Chapter Three
Look who's coming to dinner
Arlington, Virginia
Riding in the same G.S.A, four-door Plymouth sedan, Armstead tried to strike up a conversation with his traveling companion, "Have you been to Berlin before, Mister Doan?"
"Yes," he answered as they both surveyed the Pentagon, a half-mile distance to the left on their way to Washington National Airport.
Mason nonplussed, still strove to be friendly, "Massive, isn't it? Did you know there are two subterranean levels and a series of interconnecting tunnels to adjacent buildings? It's the largest office building in the world, square footage-wise.
"Yes, I am familiar with the layout."
Another curt reply. Armstead had become annoyed at the agent's rudeness, but tried again, "Since we'll be rather close for the next day or two, may I use your first name?"
"Yes."
He waited, the escort offered nothing more.
"What is your first name, Mister Doan? The Director didn't tell me."
"Wayne."
"Mine is Mason."
"I know."
Armstead concluded it was pointless to continue and decided the man is a frozen dud or in a heck-of-a bad mood. "Maybe he'll be better later. So, it looks like I'll have a good chance to finish the book I've been reading on and off for the last month."
The driver stopped in the Air France embarking zone and deposited Mason's suitcase. A porter checked it in after reviewing their tickets. Doan carried his own overnight bag. There was the normal departure crowd entering the terminal and about a dozen exiting people walking quickly against the flow - toward them from inside: several flights had recently landed and there was a rush for ground transportation with many trying not having to wait in the long debarking line for taxi's.
Mason was passing through the right-side swinging glass door when a departing passenger, obviously in a major hurry scurried to Armstead's side and tried to squeeze in behind him. The quarters were too close and the traveller accidentally bumped the courier hard, which knocked both of them off balance. The fellow's shoulder inadvertently slammed the door shut leaving Wayne on the other side trying to push inward, and even worse - the businessman's foot had wedged and prevented the door from opening. As Mason staggered, the harried commuter reached out to steady him and then all hell broke loose. In a flash, Doan with a gun in one hand waved frantically with his other. From a nearby inside waiting area another agent wearing a vintage trench coat literally came flying through the air and tackled the passenger chest high, slamming his head against the glass door's frame. Wayne, now joined by a third agent, forced the door ajar and pushed the dazed businessman and grappling second agent backwards. The pair burst inside. Doan swung and cracked his gun barrel over the head of the commuter who crumpled to his knees and fell on his side. The inside NSC man wrestled him over and jabbed a pistol under his jawbone as two more agents who appeared from nowhere stood guard with guns raised as they visually searched the crowd for additional assailants. Doan whipped out his cell phone with his free hand and pressed a single number, "We have an incident at the Washington National, Air France terminal entrance." The semiconscious, glassy-eyed passenger was dragged from the walkway, handcuffed and pushed face down with his nose shoved between the floor and lobby wall-crack. Doan positioned himself between Armstead and the gawking spectators to await a transport crew.
Two airport security patrolmen arrived on a dead run at the same instant as a black Chrysler SUV squealed to a stop. Wayne identified himself to the local guards as four black-clad newcomers from the vehicle rushed inside to snatch the bleeding man and hustle him to the car into which he was tossed like a sack of potatoes. Next, as fast as an Indy pit crew, the same four transporters piled in and roared away with their tires smoking. The startled airport guards were more than happy to let the government handle the problem and moved on to establish calm and order amongst the terminal transients.
Another man also wearing shades, not a government agent, was studying the encounter from the Information Desk a hundred feet away. After the commotion died down he sauntered over to a flight schedule TV monitor and took a position behind a gentleman pretending to read it. "Who was that, Victor? Is someone else after the document?"
"I don't know, Ted; he's certainly not one of ours." Victor had assessed the NSC's manpower, "This severely complicates the operation; we'll have to alter our strategy. Call our Paris operatives and instruct them to implement Plan C."
"Paris? Plan C as in Charlie?" verifying the instructions. "Vic, are you certain?" Ted checked over his shoulder and stepped next to his associate.
"I know what you're thinking," as he returned his imploring stare. "We have no other options now, Ted. The French airport will be even more protected by the addition of Interpol. I'm sorry."
Ted separated from his group leader and shuffled wearily to the public pay phones as he shouldered the heavy burden of the fateful change in plans. He fingered the small, specially-made briefcase key in his pocket they weren't now able to use and inserted his credit card into the slot, "Operator, connect me with Paris, please." Head bowed, he sighed as he reviewed the situation. "Are we sinking to their level? Must we resort to the unthinkable?"
Ten minutes later, Armstead and Doan were settling into their first-class, Air France Star Chaser seats - his bodyguard took the aisle for security. Mason, still disturbed by the way the terminal incident was handled said, "I appreciate your efforts and respect your position, Mister Doan but don't you think this was an overreaction? Excessive use of force? The brutish behavior displayed is the kind of antics I would associate with old KGB thugs."
Doan's hackles rose. His professionalism had been challenged. He roared back, "I know my job! I'm the responsible party here, not you and I'll take whatever action I deem necessary. And for your edification, Mister Armstead there's not a lot of difference between any world security agency and our own organizations in handling vital, national matters. Security is a never-ending battle."
An uncomfortable silence ensued; Mason knew in his heart, Doan was correct. "Sorry, I didn't mean to ruffle your feathers, sir. I've never been in a position like that before. I apologize; I have no right or foundation to question your judgment."
The veteran secret agent, somewhat mollified, tapped his fingers on the armrest and composed himself. "Very well, you're excused. I'll attribute it to your lack of training and experience. Apparently, you and I have started off on the wrong foot and perhaps I've been a bit too short... an annoying tendency of mine when on assignment with an unseasoned... person. I expected a very different type of courier when I was selected for such a critical task. Oh, and before I forget, in regard to the alleged assailant, the agency will smooth it out if he's innocent. Trust me."
"I'll take your word on that... and I thank you, Wayne. I hope the man is physically all right if it turns out to be just a mix-up." Mason felt better regarding the unsettling fracas and changed the subject, "Am I correct in thinking our flying to Paris instead of direct to Berlin is some more of this cloak and dagger routine? Or, please don't tell me someone in the Travel Arrangements Department got a deal on a Air and Rail package to save the State Department twenty bucks."
"I have no idea," Doan lied, "but I wouldn't be surprised."
Satisfied that a truce had been established, the courier's attention turned to the aircraft support vehicles retreating to their respective terminal garages. They left behind a cordon of soldiers with machine guns standing guard until the jet taxied out. His brow creased in concern, then pulled down the plastic window shade and began aimless fidgeting.
"Afraid of flying?" queried the escort.
"Heights. I had a disturbing experience as a child. Take-offs and landings unsettle me. Once I'm high enough in the clouds and can't see the ground, I'm alright. Silly, huh?"
No response. Wayne was busy scrutinizing the passenger manifest he obtained at check-in and wasn't interested in the least about Armstead's person
al hang-ups, only the mission.
As the aircraft began to move away from the terminal, Mason closed his eyes and his memory flashed back to a boyhood day on the Empire State building's observation deck during a summer sightseeing vacation with his parents. He was warily peeking over the safety rail at the tiny cars and ant-sized people below when a freak, violent gust of wind blasted the mammoth skyscraper - swaying it thirty foot out of line. Scores of articles: hats, sunglasses and paper items were instantly blown away. Even the migrating birds roosting in the radio antennae superstructure were dislodged, flung and spun awkwardly in free fall, creating a shower of dancing, fluttering feathers. The startled, ruffled, squawking pigeons plummeted two stories before recovering safely to lower levels by using their long graceful glides. On the other side of the deck an elderly Courtesy Attendant leaving the inside snack bar lost her footing, grabbed a door frame, stumbled into the observation area and was struck on the shoulder by a falling egg, thereby generating many unladylike profanities describing avian genealogy.
As for me, the wind's raw power lifted my lightweight, tiptoeing body cleanly up onto the railing - leaving me balanced on my stomach. I expected - no, knew for certain, that the next blast was going to pry lose my small fingers and send me somersaulting over the side. Too terrified to call out, fearing the slightest movement would send me plunging, I stared down the narrowing side wall at the sharp ledges of layered building sections. My fear magnified; I visualized plummeting down, down, down in slow motion, striking each protruding edge, ripping my skin off on the telescoping walls, spinning head over heels - all the while remaining fully conscious so as to feel the searing pain and the ultimate impact transforming my young body into an unrecognizable bloody pulp on the sidewalk. In the blink of an eye, my Dad's strong hand shot out and jerked me back by seat of my pants from a threshold of hideous death - to safety. Bewildered and weak-kneed from my narrow escape, I felt too shocked to even shed tears.
All of this happened within ten seconds, but it felt as if time had stood still. My parents with their loving concern downplayed the episode in hope I wouldn't suffer emotional trauma or problems later. I put on the brave face for them, holding within any display of anxiety - striving to be 'a man'. But inside the boy, the fear remained and developed into my present fairly well-controlled acrophobia.
Returning to present matters, Mason thought to himself, "I enjoy my job and I feel privileged. Fortunately, and knock on wood, I've never been forced to ride in a helicopter. I don't think I could do it. I'd be a basket case!"
Doan's interruption of Mason's morose remembrance was timely, "You have no idea of what you're carrying do you?"
"No, I assume all my deliverances are confidential and of the utmost importance. If not, they would send via another mode," answered the courier.
"Yes, that's logical. I don't know what the contents are either, but I have been alerted an interception attempt is possible. Apparently our intelligence is accurate. That's another reason for the harsh reaction in the terminal; we had a security net where we anticipated a probable attack."
"Interception? An attack?"
"Yes, that's the term we use for a hit and run on a target. The briefcase is the target."
Mason ingenuous, returned, "It's locked on my wrist and you're here. It can't be stolen."
His escort smiled, shook his head in amused wonder and handed him a blanket, "Here, wear this over your arm even when you go to the restroom. It'll draw less attention."
Armstead reflected to himself, "The restroom? That part shouldn't be necessary; my digestive system is so efficient I only go to the bathroom once a month." Later I learned the physiological why and wherefore reasons.
Doan continued, "We shouldn't have a problem on this plane but after we arrive in Paris...," as he shrugged his shoulders.
Mason jiggled the handcuffs.
"Very well, Mister Armstead since you persist," responded the bodyguard. "You are so naive it's almost humorous. That steel bracelet you're dangling in my face will slow down a professional snatch team all of about fifteen seconds, no more. They'll have either our custom-made handcuff key to unlock it, heavy bolt cutters for the chain or the worst case scenario, a cable cutter."
"A cable cutter?"
Wayne, exasperated by the ceaseless prodding, spat out, "Yes! It's a tool they slip around your wrist, then Chop your hand off! Are you happy now?"
"Oh," as Mason reflexively rubbed his wrist.
Two hundred and fifty miles above the Earth aboard the International space station
"Yuri, come see this," beckoned Grigori to his fellow cosmonaut. "Hurry!"
Yuri, the senior officer (a Russian Air Force colonel) and mission Commander, pushed off a grey metal bulkhead and floated from his instrument panel to the Operating Systems Engineer's observation cubicle. He scanned his comrade's electronic indicators, "What's wrong?"
"Not the instruments, the telescope!" Grigori pointed to the form-fitted, eyeglasses-shaped protruding tube, "Look in there, quick!"
The team leader, instantly concerned about the possibility of a piece of space flotsam striking the platform and causing a skin breach, inserted his face in the viewing cone and searched the immediate area around the space station. "Is an object drifting into us? I don't see anything; give me a vector." He criticized Captain Grigori's choice of equipment, "This is a long range surveillance instrument; it is not practical for inspecting the perimeter. You should be using a deck periscope for clarity."
"I know! I know!" his excited comrade returned. "Not the immediate area, the moon. Look at the moon!"
Yuri pulled his head back, adjusted the focus and nestled his face again into the soft padding, "Very well, now what am I looking for?"
The engineer could hardly contain himself, "Locate and observe the tiny black dots in front of the Sea of Tranquility."
Yuri concentrated on that area and quickly discerned them, "Yes, I see the dots; there are three. Are those what you are referring to?"
"Da, da, the three!" Grigori bubbled. "Those dots are all flying in our direction - toward the Earth!"
"Impossible!" asserted the commander. "There are no rockets or satellites on the far side of us and a meteor shower cannot slide around the moon into a tangent directed toward Earth. The moon's gravitational field would pull the asteroids into itself or spin them off at acute angles." The senior officer made a mental note to begin an evaluation of Girgori's fitness. "Has the prolonged weightlessness affected his sight or reasoning?" he considered.
"Watch them closely."
Yuri did as requested and in a few moments he confirmed the engineer's assessment. "Amazing, they are headed toward us. I'd better call Konstantin to join us for additional confirmation."
"It will be too late. As soon as they lose the moon's silhouette, we won't be able to see them."
"Can you aim a platform camera at them?"
"Not in time. The controls are on level one."
The unidentified flying objects passed beyond the moon's chalky background into the infinite blackness. Having lost visual contact, Yuri hit the intercom, "Konstantin!"
The third and last crew member bolted upright in his seat, "Da, Commander?"
"Perform a radar sweep thirty degrees off starboard immediately."
"Yes, Colonel. Any particular target, sir?"
"Da, there are three asteroids headed earthward from the moon at an incredible rate of speed."
Grigori gave a rough estimate, "They must be travelling almost 1,000 kps (kilometers per second)."
The leader rebuked him again, "Don't be ridiculous! We must be at an odd angle, not even Halley's comet travels that fast, comrade." The Colonel punched in his I.D. code into the Earth-Comm network panel to check his hourly status messages: there was no mention of random asteroids. "I don't recall any earlier bulletins forecasting meteor activity for this sector, do you?"
"Nyet," answered Grigori.
"I'll contact Roskosmos (the Russian Space Agenc
y) for an update and alert them to the asteroids. Stay in contact with Konstantin," ordered the station commander as he pushed toward the transom ladder leading to the lower deck and the central communications room. I'll return in a few minutes. Check if he's located them yet."
The OSE signaled the lower deck, "Konstantin, what is your progress?"
The junior member was busy setting switches to activate the station's outside port and bow dishes. He surmised, "Another readiness drill... and a waste of time. This surly must be some kind of proficiency test; there can't be anything incoming from moonside!" Four green 'ready' lights flickered on. He punched in the coordinates, swept the quadrant with both detectors and quickly located the speeding objects. The Telemetry Technician (an enlisted man) made a few adjustments enabling the dishes to form a radar vector cross-point. His voice was in awe. "Sirs, I have located the UFO's in vector A-12! I am locked and tracking." His computer calculated and displayed the flight data on its video display terminal screen and stored the data in a disk file. "They are large for asteroids, very large - eight hundred meters in diameter and... That's odd; they are perfectly spaced at one hundred kilometers (65 mi.) apart. And wait, even stranger, they're flying in a parallel formation... a straight horizontal line! What an unbelievable coincidence."
"Speed?"
Konstantin read the printout and muttered to himself, "This can not be correct. 92.64 thousand kps?"
"Speed, Konstantin?" repeated Grigori.
"One moment please, I have a malfunction. I will re-measure." The technician ran a flash diagnostic, reinitialized the digilinks and requested a new printout. It answered with the same data, except the speed had diminished to 85.15 kps - insignificant. Feeling foolish and acutely aware he will be ordered to tear down the entire telemeter network later - amid insinuations he had not been performing his required routine maintenance and tests, thus avoiding these operating problems. Konstantin read aloud the printout and awaited the expected rebuttal.
Instead he received, "That's what I estimated."
Yuri, the senior officer broke in, "Roskosmos has no information on the three asteroids. They are going to crosscheck with the American NASA."
Konstantin watched his screen and reviewed the printout, "Amazing! Comrades, at the rate they're travelling those rocks will be igniting in our atmosphere in no time at all. I recommend you advise Ground Control to get their 'eyes' up fast or they're going to miss the fireworks."
Yuri thought to himself, "Forget about getting your eyes up; get your butts underground! If those asteroids have any density at all, they'll strike with a force of a hundred atomic bombs exploding simultaneously! They'll blast the planet back into the Ice Age or more probable, blow Earth into pieces and create a nova. All of mankind, including us could be fried in a few minutes!"
His morbid evaluation was interrupted by the Comm printer spitting out the second, No Info report. "Our Mission Control says NASA is unaware of their presence also. But wait, this just came in: Roskosmos advises ground stations in Romania and Siberia are tracking and there is a ninety second ETA to the burn zone." Yuri theorized, "They must have flown in on a hidden tangent behind the moon and whipped around it in a cluster like three river stones in a slingshot."
"I agree," voiced Grigori. "That's the only plausible explanation, Commander."
Konstantin marveled, "Can you imagine flying from the moon to Earth in less than ten minutes?"
Yuri stated, "I can not deny our observations; however I shall refrain from reporting the time frame and speed. If I transmit Konstantin's readings to Mission Control they will think we are all hallucinating. No, let the Center's laboratory tech's calculate the velocity for themselves. They are linked and I will concur with whatever they say," thus putting aside the dread of having to justify himself to the ground-bound State bureaucrats later. "You did fine work in detecting the asteroids, Grigori. Well done. I'm going to enter a commendation in your personnel file with the understanding the State may challenge and remove it later. You understand, Da?"
"Of course... Committee prerogative always. Thank you, sir!"
The cameras were recording as the three men anxiously watched earthward from separate portholes to observe the meteorites transform themselves into long, flaming orange streaks. One minute passed, two, then three.
"I didn't see anything, did you?" asked Yuri.
"I thought I saw a tiny, silver streak... I'm not sure... It could have been a reflection off my window." conceded Grigori.
"Negative here also," reported Konstantin. "My instruments indicated the three asteroids slowed down, almost to a stop, right before they entered the outer atmosphere."
"Impossible, you have a malfunction this time for certain. Run a diagnostic immediately," ordered the leader.
"Yes, sir." Konstantin reasoned, "This, most assuredly has to be a telemetry failure. Solid objects can not decelerate and disappear from the screen."
"Yuri."
"Da, Grigori."
"Roskosmos reports the same. The UFO's reduced their speed, then vanished."
The commander pondered this phenomenon and offered, "They must have been made of some unknown 'super-soft' composition which was absorbed into our atmosphere - thus producing a slow-down appearance without the large, visual burn resulting in sending false echoes. In short, it fooled our instruments to indicate a deceleration. Perhaps, they were similar to giant, cosmic dust-balls. Very strange."
"Perfectly logical," agreed the OSE. "I hope a few fragments are recovered; our astro-geophysicists would love to have a sample of those rocks."