Extreme measures were needed.
“Lock down the Lisboa,” he ordered, intending to make an example of the trespassers. “Bring in more men. Any known Triad on the property, whether involved or not, I want killed on sight. Any suspected ally, anyone who might have helped facilitate or knew about this strike, I want dead.”
“And the targets?”
He weighed the advantages and disadvantages. While the profits to be gained by the pair were considerable, their deaths could also serve as an important lesson. It would demonstrate Ju-long’s willingness to sacrifice profit in order to maintain his authority and position. Among the Chinese, honor and saving face were as important as breathing.
He allowed the anger to drain out of him, reconciling himself to the reality of the situation. What’s done is done.
Besides, in the end, their bodies could still fetch a tidy sum.
And a little profit was better than none.
“Kill them,” he ordered. “Kill them all.”
3
November 17, 9:46 A.M. PST
Los Angeles AFB
El Segundo, California
Chaos still ruled the floor of the Space and Missile Systems Center.
It had been almost two hours since the satellite image of the smoldering Eastern Seaboard had glowed on its giant monitor. Base personnel had immediately confirmed that New York, Boston, and D.C. were all safe and unharmed. Life continued on out there without mishap.
The relief in the room had been palpable. Painter’s reaction was no exception. He had friends and colleagues across the Northeast. Still, he was glad his fiancée was in New Mexico. He pictured Lisa’s face, framed in a fall of blond hair, grinning at him with a trace of mischief that always set his heart pounding harder. If anything had happened to her . . .
But in the end, nothing was amiss out east.
So what the hell had the satellite transmitted as it crashed?
That had been the critical question of the past two hours. Theories had flashed across the floor of the control room. Was the picture some extrapolation? Some computer simulation of a nuclear strike? But all the engineers claimed such calculations were beyond the scope of the spacecraft’s original programming.
So what had happened?
Painter stood with Dr. Jada Shaw in front of the giant screens, along with a handful of engineers and military brass.
A satellite image of the island of Manhattan glowed before them. A young technician stood with a laser pointer in hand. He passed its glowing red dot across the breadth of the island.
“This is an image obtained from an NRO satellite at the exact same time that IoG-1 burned past the Eastern Seaboard. Here you can make out the grid of streets, the lakes dotting Central Park. Now here is the same fractional picture taken by IoG-1.”
He clicked a handheld button, and another image appeared beside the first. The new picture was a blown-up section of the photo snapped by the satellite as it crashed, featuring the identical chunk of Manhattan.
“If we overlay, one atop the other . . .”
The technician worked his magic to superimpose the second over the first. Through the smoke and the flames, the grid of streets lined up perfectly. Even the lakes of Central Park matched in every dimension.
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
Dr. Shaw took a step forward to look more closely. She wore a frown of distaste.
“As you can see,” the tech continued, “this is New York City, not some facsimile. The destruction depicted is not some digital noise that inadvertently looks like the East Coast is burning. Not at this level of detail.”
To prove his point, the tech zoomed upon key locations of the island. Though the resolution became grainy, it appeared Manhattan was correct down to its tiniest details. Except now, the Empire State Building was a blazing torch, the financial district a cratered ruin, and the Queensboro Bridge a shattered twist of steel girders. It looked like some exquisite digital matte painting for a disaster film.
Boston and D.C. fared no better.
Questions flared among the audience, but Dr. Shaw simply moved closer, resting a hand on her chin, staring between the two images as they were split apart again.
General Metcalf called to Painter from a few yards away, irritation piquing in his voice. “Director Crowe, a moment of your time.”
Painter moved to join his boss in front of the world map.
“This is the latest and most refined telemetry data,” Metcalf said, pointing to the crash path of the falling satellite on the map. “The impact site is likely here, in a remote region of northern Mongolia. As you can see, it’s not far from the borders of both Russia and China. So far, there have been no rumblings from either country about this crash.”
“What about eyes on the ground out there?”
Metcalf shook his head. “This region of Mongolia is mountainous and remote. Populated only by nomadic tribesmen.”
Painter understood. “In that case, we’ve got a small window to get out there and find that burned piece of military space hardware before either Russia or China catches wind of it.”
“Precisely.”
Painter glanced over to the other screen. No one understood what had happened to generate that disturbing image, but they all knew any answers lay amid the crashed ruins of the Eye of God. Secondarily, it was vital that the satellite’s advanced technology not be lost to a foreign nation.
“I’ve already got Captain Kat Bryant over at Sigma command working on the logistics for a search team.”
“Very good. I want you on the first plane back to D.C. There’s a jet being fueled for you. That’s your top priority. Find and secure that wreckage.”
Metcalf turned his back, dismissing him.
Off to the side, Dr. Shaw had her head bowed next to the technician. The man kept nodding his head, glancing at the screen, then finished with a scared look on his face.
What’s that all about?
The technician stepped away from Dr. Shaw and crossed to an engineering station, waving others to join him.
Curious, Painter stepped to the young astrophysicist’s side as she continued to study the screen.
She noted his attention. “I still say it’s the comet.”
Painter had heard her earlier theories. “Dr. Shaw, you still believe all this is a consequence of dark energy?”
“Call me Jada. And, yes, from the last spool of data from the satellite, the geodetic effect registered a misalignment of 5.4 degrees.”
From the ardent look in her eyes as she glanced at him, he saw she expected this to strike him as significant.
It didn’t.
“That means precisely what?” he asked.