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  “Have they been found yet?” Hennessey interrupted, her eyes shifting from one person to the next.

  One man pointing at the map craned his neck and eyed her before turning to face her. “Not yet. Sorry, you are?”

  “Jen Hennessey, it’s my parents who are missing. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “We believe their aircraft went down somewhere to the west about three hours ago. Unfortunately, they chose not to file a flight plan, although they were tracked some of the way. We have an extensive aerial search looking as we speak, so…”

  He explained that the plane had taken off from an airport in Illinois and had climbed into the air flying to the southwest, crossing Iowa and Nebraska. Over the state of Colorado the plane had turned northwest, flying at low altitude over Utah following a path towards California before disappearing somewhere in the Nevada Desert. There had been no report of distress and no eyewitnesses, only radio silence to base judgment.

  “I want to go up in one of those helicopters and help with the search.”

  The man who appeared to be in charge shook his head. “I’m sorry, I ca–”

  “I wasn’t asking,” she said calmly. “I’m a NASA research pilot and I know I could be of some use.”

  The man’s bottom lip jutted forward and he folded his arms. “Fair enough. You can join the BH crew.”

  From his belt he fished out a handheld radio and paced slowly away from the group, muttering something indistinct to someone he seemed to know. He spun sharply, returning the radio to his belt. “Over there,” he told her, motioning with a finger to one of the Black Hawks.

  Jogging towards the whooping noise of the giant helicopter sitting amid a stir of sand and dust, Hennessey faintly spotted a door slide open and an arm reach out to assist her. As she climbed up, she thought of her father. “The fear of God is the foundation of wisdom.”

  After the funeral, a large gathering of people turned up at her parents’ house to pay their final respects. They’d spent their whole lives in Naperville, a mid-sized town spread across thirteen acres just thirty miles west of Chicago in Illinois. The place contained the smell of toast and black coffee, recent. Hennessey left everyone to mourn downstairs and went off on her own to mournfully explore the house, going from room to room to encourage memories.

  “Thought I might find you here,” Uncle Hubert said, startling her, his arms held open. “Come here.”

  She went to him and welcomed his warm hug. She didn’t cry. It hadn’t yet sunk in.

  “You gonna be alright?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Just give me a bit more time on my own. I’ll be down shortly.”

  “Anything you say, my darling. You know, your mother and father always talked about you. They were so proud of you and they loved you dearly.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  All of a sudden, like switching off a light, Hennessey felt in-tolerably lonely. Only one man had shared her life because she didn’t have time for men. Dennis Thatcher was his name and they’d shared a common interest – piloting technically advanced aircraft for their country. While Hennessey committed all her time and effort to NASA, Thatcher was doing the same to become part of the United States Air Force, one of the largest air forces in the world with over six thousand manned aircraft in service. But piloting as a career had never really happened for Thatcher after he’d been asked unceremoniously to leave USAF because of his blatant disregard for military discipline and excessive drinking. After that setback came the jealousy. Hennessey’s career was blossoming and night after night she would return to their house in San Diego to find Thatcher drunk on the couch. At first, she thought it was his way of coping with rejection. But with his drunken behaviour came unconcealed honesty. He’d developed an unshakable conviction that Hennessey had succeeded in her career because of her good looks. It led to accusations of infidelity and that made him even more obnoxious. It boiled down to the fact that Thatcher resented her because she was professionally deft and devoted to her work.

  Much of research piloting was concentration, on and off the job, and to Hennessey that meant dealing with fear and anxiety in a solitary manner, which explained why she had always lived alone. Nevertheless, Hennessey had been attracted to Thatcher because his methods were old-fashioned and romantic. Those attributes had long since faded. Now, sitting next to him on the sofa, they talked some but she soon found she was reaching the uncomfortable stage in the evening when the small talk began to run dry and, as an effect of the alcohol Thatcher was consuming, truth began to leak out.

  “I’ve been thinking. I’d like you to…I think you should be a housewife. It’d do us both good, I think. That’s just my opinion.”

  “Who’s gonna pay the bills? You’re unemployed.”

  “I’ll find something. You should be here, taking care of things, and you know, maybe we should think about children.”

  Hennessey’s lips tightened around her teeth. “I think we should go our own ways,” she said.

  “Why? Who are you sleeping with now?”

  “It’s comments like those that are pushing me away. I need time alone right now.”

  Thatcher put down his glass. He tried hard to act sober. “If it’s something I’ve done, I can change. I can give up the drink.”

  She shook her head silently.

  “I see.” He picked up his gin bottle and gulped a load of it down. “I knew your career would come before me.”

  “Actually, it’s got nothing to do with my work at NASA.”

  “Ah, save it, Jen.”

  Staggering out of the house, closing the door forcefully behind him, he shouted something outside in the street but Hennessey didn’t catch it. With her parents deceased and her relationship with Thatcher over, Hennessey immersed herself in her work, putting in overtime, proving she was dedicated to the cause and establishing herself as one of the best, most reliable research pilots at NASA. Samuel Doe had noticed it and she fitted the profile for the mission he had in mind. She had US citizenship, a pass result for the NASA space physical similar to a military or civilian flight physical and the minimum of one-thousand hours of flight time in a jet aircraft as the pilot in command, a target she had far exceeded.

  The Dryden Flight Research Centre in California was NASA’s centre for aeronautical flight research and atmospheric operations. Inside DFRC, standing in Samuel Doe’s office, Hennessey listened as the details of her assignment became clear. “In a nutshell, Jen, your mission will involve launching Chandra II into the stratosphere. Will Thorndike has gone to Britain to meet with the project manager of Fable-1 and should be calling me some time tonight. So I will brief you in full in the morning when I have all the details. Come to my office first thing and we’ll discuss it. I realise that flying a balloon is a little different to what you are used to, well, a lot different, but if you’re interested, you’ll be sent to Britain to meet with Brad Sutcliffe and his crew.”

  “Okay, I’m intrigued.”

  They parted ways. Doe glanced back over his shoulder. “One other thing, Jen. You’ll need to have training in specially modified simulators for every type of emergency or contingency imaginable.”

  Hennessey grinned. “Piece of cake.”

  “I thought you might say that.”

  The mission to the edge of space presented the pilots with a catalogue of dangers. The vacuum of space was an extremely hostile environment. In the stratosphere, breathable air and atmospheric pressures that prevented haemorrhaging were absent. Familiar with such harsh altitudes and changes in environment, Hennessey knew that her experience was going to prove invaluable to the Fable-1 crew and was already looking forward to it.

  For Hennessey, standing outside the Moorland Links Hotel, nothing about the day had been right so far. She hadn’t slept well and she was too tired. Her morning coffee had been too weak. The weather outside was far too miserable, the rain too heavy. Right now, the hotel was far too crowded. Nobody from Fable-1 had introduced themselves yet or com
e to her room to greet her that morning. Nobody had prepared her for the press conference. And now, through her dark sunglasses, she saw a man with a rather big head sprinting towards her fixing his necktie over a crumpled white shirt. The strange man gave her a seedy grin, but she pretended she hadn’t seen it.

  Entering the hotel foyer, she made her way to the Chandelier Ballroom as it was where everyone else seemed to be heading and went straight backstage.

  Chapter 5

  He had the air of someone powerful, someone composed and self- assured. He sat astride his GSX1300R, the engine ticking over slowly, like his pulse. The Suzuki sports bike had not a single sticker on it; the colour was black. He wore a black helmet and a black leather outfit with black boots. His watch was a Rolex. Feeling good about himself as he stared out at the towering wave-lashed cliffs, bays and fishing alcoves, he lifted his visor and sucked in the sea air. For a brief moment the rain stopped, allowing a burst of insipid sunlight to bounce off the local ancient fishing village. Two and a half thousand miles west across the Atlantic Ocean was America and he wondered if he might get the chance to see it from the stratosphere in the space balloon.

  Simon Matthews was Brad Sutcliffe’s business partner. He was also Claris Faraday’s older cousin at thirty seven, and today was a crucial turning point in the space flight expedition after the failed attempts of the past few years.

  He read his watch, deciding it was time to go and started his engine.

  The clock struck right on three when Matthews rocked up at the Moorland Links Hotel, entering the complex with a long wheelie all the way up the driveway to the entrance. Every space in the car park was full, so Matthews parked on a segment of lawn, kicked down the stand on his motorbike, took off his leatherwear and locked them inside the bike’s panniers. Dressed in his suit, he strolled confidently into the hotel to find that everyone had taken their seats in the Chandelier Ballroom. Plenty of time, he thought, as he strolled into the bathroom. He doused his face with cold water and in the mirror saw a short man glide into the bathroom with a cool, smooth rhythm. The small man gave him a polite nod. “Awful day,” he said, slipping down the zip on his jeans at the urinal.

  “Yeah,” Matthews replied bluntly.

  Shaking water off his hands, he moved to the dryer and was feeding his palms beneath it when he felt someone tap his hip. Turning sharply, he saw the small man standing close by, too close, with an unreadable expression on his face and his hand lingering at the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

  “Simon Matthews, right?”

  Matthews froze with terror, his heart pumping so hard it felt as though it might put a hole in his chest, conscious to the fact that his life was about to end.

  “I don’t want it…to end,” shouted Naomi Millington.

  Trousers at his ankles and underpants at his knees, Matthews smiled as he continued to screw this girl over the dishwasher in his kitchen, loving every minute.

  “Don’t stop!” she was screaming.

  Matthews had enjoyed his fair share of flings with hundreds of women, had even been accused of being a sex addict, but no one quite touched his heart like Naomi. In spite of that, she only went for men with money, serious money, and it had him financially worried. He had already wiped out his savings account and his credit card was in serious trouble. The bank had been leaving him messages.

  After sex, Naomi talked about going away for the weekend, but Matthews told her that he couldn’t afford it.

  “I understand, we had a good run though, didn’t we?” she said cold-heartedly.

  Two days later, the bank approved a thirty-thousand-pound bank loan in his name. Affording the monthly repayments on an Aerodynamics Data Engineering salary would be easy. But from there on his debt only increased; it was the only way he could keep up with Naomi’s expensive lifestyle and ensure that she stayed loyal to him.

  Matthews started sleeping with other women to try and get her out of his mind. She was no good for him and he couldn’t go on living so lavishly just to keep her satisfied. But all the other women were nothing compared with Naomi. She was his addiction, his purpose, his queen. Killing her crossed his mind, just to force her out of his life. But he knew he didn’t have it in him. He could pay someone? No, it was getting out of control. She was costing him enough. Maybe he needed help. Murder? What was he thinking?

  Determined to put an end to their relationship, Matthews went to visit Naomi, and he arrived just as a man was leaving her house. Before she could close the door, Mathews went straight up to her, honked up a hunk of phlegm and launched it in her face, the venom of his saliva stinging her eyes, like vinegar. Blinded, she tried to slap him but he arched back, turned and hurriedly left fitting his helmet to his head, crossing the road to his motorbike. A brick rebounded off his plastic windshield, splitting it down the middle, while Naomi screamed abuse at him from the road. With a menacing wheel spin, he sped away, shouting profanities into his helmet.

  Matthews was invited to give a brief talk on aerodynamics to a class of college students because his old supervisor had turned lecturer and thought it would be inspirational for his students to meet an aerodynamic expert who could give them a firsthand insight into the industry. The class consisted of twelve learners seated in an arc.

  “Now, the wonderful thing about aerodynamics is that it’s an engineering science. There are several applications,” Matthews said with his hands dipped into his trouser pockets. “Anyone know what they are?”

  “What do you mean, exactly?” A student seated in the centre had his hand up.

  “Well, think about it,” he said, standing in the corner of the room. “The diversity of bodies and the atmosphere is huge. For example, aerodynamic decelerators such as parachutes and thrust reversal devices. And how about spacecraft? Micro air vehicles to hypersonic wave riders.”

  A man on the end had his hand raised. He was a fairly hand-some chap, a little older than Matthews. “Can you tell us about lighter than air vehicles, such as balloons?”

  “Mm-hmm, a good example. Sorry, what is your name?”

  “Brad, Brad Sutcliffe.”

  “Well, Brad, to name airships, blimps, balloons and aerostats is to name just a few. A cubic foot of air weighs roughly an ounce. Heat that by about thirty seven degrees Centigrade and it weighs about seven grams less. You do the maths. A single cubic foot of air contained in a hot-air balloon can lift seven grams, which isn’t a great deal. That’s why hot-air balloons are so large. The more heated air, the more weight they can lift.”

  “That explains why my gran wears such large underpants,” one of the students joked.

  A few laughed, others concentrated on taking down notes in their pads.

  “Is there a scientific limit on, say, height and size of a balloon?” Sutcliffe asked.

  “Most balloons are about one hundred thousand cubic feet, but they have been known to go six times that. That said, as long as the material is strong enough, you can go bigger. Ripstop nylon and polyethylene terephthalate are the most common materials used in modern ballooning.”

  After class, Matthews saw Sutcliffe limping on crutches to his car and ran to catch him up. “Interested in ballooning then?”

  Sutcliffe threw the crutches into his car and slammed the boot down. “You could say that.”

  “My expertise is more paperwork based, more on the analysing of data and the scientific aspect of aerodynamics, but if you want to get into ballooning as a hobby, I have a mate who runs his own ballooning business.”

  “Actually, I used to go often.”

  “Oh, right. What brings you here to study?”

  “Well, to be honest, I’m planning an expedition which I’m hoping will change the way people see the world.”

  The wheels in Matthews’ brain started turning. Intrigued, he invited Sutcliffe out for a drink and listened all night long to his idea. The only thing delaying the project was a lack of finance and a crew, Sutcliffe said. Matthews was an opportunist, someone w
ho thought in terms of achievement and self-interest, and by the end of the night he had decided he wanted to be part of the team. The royalties from interviews, chat shows, books, documentaries, would never end.

  The following day, he called Sutcliffe and told him not to worry about the money, he had it and would fund the project, provided he could join the balloon crew. Sutcliffe, short on options, agreed.

  Matthews paid a visit to his bank manager in town, explaining that he was planning to invest money in a unique project and that he needed a large sum of money to do so. The bank manager led him through a series of routine questions to determine his eligibility. “I regret to inform you that your application for a bank loan has been declined,” he said.

  “What?” Matthews thumped his fist down hard on the desk, dislodging some paperwork from an in-tray. “Why?”

  The manager was shocked. “Um, I’m sorry, but you’ve been blacklisted for failing to make repayments on your loan.”

  Matthews shook his head. “I don’t care what your computer says. I need that money.”

  “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”