Sexton paused, holding up the envelopes, tempting the seated crowd. The reporters' eyes followed the envelopes back and forth, a pack of dogs salivating over some unknown delicacy.

The President had called Sexton a half hour ago and explained everything. Herney had talked to Rachel, who was safely aboard a plane somewhere. Incredibly, it seemed the White House and NASA were innocent bystanders in this fiasco, a plot masterminded by William Pickering.

Not that it matters, Sexton thought. Zach Herney is still going down hard.

Sexton wished he could be a fly on the wall of the White House right now to see the President's face when he realized Sexton was going public. Sexton had agreed to meet Herney at the White House right now to discuss how best to tell the nation the truth about the meteorite. Herney was probably standing in front of a television at this very moment in dumbfounded shock, realizing that there was nothing the White House could do to stop the hand of fate.

"My friends," Sexton said, letting his eyes connect with the crowd. "I have weighed this heavily. I have considered honoring the President's desire to keep this data secret, but I must do what is in my heart." Sexton sighed, hanging his head like a man trapped by history. "The truth is the truth. I will not presume to color your interpretation of these facts in any way. I will simply give you the data at face value."

In the distance, Sexton heard the beating of huge helicopter rotors. For a moment, he wondered if maybe the President were flying over from the White House in a panic, hoping to halt the press conference. That would be the icing on the cake, Sexton thought mirthfully. How guilty would Herney appear THEN?

"I do not take pleasure in doing this," Sexton continued, sensing his timing was perfect. "But I feel it is my duty to let the American people know they have been lied to."

The aircraft thundered in, touching down on the esplanade to their right. When Sexton glanced over, he was surprised to see it was not the presidential helicopter after all, but rather a large Osprey tilt-rotor airplane.

The fuselage read:

Baffled, Sexton watched as the cabin door opened and a woman emerged. She wore an orange Coast Guard parka and looked disheveled, like she'd been through a war. She strode toward the press area. For a moment, Sexton didn't recognize her. Then it hit him.

Rachel? He gaped in shock. What the hell is SHE doing here?

A murmur of confusion went through the crowd.

Pasting a broad smile on his face, Sexton turned back to the press and raised an apologetic finger. "If you could give me just one minute? I'm terribly sorry." He heaved the weary, good-natured sigh. "Family first."

A few of the reporters laughed.

With his daughter bearing down fast from his right, Sexton had no doubt this father-daughter reunion would best be held in private. Unfortunately, privacy was scarce at the moment. Sexton's eyes darted to the large partition on his right.

Still smiling calmly, Sexton waved to his daughter and stepped away from the microphone. Moving toward her at an angle, he maneuvered such that Rachel had to pass behind the partition to get to him. Sexton met her halfway, hidden from the eyes and ears of the press.

"Honey?" he said, smiling and opening his arms as Rachel came toward him. "What a surprise!"

Rachel walked up and slapped his face.

Alone with her father now, ensconced behind the partition, Rachel glared with loathing. She had slapped him hard, but he barely flinched. With chilling control, his phony smile melted away, mutating into an admonishing glower.

His voice turned to a demonic whisper. "You should not be here."

Rachel saw wrath in his eyes and for the first time in her life felt unafraid. "I turned to you for help, and you sold me out! I was almost killed!"

"You're obviously fine." His tone was almost disappointed.

"NASA is innocent!" she said. "The President told you that! What are you doing here?" Rachel's short flight to Washington aboard the Coast Guard Osprey had been punctuated by a flurry of phone calls between herself, the White House, her father, and even a distraught Gabrielle Ashe. "You promised Zach Herney you were going to the White House!"

"I am." He smirked. "On election day."

Rachel felt sickened to think this man was her father. "What you're about to do is madness."

"Oh?" Sexton chuckled. He turned and motioned behind him to the podium, which was visible at the end of the partition. On the podium, a stack of white envelopes sat waiting. "Those envelopes contain information you sent me, Rachel. You. The President's blood is on your hands."

"I faxed you that information when I needed your help! When I thought the President and NASA were guilty!"

"Considering the evidence, NASA certainly appears guilty."

"But they are not! They deserve a chance to admit their own mistakes. You've already won this election. Zach Herney is finished! You know that. Let the man retain some dignity."

Sexton groaned. "So naive. It's not about winning the election, Rachel, it's about power. It's about decisive victory, acts of greatness, crushing opposition, and controlling the forces in Washington so you can get something done."

"At what cost?"

"Don't be so self-righteous. I'm simply presenting the evidence. The people can draw their own conclusions as to who is guilty."

"You know how this will look."

He shrugged. "Maybe NASA's time has come."

Senator Sexton sensed the press was getting restless beyond the partition, and he had no intention of standing here all morning and being lectured by his daughter. His moment of glory was waiting.

"We're through here," he said. "I have a press conference to give."

"I'm asking you as your daughter," Rachel pleaded. "Don't do this. Think about what you're about to do. There's a better way."

"Not for me."

A howl of feedback echoed out of the PA system behind him, and Sexton wheeled to see a late-arriving female reporter, huddled over his podium, attempting to attach a network microphone to one of the goose-neck clips.

Why can't these idiots arrive on time? Sexton fumed.

In her haste, the reporter knocked Sexton's stack of envelopes to the ground.

Goddamn it! Sexton marched over, cursing his daughter for distracting him. When he arrived, the woman was on her hands and knees, collecting the envelopes off the ground. Sexton couldn't see her face, but she was obviously "network"-wearing a full-length cashmere coat, matching scarf, and low-slung mohair beret with an ABC press pass clipped to it.

Stupid bitch, Sexton thought. "I'll take those," he snapped, holding out his hand for the envelopes.

The woman scraped up the last of the envelopes and handed them up to Sexton without looking up. "Sorry…," she muttered, obviously embarrassed. Hunkering low in shame, she scurried off into the crowd.

Sexton quickly counted the envelopes. Ten. Good. Nobody was going to steal his thunder today. Regrouping, he adjusted the microphones and gave a joking smile to the crowd. "I guess I'd better hand these out before someone gets hurt!"

The crowd laughed, looking eager.

Sexton sensed his daughter nearby, standing just off-stage behind the partition.

"Don't do this," Rachel said to him. "You'll regret it."

Sexton ignored her.

"I'm asking you to trust me," Rachel said, her voice growing louder. "It's a mistake."

Sexton picked up his envelopes, straightening the edges.

"Dad," Rachel said, intense and pleading now. "This is your last chance to do what's right."

Do what's right? Sexton covered the microphone and turned as if clearing his throat. He glanced discreetly over at his daughter. "You're just like your mother-idealistic and small. Women simply do not understand the true nature of power."