“What I want you to understand is that many times in our history we have constructed mechanisms, machinery, entire buildings, missile silos and other very complicated items in total secrecy.” He took a sip of water from a glass on the podium then continued.
“I would point to the Manhattan project, as well as most of the research performed regarding the top secret satellites that are capturing this information even as we speak. We understand the need for discretion and work towards goals, often times in total ignorance of programs from other bureaus, or other governmental entities.”
Murmurs of agreement, and nodding heads met with this clear statement. A few of the Generals knocked their rings on the table in tacit acknowledgment of the truth of the Director’s logic.
The Director continued.
“Having said that, we at CIA have no knowledge as to what these devices are.
We do suspect that they are or were designed as heavy-lift vehicles that are not intended to return from space for extended periods. Rough estimations based on surveillance videos taken from airport cameras store cameras cell phone cameras and our satellite tracking system put these vehicles as having been approximately three cubic miles in volume.” He took another sip, waiting for the inevitable outburst.
The other members of the meeting erupted in disbelief.
It had taken several minutes before order was restored.
“That’s fucking impossible!” cried the chief scientist.
The Director of the CIA dryly stated that the evidence proved otherwise.
*****
For the next hour, discussion centered on how such an obviously long-term directed and immense project could be successfully hidden from scrutiny given the technological advances that had been made by the NSA and NRO. The suggestions indicated the presence of an internal adversary, who had been able to scrub or hide relevant records from both the Congressional oversight and budgetary committees of the General Accounting Office. This suggested a high level of complicity in the coordination of the resources of many existing departments within the United States government.
The President directed that an additional layer of security be immediately placed on the proceedings.
Several aides issued orders to Officers in the room and over secured STU-III handsets.
Another aide set about organizing the necessary resources to provide an armed contingent of soldiers for the protection of the occupants in the room.
Secret Service agents accompanied the aide, and orders were given to secure the area. Several of the agents pulled their Uzi’s from under their suit coats and remained in alert postures as the meeting continued.
The next item on the agenda was to discuss exactly how the communication channels had been severed or impeded during the events that followed the launches of the space arcs.
It was theorized, and then substantiated by internal reports provided by the Director of the NSA, that the undersea cables near Sennen Cove, Bude, and Oxwich Bay in the United Kingdom had been tapped and then compromised. An interference signal had been heterodyned on the existing satellite infrastructure to distort or destroy the ability for the messages to successfully communicate. Another carrier signal was found, but the encryption had so far resisted efforts to crack it. The Director of NSA surmised that it might be quite some time until the signal was decrypted for analysis.
Database records from the Global Bandwidth Research Service were searched, and it was evident that surreptitious activities had been ongoing for some time. There was often a period of years where the undersea cable companies had fitted experimental devices along the wires, supposedly at the behest of various government entities or corporations with the proper credentials. Deeper investigation revealed that many of the corporations were fronts, with little actual infrastructure past a series of shells that obscured the real originators of these directives.
The practical upshot of this, according to NSA, was a secondary route for information exchange that diverted almost all of the submarine cable data through an unknown third-party.
“You mean, this is independent of Menwith Hill?” asked the President.
“Yes, sir,” the Director replied. “This is not connected to PRISM, ECHELON or EAGLE.”
“What else can you tell us?” said the President.
He noticed a group of men entering the room, all of them armed with HK MP-5s.
A man in a blue suit that the President did not recognize was in the lead, holding a briefcase.
The Secret Service began to interrogate the group when the man in the blue suit whipped his case into an arc. As he completed the motion, the case suddenly released a burst of automatic fire.
Before anyone could react, the Director of the NSA had taken three bullets to his head. It exploded, and an eyeball flew across the space from the podium into a pitcher of water.
Shouts and screams of pain were everywhere.
The President’s personal agents leaped to cover him, pushing him from his chair, and then dragging him across the floor, under the table. He saw bullet holes appearing in the table, and a ricochet off the floor sent marble chips into his cheek, drawing blood.
One of his guards stood up and cut loose with a burst from his Uzi, killing one of the attackers.
Two other men immediately directed their fire at the agent, who fell backward with a “Whoof!” sound and then onto his bottom.
His vest had successfully prevented the bullets from killing him, but the gunfire had knocked him out of breath.
He struggled to aim and move into protective cover. Before he had gotten ten feet, the two men had leaped onto a table and shot him again, this time raking his body with their submachine guns.
A squad of Marines had entered the fray and the sounds of their M-4 carbines being fired created deafening noise. The two assassins were cut to pieces by the 5.56mm barrage.
The man in the blue suit had managed to kill two of the Joint Chiefs, and also several Cabinet members in attendance. He threw away the briefcase gun and drew two Skorpion machine pistols from shoulder holsters. He began to fire indiscriminately at anything moving in the room. He shot one of his own team in the back of the head in his berserk rage. The man’s face exploded in a shower of gore that drenched one of the Secret Service agents.
The Marines focused fire on the remaining group of men, killing them with aimed fire.
The noise was suddenly gone. In the quiet, some moans and crying were heard, and the ticking sounds of hot weapons. Smoke filled the room.
The Marines went from man to man, securing the area, and placing zip tie restraints on every person they checked, friend or foe, dead or alive, that was not part of their team.
They approached the man in the blue suit. He was sitting near the podium, against the body of the NSA Director. He was breathing with difficulty and smirked as the Marines approached.
“Fuck you!” he said, and the front of the room exploded. The podium splintered, and fragments and shrapnel from the blast blanketed the entire room. The rear wall buckled under the force, and the doors to the room blew off. Lights and the projectors crashed from the ceiling, as the tables were tossed about.
The President, almost a hundred feet away, saw the blast shoot out of the door into the corridor. His team of agents had managed to extricate and move him out of the room in less than a minute, and only moments before the fatal explosion.
“Get me the FBI! Get me CIA! And get me the Commandant!” the President ordered, shouting.
“I want to know what the hell just happened!” he said.
*****
BEIJING, CHINA
Almost a mile beneath the smoldering ruins of their city, the men sat around an ornate table, carved into the shape of a Chinese dragon.
Smoke from incense censers wafted lazily up towards the ceiling, which was comprised of intricately carved the jade green tiles.
The men sat in high-backed chairs of black obsidian, with silk cushions and yellow braids.
Priceless artifacts surrounded them and populated the entire room.
Before each of them was a simple bamboo tray, painted black and red.
On the tray was a pewter teapot, with an embossed dragon of varied design. Next to the pot, at each diagonal of the tray lay a pewter cup with a black ceramic lining. Each cup sat on an ornate pewter saucer.
An elegant tea was brewed for each man, according to their individual palates.
A pair of finely wrought chopsticks made from precious stone was also placed on each tray.
“Do the Americans know of our Lunar Base?” said one of the men.
“It is unlikely,” said another, seated across from him.
“Good.”
“However, there is a possibility of discovery from the spacecraft now heading towards orbit.”
“That,” he said, “is unfortunate.”
At that, the men set to dining.
As they ate, they considered the colossal problem facing them.
*****
LEMURIAN BASE --
The U.S.S. Pennsylvania was preparing to get underway. Its automated mooring lines and power couplings were being retracted, and the Captain was settling into his seat. His XO was already barking commands at the pilots and navigators stations, and Weps had reported that the complement of nuclear missiles had been topped off.
“Sir, incoming Priority Red transmission from the Admiral!” said the radio man.
“Put it up where I can see it, Sparks,” he said.
“…repeat, all vessels hold stations for the next two hours. There are incoming reports from all surface ships and bases that are unbelievable but are being verified. All radio transmissions are still being affected by nuclear side-effects, and only HAARP, ELF, and VLF are reliable.”
The Captain looked at the XO. He looked at the radio man, and around the control room, stirring his Earl Grey tea slowly. He lifted the delicate bone china cup to his lips and gently blew on it, then took a small sip. He smacked his lips and then nodded to the XO.
“All hands stand down and make ready for re-docking with the Base,” said the XO. “Any other orders, Captain?” he asked.
The Captain scowled, his forehead furrowing in thought.
“Belay that order,” he said, suddenly.
The XO, looking mildly stunned, and relayed the new order.
“Weps,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” responded the weapons officer.
“We have a complete complement of all armaments. We are topped off, and our provisions are at capacity. I want you to do a systems check. A warm check,” he said.
The bridge crew all turned to look at him.
Puzzled looks were on some of their faces, but most wore looks of concern.
The Captain sat back in his chair and sipped at his tea.
He had just made the warship attack ready, and only one step from being at full battle stations; the USS Pennsylvania could launch its offensive armaments with only a few minutes to spare.
Everyone on board the ship knew the grave nature of weapons checks and bent to their tasks. Almost all of them were wondering what the Captain knew, and why he was not taking any chances as to their ability to respond to any threats.
The sonar station was running through its portion of the procedures when another message came from the Base.
“USS Pennsylvania, you are to immediately depart Lemuria. Orders will be transmitted en route. Run dark, no radio communications until 0530 Zulu. At that time, further orders will be relayed. Acknowledge,” came over the ship's loudspeakers.
“Make way, please,” said the Captain.
“You heard the Captain!” shouted the XO. “Move it! And finish up that systems check on the double!”
The USS Pennsylvania moved away from the docks, and into the channel leading to the locks. It entered the first lock, and the massive doors closed behind it. The crew carried on their duties, and the Captain waited while it the vast chamber flooded. The outer doors opened, and the boat moved slowly into the next lock in the series.
The process of flooding repeated only once more, as the other locks generally were kept flooded at varying pressures. Frequently, when moving from one to the next, only a short wait was required to equalize the next lock in the series.
The process went fairly quickly, and within a few minutes, the USS Pennsylvania was again in the deep Pacific Ocean, heading towards a secret destination, where it would receive its new orders.
“There is another secure communique for you, Captain. It’s from the Admiral,” said Sparks.
The Captain stood up, and motioning to the XO and Weps Officer said “I will take it in my quarters.”
The three left the bridge and went through the aisles to the Captain’s berth. They went inside, and, after locking the door, the Captain turned on his monitor. He entered his codes and was rewarded by the face of the Admiral, looking pensive.
“You need to see this,” said the Admiral.
Video began playing on the monitor, and the three men watched as scenes from various Naval vessels were relayed. In each one, the men on board the ships looked like teenagers or children. There were scenes of planes crashing onto decks of carriers, young people running around on the decks of cruisers, and general mayhem.
The men stared at the screen, not quite understanding or believing what they were seeing.
“What is this?” asked the XO.
“These are video feeds from all of our surface ships to which we have been able to break through the EMP interference. This is happening now,” said the Admiral.
As the men watched, they could see men vanish from the ship’s decks, leaving only a pile of clothing in most instances. Some of the sailors appeared to be children clothed in the uniforms of the crew.
“What the devil,” said Weps.
“Fuck,” said the Captain.
On the screen, he saw Commander Nathan Alexander, one of his classmates from the Naval Academy. Alexander had gone into guided missile cruisers and was in command of the Aegis class cruiser USS Normandy.
He and Nate had been pretty good buddies and had gotten into a few fistfights a time or two with jarheads and army grunts who thought the Navy was for sissies. They had some pretty fun times.
The Captain looked at the face of a man he had not seen in almost twenty years, and it looked almost exactly the same. The Commander was barking orders into a microphone on the bridge of his ship while it bucked and jumped in the ocean waves.
A teenaged boy was responding to the Commander’s orders, and relaying them to what was left of the crew.
“This is happening all over the globe, as near as we can tell,” said the Admiral. “Preliminary reports are that this may be related to the phenomenon that SPARTACUS was tracking, and the timeline agrees.”
“What’s going on up there, Sir?” asked the Captain.
“It appears that all hell has broken loose,” he said.
*****
KENNEBUNKPORT, MAINE
Former President of the United States of America, George H.W. Bush, was finessing a fly towards the largest trout he had ever seen in his very long life.
The former President had taken up fly fishing as a way to get more exercise in the outdoors.
The tasty fish he caught were just icing on his cake.
He loved the regimen, the routine of fly fishing.
He remembered watching Tom Skerritt and Brad Pitt in that movie… what was it called?
He thought for a moment and remembered it was “A River Runs Through It”. He chuckled, then laughed out loud.
That movie was so silly! He had found it laughable, at first; their ways of using a metronome-like cadence to send out the fishing line; how they treated fly fishing as some kind of holy endeavor.
He had scoffed at the time but was intrigued enough to give it a shot. He had done some fishing, of course, but never really got into fly fishing, preferring golf or tennis, or more cerebral pursuits, such as che
ss.
Then, one day he had just gone and bought a rig.
His first attempts ended up more often than not with no fish and just a massive tangle of fishing line in his hand.
He sought out a couple of the better-known guides and swore them to secrecy.
He had them instruct him in the vagaries of choosing the correct spool, the weight of the line, and the flies themselves.
Later, once he had gained some experience, he began to tie his own flies.
He reflected now, as he tossed the bait to his current quarry, that a man would never be able to master this sport, and it thrilled him to realize he stood in the burbling waters outside his house, just completely enveloped in the sensations and experience.
He carefully worked the fly over the trout, which snaked and bobbed just below the water’s surface. He tried to think of nothing but what that fish would be hungry for, and how to best emulate that tidbit with his lure.
The trout darted away, and he decided to take a short break.
“Hey, Willy!” he shouted.
The Secret Service agent, about ten yards away, had been trying to look nonchalant while guarding Bush, and took a moment from his own attempts.
The Uzi he had in a leather arm sling under his vest clanked a bit, and the SIG P226 he carried chafed his waist a tad.
“How about a beer?” asked the former President.
“Sure thing, sir,” he answered, and went towards the dock to fetch Bush a Narragansett.
Bush had managed to locate the prized fish once more and was just casting out his line, using that metronome motion to set the fly just in front of the trout.
He noticed the air in the clear blue sky was wavering a bit. He could see Willy, reaching into the cooler, and removing a cold, perspiring beer bottle.
Willy seemed to be moving in slow motion, and Bush wondered if maybe he were having a stroke. He felt frozen and sluggish. He could move his eyes, and looked at the fly, suspended in mid-air, and could see the magnificent trout, mouth agape, reaching out towards the lure. The fish was frozen in mid-leap.
Terminal Reset Omnibus: The Coming of The Wave Page 25