Free Deception Point by Dan Brown Page B

met the controller responsible for this mission.
    Delta-One was preparing a dehydrated protein meal when his watch beeped in unison with the others. Within seconds the CrypTalk communications device beside him blinked on alert. He stopped what he was doing and picked up the handheld communicator. The other two men watched in silence.
    “Delta-One,” he said, speaking into the transmitter.
    The two words were instantly identified by the voice recognition software inside the device. Each word was then assigned a reference number, which was encrypted and sent via satellite to the caller. On the caller’s end, at a similar device, the numbers were decrypted, translated back into words using a predetermined, self-randomizing dictionary. Then the words were spoken aloud by a synthetic voice. Total delay, eighty milliseconds.
    “Controller, here,” said the person overseeing the operation. The robotic tone of the CrypTalk was eerie—inorganic and androgynous. “What is your op status?”
    “Everything proceeding as planned,” Delta-One replied.
    “Excellent. I have an update on the time frame. The information goes public tonight at eight P.M. Eastern.”
    Delta-One checked his chronograph. Only eight more hours. His job here would be finished soon. That was encouraging.
    “There is another development,” the controller said. “A new player has entered the arena.”
    “What new player?”
    Delta-One listened. An interesting gamble. Someone out there was playing for keeps. “Do you think she can be trusted?”
    “She needs to be watched very closely.”
    “And if there is trouble?”
    There was no hesitation on the line. “Your orders stand.”

16
    R achel Sexton had been flying due north for over an hour. Other than a fleeting glimpse of Newfoundland, she had seen nothing but water beneath the F-14 for the entire journey.
    Why did it have to be water? she thought, grimacing. Rachel had plunged through the ice on a frozen pond while ice-skating when she was seven. Trapped beneath the surface, she was certain she would die. It had been her mother’s powerful grasp that finally yanked Rachel’s waterlogged body to safety. Ever since that harrowing ordeal, Rachel had battled a persistent case of hydrophobia—a distinct wariness of open water, especially cold water. Today, with nothing but the North Atlantic as far as Rachel could see, her old fears had come creeping back.
    Not until the pilot checked his bearings with Thule airbase in northern Greenland did Rachel realize how far they had traveled. I’m above the Arctic Circle? The revelation intensified her uneasiness. Where are they taking me? What has NASA found? Soon the blue-gray expanse below her became speckled with thousands of stark white dots.
    Icebergs.
    Rachel had seen icebergs only once before in her life, six years ago when her mother persuaded Rachel to join her on an Alaskan mother-daughter cruise. Rachel had suggested a number of alternative land -based vacations, but her mother was insistent. “Rachel, honey,” her mother had said, “two thirds of this planet is covered with water, and sooner or later, you’ve got to learn to deal with it.” Mrs. Sexton was a resilient New Englander intent on raising a strong daughter.
    The cruise had been the last trip Rachel and her mother ever took.
    Katherine Wentworth Sexton. Rachel felt a distant pang of loneliness. Like the howling wind outside the plane, the memories came tearing back, pulling at her the way they always did. Their final conversation had been by phone. Thanksgiving morning.
    “I’m so sorry, Mom,” Rachel said, phoning home from a snowbound O’Hare airport. “I know our family has never spent Thanksgiving Day apart. It looks like today will be our first.”
    Rachel’s mom sounded crushed. “I was so looking forward to seeing you.”
    “Me too, Mom. Think of me eating airport food while you and Dad feast on turkey.”
    There was a pause on the line. “Rachel, I wasn’t going to