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Virus Page 29

by Bill Buchanan


  “We have only two recommendations at this time, Mr. President. The first will come as no surprise: give Livermore whatever they need. Second, goose up our satellite surveillance coverage over the third-world hot spots.” Puzzled, the President glanced across his desk at Clive Towles, who was strongly urging approval.

  “I agree,” Clive insisted as he spoke to Mason over video. “We’d come to exactly the same conclusion, but we need to coordinate our coverage. Link your recon folks with ours. We’ve repositioned several Navy and CIA birds already. We need your Air Force recon satellites to cover the holes.”

  Rubbing his eyes, the President added, “I share your concern, General.” His voice sounded convincing.

  Mason spoke softly but with deliberate clarity. He’d learned this lesson firsthand, very early in his career. “The truth is a two-edged sword, Mr. President. You don’t tell the truth without paying the price. We’re in a desperate situation and there’ll certainly be those who’ll take advantage of it.”

  “I agree.” The President paused, then focused his thinking once again. “I’d like that operations plan by tomorrow.”

  Mason looked to his staff. They returned a thumbs up. “It’ll be on your desk.”

  “Keep me posted, gentlemen.” The President stood, disconnected the video conference line, and the meeting was adjourned.

  Out of the Sun, 12111/2014, 1730 Zulu

  Space Station Hope

  How long had she been staring at this tube? Scott wondered, but then again, she didn’t really want to know. Looking for some way, any way to get onboard Freedom, she’d been parked at Pasha’s control console for hours toiling through plans of the space station, videotapes, and computer simulations. Overwhelmed, Scott found the search had a morose sense of endlessness about it. Even Guardian had been slowed by the mountainous amounts of information which required sorting and analysis.

  Since Pasha’s condition had stabilized twenty-four hours earlier, Scott had been trying to find a weak point in Freedom's defenses and had had only an odd hour’s sleep here and there. That’s why they pay me the hig bucks, she reflected bleakly. She remembered that she hadn’t lost this much sleep since her divorce, and then she wondered about Jay. Biting her lip, tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t help it. This had been a hard day. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the pressure, or maybe she loved him and was worried sick. A part of her, everything that mattered, was onboard Freedom, but chances for Jay did not look good. No word since that virus took over. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and she couldn’t rest until she knew. He might be injured or... / can’t think about this now or FII go crazy. We have problems enough here.

  And then it happened, a curious thing. Suddenly, Scott’s attention was diverted by something she thought she saw on her screen. Weary, she’d been reviewing tedious training videotapes about the space station radar system but now found herself eager to learn more. She wasn’t sure, not yet anyway, but she thought she had found something significant. Working the first piece of their problem, Scott struggled to envision how they could approach Freedom without getting blown out of the sky. Each space station used a combination of radar and infrared sensors for tracking and steering weapons on target. An orbiting military stronghold, a fortress designed for its own defense, Freedom had loomed virtually unapproachable until now, but Scott felt uneasy. This weakness appeared too obvious. There must be a catch.

  Bleary-eyed, Scott gazed across the control room, summoning Mac and Gonzo to her side. “Fellas, come take a look. I think I’ve found a hole.” Her voice was a combination of uneasiness mixed with restrained excitement. She had good reason for concern and so did everyone else onboard. Until now, the more they learned about Freedom's defensive safeguards, the worse their chances looked.

  Headquarters had not discussed boarding Freedom with Scott and her crew, but everyone knew that conversation was sure to happen.

  Who else was going to do it?

  What other options did Headquarters have?

  Besides, boarding Freedom was inevitable. They had to do it simply to survive. They couldn’t return home without passing through the lethal DEWSAT layer and their supplies on Hope wouldn’t last more than three months, maybe three and one half months if they were rationed. As Scott, Mac, and Gonzo saw it, they were trapped with no place to go but Freedom.

  Scott played back a short segment of videotape as Mac and Gonzo looked on, contemplating what she’d seen. What they saw was a computer-generated image of the solar system in motion. A picture of the space station orbiting the earth once a day as the earth orbited around the sun. In addition, the video clip showed the radar coverage as a translucent sphere surrounding the space station. The translucent sphere meant that the radar could see in every direction, without blind spots, or so it seemed at first glance. After watching the tape play back time and time again, Scott noticed a tiny pinprick-sized hole in the translucent sphere. At first she thought it was a burned out pixel or a bad CRT screen, but she zoomed in on it and after some investigation, she concluded the pinhole was real. Not only was it real, it was predictable and always aligned itself in the direction of the sun.

  “As I see it, Freedom's blind as a bat looking into the sun.” Mac spoke in a low voice, leaning down, looking over her shoulder.

  “I think we should discuss this with Headquarters, but it looks too easy.” Gonzo paused. “Interference from the sun is a well-known problem. Headquarters must know about that blind spot and have already found some way to fill the gap. It can’t be as easy as flying in out of the sun or someone else woulda already tried it.”

  Scott disagreed. “It may be a classic problem but approaching Freedom out of the sun won’t be easy.” Scott spoke in a worried voice and handed Gonzo a hard copy picture of the video screen showing the sun, earth, Hope, and Freedom. On it she had sketched their approximate flight path—departing Hope then approaching Freedom out of the sun.

  Gonzo’s guts wrenched when he saw the general shape and complexity of the flight path. He spoke slowly, releasing an exasperated sigh. “God, this is intricate.” There was dread and apprehension in his voice. The general shape of the trajectory looked something like a semicircle, but the speed constantly varied.

  “I need you to work the details, just rough them in for now. We need a sanity check. I think we can do it, but it’s a one-way trip. Fuel’s the big problem. We move further out, let Freedom pass well underneath us, then spend the next seven hours playing hide and catch-up.”

  Staring at Scott’s flight trajectory in despair, Gonzo began punching numbers into his flight computer. The silence which followed seemed to linger for an eternity. Finally, he spoke, but by then he didn’t need to. The answer was written all over his face. Scott and Mac knew what he was about to say before he formed the words. “You’re right. Even if we make it through undetected, it’s a oneway trip.” He felt he was writing their epitaph.

  “Lighten up a little,” Mac said to break the melancholy mood. “We’ve still got each other.”

  Scott and Gonzo looked at Mac, shook their heads in quiet disbelief, and smiled. As always, he was right. The man was wonderful with people, the best Scott had ever known. Mac had a God-given talent for communication and could make anyone feel good, like sunshine breaking through on a cloudy day.

  Scott felt like laughing and crying at the same time. She rubbed her eyes clear, then studied the circles under Gonzo’s eyes. “We’ll feel better after we get some rest,” Scott observed. Although she was weightless, she stood up from the desk console to stretch. She expected it would feelgood just to move around. It didn’t. Every joint ached. Her efficiency was faltering, she felt her judgment uncertain, vacillating. She couldn’t keep up with her own pace; she was losing it and sinking fast. She checked her watch. How long was it till that conference call with Headquarters? It was today, wasn’t it? All of a sudden, she wasn’t sure what day it was. Let’s see, four-thirty their time is what time my time? Scott was baf
fled that she couldn’t figure it out. It wasn’t supposed to be hard. “Mac, how long till our conference call?” She blinked her eyes, but she couldn’t clear them.

  Mac glanced at the big clock on the wall, then at Scott and Gonzo. “ ’Bout six hours from now, Scotty. I’ve had my forty winks. You and Gonzo catch up.”

  Gonzo and Scott agreed. Neither had the strength to do otherwise.

  Sleeping quarters on Hope were about the same size as sleeping quarters in a submarine. They weren’t rooms at all, they were coffin-sized pigeonholes wedged lengthwise between the missile tubes. People space inside any weapons platform came at a premium. Traditionally, inside any manned weapons platform, people were accommodated around the weapons, not instead of the weapons, and Hope was no exception. Hope was first and foremost an orbiting weapon system bristling with armament designed exclusively for her own defense.

  Scott fell asleep while strapping herself to her berth. Gonzo didn’t bother securing himself at all. He closed the overhead curtain and figured that he wouldn’t float far.

  Straight from the Heart, 12/11/2014, 2330 Zulu, 4:30 P.M.

  Local

  Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

  Mason quietly laid their operations plan on the table in the video conference room. His eyes expressed an anxious uneasiness after studying the tenth draft of their op plan which led nowhere. The pieces weren’t coming together, not yet. They needed more information, much more. The plan was a start, but they had a long way to go. Fundamentally, given everything they knew, Slim Mason didn’t see any viable solution for this virus problem and his staff agreed. Their dilemma appeared to have no solution, but Mason and his staff were tenacious and unwilling to yield. There was a solution. There must be. Mason, his staff, and the President would have to wait.

  Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow, Livermore had promised new information on the virus. Tomorrow, General Krol expected Kaliningrad would release their preliminary report. It wouldn’t be complete, but based on his direct feedback from Kaliningrad, Krol believed it would be a cornerstone on which their operational plans could pivot. Everyone understood the tedious and complex nature of the Kaliningrad task. To reconstruct a cohesive picture of exactly what had happened to Freedom was a Herculean operation, given the mountainous volumes of data contained in their computer activity logs.

  Mason believed this virus could be cured. He needed an operations plan which combined the actions necessary for a speedy recovery. There must be a solution to any problem that was man-made. Everyone wanted to believe that, even those who didn’t believe it wanted to. If the problem could be solved at all, Mason believed his people could do it. It was Mason’s job to give them the time and support they needed. He’d run interference for them and then stay out of their way. Mason believed they’d find some weakness in Freedom's armor, but as of this moment, he saw no light at the end of the tunnel.

  Waiting was the hardest part. Mason, his staff, and the President had to wait while their technical folks sorted through the debris of this fiasco. Mason didn’t like the waiting, but he knew it was necessary. He didn’t expect the President to like waiting either, but the President would wait, like it or not.

  Mason took a deep breath and focused his thoughts. “We’re ready to talk to Hope, Sam. The operator should be set to complete the call. Ask her to complete the connection.”

  Punching up the video conference operator, Sam requested General Mason’s Hope connection. At once there were the clicks and pops of a very long-distance video call being completed, but then, there was a strange lack of static on the line. Suddenly, crystal clear pictures of Scott, Mac, and Gonzo appeared on their TV screens. Because of the twenty-two thousand-mile distance to Hope, the signal suffered from a noticeable time delay, but their connection was picture-perfect. Sam noticed that video communications with Hope had been restored to near original quality less than twenty-four hours after the virus rampage.

  Mason came forward in his seat toward the camera, then spoke first. “Major Scott, how are you and your crew holding up?” Over the videophone, Mason could clearly see Scott’s and Gonzo’s haggard, drawn faces.

  Looking at Gonzo’s zombielike appearance, Scott replied, “We need rest.”

  “Will it take a direct order from me for you to get it?” Mason asked, though his voice was not belligerent.

  “No sir, General, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure we can solve that problem on our own initiative.”

  “Any change in Pasha’s condition?”

  “Your medical staff or General Krol can give you any details, sir, but his prospects look good. We expect him to be up and about within the week. He could be as good as new in two.”

  “We need him, Scott, need him desperately. He knows more about that space station than all of us put together.” Mason paused, having heard the urgent tone in his own voice. He cleared his throat, then continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “Have your folks studied the operations plan we sent up earlier this afternoon?”

  For an instant, Scott contorted her face, then once again she regained control. Her face revealed no emotion. “Yes, sir. We’ve seen it.” Her voice sounded restrained.

  There was an extended period of silence. Mason noticed multiple signs of uneasiness. Scott remained impassive, but Gonzo anxiously looked across the room at Mac. Mac doo-died on a pad of paper, shaking his head, obviously wanting to speak, but holding back.

  “Yes. And?” Mason opened the floor for comments.

  “General, may we discuss this candidly?” asked Scott, speaking for her crew. Her voice was almost excessively calm.

  “Yes.” General Mason felt they needed a free exchange.

  When Scott spoke this time, there was in her voice the sharp metallic ring of urgency. “General, that plan is a bunch of crap.” Scott’s one line said it all. She’d summarized the feelings of her crew concisely. They couldn’t have said it better themselves—get to the point and spit it out. In their hearts, they felt a rush of admiration for Scott. Mac quit doodling, and Gonzo nodded agreement with a proud smile.

  Mason, his staff included, smiled on the inside. She’d said exactly what they felt. “I agree with you, Major. Our operations plan leads nowhere and resolves nothing.” Mason paused, choosing his words carefully, formulating his question as a litmus test to evaluate Scott’s judgment. Although he’d known and admired Scott since her days at the Air Force academy, he hadn’t worked closely with her for several years. “Given what we know, how would you propose we proceed?”

  Scott responded immediately. She knew what she’d do. “Focus on what’s important. Sit tight and let your technical people do their jobs. Don’t worry about an op plan until you know what to do.”

  Mason nodded agreement. He’d seek Scott’s opinion again, and often. Her judgment and communication skills had matured a great deal since he’d first come to know her as a brassy young lieutenant. “You make sense to me, Major. Anything else come to mind?”

  Scott looked at her crew. Their expressions said, Tell the man, and she believed she would. “Well, yes sir, there is.” She paused and collected her thoughts. “We think Freedom's radar coverage may have a hole in it. She’s blind looking into the sun.”

  Mason looked down the table to Colonel Napper for an analysis. “Sam, will you field this one?”

  Colonel Sam Napper smiled a funny, bemused sort of smile and rubbed the heavy stubble on his face. “General, I’d like to hand it off to John Sullivan if I could. I believe he knows exactly what Livermore has done to plug that blind spot.”

  John Sullivan pursed his lips. There was silence for a prolonged period while he sketched two pictures of the sun, earth, and Freedom. One drawing showed Freedom in the direct sunlight, the second showed her in darkness behind the earth. They weren’t drawn to scale, but he thought they’d get his points across. John put the two sketches before the video camera, then finally spoke. “Freedom was intended to be invulnerable, unapproachable by anyone without Centurion’
s consent. As you can see from this figure, Freedom stays in sunlight almost around the clock, so this blind spot was a big problem for us. Understand though, Freedom was never totally blind looking into the sun. She could see—only she couldn’t see as well. Her long-range vision suffered, but she could see any target close enough to her to cast a shadow. We tested this extensively. If we hadn’t, someone else would have tested it for us. When Freedom moves into the earth’s shadow, the blind spot disappears, of course, but during Freedom's long hours of daylight, she was vulnerable.”

  John took a deep breath, then sighed. “So we plugged the hole with a series of agile lasers. We use lasers on targets within a one-hundred-mile radius and missiles on the rest.”

  Absorbing John’s description, Scott was silent for a moment. For Scott, the next question was obvious. It took mettle to pose the question, but there was no place to hide. They had to face it. “How close could we get?” Her tone conveyed resolve.

  Following this question, the tension in the meeting suddenly increased. Hesitant, John couched his response with a question. “In Hell FireT’ His voice sounded uncertain.

  Scott nodded, her expression impassive.

  John tried to swallow, but his throat felt parched. “You understand the complexities of the flight path? The closer you get to Freedom, the less margin you have for error.”

  “I understand.”

  John had not fully worked out the details so his voice was tentative. “Assuming sufficient fuel, probably somewhere between five and fifty miles. The closer you stick to the flight path, the closer you’ll get before you’re detected.”

  Scott’s response was as immediate as it was decisive. “We’ve got to do better than that. Five to fifty miles won’t do.”

  Mason suddenly found himself running over different ways to approach this situation. He decided, as he generally did, to say exactly what he thought as best he could, and when in doubt, talk straight from the heart. “To die trying in this endeavor is to lose everything.” Mason’s words seemed to linger in the air. He paused and looked Scott squarely in the eyes. “You are not expendable and you’re not approaching Freedom until you believe you can do it. And once you believe it, you’ve got to convince me.” Although there were others listening to the conversation, the tone of the meeting changed. The meeting transformed into a one-on-one exchange between Mason and Scott. In a way, Mason and Scott reached out to each other through plainspoken conversation and their minds met. Mason’s communication was complete. Each now understood the other.

 

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