Red Horizon: The Truth of Discovery (Discovery Series Book 2) Page 6

  “I think the minefield would be one of your least worries if an entire crew had to bail from a catastrophic launch.”

  Vlad thought that over for a moment and then chuckled. “Yes, I suppose you are correct. I’d most likely be called back to Moscow for the last time.”

  “Speaking of which,” Alex said, “have they made it official?”

  “Da,” Vlad said. “I will officially be promoted next week at a ceremony in the Kremlin.”

  “So you will work from Moscow, then?”

  “No, not necessarily.” Vlad sighed, trying to figure out for himself how this would work. “The newly constructed control center for space operations has been moved out of Moscow to one of the ring cities for security reasons.”

  “Oh, I’ve not heard a word.” Alex feigned offence at being left in the dark. “Where, pray tell, will you work from if not from here?”

  “Tver,” Vlad said.

  “Don’t you mean Kalinin now?” Alex corrected him.

  Vlad nodded his head again and took a deep breath. “Yes, it will take some time to accustom myself to the Soviet-era names. Leningrad is still a bit hard for me to say.”

  “Well,” Alex said, breaking into his own grin, “it can’t be any worse than Stalingrad.”

  “You’d have thought they would have kept that as Volgograd, or at least called it by its original name, Tsaritsyn.”

  “That would be too close to capitalism,” Alex said. “Volgograd would have been just fine. No one, even in the Politburo, cares for the name of Stalin.”

  “Well, it would appear that someone did,” Vlad said.

  Alex sighed and leaned back, rubbing his hands on his smock that he wore, and looked out at the orange-tinged sky before addressing his boss again. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”

  “I think I do, but maybe you should tell me so there’s no miscommunication.”

  Alex looked around as if resigned to the fact that something unpleasant was going to have to be experienced, one way or another. He took a deep breath and then began. “I know they are most likely listening right now, and frankly, I don’t give a damn, but the obsessive investigation by our newly reconstituted KGB is hampering our ability to function. As you know, this puts the mission in jeopardy, and there is nothing we both want more than to succeed . . . for our own reasons.”

  “Ah, I thought as much,” Vlad said, exhaling deeply. “It’s part of the process for now, Alex. You must accept it. Dmitry informed me that we are under suspicion of leaking facts about our capabilities and details about our equipment.”

  “So it’s been confirmed, then?”

  “Only so far as the KGB involvement goes; in fact, they tried to block my appointment to lead the space administration, Ruscosmos.”

  “They dared to do such a thing?” Alex leaned forward quickly, no longer assuming his relaxed position.

  Vlad waved a hand in front of him. “It’s a small matter. I think the bigger question needs to be why does our KGB think the way they do?”

  Alex brought a hand to his chin for a moment. “You think there’s merit in their accusations?”

  “I didn’t say that, but there is a reason, a prichenoye, for them to think this way. It could easily have a logical explanation, or the Americans or the Chinese have figured a way to hack or survey our operations from afar,” Vlad speculated.

  “Hmm,” Alex muttered. “I see your point, though I doubt it’s one of us. Still, we have ways to perhaps verify this information, do we not?”

  Vlad smiled. “Doveryai no proveryai. Trust but verify.”

  “Exactly,” Alex said.

  “What’s your plan?”

  Alex scooted his seat closer and looked around again at the empty observation room. “We put information that is not true, but important, and spread it around and see where it comes back from.”

  “Ah, Alex,” Vlad said, leaning closer. “I’m pretty sure that’s already been done by the KGB, and it came from our department. Disseminating false information is an old tactic used to see where the spread of information comes from.”

  “Perhaps, but we should do something that only we know about to see what comes of it.”

  “I’ll have to bring Dmitry onboard. Otherwise the spread of this news could bring unintended consequences.”

  “Fine,” Alex said, pleased with himself and relaxing enough to lean back again. “Get him onboard and let’s find out who’s whom in our department.”

  “You have something specific in mind?”

  Alex’s expression turned into a wolf-like grin. “Yes, we set up a scenario that you wish to defect to the West.”

  *****

  The taxi took a long time to navigate the crowded road. Irina Taykovsky was late for her usual rendezvous at the Patriot’s Pub. It was her usual place to dine, drink, and relax, and things had been good to her until the revolution. Unfortunately she had waited a few months too long to make her escape. The new government imposed strict travel restrictions on all citizens, and she found herself not only unable to leave the country but unable to leave the oblast, or county.

  She had spent nearly a year after the revolution incognito and did not send her handler any information at all. She felt almost paralyzed, until one day an old babushka walked up to her on the street and gave her an envelope. It had the address for the last remaining internet café in her town of Korsk, along with a computer number and an alpha-numeric code.

  She went to the café and sat at the computer and booted it using the key pass from the owner. Once in, she wasn’t sure what to do and sat there numb until suddenly a program icon flashed on the desktop. She clicked on it and found that it launched into a text program. Her handler had found her again and had reestablished contact with her.

  The negotiations didn’t go well. Irina wanted out, and her contact said it was impossible. She then wanted a human contact to meet face to face, and again her demand was rejected. She had ended the chat and let it go for nearly a month. There was no further contact from her handler. Her money, in a Swiss bank account, would do her little good sitting there while she was sitting in Siberia. She had to scratch that itch, and that was how the Russian saying went. So returning to the same computer, she sat and looked at the screen.

  Within minutes, the icon appeared on the desktop and flashed. She reengaged her contact and repeated her demands. This time, she was promised that once the space missions to Mars concluded, they would execute her extraction. Three or four years that would be, and it had been two years already since the race to the moon. She had to think about this and finally agreed under one condition. She had to know what nationality was representing her. If it was the Chinese, she would not work with them, afraid that they would not keep their promises.

  Those negotiations were difficult as well. Anyone could say they were the Americans, and that was exactly the country that Irina thought she was dealing with. She had only one idea that would work, and at first, her contact balked and requested time to confirm it. It took three days, but finally she had her answer. The president of the United States would use a phrase during her annual address to the country to prove who was handling Irina. That was the only thing that Irina could think of that the Chinese, or any other country, for that matter, could not forge or falsify. Her phrase was silly, but something she felt irrefutable. I like red balloons.

  It took three more months until the new year and January rolled around, and in the first third of the president’s speech, she mentioned a childhood story of her birthday and how she liked red balloons. Irina was hooked. She would finish her last task and get out of the country with the Americans’ help.

  “Izvinite pozhaulsta,” an old, familiar-looking lady said, standing by her table. “May I?”

  “Oh, ah, yes, feel free to have a seat,” Irina said, looking at the lady and wondering if it was the same one who gave her that envelope years ago.

  The old lady sat down and smiled at her. Her wrinkled face didn’t see
m to fade her youthful exuberance. “Shall we have a small meal together? I’ll buy if you don’t feel comfortable.”

  “Nonsense,” Irina replied. “Feel free to order something. I’ll have it placed on my tab.”

  The Russian had a way of respecting their elders that most in western society would not fully understand. Despite her situation, Irina would honor the older woman. Their waitress came by. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Chai will do nicely,” the older woman said. The waitress went to fulfill the order, and after bringing it back, the old woman ordered peasant soup with freshly baked bread. She did not speak again until their food was brought to them. The older woman seemed content to blow over her cup and sip her tea.

  They began to eat when the older lady looked at Irina and smiled again before speaking after taking her first spoonful of soup. “We’ll be taking you out of here early next year.”

  Irina almost gagged on her peremeny, half spitting her sour cream out in the process, as she was surprised by the blunt remark and especially given in the open, so to speak. “What?” was all she could manage while she took a napkin offered by the old woman.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Irina said, wiping her mouth and looking around to see if anyone noticed. No one looked their way, so she returned her attention to the other woman. “What . . . ? I mean . . . why are you here? No, wait, who are you?”

  The old lady smiled, nodding her head. “You may call me Natasha, and I’m here to help you.”

  “I see that,” Irina said. “Why now, though, and why here?”

  “All in good time,” Natasha said. “There’s been some developments regarding your situation . . .” The old lady spoke gently but haltingly, each word coming out slowly and spoken clearly as if speaking to a child. Irina didn’t know if she was being mocked or if the old lady was, perhaps, suffering from a bit of senility. The woman looked to be in her late sixties, if not seventy, at least.

  “What developments?” Irina asked.

  “Your government seems to be on to us in a way, so to speak—”

  Irina interrupted immediately. “You need to get me out of here,” she said, leaning over the table and whispering her demand to the old woman.

  Natasha waved a hand in the air and shushed the younger woman. “Now, now, I knew you’d be upset. That is why I came to you personally.”

  “You did?” Irina asked, looking at the old lady suspiciously. For Christ’s sake, she didn’t look like she knew how to turn a computer on, much less read an RF chip or infiltrate a computer network.

  “I know, looks can be deceiving, but before you go and get yourself all upset, you should know that you personally are not in danger . . . yet. I am here to prevent that.”

  “How long have you been here?” Irina asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “I’ve been here since your first day,” the old lady said, returning Irina’s look with a welcoming smile.

  The woman had spoken perfect Russian. There was no doubt in Irina’s mind that she was dealing with another Russian citizen, or at least someone of her own nationalistic background. What she didn’t understand was what role did the old woman play in this game of industrial espionage? “That’s been several years.”

  “I know,” Natasha said. “I’m ready to retire myself.”

  “Retire?” Irina’s eyes got wide.

  “Yes. I have plans too, and they don’t include me freezing in Siberia every winter. Three months to thaw out is not enough.” The old woman looked around and leaned forward before whispering, “I’m going to Florida.”

  Irina thought for a moment before answering. “Good, I want to go with you.”

  Natasha nodded knowingly, like a wise grandmother. “I thought you would, but first we need to finish one more thing, and then . . .” The old lady paused for a moment.

  “And then what?” Irina asked.

  “Then,” Natasha leaned forward and whispered again. “Then we kill you.”

  Chapter 6

  Seals

  The White House

  Washington DC

  In the near future, Year 2, Day 7

  There was a bit of confusion as the conversation continued when the president’s aide was looking at the admiral and calling on Dr. Marjorie Jones. “I’m sure I had the seating chart correct,” he said. A female aide came over to look, and Rock took a moment to grace Marge with an I-told-you-so look.

  “It doesn’t matter. Can we have the NSA brief so we can move things along? We do have an interplanetary mission to conduct,” President Powers said.

  “Mr. Smith, can you brief the NASA team before they leave on what our analysts have come up with since the last unclassified briefing?” the aide said, moving on.

  Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “Well, I had requested that their former member of the SETI team be seated next to me in order to participate, but she chose otherwise.” There was an awkward silence, and no one said a word. The man decided to press on since it appeared no one would be held accountable for the name card fiasco. “The material you recently cleared for NASA to view, against my recommendation, hasn’t formally been presented to them yet.”

  “Why would you not recommend its release to us?” Marge asked, looking directly at the man.

  “There are too many variables in play here, and we don’t need our space team to make any assumptions until we have whittled them down to a manageable size,” Mr. Smith said.

  “Manageable?” Marge asked. Rock was content to let her speak. She had served on the SETI liaison team, Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence, which involved her knowledge and her PhD of astrobiology. Marge managed to work on that team as well as the mission team, and she had written several papers the last few years on various topics regarding alien life.

  “We have given you most of the data—”

  Marge was now interrupting. “Most?”

  “Let the man finish,” the president said gently, gracing Marge with a glance.

  There was another period of awkward silence before Mr. Smith continued. “The genetic markings were originally decoded to account for what we thought was a perfect human genome, or DNA strand.”

  Rock sensed that Marge was about to tell him that they all knew what DNA was, so he risked placing his hand on her knee and giving it a gentle squeeze. In today’s politically correct climate, he wouldn’t have dared do that, but he trusted Marge and she him, so he signaled to her to let the man finish.

  “However, two of the twenty-three chromosomes appeared to have been mixed up. We initially read them as attributing obesity and scales to the human genome.”

  Several people in the room spoke in hush whispers, and the president and her aides allowed them to digest the information. The science advisor, who was probably the least informed of the president’s cabinet, most likely due to the fact that it was more of an honorable appointment of the man to the position, asked a question. “You mean to say the aliens wanted us to be fat and slimy?”

  Several aides along the wall chuckled, as did a few military and office types. Rock and Marge sat still, listening intently for the first time in four years about what exactly the genome consisted of. “Not exactly. Perhaps it would be better if Doctor Navari explained the rest.”

  “Who is Doctor Navari?” Rock whispered to Marge. If anyone knew a fellow geneticist, it would be Marge.

  All eyes turned to a small man sitting at the far end of the conference table. He was still wearing his white lab coat, and he had dark black hair, a swarthy complexion, and black-rimmed eye glasses that were a throwback to the fifties of the last century. The president spoke first. “Doctor Navari, could you elaborate for us?”

  “Yes,” the small man said, pushing his glasses further back on the bridge of his nose and shuffling a few papers in front of him that he then ignored. “Mr. Smith is correct in the initial assessment of the alien genome structure that was extracted from both the radio signal and the data
disk. However, the initial team of specialists was analyzing the genetic makeup of the alleles associated with the locus of the DNA at the wrong location during cell division. They should have associated the eukaryotics with the proper proteins that formed the chromatin of the associated gene expression—”

  The man was interrupted by the science advisor, and he wasn’t the only one to welcome it. “Can we get this in English, please?”

  The man stopped and looked around the table. Marge interjected. “He is saying that the genes that were originally decoded were done so at the wrong locations, resulting in improper analysis of the histones and what genes would be expressed.”

  There was a pause before the science advisor repeated himself. “English, please?”

  Doctor Navari looked at Marge, and Rock did so too. Rock understood that Marge’s first field of study was astrobiology that she took with her into the SETI program, but when it appeared that would be a dead end in terms of any meaningful discovery, she expanded her studies to include other forms of science, engineering, and mechanics, and then moved over to NASA where she worked for the last decade. “Would you?” the small man asked.

  It was almost as if he didn’t have the ability to explain anything in layman’s terms. Marge, on the other hand, had to do it near constantly. She began, “I don’t have access to the data that Mr. Smith recommended against us having, but I did some work with Doctor Navari a couple of decades ago when we were at MIT together.”

  “I was going to recommend—”

  Marge continued, drowning out Mr. Smith’s explanation. “There are several functions when decoding a genome and subsequent reading of what is expressible in a gene and what is not. Some items, like hair and eye color, are readily visible, but other markers, such as blood type or susceptibility to certain diseases or cancers, are not. If the markers are not interpreted correctly on the actual chromosome or histones, then it’s easy to mistake them for ones that have been marked by prior genome projects.”