Immune (The Rho Agenda #2)(90)
“God damn it,” Mark breathed. “Jen! What the f*ck have you done?”
Hearing no response from Heather, Mark glanced sideways. Staring straight through him, she leaned back against one of the roof support frames, lost in a vision that clouded her eyes. If it hadn’t been for the intensity of the look on her face, Mark would have shaken her, would have tried to bring her back to the present. But somehow, pulled forward by a fascination that he couldn’t fight, Mark leaned in close.
As he watched Heather’s jaw clench in determination, Mark knew this was no random fugue that had come to claim control over his beautiful friend. As strange as it seemed, deep in her savant mind, Heather was hunting. And although it raised the hair along the back of his neck, this was one hunt Mark was unwilling to interrupt.
91
Dr. Hanz Jorgen, chief scientist in charge of research on the recently discovered Bandelier Ship, had set up a makeshift office inside the cave that housed the dead starship. The name had come from the press, Bandelier being the national monument adjacent to where the second starship had been discovered. Now, as the setting sun cast deep shadows through the steep canyon outside, a darker shadow crept across Jorgen’s plump face.
Dr. Stephenson sat on a folding metal chair, directly across from Dr. Jorgen’s desk, watching Dr. Jorgen struggle to control his emotions.
“I don’t at all agree with that characterization of our status.”
Dr. Stephenson’s eyes narrowed. “Well, Hanz, how would you characterize a total lack of progress?”
Jorgen ran a plump hand across the top of his shiny bald dome, as if seeking some hair to pull out. The dampness at the armpits of his rumpled white shirt seemed to grow darker by the second.
“Just because we haven’t managed to open the doors into the inner compartments or power up any of the ship’s systems doesn’t mean we haven’t made progress. My report documents the results of our tests on the composition of every part of the ship we can reach, both interior and exterior. By the way, I seem to recall there is a large section of the ship you have at Rho Division that your team has been unable to access, despite decades of work.”
“Ah, yes, your report.” Dr. Stephenson smiled as he extracted the thick document from his attaché case, leafing through pages he had covered with red markings. He flipped to one of the dog-eared pages. “‘Exterior chemical composition…unknown. Material defies all efforts to extract a sample.’”
Stephenson turned to another page. “‘Although the texture of the materials comprising the interior surfaces, couches, and panels indicates a much different molecular composition than that comprising the ship’s outer hull, we have, as yet, been unsuccessful in extracting samples for chemical analysis…All efforts to power up shipboard systems have proven ineffective.’”
Glancing up at the ruddy face of Jorgen, Dr. Stephenson sneered. “Unknown…unsuccessful…ineffective…everywhere I look in this piece of garbage you call an interim progress report, that’s all I see. Those aren’t my words, they are yours. Let me tell you something, Dr. Jorgen. I don’t call lack of success progress. You give me one example of something tangible that your team has come up with, and I’ll get off your ass.”
Jorgen’s plump face had gone well past red, acquiring a deep shade of purple, his blue eyes bulging as if they were ready to shoot forth like potato pellets from a spud gun.
“Did you even read our conclusion?” he sputtered.
“That’s why I came to pay you this visit.” Dr. Stephenson flipped to the last page. “Let’s see…‘Based upon the failure of all of our tests to identify any of the materials from which this ship is constructed, we have concluded that they are of extraterrestrial origin, the result of a superior alien technology.’”
Dr. Stephenson rose from his chair and tossed the document onto Dr. Jorgen’s desk. “Extraterrestrial. No f*cking shit. Consider this your six-weeks’ notice. Get me something useful or start shopping around for someplace else to work.”
Without giving the hyperventilating scientist a chance to respond, the deputy director turned and exited the cavern.
While the steps that had been cut into the hillside leading to the top of the canyon had greatly improved ease of access, it still left most people huffing and puffing, but for Dr. Stephenson, the hike didn’t even stir his heart rate from its steady forty-six beats per minute. Passing the military guards without bothering to acknowledge them, he made his way back to his helicopter and was soon airborne for the short flight back to Rho Division.
It occurred to him that his pressure tactics might backfire with Jorgen. The man was a heavyweight in more than physical appearance, having won a pair of Nobel Prizes for his work in basic material science. There was no questioning the man’s intellect, possibly a close second at the laboratory to Dr. Stephenson’s own. In addition, Dr. Jorgen exercised a tight network of political connections from his days as scientific advisor to the president. And although President Harris was dead, those connections had not died with him.
Still, in Dr. Stephenson’s experience, anger was sometimes a more effective motivator than fear. That Jorgen was one of the few people on the deputy director’s team who didn’t fear him only spurred Stephenson’s aggressive nature. In most cases, he would have wanted to discuss several interesting aspects of Jorgen’s report, but today Dr. Stephenson found himself distracted by the amazing changes in Raul.