The Sphinx a5-4

by Robert Doherty

  She had also found that to be the norm. Anyone not in uniform among a large group of others who did wear one, was bound to be looked at strangely. The Navy found it convenient to blame her for the loss of the Pasadena, destroyed by the foo fighters, and the entrapment of the Springfield. Even more than that, they were angry over having their hands tied, unable to strike back with all the numerous weapons at their command.

  The Washington was one of the most modern ships in the Navy, a Nimitz-class carrier that cost over three billion dollars to build, the most expensive weapons system in the world. It was the core of Task Force 78, surrounded by two guided missile cruisers, three destroyers, two frigates, and two supply ships.

  The Washington carried the task force’s most powerful punch in the form of its flight wing: one squadron (12) of Grumman F-14 Tomcats, three squadrons (36) of McDonnell Douglas F/A-18 Hornets, four Grumman EA-2C Hawkeye surveillance aircraft, ten Lockheed S-3B Vikings, six Sikorsky SH-60B Seahawk helicopters, and six EA-6B Prowlers.

  And all that power had been doing for the past few days was steaming in a circle twenty miles away from Easter Island.

  “She’s on the bottom, not moving,” Poldan said gruffly. “No change there. No change here. We’re just wasting time.”

  “What change would you like to see?” Duncan asked.

  “I say we hit the island with everything we have.”

  “Including nuclear weapons?”

  “Including nukes,” Poldan confirmed. “The Secretary of Defense agreed with me just this morning.”

  “And he was assassinated on his way to tell the President that,” Duncan noted.

  “All the more reason to blast this rock out of the ocean.”

  “You received the imagery from China. Firing a nuclear weapon at Qian-Ling didn’t do much.”

  “Nuking the foo fighter base worked,” Poldan countered.

  “Did it?” Duncan asked. “Then where did the foo fighters that are covering the Springfield come from? And the foo fighter base probably didn’t have a guardian computer and shield.” She wondered how he would react if he knew the threat from Stratzyda.

  Poldan ignored her, turning his attention to the operations center, and gave orders, preparing the carrier to launch the latest attempt to see beyond the shield.

  Duncan stepped closer to his chair and lowered her voice so only he could hear. “Admiral, do you think this is smart?”

  A muscle in the admiral’s jaw quivered. “Lady, you have the clearance to be here and you have presidential authority, but I have approval from the National Security Council, which the President also heads.”

  “I’m not ordering you to stop,” Duncan said. “I’m just asking you to think about it. What makes you think this will be any more successful than your attempt under the water with Sea Eye?”

  “Global Hawk is unmanned,” Poldan said. “It fails, we lose nothing but a piece of equipment.”

  “Admiral, I think that… ”

  “I allowed you to try to contact Kelly Reynolds,” Poldan countered. “You’ve received no response. Now we try it my way.” Poldan turned to an officer seated at a console in the front of the operations center. “Do we have a link with Global Hawk?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Assume control.”

  Global Hawk had been developed by Teledyne Ryan Aeronautical and Raytheon E-Systems to fit a very specific requirement proposed by the Department of Defense. The need was for what was called in military procurement jargon a HAE UAV: high altitude endurance, unmanned aerial vehicle.

  It was shaped like the famous U-2 spy plane, except slightly smaller and having no need for the cockpit since it was flown remotely by a pilot or computer on the ground. Long black wings stretched almost 120 feet, with a thin body, all painted flat black. A pod in the bottom held the imaging gear, controlled by a central computer. A jet engine gave the aircraft power.

  Global Hawk was currently at sixty thousand feet and descending rapidly. Speed was relatively slow, about 120 knots. The long, wide wings gave the aircraft plenty of lift and the small jet engine had to put out little thrust to keep the vehicle moving. It had been launched from Edwards Air Force Base in California the previous day and had been controlled via satellite link from Edwards, directed to fly toward Easter Island.

  As it got closer to Easter Island, the satellite link with Edwards was cut and it entered a glide path that had been determined by the computer. The jet engine cut off and it swooped down, heading for the dark gray clouds below and the island hidden underneath them.

  “See those four lines that center up?” The officer who had answered Poldan inclined his head at the screen. “That’s the glide path.”

  As far as Duncan could tell, the lines did little good, as the entire screen was filled with gray cloud. The pilot was sitting in a padded chair, surrounded by flight instrumentation and computer screens. Directly in front of him, a joystick, such as Duncan remembered her son using for computer games, rested on a small platform. The pilot’s right hand was wrapped around the stick.

  “I’m ready to fly it by keeping the small red figure that represents Global Hawk centered on those lines, which are projected by the computer using a satellite uplink to a global positioning satellite.” He reached forward and flipped a switch with his free hand. The gray was gone. A black bubble on a blue field filled the screen. “We’re looking forward now from the Global Hawk using a thermal imager. That’s the shield surrounding the island. The blue is the ocean surface outside of the shield.”

  The image shuddered. “Turbulence,” the pilot explained, his hand hovering over the controls. “Four minutes to shield.”

  He hit a red button on his console. “Exit program is loaded and ready to run.” He hit the button again. “Computer is off and timer is set. I have complete control by radio link.”

  The black bubble got closer. The guardian had made the shield opaque after the last failed conventional attack by Admiral Poldan’s fleet. Up to that point, it had been invisible. The best guess UNAOC scientists had been able to come up with was that the field that comprised the shield was similar to the electromagnetic one used by the bouncers. The fact that in all the years Majestic had worked on the electromagnetic drives of those craft not a single clue as to how they actually worked had been discovered told Duncan that the key to the shield would not suddenly reveal itself.

  The pilot flipped four switches one right after the other. “I’m powering down nonessential systems,” he explained. “There are only two things still on… the forward heat imager, which we’re watching, and my radio link.

  “One minute out,” the pilot said. “Going off-line completely.” He hit the red button one last time. Then he let go of the controls. “Global Hawk is on a glide path that will take it through the shield. Prior to takeoff from Edwards, the central computer was shielded and a special program loaded. When I cut all links to the UAV, the central computer will go to sleep, which should allow it to pass through the shield, as the Airlia automated equipment seems to respond only to electric signals. It will wake up once inside, take the needed images, then shut down once more on the way out.”

  “We hope that’s the way it works,” Duncan said.

  The pilot shrugged. “It’s the best plan we have, given what we know about Airlia technology.”

  Duncan wasn’t too sure. The foo fighters had been taken out that way, using “dumb” weapons that gave off no EM signal, but she had a feeling the guardian was learning and adapting. Admiral Poldan had used “dumb” bombs to strike at the island during the last attack, and the shield had destroyed every one of them, unlike their success against the foo fighters. The hope of the UNAOC scientists was that the guardian… if it picked up Global Hawk… would see that the unmanned plane carried no weapons and therefore would not consider it a threat.

  The pilot checked the time. “Entering shield.”

  * * *

  The microbug was no bigger than a hornet. The microrobots, d
irected by the guardian, had built it from parts cannibalized from one of the FM radios left by the UNAOC scientists.

  The microbug flitted through the tunnel the humans had drilled from the surface into the guardian chamber. It was shaped like an elongated teardrop, with a tiny electromagnetic gravity drive, no bigger than the flat end of a thumbtack, giving it power and the ability to fly.

  The microbug sped into the sky, toward the object that had just been allowed through the shield. It easily caught up to the Global Hawk and raced alongside. Global Hawk was fifteen hundred feet over Easter Island, moving at eighty knots.

  The microbug slid in through an air duct in the front of the aircraft. It immediately noted the imagers now taking pictures and readings. It flew down a wiring conduit straight to the aircraft’s master computer.

  A miniature door on the side of the microbug slid open and a wire, no thicker than the finest of threads, punched directly into the computer’s main processor.

  The Global Hawk banked and headed for a landing on the main airstrip on Easter Island. Like a group of ants awaiting a picnic basket, a small army of microrobots was at the edge of the runway.

  * * *

  Lisa Duncan looked pointedly at the clock.

  The pilot slumped back in his seat. “We’re past due,” he admitted. “But it went in, we know that.”

  Admiral Poldan pointed forward. “We need to nuke that damn place. Nothing but a bunch of old statues anyway.”

  “And Kelly Reynolds,” Duncan noted.

  “Hell, she’s a traitor,” Poldan snarled.

  “A lot of people think differently,” Duncan said.

  “Who gives a damn what a lot of people think?” Poldan asked.

  “That’s supposedly what democracy is all about,” Duncan dryly noted. “Kelly helped uncover the secret of Area 51, Admiral. We owe her.”

  Poldan stabbed a finger toward Easter Island. “Tell it to that thing.”

  Lisa Duncan checked the clock once more. Forty hours before Lexina’s deadline was up. She left the communications shack.

  Ngorongoro Crater, Tanzania

  D — 39 Hours, 20 Minutes

  “What is it?” Lago asked.

  It had taken the two of them several hours to completely clear the sides of the stone. It was ten feet long by four wide. The edges were exact, the surfaces perfectly smooth except where there was high rune writing. Mualama doubted that any modern stonemason could do such a good job, even using lasers to cut the markings.

  Mualama stepped back, wiping a hand across his sweaty brow, not caring that it left a streak of mud. “You were the student,” he said. “The first thing you must consider at a dig is how old you think the site is.”

  Lago frowned. “It’s very strange. From the depth, given the data you gave me on this area, it should be several thousand years old. But… ”

  “Several thousand?” Mualama interrupted him. “That is much too broad an estimation. Narrow it down.”

  Lago picked up a notepad from the side of the pit. He thumbed through, searching for the notes he had taken when he’d been briefed by Mualama. Then he took a ruler and measured the stone’s depth.

  “I’d say this had been buried here somewhere between two and three thousand years.” He looked up. “But that can’t be, Uncle. It must have been buried recently and… ”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The other geological time indicators we found on top. They indicate that this site has been disturbed sometime after it was originally established. Do they not?” Lago asked.

  Mualama nodded.

  “But… ” Lago pointed at the stone. “How can that be? If it was so hard for you to find it, who else could have?”

  Mualama knelt next to the red stone. “What do you think this is?” Lago shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “You must tell me,” Mualama said. “Your head professor will not be pleased if I do not test you.”

  “I graduated two years ago,” Lago noted. “I no longer have a head professor.”

  “What do you think it is?” Mualama repeated.

  “A marker?”

  “Yes,” Mualama said. “But what kind?”

  “Of a special site?”

  Mualama smiled. “I do not know, so I cannot say if you are right or wrong. Yes, I do believe this is a special site. But I have my own guess what kind of marker this is.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think it is a grave marker.”

  Mualama smiled. “Bring me the end of the cable from the Rover’s winch.”

  Once his nephew brought him the cable, Mualama formed a large loop, which he laid next to one end of the stone. “Come,” he called to Lago. “We need to dig around so we can get this under.”

  After an hour of work they had the cable around the end of the stone, four inches in. Mualama ordered his nephew back to the winch. He gave Lago a thumbs-up, indicating for him to start the winch attached to the front bumper of the Land Rover. He then grabbed the end of the metal pipe he had taken off the roof of the Rover.

  The cable was taut, the winch whining, but there was no movement.

  “Hold!” Mualama yelled.

  Lago hit the lever, and the winch halted. Mualama dropped to his knees and used the trowel to dig a hole under the edge of the stone. He excavated as far as his arm could reach. Then Mualama slid the pipe into the hole.

  “Again!”

  The winch powered up. Mualama put all his weight on the pipe, his feet coming off the ground. With a loud sucking noise, the stone lifted ever so slightly. “Hold!”

  The tension went out of the cable and the stone dropped back down. Mualama repositioned the cable, making sure it was secure.

  “Once more,” Mualama yelled.

  The winch pulled, and this time the stone lifted four inches, then froze. Mualama was afraid of breaking it. He had taken photos of the surface from every angle, but he knew the stone intact was a magnificent find regardless of what else they found.

  “You must lift with the winch,” he instructed Lago, “then I will move it to the left.”

  “How are you… ”

  “Just lift when I tell you,” Mualama said. “Now!”

  The winch pulled once more, and the stone came up. Mualama gripped the pipe in his large hands, waiting as the end near him went up six inches. Then a foot. When it was two feet up, he slid his leg under it and pushed the pipe as far as it would go to the right.

  “What are you doing?” Lago yelled in alarm.

  “Keep the winch going!” Mualama put more of his body under the stone. He slid the pipe around to the right side of the stone. Then he pressed against the pipe.

  The stone moved very slightly to the left; only the part that was up moved. The edge was now three feet up. Mualama’s feet slipped on the dirt underneath. He desperately kept his grip on the pipe. He slid it farther down the right side. The stone was now angled.

  Mualama looked… the far left edge was just over the lip of the pit. He strained, putting every ounce of strength he had into pushing the pipe along the right edge. A foot of the far left was now over the lip.

  The close edge suddenly came free and the stone dangled precariously, held by the cable but free of the pipe. Mualama placed his back against the bottom of the stone, his body bent double as he tried to push it sideways.

  “Are you all right?” Lago’s voice seemed to come from far away.

  “Keep”… Mualama had to pause to take a deep breath between each word… “the… winch… going!”

  Mualama shifted his feet, slowly moving to the left, most of the weight of the stone taken by the winch. He felt the scarred skin on his back against the hard rock, the inner surface rough, unlike the smooth top, and tearing into his back.

  The cable around the stone shifted and the stone dropped six inches, knocking Mualama flat. He was lying on the earth underneath the marker.

  “Uncle!” Lago screamed.

  Mualama twisted on his side, tr
ying to see, just a little daylight coming in the part of the opening that was now clear… not enough for him to climb out of. He was trapped. The cable was more toward the middle of the stone now. The stone was resting on the lip.

  “Is the cable holding it?” Mualama yelled.

  “What?”

  “Is there any slack in the cable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pull up to the edge of the pit.” Mualama spoke slowly and carefully so that Lago would understand. “Then extend the metal brace on the front of the Rover. Run the cable over the wheel on the edge of the metal brace. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Are you okay?”

  “Just do it, please.”

  Mualama waited. He heard the wheels of the Rover move, then metal clanking. Mualama used the time to maneuver the cable to the exact center of the stone. “I’m ready,” Lago finally yelled.

  “Pull!” Mualama yelled. He heard the whine of the winch, and the stone lifted, quickly now, straight up. Mualama kept his hands on it to make sure it didn’t slip either way. It was clear of the edge on all sides.

  “All right! Stop the winch!”

  The stone stopped moving.

  “Now,” Mualama said, “back up the Rover until the stone clears.”

  “All right.”

  “Slowly!”

  Mualama kept his attention focused on keeping the stone steady as Lago backed the Rover up. He was so close, the last thing he needed now was to have it slide on top of him.

  After a minute of very slow maneuvering, the stone was clear of the pit.

  “Stop!” Mualama yelled. “Lower it,” he ordered as Lago got out of the Rover and came to the front. Slowly, the heavy marker went down until it lay on the ground next to the hole they had dug.

  “What now?” Lago was staring at the marker.

  Mualama picked up the shovels, tossing one to Lago. “We dig some more. The stone was a marker for something that lies underneath.” Mualama shoved the tip of the spade into the dirt. Reluctantly, Lago joined him.

  Less than ten minutes after they began, Lago’s shovel hit something solid. They hurried to uncover the object. When they were done, they both climbed out of the hole and stared down.