88

Even with the Aurora aircraft's misted-methane propulsion system at half power, the Delta Force was hurtling through the night at three times the speed of sound-over two thousand miles an hour. The repetitive throb of the Pulse Detonation Wave Engines behind them gave the ride a hypnotic rhythm. A hundred feet below, the ocean churned wildly, whipped up by the Aurora's vacuum wake, which sucked fifty-foot rooster tails skyward in long parallel sheets behind the plane.

This is the reason the SR-71 Blackbird was retired, Delta-One thought.

The Aurora was one of those secret aircraft that nobody was supposed to know existed, but everyone did. Even the Discovery channel had covered Aurora and its testing out at Groom Lake in Nevada. Whether the security leaks had come from the repeated "skyquakes" heard as far away as Los Angeles, or the unfortunate eyewitness sighting by a North Sea oil-rig driller, or the administrative gaffe that left a description of Aurora in a public copy of the Pentagon budget, nobody would ever know. It hardly mattered. The word was out: The U.S. military had a plane capable of Mach 6 flight, and it was no longer on the drawing board. It was in the skies overhead.

Built by Lockheed, the Aurora looked like a flattened American football. It was 110 feet long, sixty feet wide, smoothly contoured with a crystalline patina of thermal tiles much like the space shuttle. The speed was primarily the result of an exotic new propulsion system known as a Pulse Detonation Wave Engine, which burned a clean, misted, liquid hydrogen and left a telltale pulse contrail in the sky. For this reason, it only flew at night.

Tonight, with the luxury of enormous speed, the Delta Force was taking the long way home, out across the open ocean. Even so, they were overtaking their quarry. At this rate, the Delta Force would be arriving on the eastern seaboard in under an hour, a good two hours before its prey. There had been discussion of tracking and shooting down the plane in question, but the controller rightly feared a radar capture of the incident or the burned wreckage might bring on a massive investigation. It was best to let the plane land as scheduled, the controller had decided. Once it became clear where their quarry intended to land, the Delta Force would move in.

Now, as Aurora streaked over the desolate Labrador Sea, Delta-One's CrypTalk indicated an incoming call. He answered.

"The situation has changed," the electronic voice informed them. "You have another mark before Rachel Sexton and the scientists land."

Another mark. Delta-One could feel it. Things were unraveling. The controller's ship had sprung another leak, and the controller needed them to patch it as fast as possible. The ship would not be leaking, Delta-One reminded himself, if we had hit our marks successfully on the Milne Ice Shelf. Delta-One knew damn well he was cleaning up his own mess.

"A fourth party has become involved," the controller said.

"Who?"

The controller paused a moment-and then gave them a name.

The three men exchanged startled looks. It was a name they knew well.

No wonder the controller sounded reluctant! Delta-One thought. For an operation conceived as a "zero-casualty" venture, the body count and target profile was climbing fast. He felt his sinews tighten as the controller prepared to inform them exactly how and where they would eliminate this new individual.

"The stakes have increased considerably," the controller said. "Listen closely. I will give you these instructions only once."

89

High above northern Maine, a G4 jet continued speeding toward Washington. Onboard, Michael Tolland and Corky Marlinson looked on as Rachel Sexton began to explain her theory for why there might be increased hydrogen ions in the fusion crust of the meteorite.

"NASA has a private test facility called Plum Brook Station," Rachel explained, hardly able to believe she was going to talk about this. Sharing classified information out of protocol was not something she had ever done, but considering the circumstances, Tolland and Corky had a right to know this. "Plum Brook is essentially a test chamber for NASA's most radical new engine systems. Two years ago I wrote a gist about a new design NASA was testing there-something called an expander cycle engine."

Corky eyed her suspiciously. "Expander cycle engines are still in the theoretical stage. On paper. Nobody's actually testing. That's decades away."

Rachel shook her head. "Sorry, Corky. NASA has prototypes. They're testing."

"What?" Corky looked skeptical. "ECE's run on liquid oxygen-hydrogen, which freezes in space, making the engine worthless to NASA. They said they were not even going to try to build an ECE until they overcame the freezing fuel problem."

"They overcame it. They got rid of the oxygen and turned the fuel into a 'slush-hydrogen' mixture, which is some kind of cryogenic fuel consisting of pure hydrogen in a semifrozen state. It's very powerful and very clean burning. It's also a contender for the propulsion system if NASA runs missions to Mars."

Corky looked amazed. "This can't be true."

"It better be true," Rachel said. "I wrote a brief about it for the President. My boss was up in arms because NASA wanted to publicly announce slush-hydrogen as a big success, and Pickering wanted the White House to force NASA to keep slush-hydrogen classified."

"Why?"

"Not important," Rachel said, having no intention of sharing more secrets than she had to. The truth was that Pickering's desire to classify slush-hydrogen's success was to fight a growing national security concern few knew existed-the alarming expansion of China's space technology. The Chinese were currently developing a deadly "for-hire" launch platform, which they intended to rent out to high bidders, most of whom would be U.S. enemies. The implications for U.S. security were devastating. Fortunately, the NRO knew China was pursuing a doomed propulsion-fuel model for their launch platform, and Pickering saw no reason to tip them off about NASA's more promising slush-hydrogen propellant.

"So," Tolland said, looking uneasy, "you're saying NASA has a clean-burning propulsion system that runs on pure hydrogen?"

Rachel nodded. "I don't have figures, but the exhaust temperatures of these engines are apparently several times hotter than anything ever before developed. They're requiring NASA to develop all kinds of new nozzle materials." She paused. "A large rock, placed behind one of these slush-hydrogen engines, would be scalded by a hydrogen-rich blast of exhaust fire coming out at an unprecedented temperature. You'd get quite a fusion crust."

"Come on now!" Corky said. "Are we back to the fake meteorite scenario?"

Tolland seemed suddenly intrigued. "Actually, that's quite an idea. The setup would be more or less like leaving a boulder on the launchpad under the space shuttle during liftoff."

"God save me," Corky muttered. "I'm airborne with idiots."

"Corky," Tolland said. "Hypothetically speaking, a rock placed in an exhaust field would exhibit similar burn features to one that fell through the atmosphere, wouldn't it? You'd have the same directional striations and backflow of the melting material."

Corky grunted. "I suppose."

"And Rachel's clean-burning hydrogen fuel would leave no chemical residue. Only hydrogen. Increased levels of hydrogen ions in the fusion pocking."

Corky rolled his eyes. "Look, if one of these ECE engines actually exists, and runs on slush-hydrogen, I suppose what you're talking about is possible. But it's extremely far-fetched."

"Why?" Tolland asked. "The process seems fairly simple."

Rachel nodded. "All you need is a 190-million-year-old fossilized rock. Blast it in a slush-hydrogen-engine exhaust fire, and bury it in the ice. Instant meteorite."

"To a tourist, maybe," Corky said, "but not to a NASA scientist! You still haven't explained the chondrules!"

Rachel tried to recall Corky's explanation of how chondrules formed. "You said chondrules are caused by rapid heating and cooling events in space, right?"

Corky sighed. "Chondrules form when a rock, chilled in space, suddenly becomes superheated to a partial-melt stage-somewhere near 1550 Celsius. Then the rock must cool again, extremely rapidly, hardening the liquid pockets into chondrules."

Tolland studied his friend. "And this process can't happen on earth?"

"Impossible," Corky said. "This planet does not have the temperature variance to cause that kind of rapid shift. You're talking here about nuclear heat and the absolute zero of space. Those extremes simply don't exist on earth."

Rachel considered it. "At least not naturally."

Corky turned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why couldn't the heating and cooling event have occurred here on earth artificially?" Rachel asked. "The rock could have been blasted by a slush-hydrogen engine and then rapidly cooled in a cryogenic freezer."

Corky stared. "Manufactured chondrules?"

"It's an idea."

"A ridiculous one," Corky replied, flashing his meteorite sample. "Perhaps you forget? These chondrules were irrefutably dated at 190 million years." His tone grew patronizing. "To the best of my knowledge, Ms. Sexton, 190 million years ago, nobody was running slush-hydrogen engines and cryogenic coolers."

Chondrules or not, Tolland thought, the evidence is piling up. He had been silent now for several minutes, deeply troubled by Rachel's newest revelation about the fusion crust. Her hypothesis, though staggeringly bold, had opened all kinds of new doors and gotten Tolland thinking in new directions. If the fusion crust is explainable... what other possibilities does that present?

"You're quiet," Rachel said, beside him.

Tolland glanced over. For an instant, in the muted lighting of the plane, he saw a softness in Rachel's eyes that reminded him of Celia. Shaking off the memories, he gave her a tired sigh. "Oh, I was just thinking... "

She smiled. "About meteorites?"

"What else?"

"Running through all the evidence, trying to figure out what's left?"

"Something like that."

"Any thoughts?"

"Not really. I'm troubled by how much of the data has collapsed in light of discovering that insertion shaft beneath the ice."

"Hierarchical evidence is a house of cards," Rachel said. "Pull out your primary assumption, and everything gets shaky. The location of the meteorite find was a primary assumption."

I'll say. "When I arrived at Milne, the administrator told me the meteorite had been found inside a pristine matrix of three-hundred-year-old ice and was more dense than any rock found anywhere in the area, which I took as logical proof that the rock had to fall from space."

"You and the rest of us."

"The midrange nickel content, though persuasive, is apparently not conclusive."

"It's close," Corky said nearby, apparently listening in.

"But not exact."

Corky acquiesced with a reluctant nod.

"And," Tolland said, "this never before seen species of space bug, though shockingly bizarre, in reality could be nothing more than a very old, deepwater crustacean."

Rachel nodded. "And now the fusion crust... "

"I hate to say it," Tolland said, glancing at Corky, "but it's starting to feel like there's more negative evidence than positive."

"Science is not about hunches," Corky said. "It's about evidence. The chondrules in this rock are decidedly meteoric. I agree with you both that everything we've seen is deeply disturbing, but we cannot ignore these chondrules. The evidence in favor is conclusive, while the evidence against is circumstantial."

Rachel frowned. "So where does that leave us?"

"Nowhere," Corky said. "The chondrules prove we are dealing with a meteorite. The only question is why someone stuck it under the ice."

Tolland wanted to believe his friend's sound logic, but something just felt wrong.

"You don't look convinced, Mike," Corky said.

Tolland gave his friend a bewildered sigh. "I don't know. Two out of three wasn't bad, Corky. But we're down to one out of three. I just feel like we're missing something."

90

I got caught, Chris Harper thought, feeling a chill as he pictured an American prison cell. Senator Sexton knows I lied about the PODS software.

As the PODS section manager escorted Gabrielle Ashe back into his office and closed the door, he felt his hatred of the NASA administrator grow deeper by the instant. Tonight Harper had learned just how deep the administrator's lies truly ran. In addition to forcing Harper to lie about having fixed PODS's software, the administrator had apparently set up some insurance just in case Harper got cold feet and decided not to be a team player.

Evidence of embezzlement, Harper thought. Blackmail. Very sly. After all, who would believe an embezzler trying to discredit the single greatest moment in American space history? Harper had already witnessed to what lengths the NASA administrator would go to save America's space agency, and now with the announcement of a meteorite with fossils, the stakes had skyrocketed.

Harper paced for several seconds around the widetable on which sat a scale model of the PODS satellite-a cylindrical prism with multiple antennae and lenses behind reflective shields. Gabrielle sat down, her dark eyes watching, waiting. The nausea in Harper's gut reminded him of how he had felt during the infamous press conference. He'd put on a lousy show that night, and everyone had questioned him about it. He'd had to lie again and say he was feeling ill that night and was not himself. His colleagues and the press shrugged off his lackluster performance and quickly forgot about it.

Now the lie had come back to haunt him.

Gabrielle Ashe's expression softened. "Mr. Harper, with the administrator as an enemy, you will need a powerful ally. Senator Sexton could well be your only friend at this point. Let's start with the PODS software lie. Tell me what happened."

Harper sighed. He knew it was time to tell the truth. I bloody well should have told the truth in the first place! "The PODS launch went smoothly," he began. "The satellite settled into a perfect polar orbit just as planned."

Gabrielle Ashe looked bored. She apparently knew all this. "Go on."

"Then came the trouble. When we geared up to start searching the ice for density anomalies, the onboard anomaly-detection software failed."

"Uh... huh."

Harper's words came faster now. "The software was supposed to be able to rapidly examine thousands of acres of data and find parts of the ice that fell outside the range of normal ice density. Primarily the software was looking for soft spots in the ice-global warming indicators-but if it stumbled across other density incongruities, it was programmed to flag those as well. The plan was for PODS to scan the Arctic Circle over several weeks and identify any anomalies that we could use to measure global warming."

"But without functioning software," Gabrielle said, "PODS was no good. NASA would have had to examine images of every square inch of the Arctic by hand, looking for trouble spots."

Harper nodded, reliving the nightmare of his programming gaffe. "It would take decades. The situation was terrible. Because of a flaw in my programming, PODS was essentially worthless. With the election coming up and Senator Sexton being so critical of NASA... " He sighed.

"Your mistake was devastating to NASA and the President."

"It couldn't have come at a worse time. The administrator was livid. I promised him I could fix the problem during the next shuttle mission-a simple matter of swapping out the chip that held the PODS software system. But it was too little too late. He sent me home on leave-but essentially I was fired. That was a month ago."

"And yet you were back on television two weeks ago announcing you'd found a work-around."

Harper slumped. "A terrible mistake. That was the day I got a desperate call from the administrator. He told me something had come up, a possible way to redeem myself. I came into the office immediately and met with him. He asked me to hold a press conference and tell everyone I'd found a work-around for the PODS software and that we would have data in a few weeks. He said he'd explain it to me later."

"And you agreed."

"No, I refused! But an hour later, the administrator was back in my office-with the White House senior adviser!"

"What!" Gabrielle looked astounded by this. "Marjorie Tench?"

An awful creature, Harper thought, nodding. "She and the administrator sat me down and told me my mistake had quite literally put NASA and the President on the brink of total collapse. Ms. Tench told me about the senator's plans to privatize NASA. She told me I owed it to the President and space agency to make it all right. Then she told me how."

Gabrielle leaned forward. "Go on."

"Marjorie Tench informed me that the White House, by sheer good fortune, had intercepted strong geologic evidence that an enormous meteorite was buried in the Milne Ice Shelf. One of the biggest ever. A meteorite of that size would be a major find for NASA."

Gabrielle looked stunned. "Hold on, so you're saying someone already knew the meteorite was there before PODS discovered it?"

"Yes. PODS had nothing to do with the discovery. The administrator knew the meteorite existed. He simply gave me the coordinates and told me to reposition PODS over the ice shelf and pretend PODS made the discovery."

"You're kidding me."

"That was my reaction when they asked me to participate in the sham. They refused to tell me how they'd found out the meteorite was there, but Ms. Tench insisted it didn't matter and that this was the ideal opportunity to salvage my PODS fiasco. If I could pretend the PODS satellite located the meteorite, then NASA could praise PODS as a much needed success and boost the President before the election."

Gabrielle was awestruck. "And of course you couldn't claim PODS had detected a meteorite until you'd announced that the PODS anomaly-detection software was up and running."

Harper nodded. "Hence the press conference lie. I was forced into it. Tench and the administrator were ruthless. They reminded me I'd let everyone down-the President had funded my PODS project, NASA had spent years on it, and now I'd ruined the whole thing with a programming blunder."

"So you agreed to help."

"I didn't have a choice. My career was essentially over if I didn't. And the reality was that if I hadn't muffed the software, PODS would have found that meteorite on its own. So, it seemed a small lie at the time. I rationalized it by telling myself that the software would be fixed in a few months when the space shuttle went up, so I would simply be announcing the fix a little early."

Gabrielle let out a whistle. "A tiny lie to take advantage of a meteoric opportunity."

Harper was feeling ill just talking about it. "So... I did it. Following the administrator's orders, I held a press conference announcing that I'd found a work-around for my anomaly-detection software, I waited a few days, and then I repositioned PODS over the administrator's meteorite coordinates. Then, following the proper chain of command, I phoned the EOS director and reported that PODS had located a hard density anomaly in the Milne Ice Shelf. I gave him the coordinates and told him the anomaly appeared to be dense enough to be a meteorite. Excitedly, NASA sent a small team up to Milne to take some drill cores. That's when the operation got very hush-hush."

"So, you had no idea the meteorite had fossils until tonight?"

"Nobody here did. We're all in shock. Now everyone is calling me a hero for finding proof of extraterrestrial bioforms, and I don't know what to say."

Gabrielle was silent a long moment, studying Harper with firm black eyes. "But if PODS didn't locate the meteorite in the ice, how did the administrator know the meteorite was there?"

"Someone else found it first."

"Someone else? Who?"

Harper sighed. "A Canadian geologist named Charles Brophy-a researcher on Ellesmere Island. Apparently he was doing geologic ice soundings on the Milne Ice Shelf when he by chance discovered the presence of what appeared to be a huge meteorite in the ice. He radioed it in, and NASA happened to intercept the transmission."

Gabrielle stared. "But isn't this Canadian furious that NASA is taking all the credit for the find?"

"No," Harper said, feeling a chill. "Conveniently, he's dead."

91

Michael Tolland closed his eyes and listened to the drone of the G4 jet engine. He had given up trying to think anymore about the meteorite until they got back to Washington. The chondrules, according to Corky, were conclusive; the rock in the Milne Ice Shelf could only be a meteorite. Rachel had hoped to have a conclusive answer for William Pickering by the time they landed, but her thought experiments had run into a dead end with the chondrules. As suspicious as the meteorite evidence was, the meteorite appeared to be authentic.

So be it.

Rachel had obviously been shaken by the trauma in the ocean. Tolland was amazed, though, by her resilience. She was focused now on the issue at hand-trying to find a way to debunk or authenticate the meteorite, and trying to assess who had tried to kill them.

For most of the trip, Rachel had been in the seat beside Tolland. He'd enjoyed talking to her, despite the trying circumstances. Several minutes ago, she'd headed back to the restroom, and now Tolland was surprised to find himself missing her beside him. He wondered how long it had been since he'd missed a woman's presence-a woman other than Celia.

"Mr. Tolland?"

Tolland glanced up.

The pilot was sticking his head into the cabin. "You asked me to tell you when we were in telephone range of your ship? I can get you that connection if you want."

"Thanks." Tolland made his way up the aisle.

Inside the cockpit, Tolland placed a call to his crew. He wanted to let them know he would not be back for another day or two. Of course, he had no intention of telling them what trouble he'd run into.

The phone rang several times, and Tolland was surprised to hear the ship's SHINCOM 2100 communications system pick up. The outgoing message was not the usual professional-sounding greeting but rather the rowdy voice of one of Tolland's crew, the onboard joker.

"Hiya, hiya, this is the Goya," the voice announced. "We're sorry nobody's here right now, but we've all been abducted by very large lice! Actually, we've taken temporary shore leave to celebrate Mike's huge night. Gosh, are we proud! You can leave your name and number, and maybe we'll be back tomorrow when we're sober. Ciao! Go, ET!"

Tolland laughed, missing his crew already. Obviously they'd seen the press conference. He was glad they'd gone ashore; he'd abandoned them rather abruptly when the President called, and their sitting idle at sea was crazy. Although the message said everyone had gone ashore, Tolland had to assume they would not have left his ship unattended, particularly in the strong currents where it was now anchored.

Tolland pressed the numeric code to play any internal voice mail messages they'd left for him. The line beeped once. One message. The voice was the same rowdy crewmember.

"Hi Mike, hell of a show! If you're hearing this, you're probably checking your messages from some swanky White House party and wondering where the hell we are. Sorry we abandoned ship, buddy, but this was not a dry-celebration kind of night. Don't worry, we anchored her really good and left the porch light on. We're secretly hoping she gets pirated so you'll let NBC buy you that new boat! Just kidding, man. Don't worry, Xavia agreed to stay onboard and mind the fort. She said she preferred time alone to partying with a bunch of drunken fishmongers? Can you believe that?"

Tolland chuckled, relieved to hear someone was aboard watching the ship. Xavia was responsible, definitely not the partying type. A respected marine geologist, Xavia had the reputation for speaking her mind with a caustic honesty.

"Anyhow, Mike," the message went on, "tonight was incredible. Kind of makes you proud to be a scientist, doesn't it? Everyone's talking about how good this looks for NASA. Screw NASA, I say! This looks even better for us! Amazing Seas ratings must have gone up a few million points tonight. You're a star, man. A real one. Congrats. Excellent job."

There was hushed talking on the line, and the voice came back. "Oh, yeah, and speaking of Xavia, just so you don't get too big a head, she wants to razz you about something. Here she is."

Xavia's razor voice came on the machine. "Mike, Xavia, you're a God, yada yada. And because I love you so much, I've agreed to baby-sit this antediluvian wreck of yours. Frankly, it will be nice to be away from these hoodlums you call scientists. Anyhow, in addition to baby-sitting the ship, the crew has asked me, in my role as onboard bitch, to do everything in my power to keep you from turning into a conceited bastard, which after tonight I realize is going to be difficult, but I had to be the first to tell you that you made a boo-boo in your documentary. Yes, you heard me. A rare Michael Tolland brain fart. Don't worry, there are only about three people on earth who will notice, and they're all anal-retentive marine geologists with no sense of humor. A lot like me. But you know what they say about us geologists-always looking for faults!" She laughed. "Anyhow, it's nothing, a minuscule point about meteorite petrology. I only mention it to ruin your night. You might get a call or two about it, so I thought I'd give you the heads-up so you don't end up sounding like the moron we all know you really are." She laughed again. "Anyhow, I'm not much of a party animal, so I'm staying onboard. Don't bother calling me; I had to turn on the machine because the goddamned press have been calling all night. You're a real star tonight, despite your screwup. Anyhow, I'll fill you in on it when you get back. Ciao."

The line went dead.

Michael Tolland frowned. A mistake in my documentary?

Rachel Sexton stood in the restroom of the G4 and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked pale, she thought, and more frail than she'd imagined. Tonight's scare had taken a lot out of her. She wondered how long it would be before she would stop shivering, or before she would go near an ocean. Removing her U.S.S. Charlotte cap, she let her hair down. Better, she thought, feeling more like herself.

Looking into her eyes, Rachel sensed a deep weariness. Beneath it, though, she saw the resolve. She knew that was her mother's gift. Nobody tells you what you can and can't do. Rachel wondered if her mother had seen what happened tonight. Someone tried to kill me, Mom. Someone tried to kill all of us...

Rachel's mind, as it had for several hours now, scrolled through the list of names.

Lawrence Ekstrom... Marjorie Tench... President Zach Herney. All had motives. And, more chillingly, all had means. The President is not involved, Rachel told herself, clinging to her hope that the President she respected so much more than her own father was an innocent bystander in this mysterious incident.

We still know nothing.

Not who... not if... not why.

Rachel had wanted to have answers for William Pickering but, so far, all she'd managed to do was raise more questions.

When Rachel left the restroom, she was surprised to see Michael Tolland was not in his seat. Corky was dozing nearby. As Rachel looked around, Mike stepped out of the cockpit as the pilot hung up a radiophone. His eyes were wide with concern.

"What is it?" Rachel asked.

Tolland's voice was heavy as he told her about the phone message.

A mistake in his presentation? Rachel thought Tolland was overreacting. "It's probably nothing. She didn't tell you specifically what the error was?"

"Something to do with meteorite petrology."

"Rock structure?"

"Yeah. She said the only people who would notice the mistake were a few other geologists. It sounds like whatever error I made was related to the composition of the meteorite itself."

Rachel drew a quick breath, understanding now. "Chondrules?"

"I don't know, but it seems pretty coincidental."

Rachel agreed. The chondrules were the one remaining shred of evidence that categorically supported NASA's claim that this was indeed a meteorite.

Corky came over, rubbing his eyes. "What's going on?"

Tolland filled him in.

Corky scowled, shaking his head. "It's not a problem with the chondrules, Mike. No way. All of your data came from NASA. And from me. It was flawless."

"What other petrologic error could I have made?"

"Who the hell knows? Besides, what do marine geologists know about chondrules?"

"I have no idea, but she's damned sharp."

"Considering the circumstances," Rachel said, "I think we should talk to this woman before we talk to Director Pickering."

Tolland shrugged. "I called her four times and got the machine. She's probably in the hydrolab and can't hear a damn thing anyway. She won't get my messages until morning at the earliest." Tolland paused, checking his watch. "Although... "

"Although what?"

Tolland eyed her intensely. "How important do you think it is that we talk to Xavia before we talk to your boss?"

"If she has something to say about chondrules? I'd say it's critical. Mike," Rachel said, "at the moment, we've got all kinds of contradictory data. William Pickering is a man accustomed to having clear answers. When we meet him, I'd love to have something substantial for him to act on."

"Then we should make a stop."

Rachel did a double take. "On your ship?"

"It's off the coast of New Jersey. Almost directly on our way to Washington. We can talk to Xavia, find out what she knows. Corky still has the meteorite sample, and if Xavia wants to run some geologic tests on it, the ship has a fairly well-equipped lab. I can't imagine it would take us more than an hour to get some conclusive answers."

Rachel felt a pulse of anxiety. The thought of having to face the ocean again so soon was unnerving. Conclusive answers, she told herself, tempted by the possibility. Pickering will definitely want answers.