Operator B

by Edward Lee

  A final tempt, a final image to maraud his pilot’s ego: he saw somebody else, some other pilot bestowed with this impossible honor. It’d be some punk, he guessed, probably some boner’d up hot shot Navy kid from Whidbey NSA or Miramar or, worse, a Blue Angel. Am I really gonna step down let some cocky F-18 PUNK fill my shoes?

  “Shit! GodDAMN!” Wentz bellowed.

  Ashton and Jones just looked at him.

  “Ain’t happening,” Wentz said through a painful grimace. Part of him could not conceive of what he was about to say. “I’m not going to fuck my family over again. Tomorrow at noon I retire. Get someone else.”

  Jones leaned forward, amazed. “Are you serious?”

  “Right now, I’m so pissed off I could kick you in the balls so hard they’d fly out your mouth. Does that sound serious? Do you have any idea how hard this is for me?”

  “General, don’t you realize what we’ve got here?” Jones induced. “The OEV isn’t some—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s not some balsa-wood plane with a rubber-band prop. I already got that shtick from her. I know what it is, but I also know I can’t do it.”

  Jones’ brow lifted. “I admire your resolve, General, but we still haven’t told you the actual mission.”

  Wentz stalled. “I assumed that the mission is, well, to test fly the OEV.”

  “Not exactly,” Ashton admitted. “There’s something else you need to know, sir. It’s much more important than you, me, the OEV—it’s more important than anything.”

  “That’s why we need you,” Jones added, “and that’s why we need you now.”

  A long silence hung over the office. Wentz sat there, waiting.

  “Are you gonna tell me or do I have to guess?”

  It was the sudden solemness of Jones and Ashton that most bothered Wentz. He didn’t like the feeling at all.

  “Follow me please, General.”

  Wentz followed Jones out while Ashton paused for the slightest moment then likewise left the in-briefing room.

  Wentz didn’t see her pop the tiny pill in her mouth.

  ««—»»

  Jones led them down another antiseptically white corridor lined with white key-padded doors. A maintenance tech at one of the doors began to snap to attention but Jones sluffed, “As you were, as you were, Sergeant.”

  The tech was about to paint something on the door, and Wentz couldn’t help but notice. Shiny black letters on the door read: BRIGADIER GENERAL W. FARRINGTON, but then the tech painted over the W. FARRINGTON and raised a stencil that read J. WENTZ.

  “You guys are a scream,” Wentz said, chuckling. “But I’m telling you, you can hard-sell me all day long but I’m still retiring tomorrow.”

  Ashton and Jones said nothing.

  Jones unlocked another door, marked simply CONFERENCE. Inside, Wentz noticed several chart graphs and murals, as if for a presentation. One mural seemed to be an artist’s depiction of some sort of space-flight mission. A bulletin board read:

  -QSR4 JOINT JAPAN/RUSSIAN SAMPLE-RETURN MISSION

  -SCHEDULE COURSE AND PERIHELIC TRAJECTORY (EST. 62,700,000 MILES).

  -PROJECTED COST (US EQ.) $34 BILLION

  -PROJECTED TIME EXPENDITURE (IN FLIGHT): 19 MONTHS.

  Wentz sat down, ready to listen.

  Jones began, “When the so-called Mars Meteor, designate ALH-84001, was found in August, 1996, and…well, you remember the news.”

  “Sure,” Wentz recalled. “Fossilized microbacteria, fairly solid proof that there was rudimentary, one-celled life on Mars, something like 3.5 billion years ago.”

  “Yes. After which every country in the world with space flight capability began to draw up plans for further investigations of the Martian surface. The ultimate end, of course, is a sample/return mission—quite sophisticated and very expensive, but this would enable a robotic surface device to collect soil samples, which would later be returned to earth by way of a staged orbiter rocket sent afterwards…”

  “QSR4 is the codename for one such plan,” Ashton augmented, “and it’s already in service—”

  Wentz pinched his chin. “I haven’t heard about any—”

  “No, you haven’t, General, and neither has the rest of the world. The Japanese agreed to finance the Russian Space Administration on the mission you see outlined on the mural.”

  “Why would the Japanese bankroll the Russians? Our aerospace technology is better than theirs.”

  “Not so much as you think,” Jones said, “and, additionally, no other space administration in the world trusts us. They all think we’ve got field operatives planting discreet probe-implants and sensors on all their space hardware.”

  Wentz looked duped. “Why would they think that?”

  “Well…because it’s true. We’ve been doing it for decades—saves us lots of money. Why send up our own missions when we can tap and analyze their findings?”

  “Cloak and Dagger is alive and well,” Wentz supposed. “The United States—the world’s best friend.”

  Ashton ignored the sarcasm. “General, a year ago, the joint Japanese/Russian mission was initiated. A collection probe—QSR4—landed in the Tharsus Bulge on Mars and immediately began to relay findings back to earth—”

  “And to us,” Wentz finished, “from the taps we secretly planted in their probe.”

  “Yes. And what the collector discovered was more than bacterial fiber fossils but…live bacteria.

  “You’re not joking, are you?” Wentz asked.

  “No, General, we’re not,” Jones said. “The mission’s analysis sensors positively identified the organisms as live. Our own analysis of the data, however, unbeknownst to the Japanese and the Russians, indicates quite a bit more. Our own spectrographic survey of the probe’s findings was processed through CDC and Langley, and the bacteria reveals characteristics consistent with a cytomegalic mutation.”

  Wentz frowned. “Do I look like a microbiologist?”

  Ashton crossed her legs in the chair. “What he means, sir, is that the CDC analysis of the molecular specs strongly suggests that the Tharsus bacteria is host to a virus more hazardous than anything ever found on earth.”

  Wentz stared at them through a dark interlude.

  “In about six months,” Jones went on, “the return stage of the QSR4 mission is going to pick up that collector and bring it back to earth.”

  “So tell them to scrub the pickup,” Wentz made the most obvious suggestion. “I think if you told them they were bringing a deadly virus back to earth, they wouldn’t have to think long before they aborted the entire mission.”

  “We can’t do that, General. That would acknowledge what they’ve suspected all along—that our own agents have been planting tap-sensors in their probes. It would ruin foreign relations.”

  Wentz almost laughed. “Well then fuck foreign relations. This is a bit more important, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not that simple, sir,” Ashton said.

  Wentz considered this. “Fine, then do what you Big Brother guys do best. Destroy the return stage before it gets back—”

  “That’s even less serviceable,” Jones countered. “It would be plainly detectable as a hostile attack on the geostatic DPS net. They’d never believe it was an accident, and since the U.S. is the only country in the world with the sufficient anti-satellite technology to pull something like that off—”

  “They’d know it was us,” Wentz agreed.

  “And considering the upcoming trade agreements pending in Congress,” Ashton reminded, “we’d lose all economic ties with the Japanese forever, and the Russians would more than likely freeze all U.S. investment assets currently in place.”

  “So you see our dilemma,” Jones said. “If we sabotage their return mission on its way back, we risk an economic war that could put us in a true depression. And if we tell them of our knowledge of the nature of the bacteria—that we’ve secretly installed the equivalent of analytical eaves-dropping devices on their space missio
ns, then the news will hit every wire service in the world, and we’ll lose every ally we have.”

  Wentz couldn’t believe the knit-picking here. “What are you guys? Republicans? You consider positive U.S. foreign relations more important than preventing a potential plague?”

  “It wouldn’t be a potential plague, sir,” Ashton explained. “All the spectrographic and chromatographic analysis of the data we intercepted from the QSR4 sample-collector indicates a viral component with exponential contagion attributes. If that return stage succeeds in bringing the Tharsus bacteria back to earth—”

  Jones’ voice grated, “Millions, and potentially billions, could die. A virus like that…could wipe out all mammalian life on the planet.”

  Wentz shook his head in complete outrage. “So like I just told you. To hell with foreign relations and the economy. This is more important. Tell them. Admit that we’ve been slipping taps on their space-flight missions and tell them to abort the damn return stage.”

  “Again,” Jones said, “it’s not quite that simple. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “Hell, no,” Wentz said. “They’re all bias. I watch Fox News, that’s it.”

  “Well, then, you might be aware that the Russian parliament is squeezing the executive branch to sign a non-aggression pact with Red China.”

  “Sure, but it’ll never happen. Putin would never bend to that. He’d disband the entire parliament first. He’d shut down the government.”

  “Not if he’s dead,” Ashton said. “And not if his government is replaced.”

  Wentz’s eyes narrowed. “I guess you people know something I don’t.”

  “Putin’s government is on the verge of collapse,” Jones said. “The opposition parties have been trying to kill him for two years. That last heart attack? It wasn’t natural causes. A radical element of the GRU managed to get some potassium dichlorate in his food. It was a U.S. team of cardiologists from Johns Hopkins that saved his life. The fact of the matter is, Putin won’t last till Christmas; his government will topple.”

  Ashton again: “And whatever party takes over will sign the pact with Red China because it’s the easiest way to cut defense funding and pump it into the economy, avoid a revolution. China is still technically our enemy, and if they sign a pact with Russia?”

  “Russia becomes a potential enemy again too,” Wentz realized. “And the Cold War starts all over again.”

  Jones stood up, aiming a wooden pointer at the mural depicting the QSR4’s return trip to earth. “Exactly, and if Russia and Red China become allies…what do you think they’ll do if they find out that return-stage is bringing back a virus deadlier than anything the planet has ever known?”

  Wentz’s eyes widened to the size of slot-machine slugs. “They might not abort the stage. They might let it return and retrieve it.” Wentz’s throat went dry. “They might try to contain the virus.”

  “That’s right, General,” Ashton said. “They might try to contain it, and preserve it as a weapon.”

  “A weapon we’d have no defense against,” Jones tacked on.

  Ashton looked right into Wentz’s eyes. “So, General, we’re asking you to undertake a mission which would circumvent what is potentially the worst catastrophe in human history, an event that could wipe out the human race…”

  CHAPTER 9

  “They’re always best when you catch them yourself,” Pete said, then smacked a claw with the wooden mallet.

  “They sure are,” Joyce Wentz agreed. The kitchen swam in spicy aromas of Old Bay and vinegar. A quick glance out the window showed the yard darkening, the sun going down. It was nearing 9 p.m. “And you did a great job cooking them,” she added. “These are the best I’ve had.”

  The heap of cooked crabs lay on the newspaper-covered table. They were starting to get cool. Joyce suspected that her son knew full well that she was placating him—anything to avoid the issue. Soon she couldn’t think of anything to say as they sat there in silence plucking tender white crabmeat. The hardest part was simply containing her rage.

  The son of a bitch should’ve at least called…

  Pete finished his third crab; usually he ate six or eight. Eventually he said, “I guess Dad’s not coming back tonight, huh, Mom?”

  “Probably not.”

  “But he did say he’s retiring tomorrow, right? He said for us to be there at noon.”

  “That, right, that’s what he said.”

  “I guess he just had some last-minute things to do at the base, secret papers to sign and all.”

  “That’s probably it, Pete,” Joyce said, struggling for all she was worth to hold back the tears of her anger. That son of a bitch! He’s got no right to do this to us!

  Pete stood up, his shirt flecked with specks of red spice. He began to transfer the rest of the crabs to a big platter. “I’ll put the rest in the fridge. Dad’ll want some tomorrow after his retirement ceremony.”

  More silence then. Joyce tempered herself, picking up the kitchen. She hoisted the black-enameled crab pot to the sink, prepared to clean it.

  “I’ll do that, Mom,” Pete said after he put the crabs away. “Dad always says, the guy who messes up the kitchen cleans the kitchen.”

  “No, honey, you go ahead. Your shows are coming on. I’ll clean up.”

  “Thanks, Mom!” Pete turned to head for the TV room but stopped short. “Oh, and I was thinking. I think when I get out of college, I want to join the Air Force. I want to be a pilot like Dad.”

  Pete trotted from the room. Moments later, the TV could be heard.

  Joyce Wentz unconsciously squeezed the Brillo pad so hard it cut her skin. Her tears plipped into the sink, all the while she kept thinking That son of a bitch, that goddamn son of a bitch!

  ««—»»

  Back in the main hangar, Wentz, Ashton, and Jones strolled idly around the OEV. Its temporary paint job was done, the maintenance techs gone.

  “It’s your duty, General,” Jones said. “There’s no other choice, and there’s no one more qualified.”

  Wentz stared at the craft. “Jesus… You want me to fly this thing to friggin’ Mars, and then—”

  “And destroy the QSR4 collector,” Ashton explained. “When it stops relaying its navigational signals, the Japanese and the Russians will terminate the return stage. Sixty-five million miles away they can’t possibly suspect sabotage on our part. They’ll deduce that a tectonic fault or crustic surface quake destroyed the collector. They’ll have nothing to bring back and no way to investigate.”

  But Wentz only partially understood. “Fly to Mars, blow up a probe. But you know something, folks? I don’t see any Hellfires or Mavericks on this thing…”

  “Externally mounted bombs or missiles aren’t possible,” Jones specified. “Even if we could find a way to attach some hard-points to the exterior hull, any ordnance would break apart or even detonate once the OEV accelerated past light speed.”

  Wentz hadn’t considered that. “Which means—”

  “Which means you’ll have to touch down and debark on foot.”

  “The alien air-lock works perfectly, sir,” Ashton assured him. “We’ve even posted directions. You close the bottom port, you hit a press-panel and wait thirty seconds, then open the hatch and climb out.”

  Wentz felt a few shimmies in his gut. “You want me to EVA on Mars?”

  “Why not?” Jones passed off as if discussing a stroll to the supermarket. “You’ll be wearing NASA’s top-of-the line gear. And you’ll have plenty of time to set the charge before the surface temperature compromises the suit’s life support systems.”

  “What’s the temperature?” Wentz dared ask.

  “This time of year? About 190 below zero,” Ashton informed him.

  Wentz glared at her. “And I thought Syracuse was bad.”

  Now the silence in the hangar felt like pressure. Wentz looked dolefully at the strange, heel-shaped vehicle.

  “I don’t have to ask any more, do I, General
Wentz?” Jones inquired.

  “Of course not. A virus that could kill everyone on the planet? What choice do I have?”

  “We’re glad you realize the severity of the circumstances.”

  “But hear this, major. I pull this job and that’s it. After I come back, I’m out. I retire. Hell, my ex-wife’s given me three breaks—maybe she’ll give me a fourth.”

  Ashton leaned against the OEV’s hull, her head bowed down. Jones rubbed his temples as if groping for an excuse not to meet Wentz’s gaze.

  “What the fuck is this now?” Wentz asked.

  “It’s…far more complicated than that,” Jones made the arcane statement. “You see, sir…”

  “What?”