Her breath quickening, Kimberly tried to throw up some software barriers to prevent them from gaining any additional access to the station’s systems, then once again tried to bring up the comm links with Earth.
But almost as fast as she entered a new command her efforts were squashed, sometimes stopped cold before she could even see if the commands had been executed. It was as if Farid and Bakhet anticipated her every action, as if they could read her mind and thwart everything she tried.
Were they working from some sort of sophisticated, minutely detailed checklist that predicted all her possible countermeasures, or were they simply that much smarter and more competent than she?
After half an hour of being slammed in the one-sided cat-and-mouse game, Kimberly pushed herself away from the laptop in frustration. She was simply no match for the two of them. Or maybe, she thought, it was only one of them. Was Farid that much smarter than she?
She remembered that in graduate school at Princeton she’d known computer geniuses who had dropped out of college and forgone both academics and industry because they were bored with mediocre normal life, and instead lived on the edge, hacking or pursuing other illegal activities simply for the excitement. They weren’t idiot savants who excelled only in one narrow area and were deficient in everything else; they were truly intellectually superior people in every sense of the word, compared to ordinary human beings.
But she also recalled that more often than not, their superior intellects came with a lack of common sense. And if there was a flaw that she could exploit, that was it.
From the physical prowess, depth of computer knowledge, and even the precise diction that both Farid and Bakhet had displayed, Kimberly became convinced that the two intruders were dead ringers for this ultra-normal type of human being. With the exception that their motivation wasn’t based on boredom or game-playing, but was at fever pitch, inspired by misguided religious zeal.
Kimberly shared their religion and cultural background, and that frightened her even more, because whether they had common sense or not, she knew that they would stop at nothing to bring their vision to reality.
THE WHITE HOUSE: NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL
Scott Robinson stood in the narrow, carpeted hallway, waiting outside the Cabinet Room with a dozen other men and women. He’d been the last to arrive, but he’d traveled 1,400 miles farther than any of the high-level participants of the President’s National Security Council meeting.
He felt grossly out of place in his blue astronaut flight uniform, and wished he’d included a normal suit, or at least a sports jacket, in his go-bag. But he couldn’t picture himself wearing his comfortable khaki slacks and button-down shirts in a meeting of these dark-suited, cabinet-level officials, multistarred generals, and probably the President himself.
His only consolation was that at least his blue bunny suit, as the astronauts called their one-piece flight uniforms, exuded instant credibility that often bordered on veneration. The Secretaries of Defense and Homeland Security, plus the National Security Advisor had introduced themselves when Scott had arrived, recognizing him from his previous trip to the ISS just a few months earlier. No one quizzed him about the station, though: either because that was going to be the topic of the impending meeting, or they somehow remembered that his ex-wife, Kimberly Hadid-Robinson, was currently on board—and probably dead.
Scott self-consciously sipped his third cup of coffee and debated using the side bathroom for the second time since he’d arrived when a slim young man in a gray pinstriped suit and slicked-back light brown hair stepped through the door from the Cabinet Room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said softly, “the President is ready.”
Scott followed the others into the Cabinet Room and was directed to a seat along the wall while the others took the cushioned chairs around the long, gleamingly polished table, chatting quietly among themselves. Within moments the same young man appeared at the door across the room.
“The President,” he said.
Everyone stood and the President strode in. He looked grim, and didn’t greet anyone as he headed straight to his chair at the middle of the table’s far side. Scott thought that the President had aged, but he appeared laser focused. He dispensed with pleasantries as he took his seat.
“I’ll get straight to the point. I’m extremely concerned about the damage the space station will inflict before and after it hits the ground. Patricia Simone tells me that although eighty-five to ninety percent of the ISS’s one million pounds will burn up in the atmosphere, in addition to releasing a significant amount of radioactivity on its way down, there could be more than fifty tons of metal that will survive reentry. Isn’t that right”—he glanced down at a single sheet of paper lying on the table in front of him—“Lieutenant Colonel Robinson?”
Scott hadn’t sat down yet. He stiffened into attention, stunned that the President would call on him so quickly. “Yes, sir, that’s correct. The RTGs won’t survive the fall, so we can expect as much as three hundred sixty pounds of plutonium released along its trajectory. But the station’s tankage, solar panels, skin, and much of the equipment are made of aluminum, so they’ll most likely burn up before it hits the ground.”
The President nodded and started to speak, but Scott interrupted and added, “However, Mr. President, as you correctly noted, approximately fifty tons of metal will survive reentry and will cause damage if it hits a populated region. But that’s an extremely small probability, as the debris will most likely be spread out over a wide area.”
“I see,” said the President. Without taking his eyes off Scott, he asked, “Is there anything else, Colonel?”
“No, sir.” Scott could feel his face growing warm. He quickly took his seat. “Sorry, sir.”
“Excuse me, Colonel.” The Secretary of Defense leaned forward in her chair. “Just how certain is NASA that this fifty tons of metal that survives reentry will miss a populated area?”
Shooting to his feet again, Scott replied, “Very likely, ma’am. Although it’s almost impossible to predict where the space station will reenter the atmosphere, there’s a great chance that it will be over an unpopulated area. The world is two-thirds water, so the probability of it even hitting solid ground is only one in three. And when you consider that most of the dry part of the Earth is unpopulated, then the odds of it not contaminating anything or causing significant damage is very high.”
The head of Homeland Security turned in his chair to look at Scott, standing behind him. “It’s not the physical damage the impact would cause, it’s the psychological terror I’m worried about.” He turned to the President. “NASA may give only a small chance to the probability of damage, and they may be right. But perception is reality. And if this leaks out, the perception will be that a million-pound space station will hit New York City, contaminate the east coast, and cause incredible damage. Our analysts envision newscasters reporting that an equivalent impact by a one-million-pound asteroid could potentially be hundreds of times more devastating than the Hiroshima blast—”
Scott blurted, “But, sir, that’s impossible!”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s impossible or improbable,” Homeland Security continued, his voice edged with irritation. “All it takes are a few misspoken comments and it becomes real. It will spiral out of control. Public reaction can instantly turn into a bonfire, driven by momentum, fueled by the news media and the Internet. And it doesn’t matter if it’s incorrect or misguided. Once this hits the media it’ll cause a panic that will dwarf anything we’ve ever seen. Rioting, mayhem, breakdown in authority—our civil law enforcement personnel routinely have their authority challenged now; can you imagine what they’ll experience if they try to keep order when it’s reported that the entire eastern seaboard may be at risk?”