The Fall (6 page)

And what's Hastings's problem anyway? Treason for changing the descent profile back to the original plan, which was backed by carefully collected and analyzed data?

It didn't make sense. Hastings and his Los Alamos friends hadn't provided her with any technical explanation for the change. She did what she did because all of her data told her this was the safest descent profile for this version of the OSS. Alpha-G was the smoothest of reentries, one that guaranteed Jack would remain within reasonable velocities and in the middle of the planned pipe down to the target area northeast of Orlando. Alpha-B would have kept him supersonic for longer, putting the OSS through more stress than she would had liked, and Jack would have missed the target by nearly two miles.

On top of all that, Hastings's approach was in direct conflict with NASA's crawl-walk-run philosophy.

Alpha-G was a “crawl” in the learning process. Alpha-B certainly fell deep in the “walk” territory.

And again, with no technical explanation.

But something had gone terribly wrong, and the reality of the situation started to inject doubt in her self-confidence, making her question her actions. What if she really had screwed up? What if Hastings and his experts knew something she didn't and had valid technical reasons to back up their request for a different descent profile—reasons they just simply couldn't share with her due to valid security reasons?

Did I blow this?

Did I just kill my husband?

She bit her lower lip as she stood and crossed her arms, staring at the walls, feeling trapped, and not looking forward to the next round with Hastings, especially if he was right.

I need to get out of here.

I need time to think.

Slowly, Angela's gaze shifted to the large windows behind the desk.

 

2

LEVELS OF CONSCIOUSNESS

No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it.

—Albert Einstein

She crawled out of the third-story window, grateful that it faced the rear of the building, opposite from the press and the public anxiously waiting behind the barricades out front.

The sun was low over the horizon, casting long shadows against the redbrick structure. It would be dark soon.

One hand on the windowsill, she reached for the round copper drainpipe running down from the roof, and tugged it, testing its anchor to the brick structure.

Hoping for the best, Angela let go of her grip around the window and brought her second hand over while swinging her body off the ledge, her face now an inch from the green patina layering the aging copper pipe, the soles of her motorcycle boots pressing against the rough surface of the bricks, creating enough friction, just like Jack had shown her during their rock-climbing trips.

Slowly, with caution, she brought one hand beneath the other and began her descent, taking only thirty seconds to reach the bushes below, jumping the final few feet, landing in a half crouch amid waist-high shrubbery and instantly breaking into a run for the rear parking lot connecting the building to Flight Control Road.

The sun's waning light gleamed over the blacktop as she pushed her legs to go faster, waiting for the shouts she expected from the building behind her at any moment.

But none of Hastings's men came after her as she reached the bike parking area in the front of the lot and hopped on her vintage black 1979 Triumph Bonneville T140 motorcycle. When it came to bikes, Angie was a purist, not only restoring “Bonnie” herself, but she had picked the 1979 model because it was the last one before Triumph added an electronic starter.

If you can't kick-start a bike, you shouldn't ride,
she thought, reaching behind her, and grabbing her open-face black helmet, which had a pair of clear riding goggles snugged around the top. She strapped it on before kick-starting the British-made bike, which roared to life as its two cylinders fired in perfect synchronization.

Gotta get away.

Buy time to think this through.

The thoughts flashing in her mind matched the intensity of the rumbling bike as she put the Bonneville in gear with the toe of her boot and released the clutch while twisting the throttle.

She rode around the back of the building, past the line of dark SUVs—Chevrolet Suburbans—monopolizing the VIP section of the rear lot, adjacent to the dozens of vans from the media and the press. Three of Hastings's eunuchs stood by one of the dark vehicles but didn't look in her direction.

Accelerating toward the Samuel Phillips Parkway on the eastern border of the Cape, Angela glanced at her rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of one of the drivers reaching for his cell phone, answering it, and immediately becoming agitated.

Crap.

She lost sight of them as she rode past the security checkpoint, waving at the guards, who waved back as they let her through, the adrenaline racing through her system, heightening her senses.

The Triumph roared toward the parkway, away from the sea of reporters waiting to get word on the jump. An even larger crowd awaited Jack's descent northeast of Orlando.

What a mess,
she thought as she worked the gears, formulating her next move, her scientific mind scrubbing her options, zeroing in on her best choice.

She needed information and she knew how to get it.

The cybersword cuts both ways.

Angela accelerated, lowering the goggles as she entered the parkway and headed south, away from the place she had called home for too many years—a place she intended to return to after she figured out what the hell had happened to her husband.

She checked her mirrors.

Clear. No dark Suburbans in pursuit.

Yet.

Soon everyone would be looking for her. She needed a place to hide, and fast.

Her home was out of the question. She might have gotten away but knew Hastings's posse would be on her trail soon, and based on his reaction, Angela wouldn't be surprised if she saw her picture on the evening news. It was obvious to her that the good general would likely do everything within his power—which she guessed was quite extensive—to bring her into custody.

But for what?

The wind in her face and the sun in her eyes, Angela accelerated to the one place she felt she might be temporarily safe while her mind continued to—

Her phone started to vibrate in the breast pocket of her leather jacket.

The phone!

Damn!

She grabbed it. It was Pete.

Angela frowned and thought about pitching it over the bridge going across the upcoming Intercoastal Waterway, the body of water separating the Cape and Cocoa Beach from the mainland, but quickly decided against it. Knowing that Hastings could use the phone to track her could be useful later on.

She powered it completely off and shoved it back in her jacket.

Sorry, Pete, and fuck you, Grumpy.

She glanced at the fuel gauge. Half a tank. Enough to get her a hundred miles away from the nasty general.

Why was he so angry at a change in a descent profile that anyone with a brain could quickly deduct had nothing to do with Jack's disappearance?

Unless …

Angela realized she was speeding. Switching to the right lane, she slowed down while settling in between an eighteen wheeler and a UPS delivery truck. The last thing she needed was to get pulled over. In this day and age, it would only take a minute for Hastings to send out a nationwide alert to every law enforcement agency.

Crossing the bridge over the Intercoastal Waterway, she drifted all the way to the right side of her lane while the faster traffic sped by as she kept to the speed limit on the parkway.

The problem with this arrangement was that she couldn't see anyone approaching from the left lane until they were right on top of her.

Slowly, she edged the T140 to the middle of her lane, checking the left rearview mirror, and inched the bike a little more to the left of the lane until she could barely see the upcoming traffic and—

A dark SUV, headlights gleaming in the twilight of early evening, was speeding in the left lane at the other end of the bridge, just exiting the parkway. From this distance, she couldn't tell if it was one of Hastings's Suburbans or not, but she had to assume it was.

She quickly shifted back to the right, completely out of sight.

How did they track her so quickly? It'd been less than two minutes since Hastings had left her in that room.

Angela weighed her options. She could simply swing over to the left lane and punch it. Her well-tuned Triumph could easily do 120 miles per hour, certainly more than enough to get away from them, especially in traffic.

But what if they didn't know where she was? What if Hastings had simply dispatched his SUVs in every direction to try to spot her before she reached the mainland, where her avenues of escape multiplied? In fact, the accelerating SUV could be doing just that, trying to flush her out so they could radio ahead. And what if this wasn't even one of his vehicles? Accelerating well beyond the posted limit would bring unwanted attention.

Angela made her decision and remained put, steering the T140 just enough to the left to keep an eye on the right front fender of the SUV so no one inside could see her.

The vehicle, which she now recognized as a Suburban, grew larger in her mirror, and she caught a glimpse of Riggs in the front passenger seat, a mobile phone in his right hand as he spoke with agitation while making brusque hand gestures to the driver, who gunned the engine, accelerating even more.

Damn, they're fast.

She waited, biding her time, knowing she would only get one chance at this. The bridge had a narrow shoulder—too narrow for a car.

But not for me.

Just as the front grill of the black Suburban reached the rear of the UPS truck, Angela drifted onto the shoulder and twisted the throttle just enough to bring the Bonneville in between the massive rear tires of the eighteen wheeler and the waist-high guardrail.

The road noise from the rig was deafening as she matched her speed to her moving shield, its wheels roaring over the concrete, kicking up dust and debris, but masking the sound of her bike's muffler.

Fortunately, neither driver, in front or behind, made any sudden moves in reaction to her little stunt, but just continued riding down the bridge as the first exit for the mainland neared.

The SUV lurched forward, speeding.

Angela could see its tires spinning past the eighteen wheeler, just as they all reached the first exit.

Angela thought about taking it but decided to stick to her original plan, accelerating just enough to reach the front of the rig, a foot beneath its massive rearview mirror, where she watched the Suburban hurtling away, on the hunt for her.

Good luck with that.

She grinned while watching it disappear from view in the left lane as she approached the I-95 exit a minute later. As luck would have it, the eighteen wheeler began to flash its turn signal. Her shield was headed south on I-95, and so was she.

Angela downshifted, also gently applying the brakes to steer the T140 before waving to the UPS driver, who continued on the same road.

That was close,
she thought, following the large truck around the curved entrance to the busy north-south corridor, her mind regaining focus.

There had to be a logical explanation for Hastings's lack of alarm when Jack vanished, followed by his over-the-top reaction to a minor change in a jump profile that clearly had nothing to do with her husband's disappearance. Hastings had gone from cold to hot in seconds, and there was nothing in her data that could offer insight into his strange behavior. And of course, she also couldn't explain why Hastings had shown up in the first place with those scientists.

Angela pressed on, thoughts converging in her mind as the sun began to set, shaping an initial plan of attack. Darkness would soon fall over central Florida and that suited her well.

She settled in the right lane while staying just under the speed limit, right hand on the throttle, left hand on her lap. The Triumph was a pretty maneuverable machine, but at high speed, it was quite steady, easy on the rider.

She inhaled the cool coastal air and reviewed everything that had happened, forcing herself to think it over again, to see if there was anything she might be missing, finally confirming her chosen approach to finding out what had happened to Jack, whom she strongly suspected had to be alive.

Somewhere. Somehow.

And if Jack Taylor was indeed alive, Angela swore at that moment to use every skill she knew—every asset at her disposal—to track him down while making Hastings and his crew of misfits pay dearly for what they had done.

But for any of it to work, she needed to pay a visit to an old friend.

Someone she hadn't seen in a long, long time.

Someone she desperately hoped—prayed—would help her figure out where in the world her husband had gone.

*   *   *

Darkness floated above him, swirling, before resolving into a bright field of stars as Jack opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

There were stars, all right. Tons of them surrounding a moon in its third quarter.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cool air and exhaling slowly, letting consciousness take over his senses.

He inhaled again, wondering what had happened to the cloud coverage, remembering the weather forecast. The tip of tropical storm Claudette was scheduled to cloud the skies over central Florida by sundown, before the storm hit Tampa by morning—the reason for moving the damn jump up to this morning in the first place.

Yet, it was nighttime and the skies were clear.

Weird,
he thought … just like the jump.