“He was at Wallops with other students involved in science projects that were in the rocket’s payload,” Conn explains. “In his case, a minisatellite, a CubeSat that makes orbit inspections of larger spacecraft,” and there’s no doubt they’re talking about Lex.
An intern at Langley, he’s part of a special science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM) initiative. Dad tucked him under his wing recently, an old habit that rarely ends well, bringing people home he shouldn’t.
“I’m wondering if you’ve heard your father mention Lexell Anderson,” Conn verifies my suspicion.
“Lexell with two l ’s as in the comet,” I confirm, my mood plummeting further.
“What comet?”
“One that passed closer to Earth than any other in history, and is now lost,” I reply. “Lexell’s comet hasn’t been seen in centuries. And I hope this kid isn’t lost, too, that he’s not a bad seed. Goes by Lex, extremely gifted, getting academic credit for a fall internship at NASA, someone whose future could be ruined by an accusation of hacking into the government.”
“Cybercriminals start young these days,” Dick beats his same drum but he has other reasons for treating a 10-year-old like the enemy.
Lex is paying for those who’ve come before him, any stray who’s followed my father home. A kind and giving soul, he doesn’t see the bad in anyone, and has an affinity for gifted misfits and loners.
“What does Lex say?” On West Mercury Boulevard now, I almost can make out the KFC, my mouth watering as I think about their fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy.
“He claims what you’d expect, that he’d never seen the phone before,” Conn’s voice over speakerphone.
“Where was it?” I ask, driving past the Superior Pawn & Gun, the huge Guns sign on the roof unlit and ghostly in the storm.
“In the outside pocket of his backpack.”
“Where someone easily could plant it,” I point out as music booms through my truck’s speakers.
We’ve been disconnected, the cell signal dropped, and there’s no point in trying them back. If they have something further to say, they’ll reach out. Not to mention, all I’d get is some CIA operator who won’t know what I’m talking about (supposedly), and I’m surprised by the convenience store up ahead glowing like a welcome station. All others I’ve passed are closed because of the evacuation and terrible weather.
The Hampton Hop-In is deserted, the gas pumps empty, snowflakes frantic in floodlights. The pearl-white Jeep Cherokee alone in the parking lot is the same one I noticed when I was heading to Mission Control after midnight. The same clerk is inside the store, only he’s not at the counter as he was when I saw him earlier. Now he’s oddly seated in a folding chair that’s been moved near the glass front door.
“What are you looking at?” I mutter under my breath without moving my lips, a trick Carme and I learned as kids, talking like ventriloquists.
2
MIDDLE AGED I’m guessing, gray hair, a big belly and yellowish-tinted glasses, he’s huddled with his jacket on, watching my headlights slowly approach in the wintry mess.
A backpack is on the floor by his feet, and it didn’t escape my notice the first time I drove past that the pearl-white SUV is backed in, and there’s no front license plate. Meaning, the tag number isn’t easily visible, and I can’t run it to get the lowdown.
There’s damage to the underside of the right front bumper, and I don’t like that I’ve never seen the Jeep or the clerk before last night. I duck into the family-owned Hop-In at all hours as it’s on the way home, and I’m always stopping for something. Snacks, coffee, and what I wouldn’t give for one of their cheeseburgers slathered with onions, extreme stress never killing my appetite the way I wish.
I’m craving Whoppers, sausage biscuits, Mom’s country-fried steak, fantasizing about food even as I watch the convenience store clerk in my rearview mirror. He gets up from his chair, opening the front door while lighting a cigarette. Stepping out into wind and snow to smoke, he stares after my truck with its lights and sirens, NASA Protective Services and our moon and stars logo in blue on the doors.
Rocket cops, a lot of people call us. Only it’s not necessarily a compliment when someone jokes that people like me don’t build the rocket, we just protect it, suggesting we aren’t all that swift, another stereotype I can do without. That and spectrum-y, nerdy scientist, too dumb or smart to find your way out of the rain, and as is the case with most typecasts, there’s some truth but not much.
Special agents, cyber ninjas like me, are required to have a graduate degree. Some of us have PhDs and are trained in multiple disciplines ranging from science and engineering to psychology and the arts. When I left the Air Force, I was hired to head cyber investigations at Langley Research Center, the oldest of NASA’s 10 centers nationwide. But I’m also an aerospace engineer and quantum physicist, a test pilot, and an astronaut in the making.
Ever since I can remember, it’s been my dream to explore new worlds, and more to the point, to protect them and planet Earth. Whether it’s an orbiting laboratory, the moon or Mars, wherever humans go, they’ll cause trouble. Competing for power and resources, they’ll attempt to kill, steal and sabotage, which is what happened this morning on my watch.
Outer space was attacked from the ground, and I access the live video feed streaming from security cameras on Wallops Island, 170.5 kilometers (106 miles) south of where I’m this minute driving. The Mission Elapsed Time (MET) is +05:01:51.1 and counting since the rocket exploded, and I suppose in all the pandemonium no one’s thought to turn off the clock.
As I’ve continued monitoring the scene throughout the morning, I’ve realized the necessity of securing the blast site and keeping away the curious. But I’ve not understood why the cleanup and salvage operation couldn’t wait until daylight.
The barrier islands weren’t in the direct path of the nor’easter, and didn’t get slammed the way Tidewater is. Even so, it’s got to be miserably cold and dangerously dark out there on the Atlantic Ocean. I’m suspicious that NASA is trying to recover debris we want out of sight by daylight, possibly pieces and parts of a spy satellite.