Quantum Space: Book One in the Quantum Series

by Douglas Phillips

  Quantum Space

  Book One in the Quantum Series

  By Douglas Phillips

  Text copyright © 2017 Douglas Phillips

  All Rights Reserved.

  Table of Contents

  1 Space

  2 Ground

  3 Americans

  4 Russians

  5 Quantum

  6 Darkness

  7 Insight

  8 Chicago

  9 Illusions

  10 Science

  11 Tesseract

  12 Booster

  13 Magic

  14 Corporations

  15 Leaders

  16 Influence

  17 Analysis

  18 Conspiracy

  19 Motivation

  20 Collaboration

  21 Surveillance

  22 Connections

  23 Chinese

  24 Message

  25 Confrontation

  26 Distress

  27 Shards

  28 Reality

  29 Dakota

  30 Lost

  31 Found

  32 Yin

  33 Yang

  34 Lockdown

  35 Bliss

  36 Circles

  37 Qinhuangdao

  38 Layers

  39 Puzzle

  40 Inspiration

  41 Giants

  42 Intuition

  43 Saturn

  44 Hub

  45 Paradox

  46 Galactic

  47 Reunion

  48 Humans

  Afterward

  Acknowledgments

  1 Quantum Time

  1 Space

  Sergei Koslov floated a few centimeters above his seat, enjoying the last few minutes of weightlessness. Soon enough, he would be back in the crushing gravity of Earth. Wobbly legs would be a small price to pay for the innumerable pleasures of returning home.

  He glanced out the window. The gentle curve of Earth’s blue-and-white horizon stood in sharp contrast to the blackness of space. Sunlight magnified the natural beauty of oceans and clouds, but it was the night side that revealed the lights of civilization. More than anything, Sergei missed the energy of a city at night—any city. He’d passed over most of them in the last three months.

  Home. Almost there. The only thing separating him was a fiery ride down through the atmosphere.

  Sergei and his two companions were wedged shoulder to shoulder in a space no larger than the backseat of a small car; cramped, but bearable for the short ride down from the International Space Station. A pencil gently tumbled in the air. Anton Golovkin grabbed it and secured it with a clip. In the center seat, Jeremy Taylor confirmed the computer trajectory, his reach to the control panel extended by means of a small stick.

  A voice in their headsets interrupted the soundless cabin. “Soyuz, ISS. Kak pashyevayesh?”

  Sergei keyed his microphone and replied in English, “Doing well, ISS. We’re enjoying every minute. The view is much better down here. How are things with you, Nate?”

  There was a slight delay in Nate’s response. “Sergei, my friend. In your haste to get home it appears you’ve left something behind. A music CD? On the cover, there’s a photograph of a beautiful young woman wearing a red scarf and… well, not much else.”

  Sergei laughed. “You found it quickly, Nate. A gift, to help you Puritans in America better understand the finer things in life. I hope you will enjoy.”

  “Spasibo, Sergei, very generous… I think. When I get home, I’ll send you some of my favorite decadence from the West. Your view of me might improve.”

  The Russian glanced over at his two companions and lifted his hands in the air. “Nate Erasco? Decadence? Not possible.”

  “Tell it straight, Sergei,” Jeremy said. “But you’ll miss that Puritan. You know you will.”

  Three months aboard the International Space Station had been a life-changing experience that was now coming to an end. Jeremy was right. Sergei would miss waking up each day to the incredible view from orbit. He’d miss the comradery of the ISS team, especially the Americans, even Nate. Back on the ground, Russia and America were worlds apart.

  Sergei shifted to his role as Soyuz Mission 74 commander. “ISS, six minutes until descent burn. Changing to frequency 922.763.”

  The voice on the other end also changed tone. “Roger, Soyuz, 922.763. Bezopasnoye puteshestviye—safe trip, guys.”

  Anton pressed a key and a checklist appeared on his display. Each man flipped their helmet visor down, pulled on gloves and locked them in place.

  Sergei peered once more through the small Soyuz window. Their orbital height had decreased substantially, and their speed of eight kilometers per second was now obvious. The clouds, ocean and land below raced by at high speed as if predicting the drama of atmospheric contact that would come soon.

  Sergei reached out and pressed a button to engage the reentry sequence. From ports on Soyuz, tiny jets of nitrogen shot out into the silent vacuum of space, nudging them into perfect retrograde position for the final burn. A countdown clock appeared on the computer display, and as the clock reached zero, the big descent rocket behind their backs ignited and shook the spacecraft with a deep rumble. Sergei and Jeremy bumped fists. The deceleration was immediate, and they were pressed into their padded seats. A few minutes later, the burn stopped as quickly as it had started.

  “Descent velocity within target envelope,” Anton called out. “Six minutes to atmospheric contact.”

  The computer displayed a large yellow light, and two loud bangs reverberated from behind their seats, followed by two more ahead. Jeremy visibly twitched at the sound of the explosive bolts.

  Sergei looked out the window to confirm their separation from the forward docking module and the aft rocket. The discarded parts would never make it to the ground, destined to become globs of melted metal, disintegrating in the intense heat of reentry. Their capsule would take the same path, but thermal shielding would make all the difference.

  Sergei shifted in his seat, anticipating the final, but most dangerous leg of their journey. Home. Nearly there.

  Five heart-pounding minutes passed until the first shudder rattled the spacecraft. The top of the atmosphere.

  The bumps increased, and a minute later, their seats were shaking violently. The three men briefly held gloved hands and smiled through their helmet visors. The bounces were frequent and strong. Larger jolts caused the entire cabin to rattle like an old pickup truck on a washboard road. But their smiles didn’t fade. They had been through worse, and home was within reach.

  Sergei keyed his microphone, his voice jittery from the bumps. “Moscow, Soyuz. Atmospheric contact, descent normal. We’re picking up light chop.”

  In his headset, a Russian voice replied. “Soyuz, Moscow, confirmed atmospheric contact, altitude one-seven-four kilometers, up range seven-two-zero kilometers. Status is green. See you in a few minutes.”

  Sergei’s fingers dug into the armrests on his seat as the jolts increased in ferocity.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Far below, on the flat, dusty plains of western Kazakhstan, a lonely Russian soldier stood outside his truck. He lifted his sunglasses and gazed upward. A beautiful day, and warm by Kazakh standards, with only a light coat needed to protect from the chill of the wind. The soldier picked up his binoculars and scanned the sky, looking for the object he expected to appear at any minute.

  His job was simple: visually confirm reentry and contact the operations commander at Korolyov Mission Control. Radar and GPS would do the rest, providing descent vectors and computing the exact landing site, where recovery teams would be waiting.
Soyuz landings were good, but with somewhat older technology, Russia still employed ground observers just to be sure.

  The soldier’s patience paid off as he noticed a thin contrail high in the atmosphere, streaking west to east at high speed. He grabbed his radio from the truck’s seat and spoke with pride and excitement. “Moscow! Moscow! Soyuz reentry visual confirmation at Caspian Station.”

  The response was loud and clear. “Caspian, Moscow. Confirmed sighting. Maintain contact.”

  He lifted his binoculars and located the tip of the contrail once more. But now, something was different. The air at the tip began to shimmer, as if looking through the heat above a fire. The shimmer intensified, making the air opaque and partly obscuring the view. He squinted.

  An intense flash of blue-white light, blindingly bright, exploded across the sky. Reflexively, the soldier dropped his binoculars and covered his eyes. Seconds passed as the brightness faded. A massive sonic boom shook the air and the ground.

  His hands shaking, he lifted his binoculars and searched again. The long white contrail lingered in the high, thin air, marking the reentry track. But the contrail ended abruptly, and beyond it there was no spacecraft. No movement. No parachute. Nothing but empty sky.

  The spacecraft was gone, as if it had never been there.

  Confusion overwhelmed the soldier. The blue flash… what? The boom… an explosion?

  He dropped his binoculars and for a full minute scanned the sky with his own eyes. He could pick out the remains of the contrail, wisps of white but nothing more. A minute later, a demanding voice burst from his radio.

  “Caspian, Moscow. We have lost radar contact. Report!”

  The solder picked up the radio, collecting his thoughts before keying the microphone. He shook his head and kicked the tire of his truck.

  “Blyad!”

  2 Ground

  At NASA’s Goddard Spaceflight Center in Greenbelt, Maryland, Communications Specialist Dana Tunney pulled her headset off one ear and stared at the computer display. She rubbed her tired eyes and ignored several blinking lights. Equally neglected were the cup of cold coffee and half-eaten donut on her desk.

  Her shift supervisor stood by her side, peering over her shoulder. She pointed to the screen. “Roscosmos reported simultaneous loss of radar and radio contact at altitude one hundred seventy kilometers. It’s been twenty-five minutes and they’ve heard nothing. Nothing through the global network either. No telemetry, no voice.”

  The supervisor leaned in closer. “You were monitoring, right? What was the last transmission from Soyuz?”

  She swiveled to face him. “All was well. They had just hit the top of the atmosphere. They were reporting some turbulence, but systems were normal and the descent trajectory looked good. But then… it just disappeared. Radar, communications, telemetry… everything. I’m continuing to monitor the comm frequency. Moscow is transmitting, but they’re getting nothing back.”

  “Major malfunction?”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I’m afraid so. Something big.”

  “Did it break apart? It must have burned up, right?”

  “It sure as hell is pointing to that.” She rubbed a hand across her forehead. “Good God, it’s another Columbia disaster.” She felt a chill as she recalled witnessing the space shuttle disintegrate on reentry. The fatal accident was years ago, but memories were still strong for those who were closely involved. And now the nightmare was repeating. Her mind played out the grotesque view of a spacecraft breaking apart, the burning pieces streaking across the sky and marking a path of destruction and death. And then, something clicked.

  “Weird,” she said softly, her eyes still focused on the display. “They’re not tracking debris.” She looked up at the supervisor. “Radar should have picked up debris for several minutes after the loss of radio contact, but the Russians are saying that the radar contact disappeared. One minute it was there and the next… gone. That doesn’t make sense for a reentry breakup.”

  “It might be the Russian high-altitude radar. It’s not exactly reliable. Have they reported any debris on the ground?”

  She leaned back in her chair. “Well, they’re mobilizing teams across a wide area of Kazakhstan, but it will be hours before we get any reports. At this point, everyone’s assuming catastrophic structural fail…” But she didn’t complete her sentence. She held up her hand, pulled her headphones tight over her ears and stared straight ahead.

  “What? You’re getting something?” the supervisor questioned. “Put it on speaker.”

  Dana looked up, her face pale. She reached to the panel, switched communications from headphones to speaker and turned up the volume. The static was continuous and loud, like ocean waves crashing on a beach. But out of the noise, a faint voice could be heard. It was hard to make out, mixed with so much static. But it was a man’s voice, and he was clearly speaking Russian.

  3 Americans

  Daniel Rice ran down the dark residential street in Vienna, Virginia, extending his stride to avoid puddles from the recent rain. The Gear watch on his wrist displayed 5:30 a.m., and Billie Joe Armstrong poured a live version of “Warning” into his earbuds. He was in the zone. Every portion of his body moved in unison, and the running was effortless.

  Since hitting forty, Daniel made sure that exercise was part of every day. The effort had paid off. He was fit, and stronger than when he was thirty. A morning run was his first choice for summer months, but now, in September, rain became a more frequent obstacle. Weekend skiing was a winter favorite, but that was last year. His new job had included a transfer from Seattle to D.C. From one Washington to another, but the two cities couldn’t be more different.

  The move was a major step forward in his career, reporting to the president’s science advisor, Spencer Bradley, who had been a mentor to Daniel over many years. The day after Bradley was picked, he’d called Daniel and offered him a job. “My go-to guy,” Bradley had said. “The president may not know it yet, but he needs you.” Daniel’s decision was easy.

  In midstride, his phone erupted with a ringtone that told him Bradley was calling. It also meant his run would be cut short. He slowed to a stop, took a few deep breaths and touched his watch.

  “Rice here.” His voice was scratchy on its first use of the day.

  “Daniel, sorry to wake you. We have a critical situation.”

  “I’m awake,” he said between the panting breaths. “What’s up?”

  “Sorry to intrude, then. I hope whatever you’re doing is as good as it sounds.”

  Daniel laughed. “I hate to burst your fantasy, Spence, but I’m just running. If you need me, I can be back home in five minutes.”

  “Four would be better,” Bradley suggested. “The topic is confidential, so I’ll fill you in when you get here. I’m sending a car, and pack a bag—you may need to catch a flight. How soon can you be ready?”

  “Just send the car, I’ll be ready. Your office?”

  “Nope, Situation Room.”

  “White House? It sounds like a big deal.”

  “It is.”

  Daniel hung up. The White House wasn’t unknown territory. He had already worked on several programs that involved the president, including a working lunch once. But a classified science program? That was rare. Closer to nonexistent.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Daniel was home, showered and dressed in a dark business suit and blue tie, his standard choice when meeting with higher-ups. He glanced in the hallway mirror and brushed his fingers through his hair. A bit grayer every month. No worries.

  He walked into the kitchen, where a striped tabby rubbed his chin against the edge of the island counter. “Don’t worry, Darwin, I didn’t forget you.” He poured some food into the empty dish. The cat looked at the dish and back up at Daniel.

  “What, not good enough for you? Ungrateful troublemaker.” He bent down and scratched behind the cat’s ears. “The vet says it’s better for you. Get used to it, my friend, it will make you strong.�
�� Darwin rubbed the side of his face against Daniel’s hand and purred.

  “Hey, buddy, I have to leave. I might be gone overnight. But if you’re lucky, Janine might stop by.” Darwin’s chin-rubbing intensified. “Yeah, you like Janine, don’t you? I don’t blame you. Maybe you can curl up on her lap. Lucky bastard.”

  He slipped on a lightweight overcoat, grabbed his laptop case and stepped outside. A hint of the rising sun was just beginning to show towards the east. Clouds from the passing cold front lingered over northern Virginia, but through a break he spotted Jupiter, shining brightly. If his telescope had been set up, he would have seen a nice arrangement of Jupiter’s moons, with Io and Europa on the left, Ganymede and Calisto on the right. The four Galilean moons were his usual mental connection whenever Jupiter was in view.

  On other nights, he identified the brighter stars and noted their distances from Earth: Sirius 8.6 light years, Procyon 11.5, Aldebaran 65.2, and on it went. There was no point to the mental exercise. It was nothing more than a checklist, a routine… an obsession, and it didn’t end with astronomy. When in Salt Lake City or Los Angeles or Seattle, the routine switched to naming the surrounding mountain peaks, including their elevations. On any flight, it was a careful notation of every adjustment to ailerons, flaps, or landing gear. At breakfast, he estimated the atomic composition of his cereal or the diffraction of sunlight through the glass of orange juice.

  Would the science inside his head ever stop?

  Probably not.

  A black SUV pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down and the interior lights came on. Daniel saw the familiar face of one of the Secret Service agents at the White House.

  “Hey, Julian, how are things?”

  “Doing well, Dr. Rice,” the large man behind the wheel replied. “Good to see you again. Sorry for the short notice.”

  Daniel climbed into the backseat. “Not a problem. Just missing a bit of my morning run, that’s all. What’s the scoop?”

  “Sorry, sir, I have no information. All I know is I’m taking you to the White House. An aide will get you to the conference room where they’re meeting. There’s a fresh scone in the box if you’d care to eat while we drive.”