"I'm Agent Stone from the Defense Intelligence Agency." He pushed a very official-looking ID card under her nose. "We have reason to believe that your life might be in danger and have orders to take you under protective custody."
Debra blinked in confusion. "What?"
They didn't even stop to explain. One on either side, they hustled her out of the lecture hall through a back door, ignoring the howls of indignation from the Oxford people. She was in a dark car and speeding away from the curb before the reality of what had happened caught up with her.
FRAN New York, New York
19 DECEMBER 1995, 0442 LOCAL
19 DECEMBER 1995, 0942 ZULU
The computer screen cast an eerie glow across the hardwood floors of the large den. Francine Volkers was facing the screen but her eyes were unfocused-she didn't need to see the numbers portrayed, because she'd created them and they were indelibly etched in her mind. She took another sip of her coffee and sighed as a light went on in the guest bedroom. Her husband padded out, his bathrobe half thrown on.
"Are you going to get any sleep?"
Francine shook her head. For the past forty-eight hours she'd had to face her own numbers and she didn't like them one bit. She'd transmitted them as required on the secure modem as soon as the calculations were complete. Now she could do nothing but look at them.
"No."
Her husband cursed under his breath. Their marriage had been one of convenience for many years now and she was currently an irritant-upsetting the unspoken truce. "Jesus Christ, Fran! You've been sitting in front of that damn computer since I got home. The glow is coming right in my door."
"Then shut your door." She was surprised he'd noticed how long it had been. He worked on Wall Street, crunching his own set of numbers and all he truly cared about was that they turned out in the black, and in at least six digits a month. The numbers had brought them together fifteen years earlier in college, but had subsequently taken them in radically different directions. His had ended on Wall Street. Hers had taken her to Columbia University, where she had helped pioneer the field of statistical projection. She took facts and figures, collated them into numbers a computer could read, and then tried to project out what the possibilities of various future events would be. Right now they read very poorly.
A few years ago a group that had kept what they called a Doomsday Clock had moved the minute hand back from two minutes before midnight to almost fifteen minutes prior to midnight. The breakup of the Soviet Union and the worldwide cutback in military spending had been the impetus. Fran had disagreed with that move, but kept it to herself. Her own calculations would have edged the minute hand a shade closer to the dark hour. The loss of the relative stability of the Soviet Union and the formation of numerous splinter countries all armed with nuclear weapons certainly did not bode well for mankind in her mind or in her calculations. Nor did the world economic condition. The haves were teetering and the have-nots were getting angrier.
She didn't even bother to look at her husband. "Go to bed, George. You need your rest so you can make money tomorrow, or should I say later today."
A year before he would have retorted angrily to the dig, pointing out that his money paid for their exclusive Central Park West apartment. It was a sign of how low things had sunk between them that he simply turned and stalked back into the bedroom, slamming his door behind him. Fran was in her mid-thirties; a tall, slender woman whose dark hair was now streaked with gray-a sign of premature aging she refused to color. As a result of that and the creases around her eyes and mouth, she looked almost ten years older than she really was. It wasn't something to concern her. Such trivial matters bothered her little when weighed against what her numbers told her day in and day out.
She was not overly surprised when the building intercom buzzed. She got out of her chair for the first time in hours and walked on stiff legs to the voice box near the door.
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Volker, this is Ed, downstairs. There are two men here to see you. They say they're from the government. They do have IDs."
"Send them up, Ed. It's all right." She unlocked the apartment door and swung it open. Then she headed for her own bedroom and started packing. It took the men a few minutes to appear.
"Mrs. Volker?"
She nodded as she pulled clothes out of the closet. "Yes."
"Ma'am, we're here to escort you. This is sanctioned under the Hermes Project."
"I know. I've been waiting for you."
The two looked relieved that she was cooperating.
"Are we going to Washington or to the center in West Virginia?" she asked as she sat on the edge of her bed and pulled on a pair of boots. The numbers had gone to D.C., but they usually met in the bunker burrowed under the hills of West Virginia.
The agents' faces were impassive. "Neither, ma'am."
That was the first surprise for Fran. She stood and looked at them. "Can you tell me where we are going, then?"
The two exchanged looks. Finally one replied. "Australia, ma'am."
"Australia? Why are we going there?"
The one who had answered, shrugged. "We don't know. Our job is to get you there. We have military transport waiting at LaGuardia." Fran considered what she knew about Australia-factoring in that it was summer in the southern hemisphere-and placed some T-shirts and shorts in her bag.
She threw a bag over her shoulder while one of the agents grabbed the other. "Can I tell my husband I'm leaving?"
"Yes, ma'am, but not your destination."
"Oh, hell," she said. "I'll just leave him a note on the fridge."
FIRST BRIEFING
Deep Space Communication Complex 14.
Outside of Alice Springs, Australia
21 DECEMBER 1995, 0830 LOCAL
20 DECEMBER 1995, 2300 ZULU
Hawkins checked his watch for the twentieth time in the past hour. He paced back and forth in the tiny cubicle they'd assigned him and then went back to the military issue desk. He snapped open the file folder he'd been given on arrival and studied the documents inside for the hundredth time.
The flight in the backseat of the F-14 Tomcat had left him none the worse for wear. He'd had nothing to do stuffed back where the flight officer normally sat, so he'd slept, the roar of jet engines a comforting and familiar sound. He'd awoken from a troubled sleep several times, usually when they'd slowed down to rendezvous high above the Pacific with a lumbering KC135 tanker for refueling.
He'd arrived here six hours before, been given this folder, and told to wait until the meeting. He'd bristled at the lack of information, but it seemed as if no one else around here knew anything more than he did. Having been in the Army fourteen years, Hawkins was used to "hurry-up-and-wait."
There was a lot of military activity going on-Hawkins's professional judgment estimated at least a battalion-sized Marine Landing Force was staging out of the immediate area of the tracking station. He glanced out a thick window as a CH-47 Chinook helicopter lifted in a cloud of sand and winged to the southwest carrying troops and cargo. It flew over the eight large dishes that were pointing at various attitudes into the early morning sky. Hawkins peered beyond the dishes toward the desert sands. There was something out there that was attracting a whole lot of attention, and Hawkins hoped this upcoming meeting would tell him what it was.
The file folder certainly didn't do that. The papers inside were brief biographies on personnel that a cover letter said would be attending the briefing. Hawkins couldn't figure out what someone would need this strange assortment of people for. Besides himself there were three civilians-two women and a man-along with an Air Force major assigned to the base here and the Marine full colonel who commanded the soldiers outside.
He scanned the picture of the older woman-Dr. Francine Volkers-implanting it in his memory. A professor at Columbia University in New York. Field of expertise: statistical projection, whatever the hell that was. Hawkins shook his head as he flipped the page.
; The second woman looked much too young to Hawkins to be on any sort of classified operation even if it just involved thinking. Debra Levy. A physicist, specializing in quantum physics and a whole bunch of other things that Hawkins had no idea what they meant. Hawkins had to smile grimly to himself. So far he was 0 for 2 in understanding exactly what these people did.
He could figure out what the third civilian, Don Batson, did for a living, although why the man was here was as much a mystery to Hawkins as why he himself was here. Batson did consultant work for various mining corporations around the world. His specialty was geology, and in addition to the consulting work he was employed as adjunct faculty at the New Mexico Institute of Mining and Technology with a secondary specialty of operations research.
The Marine colonel was next and Hawkins read his military data with a quick scan. Colonel Tolliver. Commander of Battalion Landing Team 2 out of Okinawa. Hawkins's mind snapped to professional considerations. What did they need a BLT out here for? And how were the Australians reacting to that many U.S. troops on their soil? Tolliver was here simply because he was the commander of the closest American forces.
The Air Force major-Spurlock-was a screen watcher from this station. Hawkins shook his head. He had an inherent antipathy toward someone in uniform, the same rank as himself, who normally got paid the same amount of money each month, but the most dangerous thing they did was use the stapler.
So what had they seen on the screens here that was so important? Hawkins wondered as he glanced outside again at the large dishes.
A Marine lieutenant tapped on the door. It was time. Hawkins stuffed his green beret in a side pants pocket and strode out of the room, the file folder under his arm. Stoic-faced marines with slung automatic weapons were spaced along the hallway and Major Hawkins responded to their snap to attention with a curt nod.
Hawkins showed his ID card to the guard at the door and entered the briefing room. He noted the other people seated at the table as he made his way to the seat that had an index card with his name on it, matching the photos and data in the folder with the actual people. They eyed him with equal curiosity.
Volkers appeared to be on edge, her fingers tapping on the desktop, her eyes flickering about the room. Levy sat perfectly still, her eyes only briefly sliding over to take in Hawkins, then returning to a point in front of her on the tabletop. Batson looked terrible-hungover and worn out. A stubble of beard didn't help his appearance.
The door opened and a man in an expensive three-piece suit walked in. The newcomer was in his mid-forties, a slight puffiness in both the face and body showing the effects of a current lifestyle seated behind a desk. His hair was pure white and thick, combed straight back, a contrast to the slightly red face. The left side of the man's face was slightly concave on the cheekbone-an unsettling abnormality that Hawkins knew was the result of that bone having been smashed in and improperly cared for.
Hawkins had immediately recognized him as Steven Lamb-the President's principal adviser in intelligence matters. Despite the suit and slack body Hawkins respected Lamb. He knew something that few others in the world of covert operations knew-Lamb had spent four years in the CIA running missions out of North Turkey into the former Soviet Union. He had been compromised on one of the missions and spent six years in a Soviet prison under horrible conditions before he was quietly exchanged back after the end of the Cold War. The broken cheekbone had occurred sometime during the first year and been allowed to heal on its own. Hawkins knew this because he had been tapped to plan a rescue mission into the prison-one of many potential missions his team-code named Orion-planned for but never executed because, as Hawkins's executive officer Richman liked to say, there was "a lack of intestinal fortitude on the part of the one who has to make the decision to go."
To many not in the know Lamb was simply the President's hatchet man. The one who took the hard jobs and got them done. Of course, he got them done by using other people to do the dirty work and that sometimes caused resentment in the covert community, but as far as Hawkins knew, Lamb had never shirked responsibility for anything he ordered, even when it had turned bad. That was rare in the world of government, from what Hawkins had seen over the past several years.
Lamb and Hawkins had worked together several times during the course of the past four years while Hawkins had been commanding Orion. Lamb more often than not had been the one giving Hawkins the missions for Orion. He'd been the one who'd supplied the questionable intelligence placing one of the bombs in Colombia and, using his call sign Angel, had given the final go.
Lamb moved directly to the front of the room and looked at each person for a few seconds, gaining eye contact before moving onto the next, as if he were judging their capabilities with that look.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Steven Lamb. I'm executive director of the President's National Command Crisis Team. Some of you know me from your work on the Hermes Project." He glanced at Hawkins. "Some from other operations.
"All of you had or have been given interim top secret Q clearances, so we can speak freely in this room. I am glad each of you was able to make it here in time and-"
"I didn't exactly feel like I had much choice," Batson interrupted.
"I second that statement," Fran Volkers added. "I was told I was to be here because of Hermes Project, yet that doesn't seem to be the case." She pointed at the folder in front of her. Hawkins noticed for the first time that all the other people in the room had a folder similar to his. That meant they knew as much about him as he did about them, which bothered him.
Lamb dodged the question for the time being. "Dr. Volker and Mr. Batson are both members of a group called the Hermes Project and they were told that their presence here was because of that project. However, that is not quite true. The Hermes Project has over eighty members, but as you can see, there are only two of you here. I apologize for the slight subterfuge, but we felt it was the easiest way to get you to come here. This matter does fall under the scope of the contracts you signed with Hermes. I will explain in a little while why we had to bring you here, but let me start at the beginning."
Lamb gestured about him, taking in the room. "This installation is called Deep Space Communication Complex 14. Two days ago this station-and other tracking stations around the globe-picked up a high-frequency transmission that disrupted all normal communications for over three hours. Tapes were made of it at all affected stations and sent to Goddard Space Center in Maryland, which began the process of trying to determine several things: first, where the message originated from; secondly, where the message was being sent to; and third, what the message was. The answers to some of those questions were determined just eighteen hours ago and I will share them with you shortly, but bear with me as I stay in the order of events as they occurred.
"Initially, it was suspected that either a civilian or military radio was broadcasting somewhere to the southwest of this location. A helicopter was sent out to locate the emitter."
Lamb picked up a remote and clicked. The screen showed a massive red rock standing alone in the middle of what appeared to be a desert. "That is Ayers Rock. Located two hundred miles to the southwest of this station. The interfering radio waves were coming out of the rock."
"What do you mean, out of the rock?" Batson leaned forward. "You mean someone inside is transmitting?"
Lamb looked at Batson with a blank expression. "We don't know. Ayers Rock is the largest homogeneous rock in the world-there are caves along the face, but the rock itself has always been thought to be solid. It is 1,131 feet high, a mile and a half wide, and two miles across. Using sonar and magnetic resonance imaging equipment, we have narrowed down the source of the emitter to be center of the mass, approximately six hundred feet in from the top."
Batson ran a slightly shaking hand through his hair. "No sign of a mine entrance or tunneling?"
"None. As far as we can determine from sonar readings, there is a chamber of presently indeterminate size in the center of th
e rock with no tunnels leading to it. We assume that is where the transmission originated."
Hawkins spoke for the first time. "What's it transmitting?"
Lamb pointed at the Air Force officer. "Major Spurlock was on duty when the radio waves were first received. I’ll let him explain what happened and what he discovered."
Spurlock took a quick drink from a glass of water and then stood. "We picked up the transmission here only because of our proximity to the transmitter. It was picked up by other stations and satellites because the transmission was an up link to a meteor bounce. There were five directional down links.
"The transmission itself was digital-exactly the same mode used by some of our deep-space probes. Specifically, the same mode that Voyager uses. Despite that, at first I could not make any sense of it and thought it was just garbage. But then I ran it through the computer and saw that there was a repeating pattern. I isolated the core message from the repeats and discovered that the reason I couldn't decipher it initially was that the beginning of the message was musical."
He reached over and threw a switch on a tape recorder. The sound of classical music filled the air. He turned it off. "The music goes on for ninety minutes-a wide variety ranging from classical to rock and roll. At the end of the ninety minutes of music comes greetings in various languages. This part also threw me off until I had the computer analyze it. There are twenty-four languages represented."
Spurlock took another drink of water. "At that point it occurred to me that this message was very similar to something I knew about. I checked the data log for the Voyager space probe and found out that the ninety minutes of music and the greetings were the exact same as those appearing on a record built into the probe itself."
"Wait a second." Hawkins held up a hand. "You're saying that something in Ayers Rock is transmitting the same message that was placed on board Voyager?"
Lamb fielded the question. "Yes. On the off chance Voyager might run into another interstellar traveler on its journey among the stars, the designers had placed on board a plaque with engravings depicting humans and the location of the sun. Also, there was a long-playing record that contained spoken greetings in various languages, a selection of various sounds found on earth, and ninety minutes of music. In the grooves of the record there are also common mathematical and scientific codes."
The Rock Page 4