Tolland said, leading them away from the 
railing. In fact, you could swim out here in total safetyprovided you didnt 
have any open wounds. 

Corky pointed to the stitches on his cheek. 
Tolland frowned. Right. No swimming for you. 
102 
Gabrielle Ashes taxi was not moving. 
Sitting at a roadblock near the FDR Memorial, Gabrielle looked out at the 
emergency vehicles in the distance and felt as if a surrealistic fog bank had settled 
over the city. Radio reports were coming in now that the exploded car might have 
contained a high-level government official. 
Pulling out her cellphone, she dialed the senator. He was no doubt starting to 
wonder what was taking Gabrielle so long. 
The line was busy. 
Gabrielle looked at the taxis clicking meter and frowned. Some of the other cars 
stuck here were pulling up onto the curbs and turning around to find alternative 
routes. 
The driver looked over his shoulder. You wanna wait? Your dime. 
Gabrielle saw more official vehicles arriving now. No. Lets go around. 
The driver grunted in the affirmative and began maneuvering the awkward 
multipoint turn. As they bounced over the curbs, Gabrielle tried Sexton again. 
Still busy. 

Several minutes later, having made a wide loop, the taxi was traveling up C Street. 
Gabrielle saw the Philip A. Hart Office Building looming. She had intended to go 
straight to the senators apartment, but with her office this close 
Pull over, she blurted to the driver. Right there. Thanks. She pointed. 
The cab stopped. 
Gabrielle paid the amount on the meter and added ten dollars. Can you wait ten 
minutes? 
The cabbie looked at the money and then at his watch. Not a minute longer. 
Gabrielle hurried off. Ill be out in five. 
The deserted marble corridors of the Senate office building felt almost sepulchral 
at this hour. Gabrielles muscles were tense as she hurried through the gauntlet of 
austere statues lining the third-floor entryway. Their stony eyes seemed to follow 
her like silent sentinels. 
Arriving at the main door of Senator Sextons five-room office suite, Gabrielle 
used her key card to enter. The secretarial lobby was dimly lit. Crossing through 
the foyer, she went down a hallway to her office. She entered, flicked on the 
fluorescent lights, and strode directly to her file cabinets. 
She had an entire file on the budgeting of NASAs Earth Observing System, 
including plenty of information on PODS. Sexton would certainly want all the 
data he could possibly get on PODS as soon as she told him about Harper. 
NASA lied about PODS. 
As Gabrielle fingered her way through her files, her cellphone rang. 
Senator? she answered. 

No, Gabs. Its Yolanda. Her friends voice had an unusual edge to it. You still 
at NASA? 
No. At the office. 
Find anything at NASA? 
You have no idea. Gabrielle knew she couldnt tell Yolanda anything until shed 
talked to Sexton; the senator would have very specific ideas about how best to 
handle the information. Ill tell you all about it after I talk to Sexton. Heading 
over to his place now. 
Yolanda paused. Gabs, you know this thing you were saying about Sextons 
campaign finance and the SFF? 
I told you I was wrong and 
I just found out two of our reporters who cover the aerospace industry have been 
working on a similar story. 
Gabrielle was surprised. Meaning? 
I dont know. But these guys are good, and they seem pretty convinced that 
Sexton is taking kickbacks from the Space Frontier Foundation. I just figured I 
should call you. I know I told you earlier that the idea was insane. Marjorie Tench 
as a source seemed spotty, but these guys of oursI dont know, you might want 
to talk to them before you see the senator. 
If theyre so convinced, why havent they gone to press? Gabrielle sounded 
more defensive than she wanted to. 
They have no solid evidence. The senator apparently is good at covering his 
tracks. 
Most politicians are. Theres nothing there, Yolanda. I told you the senator 

admitted taking SFF donations, but the gifts are all under the cap. 
I know thats what he told you, Gabs, and Im not claiming to know whats true 
or false here. I just felt obliged to call because I told you not to trust Marjorie 
Tench, and now I find out people other than Tench think the senator may be on the 
dole. Thats all. 
Who were these reporters? Gabrielle felt an unexpected anger simmering now. 
No names. I can set up a meeting. Theyre smart. They understand campaign 
finance law Yolanda hesitated. You know, these guy actually believe Sexton 
is hurting for cashbankrupt even. 
In the silence of her office, Gabrielle could hear Tenchs raspy accusations 
echoing. After Katherine died, the senator squandered the vast majority of her 
legacy on bad investments, personal comforts, and buying himself what appears to 
be certain victory in the primaries. As of six months ago, your candidate was 
broke. 
Our men would love to talk to you, Yolanda said. 
I bet they would, Gabrielle thought. Ill call you back. 
You sound pissed. 
Never at you, Yolanda. Never at you. Thanks. 
Gabrielle hung up. 
Dozing on a chair in the hallway outside Senator Sextons Westbrooke apartment, 
a security guard awoke with a start at the sound of his cellular phone. Bolting up 
in his chair, he rubbed his eyes and pulled his phone from his blazer pocket. 

Yeah? 
Owen, this is Gabrielle. 
Sextons guard recognized her voice. Oh, hi. 
I need to talk to the senator. Would you knock on his door for me? His line is 
busy. 
Its kind of late. 
Hes awake. Im sure of it. Gabrielle sounded anxious. Its an emergency. 
Another one? 
Same one. Just get him on the phone, Owen. Theres something I really need to 
ask him. 
The guard sighed, standing up. Okay, okay. Ill knock. He stretched and made 
his way toward Sextons door. But Im only doing it because he was glad I let 
you in earlier. Reluctantly, he raised his fist to knock. 
What did you just say? Gabrielle demanded. 
The guards fist stopped in midair. I said the senator was glad I let you in earlier. 
You were right. It was no problem at all. 
You and the senator talked about that? Gabrielle sounded surprised. 
Yeah. So what? 
No, I just didnt think 
Actually, it was kind of weird. The senator needed a couple of seconds to even 
remember youd been in there. I think the boys were tossing back a few. 

When did you two talk, Owen? 
Right after you left. Is something wrong? 
A momentary silence. Nono. Nothing. Look, now that I think of it, lets not 
bother the senator this instant. Ill keep trying his house line, and if I dont have 
any luck, Ill call you back and you can knock. 
The guard rolled his eyes. Whatever you say, Ms. Ashe. 
Thanks, Owen. Sorry to bother you. 
No problem. The guard hung up, flopped back in his chair, and went to sleep. 
Alone in her office, Gabrielle stood motionless for several seconds before hanging 
up the phone. Sexton knows I was inside his apartmentand he never mentioned 
it to me? 
Tonights ethereal strangeness was getting murkier. Gabrielle flashed on the 
senators phone call to her while she was at ABC. The senator had stunned her 
with his unprovoked admission that he was meeting with space companies and 
accepting money. His honesty had brought her back to him. Shamed her even. His 
confession now seemed one hell of a lot less noble. 
Soft money, Sexton had said. Perfectly legal. 
Suddenly, all the vague misgivings Gabrielle had ever felt about Senator Sexton 
seemed to resurface all at once. 
Outside, the taxi was honking. 

103 
The bridge of the Goya was a Plexiglas cube situated two levels above the main 
deck. From here Rachel had a 360-degree view of the surrounding darkened sea, 
an unnerving vista she looked at only once before blocking it out and turning her 
attention to the matter at hand. 
Having sent Tolland and Corky to find Xavia, Rachel prepared to contact 
Pickering. Shed promised the director she would call him when they arrived, and 
she was eager to know what he had learned in his meeting with Marjorie Tench. 
The Goyas SHINCOM 2100 digital communications system was a platform with 
which Rachel was familiar enough. She knew if she kept her call short, her 
communication should be secure. 
Dialing Pickerings private number, she waited, clutching the SHINCOM 2100 
receiver to her ear and waiting. She expected Pickering to pick up on the first ring. 
But the line just kept ringing. 
Six rings. Seven. Eight 
Rachel gazed out at the darkened ocean, her inability to reach the director doing 
nothing to quell her uneasiness about being at sea. 
Nine rings. Ten rings. Pick up! 
She paced, waiting. What was going on? Pickering carried his phone with him at 
all times, and he had expressly told Rachel to call him. 
After fifteen rings, she hung up. 
With growing apprehension, she picked up the SHINCOM receiver and dialed 
again. 
Four rings. Five rings. 

Where is he? 
Finally, the connection clicked open. Rachel felt a surge of relief, but it was shortlived. 
There was no one on the line. Only silence. 
Hello, she prompted. Director? 
Three quick clicks. 
Hello? Rachel said. 
A burst of electronic static shattered the line, blasting in Rachels ear. She yanked 
the receiver away from her head in pain. The static abruptly stopped. Now she 
could hear a series of rapidly oscillating tones that pulsed in half-second intervals. 
Rachels confusion quickly gave way to realization. And then fear. 
Shit! 
Wheeling back to the controls on the bridge, she slammed the receiver down in its 
cradle, severing the connection. For several moments she stood terrified, 
wondering if shed hung up in time. 
Amidships, two decks below, the Goyas hydrolab was an expansive work space 
segmented by long counters and islands packed to the gills with electronic 
gearbottom profilers, current analyzers, wet sinks, fume hoods, a walk-in 
specimen cooler, PCs, and a stack of organizer crates for research data and the 
spare electronics to keep everything running. 
When Tolland and Corky entered, the Goyas onboard geologist, Xavia, was 
reclining in front of a blaring television. She didnt even turn around. 
Did you guys run out of beer money? she called over her shoulder, apparently 

thinking some of her crew had returned. 
Xavia, Tolland said. Its Mike. 
The geologist spun, swallowing part of a prepackaged sandwich she was eating. 
Mike? she stammered, clearly stunned to see him. She stood up, turned down 
the television, and came over, still chewing. I thought some of the guys had come 
back from bar-hopping. What are you doing here? Xavia was heavyset and darkskinned, 
with a sharp voice and a surly air about her. She motioned to the 
television, which was broadcasting replays of Tollands on-site meteorite 
documentary. You sure didnt hang around on the ice shelf very long, did you? 
Something came up, Tolland thought. Xavia, Im sure you recognize Corky 
Marlinson. 
Xavia nodded. An honor, sir. 
Corky was eyeing the sandwich in her hand. That looks good. 
Xavia gave him an odd look. 
I got your message, Tolland said to Xavia. You said I made a mistake in my 
presentation? I want to talk to you about it. 
The geologist stared at him and let out a shrill laugh. Thats why youre back? 
Oh, Mike, for Gods sake, I told you, it was nothing. I was just pulling your chain. 
NASA obviously gave you some old data. Inconsequential. Seriously, only three 
or four marine geologists in the world might have noticed the oversight! 
Tolland held his breath. This oversight. Does it by any chance have anything to 
do with chondrules? 
Xavias face went blank with shock. My God. One of those geologists called you 
already? 

Tolland slumped. The chondrules. He looked at Corky and then back to the marine 
geologist. Xavia, I need to know everything you can tell me about these 
chondrules. What was the mistake I made? 
Xavia stared at him, apparently now sensing he was dead serious. Mike, its 
really nothing. I read a small article in a trade journal a while back. But I dont 
understand why youre so worried about this. 
Tolland sighed. Xavia, as strange as this may sound, the less you know tonight, 
the better. All Im asking is for you to tell us what you know about chondrules, 
and then well need you to examine a rock sample for us. 
Xavia looked mystified and vaguely perturbed to be out of the loop. Fine, let me 
get you that article. Its in my office. She set her sandwich down and headed for 
the door. 
Corky called after her. Can I finish that? 
Xavia paused, sounding incredulous. You want to finish my sandwich? 
Well, I just thought if you 
Get your own damn sandwich. Xavia left. 
Tolland chuckled, motioning across the lab toward a specimen cooler. Bottom 
shelf, Corky. Between the sambuca and squid sacs. 
Outside on deck, Rachel descended the steep stairway from the bridge and strode 
toward the chopper pad. The Coast Guard pilot was dozing but sat up when Rachel 
rapped on the cockpit. 
Done already? he asked. That was fast. 
Rachel shook her head, on edge. Can you run both surface and air radar? 

Sure. Ten-mile radius. 
Turn it on, please. 
Looking puzzled, the pilot threw a couple of switches and the radar screen lit up. 
The sweep arm spun lazy circles. 
Anything? Rachel asked. 
The pilot let the arm make several complete rotations. He adjusted some controls 
and watched. It was all clear. Couple of small ships way out on the periphery, but 
theyre heading away from us. Were clear. Miles and miles of open sea in all 
directions. 
Rachel Sexton sighed, although she did not feel particularly relieved. Do me a 
favor, if you see anything approachingboats, aircraft, anythingwill you let me 
know immediately? 
Sure thing. Is everything okay? 
Yeah. Id just like to know if were having company. 
The pilot shrugged. Ill watch the radar, maam. If anything blips, youll be the 
first to know. 
Rachels senses were tingling as she headed for the hydrolab. When she entered, 
Corky and Tolland were standing alone in front of a computer monitor and 
chewing sandwiches. 
Corky called out to her with his mouth full. Whatll it be? Fishy chicken, fishy 
bologna, or fishy egg salad? 
Rachel barely heard the question. Mike, how fast can we get this information and 
get off this ship? 

104 
Tolland paced the hydrolab, waiting with Rachel and Corky for Xavias return. 
The news about the chondrules was almost as discomforting as Rachels news 
about her attempted contact with Pickering. 
The director didnt answer. 
And someone tried to pulse-snitch the Goyas location. 
Relax, Tolland told everyone. Were safe. The Coast Guard pilot is watching 
the radar. He can give us plenty of warning if anyone is headed our way. 
Rachel nodded in agreement, although she still looked on edge. 
Mike, what the hell is this? Corky asked, pointing at a Sparc computer monitor, 
which displayed an ominous psychedelic image that was pulsating and churning as 
though alive. 
Acoustic Doppler Current Profiler, Tolland said. Its a cross section of the 
currents and temperature gradients of the ocean underneath the ship. 
Rachel stared. Thats what were anchored on top of? 
Tolland had to admit, the image looked frightening. At the surface, the water 
appeared as a swirling bluish green, but tracing downward, the colors slowly 
shifted to a menacing red-orange as the temperatures heated up. Near the bottom, 
over a mile down, hovering above the ocean floor, a blood-red, cyclone vortex 
raged. 
Thats the megaplume, Tolland said. 

Corky grunted. Looks like an underwater tornado. 
Same principle. Oceans are usually colder and more dense near the bottom, but 
here the dynamics are reversed. The deepwater is heated and lighter, so it rises 
toward the surface. Meanwhile, the surface water is heavier, so it races downward 
in a huge spiral to fill the void. You get these drainlike currents in the ocean. 
Enormous whirlpools. 
Whats that big bump on the seafloor? Corky pointed at the flat expanse of 
ocean floor, where a large dome-shaped mound rose up like a bubble. Directly 
above it swirled the vortex. 
That mound is a magma dome, Tolland said. Its where lava is pushing up 
beneath the ocean floor. 
Corky nodded. Like a huge zit. 
In a manner of speaking. 
And if it pops? 
Tolland frowned, recalling the famous 1986 megaplume event off the Juan de 
Fuca Ridge, where thousands of tons of twelve hundred degrees Celsius magma 
spewed up into the ocean all at once, magnifying the plumes intensity almost 
instantly. Surface currents amplified as the vortex expanded rapidly upward. What 
happened next was something Tolland had no intention of sharing with Corky and 
Rachel this evening. 
Atlantic magma domes dont pop, Tolland said. The cold water circulating 
over the mound continually cools and hardens the earths crust, keeping the 
magma safely under a thick layer of rock. Eventually the lava underneath cools, 
and the spiral disappears. Megaplumes are generally not dangerous. 
Corky pointed toward a tattered magazine sitting near the computer. So youre 
saying Scientific American publishes fiction? 

Tolland saw the cover, and winced. Someone had apparently pulled it from the 
Goyas archive of old science magazines: Scientific American, February 1999. 
The cover showed an artists rendering of a supertanker swirling out of control in 
an enormous funnel of ocean. The heading read: MEGAPLUMESGIANT KILLERS 
FROM THE DEEP? 
Tolland laughed it off. Totally irrelevant. That article is talking about 
megaplumes in earthquake zones. It was a popular Bermuda Triangle hypothesis a 
few years back, explaining ship disappearances. Technically speaking, if theres 
some sort of cataclysmic geologic event on the ocean floor, which is unheard of 
around here, the dome could rupture, and the vortex could get big enough 
towell, you know 
No, we dont know, Corky said. 
Tolland shrugged. Rise to the surface. 
Terrific. So glad you had us aboard. 
Xavia entered carrying some papers. Admiring the megaplume? 
Oh, yes, Corky said sarcastically. Mike was just telling us how if that little 
mound ruptures, we all go spiraling around in a big drain. 
Drain? Xavia gave a cold laugh. More like getting flushed down the worlds 
largest toilet. 
Outside on the deck of the Goya, the Coast Guard helicopter pilot vigilantly 
watched the EMS radar screen. As a rescue pilot he had seen his share of fear in 
peoples eyes; Rachel Sexton had definitely been afraid when she asked him to 
keep an eye out for unexpected visitors to the Goya. 

What kind of visitors is she expecting? he wondered. 
From all the pilot could see, the sea and air for ten miles in all directions contained 
nothing that looked out of the ordinary. A fishing boat eight miles off. An 
occasional aircraft slicing across an edge of their radar field and then disappearing 
again toward some unknown destination. 
The pilot sighed, gazing out now at the ocean rushing all around the ship. The 
sensation was a ghostly onethat of sailing full speed despite being anchored. 
He returned his eyes to the radar screen and watched. Vigilant. 
105 
Onboard the Goya, Tolland had now introduced Xavia and Rachel. The ships 
geologist was looking increasingly baffled by the distinguished entourage standing 
before her in the hydrolab. In addition, Rachels eagerness to run the tests and get 
off the ship as fast as possible was clearly making Xavia uneasy. 
Take your time, Xavia, Tolland willed her. We need to know everything. 
Xavia was talking now, her voice stiff. In your documentary, Mike, you said 
those little metallic inclusions in the rock could form only in space. 
Tolland already felt a tremor of apprehension. Chondrules form only in space. 
Thats what NASA told me. 
But according to these notes, Xavia said, holding up the pages, thats not 
entirely true. 
Corky glared. Of course its true! 

Xavia scowled at Corky and waved the notes. Last year a young geologist named 
Lee Pollock out of Drew University was using a new breed of marine robot to do 
Pacific deepwater crust sampling in the Mariana Trench and pulled up a loose rock 
that contained a geologic feature he had never seen before. The feature was quite 
similar in appearance to chondrules. He called them plagioclase stress 
inclusionstiny bubbles of metal that apparently had been rehomogenized during 
deep ocean pressurization events. Dr. Pollock was amazed to find metallic bubbles 
in an ocean rock, and he formulated a unique theory to explain their presence. 
Corky grumbled. I suppose he would have to. 
Xavia ignored him. Dr. Pollock asserted that the rock formed in an ultradeep 
oceanic environment where extreme pressure metamorphosed a pre-existing rock, 
permitting some of the disparate metals to fuse. 
Tolland considered it. The Mariana Trench was seven miles down, one of the last 
truly unexplored regions on the planet. Only a handful of robotic probes had ever 
ventured that deep, and most had collapsed well before they reached the bottom. 
The water pressure in the trench was enormousan astounding eighteen thousand 
pounds per square inch, as opposed to a mere twenty-four pounds on the oceans 
surface. Oceanographers still had very little understanding of the geologic forces 
at the deepest ocean floor. So, this guy Pollock thinks the Mariana Trench can 
make rocks with chondrulelike features? 
Its an extremely obscure theory, Xavia said. In fact, its never even been 
formally published. I only happened to stumble across Pollocks personal notes on 
the Web by chance last month when I was doing research on fluid-rock 
interactions for our upcoming megaplume show. Otherwise, I never would have 
heard of it. 
The theory has never been published, Corky said, because its ridiculous. You 
need heat to form chondrules. Theres no way water pressure could rearrange the 
crystalline structure of a rock. 

Pressure, Xavia fired back, happens to be the single biggest contributor to 
geologic change on our planet. A little something called a metamorphic rock? 
Geology 101? 
Corky scowled. 
Tolland realized Xavia had a point. Although heat did play a role in some of 
earths metamorphic geology, most metamorphic rocks were formed by extreme 
pressure. Incredibly, rocks deep in the earths crust were under so much pressure 
that they acted more like thick molasses than solid rock, becoming elastic and 
undergoing chemical changes as they did. Nonetheless, Dr. Pollocks theory still 
seemed like a stretch. 
Xavia, Tolland said. Ive never heard of water pressure alone chemically 
altering a rock. Youre the geologist, whats your take? 
Well, she said, flipping through her notes, it sounds like water pressure isnt 
the only factor. Xavia found a passage and read Pollocks notes verbatim. 
Oceanic crust in the Mariana Trench, already under enormous hydrostatic 
pressurization, can find itself further compressed by tectonic forces from the 
regions subduction zones. 
Of course, Tolland thought. The Mariana Trench, in addition to being crushed 
under seven miles of water, was a subduction zonethe compression line where 
the Pacific and Indian plates moved toward one another and collided. Combined 
pressures in the trench could be enormous, and because the area was so remote 
and dangerous to study, if there were chondrules down there, chances of anyone 
knowing about it were very slim. 
Xavia kept reading. Combined hydrostatic and tectonic pressures could 
potentially force crust into an elastic or semiliquid state, allowing lighter elements 
to fuse into chondrulelike structures thought to occur only in space. 
Corky rolled his eyes. Impossible. 

Tolland glanced at Corky. Is there any alternative explanation for the chondrules 
in the rock Dr. Pollock found? 
Easy, Corky said. Pollock found an actual meteorite. Meteorites fall into the 
ocean all the time. Pollock would not have suspected it was a meteorite because 
the fusion crust would have eroded away from years under the water, making it 
look like a normal rock. Corky turned to Xavia. I dont suppose Pollock had the 
brains to measure the nickel content, did he? 
Actually, yes, Xavia fired back, flipping through the notes again. Pollock 
writes: I was surprised to find the nickel content of the specimen falling within a 
midrange value not usually associated with terrestrial rocks. 
Tolland and Rachel exchanged startled looks. 
Xavia continued reading. Although the quantity of nickel does not fall within the 
normally acceptable midrange window for meteoritic origin, it is surprisingly 
close. 
Rachel looked troubled. How close? Is there any way this ocean rock could be 
mistaken for a meteorite? 
Xavia shook her head. Im not a chemical petrologist, but as I understand it, there 
are numerous chemical differences between the rock Pollock found and actual 
meteorites. 
What are those differences? Tolland pressed. 
Xavia turned her attention to a graph in her notes. According to this, one 
difference is in the chemical structure of the chondrules themselves. It looks like 
the titanium/zirconium ratios differ. The titanium/ zirconium ratio in the 
chondrules of the ocean sample showed ultradepleted zirconium. She looked up. 
Only two parts per million. 
Two ppm? Corky blurted. Meteorites have thousands of times that! 

Exactly, Xavia replied. Which is why Pollock thinks his samples chondrules 
are not from space. 
Tolland leaned over and whispered to Corky, Did NASA happen to measure the 
titanium/zirconium ratio in the Milne rock? 
Of course not, Corky sputtered. Nobody would ever measure that. Its like 
looking at a car and measuring the tires rubber content to confirm youre looking 
at a car! 
Tolland heaved a sigh and looked back at Xavia. If we give you a rock sample 
with chondrules in it, can you run a test to determine whether these inclusions are 
meteoric chondrules orone of Pollocks deep ocean compression things? 
Xavia shrugged. I suppose. The electron microprobes accuracy should be close 
enough. Whats this all about, anyway? 
Tolland turned to Corky. Give it to her. 
Corky reluctantly pulled the meteorite sample from his pocket and held it out for 
Xavia. 
Xavias brow furrowed as she took the stone disk. She eyed the fusion crust and 
then the fossil embedded in the rock. My God! she said, her head rocketing 
upward. This isnt part of? 
Yeah, Tolland said. Unfortunately it is. 
106 
Alone in her office, Gabrielle Ashe stood at the window, wondering what to do 

next. Less than an hour ago, she had left NASA feeling full of excitement to share 
Chris Harpers PODS fraud with the senator. 
Now, she wasnt so sure. 
According to Yolanda, two independent ABC reporters suspected Sexton of taking 
SFF bribes. Furthermore, Gabrielle had just learned that Sexton actually knew she 
had snuck into his apartment during the SFF meeting, and yet he had said nothing 
to her about it? 
Gabrielle sighed. Her taxi had long since departed, and although she would call 
another in a few minutes, she knew there was something she had to do first. 
Am I really going to try this? 
Gabrielle frowned, knowing she didnt have a choice. She no longer knew whom 
to trust. 
Stepping out of her office, she made her way back into the secretarial lobby and 
into a wide hallway on the opposite side. At the far end she could see the massive 
oak doors of Sextons office flanked by two flagsOld Glory on the right and the 
Delaware flag on the left. His doors, like those of most senate offices in the 
building, were steel reinforced and secured by conventional keys, an electronic 
key pad entry, and an alarm system. 
She knew if she could get inside, even if for only a few minutes, all the answers 
would be revealed. Moving now toward the heavily secured doors, Gabrielle had 
no illusions of getting through them. She had other plans. 
Ten feet from Sextons office, Gabrielle turned sharply to the right and entered the 
ladies room. The fluorescents came on automatically, reflecting harshly off the 
white tile. As her eyes adjusted, Gabrielle paused, seeing herself in the mirror. As 
usual, her features looked softer than shed hoped. Delicate almost. She always 
felt stronger than she looked. 

Are you sure you are ready to do this? 
Gabrielle knew Sexton was eagerly awaiting her arrival for a complete rundown 
on the PODS situation. Unfortunately, she also now realized that Sexton had 
deftly manipulated her tonight. Gabrielle Ashe did not like being managed. The 
senator had kept things from her tonight. The question was how much. The 
answers, she knew, lay inside his officejust on the other side of this restroom 
wall. 
Five minutes, Gabrielle said aloud, mustering her resolve. 
Moving toward the bathrooms supply closet, she reached up and ran a hand over 
the door frame. A key clattered to the floor. The cleaning crews at Philip A. Hart 
were federal employees and seemed to evaporate every time there was a strike of 
any sort, leaving this bathroom without toilet paper and tampons for weeks at a 
time. The women of Sextons office, tired of being caught with their pants down, 
had taken matters into their own hands and secured a supply room key for 
emergencies. 
Tonight qualifies, she thought. 
She opened the closet. 
The interior was cramped, packed with cleansers, mops, and shelves of paper 
supplies. A month ago, Gabrielle had been searching for paper towels when shed 
made an unusual discovery. Unable to reach the paper off the top shelf, shed used 
the end of a broom to coax a roll to fall. In the process, shed knocked out a 
ceiling tile. When she climbed up to replace the tile, she was surprised to hear 
Senator Sextons voice. 
Crystal clear. 
From the echo, she realized the senator was talking to himself while in his offices 
private bathroom, which apparently was separated from this supply closet by 
nothing more than removable, fiberboard ceiling tiles. 

Now, back in the closet tonight for far more than toilet paper, Gabrielle kicked off 
her shoes, climbed up the shelves, popped out the fiberboard ceiling tile, and 
pulled herself up. So much for national security, she thought, wondering how 
many state and federal laws she was about to break. 
Lowering herself through the ceiling of Sextons private restroom, Gabrielle 
placed her stockinged feet on his cold, porcelain sink and then dropped to the 
floor. Holding her breath, she exited into Sextons private office. 
His oriental carpets felt soft and warm. 
107 
Thirty miles away, a black Kiowa gunship chopper tore over the scrub pine 
treetops of northern Delaware. Delta-One checked the coordinates locked in the 
auto navigation system. 
Although Rachels shipboard transmission device and Pickerings cellphone were 
encrypted to protect the contents of their communication, intercepting content had 
not been the goal when the Delta Force pulse-snitched Rachels call from sea. 
Intercepting the callers position had been the goal. Global Positioning Systems 
and computerized triangulation made pinpointing transmission coordinates a 
significantly easier task than decrypting the actual content of the call. 
Delta-One was always amused to think that most cellphone users had no idea that 
every time they made a call, a government listening post, if so inclined, could 
detect their position to within ten feet anywhere on eartha small hitch the 
cellphone companies failed to advertise. Tonight, once the Delta Force had gained 
access to the reception frequencies of William Pickerings cellular phone, they 
could easily trace the coordinates of his incoming calls. 

Flying now on a direct course toward their target, Delta-One closed to within 
twenty miles. Umbrella primed? he asked, turning to Delta-Two, who was 
manning the radar and weapons system. 
Affirmative. Awaiting five-mile range. 
Five miles, Delta-One thought. He had to fly this bird well within his targets 
radar scopes to get within range to use the Kiowas weapons systems. He had little 
doubt that someone onboard the Goya was nervously watching the skies, and 
because the Delta Forces current task was to eliminate the target without giving 
them a chance to radio for help, Delta-One now had to advance on his prey 
without alarming them. 
At fifteen miles out, still safely out of radar range, Delta-One abruptly turned the 
Kiowa thirty-five degrees off course to the west. He climbed to three thousand 
feetsmall airplane rangeand adjusted his speed to 110 knots. 
On the deck of the Goya, the Coast Guard helicopters radar scope beeped once as 
a new contact entered the ten-mile perimeter. The pilot sat up, studying the screen. 
The contact appeared to be a small cargo plane headed west up the coast. 
Probably for Newark. 
Although this planes current trajectory would bring it within four miles of the 
Goya, the flight path obviously was a matter of chance. Nonetheless, being 
vigilant, the Coast Guard pilot watched the blinking dot trace a slow-moving 110- 
knot line across the right side of his scope. At its closest point, the plane was about 
four miles west. As expected, the plane kept movingheading away from them 
now. 
4.1 miles. 4.2 miles. 

The pilot exhaled, relaxing. 
And then the strangest thing happened. 
Umbrella now engaged, Delta-Two called out, giving the thumbs-up from his 
weapons control seat on the port side of the Kiowa gunship. Barrage, modulated 
noise, and cover pulse are all activated and locked. 
Delta-One took his cue and banked hard to the right, putting the craft on a direct 
course with the Goya. This maneuver would be invisible to the ships radar. 
Sure beats bales of tinfoil! Delta-Two called out. 
Delta-One agreed. Radar jamming had been invented in WWII when a savvy 
British airman began throwing bales of hay wrapped in tinfoil out of his plane 
while on bombing runs. The Germans radar spotted so many reflective contacts 
they had no idea what to shoot. The techniques had been improved on 
substantially since then. 
The Kiowas onboard umbrella radar-jamming system was one of the militarys 
most deadly electronic combat weapons. By broadcasting an umbrella of 
background noise into the atmosphere above a given set of surface coordinates, the 
Kiowa could erase the eyes, ears, and voice of their target. Moments ago, all radar 
screens aboard the Goya had most certainly gone blank. By the time the crew 
realized they needed to call for help, they would be unable to transmit. On a ship, 
all communications were radio-or microwave-basedno solid phone lines. If the 
Kiowa got close enough, all of the Goyas communications systems would stop 
functioning, their carrier signals blotted out by the invisible cloud of thermal noise 
broadcast in front of the Kiowa like a blinding headlight. 
Perfect isolation, Delta-One thought. They have no defenses. 
Their targets had made a fortunate and cunning escape from the Milne Ice Shelf, 

but it would not be repeated. In choosing to leave shore, Rachel Sexton and 
Michael Tolland had chosen poorly. It would be the last bad decision they ever 
made. 
Inside the White House, Zach Herney felt dazed as he sat up in bed holding the 
telephone receiver. Now? Ekstrom wants to speak to me now? Herney squinted 
again at the bedside clock. 3:17A.M. 
Yes, Mr. President, the communications officer said. He says its an 
emergency. 
108 
While Corky and Xavia huddled over the electron microprobe measuring the 
zirconium content in the chondrules, Rachel followed Tolland across the lab into 
an adjoining room. Here Tolland turned on another computer. Apparently the 
oceanographer had one more thing he wanted to check. 
As the computer powered up, Tolland turned to Rachel, his mouth poised as if he 
wanted to say something. He paused. 
What is it? Rachel asked, surprised how physically drawn to him she felt, even 
in the midst of all this chaos. She wished she could block it all out and be with 
himjust for a minute. 
I owe you an apology, Tolland said, looking remorseful. 
For what? 
On the deck? The hammerheads? I was excited. Sometimes I forget how 
frightening the ocean can be to a lot of people. 

Face-to-face with him, Rachel felt like a teenager standing on the doorstep with a 
new boyfriend. Thanks. No problem at all. Really. Something inside her sensed 
Tolland wanted to kiss her. 
After a beat, he turned shyly away. I know. You want to get to shore. We should 
get to work. 
For now. Rachel smiled softly. 
For now, Tolland repeated, taking a seat at the computer. 
Rachel exhaled, standing close behind now, savoring the privacy of the small lab. 
She watched Tolland navigate a series of files. What are we doing? 
Checking the database for big ocean lice. I want to see if we can find any 
prehistoric marine fossils that resemble what we saw in the NASA meteorite. He 
pulled up a search page with bold letters across the top: PROJECT DIVERSITAS. 
Scrolling through the menus, Tolland explained, Diversitas is essentially a 
continuously updated index of oceanic biodata. When a marine biologist discovers 
a new ocean species or fossil, he can toot his horn and share his find by uploading 
data and photos to a central databank. Because theres so much new data 
discovered on a weekly basis, this is really the only way to keep research up-todate. 
Rachel watched Tolland navigating the menus. So youre accessing the Web 
now? 
No. Internet access is tricky at sea. We store all this data onboard on an enormous 
array of optical drives in the other room. Every time were in port, we tie into 
Project Diversitas and update our databank with the newest finds. This way, we 
can access data at sea without a Web connection, and the data is never more than a 
month or two out of date. Tolland chuckled as he began typing search keywords 
into the computer. Youve probably heard of the controversial music file-sharing 

program called Napster? 
Rachel nodded. 
Diversitas is considered the marine biologists version of Napster. We call it 
LOBSTERLonely Oceanic Biologists Sharing Totally Eccentric Research. 
Rachel laughed. Even in this tense situation, Michael Tolland exuded a wry humor 
that eased her fears. She was beginning to realize shed had entirely too little 
laughter in her life lately. 
Our database is enormous, Tolland said, completing the entry of his descriptive 
keywords. Over ten tera-bytes of descriptions and photos. Theres information in 
here nobody has ever seenand nobody ever will. Ocean species are simply too 
numerous. He clicked the search button. Okay, lets see if anyone has ever 
seen an oceanic fossil similar to our little space bug. 
After a few seconds, the screen refreshed, revealing four listings of fossilized 
animals. Tolland clicked on each listing one by one and examined the photos. 
None looked remotely like the fossils in the Milne meteorite. 
Tolland frowned. Lets try something else. He removed the word fossil from 
his search string and hit search. Well search all living species. Maybe we can 
find a living descendant that has some of the physiological characteristics of the 
Milne fossil. 
The screen refreshed. 
Again Tolland frowned. The computer had returned hundreds of entries. He sat a 
moment, stroking his now stubble-darkened chin. Okay, this is too much. Lets 
refine the search. 
Rachel watched as he accessed a drop-down menu marked habitat. The list of 
options looked endless: tide pool, marsh, lagoon, reef, mid-oceanic ridge, sulfur 
vents. Tolland scrolled down the list and chose an option that read: DESTRUCTIVE 

MARGINS/OCEANIC TRENCHES. 
Smart, Rachel realized. Tolland was limiting his search only to species that lived 
near the environment where these chondrulelike features were hypothesized to 
form. 
The page refreshed. This time Tolland smiled. Great. Only three entries. 
Rachel squinted at the first name on the list. Limulus polysomething. 
Tolland clicked the entry. A photo appeared; the creature looked like an oversized 
horseshoe crab without a tail. 
Nope, Tolland said, returning to the previous page. 
Rachel eyed the second item on the list. Shrimpus Uglius From Hellus. She was 
confused. Is that name for real? 
Tolland chuckled. No. Its a new species not yet classified. The guy who 
discovered it has a sense of humor. Hes suggesting Shrimpus Uglius as the 
official taxonomical classification. Tolland clicked open the photo, revealing an 
exceptionally ugly shrimplike creature with whiskers and fluorescent pink 
antennae. 
Aptly named, Tolland said. But not our space bug. He returned to the index. 
The final offering is He clicked on the third entry, and the page came up. 
Bathynomous giganteus Tolland read aloud as the text appeared. The 
photograph loaded. A full-color close-up. 
Rachel jumped. My God! The creature staring back at her gave her chills. 
Tolland drew a low breath. Oh boy. This guy looks kind of familiar. 
Rachel nodded, speechless. Bathynomous giganteus. The creature resembled a 

giant swimming louse. It looked very similar to the fossil species in the NASA 
rock. 
There are some subtle differences, Tolland said, scrolling down to some 
anatomical diagrams and sketches. But its damn close. Especially considering it 
has had 190 million years to evolve. 
Close is right, Rachel thought. Too close. 
Tolland read the description on the screen: Thought to be one of the oldest 
species in the ocean, the rare and recently classified species Bathynomous 
giganteus is a deepwater scavenging isopod resembling a large pill bug. Up to two 
feet in length, this species exhibits a chitinous exoskeleton segmented into head, 
thorax, abdomen. It possesses paired appendages, antennae, and compound eyes 
like those of land-dwelling insects. This bottom-dwelling forager has no known 
predators and lives in barren pelagic environments previously thought to be 
uninhabitable. Tolland glanced up. Which could explain the lack of other fossils 
in the sample! 
Rachel stared at the creature on-screen, excited and yet uncertain she completely 
understood what all of this meant. 
Imagine, Tolland said excitedly, that 190 million years ago, a brood of these 
Bathynomous creatures got buried in a deep ocean mud slide. As the mud turns 
into rock, the bugs get fossilized in stone. Simultaneously, the ocean floor, which 
is continuously moving like a slow conveyer belt toward the oceanic trenches, 
carries the fossils into a high-pressure zone where the rock forms chondrules! 
Tolland was talking faster now. And if part of the fossilized, chondrulized crust 
broke off and ended up on the trenchs accretionary wedge, which is not at all 
uncommon, it would be in a perfect position to be discovered! 
But if NASA, Rachel stammered. I mean, if this is all a lie, NASA must 
have known that sooner or later someone would find out this fossil resembles a sea 
creature, right? I mean we just found out! 

Tolland began printing the Bathynomous photos on a laser printer. I dont know. 
Even if someone stepped forward and pointed out the similarities between the 
fossils and a living sea louse, their physiologies are not identical. It almost proves 
NASAs case more strongly. 
Rachel suddenly understood. Panspermia. Life on earth was seeded from space. 
Exactly. Similarities between space organisms and earth organisms make 
excellent scientific sense. This sea louse actually strengthens NASAs case. 
Except if the meteorites authenticity is in question. 
Tolland nodded. Once the meteorite comes into question, then everything 
collapses. Our sea louse turns from NASA friend to NASA linchpin. 
Rachel stood in silence as the Bathynomous pages rolled out of the printer. She 
tried to tell herself this was all an honest NASA mistake, but she knew it was not. 
People who made honest mistakes didnt try to kill people. 
The nasal voice of Corky echoed suddenly across the lab. Impossible! 
Both Tolland and Rachel turned. 
Measure the damn ratio again! It makes no sense! 
Xavia came hurrying in with a computer printout clutched in her hand. Her face 
was ashen. Mike, I dont know how to say this Her voice cracked. The 
titanium/zirconium ratios were seeing in this sample? She cleared her throat. 
Its pretty obvious that NASA made a huge mistake. Their meteorite is an ocean 
rock. 
Tolland and Rachel looked at each other but neither spoke a word. They knew. 
Just like that, all the suspicions and doubts had swelled up like the crest of a wave, 
reaching the breaking point. 

Tolland nodded, a sadness in his eyes. Yeah. Thanks, Xavia. 
But I dont understand, Xavia said. The fusion crustthe location in the ice 
Well explain on the way to shore, Tolland said. Were leaving. 
Quickly, Rachel collected all the papers and evidence they now had. The evidence 
was shockingly conclusive: the GPR printout showing the insertion shaft in the 
Milne Ice Shelf; photos of a living sea louse resembling NASAs fossil; Dr. 
Pollocks article on ocean chondrules; and microprobe data showing ultradepleted 
zirconium in the meteorite. 
The conclusion was undeniable. Fraud. 
Tolland looked at the stack of papers in Rachels hands and heaved a melancholy 
sigh. Well, Id say William Pickering has his proof. 
Rachel nodded, again wondering why Pickering had not answered his phone. 
Tolland lifted the receiver of a nearby phone, holding it out for her. You want to 
try him again from here? 
No, lets get moving. Ill try to contact him from the chopper. Rachel had 
already decided if she could not make contact with Pickering, shed have the 
Coast Guard fly them directly to the NRO, only about 180 miles. 
Tolland began to hang up the phone, but he paused. Looking confused, he listened 
to the receiver, frowning. Bizarre. No dial tone. 
What do you mean? Rachel said, wary now. 
Weird, Tolland said. Direct COMSAT lines never lose carrier 
Mr. Tolland? The Coast Guard pilot came rushing into the lab, his face white. 

What is it? Rachel demanded. Is someone coming? 
Thats the problem, the pilot said. I dont know. All onboard radar and 
communications have just gone dead. 
Rachel stuffed the papers deep inside her shirt. Get in the helicopter. Were 
leaving. NOW! 
109 
Gabrielles heart was racing as she crossed the darkened office of Senator Sexton. 
The room was as expansive as it was elegantornate wood-paneled walls, oil 
paintings, Persian carpets, leather rivet chairs, and a gargantuan mahogany desk. 
The room was lit only by the eerie neon glow of Sextons computer screen. 
Gabrielle moved toward his desk. 
Senator Sexton had embraced the digital office to maniacal proportions, 
eschewing the overflow of file cabinets for the compact, searchable simplicity of 
his personal computer, into which he fed enormous amounts of 
informationdigitized meeting notes, scanned articles, speeches, brainstorms. 
Sextons computer was his sacred ground, and he kept his office locked at all 
times to protect it. He even refused to connect to the Internet for fear of hackers 
infiltrating his sacred digital vault. 
A year ago Gabrielle would never have believed any politician would be stupid 
enough to store copies of self-incriminating documents, but Washington had 
taught her a lot. Information is power. Gabrielle had been amazed to learn that a 
common practice among politicians who accepted questionable campaign 
contributions was to keep actual proof of those donationsletters, bank records, 
receipts, logsall hidden away in a safe place. This counterblackmail tactic, 

euphemistically known in Washington as Siamese insurance, protected 
candidates from donors who felt their generosity somehow authorized them to 
assert undue political pressure on a candidate. If a contributor got too demanding, 
the candidate could simply produce evidence of the illegal donation and remind 
the donor that both parties had broken the law. The evidence ensured that 
candidates and donors were joined at the hip foreverlike Siamese twins. 
Gabrielle slipped behind the senators desk and sat down. She took a deep breath, 
looking at his computer. If the senator is accepting SFF bribes, any evidence 
would be in here. 
Sextons computer screensaver was an ongoing slideshow of the White House and 
its grounds created for him by one of his gung-ho staffers who was big into 
visualization and positive thinking. Around the images crawled a ticker-tape 
banner that read: President of the United States Sedgewick SextonPresident of 
the United States Sedgewick SextonPresident of the 
Gabrielle jostled the mouse, and a security dialogue box came up. 
ENTER PASSWORD: 
She expected this. It would not be a problem. Last week, Gabrielle had entered 
Sextons office just as the senator was sitting down and logging onto his 
computer. She saw him type three short keystrokes in rapid succession. 
Thats a password? she challenged from the doorway as she walked in. 
Sexton glanced up. What? 
And here I thought you were concerned about security, Gabrielle scolded goodnaturedly. 
Your passwords only three keys? I thought the tech guys told us all to 
use at least six. 
The tech guys are teenagers. They should try remembering six random letters 
when theyre over forty. Besides, the door has an alarm. Nobody can get in. 

Gabrielle walked toward him, smiling. What if someone slipped in while youre 
in the loo? 
And tried every combination of passwords? He gave a skeptical laugh. Im 
slow in the bathroom, but not that slow. 
Dinner at Davide says I can guess your password in ten seconds. 
Sexton looked intrigued and amused. You cant afford Davide, Gabrielle. 
So youre saying youre chicken? 
Sexton appeared almost sorry for her as he accepted the challenge. Ten seconds? 
He logged off and motioned for Gabrielle to sit down and give it a try. You know 
I only order the saltimbocca at Davide. And that aint cheap. 
She shrugged as she sat down. Its your money. 
ENTER PASSWORD: 
Ten seconds, Sexton reminded. 
Gabrielle had to laugh. She would need only two. Even from the doorway she 
could see that Sexton had entered his three-key password in very rapid succession 
using only his index finger. Obviously all the same key. Not wise. She could also 
see that his hand had been positioned over the far left side of his 
keyboardcutting the possible alphabet down to only about nine letters. Choosing 
the letter was simple; Sexton had always loved the triple alliteration of his title. 
Senator Sedgewick Sexton. 
Never underestimate the ego of a politician. 
She typed SSS, and the screensaver evaporated. 
Sextons jaw hit the floor. 

That had been last week. Now, as Gabrielle faced his computer again, she was 
certain Sexton would not have taken time yet to figure out how to set up a 
different password. Why would he? He trusts me implicitly. 
She typed in SSS. 
INVALID PASSWORDACCESS DENIED 
Gabrielle stared in shock. 
Apparently she had overestimated her senators level of trust. 
110 
The attack came without warning. Low out of the southwest sky above the Goya, 
the lethal silhouette of a gunship helicopter bore down like a giant wasp. Rachel 
had no doubt what it was, or why it was here. 
Through the darkness, a staccato burst from the nose of the chopper sent a torrent 
of bullets chewing across the Goyas fiberglass deck, slashing a line across the 
stern. Rachel dove for cover too late and felt the searing slash of a bullet graze her 
arm. She hit the ground hard, then rolled, scrambling to get behind the bulbous 
transparent dome of the Triton submersible. 
A thundering of rotors exploded overhead as the chopper swooped past the ship. 
The noise evaporated with an eerie hiss as the chopper rocketed out over the ocean 
and began a wide bank for a second pass. 
Lying trembling on the deck, Rachel held her arm and looked back at Tolland and 
Corky. Apparently having lunged to cover behind a storage structure, the two men 

were now staggering to their feet, their eyes scanning the skies in terror. Rachel 
pulled herself to her knees. The entire world suddenly seemed to be moving in 
slow motion. 
Crouched behind the transparent curvature of the Triton sub, Rachel looked in 
panic toward their only means of escapethe Coast Guard helicopter. Xavia was 
already climbing into the choppers cabin, frantically waving for everyone to get 
aboard. Rachel could see the pilot lunging into the cockpit, wildly throwing 
switches and levers. The blades began to turnever so slowly. 
Too slowly. 
Hurry! 
Rachel felt herself standing now, preparing to run, wondering if she could make it 
across the deck before the attackers made another pass. Behind her, she heard 
Corky and Tolland dashing toward her and the waiting helicopter. Yes! Hurry! 
Then she saw it. 
A hundred yards out, up in the sky, materializing out of empty darkness, a pencilthin 
beam of red light slanted across the night, searching the Goyas deck. Then, 
finding its mark, the beam came to a stop on the side of the waiting Coast Guard 
chopper. 
The image took only an instant to register. In that horrific moment, Rachel felt all 
the action on the deck of the Goya blur into a collage of shapes and sounds. 
Tolland and Corky dashing toward herXavia motioning wildly in the 
helicopterthe stark red laser slicing across the night sky. 
It was too late. 
Rachel spun back toward Corky and Tolland, who were running full speed now 
toward the helicopter. She lunged outward into their path, arms outstretched trying 
to stop them. The collision felt like a train wreck as the three of them crashed to 

the deck in a tangle of arms and legs. 
In the distance, a flash of white light appeared. Rachel watched in disbelief and 
horror as a perfectly straight line of exhaust fire followed the path of the laser 
beam directly toward the helicopter. 
When the Hellfire missile slammed into the fuselage, the helicopter exploded apart 
like a toy. The concussion wave of heat and noise thundered across the deck as 
flaming shrapnel rained down. The helicopters flaming skeleton lurched 
backward on its shattered tail, teetered a moment, and then fell off the back of the 
ship, crashing into the ocean in a hissing cloud of steam. 
Rachel closed her eyes, unable to breathe. She could hear the flaming wreckage 
gurgling and sputtering as it sank, being dragged away from the Goya by the 
heavy currents. In the chaos, Michael Tollands voice was yelling. Rachel felt his 
powerful hands trying to pull her to her feet. But she could not move. 
The Coast Guard pilot and Xavia are dead. 
Were next. 
111 
The weather on the Milne Ice Shelf had settled, and the habisphere was quiet. 
Even so, NASA administrator Lawrence Ekstrom had not even tried to sleep. He 
had spent the hours alone, pacing the dome, staring into the extraction pit, running 
his hands over the grooves in the giant charred rock. 
Finally, hed made up his mind. 
Now he sat at the videophone in the habispheres PSC tank and looked into the 

weary eyes of the President of the United States. Zach Herney was wearing a 
bathrobe and did not look at all amused. Ekstrom knew he would be significantly 
less amused when he learned what Ekstrom had to tell him. 
When Ekstrom finished talking, Herney had an uncomfortable look on his 
faceas if he thought he must still be too asleep to have understood correctly. 
Hold on, Herney said. We must have a bad connection. Did you just tell me 
that NASA intercepted this meteorites coordinates from an emergency radio 
transmissionand then pretended that PODS found the meteorite? 
Ekstrom was silent, alone in the dark, willing his body to awake from this 
nightmare. 
The silence clearly did not sit well with the President. For Christs sake, Larry, 
tell me this isnt true! 
Ekstroms mouth went dry. The meteorite was found, Mr. President. That is all 
thats relevant here. 
I said tell me this is not true! 
The hush swelled to a dull roar in Ekstroms ears. I had to tell him, Ekstrom told 
himself. Its going to get worse before it gets better. Mr. President, the PODS 
failure was killing you in the polls, sir. When we intercepted a radio transmission 
that mentioned a large meteorite lodged in the ice, we saw a chance to get back in 
the fight. 
Herney sounded stunned. By faking a PODS discovery? 
PODS was going to be up and running soon, but not soon enough for the election. 
The polls were slipping, and Sexton was slamming NASA, so 
Are you insane! You lied to me, Larry! 

The opportunity was staring us in the face, sir. I decided to take it. We 
intercepted the radio transmission of the Canadian who made the meteorite 
discovery. He died in a storm. Nobody else knew the meteorite was there. PODS 
was orbiting in the area. NASA needed a victory. We had the coordinates. 
Why are you telling me this now? 
I thought you should know. 
Do you know what Sexton would do with this information if he found out? 
Ekstrom preferred not to think about it. 
Hed tell the world that NASA and the White House lied to the American people! 
And you know what, hed be right! 
You did not lie, sir, I did. And I will step down if 
Larry, youre missing the point. Ive tried to run this presidency on truth and 
decency! Goddamn it! Tonight was clean. Dignified. Now I find out I lied to the 
world? 
Only a small lie, sir. 
Theres no such thing, Larry, Herney said, steaming. 
Ekstrom felt the tiny room closing in around him. There was so much more to tell 
the President, but Ekstrom could see it should wait until morning. Im sorry to 
have woken you, sir. I just thought you should know. 
Across town, Sedgewick Sexton took another hit of cognac and paced his 
apartment with rising irritation. 

Where the hell is Gabrielle? 
112 
Gabrielle Ashe sat in the darkness at Senator Sextons desk and gave his computer 
a despondent scowl. 
INVALID PASSWORDACCESS DENIED 
She had tried several other passwords that seemed likely possibilities, but none 
had worked. After searching the office for any unlocked drawers or stray clues, 
Gabrielle had all but given up. She was about to leave when she spotted something 
odd, shimmering on Sextons desk calendar. Someone had outlined the date of the 
election in a red, white, and blue glitter pen. Certainly not the senator. Gabrielle 
pulled the calendar closer. Emblazoned across the date was a frilly, glittering 
exclamation: POTUS! 
Sextons ebullient secretary had apparently glitterpainted some more positive 
thinking for him for election day. The acronym POTUS was the U.S. Secret 
Services code name for President of the United States. On election day, if all 
went well, Sexton would become the new POTUS. 
Preparing to leave, Gabrielle realigned the calendar on his desk and stood up. She 
paused suddenly, glancing back at the computer screen. 
ENTER PASSWORD: 
She looked again at the calendar. 
POTUS. 

She felt a sudden surge of hope. Something about POTUS struck Gabrielle as 
being a perfect Sexton password. Simple, positive, self-referential. 
She quickly typed in the letters. 
POTUS 
Holding her breath, she hit return. The computer beeped. 
INVALID PASSWORDACCESS DENIED 
Slumping, Gabrielle gave up. She headed back toward the bathroom door to exit 
the way she had come. She was halfway across the room, when her cellphone 
rang. She was already on edge, and the sound startled her. Stopping short, she 
pulled out her phone and glanced up to check the time on Sextons prized Jourdain 
grandfather clock. Almost 4:00A.M. At this hour, Gabrielle knew the caller could 
only be Sexton. He was obviously wondering where the hell she was. Do I pick up 
or let it ring? If she answered, Gabrielle would have to lie. But if she didnt, 
Sexton would get suspicious. 
She took the call. Hello? 
Gabrielle? Sexton sounded impatient. Whats keeping you? 
The FDR Memorial, Gabrielle said. The taxi got hemmed in, and now 
were 
You dont sound like youre in a taxi. 
No, she said, her blood pumping now. Im not. I decided to stop by my office 
and pick up some NASA documents that might be relevant to PODS. Im having 
some trouble finding them. 
Well, hurry up. I want to schedule a press conference for the morning, and we 
need to talk specifics. 

Im coming soon, she said. 
There was a pause on the line. Youre in your office? He sounded suddenly 
confused. 
Yeah. Another ten minutes and Ill be on my way over. 
Another pause. Okay. Ill see you soon. 
Gabrielle hung up, too preoccupied to notice the loud and distinctive triple-tick of 
Sextons prized Jourdain grandfather clock only a few feet away. 
113 
Michael Tolland did not realize Rachel was hurt until he saw the blood on her arm 
as he pulled her to cover behind the Triton. He sensed from the catatonic look on 
her face that she was not aware of any pain. Steadying her, Tolland wheeled to 
find Corky. The astrophysicist scrambled across the deck to join them, his eyes 
blank with terror. 
Weve got to find cover, Tolland thought, the horror of what had just happened 
not yet fully registering. Instinctively, his eyes raced up the tiers of decks above 
them. The stairs leading up to the bridge were all in the open, and the bridge itself 
was a glass boxa transparent bulls-eye from the air. Going up was suicide, 
which left only one other direction to go. 
For a fleeting instant, Tolland turned a hopeful gaze to the Triton submersible, 
wondering perhaps if he could get everyone underwater, away from the bullets. 
Absurd. The Triton had room for one person, and the deployment winch took a 
good ten minutes to lower the sub through the trap door in the deck to the ocean 

thirty feet below. Besides, without properly charged batteries and compressors, the 
Triton would be dead in the water. 
Here they come! Corky shouted, his voice shrill with fear as he pointed into the 
sky. 
Tolland didnt even look up. He pointed to a nearby bulkhead, where an aluminum 
ramp descended belowdecks. Corky apparently needed no encouragement. 
Keeping his head low, Corky scurried toward the opening and disappeared down 
the incline. Tolland put a firm arm around Rachels waist and followed. The two 
of them disappeared belowdecks just as the helicopter returned, spraying bullets 
overhead. 
Tolland helped Rachel down the grated ramp to the suspended platform at the 
bottom. As they arrived, Tolland could feel Rachels body go suddenly rigid. He 
wheeled, fearing maybe shed been hit by a ricocheting bullet. 
When he saw her face, he knew it was something else. Tolland followed her 
petrified gaze downward and immediately understood. 
Rachel stood motionless, her legs refusing to move. She was staring down at the 
bizarre world beneath her. 
Because of its SWATH design, the Goya had no hull but rather struts like a giant 
catamaran. They had just descended through the deck onto a grated catwalk that 
hung above an open chasm, thirty feet straight down to the raging sea. The noise 
was deafening here, reverberating off the underside of the deck. Adding to 
Rachels terror was the fact that the ships underwater spotlights were still 
illuminated, casting a greenish effulgence deep into the ocean directly beneath her. 
She found herself gazing down at six or seven ghostly silhouettes in the water. 
Enormous hammerhead sharks, their long shadows swimming in place against the 
currentrubbery bodies flexing back and forth. 

Tollands voice was in her ear. Rachel, youre okay. Eyes straight ahead. Im 
right behind you. His hands were reaching around from behind, gently trying to 
coax her clenched fists off the banister. It was then that Rachel saw the crimson 
droplet of blood roll off her arm and fall through the grating. Her eyes followed 
the drip as it plummeted toward the sea. Although she never saw it hit the water, 
she knew the instant it happened because all at once the hammerheads spun in 
unison, thrusting with their powerful tails, crashing together in a roiling frenzy of 
teeth and fins. 
Enhanced telencephalon olfactory lobes 
They smell blood a mile away. 
Eyes straight ahead, Tolland repeated, his voice strong and reassuring. Im 
right behind you. 
Rachel felt his hands on her hips now, urging her forward. Blocking out the void 
beneath her, Rachel started down the catwalk. Somewhere above she could hear 
the rotors of the chopper again. Corky was already well out in front of them, 
reeling across the catwalk in a kind of drunken panic. 
Tolland called out to him. All the way to the far strut, Corky! Down the stairs! 
Rachel could now see where they were headed. Up ahead, a series of switchback 
ramps descended. At water level, a narrow, shelflike deck extended the length of 
the Goya. Jutting off this deck were several small, suspended docks, creating a 
kind of miniature marina stationed beneath the ship. A large sign read: 
DIVE AREA 
Swimmers May Surface without Warning 
Boats Proceed with Caution 
Rachel could only assume Michael did not intend for them to do any swimming. 
Her trepidation intensified when Tolland stopped at a bank of wire-mesh storage 
lockers flanking the catwalk. He pulled open the doors to reveal hanging wetsuits, 

snorkels, flippers, life jackets, and spearguns. Before she could protest, he reached 
in and grabbed a flare gun. Lets go. 
They were moving again. 
Up ahead, Corky had reached the switchback ramps and was already halfway 
down. I see it! he shouted, his voice sounding almost joyous over the raging 
water. 
See what? Rachel wondered as Corky ran along the narrow walkway. All she 
could see was a shark-infested ocean lapping dangerously close. Tolland urged her 
forward, and suddenly Rachel could see what Corky was so excited about. At the 
far end of the decking below, a small powerboat was moored. Corky ran toward it. 
Rachel stared. Outrun a helicopter in a motorboat? 
It has a radio, Tolland said. And if we can get far enough away from the 
helicopters jamming 
Rachel did not hear another word he said. She had just spied something that made 
her blood run cold. Too late, she croaked, extending a trembling finger. Were 
finished 
When Tolland turned, he knew in an instant it was over. 
At the far end of the ship, like a dragon peering into the opening of a cave, the 
black helicopter had dropped down low and was facing them. For an instant, 
Tolland thought it was going to fly directly at them through the center of the boat. 
But the helicopter began to turn at an angle, taking aim. 
Tolland followed the direction of the gun barrels. No! 
Crouched beside the powerboat untying the moorings, Corky glanced up just as 

the machine guns beneath the chopper erupted in a blaze of thunder. Corky 
lurched as if hit. Wildly, he scrambled over the gunwale and dove into the boat, 
sprawled himself on the floor for cover. The guns stopped. Tolland could see 
Corky crawling deeper into the powerboat. The lower part of his right leg was 
covered with blood. Crouched below the dash, Corky reached up and fumbled 
across the controls until his fingers found the key. The boats 250 hp Mercury 
engine roared to life. 
An instant later, a red laser beam appeared, emanating from the nose of the 
hovering chopper, targeting the powerboat with a missile. 
Tolland reacted on instinct, aiming the only weapon he had. 
The flare gun in his hand hissed when he pulled the trigger, and a blinding streak 
tore away on a horizontal trajectory beneath the ship, heading directly toward the 
chopper. Even so, Tolland sensed he had acted too late. As the streaking flare bore 
down on the helicopters windshield, the rocket launcher beneath the chopper 
emitted its own flash of light. At the same exact instant that the missile launched, 
the aircraft veered sharply and pulled up out of sight to avoid the incoming flare. 
Look out! Tolland yelled, yanking Rachel down onto the catwalk. 
The missile sailed off course, just missing Corky, coming the length of the Goya 
and slamming into the base of the strut thirty feet beneath Rachel and Tolland. 
The sound was apocalyptic. Water and flames erupted beneath them. Bits of 
twisted metal flew in the air and scattered the catwalk beneath them. Metal on 
metal ground together as the ship shifted, finding a new balance, slightly askew. 
As the smoke cleared, Tolland could see that one of the Goyas four main struts 
had been severely damaged. Powerful currents tore past the pontoon, threatening 
to break it off. The spiral stairway descending to the lower deck looked to be 
hanging by a thread. 
Come on! Tolland yelled, urging Rachel toward it. Weve got to get down! 

But they were too late. With a surrendering crack, the stairs peeled away from the 
damaged strut and crashed into the sea. 
Over the ship, Delta-One grappled with the controls of the Kiowa helicopter and 
got it back under control. Momentarily blinded by the incoming flare, he had 
reflexively pulled up, causing the Hellfire missile to miss its mark. Cursing, he 
hovered now over the bow of the ship and prepared to drop back down and finish 
the job. 
Eliminate all passengers. The controllers demands had been clear. 
Shit! Look! Delta-Two yelled from the rear seat, pointing out the window. 
Speedboat! 
Delta-One spun and saw a bullet-riddled Crestliner speedboat skimming away 
from the Goya into the darkness. 
He had a decision to make. 
114 
Corkys bloody hands gripped the wheel of the Crestliner Phantom 2100 as it 
pounded out across the sea. He rammed the throttle all the way forward, trying to 
eke out maximum speed. It was not until this moment that he felt the searing pain. 
He looked down and saw his right leg spurting blood. He instantly felt dizzy. 
Propping himself against the wheel, he turned and looked back at the Goya, 
willing the helicopter to follow him. With Tolland and Rachel trapped up on the 

catwalk, Corky had not been able to reach them. Hed been forced to make a snap 
decision. 
Divide and conquer. 
Corky knew if he could lure the chopper far enough away from the Goya, maybe 
Tolland and Rachel could radio for help. Unfortunately, as he looked over his 
shoulder at the illuminated ship, Corky could see the chopper still hovering there, 
as if undecided. 
Come on, you bastards! Follow me! 
But the helicopter did not follow. Instead it banked over the stern of the Goya, 
aligned itself, and dropped down, landing on the deck. No! Corky watched in 
horror, now realizing hed left Tolland and Rachel behind to be killed. 
Knowing it was now up to him to radio for help, Corky groped the dashboard and 
found the radio. He flicked the power switch. Nothing happened. No lights. No 
static. He turned the volume knob all the way up. Nothing. Come on! Letting go of 
the wheel, he knelt down for a look. His leg screamed in pain as he bent down. His 
eyes focused on the radio. He could not believe what he was looking at. The 
dashboard had been strafed by bullets, and the radio dial was shattered. Loose 
wires hung out the front. He stared, incredulous. 
Of all the goddamned luck 
Weak-kneed, Corky stood back up, wondering how things could get any worse. As 
he looked back at the Goya, he got his answer. Two armed soldiers jumped out of 
the chopper onto the deck. Then the chopper lifted off again, turning in Corkys 
direction and coming after him at full speed. 
Corky slumped. Divide and conquer. Apparently he was not the only one with that 
bright idea tonight. 

As Delta-Three made his way across the deck and approached the grated ramp 
leading belowdecks, he heard a woman shouting somewhere beneath him. He 
turned and motioned to Delta-Two that he was going belowdecks to check it out. 
His partner nodded, remaining behind to cover the upper level. The two men could 
stay in contact via CrypTalk; the Kiowas jamming system ingeniously left an 
obscure bandwidth open for their own communications. 
Clutching his snub-nose machine gun, Delta-Three moved quietly toward the ramp 
that led belowdecks. With the vigilance of a trained killer, he began inching 
downward, gun leveled. 
The incline provided limited visibility, and Delta-Three crouched low for a better 
view. He could hear the shouting more clearly now. He kept descending. Halfway 
down the stairs he could now make out the twisted maze of walkways attached to 
the underside of the Goya. The shouting grew louder. 
Then he saw her. Midway across the traversing catwalk, Rachel Sexton was 
peering over a railing and calling desperately toward the water for Michael 
Tolland. 
Did Tolland fall in? Perhaps in the blast? 
If so, Delta-Threes job would be even easier than expected. He only needed to 
descend another couple of feet to have an open shot. Shooting fish in a barrel. His 
only vague concern was Rachel standing near an open equipment locker, which 
meant she might have a weapona speargun or a shark riflealthough neither 
would be any match for his machine gun. Confident he was in control of the 
situation, Delta-Three leveled his weapon and took another step down. Rachel 
Sexton was almost in perfect view now. He raised the gun. 
One more step. 
The flurry of movement came from beneath him, under the stairs. Delta-Three was 
more confused than frightened as he looked down and saw Michael Tolland 

thrusting an aluminum pole out toward his feet. Although Delta-Three had been 
tricked, he almost laughed at this lame attempt to trip him up. 
Then he felt the tip of the stick connect with his heel. 
A blast of white-hot pain shot through his body as his right foot exploded out from 
under him from a blistering impact. His balance gone, Delta-Three flailed, 
tumbling down the stairs. His machine gun clattered down the ramp and went 
overboard as he collapsed on the catwalk. In anguish, he curled up to grip his right 
foot, but it was no longer there. 
Tolland was standing over his attacker immediately with his hands still clenching 
the smoking bang-sticka five-foot Powerhead Shark-Control Device. The 
aluminum pole had been tipped with a pressure-sensitive, twelve-gauge shotgun 
shell and was intended for self-defense in the event of shark attack. Tolland had 
reloaded the bang-stick with another shell, and now held the jagged, smoldering 
point to his attackers Adams apple. The man lay on his back as if paralyzed, 
staring up at Tolland with an expression of astonished rage and agony. 
Rachel came running up the catwalk. The plan was for her to take the mans 
machine gun, but unfortunately the weapon had gone over the edge of the catwalk 
into the ocean. 
The communications device on the mans belt crackled. The voice coming out was 
robotic. Delta-Three? Come in. I heard a shot. 
The man made no move to answer. 
The device crackled again. Delta-Three? Confirm. Do you need backup? 
Almost immediately, a new voice crackled over the line. It was also robotic but 
distinguishable by the sound of a helicopter noise in the background. This is 
Delta-One, the pilot said. Im in pursuit of the departing vessel. Delta-Three, 

confirm. Are you down? Do you need backup? 
Tolland pressed the bang-stick into the mans throat. Tell the helicopter to back 
off that speedboat. If they kill my friend, you die. 
The soldier winced in pain as he lifted his communication device to his lips. He 
looked directly at Tolland as he pressed the button and spoke. Delta-Three, here. 
Im fine. Destroy the departing vessel. 
115 
Gabrielle Ashe returned to Sextons private bathroom, preparing to climb back out 
of his office. Sextonsphone call had left her feeling anxious. He had definitely 
hesitated when she told him she was in her officeas if he knew somehow she 
was lying. Either way, shed failed to get into Sextons computer and now was 
unsure of her next move. 
Sexton is waiting. 
As she climbed up onto the sink, getting ready to pull herself up, she heard 
something clatter to the tile floor. She looked down, irritated to see that shed 
knocked off a pair of Sextons cuff links that had apparently been sitting on the 
edge of the sink. 
Leave things exactly as you found them. 
Climbing back down Gabrielle picked up the cuff links and put them back on the 
sink. As she began to climb back up, she paused, glancing again at the cuff links. 
On any other night, Gabrielle would have ignored them, but tonight their 
monogram caught her attention. Like most of Sextons monogrammed items, they 
had two intertwining letters. SS. Gabrielle flashed on Sextons initial computer 

passwordSSS. She pictured his calendarPOTUSand the White House 
screensaver with its optimistic ticker tape crawling around the screen ad infinitum. 
President of the United States Sedgewick SextonPresident of the United States 
Sedgewick SextonPresident of the 
Gabrielle stood a moment and wondered. Could he be that confident? 
Knowing it would take only an instant to find out, she hurried back into Sextons 
office, went to his computer, and typed in a seven-letter password. 
POTUSSS 
The screensaver evaporated instantly. 
She stared, incredulous. 
Never underestimate the ego of a politician. 
116 
Corky Marlinson was no longer at the helm of the Crestliner Phantom as it raced 
into the night. He knew the boat would travel in a straight line with or without him 
at the wheel. The path of least resistance 
Corky was in the back of the bouncing boat, trying to assess the damage to his leg. 
A bullet had entered the front part of his calf, just missing his shinbone. There was 
no exit wound on the back of his calf, so he knew the bullet must still be lodged in 
his leg. Foraging around for something to stem the bleeding, he found 
nothingsome fins, a snorkel, and a couple of life jackets. No first-aid kit. 
Frantically, Corky opened a small utility chest and found some tools, rags, duct 

tape, oil, and other maintenance items. He looked at his bloody leg and wondered 
how far he had to go to be out of shark territory. 
A hell of a lot farther than this. 
Delta-One kept the Kiowa chopper low over the ocean as he scanned the darkness 
for the departing Crestliner. Assuming the fleeing boat would head for shore and 
attempt to put as much distance as possible between itself and the Goya, Delta- 
One had followed the Crestliners original trajectory away from the Goya. 
I should have overtaken him by now. 
Normally, tracking the fleeing boat would be a simple matter of using radar, but 
with the Kiowas jamming systems transmitting an umbrella of thermal noise for 
several miles, his radar was worthless. Turning off the jamming system was not an 
option until he got word that everyone onboard the Goya was dead. No emergency 
phone calls would be leaving the Goya this evening. 
This meteorite secret dies. Right here. Right now. 
Fortunately, Delta-One had other means of tracking. Even against this bizarre 
backdrop of heated ocean, pinpointing a powerboats thermal imprint was simple. 
He turned on his thermal scanner. The ocean around him registered a warm ninetyfive 
degrees. Fortunately, the emissions of a racing 250 hp outboard engine were 
hundreds of degrees hotter. 
Corky Marlinsons leg and foot felt numb. 
Not knowing what else to do, he had wiped down his injured calf with the rag and 
wrapped the wound in layer after layer of duct tape. By the time the tape was 
gone, his entire calf, from ankle to knee, was enveloped in a tight silver sheath. 

The bleeding had stopped, although his clothing and hands were still covered with 
blood. 
Sitting on the floor of the runaway Crestliner, Corky felt confused about why the 
chopper hadnt found him yet. He looked out now, scanning the horizon behind 
him, expecting to see the distant Goya and incoming helicopter. Oddly, he saw 
neither. The lights of the Goya had disappeared. Certainly he hadnt come that far, 
had he? 
Corky suddenly felt hopeful he might escape. Maybe they had lost him in the dark. 
Maybe he could get to shore! 
It was then he noticed that the wake behind his boat was not straight. It seemed to 
curve gradually away from the back of his boat, as if he were traveling in an arc 
rather than a straight line. Confused by this, he turned his head to follow the 
wakes arc, extrapolating a giant curve across the ocean. An instant later, he saw 
it. 
The Goya was directly off his port side, less than a half mile away. In horror, 
Corky realized his mistake too late. With no one at the wheel, the Crestliners bow 
had continuously realigned itself with the direction of the powerful currentthe 
megaplumes circular water flow. Im driving in a big friggin circle! 
He had doubled back on himself. 
Knowing he was still inside the shark-filled megaplume, Corky recalled Tollands 
grim words. Enhanced telencephalon olfactory lobeshammerheads can smell a 
droplet of blood a mile away. Corky looked at his bloody duct-taped leg and 
hands. 
The chopper would be on him soon. 
Ripping off his bloody clothing, Corky scrambled naked toward the stern. 
Knowing no sharks could possibly keep pace with the boat, he rinsed himself as 
best as he could in the powerful blast of the wake. 

A single droplet of blood 
As Corky stood up, fully exposed to the night, he knew there was only one thing 
left to do. He had learned once that animals marked their territory with urine 
because uric acid was the most potent-smelling fluid the human body made. 
More potent than blood, he hoped. Wishing hed had a few more beers tonight, 
Corky heaved his injured leg up onto the gunwale and tried to urinate on the duct 
tape. Come on! He waited. Nothing like the pressure of having to piss all over 
yourself with a helicopter chasing you. 
Finally it came. Corky urinated all over the duct tape, soaking it fully. He used 
what little was left in his bladder to soak a rag, which he then swathed across his 
entire body. Very pleasant. 
In the dark sky overhead, a red laser beam appeared, slanting toward him like the 
shimmering blade of an enormous guillotine. The chopper appeared from an 
oblique angle, the pilot apparently confused that Corky had looped back toward 
the Goya. 
Quickly donning a high-float life vest, Corky moved to the rear of the speeding 
craft. On the boats bloodstained floor, only five feet from where Corky was 
standing, a glowing red dot appeared. 
It was time. 
Onboard the Goya, Michael Tolland did not see his Crestliner Phantom 2100 erupt 
in flames and tumble through the air in a cartwheel of fire and smoke. 
But he heard the explosion. 

117 
The West Wing was usually quiet at this hour, but the Presidents unexpected 
emergence in his bathrobe and slippers had rustled the aides and on-site staff out 
of their day-timer beds and on-site sleeping quarters. 
I cant find her, Mr. President, a young aide said, hurrying after him into the 
Oval Office. He had looked everywhere. Ms. Tench is not answering her pager or 
cellphone. 
The President looked exasperated. Have you looked in the 
She left the building, sir, another aide announced, hurrying in. She signed out 
about an hour ago. We think she may have gone to the NRO. One of the operators 
says she and Pickering were talking tonight. 
William Pickering? The President sounded baffled. Tench and Pickering were 
anything but social. Have you called him? 
Hes not answering either, sir. NRO switchboard cant reach him. They say 
Pickerings cellphone isnt even ringing. Its like hes dropped off the face of the 
earth. 
Herney stared at his aides for a moment and then walked to the bar and poured 
himself a bourbon. As he raised the glass to his lips, a Secret Serviceman hurried 
in. 
Mr. President? I wasnt going to wake you, but you should be aware that there 
was a car bombing at the FDR Memorial tonight. 
What! Herney almost dropped his drink. When? 
An hour ago. His face was grim. And the FBI just identified the victim 

118 
Delta-Threes foot screamed in pain. He felt himself floating through a muddled 
consciousness. Is this death? He tried to move but felt paralyzed, barely able to 
breathe. He saw only blurred shapes. His mind reeled back, recalling the explosion 
of the Crestliner out at sea, seeing the rage in Michael Tollands eyes as the 
oceanographer stood over him, holding the explosive pole to his throat. 
Certainly Tolland killed me 
And yet the searing pain in Delta-Threes right foot told him he was very much 
alive. Slowly it came back. On hearing the explosion of the Crestliner, Tolland 
had let out a cry of anguished rage for his lost friend. Then, turning his ravaged 
eyes to Delta-Three, Tolland had arched as if preparing to ram the rod through 
Delta-Threes throat. But as he did, he seemed to hesitate, as if his own morality 
were holding him back. With brutal frustration and fury, Tolland yanked the rod 
away and drove his boot down on Delta-Threes tattered foot. 
The last thing Delta-Three remembered was vomiting in agony as his whole world 
drifted into a black delirium. Now he was coming to, with no idea how long he 
had been unconscious. He could feel his arms tied behind his back in a knot so 
tight it could only have been tied by a sailor. His legs were also bound, bent 
behind him and tied to his wrists, leaving him in an immobilized backward arch. 
He tried to call out, but no sound came. His mouth was stuffed with something. 
Delta-Three could not imagine what was going on. It was then he felt the cool 
breeze and saw the bright lights. He realized he was up on the Goyas main deck. 
He twisted to look for help and was met by a frightful sight, his own 
reflectionbulbous and misshapen in the reflective Plexiglas bubble of the 
Goyas deepwater submersible. The sub hung right in front of him, and Delta

Three realized he was lying on a giant trapdoor in the deck. This was not nearly as 
unsettling as the most obvious question. 
If Im on deckthen where is Delta-Two? 
Delta-Two had grown uneasy. 
Despite his partners CrypTalk transmission claiming he was fine, the single 
gunshot had not been that of a machine gun. Obviously, Tolland or Rachel Sexton 
had fired a weapon. Delta-Two moved over to peer down the ramp where his 
partner had descended, and he saw blood. 
Weapon raised, he had descended belowdecks, where he followed the trail of 
blood along a catwalk to the bow of the ship. Here, the trail of blood had led him 
back up another ramp to the main deck. It was deserted. With growing wariness, 
Delta-Two had followed the long crimson smear along the sideboard deck back 
toward the rear of the ship, where it passed the opening to the original ramp he had 
descended. 
What the hell is going on? The smear seemed to travel in a giant circle. 
Moving cautiously, his gun trained ahead of him, Delta-Two passed the entrance 
to the laboratory section of the ship. The smear continued toward the stern deck. 
Carefully he swung wide, rounding the corner. His eye traced the trail. 
Then he saw it. 
Jesus Christ! 
Delta-Three was lying therebound and gaggeddumped unceremoniously 
directly in front of the Goyas small submersible. Even from a distance, Delta- 
Two could see that his partner was missing a good portion of his right foot. 

Wary of a trap, Delta-Two raised his gun and moved forward. Delta-Three was 
writhing now, trying to speak. Ironically, the way the man had been boundwith 
his knees sharply bent behind himwas probably saving his life; the bleeding in 
his foot appeared to have slowed. 
As Delta-Two approached the submersible, he appreciated the rare luxury of being 
able to watch his own back; the entire deck of the ship was reflected in the subs 
rounded cockpit dome. Delta-Two arrived at his struggling partner. He saw the 
warning in his eyes too late. 
The flash of silver came out of nowhere. 
One of the Tritons manipulator claws suddenly leaped forward and clamped 
down on Delta-Twos left thigh with crushing force. He tried to pull away, but the 
claw bore down. He screamed in pain, feeling a bone break. His eyes shot to the 
subs cockpit. Peering through the reflection of the deck, Delta-Two could now 
see him, ensconced in the shadows of the Tritons interior. 
Michael Tolland was inside the sub, at the controls. 
Bad idea, Delta-Two seethed, blocking out his pain and shouldering his machine 
gun. He aimed up and to the left at Tollands chest, only three feet away on the 
other side of the subs Plexiglas dome. He pulled the trigger, and the gun roared. 
Wild with rage at having been tricked, Delta-Two held the trigger back until the 
last of his shells clattered to the deck and his gun clicked empty. Breathless, he 
dropped the weapon and glared at the shredded dome in front of him. 
Dead! the soldier hissed, straining to pull his leg from the clamp. As he twisted, 
the metal clamp severed his skin, opening a large gash. Fuck! He reached now 
for the CrypTalk on his belt. But as he raised it to his lips, a second robotic arm 
snapped open in front of him and lunged forward, clamping around his right arm. 
The CrypTalk fell to the deck. 
It was then that Delta-Two saw the ghost in the window before him. A pale visage 
leaning sideways and peering out through an unscathed edge of glass. Stunned, 

Delta-Two looked at the center of the dome and realized the bullets had not even 
come close to penetrating the thick shell. The dome was cratered with pockmarks. 
An instant later, the topside portal on the sub opened, and Michael Tolland 
emerged. He looked shaky but unscathed. Climbing down the aluminum gangway, 
Tolland stepped onto the deck and eyed his subs destroyed dome window. 
Ten thousand pounds per square inch, Tolland said. Looks like you need a 
bigger gun. 
Inside the hydrolab, Rachel knew time was running out. She had heard the 
gunshots out on the deck and was praying that everything had happened exactly as 
Tolland had planned. She no longer cared who was behind the meteorite 
deceptionthe NASA administrator, Marjorie Tench, or the President 
himselfnone of it mattered anymore. 
They will not get away with this. Whoever it is, the truth will be told. 
The wound on Rachels arm had stopped bleeding, and the adrenaline coursing 
through her body had muted the pain and sharpened her focus. Finding a pen and 
paper, she scrawled a two-line message. The words were blunt and awkward, but 
eloquence was not a luxury she had time for at the moment. She added the note to 
the incriminating stack of papers in her handthe GPR printout, images of 
Bathynomous giganteus, photos and articles regarding oceanic chondrules, an 
electron microscan printout. The meteorite was a fake, and this was the proof. 
Rachel inserted the entire stack into the hydrolabs fax machine. Knowing only a 
few fax numbers by heart, she had limited choices, but she had already made up 
her mind who would be receiving these pages and her note. Holding her breath, 
she carefully typed in the persons fax number. 
She pressed send, praying she had chosen the recipient wisely. 

The fax machine beeped. 
ERROR: NO DIAL TONE 
Rachel had expected this. The Goyas communications were still being jammed. 
She stood waiting and watching the machine, hoping it functioned like hers at 
home. 
Come on! 
After five seconds, the machine beeped again. 
REDIALING 
Yes! Rachel watched the machine lock into an endless loop. 
ERROR: NO DIAL TONE 
REDIALING 
ERROR: NO DIAL TONE 
REDIALING 
Leaving the fax machine in search of a dial tone, Rachel dashed out of the 
hydrolab just as helicopter blades thundered overhead. 
119 
One hundred and sixty miles away from the Goya, Gabrielle Ashe was staring at 
Senator Sextons computer screen in mute astonishment. Her suspicions had been 
right. 

But she had never imagined how right. 
She was looking at digital scans of dozens of bank checks written to Sexton from 
private space companies and deposited in numbered accounts in the Cayman 
Islands. The smallest check Gabrielle saw was for fifteen thousand dollars. Several 
were upward of half a million dollars. 
Small potatoes, Sexton had told her. All the donations are under the two-thousanddollar 
cap. 
Obviously Sexton had been lying all along. Gabrielle was looking at illegal 
campaign financing on an enormous scale. The pangs of betrayal and 
disillusionment settled hard now in her heart. He lied. 
She felt stupid. She felt dirty. But most of all she felt mad. 
Gabrielle sat alone in the darkness, realizing she had no idea what to do next. 
120 
Above the Goya, as the Kiowa banked over the stern deck, Delta-One gazed down, 
his eyes fixating on an utterly unexpected vision. 
Michael Tolland was standing on deck beside a small submersible. Dangling in the 
subs robotic arms, as if in the clutches of a giant insect, hung Delta-Two, 
struggling in vain to free himself from two enormous claws. 
What in the name of God!? 
Equally as shocking an image, Rachel Sexton had just arrived on deck, taking up a 

position over a bound and bleeding man at the foot of the submersible. The man 
could only be Delta-Three. Rachel held one of the Delta Forces machine guns on 
him and stared up at the chopper as if daring them to attack. 
Delta-One felt momentarily disoriented, unable to fathom how this possibly could 
have happened. The Delta Forces errors on the ice shelf earlier had been a rare 
but explainable occurrence. This, however, was unimaginable. 
Delta-Ones humiliation would have been excruciating enough under normal 
circumstances. But tonight his shame was magnified by the presence of another 
individual riding with him inside the chopper, a person whose presence here was 
highly unconventional. 
The controller. 
Following the Deltas kill at the FDR Memorial, the controller had ordered Delta- 
One to fly to a deserted public park not far from the White House. On the 
controllers command, Delta-One had set down on a grassy knoll among some 
trees just as the controller, having parked nearby, strode out of the darkness and 
boarded the Kiowa. They were all en route again in a matter of seconds. 
Although a controllers direct involvement in mission operations was rare, Delta- 
One could hardly complain. The controller, distressed by the way the Delta Force 
had handled the kills on the Milne Ice Shelf and fearing increasing suspicions and 
scrutiny from a number of parties, had informed Delta-One that the final phase of 
the operation would be overseen in person. 
Now the controller was riding shotgun, witnessing in person a failure the likes of 
which Delta-One had never endured. 
This must end. Now. 
The controller gazed down from the Kiowa at the deck of the Goya and wondered 

how this could possibly have happened. Nothing had gone properlythe 
suspicions about the meteorite, the failed Delta kills on the ice shelf, the necessity 
of the high-profile kill at the FDR. 
Controller, Delta-One stammered, his tone one of stunned disgrace as he looked 
at the situation on the deck of the Goya. I cannot imagine 
Nor can I, the controller thought. Their quarry had obviously been grossly 
underestimated. 
The controller looked down at Rachel Sexton, who stared up blankly at the 
choppers reflective windshield and raised a CrypTalk device to her mouth. When 
her synthesized voice crackled inside the Kiowa, the controller expected her to 
demand that the chopper back off or extinguish the jamming system so Tolland 
could call for help. But the words Rachel Sexton spoke were far more chilling. 
Youre too late, she said. Were not the only ones who know. 
The words echoed for a moment inside the chopper. Although the claim seemed 
far-fetched, the faintest possibility of truth gave the controller pause. The success 
of the entire project required the elimination of all those who knew the truth, and 
as bloody as the containment had turned out to be, the controller had to be certain 
this was the conclusion. 
Someone else knows 
Considering Rachel Sextons reputation for following strict protocol of classified 
data, the controller found it very hard to believe that she would have decided to 
share this with an outside source. 
Rachel was on the CrypTalk again. Back off and well spare your men. Come 
any closer and they die. Either way, the truth comes out. Cut your losses. Back 
off. 
Youre bluffing, the controller said, knowing the voice Rachel Sexton was 

hearing was an androgynous robotic tone. You have told no one. 
Are you ready to take that chance? Rachel fired back. I couldnt get through to 
William Pickering earlier, so I got spooked and took out some insurance. 
The controller frowned. It was plausible. 
Theyre not buying it, Rachel said, glancing at Tolland. 
The soldier in the claws gave a pained smirk. Your gun is empty, and the 
choppers going to blow you to hell. Youre both going to die. Your only hope is 
to let us go. 
Like hell, Rachel thought, trying to assess their next move. She looked at the 
bound and gagged man who lay at her feet directly in front of the sub. He looked 
delirious from loss of blood. She crouched beside him, looking into the mans hard 
eyes. Im going to take off your gag and hold the CrypTalk; youre going to 
convince the helicopter to back off. Is that clear? 
The man nodded earnestly. 
Rachel pulled out the mans gag. The soldier spat a wad of bloody saliva up into 
Rachels face. 
Bitch, he hissed, coughing. Im going to watch you die. Theyre going to kill 
you like a pig, and Im going to enjoy every minute. 
Rachel wiped the hot saliva from her face as she felt Tollands hands lifting her 
away, pulling her back, steadying her as he took her machine gun. She could feel 
in his trembling touch that something inside him had just snapped. Tolland walked 
to a control panel a few yards away, put his hand on a lever, and locked eyes with 
the man lying on the deck. 

Strike two, Tolland said. And on my ship, thats all you get. 
With a resolute rage, Tolland yanked down on the lever. A huge trapdoor in the 
deck beneath the Triton fell open like the floor of a gallows. The bound soldier 
gave a short howl of fear and then disappeared, plummeting through the hole. He 
fell thirty feet to the ocean below. The splash was crimson. The sharks were on 
him instantly. 
The controller shook with rage, looking down from the Kiowa at what was left of 
Delta-Threes body drifting out from under the boat on the strong current. The 
illuminated water was pink. Several fish fought over something that looked like an 
arm. 
Jesus Christ. 
The controller looked back at the deck. Delta-Two still hung in the Tritons claws, 
but now the sub was suspended over a gaping hole in the deck. His feet dangled 
over the void. All Tolland had to do was release the claws, and Delta-Two would 
be next. 
Okay, the controller barked into the CrypTalk. Hold on. Just hold on! 
Rachel stood below on the deck and stared up at the Kiowa. Even from this height 
the controller sensed the resolve in her eyes. Rachel raised the CrypTalk to her 
mouth. You still think were bluffing? she said. Call the main switchboard at 
the NRO. Ask for Jim Samiljan. Hes in P&A on the nightshift. I told him 
everything about the meteorite. He will confirm. 
Shes giving me a specific name? This did not bode well. Rachel Sexton was no 
fool, and this was a bluff the controller could check in a matter of seconds. 
Although the controller knew of no one at the NRO named Jim Samiljan, the 
organization was enormous. Rachel could quite possibly be telling the truth. 
Before ordering the final kill, the controller had to confirm if this was a bluffor 
not. 

Delta-One looked over his shoulder. You want me to deactivate the jammer so 
you can call and check it out? 
The controller peered down at Rachel and Tolland, both in plain view. If either of 
them made a move for a cellphone or radio, the controller knew Delta-One could 
always reactivate and cut them off. The risk was minimal. 
Kill the jammer, the controller said, pulling out a cellphone. Ill confirm 
Rachels lying. Then well find a way to get Delta-Two and end this. 
In Fairfax, the operator at the NROs central switchboard was getting impatient. 
As I just told you, I see no Jim Samiljan in the Plans and Analysis Division. 
The caller was insistent. Have you tried multiple spellings? Have you tried other 
departments? 
The operator had already checked, but she checked again. After several seconds, 
she said, Nowhere on staff do we have a Jim Samiljan. Under any spelling. 
The caller sounded oddly pleased by this. So you are certain the NRO employs 
no Jim Samil 
A sudden flurry of activity erupted on the line. Someone yelled. The caller cursed 
aloud and promptly hung up. 
Onboard the Kiowa, Delta-One was screaming with rage as he scrambled to 
reactivate the jamming system. He had made the realization too late. In the huge 
array of lighted controls in the cockpit, a tiny LED meter indicated that a 
SATCOM data signal was being transmitted from the Goya. But how? Nobody 
left the deck! Before Delta-One could engage the jammer, the connection from the 
Goya terminated on its own accord. 

Inside the hydrolab, the fax machine beeped contentedly. 
CARRIER FOUNDFAX SENT 
121 
Kill or be killed. Rachel had discovered a part of herself she never knew existed. 
Survival modea savage fortitude fueled by fear. 
What was in that outbound fax? the voice on the CrypTalk demanded. 
Rachel was relieved to hear confirmation that the fax had gone out as planned. 
Leave the area, she demanded, speaking into the CrypTalk and glaring up at the 
hovering chopper. Its over. Your secret is out. Rachel informed their attackers 
of all the information she had just sent. A half dozen pages of images and text. 
Incontrovertible evidence that the meteorite was a fake. Harming us will only 
make your situation worse. 
There was a heavy pause. Who did you send the fax to? 
Rachel had no intention of answering that question. She and Tolland needed to 
buy as much time as possible. They had positioned themselves near the opening in 
the deck, on a direct line with the Triton, making it impossible for the chopper to 
shoot without hitting the soldier dangling in the subs claws. 
William Pickering, the voice guessed, sounding oddly hopeful. You faxed 
Pickering. 
Wrong, Rachel thought. Pickering would have been her first choice, but she had 
been forced to choose someone else for fear her attackers had already eliminated 
Pickeringa move whose boldness would be a chilling testimony to her enemys 

resolve. In a moment of desperate decision, Rachel had faxed the data to the only 
other fax number she knew by heart. 
Her fathers office. 
Senator Sextons office fax number had been painfully engraved into Rachels 
memory after her mothers death when her father chose to work out many of the 
particulars of the estate without having to deal with Rachel in person. Rachel 
never imagined she would turn to her father in a time of need, but tonight the man 
possessed two critical qualitiesall the correct political motivations to release the 
meteorite data without hesitation, and enough clout to call the White House and 
blackmail them into calling off this kill squad. 
Although her father was most certainly not in the office at this hour, Rachel knew 
he kept his office locked like a vault. Rachel had, in effect, faxed the data into a 
time-lock safe. Even if the attackers knew where she had sent it, chances were 
slim they could get through the tight federal security at the Philip A. Hart Senate 
Office Building and break into a senators office without anyone noticing. 
Wherever you sent the fax, the voice from above said. Youve put that person 
in danger. 
Rachel knew she had to speak from a position of power regardless of the fear she 
was feeling. She motioned to the soldier trapped in the Tritons claws. His legs 
dangled over the abyss, dripping blood thirty feet to the ocean. The only person 
in danger here is your agent, she said into the CrypTalk. Its over. Back off. The 
data is gone. Youve lost. Leave the area, or this man dies. 
The voice on the CrypTalk fired back, Ms. Sexton, you do not understand the 
importance 
Understand? Rachel exploded. I understand that you killed innocent people! I 
understand that you lied about the meteorite! And I understand that you wont get 
away with this! Even if you kill us all, its over! 

There was a long pause. Finally the voice said, Im coming down. 
Rachel felt her muscles tighten. Coming down? 
I am unarmed, the voice said. Do not do anything rash. You and I need to talk 
face-to-face. 
Before Rachel could react, the chopper dropped onto the Goyas deck. The 
passenger door on the fuselage opened and a figure stepped out. He was a plainlooking 
man in a black coat and tie. For an instant, Rachels thoughts went totally 
blank. 
She was staring at William Pickering. 
William Pickering stood on the deck of the Goya and gazed with regret at Rachel 
Sexton. He had never imagined today would come to this. As he moved toward 
her, he could see the dangerous combination of emotions in his employees eyes. 
Shock, betrayal, confusion, rage. 
All understandable, he thought. There is so much she does not understand. 
For a moment, Pickering flashed on his daughter, Diana, wondering what 
emotions she had felt before she died. Both Diana and Rachel were casualties of 
the same war, a war Pickering had vowed to fight forever. Sometimes the 
casualties could be so cruel. 
Rachel, Pickering said. We can still work this out. Theres a lot I need to 
explain. 
Rachel Sexton looked aghast, nauseated almost. Tolland had the machine gun now 
and was aiming at Pickerings chest. He too looked bewildered. 

Stay back! Tolland yelled. 
Pickering stopped five yards away, focusing on Rachel. Your father is taking 
bribes, Rachel. Payoffs from private space companies. He plans to dismantle 
NASA and open space to the private sector. He had to be stopped, as a matter of 
national security. 
Rachels expression was blank. 
Pickering sighed. NASA, for all its flaws, must remain a government entity. 
Certainly she can understand the dangers. Privatization would send NASAs best 
minds and ideas flooding into the private sector. The brain trust would dissolve. 
The military would lose access. Private space companies looking to raise capital 
would start selling NASA patents and ideas to the highest bidders worldwide! 
Rachels voice was tremulous. You faked the meteorite and killed innocent 
peoplein the name of national security? 
It was never supposed to happen like this, Pickering said. The plan was to save 
an important government agency. Killing was not part of it. 
The meteorite deception, Pickering knew, like most intelligence proposals, had 
been the product of fear. Three years ago, in an effort to extend the NRO 
hydrophones into deeper water where they could not be touched by enemy 
saboteurs, Pickering spearheaded a program that utilized a newly developed 
NASA building material to secretly design an astonishingly durable submarine 
capable of carrying humans to the deepest regions of the oceanincluding the 
bottom of the Mariana Trench. 
Forged from a revolutionary ceramic, this two-man submarine was designed from 
blueprints hacked from the computer of a California engineer named Graham 
Hawkes, a genius sub designer whose life dream was to build an ultra-deepwater 
submersible he called Deep Flight II. Hawkes was having trouble finding funding 
to build a prototype. Pickering, on the other hand, had an unlimited budget. 

Using the classified ceramic submersible, Pickering sent a covert team underwater 
to affix new hydrophones to the walls of the Mariana Trench, deeper than any 
enemy could possibly look. In the process of drilling, however, they uncovered 
geologic structures unlike any that scientists had ever seen. The discoveries 
included chondrules and fossils of several unknown species. Of course, because 
the NROs ability to dive this deep was classified, none of the information could 
ever be shared. 
It was not until recently, driven yet again by fear, that Pickering and his quiet team 
of NRO science advisers had decided to put their knowledge of the Marianas 
unique geology to work to help save NASA. Turning a Mariana rock into a 
meteorite had proven to be a deceptively simple task. Using an ECE slushhydrogen 
engine, the NRO team charred the rock with a convincing fusion crust. 
Then, using a small payload sub, they had descended beneath the Milne Ice Shelf 
and inserted the charred rock up into the ice from beneath. Once the insertion shaft 
refroze, the rock looked like it had been there for over three hundred years. 
Unfortunately, as was often the case in the world of covert operations, the grandest 
of plans could be undone by the smallest of snags. Yesterday, the entire illusion 
had been shattered by a few bioluminescent plankton 
From the cockpit of the idling Kiowa, Delta-One watched the drama unfold before 
him. Rachel and Tolland appeared to be in clear control, although Delta-One 
almost had to laugh at the hollowness of the illusion. The machine gun in 
Tollands hands was worthless; even from here Delta-One could see the cocking 
bar assembly had kicked back, indicating the clip was empty. 
As Delta-One gazed out at his partner struggling in the Tritons claws, he knew he 
had to hurry. The focus on deck had turned completely to Pickering, and now 
Delta-One could make his move. Leaving the rotors idling, he slipped out of the 
rear of the fuselage and, using the chopper for cover, made his way unseen onto 
the starboard gangway. With his own machine gun in hand, he headed for the bow. 
Pickering had given him specific orders before they landed on deck, and Delta- 
One had no intention of failing at this simple task. 

In a matter of minutes, he knew, this will all be over. 
122 
Still wearing his bathrobe, Zach Herney sat at his desk in the Oval Office, his head 
throbbing. The newest piece of the puzzle had just been revealed. 
Marjorie Tench is dead. 
Herneys aides said they had information suggesting Tench had driven to the FDR 
Memorial for a private meeting with William Pickering. Now that Pickering was 
missing, the staff feared Pickering too might be dead. 
The President and Pickering had endured their battles lately. Months ago Herney 
learned that Pickering had engaged in illegal activity on Herneys behalf in an 
attempt to save Herneys floundering campaign. 
Employing NRO assets, Pickering had discreetly obtained enough dirt on Senator 
Sexton to sink his campaignscandalous sexual photos of the senator with his 
aide Gabrielle Ashe, incriminating financial records proving Sexton was taking 
bribes from private space companies. Pickering anonymously sent all the evidence 
to Marjorie Tench, assuming the White House would use it wisely. But Herney, 
upon seeing the data, had forbidden Tench to use it. Sex scandals and bribery were 
cancers in Washington, and waving another one in front of the public only added 
to their distrust of government. 
Cynicism is killing this country. 
Although Herney knew he could destroy Sexton with scandal, the cost would be 
besmirching the dignity of the U.S. Senate, something Herney refused to do. 

No more negatives. Herney would beat Senator Sexton on the issues. 
Pickering, angered by the White Houses refusal to use the evidence he had 
provided, tried to jump-start the scandal by leaking a rumor that Sexton had slept 
with Gabrielle Ashe. Unfortunately, Sexton declared his innocence with such 
convincing indignation that the President ended up having to apologize for the 
leak personally. In the end William Pickering had done more damage than good. 
Herney told Pickering that if he ever interfered in the campaign again, he would be 
indicted. The grand irony, of course, was that Pickering did not even like President 
Herney. The NRO directors attempts to help Herneys campaign were simply 
fears over the fate of NASA. Zach Herney was the lesser of two evils. 
Now has someone killed Pickering? 
Herney could not imagine. 
Mr. President? an aide said. As you requested, I called Lawrence Ekstrom and 
told him about Marjorie Tench. 
Thank you. 
He would like to speak to you, sir. 
Herney was still furious with Ekstrom for lying about PODS. Tell him Ill talk to 
him in the morning. 
Mr. Ekstrom wants to talk to you right away, sir. The aide looked uneasy. Hes 
very upset. 
HES upset? Herney could feel his temper fraying around the edges. As he stalked 
off to take Ekstroms call, the President wondered what the hell else could 
possibly go wrong tonight. 

123 
Onboard the Goya, Rachel felt lightheaded. The mystification that had settled 
around her like a heavy fog was lifting now. The stark reality that came into focus 
left her feeling naked and disgusted. She looked at the stranger before her and 
could barely hear his voice. 
We needed to rebuild NASAs image, Pickering was saying. Their declining 
popularity and funding had become dangerous on so many levels. Pickering 
paused, his gray eyes locking on hers. Rachel, NASA was desperate for a 
triumph. Someone had to make it happen. 
   
Something had to be done, Pickering thought. 
The meteorite had been a final act of desperation. Pickering and others had tried to 
save NASA by lobby-ing to incorporate the space agency into the intelligence 
community where it would enjoy increased funding and better security, but the 
White House continuously rebuffed the idea as an assault on pure science. 
Shortsighted idealism. With the rising popularity of Sextons anti-NASA rhetoric, 
Pickering and his band of military powerbrokers knew time was running short. 
They decided that capturing the imagination of taxpayers and Congress was the 
only remaining way to salvage NASAs image and save it from the auction block. 
If the space agency was to survive, it would need an infusion of 
grandeursomething to remind the taxpayers of NASAs Apollo glory days. And 
if Zach Herney was going to defeat Senator Sexton, he was going to need help. 
I tried to help him, Pickering told himself, recalling all the damaging evidence he 
had sent Marjorie Tench. Unfortunately, Herney had forbidden its use, leaving 
Pickering no choice but to take drastic measures. 

Rachel, Pickering said, the information you just faxed off this ship is 
dangerous. You must understand that. If it gets out, the White House and NASA 
will look complicit. The backlash against the President and NASA will be 
enormous. The President and NASA know nothing, Rachel. They are innocent. 
They believe the meteorite is authentic. 
Pickering had not even tried to bring Herney or Ekstrom into the fold because both 
were far too idealistic to have agreed to any deceit, regardless of its potential to 
save the presidency or space agency. Administrator Ekstroms only crime had 
been persuading the PODS mission supervisor to lie about the anomaly software, a 
move Ekstrom no doubt regretted the moment he realized how scrutinized this 
particular meteorite would become. 
Marjorie Tench, frustrated by Herneys insistence on fighting a clean campaign, 
conspired with Ekstrom on the PODS lie, hoping a small PODS success might 
help the President fend off the rising Sexton tide. 
If Tench had used the photos and bribery data I gave her, none of this would have 
happened! 
Tenchs murder, though deeply regrettable, had been destined as soon as Rachel 
called Tench and made accusations of fraud. Pickering knew Tench would 
investigate ruthlessly until she got to the bottom of Rachels motives for the 
outrageous claims, and this was one investigation Pickering obviously could never 
let happen. Ironically, Tench would serve her president best in death, her violent 
end helping cement a sympathy vote for the White House as well as cast vague 
suspicions of foul play on a desperate Sexton campaign which had been so 
publicly humiliated by Marjorie Tench on CNN. 
Rachel stood her ground, glaring at her boss. 
Understand, Pickering said, if news of this meteorite fraud gets out, you will 
destroy an innocent president and an innocent space agency. You will also put a 
very dangerous man in the Oval Office. I need to know where you faxed the data. 

As he spoke those words, a strange look came across Rachels face. It was the 
pained expression of horror of someone who had just realized they may have made 
a grave mistake. 
Having circled the bow and come back down the port side, Delta-One now stood 
in the hydrolab from which he had seen Rachel emerge as the chopper had flown 
in. A computer in the lab displayed an unsettling imagea polychromatic 
rendering of the pulsating, deepwater vortex that was apparently hovering over the 
ocean floor somewhere beneath the Goya. 
Another reason to get the hell out of here, he thought, moving now toward his 
target. 
The fax machine was on a counter on the far side of the wall. The tray was filled 
with a stack of papers, exactly as Pickering had guessed it would be. Delta-One 
picked up the stack. A note from Rachel was on top. Only two lines. He read it. 
To the point, he thought. 
As he flipped through the pages, he was both amazed and dismayed by the extent 
to which Tolland and Rachel had uncovered the meteorite deception. Whoever 
saw these printouts would have no doubt what they meant. Fortunately, Delta-One 
would not even need to hit redial to find out where the printouts had gone. The 
last fax number was still displayed in the LCD window. 
A Washington, D.C., prefix. 
He carefully copied the fax number down, grabbed all the papers, and exited the 
lab. 
Tollands hands felt sweaty on the machine gun as he gripped it, aiming the 

muzzle at William Pickerings chest. The NRO director was still pressuring 
Rachel to tell him where the data had been sent, and Tolland was starting to get 
the uneasy feeling that Pickering was simply trying to buy time. For what? 
The White House and NASA are innocent, Pickering repeated. Work with me. 
Dont let my mistakes destroy what little credibility NASA has left. NASA will 
look guilty if this gets out. You and I can come to an arrangement. The country 
needs this meteorite. Tell me where you faxed the data before its too late. 
So you can kill someone else? Rachel said. You make me sick. 
Tolland was amazed with Rachels fortitude. She despised her father, but she 
clearly had no intention of putting the senator in any danger whatsoever. 
Unfortunately, Rachels plan to fax her father for help had backfired. Even if the 
senator came into his office, saw the fax, and called the President with news of the 
meteorite fraud and told him to call off the attack, nobody at the White House 
would have any idea what Sexton was talking about, or even where they were. 
I will only say this one more time, Pickering said, fixing Rachel with a 
menacing glare. This situation is too complex for you to fully understand. Youve 
made an enormous mistake by sending that data off this ship. Youve put your 
country at risk. 
William Pickering was indeed buying time, Tolland now realized. And the reason 
was striding calmly toward them up the starboard side of the boat. Tolland felt a 
flash of fear when he saw the soldier sauntering toward them carrying a stack of 
papers and a machine gun. 
Tolland reacted with a decisiveness that shocked even himself. Gripping the 
machine gun, he wheeled, aimed at the soldier, and pulled the trigger. 
The gun made an innocuous click. 
I found the fax number, the soldier said, handing Pickering a slip of paper. And 
Mr. Tolland is out of ammunition. 

124 
Sedgewick Sexton stormed up the hallway of the PhilipA. Hart Senate Office 
Building. He had no idea how Gabrielle had done it, but she had obviously gotten 
into his office. While they were speaking on the phone, Sexton had clearly heard 
the distinctive triple-click of his Jourdain clock in the background. All he could 
imagine was that Gabrielles eavesdropping on the SFF meeting had undermined 
her trust in him and she had gone digging for evidence. 
How the hell did she get into my office! 
Sexton was glad hed changed his computer password. 
When he arrived at his private office, Sexton typed in his code to deactivate the 
alarm. Then he fumbled for his keys, unlocked the heavy doors, threw them open, 
and burst in, intent on catching Gabrielle in the act. 
But the office was empty and dark, lit only by the glow of his computer 
screensaver. He turned on the lights, his eyes scanning. Everything looked in 
place. Dead silence except for the triple-tick of his clock. 
Where the hell is she? 
He heard something rustle in his private bathroom and raced over, turning on the 
light. The bathroom was empty. He looked behind the door. Nothing. 
Puzzled, Sexton eyed himself in the mirror, wondering if hed had too much to 
drink tonight. I heard something. Feeling disoriented and confused, he walked 
back into his office. 

Gabrielle? he called out. He went down the hall to her office. She wasnt there. 
Her office was dark. 
A toilet flushed in the ladies room, and Sexton spun, striding now back in the 
direction of the restrooms. He arrived just as Gabrielle was exiting, drying her 
hands. She jumped when she saw him. 
My God! You scared me! she said, looking genuinely frightened. What are you 
doing here? 
You said you were getting NASA documents from your office, he declared, 
eyeing her empty hands. Where are they? 
I couldnt find them. I looked everywhere. Thats what took so long. 
He stared directly into her eyes. Were you in my office? 
I owe my life to his fax machine, Gabrielle thought. 
Only minutes ago shed been sitting at Sextons computer, trying to make 
printouts of the images of illegal checks on his computer. The files were protected 
somehow, and she was going to need more time to figure out how to print them. 
She would probably still be trying right now if Sextons fax machine had not rung, 
startling her and snapping her back to reality. Gabrielle took it as her cue to get 
out. Without taking time to see what the incoming fax was, she logged off 
Sextons computer, tidied up, and headed out the way she had come. She was just 
climbing out of Sextons bathroom when she heard him coming in. 
Now, with Sexton standing before her, staring down, she sensed him searching her 
eyes for a lie. Sedgewick Sexton could smell untruths like nobody Gabrielle had 
ever met. If she lied to him, Sexton would know. 
Youve been drinking, Gabrielle said, turning away. How does he know I was in 

his office? 
Sexton put his hands on her shoulders and spun her back around. Were you in my 
office? 
Gabrielle felt a rising fear. Sexton had indeed been drinking. His touch was rough. 
In your office? she demanded, forcing a confused laugh. How? Why? 
I heard my Jourdain in the background when I called you. 
Gabrielle cringed inwardly. His clock? It had not even occurred to her. Do you 
know how ridiculous that sounds? 
I spend all day in that office. I know what my clock sounds like. 
Gabrielle sensed she had to end this immediately. The best defense is a good 
offense. At least thats what Yolanda Cole always said. Placing her hands on her 
hips, Gabrielle went for him with all she had. She stepped toward him, getting in 
his face, glaring. Let me get this straight, senator. Its four oclock in the 
morning, youve been drinking, you heard a ticking on your phone, and thats why 
youre here? She pointed her finger indignantly down the hall at his door. Just 
for the record, are you accusing me of disarming a federal alarm system, picking 
two sets of locks, breaking into your office, being stupid enough to answer my 
cellphone while in the process of committing a felony, rearming the alarm system 
on my way out, and then calmly using the ladies room before I run off with 
nothing to show for it? Is that the story here? 
Sexton blinked, wide-eyed. 
Theres a reason people shouldnt drink alone, Gabrielle said. Now do you 
want to talk about NASA, or not? 
Sexton felt befuddled as he walked back into his office. He went straight to his 
wet bar and poured himself a Pepsi. He sure as hell didnt feel drunk. Could he 
really have been wrong about this? Across the room, his Jourdain ticked 

mockingly. Sexton drained his Pepsi and poured himself another, and one for 
Gabrielle. 
Drink, Gabrielle? he asked, turning back into the room. Gabrielle had not 
followed him in. She was still standing in the doorway, rubbing his nose in it. Oh, 
for Gods sake! Come in. Tell me what you found out at NASA. 
I think Ive had enough for tonight, she said, sounding distant. Lets talk 
tomorrow. 
Sexton was in no mood for games. He needed this information now, and he had no 
intention of begging for it. He heaved a tired sigh. Extend the bond of trust. Its all 
about trust. I screwed up, he said. Im sorry. Its been a hell of a day. I dont 
know what I was thinking. 
Gabrielle remained in the doorway. 
Sexton walked to his desk and set Gabrielles Pepsi down on his blotter. He 
motioned to his leather chairthe position of power. Have a seat. Enjoy a soda. 
Im going to go stick my head in the sink. He headed for the bathroom. 
Gabrielle still wasnt moving. 
I think I saw a fax in the machine, Sexton called over his shoulder as he entered 
the bathroom. S how her you trust her. Have a look at it for me, will you? 
Sexton closed the door and filled the sink with cold water. He splashed it on his 
face and felt no clearer. This had never happened to him beforebeing so sure, 
and being so wrong. Sexton was a man who trusted his instincts, and his instincts 
told him Gabrielle Ashe had been in his office. 
But how? It was impossible. 
Sexton told himself to forget about it and focus on the matter at hand. NASA. He 
needed Gabrielle right now. This was no time to alienate her. He needed to know 

what she knew. Forget your instincts. You were wrong. 
As Sexton dried his face, he threw his head back and took a deep breath. Relax, he 
told himself. Dont get punchy. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply again, 
feeling better. 
When Sexton exited the bathroom, he was relieved to see Gabrielle had 
acquiesced and come back into his office. Good, he thought. Now we can get to 
business. Gabrielle was standing at his fax machine flipping through whatever 
pages had come in. Sexton was confused, however, when he saw her face. It was a 
mask of disorientation and fear. 
What is it? Sexton said, moving toward her. 
Gabrielle teetered, as if she were about to pass out. 
What? 
The meteorite she choked, her voice frail as her trembling hand held the stack 
of fax papers out to him. And your daughtershes in danger. 
Bewildered, Sexton walked over, and took the fax pages from Gabrielle. The top 
sheet was a handwritten note. Sexton immediately recognized the writing. The 
communiqu was awkward and shocking in its simplicity. 
Meteorite is fake. Heres proof. NASA/ 
White House trying to kill me. Help!RS 
The senator seldom felt totally at a loss of understanding, but as he reread 
Rachels words, he had no idea what to make of them. 
The meteorite is a fake? NASA and the White House are trying to kill her? 
In a deepening haze, Sexton began sifting through the half dozen sheets. The first 
page was a computerized image whose heading read Ground Penetrating Radar 

(GPR). The picture appeared to be an ice-sounding of some sort. Sexton saw the 
extraction pit they had talked about on television. His eye was drawn to what 
looked like the faint outline of a body floating in the shaft. Then he saw something 
even more shockingthe clear outline of a second shaft directly beneath where 
the meteorite had beenas if the stone had been inserted from underneath the ice. 
What in the world? 
Flipping to the next page, Sexton came face-to-face with a photograph of some 
sort of living ocean species called a Bathynomous giganteus. He stared in utter 
amazement. Thats the animal from the meteorite fossils! 
Flipping faster now, he saw a graphic display depicting the ionized hydrogen 
content in the meteorites crust. This page had a handwritten scrawl on it: Slushhydrogen 
burn? NASA Expander Cycle Engine? 
Sexton could not believe his eyes. With the room starting to spin around him, he 
flipped to the final pagea photo of a rock containing metallic bubbles that 
looked exactly like those in the meteorite. Shockingly, the accompanying 
description said the rock was the product of oceanic volcanism. A rock from the 
ocean? Sexton wondered. But NASA said chondrules form only in space! 
Sexton set the sheets down on his desk and collapsed in his chair. It had taken him 
only fifteen seconds to piece together everything he was looking at. The 
implications of the images on the papers were crystal clear. Anyone with half a 
brain could see what these photos proved. 
The NASA meteorite is a fake! 
No day in Sextons career had been filled with such extreme highs and lows. 
Today had been a roller-coaster ride of hope and despair. Sextons bafflement over 
how this enormous scam could possibly have been pulled off evaporated into 
irrelevance when he realized what the scam meant for him politically. 
When I go public with this information, the presidency is mine! 

In his upwelling of celebration, Senator Sedgewick Sexton had momentarily 
forgotten his daughters claim that she was in trouble. 
Rachel is in danger, Gabrielle said. Her note says NASA and the White House 
are trying to 
Sextons fax machine suddenly began ringing again. Gabrielle wheeled and stared 
at the machine. Sexton found himself staring too. He could not imagine what else 
Rachel could be sending him. More proof? How much more could there be? This 
is plenty! 
When the fax machine answered the call, however, no pages came through. The 
machine, detecting no data signal, had switched to its answering machine feature. 
Hello, Sextons outbound message crackled. This is the office of Senator 
Sedgewick Sexton. If you are trying to send a fax, you may transmit at any time. If 
not, you may leave a message at the tone. 
Before Sexton could pick up, the machine beeped. 
Senator Sexton? The mans voice had a lucid rawness to it. This is William 
Pickering, director of the National Reconnaissance Office. Youre probably not in 
the office at this hour, but I need to speak immediately. He paused as if waiting 
for someone to pick up. 
Gabrielle reached to pick up the receiver. 
Sexton grabbed her hand and violently yanked it away. 
Gabrielle looked stunned. But thats the director of 
Senator, Pickering continued, sounding almost relieved that no one had picked 
up. Im afraid I am calling with some very troubling news. Ive just received 
word that your daughter Rachel is in extreme danger. I have a team trying to help 

her as we speak. I cannot talk in detail about the situation on the phone, but I was 
just informed she may have faxed you some data relating to the NASA meteorite. I 
have not seen the data, nor do I know what it is, but the people threatening your 
daughter have just warned me that if you or anyone goes public with the 
information, your daughter will die. Im sorry to be so blunt, sir; I do it for 
claritys sake. Your daughters life is being threatened. If she has indeed faxed you 
something, do not share it with anyone. Not yet. Your daughters life depends on 
it. Stay where you are. I will be there shortly. He paused. With luck, senator, all 
of this will be resolved by the time you wake up. If, by chance, you get this 
message before I arrive at your office, stay where you are and call no one. I am 
doing everything in my power to get your daughter back safely. 
Pickering hung up. 
Gabrielle was trembling. Rachel is a hostage? 
Sexton sensed that even in her disillusionment with him, Gabrielle felt a pained 
empathy to think of a bright young woman in danger. Oddly, Sexton was having 
trouble mustering the same emotions. Most of him felt like a child who had just 
been given his most wanted Christmas present, and he refused to let anyone yank 
it out of his hands. 
Pickering wants me to be quiet about this? 
He stood a moment, trying to decide what all of this meant. In a cold, calculating 
side of his mind, Sexton felt the machinery beginning to turna political 
computer, playing out every scenario and evaluating each outcome. He glanced at 
the stack of faxes in his hands and began to sense the raw power of the images. 
This NASA meteorite had shattered his dream of the presidency. But it was all a 
lie. A construct. Now, those who did this would pay. The meteorite that his 
enemies had created to destroy him would now make him powerful beyond 
anyones wildest imagination. His daughter had seen to that. 
There is only one acceptable outcome, he knew. Only one course of action for a 
true leader to take. 

Feeling hypnotized by the shining images of his own resurrection, Sexton was 
drifting through a fog as he crossed the room. He went to his copy machine and 
turned it on, preparing to copy the papers Rachel had faxed him. 
What are you doing? Gabrielle demanded, sounding bewildered. 
They wont kill Rachel, Sexton declared. Even if something went wrong, Sexton 
knew losing his daughter to the enemy would only make him more powerful still. 
Either way he would win. Acceptable risk. 
Who are those copies for? Gabrielle demanded. William Pickering said not to 
tell anyone! 
Sexton turned from the machine and looked at Gabrielle, amazed by how 
unattractive he suddenly found her. In that instant, Senator Sexton was an island. 
Untouchable. Everything he needed to accomplish his dreams was now in his 
hands. Nothing could stop him now. Not claims of bribery. Not rumors of sex. 
Nothing. 
Go home, Gabrielle. I have no more use for you. 
125 
Its over, Rachel thought. 
She and Tolland sat side by side on the deck staring up into the barrel of the Delta 
soldiers machine gun. Unfortunately, Pickering now knew where Rachel had sent 
the fax. The office of Senator Sedgewick Sexton. 
Rachel doubted her father would ever receive the phone message Pickering had 

just left him. Pickering could probably get to Sextons office well before anyone 
else this morning. If Pickering could get in, quietly remove the fax, and delete the 
phone message before Sexton arrived, there would be no need to harm the senator. 
William Pickering was probably one of the few people in Washington who could 
finagle entry to a U.S. senators office with no fanfare. Rachel was always amazed 
at what could be accomplished in the name of national security. 
Of course if that fails, Rachel thought, Pickering could just fly by and send a 
Hellfire missile through the window and blow up the fax machine. Something told 
her this would not be necessary. 
Sitting close to Tolland now, Rachel was surprised to feel his hand gently slip into 
hers. His touch had a tender strength, and their fingers intertwined so naturally that 
Rachel felt like theyd done this for a lifetime. All she wanted right now was to lie 
in his arms, sheltered from the oppressive roar of the night sea spiraling around 
them. 
Never, she realized. It was not to be. 
Michael Tolland felt like a man who had found hope on the way to the gallows. 
Life is mocking me. 
For years since Celias death, Tolland had endured nights when hed wanted to 
die, hours of pain and loneliness that seemed only escapable by ending it all. And 
yet he had chosen life, telling himself he could make it alone. Today, for the first 
time, Tolland had begun to understand what his friends had been telling him all 
along. 
Mike, you dont have to make it alone. Youll find another love. 
Rachels hand in his made this irony that much harder to swallow. Fate had cruel 
timing. He felt as if layers of armor were crumbling away from his heart. For an 

instant, on the tired decks of the Goya, Tolland sensed Celias ghost looking over 
him as she often did. Her voice was in the rushing waterspeaking the last words 
shed spoken to him in life. 
Youre a survivor, her voice whispered. Promise me youll find another love. 
Ill never want another, Tolland had told her. 
Celias smile was filled with wisdom. Youll have to learn. 
Now, on the deck of the Goya, Tolland realized, he was learning. A deep emotion 
welled suddenly in his soul. He realized it was happiness. 
And with it came an overpowering will to live. 
Pickering felt oddly detached as he moved toward the two prisoners. He stopped 
in front of Rachel, vaguely surprised that this was not harder for him. 
Sometimes, he said, circumstances raise impossible decisions. 
Rachels eyes were unyielding. You created these circumstances. 
War involves casualties, Pickering said, his voice firmer now. Ask Diana 
Pickering, or any of those who die every year defending this nation. You of all 
people should understand that, Rachel. His eyes focused in on her. Iactura 
paucourm serva multos. 
He could see she recognized the wordsalmost a clich in national security 
circles. Sacrifice the few to save the many. 
Rachel eyed him with obvious disgust. And now Michael and I have become part 
of your few? 

Pickering considered it. There was no other way. He turned to Delta-One. 
Release your partner and end this. 
Delta-One nodded. 
Pickering took a long last look at Rachel and then strode to the ships nearby 
portside railing, staring out at the sea racing by. This was something he preferred 
not to watch. 
Delta-One felt empowered as he gripped his weapon and glanced over at his 
partner dangling in the clamps. All that remained was to close the trapdoors 
beneath Delta-Twos feet, free him from the clamps, and eliminate Rachel Sexton 
and Michael Tolland. 
Unfortunately, Delta-One had seen the complexity of the control panel near the 
trapdoora series of unmarked levers and dials that apparently controlled the 
trapdoor, the winch motor, and numerous other commands. He had no intention of 
hitting the wrong lever and risking his partners life by mistakenly dropping the 
sub into the sea. 
Eliminate all risk. Never rush. 
He would force Tolland to perform the actual release. And to ensure he did not try 
anything tricky, Delta-One would take out insurance known in his business as 
biological collateral. 
Use your adversaries against one another. 
Delta-One swung the gun barrel directly into Rachels face, stopping only inches 
from her forehead. Rachel closed her eyes, and Delta-One could see Tollands fists 
clench in a protective anger. 
Ms. Sexton, stand up, Delta-One said. 

She did. 
With the gun firmly on her back, Delta-One marched her over to an aluminum set 
of portable stairs that led up to the top of the Triton sub from behind. Climb up 
and stand on top of the sub. 
Rachel looked frightened and confused. 
Just do it, Delta-One said. 
Rachel felt like she was moving through a nightmare as she climbed up the 
aluminum gangway behind the Triton. She stopped at the top, having no desire to 
step out over the chasm onto the suspended Triton. 
Get on top of the sub, the soldier said, returning to Tolland and pushing the gun 
against his head. 
In front of Rachel the soldier who was in the clamps watched her, shifting in pain, 
obviously eager to get out. Rachel looked at Tolland, who now had a gun barrel to 
his head. Get on top of the sub. She had no choice. 
Feeling like she was edging out onto a precipice overhanging a canyon, Rachel 
stepped onto the Tritons engine casing, a small flat section behind the rounded 
dome window. The entire sub hung like a massive plumb bob over the open 
trapdoor. Even suspended on its winch cable, the nine-ton sub barely registered 
her arrival, swinging only a few millimeters as she steadied herself. 
Okay, lets move, the soldier said to Tolland. Go to the controls and close the 
trapdoor. 
At gunpoint, Tolland began moving toward the control panel with the soldier 
behind him. As Tolland came toward her, he was moving slowly, and Rachel 

could feel his eyes fixing hard on her as if trying to send her a message. He looked 
directly at her and then down at the open hatch on top of the Triton. 
Rachel glanced down. The hatch at her feet was open, the heavy circular covering 
propped open. She could see down into the one-seater cockpit. He wants me to get 
in? Sensing she must be mistaken, Rachel looked at Tolland again. He was almost 
to the control panel. Tollands eyes locked on her. This time he was less subtle. 
His lips mouthed, Jump in! Now! 
Delta-One saw Rachels motion out of the corner of his eye and wheeled on 
instinct, opening fire as Rachel fell through the subs hatch just below the barrage 
of bullets. The open hatch covering rang out as the bullets ricocheted off the 
circular portal, sending up a shower of sparks, and slamming the lid closed on top 
of her. 
Tolland, the instant hed felt the gun leave his back, made his move. He dove to 
his left, away from the trapdoor, hitting the deck and rolling just as the soldier 
spun back toward him, gun blazing. Bullets exploded behind Tolland as he 
scrambled for cover behind the ships stern anchor spoolan enormous motorized 
cylinder around which was wound several thousand feet of steel cable connected 
to the ships anchor. 
Tolland had a plan and would have to act fast. As the soldier dashed toward him, 
Tolland reached up and grabbed the anchor lock with both hands, yanking down. 
Instantly the anchor spool began feeding out lengths of cable, and the Goya 
lurched in the strong current. The sudden movement sent everything and everyone 
on the deck staggering sidelong. As the boat accelerated in reverse on the current, 
the anchor spool doled out cable faster and faster. 
Come on, baby, Tolland urged. 
The soldier regained his balance and came for Tolland. Waiting until the last 

possible moment, Tolland braced himself and rammed the lever back up, locking 
the anchor spool. The chain snapped taut, stopping the ship short and sending a 
tremulous shudder throughout the Goya. Everything on deck went flying. The 
soldier staggered to his knees near Tolland. Pickering fell back from the railing 
onto the deck. The Triton swung wildly on its cable. 
A grating howl of failing metal tore up from beneath the ship like an earthquake as 
the damaged strut finally gave way. The right stern corner of the Goya began 
collapsing under its own weight. The ship faltered, tilting on a diagonal like a 
massive table losing one of its four legs. The noise from beneath was 
deafeninga wail of twisting, grating metal and pounding surf. 
White-knuckled inside the Triton cockpit, Rachel held on as the nine-ton machine 
swayed over the trapdoor in the now steeply inclined deck. Through the base of 
the glass dome she could see the ocean raging below. As she looked up, her eyes 
scanning the deck for Tolland, she watched a bizarre drama on the deck unfold in 
a matter of seconds. 
Only a yard away, trapped in the Tritons claws, the clamped Delta soldier was 
howling in pain as he bobbed like a puppet on a stick. William Pickering 
scrambled across Rachels field of vision and grabbed on to a cleat on the deck. 
Near the anchor lever, Tolland was also hanging on, trying not to slide over the 
edge into the water. When Rachel saw the soldier with the machine gun stabilizing 
himself nearby, she called out inside the sub. Mike, look out! 
But Delta-One ignored Tolland entirely. The soldier was looking back toward the 
idling helicopter with his mouth open in horror. Rachel turned, following his gaze. 
The Kiowa gunship, with its huge rotors still turning, had started to slowly slide 
forward down the tipping deck. Its long metal skids were acting like skis on a 
slope. It was then that Rachel realized the huge machine was skidding directly 
toward the Triton. 
Scrambling up the inclined deck toward the sliding aircraft, Delta-One clambered 

into the cockpit. He had no intention of letting their only means of escape slide off 
the deck. Delta-One seized the Kiowas controls and heaved back on the stick. Lift 
off! With a deafening roar, the blades accelerated overhead, straining to lift the 
heavily armed gunship off the deck. Up, goddamn it! The chopper was sliding 
directly toward the Triton and Delta-Two suspended in its grasp. 
With its nose tipped forward, the Kiowas blades were also tipped, and when the 
chopper lurched off the deck, it sailed more forward than up, accelerating toward 
the Triton like a giant buzz saw. Up! Delta-One pulled the stick, wishing he could 
drop the half ton of Hellfire warheads weighing him down. The blades just missed 
the top of Delta-Twos head and the top of the Triton sub, but the chopper was 
moving too fast. It would never clear the Tritons winch cable. 
As the Kiowas 300-rpm steel blades collided with the subs fifteen-ton capacity 
braided steel winch cable, the night erupted with the shriek of metal on metal. The 
sounds conjured images of epic battle. From the choppers armored cockpit, Delta- 
One watched his rotors tear into the subs cable like a giant lawn mower running 
over a steel chain. A blinding spray of sparks erupted overhead, and the Kiowas 
blades exploded. Delta-One felt the chopper bottom out, its struts hitting the deck 
hard. He tried to control the aircraft, but he had no lift. The chopper bounded 
twice down the inclined deck, then slid, crashing into the ships guardrail. 
For a moment, he thought the rail would hold. 
Then Delta-One heard the crack. The heavily laden chopper listed over the brink, 
plummeting into the sea. 
Inside the Triton, Rachel Sexton sat paralyzed, her body pressed back into the 
subs seat. The minisub had been tossed violently as the choppers rotor wrapped 
around the cable, but she had managed to hang on. Somehow the blades had 
missed the main body of the sub, but she knew there had to be major damage to 
the cable. All Rachel could think of at that point was escaping from the sub as fast 

as she could. The soldier trapped in the clamps stared in at her, delirious, bleeding, 
and burned from the shrapnel. Beyond him, Rachel saw William Pickering still 
holding on to a cleat on the slanting deck. 
Wheres Michael? She didnt see him. Her panic lasted only an instant as a new 
fear descended. Overhead, the Tritons shredded winch cable let out an ominous 
whipping noise as the braids unraveled. Then, there was a loud snap, and Rachel 
felt the cable give way. 
Momentarily weightless, Rachel hovered above her seat inside the cockpit as the 
sub hurtled downward. The deck disappeared overhead, and the catwalks under 
the Goya raced by. The soldier trapped in the claws went white with fear, staring 
at Rachel as the sub accelerated downward. 
The fall seemed endless. 
When the sub crashed into the sea beneath the Goya, it plunged hard under the 
surf, ramming Rachel down hard into her seat. Her spine compressed as the 
illuminated ocean raced up over the dome. She felt a suffocating drag as the sub 
slowed to a stop underwater and then raced back toward the surface, bobbing up 
like a cork. 
The sharks hit instantly. From her front-row seat, Rachel sat frozen in place as the 
spectacle unfolded only a few feet away. 
Delta-Two felt the sharks oblong head crash into him with unimaginable force. A 
razor sharp clamp tightened on his upper arm, slicing to the bone and locking on. 
A flash of white-hot pain exploded as the shark torqued its powerful body and 
shook its head violently, tearing Delta-Twos arm off his body. Others sharks 
moved in. Knives stabbing at his legs. Torso. Neck. Delta-Two had no breath to 
scream in agony as the sharks ripped huge chunks of his body away. The last thing 
he saw was a crescent-shaped mouth, tilting sideways, a gorge of teeth clamping 
down across his face. 

The world went black. 
Inside the Triton, the thudding of heavy cartilaginous heads ramming into the 
dome finally subsided. Rachel opened her eyes. The man was gone. The water 
washing against the window was crimson. 
Badly battered, Rachel huddled in her chair, knees pulled to her chest. She could 
feel the sub moving. It was drifting on the current, scraping along the length of the 
Goyas lower dive deck. She could feel it moving in another direction as well. 
Down. 
Outside, the distinctive gurgling of water into the ballast tanks grew louder. The 
ocean inched higher on the glass in front of her. 
Im sinking! 
A jolt of terror shot through Rachel, and she was suddenly scrambling to her feet. 
Reaching overhead, she grabbed the hatch mechanism. If she could climb up on 
top of the sub, she still had time to jump onto the Goyas dive deck. It was only a 
few feet away. 
Ive got to get out! 
The hatch mechanism was clearly marked which way to turn it to open. She 
heaved. The hatch did not budge. She tried again. Nothing. The portal was 
jammed shut. Bent. As the fear rose in her blood like the sea around her, Rachel 
heaved one last time. 
The hatch did not move. 
The Triton sank a few inches deeper, bumping the Goya one last time before 
drifting out from underneath the mangled hulland into the open sea. 

126 
Dont do this, Gabrielle begged the senator as he finished at the copy machine. 
Youre risking your daughters life! 
Sexton blocked out her voice, moving back to his desk now with ten identical 
stacks of photocopies. Each stack contained copies of the pages Rachel had faxed 
him, including her handwritten note claiming the meteorite was a fake and 
accusing NASA and the White House of trying to kill her. 
The most shocking media kits ever assembled, Sexton thought, as he began 
carefully inserting each stack into its own large, white linen envelope. Each 
envelope bore his name, office address, and senatorial seal. There would be no 
doubt where this incredible information had originated. The political scandal of 
the century, Sexton thought, and I will be the one to reveal it! 
Gabrielle was still pleading for Rachels safety, but Sexton heard only silence. As 
he assembled the envelopes, he was in his own private world. Every political 
career has a defining moment. This is mine. 
William Pickerings phone message had warned that if Sexton went public, 
Rachels life would be in danger. Unfortunately for Rachel, Sexton also knew if he 
went public with proof of NASAs fraud, that single act of boldness would land 
him in the White House with more decisiveness and political drama than ever 
before witnessed in American politics. 
Life is filled with difficult decisions, he thought. And winners are those who make 
them. 
Gabrielle Ashe had seen this look in Sextons eyes before. Blind ambition. She 

feared it. And with good reason, she now realized. Sexton was obviously prepared 
to risk his daughter in order to be the first to announce the NASA fraud. 
Dont you see youve already won? Gabrielle demanded. Theres no way Zach 
Herney and NASA will survive this scandal. No matter who makes it public! No 
matter when it comes out! Wait until you know Rachel is safe. Wait until you talk 
to Pickering! 
Sexton was clearly no longer listening to her. Opening his desk drawer, he pulled 
out a foil sheet on which were affixed dozens of nickel-sized, self-adhesive wax 
seals with his initials on them. Gabrielle knew he usually used these for formal 
invitations, but he apparently thought a crimson wax seal would give each 
envelope an extra touch of drama. Peeling the circular seals off the foil, Sexton 
pressed one onto the pleat of each envelope, sealing it like a monogrammed 
epistle. 
Gabrielles heart pulsed now with a new anger. She thought of the digitized 
images of illegal checks in his computer. If she said anything, she knew he would 
just delete the evidence. Dont do this, she said, or Ill go public about our 
affair. 
Sexton laughed out loud as he affixed the wax seals. Really? And you think 
theyll believe youa power-hungry aide denied a post in my administration and 
looking for revenge at any cost? I denied our involvement once, and the world 
believed me. Ill simply deny it again. 
The White House has photos, Gabrielle declared. 
Sexton did not even look up. They dont have photos. And even if they did, 
theyre meaningless. He affixed the final wax seal. I have immunity. These 
envelopes out-trump anything anyone could possibly throw at me. 
Gabrielle knew he was right. She felt utterly helpless as Sexton admired his 
handiwork. On his desk sat ten elegant, white linen envelopes, each embossed 
with his name and address and secured with a crimson wax seal bearing his 

scripted initials. They looked like royal letters. Certainly kings had been crowned 
on account of less potent information. 
Sexton picked up the envelopes and prepared to leave. Gabrielle stepped over and 
blocked his way. Youre making a mistake. This can wait. 
Sextons eyes bored into her. I made you, Gabrielle, and now Ive unmade you. 
That fax from Rachel will give you the presidency. You owe her. 
Ive given her plenty. 
What if something happens to her! 
Then shell cement my sympathy vote. 
Gabrielle could not believe the thought had even crossed his mind, much less his 
lips. Disgusted, she reached for the phone. Im calling the White 
Sexton spun and slapped her hard across the face. 
Gabrielle staggered back, feeling her lip split open. She caught herself, grabbing 
on to the desk, staring up in astonishment at the man she had once worshiped. 
Sexton gave her a long, hard look. If you so much as think of crossing me on this, 
I will make you regret it for the rest of your life. He stood unflinching, clutching 
the stack of sealed envelopes under his arm. A harsh danger burned in his eyes. 
When Gabrielle exited the office building into the cold night air, her lip was still 
bleeding. She hailed a taxi and climbed in. Then, for the first time since she had 
come to Washington, Gabrielle Ashe broke down and cried. 

127 
The Triton fell 
Michael Tolland staggered to his feet on the inclined deck and peered over the 
anchor spool at the frayed winch cable where the Triton used to hang. Wheeling 
toward the stern, he scanned the water. The Triton was just now emerging from 
under the Goya on the current. Relieved at least to see the sub intact, Tolland eyed 
the hatch, wanting nothing more than to see it open up and Rachel climb out 
unscathed. But the hatch remained closed. Tolland wondered if maybe she had 
been knocked out by the violent fall. 
Even from the deck, Tolland could see the Triton was riding exceptionally low in 
the waterfar below its normal diving trim waterline. Its sinking. Tolland could 
not imagine why, but the reason at the moment was immaterial. 
I have to get Rachel out. Now. 
As Tolland stood to dash for the edge of the deck, a shower of machine-gun fire 
exploded above him, sparking off the heavy anchor spool overhead. He dropped 
back to his knees. Shit! He peered around the spool only long enough to see 
Pickering on the upper deck, taking aim like a sniper. The Delta soldier had 
dropped his machine gun while climbing into the doomed helicopter and Pickering 
had apparently recovered it. Now the director had scrambled to the high ground. 
Trapped behind the spool, Tolland looked back toward the sinking Triton. Come 
on, Rachel! Get out! He waited for the hatch to open. Nothing. 
Looking back to the deck of the Goya, Tollands eyes measured the open area 
between his position and the stern railing. Twenty feet. A long way without any 
cover. 
Tolland took a deep breath and made up his mind. Ripping off his shirt, he hurled 
it to his right onto the open deck. While Pickering blew the shirt full of holes, 

Tolland dashed left, down the inclined deck, banking toward the stern. With a wild 
leap he launched himself over the railing, off the back of the ship. Arcing high in 
the air, Tolland heard the bullets whizzing all around him and knew a single graze 
would make him a shark feast the instant he hit the water. 
Rachel Sexton felt like a wild animal trapped in a cage. She had tried the hatch 
again and again with no luck. She could hear a tank somewhere beneath her filling 
with water, and she sensed the sub gaining weight. The darkness of the ocean was 
inching higher up the transparent dome, a black curtain rising in reverse. 
Through the lower half of the glass, Rachel could see the void of the ocean 
beckoning like a tomb. The empty vastness beneath threatened to swallow her 
whole. She grabbed the hatch mechanism and tried to twist it open one more time, 
but it wouldnt budge. Her lungs strained now, the dank stench of excess carbon 
dioxide acrid in her nostrils. Through it all, one recurring thought haunted her. 
Im going to die alone underwater. 
She scanned the Tritons control panels and levers for something that could help, 
but all the indicators were black. No power. She was locked in a dead steel crypt 
sinking toward the bottom of the sea. 
The gurgling in the tanks seemed to be accelerating now, and the ocean rose to 
within a few feet of the top of the glass. In the distance, across the endless flat 
expanse, a band of crimson was inching across the horizon. Morning was on its 
way. Rachel feared it would be the last light she ever saw. Closing her eyes to 
block out her impending fate, Rachel felt the terrifying childhood images rushing 
into her mind. 
Falling through the ice. Sliding underwater. 
Breathless. Unable to lift herself. Sinking. 

Her mother calling for her. Rachel! Rachel! 
A pounding on the outside of the sub jolted Rachel out of the delirium. Her eyes 
snapped open. 
Rachel! The voice was muffled. A ghostly face appeared against the glass, 
upside down, dark hair swirling. She could barely make him out in the darkness. 
Michael! 
Tolland surfaced, exhaling in relief to see Rachel moving inside the sub. Shes 
alive. Tolland swam with powerful strokes to the rear of the Triton and climbed up 
onto the submerged engine platform. The ocean currents felt hot and leaden 
around him as he positioned himself to grab the circular portal screw, staying low 
and hoping he was out of range of Pickerings gun. 
The Tritons hull was almost entirely underwater now, and Tolland knew if he 
were going to open the hatch and pull Rachel out, he would have to hurry. He had 
a ten-inch draw that was diminishing fast. Once the hatch was submerged, opening 
it would send a torrent of seawater gushing into the Triton, trapping Rachel inside 
and sending the sub into a free fall to the bottom. 
Now or never, he gasped as he grabbed the hatch wheel and heaved it 
counterclockwise. Nothing happened. He tried again, throwing all of his force into 
it. Again, the hatch refused to turn. 
He could hear Rachel inside, on the other side of the portal. Her voice was stifled, 
but he sensed her terror. I tried! she shouted. I couldnt turn it! 
The water was lapping across the portal lid now. Turn together! he shouted to 
her. Youre clockwise in there! He knew the dial was clearly marked. Okay, 
now! 

Tolland braced himself against the ballast air tanks and strained with all his 
energy. He could hear Rachel below him doing the same. The dial turned a half 
inch and ground to a dead stop. 
Now Tolland saw it. The portal lid was not set evenly in the aperture. Like the lid 
of a jar that had been placed on crooked and screwed down hard, it was stuck. 
Although the rubber seal was properly set, the hatch-dogs were bent, meaning the 
only way that door was opening was with a welding torch. 
As the top of the sub sank below the surface, Tolland was filled with a sudden, 
overwhelming dread. Rachel Sexton would not be escaping from the Triton. 
Two thousand feet below, the crumpled fuselage of the bomb-laden Kiowa 
chopper was sinking fast, a prisoner of gravity and the powerful drag of the 
deepwater vortex. Inside the cockpit, Delta-Ones lifeless body was no longer 
recognizable, disfigured by the crushing pressure of the deep. 
As the aircraft spiraled downward, its Hellfire missiles still attached, the glowing 
magma dome waited on the ocean floor like a red-hot landing pad. Beneath its 
three-meter-thick crust, a head of boiling lava simmered at a thousand degrees 
Celsius, a volcano waiting to explode. 
128 
Tolland stood knee-deep in water on the engine box of the sinking Triton and 
searched his brain for some way to save Rachel. 
Dont let the sub sink! 

He looked back toward the Goya, wondering if there were any way to get a winch 
connected to the Triton to keep it near the surface. Impossible. It was fifty yards 
away now, and Pickering was standing high on the bridge like a Roman emperor 
with a prime seat at some bloody Colosseum spectacle. 
Think! Tolland told himself. Why is the sub sinking? 
The mechanics of sub buoyancy were painfully simple: ballast tanks pumped full 
of either air or water adjusted the subs buoyancy to move it up or down in the 
water. 
Obviously, the ballast tanks were filling up. 
But they shouldnt be! 
Every subs ballast tanks were equipped with holes both topside and underneath. 
The lower openings, called flooding holes, always remained open, while the 
holes on top, vent valves, could be opened and closed to let air escape so water 
would flood in. 
Maybe the Tritons vent valves were open for some reason? Tolland could not 
imagine why. He floundered across the submerged engine platform, his hands 
groping one of the Tritons ballast trim tanks. The vent valves were closed. But as 
he felt the valves, his fingers found something else. 
Bullet holes. 
Shit! The Triton had been riddled with bullets when Rachel jumped in. Tolland 
immediately dove down and swam beneath the sub, running his hand carefully 
across the Tritons more important ballast tankthe negative tank. The Brits 
called this tank the down express. The Germans called it putting on lead 
shoes. Either way, the meaning was clear. The negative tank, when filled, took 
the sub down. 
As Tollands hand felt the sides of the tank, he encountered dozens of bullet holes. 

He could feel the water rushing in. The Triton was preparing to dive, whether 
Tolland liked it or not. 
The sub was now three feet beneath the surface. Moving to the bow, Tolland 
pressed his face against the glass and peered through the dome. Rachel was 
banging on the glass and shouting. The fear in her voice made him feel powerless. 
For an instant he was back in a cold hospital, watching the woman he loved die 
and knowing there was nothing he could do. Hovering underwater in front of the 
sinking sub, Tolland told himself he could not endure this again. Youre a 
survivor, Celia had told him, but Tolland did not want to survive alonenot 
again. 
Tollands lungs ached for air and yet he stayed right there with her. Every time 
Rachel pounded on the glass, Tolland heard air bubbles gurgling up and the sub 
sank deeper. Rachel was yelling something about water coming in around the 
window. 
The viewing window was leaking. 
A bullet hole in the window? It seemed doubtful. His lungs ready to burst, Tolland 
prepared to surface. As he palmed upward across the huge acrylic window, his 
fingers hit a piece of loose rubber caulking. A peripheral seal had apparently been 
jarred in the fall. This was the reason the cockpit was leaking. More bad news. 
Clambering to the surface, Tolland sucked in three deep breaths, trying to clear his 
thoughts. Water flowing into the cockpit would only accelerate the Tritons 
descent. The sub was already five feet underwater, and Tolland could barely touch 
it with his feet. He could feel Rachel pounding desperately on the hull. 
Tolland could think of only one thing to do. If he dove down to the Tritons engine 
box and located the high-pressure air cylinder, he could use it to blow the negative 
ballast tank. Although blowing the damaged tank would be an exercise in futility, 
it might keep the Triton near the surface for another minute or so before the 
perforated tanks flooded again. 

Then what? 
With no other immediate option, Tolland prepared to dive. Pulling in an 
exceptionally deep breath, he expanded his lungs well beyond their natural state, 
almost to the point of pain. More lung capacity. More oxygen. Longer dive. But as 
he felt his lungs expand, pressuring his rib cage, a strange thought hit him. 
What if he increased the pressure inside the sub? The viewing dome had a 
damaged seal. Maybe if Tolland could increase the pressure inside the cockpit, he 
could blow the entire viewing dome off the sub and get Rachel out. 
He exhaled his breath, treading water on the surface a moment, trying to picture 
the feasibility. It was perfectly logical, wasnt it? After all, a submarine was built 
to be strong in only one direction. They had to withstand enormous pressure from 
the outside, but almost none from within. 
Moreover, the Triton used uniform regulator valves to decrease the number of 
spare parts the Goya had to carry. Tolland could simply unsnap the high pressure 
cylinders charging hose and reroute it into an emergency ventilation supply 
regulator on the port side of the sub! Pressurizing the cabin would cause Rachel 
substantial physical pain, but it might just give her a way out. 
Tolland inhaled and dove. 
The sub was a good eight feet down now, and the currents and darkness made 
orienting himself difficult. Once he found the pressurized tank, Tolland quickly 
rerouted the hose and prepared to pump air into the cockpit. As he gripped the 
stopcock, the reflective yellow paint on the side of the tank reminded him just how 
dangerous this maneuver was: CAUTION: COMPRESSED AIR3,000 PSI. 
Three thousand pounds per square inch, Tolland thought. The hope was that the 
Tritons viewing dome would pop off the sub before the pressure in the cabin 
crushed Rachels lungs. Tolland was essentially sticking a high-powered fire hose 
into a water balloon and praying the balloon would break in a hurry. 

He grabbed the stopcock and made up his mind. Suspended there on the back of 
the sinking Triton, Tolland turned the stopcock, opening the valve. The hose went 
rigid immediately, and Tolland could hear the air flooding the cockpit with 
enormous force. 
Inside the Triton, Rachel felt a sudden searing pain slice into her head. She opened 
her mouth to scream, but the air forced itself into her lungs with such painful 
pressure that she thought her chest would explode. Her eyes felt like they were 
being rammed backward into her skull. A deafening rumble tore through her 
eardrums, pushing her toward unconsciousness. Instinctively, she clenched her 
eyes tight and pressed her hands over her ears. The pain was increasing now. 
Rachel heard a pounding directly in front of her. She forced her eyes open just 
long enough to see the watery silhouette of Michael Tolland in the darkness. His 
face was against the glass. He was motioning for her to do something. 
But what? 
She could barely see him in the darkness. Her vision was blurred, her eyeballs 
distorted from the pressure. Even so, she could tell the sub had sunk beyond the 
last flickering fingers of the Goyas underwater lights. Around her was only an 
endless inky abyss. 
Tolland spread himself against the window of the Triton and kept banging. His 
chest burned for air, and he knew he would have to return to the surface in a 
matter of seconds. 
Push on the glass! he willed her. He could hear pressurized air escaping around the 
glass, bubbling up. Somewhere, the seal was loose. Tollands hands groped for an 
edge, something to get his fingers under. Nothing. 

As his oxygen ran out, tunnel vision closed in, and he banged on the glass one last 
time. He could not even see her anymore. It was too dark. With the last of the air 
in his lungs, he yelled out underwater. 
Rachelpushontheglass! 
His words came out as a bubbling, muted garble. 
129 
Inside the Triton, Rachels head felt like it was being compressed in some kind of 
medieval torture vise. Half-standing, stooped beside the cockpit chair, she could 
feel death closing in around her. Directly in front of her, the hemispherical 
viewing dome was empty. Dark. The banging had stopped. 
Tolland was gone. He had left her. 
The hiss of pressurized air blasting in overhead reminded her of the deafening 
katabatic wind on Milne. The floor of the sub had a foot of water on it now. Let 
me out! Thousands of thoughts and memories began streaming through her mind 
like flashes of violet light. 
In the darkness, the sub began to list, and Rachel staggered, losing her balance. 
Stumbling over the seat, she fell forward, colliding hard with the inside of the 
hemispherical dome. A sharp pain erupted in her shoulder. She landed in a heap 
against the window, and as she did, she felt an unexpected sensationa sudden 
decrease in the pressure inside the sub. The tightened drum of Rachels ears 
loosened perceptibly, and she actually heard a gurgle of air escape the sub. 
It took her an instant to realize what had just happened. When shed fallen against 
the dome, her weight had somehow forced the bulbous sheet outward enough for 

some of the internal pressure to be released around a seal. Obviously, the dome 
glass was loose! Rachel suddenly realized what Tolland had been trying to do by 
increasing the pressure inside. 
Hes trying to blow out the window! 
Overhead, the Tritons pressure cylinder continued to pump. Even as she lay there, 
she felt the pressure increasing again. This time she almost welcomed it, although 
she felt the suffocating grip pushing her dangerously close to unconsciousness. 
Scrambling to her feet, Rachel pressed outward with all her force on the inside of 
the glass. 
This time, there was no gurgle. The glass barely moved. 
She threw her weight against the window again. Nothing. Her shoulder wound 
ached, and she looked down at it. The blood was dry. She prepared to try again, 
but she did not have time. Without warning, the crippled sub began to 
tipbackward. As its heavy engine box overcame the flooded trim tanks, the 
Triton rolled onto its back, sinking rear-first now. 
Rachel fell onto her back against the cockpits rear wall. Half submerged in 
sloshing water, she stared straight up at the leaking dome, hovering over her like a 
giant skylight. 
Outside was only nightand thousands of tons of ocean pressing down. 
Rachel willed herself to get up, but her body felt dead and heavy. Again her mind 
reeled backward in time to the icy grip of a frozen river. 
Fight, Rachel! her mother was shouting, reaching down to pull her out of the 
water. Grab on! 
Rachel closed her eyes. Im sinking. Her skates felt like lead weights, dragging her 
down. She could see her mother lying spread-eagle on the ice to disperse her own 
weight, reaching out. 

Kick, Rachel! Kick with your feet! 
Rachel kicked as best as she could. Her body rose slightly in the icy hole. A spark 
of hope. Her mother grabbed on. 
Yes! her mother shouted. Help me lift you! Kick with your feet! 
With her mother pulling from above, Rachel used the last of her energy to kick 
with her skates. It was just enough, and her mother dragged Rachel up to safety. 
She dragged the soaking Rachel all the way to the snowy bank before collapsing 
in tears. 
Now, inside the growing humidity and heat of the sub, Rachel opened her eyes to 
the blackness around her. She heard her mother whispering from the grave, her 
voice clear even here in the sinking Triton. 
Kick with your feet. 
Rachel looked up at the dome overhead. Mustering the last of her courage, Rachel 
clambered up onto the cockpit chair, which was oriented almost horizontally now, 
like a dental chair. Lying on her back, Rachel bent her knees, pulled her legs back 
as far as she could, aimed her feet upward, and exploded forward. With a wild 
scream of desperation and force, she drove her feet into the center of the acrylic 
dome. Spikes of pain shot into her shins, sending her brain reeling. Her ears 
thundered suddenly, and she felt the pressure equalize with a violent rush. The seal 
on the left side of the dome gave way, and the huge lens partially dislodged, 
swinging open like a barn door. 
A torrent of water crashed into the sub and drove Rachel back into her chair. The 
ocean thundered in around her, swirling up under her back, lifting her now off the 
chair, tossing her upside down like a sock in a washing machine. Rachel groped 
blindly for something to hold on to, but she was spinning wildly. As the cockpit 
filled, she could feel the sub begin a rapid free fall for the bottom. Her body 
rammed upward in the cockpit, and she felt herself pinned. A rush of bubbles 

erupted around her, twisting her, dragging her to the left and upward. A flap of 
hard acrylic smashed into her hip. 
All at once she was free. 
Twisting and tumbling into the endless warmth and watery blackness, Rachel felt 
her lungs already aching for air. Get to the surface! She looked for light but saw 
nothing. Her world looked the same in all directions. Blackness. No gravity. No 
sense of up or down. 
In that terrifying instant, Rachel realized she had no idea which way to swim. 
Thousands of feet beneath her, the sinking Kiowa chopper crumpled beneath the 
relentlessly increasing pressure. The fifteen high-explosive, antitank AGM-114 
Hellfire missiles still aboard strained against the compression, their copper liner 
cones and spring-detonation heads inching perilously inward. 
A hundred feet above the ocean floor, the powerful shaft of the megaplume 
grabbed the remains of the chopper and sucked it downward, hurling it against the 
red-hot crust of the magma dome. Like a box of matches igniting in series, the 
Hellfire missiles exploded, tearing a gaping hole through the top of the magma 
dome. 
Having surfaced for air, and then dove again in desperation, Michael Tolland was 
suspended fifteen feet underwater scanning the blackness when the Hellfire 
missiles exploded. The white flash billowed upward, illuminating an astonishing 
imagea freeze-frame he would remember forever. 
Rachel Sexton hung ten feet below him like a tangled marionette in the water. 
Beneath her, the Triton sub fell away fast, its dome hanging loose. The sharks in 
the area scattered for the open sea, clearly sensing the danger this area was about 

to unleash. 
Tollands exhilaration at seeing Rachel out of the sub was instantly vanquished by 
the realization of what was about to follow. Memorizing her position as the light 
disappeared, Tolland dove hard, clawing his way toward her. 
Thousands of feet down, the shattered crust of the magma dome exploded apart, 
and the underwater volcano erupted, spewing twelve-hundred-degree-Celsius 
magma up into the sea. The scorching lava vaporized all the water it touched, 
sending a massive pillar of steam rocketing toward the surface up the central axis 
of the megaplume. Driven by the same kinematic properties of fluid dynamics that 
powered tornadoes, the steams vertical transfer of energy was counterbalanced by 
an anticyclonic vorticity spiral that circled the shaft, carrying energy in the 
opposite direction. 
Spiraling around this column of rising gas, the ocean currents started intensifying, 
twisting downward. The fleeing steam created an enormous vacuum that sucked 
millions of gallons of seawater downward into contact with the magma. As the 
new water hit bottom, it too turned into steam and needed a way to escape, joining 
the growing column of exhaust steam and shooting upward, pulling more water in 
beneath it. As more water rushed in to take its place, the vortex intensified. The 
hydrothermal plume elongated, and the towering whirlpool grew stronger with 
every passing second, its upper rim moving steadily toward the surface. 
An oceanic black hole had just been born. 
Rachel felt like a child in a womb. Hot, wet darkness all engulfing her. Her 
thoughts were muddled in the inky warmth. Breathe. She fought the reflex. The 
flash of light she had seen could only have come from the surface, and yet it 
seemed so far away. An illusion. Get to the surface. Weakly, Rachel began 
swimming in the direction where she had seen the light. She saw more light 

nowan eerie red glow in the distance. Daylight? She swam harder. 
A hand caught her by the ankle. 
Rachel half-screamed underwater, almost exhaling the last of her air. 
The hand pulled her backward, twisting her, pointing her back in the opposite 
direction. Rachel felt a familiar hand grasp hers. Michael Tolland was there, 
pulling her along with him the other way. 
Rachels mind said he was taking her down. Her heart said he knew what he was 
doing. 
Kick with your feet, her mothers voice whispered. 
Rachel kicked as hard as she could. 
130 
Even as Tolland and Rachel broke the surface, he knew it was over. The magma 
dome erupted. As soon as the top of the vortex reached the surface, the giant 
underwater tornado would begin pulling everything down. Strangely, the world 
above the surface was not the quiet dawn he had left only moments ago. The noise 
was deafening. Wind slashed at him as if some kind of storm had hit while he was 
underwater. 
Tolland felt delirious from lack of oxygen. He tried to support Rachel in the water, 
but she was being pulled from his arms. The current! Tolland tried to hold on, but 
the invisible force pulled harder, threatening to tear her from him. Suddenly, his 
grip slipped, and Rachels body slid through his armsbut upward. 

Bewildered, Tolland watched Rachels body rise out of the water. 
Overhead, the Coast Guard Osprey tilt-rotor airplane hovered and winched Rachel 
in. Twenty minutes ago, the Coast Guard had gotten a report of an explosion out at 
sea. Having lost track of the Dolphin helicopter that was supposed to be in the 
area, they feared an accident. They typed the choppers last known coordinates 
into their navigation system and hoped for the best. 
About a half mile from the illuminated Goya, they saw a field of burning 
wreckage drifting on the current. It looked like a speedboat. Nearby, a man was in 
the water, waving his arms wildly. They winched him in. He was stark nakedall 
except for one leg, which was covered with duct tape. 
Exhausted, Tolland looked up at the underbelly of the thundering tilt-rotor 
airplane. Deafening gusts pounded down off its horizontal propellers. As Rachel 
rose on a cable, numerous sets of hands pulled her into the fuselage. As Tolland 
watched her dragged to safety, his eyes spotted a familiar man crouched halfnaked 
in the doorway. 
Corky? Tollands heart soared. Youre alive! 
Immediately, the harness fell from the sky again. It landed ten feet away. Tolland 
wanted to swim for it, but he could already feel the sucking sensation of the 
plume. The relentless grip of the sea wrapped around him, refusing to let go. 
The current pulled him under. He fought toward the surface, but the exhaustion 
was overwhelming. Youre a survivor, someone was saying. He kicked his legs, 
clawing toward the surface. When he broke through into the pounding wind, the 
harness was still out of reach. The current strained to drag him under. Looking up 
into the torrent of swirling wind and noise, Tolland saw Rachel. She was staring 
down, her eyes willing him up toward her. 
It took Tolland four powerful strokes to reach the harness. With his last ounce of 

strength, he slid his arm and head up into the loop and collapsed. 
All at once the ocean was falling away beneath him. 
Tolland looked down just as the gaping vortex opened. The megaplume had 
finally reached the surface. 
   
William Pickering stood on the bridge of the Goya and watched in dumbstruck 
awe as the spectacle unfolded all around him. Off the starboard of the Goyas 
stern, a huge basinlike depression was forming on the surface of the sea. The 
whirlpool was hundreds of yards across and expanding fast. The ocean spiraled 
into it, racing with an eerie smoothness over the lip. All around him now, a 
guttural moan reverberated out of the depths. Pickerings mind was blank as he 
watched the hole expanding toward him like the gaping mouth of some epic god 
hungry for sacrifice. 
Im dreaming, Pickering thought. 
Suddenly, with an explosive hiss that shattered the windows of the Goyas bridge, 
a towering plume of steam erupted skyward out of the vortex. A colossal geyser 
climbed overhead, thundering, its apex disappearing into the darkened sky. 
Instantly, the funnel walls steepened, the perimeter expanding faster now, chewing 
across the ocean toward him. The stern of the Goya swung hard toward the 
expanding cavity. Pickering lost his balance and fell to his knees. Like a child 
before God, he gazed downward into the growing abyss. 
His final thoughts were for his daughter, Diana. He prayed she had not known fear 
like this when she died. 
The concussion wave from the escaping steam hurled the Osprey sideways. 

Tolland and Rachel held each other as the pilots recovered, banking low over the 
doomed Goya. Looking out, they could see William Pickeringthe 
Quakerkneeling in his black coat and tie at the upper railing of the doomed ship. 
As the stern fishtailed out over the brink of the massive twister, the anchor cable 
finally snapped. With its bow proudly in the air, the Goya slipped backward over 
the watery ledge, sucked down the steep spiraling wall of water. Her lights were 
still glowing as she disappeared beneath the sea. 
131 
The Washington morning was clear and crisp. 
A breeze sent eddies of leaves skittering around the base of the Washington 
Monument. The worlds largest obelisk usually awoke to its own peaceful image 
in the reflecting pool, but today the morning brought with it a chaos of jostling 
reporters, all crowding around the monuments base in anticipation. 
Senator Sedgewick Sexton felt larger than Washington itself as he stepped from 
his limousine and strode like a lion toward the press area awaiting him at the base 
of the monument. He had invited the nations ten largest media networks here and 
promised them the scandal of the decade. 
Nothing brings out the vultures like the smell of death, Sexton thought. 
In his hand, Sexton clutched the stack of white linen envelopes, each elegantly 
wax-embossed with his monogrammed seal. If information was power, then 
Sexton was carrying a nuclear warhead. 
He felt intoxicated as he approached the podium, pleased to see his improvised 
stage included two fameframeslarge, free-standing partitions that flanked his 

podium like navy-blue curtainsan old Ronald Reagan trick to ensure he stood 
out against any backdrop. 
Sexton entered stage right, striding out from behind the partition like an actor out 
of the wings. The reporters quickly took their seats in the several rows of folding 
chairs facing his podium. To the east, the sun was just breaking over the Capitol 
dome, shooting rays of pink and gold down on Sexton like rays from heaven. 
A perfect day to become the most powerful man in the world. 
Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, Sexton said, laying the envelopes on the 
lectern before him. I will make this as short and painless as possible. The 
information I am about to share with you is, frankly, quite disturbing. These 
envelopes contain proof of a deceit at the highest levels of government. I am 
ashamed to say that the President called me half an hour ago and begged meyes, 
begged menot to go public with this evidence. He shook his head with dismay. 
And yet, I am a man who believes in the truth. No matter how painful. 
Sexton paused, holding up the envelopes, tempting the seated crowd. The 
reporters eyes followed the envelopes back and forth, a pack of dogs salivating 
over some unknown delicacy. 
The President had called Sexton a half hour ago and explained everything. Herney 
had talked to Rachel, who was safely aboard a plane somewhere. Incredibly, it 
seemed the White House and NASA were innocent bystanders in this fiasco, a plot 
masterminded by William Pickering. 
Not that it matters, Sexton thought. Zach Herney is still going down hard. 
Sexton wished he could be a fly on the wall of the White House right now to see 
the Presidents face when he realized Sexton was going public. Sexton had agreed 
to meet Herney at the White House right now to discuss how best to tell the nation 
the truth about the meteorite. Herney was probably standing in front of a television 
at this very moment in dumbfounded shock, realizing that there was nothing the 
White House could do to stop the hand of fate. 

My friends, Sexton said, letting his eyes connect with the crowd. I have 
weighed this heavily. I have considered honoring the Presidents desire to keep 
this data secret, but I must do what is in my heart. Sexton sighed, hanging his 
head like a man trapped by history. The truth is the truth. I will not presume to 
color your interpretation of these facts in any way. I will simply give you the data 
at face value. 
In the distance, Sexton heard the beating of huge helicopter rotors. For a moment, 
he wondered if maybe the President were flying over from the White House in a 
panic, hoping to halt the press conference. That would be the icing on the cake, 
Sexton thought mirthfully. How guilty would Herney appear THEN? 
I do not take pleasure in doing this, Sexton continued, sensing his timing was 
perfect. But I feel it is my duty to let the American people know they have been 
lied to. 
The aircraft thundered in, touching down on the esplanade to their right. When 
Sexton glanced over, he was surprised to see it was not the presidential helicopter 
after all, but rather a large Osprey tilt-rotor airplane. 
The fuselage read: UNITED STATES COAST GUARD. 
Baffled, Sexton watched as the cabin door opened and a woman emerged. She 
wore an orange Coast Guard parka and looked disheveled, like shed been through 
a war. She strode toward the press area. For a moment, Sexton didnt recognize 
her. Then it hit him. 
Rachel? He gaped in shock. What the hell is SHE doing here? 
A murmur of confusion went through the crowd. 
Pasting a broad smile on his face, Sexton turned back to the press and raised an 
apologetic finger. If you could give me just one minute? Im terribly sorry. He 
heaved the weary, good-natured sigh. Family first. 

A few of the reporters laughed. 
With his daughter bearing down fast from his right, Sexton had no doubt this 
father-daughter reunion would best be held in private. Unfortunately, privacy was 
scarce at the moment. Sextons eyes darted to the large partition on his right. 
Still smiling calmly, Sexton waved to his daughter and stepped away from the 
microphone. Moving toward her at an angle, he maneuvered such that Rachel had 
to pass behind the partition to get to him. Sexton met her halfway, hidden from the 
eyes and ears of the press. 
Honey? he said, smiling and opening his arms as Rachel came toward him. 
What a surprise! 
Rachel walked up and slapped his face. 
Alone with her father now, ensconced behind the partition, Rachel glared with 
loathing. She had slapped him hard, but he barely flinched. With chilling control, 
his phony smile melted away, mutating into an admonishing glower. 
His voice turned to a demonic whisper. You should not be here. 
Rachel saw wrath in his eyes and for the first time in her life felt unafraid. I 
turned to you for help, and you sold me out! I was almost killed! 
Youre obviously fine. His tone was almost disappointed. 
NASA is innocent! she said. The President told you that! What are you doing 
here? Rachels short flight to Washington aboard the Coast Guard Osprey had 
been punctuated by a flurry of phone calls between herself, the White House, her 
father, and even a distraught Gabrielle Ashe. You promised Zach Herney you 
were going to the White House! 

I am. He smirked. On election day. 
Rachel felt sickened to think this man was her father. What youre about to do is 
madness. 
Oh? Sexton chuckled. He turned and motioned behind him to the podium, which 
was visible at the end of the partition. On the podium, a stack of white envelopes 
sat waiting. Those envelopes contain information you sent me, Rachel. You. The 
Presidents blood is on your hands. 
I faxed you that information when I needed your help! When I thought the 
President and NASA were guilty! 
Considering the evidence, NASA certainly appears guilty. 
But they are not! They deserve a chance to admit their own mistakes. Youve 
already won this election. Zach Herney is finished! You know that. Let the man 
retain some dignity. 
Sexton groaned. So nave. Its not about winning the election, Rachel, its about 
power. Its about decisive victory, acts of greatness, crushing opposition, and controlling 
the forces in Washington so you can get something done. 
At what cost? 
Dont be so self-righteous. Im simply presenting the evidence. The people can 
draw their own conclusions as to who is guilty. 
You know how this will look. 
He shrugged. Maybe NASAs time has come. 
Senator Sexton sensed the press was getting restless beyond the partition, and he 
had no intention of standing here all morning and being lectured by his daughter. 
His moment of glory was waiting. 

Were through here, he said. I have a press conference to give. 
Im asking you as your daughter, Rachel pleaded. Dont do this. Think about 
what youre about to do. Theres a better way. 
Not for me. 
A howl of feedback echoed out of the PA system behind him, and Sexton wheeled 
to see a late-arriving female reporter, huddled over his podium, attempting to 
attach a network microphone to one of the goose-neck clips. 
Why cant these idiots arrive on time? Sexton fumed. 
In her haste, the reporter knocked Sextons stack of envelopes to the ground. 
Goddamn it! Sexton marched over, cursing his daughter for distracting him. When 
he arrived, the woman was on her hands and knees, collecting the envelopes off 
the ground. Sexton couldnt see her face, but she was obviously 
networkwearing a full-length cashmere coat, matching scarf, and low-slung 
mohair beret with an ABC press pass clipped to it. 
Stupid bitch, Sexton thought. Ill take those, he snapped, holding out his hand 
for the envelopes. 
The woman scraped up the last of the envelopes and handed them up to Sexton 
without looking up. Sorry, she muttered, obviously embarrassed. Hunkering 
low in shame, she scurried off into the crowd. 
Sexton quickly counted the envelopes. Ten. Good. Nobody was going to steal his 
thunder today. Regrouping, he adjusted the microphones and gave a joking smile 
to the crowd. I guess Id better hand these out before someone gets hurt! 
The crowd laughed, looking eager. 
Sexton sensed his daughter nearby, standing just off-stage behind the partition. 

Dont do this, Rachel said to him. Youll regret it. 
Sexton ignored her. 
Im asking you to trust me, Rachel said, her voice growing louder. Its a 
mistake. 
Sexton picked up his envelopes, straightening the edges. 
Dad, Rachel said, intense and pleading now. This is your last chance to do 
whats right. 
Do whats right? Sexton covered the microphone and turned as if clearing his 
throat. He glanced discreetly over at his daughter. Youre just like your 
motheridealistic and small. Women simply do not understand the true nature of 
power. 
Sedgewick Sexton had already forgotten his daughter by the time he turned back 
toward the jostling media. Head held high, he walked around the podium and 
handed the stack of envelopes into the hands of the waiting press. He watched the 
envelopes disseminate rapidly through the crowd. He could hear the seals being 
broken, the envelopes being torn apart like Christmas presents. 
A sudden hush came over the crowd. 
In the silence, Sexton could hear the defining moment of his career. 
The meteorite is a fraud. And I am the man who revealed it. 
Sexton knew it would take the press a moment to understand the true implications 
of what they were looking at: GPR images of an insertion shaft in the ice; a living 
ocean species almost identical to the NASA fossils; evidence of chondrules that 
formed on earth. It all led to one shocking conclusion. 

Sir? one reporter stammered, sounding stunned as he looked in his envelope. Is 
this for real? 
Sexton gave a somber sigh. Yes, Im afraid its very real indeed. 
Murmurs of confusion now spread through the crowd. 
Ill give everyone a moment to look through these pages, Sexton said, and then 
Ill take questions and attempt to shed some light on what youre looking at. 
Senator? another reporter asked, sounding utterly bewildered. Are these images 
authentic?Unretouched? 
One hundred percent, Sexton said, speaking more firmly now. I would not 
present the evidence to you otherwise. 
The confusion in the crowd seemed to deepen, and Sexton thought he even heard 
some laughternot at all the reaction he had expected. He was starting to fear he 
had overestimated the medias ability to connect the obvious dots. 
Um, senator? someone said, sounding oddly amused. For the record, you stand 
behind the authenticity of these images? 
Sexton was getting frustrated. My friends, I will say this one last time, the 
evidence in your hands is one-hundred-percent accurate. And if anyone can prove 
otherwise, Ill eat my hat! 
Sexton waited for the laugh, but it never came. 
Dead silence. Blank stares. 
The reporter who had just spoken walked toward Sexton, shuffling through his 
photocopies as he came forward. Youre right, senator. This is scandalous data. 
The reporter paused, scratching his head. So I guess were puzzled as to why 
youve decided to share it with us like this, especially after denying it so 

vehemently earlier. 
Sexton had no idea what the man was talking about. The reporter handed him the 
photocopies. Sexton looked at the pagesand for a moment, his mind went totally 
blank. 
No words came. 
He was staring at unfamiliar photographs. Black-and-white images. Two people. 
Naked. Arms and legs intertwined. For an instant, Sexton had no idea what he was 
looking at. Then it registered. A cannonball to the gut. 
In horror, Sextons head snapped up to the crowd. They were laughing now. Half 
of them were already phoning in the story to their news desks. 
Sexton felt a tap on his shoulder. 
In a daze, he wheeled. 
Rachel was standing there. We tried to stop you, she said. We gave you every 
chance. A woman stood beside her. 
Sexton was trembling as his eyes moved to the woman at Rachels side. She was 
the reporter in the cashmere coat and mohair beretthe woman who had knocked 
over his envelopes. Sexton saw her face, and his blood turned to ice. 
Gabrielles dark eyes seemed to bore right through him as she reached down and 
opened her coat to reveal a stack of white envelopes tucked neatly beneath her 
arm. 
132 

The Oval Office was dark, lit only by the soft glow of the brass lamp on President 
Herneys desk. Gabrielle Ashe held her chin high as she stood before the 
President. Outside the window behind him, dusk was gathering on the west lawn. 
I hear youre leaving us, Herney said, sounding disappointed. 
Gabrielle nodded. Although the President had graciously offered her indefinite 
sanctuary inside the White House away from the press, Gabrielle preferred not to 
ride out this particular storm by hiding out in the eye. She wanted to be as far 
away as possible. At least for a while. 
Herney gazed across his desk at her, looking impressed. The choice you made 
this morning, Gabrielle He paused, as if at a loss for words. His eyes were 
simple and clearnothing compared to the deep, enigmatic pools that had once 
drawn Gabrielle to Sedgewick Sexton. And yet, even in the backdrop of this 
powerful place, Gabrielle saw true kindness in his gaze, an honor and dignity she 
would not soon forget. 
I did it for me, too, Gabrielle finally said. 
Herney nodded. I owe you my thanks all the same. He stood, motioning for her 
to follow him into the hall. I was actually hoping youd stick around long enough 
that I could offer you a post on my budgeting staff. 
Gabrielle gave him a dubious look. Stop spending and start mending? 
He chuckled. Something like that. 
I think we both know, sir, that Im more of a liability to you at the moment than 
an asset. 
Herney shrugged. Give it a few months. It will all blow over. Plenty of great men 
and women have endured similar situations and gone on to greatness. He winked. 
A few of them were even U.S. presidents. 

Gabrielle knew he was right. Unemployed for only hours, Gabrielle had already 
turned down two other job offers todayone from Yolanda Cole at ABC, and the 
other from St. Martins Press, who had offered her an obscene advance if she 
would publish a tell-all biography. No thanks. 
As Gabrielle and the President moved down the hallway, Gabrielle thought of the 
pictures of herself that were now being splashed across televisions. 
The damage to the country could have been worse, she told herself. Much worse. 
Gabrielle, after going to ABC to retrieve the photos and borrow Yolanda Coles 
press pass, had snuck back to Sextons office to assemble the duplicate envelopes. 
While inside, she had also printed copies of the donation checks in Sextons 
computer. After the confrontation at the Washington Monument, Gabrielle had 
handed copies of the checks to the dumbstruck Senator Sexton and made her 
demands. Give the President a chance to announce his meteorite mistake, or the 
rest of this data goes public too. Senator Sexton took one look at the stack of 
financial evidence, locked himself in his limousine, and drove off. He had not 
been heard from since. 
Now, as the President and Gabrielle arrived at the backstage door of the Briefing 
Room, Gabrielle could hear the waiting throngs beyond. For the second time in 
twenty-four hours, the world was assembled to hear a special presidential 
broadcast. 
What are you going to tell them? Gabrielle asked. 
Herney sighed, his expression remarkably calm. Over the years, Ive learned one 
thing over and over He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled. Theres just no 
substitute for the truth. 
Gabrielle was filled with an unexpected pride as she watched him stride toward 
the stage. Zach Herney was on his way to admit the biggest mistake of his life, and 
oddly, he had never looked more presidential. 

133 
When Rachel awoke, the room was dark. 
A clock glowed 10:14 P.M. The bed was not her own. For several moments, she 
lay motionless, wondering where she was. Slowly, it all started coming backthe 
megaplumethis morning at the Washington Monumentthe Presidents 
invitation to stay at the White House. 
Im at the White House, Rachel realized. I slept here all day. 
The Coast Guard chopper, at the Presidents command, had transported an 
exhausted Michael Tolland, Corky Marlinson, and Rachel Sexton from the 
Washington Monument to the White House, where they had been fed a sumptuous 
breakfast, been seen to by doctors, and been offered any of the buildings fourteen 
bedrooms in which to recuperate. 
All of them had accepted. 
Rachel could not believe she had slept this long. Turning on the television, she 
was stunned to see that President Herney had already completed his press 
conference. Rachel and the others had offered to stand beside him when he 
announced the meteorite disappointment to the world. We all made the mistake 
together. But Herney had insisted on shouldering the burden alone. 
Sadly, one political analyst on TV was saying, it seems NASA has discovered 
no signs of life from space after all. This marks the second time this decade that 
NASA has incorrectly classified a meteorite as showing signs of extraterrestrial 
life. This time, however, a number of highly respected civilians were also among 
those fooled. 

Normally, a second analyst chimed in, I would have to say that a deception of 
the magnitude the President described this evening would be devastating for his 
careerand yet, considering the developments this morning at the Washington 
Monument, I would have to say Zach Herneys chances of taking the presidency 
look better than ever. 
The first analyst nodded. So, no life in space, but no life in Senator Sextons 
campaign either. And now, as new information surfaces suggesting deep financial 
troubles plaguing the senator 
A knock on the door drew Rachels attention. 
Michael, she hoped, quickly turning off the television. She hadnt seen him since 
breakfast. On their arrival at the White House, Rachel had wanted nothing more 
than to fall asleep in his arms. Although she could tell Michael felt the same, 
Corky had intervened, parking himself on Tollands bed and exuberantly telling 
and retelling his story about urinating on himself and saving the day. Finally, 
utterly exhausted, Rachel and Tolland had given up, heading for separate 
bedrooms to sleep. 
Now, walking toward the door, Rachel checked herself in the mirror, amused to 
see how ridiculously she was dressed. All she had found to wear to bed was an old 
Penn State football jersey in the dresser. It draped down to her knees like a 
nightshirt. 
The knocking continued. 
Rachel opened the door, disappointed to see a female U.S. Secret Service agent. 
She was fit and cute, wearing a blue blazer. Ms. Sexton, the gentleman in the 
Lincoln Bedroom heard your television. He asked me to tell you that as long as 
youre already awake She paused, arching her eyebrows, clearly no stranger to 
night games on the upper floors of the White House. 
Rachel blushed, her skin tingling. Thanks. 

The agent led Rachel down the impeccably appointed hallway to a plain-looking 
doorway nearby. 
The Lincoln Bedroom, the agent said. And as I am always supposed to say 
outside this door, Sleep well, and beware of ghosts. 
Rachel nodded. The legends of ghosts in the Lincoln Bedroom were as old as the 
White House itself. It was said that Winston Churchill had seen Lincolns ghost 
here, as had countless others, including Eleanor Roosevelt, Amy Carter, actor 
Richard Dreyfuss, and decades of maids and butlers. President Reagans dog was 
said to bark outside this door for hours at a time. 
The thoughts of historical spirits suddenly made Rachel realize what a sacred 
place this room was. She felt suddenly embarrassed, standing there in her long 
football jersey, bare-legged, like some college coed sneaking into a boys room. 
Is this kosher? she whispered to the agent. I mean this is the Lincoln 
Bedroom. 
The agent winked. Our policy on this floor is Dont ask, dont tell. 
Rachel smiled. Thanks. She reached for the door-knob, already feeling the 
anticipation of what lay beyond. 
Rachel! The nasal voice carried down the hallway like a buzz saw. 
Rachel and the agent turned. Corky Marlinson was hobbling toward them on 
crutches, his leg now professionally bandaged. I couldnt sleep either! 
Rachel slumped, sensing her romantic tryst about to disintegrate. 
Corkys eyes inspected the cute Secret Service agent. He flashed her a broad 
smile. I love women in uniform. 
The agent pulled aside her blazer to reveal a lethal-looking sidearm. 

Corky backed off. Point taken. He turned to Rachel. Is Mike awake, too? You 
going in? Corky looked eager to join the party. 
Rachel groaned. Actually, Corky 
Dr. Marlinson, the Secret Service agent intervened, pulling a note from her 
blazer. According to this note, which was given to me by Mr. Tolland, I have 
explicit orders to escort you down to the kitchen, have our chef make you anything 
you want, and ask you to explain to me in vivid detail how you saved yourself 
from certain death by the agent hesitated, grimacing as she read the note again. 
by urinating on yourself? 
Apparently, the agent had said the magic words. Corky dropped his crutches on 
the spot and put an arm around the womans shoulders for support, and said, To 
the kitchen, love! 
As the indisposed agent helped Corky hobble off down the hall, Rachel had no 
doubt Corky Marlinson was in heaven. The urine is the key, she heard him 
saying, because those damned telencephalon olfactory lobes can smell 
everything! 
The Lincoln Bedroom was dark when Rachel entered. She was surprised to see the 
bed empty and untouched. Michael Tolland was nowhere to be seen. 
An antique oil lamp burned near the bed, and in the soft radiance, she could barely 
make out the Brussels carpetthe famous carved rosewood bedthe portrait of 
Lincolns wife, Mary Toddeven the desk where Lincoln signed the 
Emancipation Proclamation. 
As Rachel closed the door behind her, she felt a clammy draft on her bare legs. 
Where is he? Across the room, a window was open, the white organza curtains 
billowing. She walked over to close the window, and an eerie whisper murmured 
from the closet. 

Maaaarrrrrrrry 
Rachel wheeled. 
Maaaaaarrrrrrrry? the voice whispered again. Is that you?Mary Todd 
Liiiiiincoln? 
Rachel quickly closed the window and turned back toward the closet. Her heart 
was racing, although she knew it was foolish. Mike, I know thats you. 
Noooooo the voice continued. I am not MikeI amAaaaabe. 
Rachel put her hands on her hips. Oh, really? Honest Abe? 
A muffled laugh. Moderately honest Abeyes. 
Rachel was laughing now too. 
Be afraaaaaaid, the voice from the closet moaned. Be veeeeeery afraid. 
Im not afraid. 
Please be afraid the voice moaned. In the human species, the emotions of 
fear and sexual arousal are closely linked. 
Rachel burst out laughing. Is this your idea of a turn-on? 
Forgiiiive me the voice moaned. Its been yeeeeeeears since Ive been with a 
woman. 
Evidently, Rachel said, yanking the door open. 
Michael Tolland stood before her with his roguish, lopsided grin. He looked 
irresistible wearing a pair of navy blue satin pajamas. Rachel did a double take 
when she saw the presidential seal emblazoned on his chest. 

Presidential pajamas? 
He shrugged. They were in the drawer. 
And all I had was this football jersey? 
You should have chosen the Lincoln Bedroom. 
You should have offered! 
I heard the mattress was bad. Antique horsehair. Tolland winked, motioning to a 
gift-wrapped package on a marble-topped table. Thisll make it up to you. 
Rachel was touched. For me? 
I had one of the presidential aides go out and find this for you. Just arrived. Dont 
shake it. 
She carefully opened the package, extracting the heavy contents. Inside was a 
large crystal bowl in which were swimming two ugly orange goldfish. Rachel 
stared in confused disappointment. Youre joking, right? 
Helostoma temmincki, Tolland said proudly. 
You bought me fish? 
Rare Chinese kissing fish. Very romantic. 
Fish are not romantic, Mike. 
Tell that to these guys. Theyll kiss for hours. 
Is this supposed to be another turn-on? 
Im rusty on the romance. Can you grade me on effort? 

For future reference, Mike, fish are definitely not a turn-on. Try flowers. 
Tolland pulled a bouquet of white lilies from behind his back. I tried for red 
roses, he said, but I almost got shot sneaking into the Rose Garden. 
As Tolland pulled Rachels body against his and inhaled the soft fragrance of her 
hair, he felt years of quiet isolation dissolving inside him. He kissed her deeply, 
feeling her body rise against him. The white lilies fell to their feet, and barriers 
Tolland had never known hed built were suddenly melting away. 
The ghosts are gone. 
He felt Rachel inching him toward the bed now, her whisper soft in his ear. You 
dont really think fish are romantic, do you? 
I do, he said, kissing her again. You should see the jellyfish mating ritual. 
Incredibly erotic. 
Rachel maneuvered him onto his back on the horsehair mattress, easing her 
slender body down on top of his. 
And seahorses, Tolland said, breathless as he savored her touch through the 
thin satin of his pajamas. Seahorses performan unbelievably sensual dance of 
love. 
Enough fish talk, she whispered, unbuttoning his pajamas. What can you tell 
me about the mating rituals of advanced primates? 
Tolland sighed. Im afraid I dont really do primates. 
Rachel shed her football jersey. Well, nature boy, I suggest you learn fast. 

Epilogue 
The NASA transport jet banked high over the Atlantic. 
Onboard, Administrator Lawrence Ekstrom took a last look at the huge charred 
rock in the cargo hold. Back to the sea, he thought. Where they found you. 
On Ekstroms command, the pilot opened the cargo doors and released the rock. 
They watched as the mammoth stone plummeted downward behind the plane, 
arcing across the sunlit ocean sky and disappearing beneath the waves in a pillar 
of silver spray. 
The giant stone sank fast. 
Underwater, at three hundred feet, barely enough light remained to reveal its 
tumbling silhouette. Passing five hundred feet, the rock plunged into total 
darkness. 
Racing down. 
Deeper. 
It fell for almost twelve minutes. 
Then, like a meteorite striking the dark side of the moon, the rock crashed into a 
vast plain of mud on the ocean floor, kicking up a cloud of silt. As the dust settled, 
one of the oceans thousands of unknown species swam over to inspect the odd newcomer. Unimpressed, the creature moved on. 
