Asteroid Discovery

by Bobby Akart

  He navigated through the gap between Dog Island and St. George Island, a space that had more than doubled in size thanks to Hurricane Michael in 2018, a devastating Category 5 storm that was the first to make landfall in the U.S. since Hurricane Andrew in 1992.

  The dolphins, which had gathered in a pod of several dozen, had delighted beachgoers with their close proximity to shore. For Gunner, it was a treat to spot them gracefully dipping in and out of the surf. Dolphins were intelligent, social creatures that ran in pods to protect one another from danger and to care for injured individuals. These clusters sometimes ran across each other, crossing paths to temporarily create superpods of hundreds or even thousands.

  Food was in high abundance for the dolphins in the sea-life-rich area where the Apalachicola River dumped into the Gulf of Mexico. In particular, the still waters of St. George Sound provided dolphins and seagulls ample opportunity to feed, which was all the more reason that Gunner was careful with his speed when approaching the entrance to the sound.

  He picked up speed slightly as he entered The Cut and turned toward the right. In the distance, he heard the high-pitched whine of a single-engine plane approaching from his rear. As it got closer, Gunner smiled, knowing who was piloting the aircraft. He resisted the urge to turn and look, knowing the pilot would get a kick out of putting a scare into him.

  Gunner held his breath and gripped the wheel of the Donzi, contemplating forcing the throttle down in a race to the finish line, but he caught a glimpse of several dolphins off his port side, and he didn’t want to disturb them. So he decided to let Pop have his fun.

  The Cessna drew closer, and then with a rush of wind, the seaplane’s floats whizzed barely thirty feet above him. Gunner looked up as the plane whizzed by, and caught a glimpse of Bear’s muscular black arm hanging out the window, giving him the middle finger.

  Gunner let out a hearty laugh and returned the gesture. He truly loved his father, and his misfit, extended family. Each of them would take a bullet for the other and defend their team to the death. Even Pop, in his golden age of retirement, was a loyal soldier who’d go into the field of battle with his son and partners if called upon to do so.

  Pop expertly maneuvered the Cessna 185 Skywagon to take advantage of the light wind conditions. He turned ever so slightly, allowing the seaplane to weathervane into the Gulf breeze until it gently touched down in the shallow waters off Dog Island. He brought the plane to a planing position and then used his rudder to taxi up to the dock that extended into the sound.

  Pop’s time in the Air Force as a noncommissioned air traffic controller had resulted in a twenty-year career culminating with a retirement as a chief master sergeant, the highest level of enlisted leadership in the Air Force. After Pop left the service, he had the opportunity to go to Oklahoma City at the behest of the Federal Aviation Administration. The FAA was actively recruiting military retirees to become civilian air traffic controllers, but Pop opted to lead a simple life and focus on raising his son.

  On a whim, he went to Island Air Express near Panama City one day and discussed their flight training program. With Gunner’s mother’s reluctant approval, Pop learned to fly. He passed the flight simulator and classroom training with flying colors, and later aced the FAA practical flight test.

  Once he was licensed, he turned his attention to flying seaplanes. The tourist industry around Apalachicola was booming, and Pop saw an opportunity to supplement his retirement income by carrying visitors above the beaches to provide them a different perspective of the turquoise blue waters and the sugary white sand beaches.

  He then expanded his one-man operation to include taxi services between Carrabelle and Dog Island. Dog Island, which was once part of Camp Gordon Johnston, a World War II amphibious training center, was one of the few inhabited islands off Florida’s coastlines that did not have bridge access. Several water taxi services and Pop’s seaplane provided the residents a regular means of transportation back to civilization.

  Gunner pulled the Donzi up to the side of the dock opposite where the seaplane was tied off. Bear helped Pop secure his lines to the cleats and position the large white buoys to protect the plane from bumping its sides.

  “How did it go?” asked Cam as Gunner cut the engines. She grabbed his lines and helped him secure the boat, not always an easy task considering its length.

  “All right,” replied Gunner, who was typically a man of few words. He made eye contact with Cam and managed a smile. She was the closest thing to an empathetic human being in his life, second only to Sammy Hart, the bartender equivalent of a psychotherapist.

  “Well, we’ve got a surprise for you,” said Cam. She stretched out her hand and hoisted Gunner onto the dock.

  “Yeah, and I’ve got one for you guys, too. You first.”

  Gunner glanced down the dock. Bear was carrying the large Yeti cooler, his triceps bulging like it contained gold.

  Cam took Gunner by the arm and explained, “Pop flew us over to Cedar Key and we picked up some clams. How would you feel about a good old-fashioned clam bake tonight? You know, we’ll cook ’em in a sand pit, throw in some red-skin potatoes, corn on the cob, and enjoy several brewskis.”

  Cedar Key was known for its clamming industries. The small community boasted that it harvested more clams than any other place in the U.S. Visitors came from all over the country to Cedar Key, took tours of the commercial clamming operations, and then partook of the many ways to serve them. Cedar Key was one of Pop’s favorite places to visit. He’d always commented that the brownish water at the shoreline wasn’t pretty to look at compared to Dog Island, but it was perfect for clams.

  Gunner stopped and grimaced. The prospect of hanging on the beach with his team sounded more than appealing, but he had to break the news to Cam. “Um, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

  Cam turned to face him. “Why?”

  “We’ve been deployed,” he began in response. He glanced down at his watch and shook his head from side to side. “In fact, the chopper is scheduled to pick us up in about three hours at our usual spot in Tate’s Hell.”

  Tate’s Hell State Forest comprised two hundred thousand acres to the north of Dog Island. Rugged trails traversed the landscape, a favorite of four-wheelers and Jeep outings alike. It also provided a desolate area near Gunner’s home for military helicopters to pick him up to embark on missions without piquing the curiosity of the locals. In Gunner’s line of work, situational awareness was tantamount. Loose lips sink ships, and could also get him killed.

  Cam patted Gunner on the back and motioned for them to continue. “Bear and Pop will be disappointed. Those two cooked up this whole idea and they’ve been chattering about it ever since you pulled out this morning.”

  “We can postpone it. Without hiccups, we should be able to be back Sunday night.”

  Cam laughed, which caught the attention of the guys in front of them. “Sure, no hiccups. Okay, silky smooth, as always.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “So, Major Fox, where are we headed this time?”

  “Russia.”

  Chapter 28

  Friday, April 6

  Defense Threat Reduction Agency

  Fort Belvoir, Virginia

  Earlier in the day, Gunner’s briefing with the colonel had been just that—brief, which was not necessarily out of the ordinary in the special role Major Gunner Fox played within the military and intelligence apparatus of the United States government. There was a whole lot of need-to-know and classified aspects of his chain of command.

  While Colonel Bradford was technically his superior officer since he was assigned, for all intents and purposes, to Eglin, the nature of Gunner’s special ops missions found him under the command of a variety of government agencies. One thing was understood by every handler that had the privilege of working with Gunner, he only had one true commander, and that was himself.

  And he had a team that was a mandatory requirement for everything he was taske
d to do. The three of them were a package deal, and that was a given.

  They were en route to the Defense Threat Reduction Agency at Fort Belvoir, Virginia. The secretive military facility, located on a peninsula extending into the Potomac River, was home to a variety of military units, including the Army Intelligence and Security Command.

  Operating a central base of operations for many anti-terror operations, the DTRA added a combat option to the intelligence apparatus that worked night and day to protect Americans. When Colonel Bradford had informed Gunner that his team would be briefed and staged at Fort Belvoir, he was somewhat bewildered. Typically, the DTRA was known for acting upon events that were considered right of boom, terminology associated with the timeline of an attack or disaster. As part of the War on Terror, U.S. governmental agencies focused their efforts as much on the aftermath of a terror attack, referred to as right of boom, as they did on prevention. Valuable intelligence could be garnered from following up on leads related to the catastrophic event.

  Gunner had quizzed the colonel and was satisfied she knew very little about his upcoming mission. This was frustrating to Bear and Cam, as they were hyped about being deployed, but they knew nothing except their destination would be Russia, not exactly friendly territory as the second Cold War ramped up.

  The Coast Guard–operated MH-65E Dolphin helicopter was often employed to ferry Gunner to his deployments because it didn’t raise the eyebrows of the locals, who were used to seeing the Guard patrol their waterways. The chopper delivered the trio to Tyndall, where they caught a newly operational Air Force Learjet 75, which landed at Fort Belvoir right around dark.

  They departed the aircraft and were met by several Army officers wearing their fatigues. After their brief introductions, they were led inside to a small conference room, where Gunner saw a familiar face.

  “Welcome to the DTRA, Major,” the man announced formally, providing a snappy salute and a broad grin.

  Gunner returned the salute and then chuckled. “Do these people realize who they let inside their gates?”

  “Of course they do. I gave them a complete rundown on you, pal.”

  “No, I’m talking about you, Commander.”

  “Shhh, they have no idea who I am. Remember, Major, I’m a ghost.”

  The two military men laughed and exchanged a bro-hug, clenching one another’s right hand and bumping their chests. Gunner slapped his old friend and former commander on the back with his left hand.

  “Well, Commander Ghost, before we catch up, let me introduce you to my team. This is Major Cameron Mills and Staff Sergeant Barrett King.” As the three exchanged salutes and handshakes, Gunner continued. “Cam, Bear, this is Colonel Gregory Smith, who once upon a time took me under his wing at AFSOC at Hurlburt Field. He left six months before you two arrived on the scene.”

  “I remember seeing your picture on the wall in the command center, sir,” said Cameron. “I remember that you were missed by everyone.”

  Smith, who was dressed in civilian clothes, was in fact referred to as Ghost. He’d had a distinguished career with the USAF Special Operations Forces and became so invaluable to the Pentagon that he was pulled out of AFSOC to coordinate special assignments.

  “Ghost,” began Gunner, who despite the differences in rank and age, was on a first-name basis with his former base commander, “they joined me at Hurlburt Field after the Pentagon pulled you out to work with the three-letter agencies.”

  “Major Mills, if I’m not mistaken, you were an acquaintance of—” he began before catching himself.

  “That’s right, Colonel.”

  The room fell silent for a moment and then Gunner switched the topic of conversation. “Ghost, I can’t help but notice you’re dressed in civvies.”

  “There have been some changes since you and I worked together last. Technically, I’ve retired from the Air Force and taken on a new position within the government, one that allows me to dress like this.” Ghost held his arms apart to present his khaki pants and pressed white cotton shirt.

  “The look suits you,” lied Gunner. The chiseled, broad-shouldered former operator didn’t look comfortable in khakis and a white shirt at all. He either belonged in uniform or in a ghillie suit.

  “Liar,” responded Ghost with a laugh. “Let’s take a seat, because I’m afraid this op is on a fast track, a decision that goes all the way to the top.”

  Gunner’s team exchanged glances and followed their mission leader’s instructions. As he sat, he asked, “What’s the operation?”

  “You’re not gonna like it, but, Gunner, I’ve insisted upon you handling this for a number of reasons, not to mention that I can be assured you’ll be tight-lipped about what you learn in Russia.”

  “Ghost, this sounds vaguely like a surveillance mission. You know how—”

  Ghost raised his hand and cut Gunner off. “I know. I know. You hate surveillance.”

  “Well, at least tell me that after the surveillance, we might get to blow some Russki shit up. I owe them for shooting me out of the sky over the Arctic Circle.”

  Ghost chuckled. “With all due respect, Major. You kinda had that coming. That MiG had barely tipped his wings into our airspace before you took him out. Then you decided to go chase the rest of them back into Siberia.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I remember. International incident. Violations of UN treaties. Precipice of World War III. Blah, blah, blah.”

  “Yes, Major, all of the above. But listen up, this is serious. You might notice that there’s nobody else in the room with us. There’s a reason for that. What I’m about to tell you is classified Level 6 Top Secret. There are only a handful of people on this planet aware of what you are about to do.”

  “Sir,” interrupted Bear. He fired off the logical questions. “Are we under attack or in imminent danger of attack? From the Russians?”

  “Not from the Russians, no,” replied Ghost. “Frankly, Sergeant, that’s all I know. I’ve never seen anything like this, and as a former operator, I didn’t look forward to going on a mission without all the facts. Unfortunately, in this case, the security level is so high that we’re talkin’ president and Joint Chiefs type of stuff.”

  “We’re listening,” said Cam.

  “A few days ago, NASA made a discovery,” began Ghost. Cam shot a glance at Gunner, who gripped the arms of his swivel chair until his knuckles became white. The words hung in the air for a moment before Ghost continued. “Based upon the information received from the ISS and another undisclosed source, Washington needs to get eyes on the Russian equivalent of Cape Canaveral, a facility in eastern Russia known as the Vostochny Cosmodrome.”

  “Their spaceport?” asked Cam.

  “That’s correct,” replied Ghost. “In recent days, they’ve taken extraordinary measures to mask their activities there from our eyes in the sky, including taking the astonishing steps of trying to crash one of their satellites into our reconnaissance satellite to cut off our view. Naturally, they profusely apologized for the near mishap, and our built-in computer defenses enabled the recon satellite to avert a disaster, but it’s been taken offline for several days, leaving us blind.”

  “Ghost,” began Gunner, who’d relaxed somewhat, “do we have intel that they might be preparing a nuclear launch from what is ordinarily a space-based facility?”

  “I don’t know. This is part of what bugs me about this operation. Our task is to get in, take a lot of pictures from as close in as you can without discovery or capture, and transmit them back to us here.”

  Gunner felt compelled to say what was on his mind. “You know I’m not a fan of NASA. Is this their operation or the agency’s?” he asked, referring to the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Ghost nodded, acknowledging where Gunner’s question was coming from. “Certainly, NASA is involved, but at this stage, because of the national security implications we can presume from the level of secrecy, this is for the benefit of the CIA and ultimately the White House.”

/>   “Sir, I take it we’re not going to fly commercial into Moscow and rent a car,” said Cam.

  “That’s right, Major. Vostochny is located in the Amur Oblast, a federal district located in Russia’s Far East. It adjoins the border with northernmost China, roughly three hundred fifty miles southwest of the Sea of Okhotsk.”

  “What do you have in mind for insertion?” asked Gunner.

  Ghost turned to Bear. “Sergeant, I understand you’re checked out on the AV-280 Valor.”

  “Yes, sir, I am. Are you talking a tilt-rotor drop? Three hundred fifty miles across some hostile soil is quite a haul.”

  “That’s why I called in the best,” replied Ghost. “Are you up for it?”

  “Sir, we don’t shy away from any mission,” replied Gunner. “It’s just that getting in and out in one round trip is doable. However, the Russians will have eyes wide open if we attempt to try it twice.”

  Ghost nodded his head and grimaced. “That’s why we’re only gonna do this once. You’ll set her down, get the pictures, and then hightail it the hell out of there.”

  “Oh, sure, no problem,” groaned Bear. “It’s a shame we can’t break all kinds of treaties like the Russians do. They park their nuclear subs all up and down our coastlines, ready to fry us with a press of the button, and we’ve gotta sneak in there, all stealth-like, just to see what their space cadets are up to.”

  “We’ve got this, Ghost, no worries,” implored Gunner, trying to downplay Bear’s whining and to assuage any concerns his former commander might have about his team’s readiness.

  Cam raised her hand. “Sir, what about comms? Are we gonna be in the dark other than access to a satellite feed to transmit images back home?”

  “Actually, I’m glad you brought that up. There’s one other member of this operation who will be your eyes and ears back here at the DTRA. You can lean on her for intel as much as you want.”