Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(17)

Big John had identified two other incidents that occurred at almost the same time. That Thanksgiving night, the alien Rho Ship, kept in a secret facility at Los Alamos National Laboratory, had lost all power, losing the camouflaging cloak and all its internal lighting. It was as if the thing had just suddenly died. Even more astoundingly, three gravitational wave detectors, ALLEGRO in Louisiana, EXPLORER in Geneva, and AURIGA in Legarno, detected gravitational waves of such magnitude that scientists initially dismissed the results. Later correlation with ATLAS detector data showed them to have been caused by the November Anomaly.

For Big John, this series of apocalyptic events occurring nearly simultaneously had raised a red flag, one that tugged at Denise’s curiosity. Thus seduced, she had added a new priority intelligence requirement to Big John’s list, and yesterday Big John had delivered.

A recently published paper by Dr. Frederick Botz, an obscure physics professor at Arizona State University, offered up a triangulation of the three gravitational wave observations that placed the origin of the event not at the ATLAS detector, but in the general vicinity of the New Mexico–Colorado border. Although the paper had drawn almost no attention in the scientific community, it had brought beads of cold sweat to Denise’s brow. Due to her long relationship with Big John, her mind had come to function in harmony with the machine. Like tumblers in a lock, the pieces clicked into place.

Los Alamos. The gravitational event had originated at Los Alamos at the same time that the Rho Ship had died, just as the November Anomaly appeared in Meyrin, Switzerland. Everywhere she looked, Dr. Stephenson’s tentacles touched the surface. He was the common factor. Stephenson had been the first to open the Rho Ship. He had been in charge of all the research on alien technologies, behind the scheduled release to the public. Add to the pot the fact that every serious political opponent of the Rho Project had turned up dead. Then, on the night his plans came crashing down, the Rho Ship had died, somehow triggering a gravitational event detected across the world, possibly causing a quasi-stable singularity to form at the heart of the ATLAS detector.

Now Dr. Stephenson was about to be exonerated and placed in charge of the scientific effort to save the planet from the November Anomaly. Of course all of this was speculation on Denise’s part. No one else would believe her even if she brought it to the NSA director’s attention. Besides, she didn’t relish the idea of going public with her allegations against Dr. Stephenson.

But Big John had identified another anomaly, this time a statistical one. Through a correlation so mysterious that it had bypassed everyone else’s notice, Big John had identified a group closely connected to Dr. Stephenson’s current situation, a group for which the connection made no sense. That’s what drew Denise in so irresistibly. Score one for curiosity.

Turning her attention back to the bank of LCD monitors, Denise finalized Big John’s new command.

Highest priority intelligence requirement.

Heather McFarland. Mark Smythe. Jennifer Smythe.

Restricted access override...Denise Jennings...eyes only.





Buried far beneath Chekhov, Russia, the spartan briefing room represented an insignificant fraction of the Russian General Staff’s wartime command post. The assemblage of military officers sat in total silence, a silence that the scientist who had just concluded his briefing dared not break.

General Sergei Kharnov leaned sideways in his chair, his chin propped on his left hand at an angle that made it difficult to see his eyes through his bushy brown eyebrows. He didn’t trust the American, despite the fact that he was the most important Russian spy since Klaus Fuchs penetrated the Manhattan Project. Still there was no denying the quality of the scientific information he had provided to the Ministry of Defense. The American government’s furious reaction to Dr. Frell’s defection had held no surprises for Kharnov, coming as it did right after the news about Henderson House. That, and the tremendous effort the Russian government had thrown into smuggling Dr. Frell out of the US, should have convinced him of the man’s loyalty.

But General Kharnov had a rule of thumb that had served him well throughout his long career. Never trust politicians or spies.

A drop of water fell from a crack in the concrete ceiling to splash onto the corner of the table nearest the general, an occurrence so common in the huge facility that it normally attracted no attention. But against the backdrop of silence, the sound seemed preternaturally loud, just enough to finally rouse General Kharnov from his contemplation. He leaned forward once more.

“Dr. Frell. We’ve all seen and heard your drawn-out presentation on the wonders of your research. But I want to cut through the sales pitch and ask you some very specific questions. And I expect to hear, from you, very specific answers. Do I make myself clear? Da?”

At the far end of the room the American cleared his throat and answered in barely understandable Russian. “Yes, General. I understand.”

“Three months you’ve been here. We set up a lab for you in this facility. Have you been able to recreate the Rho Project nanite fluid?”

Dr. Frell paused. “Yes. I’m speaking of the original formula delivered to Africa.”

“You made samples? Tested it?”

“On animals. Yes.”

“Why not human subjects?”

“Risk. First we make sure it works on animals, then humans.”

General Kharnov scowled. “You waste time. What are you doing here? Developing a cosmetic product? Stop being stupid. From now on, no animal tests. Tell Dr. Poranski how many subjects you need and they will be delivered. Clear?”