their video cameras. Occasionally one got lucky and captured "hard evidence" of a UFO-bright lights flitting around the sky with more maneuverability and speed than any aircraft humans had ever built. What these people failed to realize, of course, was that there existed a twelve-year lag between what the government could build and what the public knew about. These UFO-gazers were simply catching a glimpse of the next generation of U.S. aircraft being developed out at Area 51-many of which were the brainstorms of NASA engineers. Of course, intelligence officials never corrected the misconception; it was obviously preferable that the world read about another UFO sighting than to have people learn the U.S. military's true flight capabilities.
But everything has changed now, Ekstrom thought. In a few hours, the extraterrestrial myth would become a confirmed reality, forever.
"Administrator?" A NASA technician hurried across the ice behind him. "You have an emergency secure call in the PSC."
Ekstrom sighed, turning. What the hell could it be now? He headed for the communications trailer.
The technician hurried along beside him. "The guys manning the radar in the PSC were curious, sir... "
"Yeah?" Ekstrom's thoughts were still far away.
"The fat-body sub stationed off the coast here? We were wondering why you didn't mention it to us."
Ekstrom glanced up. "I'm sorry?"
"The submarine, sir? You could have at least told the guys on radar. Additional seaboard security is understandable, but it took our radar team off guard."
Ekstrom stopped short. "What submarine?"
The technician stopped now too, clearly not expecting the administrator's surprise. "She's not part of our operation?"
"No! Where is it?"
The technician swallowed hard. "About three miles out. We caught her on radar by chance. Only surfaced for a couple minutes. Pretty big blip. Had to be a fat-body. We figured you'd asked the navy to stand watch over this op without telling any of us."
Ekstrom stared. "I most certainly did not!"
Now the technician's voice wavered. "Well, sir, then I guess I should inform you that a sub just rendezvoused with an aircraft right off the coast here. Looked like a personnel change. Actually, we were all pretty impressed anyone would attempt a wet-dry vertical in this kind of wind."
Ekstrom felt his muscles stiffen. What the hell is a submarine doing directly off the coast of Ellesmere Island without my knowledge? "Did you see what direction the aircraft flew after rendezvous?"
"Back toward Thule air base. For connecting transport to the mainland, I assume."
Ekstrom said nothing the rest of the way to the PSC. When he entered the cramped darkness, the hoarse voice on the line had a familiar rasp.
"We've got a problem," Tench said, coughing as she spoke. "It's about Rachel Sexton."
76
Senator Sexton was not sure how long he had been staring into space when he heard the pounding. When he realized the throbbing in his ears was not from the alcohol but rather from someone at his apartment door, he got up from the couch, stowed the bottle of Courvoisier, and made his way to the foyer.
"Who is it?" Sexton yelled, in no mood for visitors.
His bodyguard's voice called in with the identity of Sexton's unexpected guest. Sexton sobered instantly. That was fast. Sexton had hoped not to have to have this conversation until morning.
Taking a deep breath and straightening his hair, Sexton opened the door. The face before him was all too familiar-tough and leathery despite the man's seventy-something years. Sexton had met with him only this morning in the white Ford Windstar minivan in a hotel parking garage. Was it only this morning? Sexton wondered. God, how things had changed since then.
"May I come in?" the dark-haired man asked.
Sexton stepped aside, allowing the head of the Space Frontier Foundation to pass.
"Did the meeting go well?" the man asked, as Sexton closed the door.
Did it go well? Sexton wondered if the man lived in a cocoon. "Things were terrific until the President came on television."
The old man nodded, looking displeased. "Yes. An incredible victory. It will hurt our cause greatly."
Hurt our cause? Here was an optimist. With NASA's triumph tonight, this guy would be dead and buried before the Space Frontier Foundation attained their goals of privatization.
"For years I have suspected proof was forthcoming," the old man said. "I did not know how or when, but sooner or later we had to know for sure."
Sexton was stunned. "You're not surprised?"
"The mathematics of the cosmos virtually requires other life-forms," the man said, moving toward Sexton's den. "I am not surprised that this discovery has been made. Intellectually, I am