Crisis on Flight 101

By S. P. Perone

Upon inadvertently discovering telepathic time travel, the rogue leader of a secret society of scientists threatens to re-write American history and virtually flip the world upside down with one cataclysmic stroke!

When Professor Tony Shane discovers that his research has been stolen to further this monstrous terrorist threat, he and his young research associate, Andrea Martin, join a CIA mission to intervene.

Intervention requires Shane to link telepathically with his young father, Daniel, in the summer of 1939. With the world on the brink of global war, Shane must guide Daniel through a bold attempt to rescue-or to kill-a brilliant Jewish atomic physicist in Hitler's grasp. While Shane and Daniel fall under the spell of an aggressive 1939 lover with mysterious designs, an alienated old flame must find a way to save the mission.

Much of this suspenseful venture evolves during a nostalgic overnight transatlantic flight on a Pan American "flying boat," with darkly mysterious forces working at cross-purposes. Fateful events during the 1939 flight are paralleled by political brokering in modern times climaxing with a shocking, fateful confrontation between a stubborn American president and the charismatic leader of the secret society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 11, 2003
• ISBN: 9780595750061

S. P. Perone

Sam Perone has worked in academic and government arenas and as a consultant in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has published numerous technical articles, two textbooks, nine novels and two memoirs. He and his wife live in the Sierra foothills of Northern California. Visit his web site at www.samperone.com.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUE

P A R T I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

P A R T II

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

P A R T III

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

EPILOGUE

Author’s Notes

About the Author

Crisis on Flight 101

All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Sam P. Perone

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

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Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

Except for references to historical figures, events, and aircraft this is a complete work of fiction. Technical developments central to the story are fictional, and any correlation with existing technology is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-29524-X

ISBN: 978-0-7596-1666-0 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

To Vita, Amy, Renée, Sammy, Stephanie and Melanie… for the inspiration that makes this all possible

Acknowledgements  

Many thanks to Sammy Perone for helpful discussions on neural psychology and philosophy; to Vita Perone for help with the conceptual cover design; and to my family, friends and colleagues for reviewing the early work and providing invaluable feedback and encouragement.

The atomic bomb blast depicted on the cover is taken from a U. S. Department of Energy photograph (Mohawk Event, 350 kilotons, Eniwetok, July 2, 1956).

The B-314 Clipper image on the cover is taken from a photograph by twentieth century aerial photographer Clyde Sunderland, provided with permission by AviationPosters.com.

PROLOGUE  

New York City—November 1929.

One last thing, Paddy, Mironi said. You gotta carry this with you. Reaching into the top drawer of his desk, Rico Mironi pulled out a shiny, ominous-looking .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver and placed it heavily on top of the desk. Sliding it toward Patrick McShane seated across from him, he asked, You know how ta use it, don’tcha?

Yes, sir, Paddy lied, as he reached for the gun. The surprisingly heavy weapon felt like ice in his hand. Stuffing the revolver in his jacket pocket, he became aware that Mironi had also slid a small box of ammunition toward him. As he stuffed the box in his other pocket, Paddy looked up at Mironi, as if to ask Is that all?

All right, Paddy. Domani. Before the sun come up. At the warehouse. The truck’ll be ready. Gus O’Donnell is gonna go with you. He knows the drill. You be back same time next day…with a full load. Capisci?

Don’t you worry, Mr. Mironi. The job’s good as done, Paddy replied earnestly, his thick Irish brogue contrasting sharply with Mironi’s thinly-veiled Sicilian accent. He held his breath as Mironi’s dark eyes bore through him silently from underneath furrowed bushy gray eyebrows. For a moment he absorbed the intimidation intended by the portly dark-skinned man in the expensive dark pin-stripe suit. Mironi’s final evaluation of the tall, wiry, drably dressed Irishman on the other side of his large oak desk was underway.

Va bene! Good! Mironi exclaimed suddenly as he stood up to dismiss McShane, leaning forward slightly with the broad knuckles of his two hands pressed against the top of the desk. Get outta here, Paddy, he commanded with a broad smile. Tomorrow…domani…you gonna start to be a rich man!

After Paddy had turned and exited the office, Mironi sat down, picked up the cigar that had been smoldering silently in the ashtray on his desk, and resumed puffing. Dumb Mick, he mumbled to himself, you’ll be lucky to last two weeks.

Mironi had little respect for most of the Irish that had been recruited to transport the bootleg liquor from Canada to his warehouses in New York. He was well aware that when times were good the Irish had had little affection for their Italian neighbors. But, now, with jobs scarce, they knew where to turn for steady work. Mironi chuckled, though, as he reflected that even the dumb Wops were not stupid enough to drive his bootleg trucks. The good Micks, like Gus O’Donnell, had been able to avoid the hijackers and the treasury agents for months, and had indeed become wealthy. Whether or not McShane would join that elite few remained to be seen. But the odds were against it.

* * * *

As he departed the building and joined the Mulberry Street crowd, Paddy was strangely conscious of the heavy, bulging pockets of his thin jacket. Slipping carefully between the waves of local residents clustered around the numerous peddlers of fresh fruits, vegetables, breads and pastries, Paddy realized that he hadn’t heard a word of English spoken. Despite being no more than a mile from St. Michael’s Parish, where he and most of his friends lived, Paddy felt as though he had traveled to a foreign country. But, as uncomfortable as it had been, he had had no choice. He had been without a job now for nearly a month…ever since the stock market crash had deprived Murphy’s Freight Line of most of its business. As the youngest and newest employee, he had been the first to go. Here he was, just twenty years old; in America for only a year; expecting his younger brother, Daniel, his sisters, and his parents to join him soon; engaged to be married to Peggy; and without a job. When his friend, Gus, had told him about the high pay Mironi was offering to haul bootleg booze from Canada, Paddy had not hesitated. With a single run he could earn more than he did with months of work at Murphy’s.

But Gus had been brutally frank about the risks; and Mironi had not minced words. If he got caught, Paddy would be wise to remember that the law could not begin to inflict the kind of pain and misery that Mironi’s associates would deliver if he talked. And then there was the job itself. Getting across the border with his contraband load was the least of his worries. Gus assured Paddy that Mironi was well connected; his influence could be felt not only in the Governor’s mansion but also in Washington. Border agents would look the other way. But, highway gangs staking out the desolate up-state roads to hijack the bootleg freight were the real concern. Despite the policy of constantly changing routes and the occasional use of decoys crammed with armed thugs, Mironi’s operation was losing one or two out of every twenty shipments.

Paddy shuddered as he reflected on the sober facts. Life was cheap. If they encountered hijackers, it would be Paddy’s driving and Gus’s shotgun that would make the difference between handsome rewards and cold-blooded death on the highway. Paddy was confident of his skills, particularly with Mironi’s souped-up vehicles…and he vowed to become another one of Mironi’s select crew. But he could not envision ever using the .38 that Mironi had given him. He could hold his own in a barroom brawl…but he was no killer…at least not yet.

New York City, Port Washington—July 1939

Nothing but old farts…rich old farts…Diana thought sullenly, as she surveyed the rest of the departing passengers in the Pan Am lounge. As unlikely as it would have been, she had hoped that there would be at least one young man her age on the flight to England. Bracketed by her anxious father and mother, she reflected on how she had come to this point.

Upon entering Smithwood College last fall her father had insisted she enroll in the Sophomore Year Abroad program. Of course, her mother had had visions of her studying at Oxford or Cambridge. But Diana had done her homework. She had insisted on attending a school that had the best undergraduate technical program. After all, she wanted to become an engineer…just like daddy. This had narrowed the choice to the Imperial College in London. Of course, the college’s proximity to the Bohemian and cultural centers of London played no small part in Diana’s machinations.

Her first year at Smithwood college for women had given Diana a chance to spread her wings. After eighteen years dedicated to becoming worthy of her mother’s family heritage, she had finally experienced the joy of being herself. At college, she was simply Diana…not Miss Diana Foxwood Sutton, direct descendant of Jason Foxwood, eighteenth century land baron of up state New York and central figure in the early confederation of colonial states. Christ, she thought, how many of the up-state yokels really knew what a murdering, thieving rascal the old coot had really been? Would they still have named all those roads, parks, and structures after him?

Diana’s mother’s obsession with preserving status within that tight group of families in Westchester County with similar lineage had been nearly upset when Andrew Sutton had wooed and won her heart. Sutton’s family roots were terribly shallow…but fabulously healthy. His position as President of Global Electronics, as well as the far-flung financial holdings of the Sutton family, had more than compensated for the lack of pedigree.

But, with Diana, her mother had taken no chances. Private schools for girls had left little opportunity for her to fraternize with common folk. And no young man had entered her life without her mother’s fingerprints clearly visible. Regardless of whether it was a summer at their mountain lake home or a social mixer at school, no encounters with males had escaped mother’s scrutiny or design.

But her first college year had brought Diana the freedom to think and do as she pleased. Despite her mother’s prying and spying, Diana managed to carve out a private life of her own…and it was exhilarating! She spent endless evenings with friends, discussing ideas and concepts that would never have surfaced in the Sutton household. She devoured literary works from authors on the fringes of social and political respectability. And she took a lover. And then another. And then several others.

Now, as she sat waiting to embark on a year’s adventure in London, she sensed the palpable apprehension of her parents. Her father was concerned about the deteriorating political situation in Europe. The Nazis had delivered Austria to Germany in 1938. Then, despite British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s forecast for peace in our time after the Munich conference in September, Hitler’s Germany had brutally occupied Czechoslovakia. Each day brought new and ominous threats from the Third Reich. Alliances and international positions were hardening. Lines were being drawn in the sand.

The fact that the threat of a European war did not bother Diana upset her father even more. He had threatened to cancel the arrangements with the university. But, Diana had prevailed. And, that was what had upset her mother. For the first time she had seen her daughter for the independent and willful young lady that she had become. And she was frightened.

Re-focusing on her immediate surroundings, Diana noticed that two young men had seated themselves across from her. Because of their similar features, she assumed they were brothers. The older one was probably in his late twenties, she thought, while the younger one could be about her age. Her pulse quickened as she caught conversation fragments suggesting that the younger lad would be traveling alone on her flight. With a practiced eye she sized him up. He was tall, nearly six feet, with long, black wavy hair, blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. The lilting brogue that colored the familiar phrases that passed between them…and the ill-fitting dark suit worn by the younger man…provided strong evidence to Diana that these were recent Irish immigrants. She wondered absently how they could possibly afford the outrageously expensive transatlantic Clipper flight. But then a sly smile crossed her lips as she envisioned a new conquest…one that would surely curdle her mother’s tea. Just then, the young man glanced her way…clearly embarrassed that their eyes had locked briefly.

Jesus, she thought, this is going to be delicious!

Copenhagen, Present Day—Three Years Earlier

The decision to join the mysterious ultra-secret Swiss organization had been a whim that had followed a disastrous affair with a married co-worker at the small government lab. It was after presenting a technical paper at the International Conference on Cybernetics, held at the University of Copenhagen in Denmark, that the first contact had been made. Urs Frederick, a Professor of Physics at the Eidgenossische Technische Hochschule (the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology) in Zurich, had asked a couple of very insightful questions during the talk, and had followed up afterwards by suggesting further discussions over lunch.

The Golden Peacock, a trendy bistro tucked away in the corner of the underground level of the Hotel King Edward, had been selected adroitly by Frederick to establish a comfortable distance from the rest of the conferees. Following a few pleasantries about respective backgrounds, Frederick had borne down with several deeply technical questions, the answers to which appeared to satisfy him regarding the solid competence of the young scientist before him.

Enjoying the vigorous technical discussion with someone who was an internationally known high-energy physicist, and yet was obviously very familiar with the comparatively mundane topic of the paper delivered that morning, the excited luncheon guest was surprised when the focus was abruptly shifted to international affairs. Herr Professor Frederick waxed passionately about the responsibilities of scientists to become more involved. He decried the misguided and corrupted politicians who chose to ignore global warming, continue relentless depletion of fossil fuels, wage war on dissidents without repairing underlying socioeconomic causes, and who would ultimately bring civilization to the brink of extinction by the ever-escalating quest for the ultimate weapon.

Horrified by the visions Professor Frederick had created, his luncheon guest was excited to hear about the elite international group of scientists dedicated to opposing these kinds of governmental abuses of science. But, it was only after subsequent intensive interviews that even sparse knowledge of the group was imparted.

Conceived as a secret group of top international scientists, the organization called itself Terra Salvidor or Earth’s Savior. Centered in Switzerland, the organization scrupulously dedicated itself to anonymity. Convinced that they would be summarily eliminated if the world’s military powers were aware of their activities, their membership was limited to only a handful of scientists and perhaps twenty technicians. Among these twenty technicians were a handful of line agents, upon whom rested the responsibility for conducting the operations which would save the world from the madness of its political powers. It was only after exhaustive interviews and being sworn to secrecy, with penalty of death, that the young scientist was accepted into the organization as a line agent in training, and began to learn of the wonderful…and horrible…missions that Terra Salvidor had undertaken. It would be six months before the intensive training would be transformed into the cold reality of life and death missions. To be sure, there were very few of these, but each was of enormous consequence. Each was the kind of mission a line agent was expected to perform in a detached and efficient manner, knowing full well that the fate of mankind might hang in the balance.

Unknown Location—Present Day

After nearly a decade, during which hundreds of millions of dollars had been contributed without question, the powerful and mysterious financier of Terra Salivdor’s wide array of secret missions had finally made a demand. He had insisted on being present at the end of the society’s most ambitious mission…to be present when the line agent would be de-briefed.

Although no one else had been informed, the mission had failed miserably.

Propped up in the hospital bed in the darkened room, the agent could see nothing beyond the bright light above the video camcorder. The interrogator, Professor Urs Frederick, sat in the shadows; Terra Salvidor’s wealthy financier stood against the far wall, observing and listening with restrained intensity. The de-briefing had been proceeding for several minutes, and Professor Frederick had become increasingly frustrated.

Turning away from the agent, Frederick stepped back to where the tall, dark-haired observer in the black suit stood silently. I am sorry, Herr Walhout, Frederick whispered with just a hint of the Swiss-German accent. The agent’s verbal responses have made no sense at all. We will have to wait for the electronic de-briefing.

Would you mind if I asked a few questions? Walhout asked. The accent was American; the tone was authoritative.

But, of course, Herr Walhout. Whatever you wish, Frederick replied politely. But, have you had sufficient briefing on the mission details?

I have all I need to know.

Of course. Please, ask your questions.

Leave us alone, Walhout commanded evenly.

What?

I want to be alone with the agent, Walhout growled. Please leave the room, Professor…now.

Without waiting for a reply from the stunned president of the society, Walhout moved forward, switched off the camcorder, and continued into the light, approaching close enough to look directly into the wary eyes of the nervous agent. Knowing without looking around that Frederick had obediently and silently left them alone in the room, Walhout asked his first question.

Do you remember me?

Yes.

Do you remember our talk before your mission?

Yes.

And what was the disposition of your target?

I don’t know.

What? Walhout barked, his dark brown eyes blazing. How could that be? Explain!

Shrinking back, the agent instinctively pulled the bed sheet up a little further. I’m sorry, sir. It was taken out of my hands. There was another line agent there ahead of me. And…

Of course there was, Walhout interrupted angrily. We expected that. You were supposed to dispose of the other agent.

It wasn’t what we expected.

What do you mean?

There were some facts we had overlooked.

What facts? Walhout asked impatiently.

There was a relationship. A paradox. I had no choice.

You always have a choice. You knew yours.

If I had made that choice, the mission would have failed…and I would not be here to tell you how…and you would not have the second chance I’m giving you.

As an ugly grimace abruptly disfigured his darkly handsome face, Walhout drew his right hand up to his left shoulder, preparing to whip it across the insolent face of the agent. Hesitating briefly, as the agent’s face turned away instinctively, Walhout reflected on the potential damage he might inflict during the fragile state preceding electronic de-briefing. Slowly lowering his hand, Walhout considered carefully his next actions. He would continue the oral de-briefing; get to the heart of the issue; and formulate a new plan. He had no doubt that this agent would play a key role, just as he knew that the electronic de-briefing materials would have to be destroyed. That act would also prevent the agent from divulging the mission details to anyone else. No one within Terra Salvidor could ever be allowed to learn of the utterly fantastic adventure he alone had conceived for this agent. A wry smile appeared briefly as he considered how shocked the do-gooder T.S. scientists would be if they knew…if they knew of the uniquely pivotal event that would instantly re-shape the entire world before their very eyes.

P A R T I  

HISTORY LESSONS

CHAPTER 1  

SARAH

It wasn’t that she hadn’t missed Tony…especially on those cold, lonely winter nights…but it was summer now, and the excitement of living in Washington, DC, this past year had helped dull the pain of separation. Sarah Stenstrom, Staff Scientist at the CIA’s central laboratory in McLean, Virginia, had spent all of her spare time exploring the multitude of historical attractions around Washington and up and down the East Coast. For a young lady who had rarely ventured outside the boundaries of her family’s vineyard in California, and had spent several years after leaving home immersed in undergraduate and post-graduate studies at one university or another, Sarah was thoroughly enjoying her first independent venture. Of course, her most recent appointment, at Daniels University in Rockville, Illinois, as a post-doctoral associate with Computer Science Professor Tony Shane, had led unexpectedly to a romantic involvement with Shane that had somehow endured despite their prolonged separation.

Tony’s continued consulting relationship with the CIA had brought him to Washington four times during this past year, and each visit had been extended several days so that he and Sarah could re-charge their hormonal batteries. Add these trips to that she had taken back to Rockville for a football weekend in October, and the trip they had taken back to her parents’ home near Yosemite at Christmas time, and they had been together only half a dozen times in twelve months. Although Sarah was content with this relationship, she had begun to sense restlessness in Tony. She was in love with him, and with her job, and with Washington. She had no desire to be married. But she had no desire for anyone but Tony, either. It was that simple for her. But Tony didn’t see it the same way. Perhaps it was the difference in their ages. Tony was sliding relentlessly toward his fortieth birthday, while Sarah was not yet thirty. He was ready for them to merge, to have children, to build a house in the suburbs. She was nowhere near that point. That Tony had hired a pretty blonde postdoctoral associate from Princeton to fill Sarah’s position even before she had departed Daniels last summer had added yet another element of apprehension to their relationship. Involuntarily, Sarah sighed audibly, realizing sadly that a messy confrontation might not be far away.

Returning from her reverie, Sarah recollected where she was in her current CIA project. Despite having been recruited for the CIA by Assistant Director Nathan Carothers, she had not been assigned to him. Although Carothers had broad oversight for all the technical areas, Sarah’s immediate supervisor was a CIA hot-shot by the name of Michael Marsden. Marsden was a remarkably energetic Ph.D. physicist who had somehow sandwiched in a Harvard law degree while completing his postdoctoral studies at M. I. T. His early career as a Georgetown professor had been marked by a flurry of innovative publications on sub-quantum tunneling in excited states of matter. For some mysterious reason, Marsden had cut short his promising academic career to pursue an opportunity as a senior scientist working for the CIA. It was a choice that Tony Shane would never have made, Sarah reflected.

Tony Shane could never bury himself inside any organization that didn’t allow him to publish his research or discuss his work openly with colleagues. Even his consulting with the CIA was a source of irritation because of the secrecy involved. But, Shane accepted it, possibly because of some deep-seeded patriotism ingrained with his blue-collar family background. Where his father had served valiantly as a young Marine in the South Pacific during the Second World War, Shane had never been in the armed forces. He had been too young for the Vietnam conflict, and had been too committed to his educational and career goals to even think about public service. So, his work for the CIA satisfied some inner need that perhaps even Shane did not consciously recognize. The fact that his involvement with the CIA had begun shortly after his parents had died in that tragic automobile accident was perhaps an unwitting tribute to the Irish father that he had idolized…and to the Italian mother that had imbued him with stubborn loyalty and respect for family and tradition.

What’s up, Sarah? came the unexpected question from the doorway. Startled out of her reverie, Sarah whirled in her chair just in time to see Michael Marsden slip into her office.

Hi, Mike. I was just sitting here thinking. Frankly, I’m stumped by this new language. I never thought I would be programming nano-scale computers, for Christ’s sake. Can’t any of your super-techs come up with a high-level language instead of this tedious machine crap?

Breaking out into a broad smile, Marsden switched on his most disarming look. Tall, muscular, and handsome, with long straight blond hair and piercing blue eyes, Marsden was reputed to have charmed the panties off half the young ladies in Northern Virginia. That Sarah had not been one of them was no small source of irritation.

That will come in time, Sarah. But, you know as well as I that this project can’t wait for those amenities. So, do you think you can hack it? Marsden asked, with his arms spread out in front and a mock-pleading look spreading across his face.

Without answering, Sarah just laughed and waved him away. But, Marsden wasn’t about to leave. He slid over to the chair next to the doorway and sat down with his legs crossed, placed his hands behind his head and leaned back against the wall. Again, that seductive smile lit up his richly tanned face.

So, does that mean yes? he asked.

Hesitating for a moment while she assured herself that she was not responding to his charm but to the technical issue, Sarah replied, Of course, Mike. I was just letting off some steam. This is not an easy problem.

Hey…I’ve got the perfect prescription for letting off some steam. Let’s get out of here and get a bite. Pulling his arm down, and glancing at his watch, he looked up knowingly at Sarah, with arched eyebrows, as if to say It’s after seven o’clock on a Friday night, sweetie, and we’re two singles who should be anywhere else but work.

Sarah knew this was not a case of sexual harassment. Marsden had never pretended to be her boss. They worked together as colleagues. As equals. Although she rarely saw him, Carothers was her real boss. Marsden was the messenger. His superior position was a paper creation only. So, she had no problem with turning down his advances; nor would they have a problem if some romantic liaison developed. Not that she had the slightest intention for that to occur.

But an unexpected self-awareness suddenly overtook Sarah. She became acutely conscious of the short khaki skirt she had chosen to wear today. The one that revealed much too much of her long legs. And she remembered the silky green blouse she had selected to accent her creamy complexion and long light-auburn hair…while discreetly suggesting a more ample bosom than nature had provided. Momentarily tapping into her subconscious she absorbed the self-satisfying glow attributable to Michael’s admiring gaze.

Giving him a long cool smile to counter his leering seductive posture, Sarah finally said, Thanks, Mike. Sounds great. But I really need to spend a little more time here tonight. And, I promised to give Tony a call later. Sorry.

The mention of Tony’s name momentarily straightened out Marsden’s smile, but he recovered quickly. Slapping his thighs with his hands, he stood up slowly and said, Well, maybe some other time, huh?

Sure, Mike. Some other time would be great.

As he turned and walked through the doorway, Marsden turned his head around and said, Don’t work too late, Sarah. And good luck with the nanochip. And then he was off.

Staring blankly at the now empty doorway, Sarah reflected absently on the physical differences between Marsden and Shane. Both were ruggedly handsome, tanned, and blue-eyed, but Tony was about two inches shorter at six feet and had raven-black wavy hair. As the vision of her two suitors flickered in her mind Sarah’s eyes widened suddenly with the realization of what she was doing. Chastising herself for dwelling on these superficial comparisons, she shook her head sharply to erase the mental side-by-side images and whirled back to her computer. With fresh zeal and determination she attacked the keyboard. Leaving all thoughts of Michael and Tony behind, she reaffirmed in her mind the urgency of the nanochip project, and began to recall her one and only meeting with Carothers this past year.

* * * *

The big neatly dressed black man rose slowly and gracefully from his chair like a giant Phoenix rising from the ashes. His broad white smile and the enormous extended warm hand reflected the genuine pleasure he had in seeing her again. For a brief moment their thoughts flashed back involuntarily to the perilous adventure that had first brought them together. The StarSight Project had nearly gotten them both killed, and the horrible terrorist plot, called Deadly Rain, that StarSight had uncovered, had almost literally rained death and destruction over a third of the country. It was gratifying that they had narrowly intercepted and foiled the plot that would have disabled simultaneously thousands of filled passenger jets in the air on holiday travel, but it did not diminish the sad fact that Senator Gerald Moorhouse had perished in the pivotal conflict with Sharif in Switzerland. Although Tony and Salomé had rescued Sarah from Sharif’s perverted custody at his Italian villa, the wealthy mastermind of Deadly Rain had escaped…or perished…with a frantic leap off a seventy-five foot cliff into the dark, roiling sea below.

The enduring bond between Carothers, Sarah, Tony and the rest of the Star-Sight team had brought Sarah to Langley, to work on implementing the StarSight pattern recognition system within the CIA’s counter-terrorism unit. Because that initial assignment had been completed, Sarah was in Carothers’ office to learn of her next project.

After Carothers had finished inquiring about half a dozen personal items on his mind, including Sarah’s acclimation to Washington, Tony’s status, and her working conditions, Sarah asked about Ellen Moorhouse, the Senator’s wife with whom they had all become close during those last few months of the StarSight Project. Ellen had been appointed to take the place of Gerald Moorhouse in the

U.S. Senate, and by all accounts had been doing a fine job.