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 President’s 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 thing—the holy grail of NASA—contact 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 into—crashed 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 you’ll 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.”

“So…are 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 Herney’s 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 I’ve 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 gain—and lose—I 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 can’t mean me, sir?”

The President laughed. “No, this is not your area of expertise. Besides, I’ve already achieved verification through extragovernmental channels.”

Rachel’s 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 team—four civilian scientists—non-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 skeptics—outsiders who had nothing to gain by confirming the NASA discovery—Herney 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 Sexton’s 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 President’s eyes and recalled Pickering’s 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. “You’re not coming?”

“I need to return to the White House. I’ll 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.

“You’re 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. I’ll 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.

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 man’s voice said, only yards away. Rachel jumped, wheeling toward the sound. “Yes, sir.”

The hazy shape of a man approached.

As Rachel’s 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, ma’am. It’s pretty dark in here. I haven’t 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. “I’m here to see the administrator.”

“Yes, ma’am. 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 I’m 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.

Rachel’s 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, ma’am, but the F-14 Tomcat Split-tail is a highly proven craft.”

It’s a missile with wings.

The pilot led Rachel toward his craft. He motioned to the dual cockpit. “You’ll 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.

“We’ll be flying pretty high,” he said. “You’ll 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, ma’am.”

Rachel fumbled with the molded mouthpiece and then finally snapped it onto her helmet. The mask’s 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, ma’am.” 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. “I’m not prone to motion sickness.”

The pilot shrugged. “A lot of Navy Seals say the same thing, and I’ve 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. “It’s cutting off my circulation. How do you wear these things on long flights?”

The pilot smiled patiently. “Well, ma’am, we don’t 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 Tomcat’s 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.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ve 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. “It’s nine A.M., sport, and the sun is on our right. We’re flying north.”

There was a moment of silence from the cockpit. “Yes, ma’am, we’ll 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. “That’s a four-hour flight!”

“At our current speed, yes,” the pilot said. “Hold on, please.”

Before Rachel could respond, the man retracted the F-14’s 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 President’s 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.

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 not—anonymity.

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 meetings—in 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 man’s 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 passenger’s seat with a cheery wave. The dark-haired gentleman in the driver’s 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 man’s 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 Sexton’s 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.”

“We’re 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. I’ve 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.”

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 Hoban’s 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 Bligh—commanding a struggling ship whose crew was preparing for mutiny.

The President didn’t 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 I’ll 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. “I’d 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 in…the Briefing Room?”

Herney shook his head. “No. Let’s 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 secretary’s 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! I’m 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, you’ve done a terrific job for me these past few years, and you’ll do a terrific job for me for another four. We’re keeping the White House. I swear it.”

His secretary looked like she wanted to believe it. “Very well, sir. I’ll alert the staff. Four P.M.”

As Zach Herney entered the Oval Office, he couldn’t 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 years—the Loo, Dick’s Den, the Clinton Bedroom—Herney’s 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 they’d 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 room’s oval carpet. The eagle’s left talon clutched an olive branch and his right a bundle of arrows. Few outsiders knew that during times of peace, the eagle faced left—toward the olive branch. But in times of war, the eagle mysteriously faced right—toward 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.

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 killers—experts 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” management—a 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 again—not 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, DeltaTwo had flown the device into the man’s house through an open second-story window, found the man’s 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 victim’s 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 senator’s 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 structure—inside 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 “faceless”—every 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 caller’s 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 eerie—inorganic 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.”

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 mother’s powerful grasp that finally yanked Rachel’s waterlogged body to safety. Ever since that harrowing ordeal, Rachel had battled a persistent case of hydrophobia—a 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. I’m 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, you’ve 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.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” Rachel said, phoning home from a snowbound O’Hare airport. “I know our family has never spent Thanksgiving Day apart. It looks like today will be our first.”

Rachel’s 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 wasn’t going to tell you until you got here, but your father says he has too much work to make it home this year. He’ll be staying at his D.C. suite for the long weekend.”

“What!” Rachel’s surprise gave way immediately to anger. “But, it’s Thanksgiving. The Senate isn’t in session! He’s less than two hours away. He should be with you!”

“I know. He says he’s exhausted—far too tired to drive. He’s 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 husband’s 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 you—a beautiful daughter—and for that I thank him. He will have to answer for his actions to a higher power someday. Now, standing in the airport, Rachel’s anger was simmering. “But, this means you’ll 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 can’t let all this food go to waste. I’ll drive it up to Aunt Ann’s. She’s always invited us up for Thanksgiving. I’ll give her a call right now.”

Rachel felt only marginally less guilty. “Okay. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I love you, Mom.”

“Safe flight, sweetheart.”

It was 10:30 that night when Rachel’s 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 didn’t 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. I’m sorry. She died on impact.”

Rachel’s 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 wife’s fortunes to begin courting his party’s nomination for president. The sympathy vote didn’t hurt either.

Cruelly now, three years later, even at a distance the senator was making Rachel’s life lonely. Her father’s run for the White House had put Rachel’s 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 Arctic—a 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 striped…as 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.

“We’re 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 Tomcat’s 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 moonlight—the side of an ice berm. The view on the left was identical. Only through the windshield ahead of them did Rachel have any visibility…an 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 Rachel’s 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?”

Marjorie Tench—senior adviser to the President—was 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 Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research had helped hone a lethally sharp, critical mind. Unfortunately, accompanying Tench’s 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 supercomputer—and the warmth of one, too. Nonetheless, President Zach Herney had little trouble tolerating the woman’s 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 o’clock 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 President’s 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 o’clock,” 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 Herney’s head shot up. “You?” What the hell is she thinking? “Marjorie, you don’t do media spots. Besides, it’s a midday cable show. If I send my senior adviser, what kind of message does that send? It makes us look like we’re 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 woman—not 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, “Sexton’s 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.

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 tractor’s vents. Outside, on the ice runway, the F-14’s engines roared, and the plane began taxiing away.

Rachel looked up in alarm. “He’s 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.

“We’ll 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 doesn’t 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.

“That’s the Milne Glacier,” the driver said, pointing up into the mountains. “Starts up there and flows down into this wide delta that we’re 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.

“That’s the katabatic wind,” the driver yelled. “Get used to it!” He explained that this area had a permanent offshore gale called the katabatic—Greek 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 them—the 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 it’s 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 it’s not a whole sphere, it’s only habi-sphere.”

Rachel smiled and stared out at the bizarre building now looming closer on the glacial plain. “And because NASA hasn’t 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. “Don’t let his size fool you. The guy’s a pussycat.”

More like a tiger, Rachel thought, well acquainted with Ekstrom’s 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, I’m 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.

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 nonexistent—a 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 President’s 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.”

“You’ve made a damn good start.”

Rachel’s 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 NASA’s 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. “I’d like to know what I’m doing here,” Rachel demanded.

“You and me both. I do not have that information.”

“I’m 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 ways—ocean mapping, geologic fault analyses, polar ice-melt observation, location of fossil fuel reserves—”

“Fine,” Ekstrom said, sounding unimpressed. “So you’re aware of the newest addition to the EOS constellation? It’s 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 ice—slush spots, internal melting, large fissures—indicators 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 we’d 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. “So…it’s a boulder or something?”

Ekstrom nodded. “Essentially.”

Rachel waited for the punch line. It never came. I’m 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. “You’re 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 there’s a logical explanation for the stone’s presence here…and 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 President’s big buildup. This discovery will singlehandedly justify all of NASA’s 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 House—two struggling entities attempting to elevate a propitious find to the level of earth-shattering NASA victory.

“You don’t look too impressed,” Ekstrom said.

“I guess I was just expecting something…else.”

Ekstrom’s 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, I’ll introduce you to someone more qualified than I am to discuss this find.”

Rachel was confused. “Someone more qualified than the administrator of NASA?”

Ekstrom’s 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.”

Touché. 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?

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 Sexton’s 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 news—a 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 adviser’s jaundiced mug in a magazine, he could not believe he was looking at one of the most powerful faces in Washington.

“I don’t like this,” Gabrielle whispered.

Sexton barely heard her. The more he considered the opportunity, the more he liked it. Even more fortuitous than Tench’s media-unfriendly face was Tench’s reputation on one key issue: Marjorie Tench was extremely vocal that America’s 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 important—NASA. Many believed it was Tench’s 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 woman’s 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. “Let’s get you set up, senator.”

As Sexton headed for the studio, Gabrielle caught his sleeve. “I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered. “But just be smart. Don’t 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.”