Don't 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 Yolanda's expression conveyed little surprise or concern-until 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, that's your business. But I'm telling you, it's a very bad move for you. You need to think long and hard about what it could mean for you."
"You're not listening. I don't 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. It's suicide. I'm 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. You'll be a marked woman. A lot of people spend a lot of money to put candidates at the top. There's big finances and power at stake here-the kind of power people kill for."
Gabrielle fell silent now.
"Personally," Yolanda said, "I think Tench was leaning on you in hopes you'd panic and do something dumb-like bail out and confess to the affair." Yolanda pointed to the red envelope in Gabrielle's hands. "Those shots of you and Sexton don't mean squat unless you or Sexton admit they're accurate. The White House knows if they leak those photos, Sexton will just claim they're phony and throw them back in the president's face."
"I thought of that, but still the campaign finance bribery issue is-"
"Honey, think about it. If the White House hasn't gone public yet with bribery allegations, they probably don't 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, what's 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-"
Yolanda's laughter shook the entire glass cubicle. "Oh please! Wait! You're killing me!"
Gabrielle was in no mood for joking. "What!"
"Gabs, listen," Yolanda managed, between laughs, "trust me on this. I've been dealing with the White House for sixteen years, and there's 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. That's the kind of information you leak. Presidents don't 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 that's what he is doing?" Yolanda's 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 Sexton's meeting was perfectly legal."
"He's breaking the law," Gabrielle said. Isn't he?
"Or so Marjorie Tench would have you believe. Candidates accept behind-the-scenes donations all the time from big corporations. It may not be pretty, but it's 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 you've called their bluff. If I were looking for someone to trust, I think I'd stick with Sexton before jumping ship to someone like Marjorie Tench."
Yolanda's phone rang. She answered, nodding, uh-huh-ing, taking notes. "Interesting," she finally said. "I'll be right there. Thanks."
Yolanda hung up and turned with an arched brow. "Gabs, sounds like you're off the hook. Just as I predicted."
"What's going on?"
"I don't have a specific yet, but I can tell you this much-the president's 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 he's 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 last-ditch 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, I've got work to do. My advice to you-get yourself a cup of coffee, sit right here, turn on my television, and ride this out like the rest of us. We've got twenty minutes until show time, and I'm telling you, there is no way the President is going Dumpster-diving tonight. He's 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 don't do something idiotic."
Reluctantly, Gabrielle handed over the envelope.
Yolanda locked the photos carefully in a desk drawer and pocketed the keys. "You'll thank me, Gabs. I swear it." She playfully ruffled Gabrielle's 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 Yolanda's 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.
It's 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! I'm burning!
Instinctively, she again fought to escape, and again she was rebuffed, the strong hands clamping down. "Stay where you are," a man's 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.
"I'm burning!" Rachel's scream was a whisper.
"You're 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 Corky… where 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 Rachel's 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. Everywhere-stabbing-sharper and sharper. Millions of tiny needle-point 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 Tolland's 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. We're alive.
"Where… are we?" Rachel managed, the simple act of trying to speak bringing on a crashing headache.
The man massaging her replied, "You're 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. "I'm Rachel Sexton."
The man looked puzzled. He stepped closer, studying her more carefully. "I'll 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. "You've gisted a number of this ship's 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. "Let's get your body temperature back, and then I'll put you in contact with the NRO director."
"It's 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. "Is… is that clock right?"
"You're on a navy vessel, ma'am. Our clocks are accurate."
"And is that… Eastern time?"
"7:51 P.M. Eastern Standard. We're out of Norfolk."
My God! she thought, stunned. It's only 7:51 P.M.? Rachel had the impression hours had passed since she passed out. It was not even past eight o'clock? 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 don't 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 he's 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 can't get you a secure connection to the White House in that short a time. All I could offer is a radiophone. Unsecured. And we'd 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. She'd tried to patch the call through to the Oval Office, but the President was already en route to the press conference. She'd 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 House's 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.
"What's the holdup?" Tolland pressed. "It's 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. I'm 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 Shelf-drilling, jet noise, lots of encrypted radio traffic. They had been redirected and told to lie quietly and listen. An hour or so ago, they'd heard an explosion in the ice shelf and moved in to check it out. That was when they heard Rachel's 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 hadn't 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 adviser's long face grimaced down in disapproval. "What's going on?"
"I have an emergency!" The operator was breathless. "… phone call for the President."
Tench looked incredulous. "Not now, you don't!"
"It's from Rachel Sexton. She says it's urgent."
The scowl that darkened Tench's face appeared to be more one of puzzlement than anger. Tench eyed the cordless phone. "That's a house line. That's not secure."
"No, ma'am. But the incoming call is open anyway. She's on a radiophone. She needs to speak to the President right away."
"Live in ninety seconds!"