Operation Damocles Read Free

shuttle flight. The module has the correct number stenciled on it. It must have even had an inspection tag on it, now that I think about it, otherwise the packing crew wouldn’t have loaded it. The launch manifest lists the package for that flight, on that date, when the real module is not scheduled to go for another nine days. The mission manifest, which is a duplicate copy of the launch manifest, is generated by the same person at the same time, yet the copy Kennedy has is different from what we have. The real module wasn’t even in Inspection then, it was in the warehouse. The warehouse didn’t pull it, Inspection didn’t inspect it, no other package is missing and we can’t find it in orbit, but we sure as hell put something up there.”
    Realization dawned in Castor’s eyes, and his face blanched, “You’re thinking some kind of terrorism, aren’t you? My God, Joe! What could it be?”
    “Shoe-box nuke maybe, or some kind of bio-weapon. Either one could kill a couple of million people if placed just right. Maybe nothing more harmful than half a ton of propaganda leaflets. Lord, what a coup that would be for one of these lunatic outfits. I just can’t think of a practical reason for doing something like that from space, unless the main intent is to embarrass NASA and the U.S. government.”
    Dykes picked up the phone. “I hope I’m wrong about all this, but I’m calling Patterson. Get all tracking stations busy trying to find that thing. Notify NORAD and the Air Force Space Command that we need their assistance in finding an experiment module that strayed off course. Give them dimensions, trajectory and last known coordinates. Do not tell anyone, there or here, what we have been talking about, okay? Not even your wife. If the media gets wind of this, the agency will be crucified, even if nothing bad ever comes of it.”

III

    Dr. Clarence “Butch” Patterson sat in his office looking through a water-streaked, plate-glass window at the Washington, D.C., skyline. It had been raining, and right now it looked as bleak and overcast as a winter day. It matched his frame of mind.
    Patterson looked the part of the distinguished scientist and administrator that he was. He fit the public image. In some part, that fact had aided him in his rise through the National Office of Science and Technology, and through NASA. Not that he wasn’t a good scientist, he was, and a good administrator too, but he had learned long ago that he had a flair for office politics. His was a natural, untrained charm—an easygoing personality that instilled confidence and trust. The crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiled, the automatic conspiratorial wink he unthinkingly injected into every conversation with peers and subordinates alike—these were habitual traits that made people feel warm and personal with him, as if they were his closest confidants. He was well-liked by most of his staff and associates, and worshipped by the secretary of ten years whom he had taken with him in his last two promotions. He was generally known for his honesty, ready smile and laid-back nature. He wasn’t smiling now though, and the unusually accentuated lines of his face made him look considerably older than his fifty-five years.
    To Patterson, the position he had attained this past January, as Director of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, was the epitome of career achievement. It was his life’s ambition, and it had come true. It meant that his name would be added to the annals of human history. His life had mattered. He had helped to shape the world and left a legacy that people of future generations would read about. He loved the stature, but God, he hated the social scene in today’s Washington.
    Nothing he had ever done had prepared him for the life of a Washington bureaucrat. It was insane. interoffice spying was routine. It was like a pack of rats, scrabbling for an advantage, and woe unto him who let his guard down.