The umbilical support station—Epsilon-MU1 (Mother Umbilical 1)—was not selected hastily. It was built in one of the largest, thickest salt vaults in the entire underground labyrinth. MU1 was the most remote, and intensely reinforced. Its defense mechanisms were many, and encapsulated some of the most advanced protective technology of any in the underground facility. The station was, after all, to be the matriarch, the very life-blood for the HOPE satellites—even after the whole of the complex was gone. Without this crucial core, the satellites would simply shutdown, go stealth, and become nothing more than orbiting specters.
Jimmy glanced at his watch and allowed a crafty grin. This is going to be a breeze, he said to himself.
From Tanner’s perspective, the MU1’s isolation was also its Achilles Heel, and the perfect place for the Red Ants to begin their infiltration. Using the stolen EMR technology, a tunnel had already been secretly built connecting the Mole Hole Base and a secluded tributary vein leading directly into the underground’s extensive web. The Red Ants, with their leashed Goliath killing machines, would penetrate the station—their main prize—then act to immediately procure the HOPE satellites. Once HOPE was secure and under their control, the insurgent division would then move to overwhelm the sentinel defense droids and take the rest of the underground complex. Next, they would target Avalon, and finally, Sandcastle Estate herself. The Four would be incapacitated, captured and taken into custody before they even knew what had hit them. It was the perfect strategy. But first, Jimmy had to fulfill his small, but crucial part of the coup d'état.
MU1 station brimmed from floor to ceiling with critical instrumentation and equipment; each piece as vital as its weight in gold to the military’s agenda. To randomly blow through a wall into that kind of a structure would mean massive damage, a risk the military aggressors could not take, especially if they were to seize and utilize a functioning HOPE system—the station would need to continue unabated in its succoring of the two orbiting satellites even after being taken. This was crucial.
Jimmy’s job, then, although simple, was a critical twofold process: first, he needed to ascertain and mark the exact penetration point from within MU1’s protective cocoon. The marker was in the form of an untraceable radio signal which, like a guided missile, would take the Red Ant’s right to their target; and second, Jimmy also needed to place his canister of anesthetic gas. When discharged, the canister would cause a rapid state of unconsciousness to any human working within the MU1 station.
Jimmy worked like a skilled surgeon. In less than an hour, he had entered the station; perused over multiple files on the facility’s schematics; and assessed all equipment and the corresponding location of each piece. He also made a differentiation between the expendable equipment and that which was deemed critical. Soon, all data had coalesced into one final recommended spot. Jimmy gazed down at the results and nearly cackled out loud. It was the exact spot which he had recommended to both Tanner and Briggs in the very beginning. He knew MU1 like the back of his hand. If only the fools had listened to him, they would have spared days of lost time and work. But now, all that was simply water-under-the-bridge.
With the transmitter in position and the canister carefully concealed in the ceiling directly above the Four’s workstations, Jimmy’s deceitful task was complete. He closed all files and logged out. He double-checked all surfaces and made certain that nothing was left amiss. He punched in his exit code and hurried out of the reinforced MU1 station. Jimmy was absolutely confident that he had left everything just as he had found it . . . that is except for two alien items: a small canister of noxious gas, and an electronic transmitter the size of a thumbtack.
As Jimmy bounded into his transport and zipped away down the conveyance-corridor, the tiny transmitter-disc came to life and began its treacherous call: Here am I, it seemed to taunt. Find me, and HOPE is lost.
Chapter 44:
The Cape Canaveral Air Force Base observatory was a humming ballyhoo. Patrons of the festive gala included Air Force top brass; media representatives from a variety of news stations; NASA administrators, engineers and project leaders; and several stagnant political beneficiaries—all vying to get themselves inconspicuously noticed in the sweeping eye of an evening news camera. But regardless of who’s face was considered the most distinguished of the gathering assembly, the real headline would be the new Reitman rocket technology; and even more impressively, the payload which the launch vehicle was soon to transport into low earth orbit (LEO).
The two communication satellites would be the most advanced systems ever put into space. They would revolutionize the data-carrying industry, and propagate vast amounts of information heretofore unprecedented. The prelaunch footage alone would assure gasps from any whose eyes found themselves locked on broadcasting screens, with commentary from every NASA official lucky enough to have a microphone shoved in their face. But of all the attending VIPs which might be caught in a reporter’s headline clip, the pair most responsible for the grand event were no-shows . . . unseen, unheard and barely mentioned—at their request.
Down the hall and up one floor from the observation gathering, was a secured conference area known only to base officials as assembly room 11B, a spacious area set aside for visiting, albeit private, VIP’s. The room had hosted such individuals as ambassadors, foreign dignitaries, high-ranking officers, senators, and even a former President of the United States. It accommodated not only all security-level protocols but all pleasantries as well—including a state-of-the-art entertainment area, bar, food kiosk, and comfortable seating for at least fifty occupants. But its climactic feature was the view area: a spectacular vista of the distant launch-sites with the surrounding Merritt Island as their backdrop.
From the room’s west wall, a covering of wide-slotted blinds had just motored back to reveal a fabulous array of thick-paned windows. The ceiling-to-floor glass collage filled the room with sunlight and offered a perfect spot for watching a liftoff from any of the launch complex sites. But in the distance, only one massive object now filled the scene and protruded up from the flat watery surroundings like a single great oak on a towering climb. It shimmered and glistened in the afternoon sun, imbuing the room’s only two occupants with an unspeakable thrill.
“I just can’t believe I’m actually here at the launch-site,” spoke Gracie, peering up at her son from behind gold-framed glasses. She gazed outward in awe and shook her head.
The soaring metallic marvel which filled her view had but one single name adorned across its glistening veneer: Reitman Enterprises. It was her name—hers and Jimmy’s—and she could hardly keep herself from bursting with pride.
Jimmy repositioned his mother’s wheelchair then bent and rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I knew once I got you here, you would be pleased. I know things were rushed, and the trip exhausting, but we made it. And in just ten more minutes,” he enthused, pausing to glance at his Rolex, “you and I will witness the final rise of HOPE.”
A sudden click turned in the background, and a door opened.
The face of a tallish man peered in. “Ah,” said Mr. Freeman, poking his baldpate into the room. “I see we’ve moved down to the observation window then. Excellent!” He stepped in attentively, pausing just briefly to glance over his shoulder at the doorway. “Your security detail are somewhat methodical,” he said, nodding to a wrist as it pulled the door closed behind him. He evidently opted not to expand further—his two guests really didn’t need to know that the detail of armed security in the hallway nearly tossed him when he couldn’t provide his NASA identification fast enough. The man had heard about Reitman Enterprises’ personal protection management, but this little incident was a bit much.
The NASA Director of Public Affairs shook off his embarrassing encounter and quickly turned back into host-mode, an assimilation which he did rather well . . . and often. His red sports shirt was festooned in NASA insignia, his pleated slacks were an American blue, and his shoes were a suitable pai
r of white Dockers. His goatee was a mix of rust and grey and had obviously been trimmed that morning with added diligence. With his tall frame, thin neck and prominent nose, the man could have been a stork in another life. “I just wanted to pop-in and make sure your observation blinds had opened—they are synced to our launch status computers and open automatically when the countdown reaches ten-minutes.”
Jimmy glanced down at his watch. “It appears that they are right on time.”
Gracie smiled and gestured toward the bright opening. “We can see very well from here. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Freeman.”
The man nodded, and ineptly took her approval as an invitation to join the mother-son duo. He approached in a light-footed step, his jaw in full motion. “We just can’t tell you again, what a pleasure it is to have you here as our guests,” he groveled. “I don’t suppose,” he probed solicitously, “that we could talk you into a brief appearance downstairs? It would mean so much to our other guests.”
“I’m afraid not,” Jimmy replied, curtly.
Gracie smiled politely, but her countenance was one of agreement with her son.
“I understand,” the Director replied, trying to sound empathetic. He wasn’t of course. His agitation seeped out of his mannequin grin like water through a fractured pipe. He rubbed his two perfectly manicured hands together anxiously. “She certainly is something,” he shifted the subject, gesturing out the large window at the towering payload. “I’ve been here for nearly twenty-seven years, and I’ve never seen anything quite like that perched on a launch platform . . .” Mr. Freeman kept jabbering, seemingly unaware that he was being largely ignored my his two guests.
Finally, Jimmy had had enough. He wasn’t much in the mood for chit-chat anyway, and certainly not from some toady, intrusive host. Freeman’s insensitive cackling was like the scraping of fingernails against a chalkboard. Did the ridiculous man actually think his gibberish endeared some sense of status? He was a nothing! A zero! He stood there in the presence of absolute genius and accomplishment and actually thought to endear a commonality! Idiot!
“ . . .they spent months remodeling the entire 37B complex just to accommodate her size. It was—”
“Mr. Freeman. You—!”
“Have been so kind,” Gracie suddenly interjected, her voice deflecting her son’s assault like a shield to sword. She reached a warm hand out toward the NASA maître.
The eccentric man really was an idiot. He had no idea of his inept encroachment. He jumped to receive Gracie’s hand in radiating self-admiration.
“We are truly grateful for your hospitality,” she buttered, “but would you mind terribly if my son and I were left alone for this most important, and very personal event? We only have five minutes left until the launch, and it would mean so much to us both. You do understand?”
Freeman melted in animated emotion. “Of course!” he replied. “I understand completely.” He tossed a neat hand in the air. “I’ll just hurry back downstairs and join my other guests.” He presented an overdone, toothy smile. Then with a wink, he whirled on his heels and nearly pranced from the room.
Jimmy exhaled his emotion. “You are far too easy on such egotistical vampires,” he mumbled through a transfixed lock on the distant 37B complex. “But then again . . . you were brilliant, mother.”
Gracie chuckled. “Yes. Yes I rather was, wasn’t I.”
From outside the thick-paned windows, the faint sound of a distant siren permeated into the room.
“Oh look Jimmy!” cried Gracie, leaning excitedly into her son’s arm. “They’ve released the locks!”
In the distance, the massive stabilizers began folding back their powerful metal arms. “This is it, son! This is it!”
“Yes,” he replied in a methodic tone. He stepped forward, stopping at the window’s edge. “This is it,” he mumbled.
The one-minute countdown began.
--
Back at Sandcastle, the excitement of the launch was equally electrifying. But unlike their counterparts at the Cape, the Four had little time to feel or absorb the intensity of the event. The launch preparation had brought the underground control center into full force. Droids lined their stations along a connecting grid of monitors and panels, each prepped to engage their algorithms in a sequential chain of absolute precision. Surrounding them on all angles, was a kaleidoscope of equipment and hardware, humming in a throng which sounded more like the pulse of a living creature than circuitry, gears or switches. And amid it all, working from their facilitating platform was Eli, Jacob, Ruthanne and Ellen, each feeling much like an anxious architect whose creation was just about to be put to the test.
Their attention was now riveted to a smooth circular area just below them where, moments earlier, a large imaging system had been engaged, projecting a real-time image of the entire 37B launch complex right into the center of the control room. The three-dimensional holograph produced a scaled-down, 360-degree delineation of pad, rocket, and cargo.
“All of our NASA emulators look good,” spoke Eli, punching data into his remote input device.
“And all interlocks, sensors and safety systems are within acceptable range,” added Jacob.
“Excellent,” Eli replied. “Do we have confirmation from the onboard EMR systems?”
“Affirmative,” Jacob returned. “Both EMR systems are powered up and online.” Then he paused, grunting at some frustrating detail.
“What is it?” questioned Eli, anxiously.
“I don’t like the rate of coolant they have set on engine two. It’s too high.”
“That doesn’t affect the launch,” Ellen stated.
“No, but it is unnecessary and a waste of the system’s energy.”
Eli smiled. “Leave the NASA engineers alone, Jacob. Let them launch the way they want. Remember, no overriding or intervention unless there are issues . . . serious issues.”
“I know, I know,” Jacob grumbled again. “But they are sloppy!”
“Enough chit-chat you two,” hollered out Ellen. “The droid navigators will go online in T-minus fifteen seconds.” She turned to Ruthanne. “Ruthy, are all archive systems online and ready to stream live to the vault?”
“Affirmative,” she replied. “I have two of the droids tasks with encryption and archiving, exclusively—all visual, audio and recordable data is being chronicled.”
Ellen’s attention suddenly shifted to her readout display. “We’ve got a power drop on one of the platform relays!” she shouted out, her face mirroring concern as she eyed the data.
“Got it,” replied Jacob. “It is not a critical system, but NASA might act aggressively and delay the launch.” He tossed a worried look at his comrades. “We can easily override that system,” he probed, eyeing Eli for confirmation.
“Very well then,” directed Eli, “let’s keep NASA happy. Override their computers and keep them in the green.”
Jacob nodded, tapping the commands into the system.
Within the NASA control center, all computers were intact and appeared to be working nominally. But this was deception—right down to the insignificant analog value of the air temperature outside the building. In reality, Sandcastle had the ability to circumvent the NASA systems controlling the Reitman rockets at any time, and at any level. The Four would not hazard HOPE, even at the risk of divulging their ability to commandeer and take control of the two satellite systems in the event of a critical anomaly.
“We’re back in the green!” Ellen confirmed in relief. “And none-to-soon! We are at T-minus ten, nine, eight . . . this is it everybody!”
All eyes now moved from the holographic imagery to a large display screen above. Each of the Four grasped hands. Their hearts pounded with an unequaled thrill.
“For you, Zenny,” whispered Ruthanne, as the tears rolled down beneath her glasses.
A burst of flame suddenly exploded—like a colossal torch—from the bottom of the rocket. The towering figure shuttered for several seconds, t
hen, with unnatural ease, it rose into the air in a majestic cloud of heated gas. Within seconds, its glistening tail was all that could be seen as it streaked upward and across the blue canopy.
The cheers that followed were ineffable. They rose simultaneously from many diverse voices all over the world. From launch enthusiasts, scientists, engineers, educators, and a host of other affiliations, all excited by NASA’s purported new technology. But the most profound cries which trailed the rocket’s fiery tail in those final seconds, came from only two locations: from a secret underground complex in Utah’s salt desert, and from an isolated conference room at the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station launch facility.
HOPE had forever left the atmosphere of the earth; the very planet which she was destined to touch in an endless mission of salvation; an orbital salvo aimed at a global reset—a clearing of the world’s nuclear armament slate.
Yet, within just hours, it would become painfully clear that she was not to fulfill her intended task. But instead, to be seized—and in an attempt of treacherous irony—forced to become the very weapon she was sent to annihilate.
--
Tanner sat at his large, overstated desk, glaring at his office screen. His excitement—if there was any emotion attached to the man at all—came in the form of an arrogant smirk across his narrow, bony face. He reached for the mute button on his television remote, then dialed a number on his cell. The name which came up on the glowing display was Carl Briggs. As the phone rang, he continued to watch the silent commentary on the Reitman launch, still in progress. By all reports, the liftoff had been a flawless success, with phase two—the separation of rocket from the satellites—still to take place. But Tanner had no qualms now. By hour’s end, the satellites would be successfully positioned into their final orbit.
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