by A J Marshall
Annika Fipatti, who was sitting at the neighbouring console, stood up and walked over. She peered at the lines of data on her colleague’s monitor.
“What’s imposs . . . ?” Her eyes widened. “That can’t be right, Aaron. It’s hot out there, but not that hot. It must be a probe failure, or a fault in the line. Run a continuity check and reset the datum.”
“I have! Twice! No fault found! And anyway the chances of a simultaneous multiple probe failure must be millions to one. Exposed or shaded the entire array concurs – this is no erroneous indication . . . this is it . . . the first!”
Annika’s eyes were glued to the changing lines of data on the screen and her look of disbelief transformed to one of alarm. “I’ll call the Centre Manager,” she barked. “You cross-check again and run another simulation using the exact parameters, no rounding up or down, go the fifteen decimal places and then patch the results through to the master console. We’d better be one hundred per cent certain before we press the panic button!”
Annika was swiftly back to her console. She pressed a call button on the communications panel and leaned over the integrated microphone.
“Hello! Christine Bong here.”
“Christine, it’s Annika in Phased Array. Listen, I think we have a problem. Who is duty manager?”
“Augusto this morning, until midday, but he’s out at one of the remote sensor sites . . . interference protected . . . so no direct comms – he said he would be back around seven. I can try to message his pager. The assistant manager is Marijs; she’s at her desk.”
“Give me her line, please. No! Just send her down . . . pronto!”
CHAPTER 4
Yesterday’s World
London - Whitehall
Same day – 08:14 Greenwich Mean Time
“I’d like to say that it’s good to see you, Peter, particularly after what . . . two years? But judging by that familiar expression, I’m not so sure.”
“You know me as well as that, Richard? Interesting . . . I must be slipping. Welcome, all the same.”
Peter Rothschild nodded at the two armed security guards as he passed them. He had allowed Richard to lead the way and one of the men, while keeping an open finger across the trigger guard of his assault rifle, eyed Richard warily. The other man, the smaller of the two, closed and bolted the internally fortified entrance door, causing a loud hollow-sounding thud to reverberate along the adjacent corridor. Despite being accompanied by the Director of MI9 himself, Richard was still surprised that the guards had not ordered him to pass through the security screen, or at least stopped him for a body search. The persistent beeping from the bypassed body scanner made him feel ill at ease.
Rothschild stepped past him and, noticing Richard’s frown, said, “Don’t worry, the relevant checks have already been done . . . in my car, you understand. You are carrying three metallic objects – your telephonic pager, the chain for your identity tag and the swipe keys to your office. And you are not currently in possession of a weapon of any sort – not even a pen. Make you feel better? And anyway, your current ESSA Security Level Five clearance affords some privileges, don’t you agree?”
Richard shrugged. “The MOD HQ. It doesn’t matter which way you come in, it all looks the bloody same: endless corridors, doors going to who knows where, and people you can feel and hear but never see – gives me the creeps.”
They had entered the ministry building by way of an out-of-sight side door and the narrow, beige-painted corridor conducted them into a small foyer, whereupon Rothschild turned abruptly right. Richard, who followed close behind, pointed at the three further corridors radiating from the small circular room in order to emphasise his point, but it was an adjacent, grey marble staircase that the two men began to ascend.
“Actually, there are not so many people here any more, Richard,” Rothschild enlightened, “probably less than a hundred. Most military personnel from the Defence Department have gone to the newly refurbished underground headquarters in Northwood. In fact most of the government is now housed below ground – the main centre is out towards Aylesbury, well away from the Thames Flood Plain you understand. The Palace of Westminster is all but empty these days.”
After the first flight of stairs, Richard caught up and matched Rothschild’s sprightly pace. “So why are you sticking it out here, then?”
“Many reasons, Richard, not least practical. There’s a good housekeeping organisation still in place, albeit skeletal, and the north wing remains conditioned, in daily use, and at my disposal. Which means that I have access to the best communications centre in the country and perhaps more importantly, my team can listen to just about everything that’s transmitted anywhere in the world – at least in the primary frequency ranges . . . the 5G mobile networks and similar. With key words such as ‘riot’ and ‘assassinate’ programmed to be electronically highlighted and a fully automated system, anybody mentioning something they ought not to, might find themselves under investigation. Apart from that, I like to look out of the window occasionally.”
Richard’s expression became one of bemusement as he followed Rothschild through a set of doors, around a corner and into another corridor. He caught up with him again. “Why? You can’t see anything. Just grey skies, low cloud and more often than not, rain!”
“It’s not raining quite so much these days.”
“Well that may be the case, Peter, but intermittent or not it’s still wet and bloody miserable. Nothing grows I’m told, at least on the surface, and the place is covered in mould. It’s everywhere . . . it’s like the red weed in H G Wells’ War of the Worlds. Except that it’s green. I mean who, in their right mind, would want to live here?”
“We can’t all live on the Moon, Richard. You are extremely privileged. After the Lunar Senate agreed to reconsider the immigration question in fifty-two, they set strict quotas. The orbiting boarder craft only processes applicants with a requisite skill or experience relevant to Andromeda’s development and expansion plans. Anyone who was not a full-time resident of Andromeda at the time of independence has to apply for residency and the process is extremely long winded. Relocation is for the lucky ones. With our help, you missed all that – jumped the queue in fact. We put your name forward to command the Shuttle Wing because of your success in retrieving the largest crystal . . . we owed you, so to speak. You don’t need me to remind you that your application only took three months to clear the lunar immigration process. You were not in flying practice and your S2 rating was well out of date, and so, on the face of it, not the preferred choice for that appointment – or have you forgotten that?” Rothschild half-turned in order to look Richard square in the eye. “A number of important people pulled strings on your behalf,” he continued, “you should remember that.”
“Well, yes, but I had . . .”
Rothschild nodded at a smart, dark-suited man who passed them in the opposite direction. He waited until they turned another corner before continuing. “Very few people have access to the stars these days, Richard, you should be grateful,” he said emphatically. With that, Peter Rothschild peeled off to his left and pulled open a heavy fire door. Having passed through and following a quick glance up to nod at a security camera, he looked over his shoulder to confirm that Richard had pushed the door shut again. Subsequently, both men breathed easier.
In the corridor that followed the atmosphere was conditioned: warm, dry and comfortable. However, the stuffiness of government, of protocol and control was still patently apparent in this old seat of power – manifested in long, gloomy, wooden-panelled passageways and secretive secured doors. But it was overwhelmingly silent. Have things finally changed? wondered Richard.
“Apparently, not the privileged working conditions that you’re used to, I see, Peter. I’m beginning to think that you’ve been ostracised – abandoned by the ministry?” Richard offered his remark with an edge of sarcasm; it broke a protracted silence. He was still unhappy with the recall.
Roth
schild ignored the remark, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. Richard smiled: he had hit the mark. Presently, Rothschild stopped outside a high Georgian-style door of dark oak and reached for its shiny brass handle. He paused and looked with a grave expression at Richard and then opened the door. There was a gap between the purple and gold carpet runner that extended seemingly forever along the corridor and the regal blue of the room’s floor covering and Richard, in his boots, clumped awkwardly between the two. Like somebody talking in a library, he turned a few disapproving heads.
Inside the large rectangular room, with its high ceiling, there was a spectacular run of windows that overlooked the river. In front stood a polished table – square, wooden and with thick straight legs. From an off-centre slot on the far side of the table a thin, frosted glass panel, evidently a monitor screen, protruded. It was perhaps a metre tall and a metre and a half wide. The table was clearly prepared for a meeting with plastic bottles of water, crystal glasses and a number of electronic notebooks positioned on three sides. There was an orderly making some last minute touches to the seven place settings and another under the table fiddling with the electrical connections.
“All in order, Jeremy?” Rothschild asked, as he strode across the room towards an adjacent door.
“Yes, sir.”
“What about the Minister?”
“No one has arrived yet, sir; at least not to my knowledge.”
“Please let me know when they do; we will need a few minutes to synchronise the system.”
“It’s all in order, sir, although we hear that Washington is having problems with their Safety Net again.”
Rothschild turned and beckoned Richard to follow him into the side room – it was much smaller, but the two windows still had a sweeping view of the grey, murky River Thames. Rothschild shook his head as he closed the door behind him. “Something is going awry with the Net, too many glitches, as if another system is attempting to interface and pulling the security grid down on the rebound. It’s happening too often and I don’t like it.” Rothschild offered Richard the chair on the other side of the antique desk. Both men sat down. Rothschild opened the desk drawer to his left and pressed a switch. Moments later a computer keyboard was projected onto the desktop in front of him. He used the illuminated keys to type in an 8-digit code and then lifted the lid to his personal notebook. With that, the illuminated keyboard disappeared. Richard could see a number of lights reflecting through the glass lid. Rothschild looked at the screen. “Laura, are you there?” he asked.
A woman’s pleasantly modulated voice answered; Richard recognised her. “Yes, Peter, I’m here, trying to coordinate the link with Alexandria. It’s patched through Cairo at the moment and imaging is heavily distorted. I’m being advised that we should utilise HMS Hermes instead; she’s currently anchored a few miles off the coast. We can then relay through the military command network instead.”
Laura Bellingham, Richard thought, the civil servant. She used to be with Home Affairs. Now she must be Peter’s PA.
Rothschild’s eyes tracked a figure on the screen and he responded a little anxiously. “Yes, do it. Quickly. Inform Admiral Hughes . . . Anything from General Roper?”
“Only to say that there is absolutely no problem at their end – he would not enlighten further.”
Rothschild sighed and sat back in his seat. He tapped his fingers on the desk thoughtfully before looking up at Richard. “Damn frustrating, this protocol!” he blurted, uncharacteristically. “The Americans are saying that their system is completely secure – their most up-to-date codes, absolutely no chance of being hacked. I’m not so sure.” He tapped his fingers again. “It’s a point of national pride. Despite the special relationship they will not let us run an overlay check. You wouldn’t imagine we are all on the same side!”
“If you’re talking about SERON, Peter, the ISSF’s Space Net, there is no chance of penetration. Even from my operations centre on Andromeda we need five levels of authorisation. The Space and Science Federation monitors every single terminal that requests a connection – continuous multiple sequencing. I tend to agree with the Americans – penetrating SERON . . . well it must be imposs . . .”
Peter Rothschild interrupted. “I spent the first seven years of my career in the intelligence department, Richard, as a binary programmer. Believe me, there isn’t a code that can’t be broken. Stella, sequential, arithmetic; if someone has the resources – the right equipment and the right people – it can be done. Just think back to the Second World War. The German High Command were convinced that their military Enigma code was totally secure and continued to use it until 1945, transmitting highly classified and top-secret material all the while. You remember Bletchley Park and ULTRA from your history lessons at school? There the Intelligence Service did the impossible and the information they decoded was a substantial aid to the Allied war effort; some said it shortened the war by two years. It was a massive blow when the German military eventually realised their folly – and their conceit.” Rothschild’s tight-clenched fingertips tapped the desk again. It was a subconscious response.
“So you think there’s a risk that the system is or has been compromised, and the Americans are the weak link?”
“I’m convinced that someone is looking at what we are doing. At what level I’m not sure. You will hear why when we brief.” Rothschild checked the small hologram that hovered by his left shoulder; there was a red mark on the silvery-grey clock face that highlighted the commencement time of the impending meeting. “It’s the Americans who insist it’s impossible; all the other national agencies are cross-checking. I’ve got my department looking very closely at our interface. The level of cyber-attack is unprecedented at the moment and we are not sure why. We are being probed from all directions, so to speak, and are desperately trying to keep one step ahead; but by the very nature of the complexity the threat increases every day.” Rothschild massaged his left temple with two fingers. He was clearly under pressure. “Cyber-defence draws heavily on my resources,” he continued, “resources that would best be deployed elsewhere. If we find evidence of a breach in our network, however, I will report it immediately: that’s our policy – we must be open about this.”
“Peter! The Yucatán link is confirmed,” reported Laura, her voice emanating from the notebook on the desk. “Professor Bryn Jones has tested live; he’s gone off for a cup of tea but is standing by.”
Richard began to look a little bemused by the unfolding events.
“Thank you Laura,” replied Rothschild. “Let me know the moment the Alexandria link is established.”
“Of course . . . all the same, I do expect to open on time – fifty-seven minutes and counting. I’ll need you both seated five minutes before, please. Secretary Edmondson and the others are due to arrive in thirty minutes.”
“Understood!”
Moon base Andromeda – simultaneous
Residential Unit 103
Rachel quickly wiped away the tear that welled in the corner of her eye before it had a chance to run down her cheek. Someone might call by and she didn’t want to give away her feelings with smudged complexion – although her reddened eyes were more difficult to hide. She prepared a breakfast for one. The experimental crop of Kiwi fruit grown in the new biodome on the south side had proved a success and her allocation of three examples were very tempting. Together with the bananas from the previous month that were now ripe and ready to eat, her fruit salad looked delicious.
The residential unit was bright and airy. Covering sixty square metres over two floors, it offered every modern convenience. The kitchen was futuristic with a spacious, black, moulded worktop that evolved in one direction into shelving and display units and, in the other, into a large circular table. The floor and remaining kitchen units were off-white in colour and with a marble effect. A large picture of the blue Earth taken from the Moon during the Apollo 11 landing hung on a wall and offered a dazzle of colour – albeit an evocative dazzle.
Rachel put her bowl down on the table and dropped the spoon nearby. She sat dejected on a stool and stared inanely at the green fruit and milky coloured banana and the glass of synthetic orange juice. The rare treat offered little solace and neither did her second cup of strong black coffee. For the second year running Richard was on duty on Christmas morning. The previous year he had volunteered for the role of duty officer and had manned the squadron’s front desk until early evening, saying that it was important that the pilots with children should have the time at home. Family time was important he had said – but evidently not theirs.
Married for four years and trying for a child for three of those – this last one in near desperation – it seemed that the joy of motherhood would evade her. Was it their careers – time consuming and often stressful? she mused. Was it their relationship? Perhaps it was the environment? But others were able – the colony’s birth rate was steadily rising. Another tear threatened; this time she absorbed it with a handkerchief.
This year would be different, she resolved. After breakfast she would make a determined effort. Richard had promised to be back by mid-morning, by which time the Christmas tree projector would be set in the corner and the life-size, 3D hologram, complete with tinsel decorations, flashing coloured lights and a shining star on top would have pride of place. Presents would be distributed liberally around its base. She had ordered a turkey from the poultry dome in good time and it would be presented with all the trimmings. They would have a Christmas to remember and leave this old year, with all its disappointments and frustrations, behind them.
London – simultaneous
Rothschild refocused his attention on Richard. “Now, where was I?” he asked.
“Your suspicions about Space Net.”