by Taiyo Fujii
Bruce threw his legs up on top of the table. The shiny toes of his shoes reflected the silver-sheet-covered interior of the room like a mirror.
“These space tether things are maddeningly well thought out,” said Bruce. “All right, then, let’s move on to their size.”
“This is an estimate based on the fact that they were unobservable with defense radars,” Daryl said immediately. “The longest dimension of the space tethers’ terminal apparatuses is one to two inches if they have metal cases, and about four inches if they’re plastic. These are the smallest sizes that Cunningham’s radar can detect. If they were more than twice this size, NORAD’s radar should have been able to pick them up.”
“Smaller than I thought,” said Bruce. “How long are the cables?”
Daryl looked to Kazumi as if to pass him a relay baton.
“About two kilometers,” said Kazumi.
“The material?”
“I can’t guess.”
“What if it were Nichrome wire like this?” said Bruce, pointing at the ceiling.
“The centrifugal force would sever it.”
“If we’re talking a strong and light material, it could be carbon nanotubes,” said Daryl, looking quizzical. “Its conductivity would make it perfect for the tethers.”
“Impossible,” said Chris immediately. “CNT is a strategic material. If the technology to make something two kilometers long out of it had been developed, the CIA would definitely have heard of it.”
Kazumi found the way that Chris and Bruce asked sharp questions one after the other stimulating. Quickly pointing out contradictions and raising concerns, they systematically built up their information about the space tethers. As the one in charge, Chris was maintaining a particularly strong grip on the team. When Daryl or Kazumi began to wander off into discussions of the future possibilities for this unprecedented spacecraft, she would gently guide them back on track and incorporate their thoughts into the task at hand: stopping the Clouds.
“It’s difficult to say anything definitive about the material,” said Daryl. “There’s another carbon material called graphene that’s been made into ribbons, though it doesn’t compare to CNT in terms of strength. As far as the space tether itself, that’s all I have at the moment.”
When Daryl had finished writing notes on the whiteboard and put down his marker, Akari raised her hand. “Can we talk about signal transmission now?” she asked. “How do you think the tethers receive commands?”
“The tethers themselves can be used as antennas …” said Daryl. “That’s what it said in Dr. Jahanshah’s paper.”
“That’s not what I mean. Um …”
“Akari,” cut in Bruce, seeing her at a loss for words. “Let us sort out the technological issues first. Kazumi, wouldn’t the sensitivity of a single line, a dipole antenna, be too low?”
Kazumi nodded. Jamshed had touched on this problem in his paper. But Kazumi wasn’t well versed in engineering and worried whether he could convey the ideas accurately. “In Jamshed’s paper,” Kazumi explained, “it said that if the tethers are flying as a swarm, there will be parallel tethers in the vicinity, which means they can be used as a device that reflects radio waves.”
Bruce licked his lips and closed his eyes. Here was a CIA agent so highly capable, thought Kazumi, that he had a good grounding in electrical and electronic engineering in addition to everything else. He would never stop being amazed at the talent of the people he met in America.
“I see what you’re getting at,” said Bruce. “Antennas arranged in parallel. If you fiddled with the polarity of the tethers, they would become reflectors and might work together like a yagi antenna. This would allow transmissions with a decent amount of directionality. Most likely the signals could be exchanged with terrestrial base stations.”
Chris looked concerned about what Bruce had said. “These base stations, where would they be?”
“Yeah,” said Akari. “That’s exactly what I was trying to ask.” She walked over to the front of the whiteboard and drew a big arc beneath the diagram. This represented the Earth. Then she drew a symbol for an antenna on the surface of it and labeled it “Location?”
“Where on the Earth’s surface are the base stations?” she asked. “The space tethers are exchanging signals with the ground, right?”
“Right!” said Daryl, slapping himself on the forehead. “Akari, that’s exactly it!” Taking the marker from her, Daryl drew a small space tether on top of the arc and another line approaching it. “From an altitude of 350 km, the line of sight only extends a distance of 2,000 km. I have no idea what kind of radio wave they’re sending, but base stations in only one or two locations would be insufficient.”
“Oh, I see,” said Kazumi. “The range that they can communicate is restricted.” Kazumi finally understood the problem that Akari had raised. The Clouds could only be viewed from the Earth’s surface in specific places at specific times. They didn’t appear on NORAD’s defense radars, but whoever was operating them had to have some sort of method for obtaining telemetric data, including present location, from each of the space tethers and sending them updated commands to transfer between orbits.
Daryl wrote a simple formula on the whiteboard. “Even if we ignore attenuation caused by the atmosphere and topography, forty locations would be required. That’s just dividing the surface area of the Earth by the area of a circle with a radius of 2,000 km, though.”
Akari tapped on her arm keyboard and said, “That’s 42.5. The circles overlap. You need to fill it with hexagons.”
“Good point,” said Daryl with a nod. “You’re exactly right. Depending on the type of signal and output strength, they might allow them a bit more distance, but without twice, no, three times as many base stations, I doubt that communications would work.”
“Couldn’t the tethers just have commands sent from some single location stored inside them?” asked Bruce.
“No, because the Clouds are controlled in real time,” said Kazumi. “It would be impossible for them to kick along the SAFIR 3 while following after the self-propelled orbital hotel using a stored command.” Kazumi explained that the space tethers would cross the sky over a base station in midlatitudes no more frequently than every ninety minutes. In some cases, they might have to wait as long as fifteen hours before returning. With such a large gap between velocity-adjustment commands from the ground, it would be impossible for the space tethers to catch up to the Wyvern Orbital Hotel with their weak thrusters as it steadily changed orbit. “There should be base stations for the Clouds all over the world.”
“Bruce, add the task ‘Investigate Cloud base stations,’ ” said Chris. “This is a matter for the CIA.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bruce in a low voice and turned toward Kazumi questioningly. “You’re totally certain those things need multiple base stations, right? If you can tell me the format of the telemetric data they’re transmitting, I can use ECHELON to extract the transmissions between the base stations. What do you think?”
“Impossible,” said Akari, shaking her head. Daryl frowned. Without knowing the format of the data they were searching for, not even an organization like the CIA that intercepted all communications could find it.
Everyone gazed at Kazumi, seeking answers. He shook his head to indicate he didn’t know. “I think Dr. Jahanshah could make a pretty good guess. In the table of contents for his paper, there was a section entitled ‘Robust Transmission of Device Information.’ ”
“Ah, that guy from Iran,” said Chris. “I’m currently arranging to acquire a copy of the paper he wrote. But it’s going to take some time.”
Research and development in fields related to national defense were strictly controlled. This, Chris explained, extended from biological engineering to astronautics, and of course included weapons development. She was urging CIA headquarters to hurry up but exp
ected it to take several days before they would reach the list of references at the end.
“How did North Korea get its hands on such a highly classified paper?” asked Kazumi.
“Technological exchange,” Bruce replied. “The two countries are allies, after all.” Since North Korea and Iran had almost no interaction with developed countries, he explained, they often swapped human resources and technology in various fields. The central pillars of the program were astronautics and nuclear development, since these contributed directly to their deterrence capabilities. Every year, numerous scientists and technicians went back and forth between the two countries sharing information. It was most likely in this way that Jamshed’s paper had made its way to North Korea. “The CIA eats up a huge amount of resources just analyzing all the communications it collects. The reality is that we often don’t get around to dealing with actual people and paper. Hey, why don’t we try a random guess? We could try searching with whatever telemetric format Kazumi hits on.”
Kazumi shook his head again. Most likely the transmissions were only made up of a few different kinds of data, but the combinations were endless if you considered all the different standards for numerals and ordering.
“You really think the professor would know?” asked Akari, who had been quietly scanning text on her display glasses. “We might be able to have a videoconference with him soon. I just got a message from Kurosaki and Sekiguchi that they’ll be heading for the Tehran Institute of Technology.”
“Eh? Sekiguchi-san ha naikaku no dareka ni tanomu tte ittenakatta?” Kazumi asked in Japanese without thinking, and everyone stared at him. Flustered, he immediately repeated himself in English. “Didn’t Sekiguchi say he’d ask someone in the cabinet to take care of that?”
“From Tehran?” Bruce asked Akari, peering at her in apparent perplexity. “Kurosaki and Sekiguchi? Who are they?”
“Two JAXA staff,” said Kazumi. “The ones who helped us escape, though I have no idea what they’re doing in Tehran either.”
“I got an email from them,” Akari cut in. “About how they got there.” Akari projected the email from Sekiguchi onto the whiteboard and lined up a machine-translated English version beside it.
“Wha …” Bruce grunted. “Is this for real?”
According to the email, Sekiguchi had failed to get the NSC moving and so had gone to the Tehran Institute of Technology himself, taking Kurosaki with him. There, they planned to give Iridiums to Jamshed and have him connect them to the Internet. Apparently, they had received the phones and transmission modules at the airport.
“Bruce!” Chris called out sharply. “Look into the JAXA employee named Sekiguchi and the situation in Tehran. Pronto!”
Bruce straightened his posture, pulled up the CIA workspace on his desktop display, and began typing.
Watching Bruce, Chris muttered as though speaking to herself. “Amazing that they brought telecommunication devices that can bypass Iran’s censorship. That would be difficult to arrange even for the CIA. They picked them up at the airport, did they? Hardly an amateur move.”
Kazumi was rendered speechless by the sudden transformation in Chris and Bruce. Their cheerfulness had vanished, and they now began to converse faster in English than Kazumi had ever heard. Here, the true character of these two CIA agents was on full display, and he suddenly realized how much effort they had been making to keep up the team’s spirits.
“Akari, when did this email arrive?” asked Bruce, paling somewhat with concern. “And when was it written?”
“Most likely just now.”
“So the ‘today’ in the text is today today … Why does the timing have to work out like this? Akari, please pull up my screen.”
Akari manipulated her keyboard, and Bruce’s desktop appeared on the screen in place of the email. It showed a simple one-page report with the title “Possibility of Civilian Death and Injury: Riot at Tehran Institute of Technology.”
“The source for this report is an email exchange between Al Jazeera staff on the ground. The probability as verified by Viper is class A. Iran’s regular forces are going to dispatch a unit of armed troops in front of Tehran IT. Also drones, two attack aircraft, and one spotter plane. What the heck is going on here?” Realizing that Akari and Kazumi were staring at them, Bruce returned his voice to a more relaxed tone and said, “Does this guy Sekiguchi know that Tehran is going to be a battlefield?”
Chaharshambe, 26 Azar 1399, 11:28 +0430 (2020-12-16T07:58 GMT)
Student Center, Tehran Institute of Technology
This is going to be a day to remember, thought Alef. No—I’ll make it one.
Having sent his student supporters out of the hall, Alef was inside his office cubicle set up along the wall reading over a printout of a paper with the title “Azadi Interanet: A Lecture on Internet Freedom,” by Alef Kadiba. He’d rehearsed his speech many times and was looking it over one last time, awaiting his moment.
“ ‘Thank you to all my brethren assembled here. And thank you to Allah for this land, Iran.’ Pretty good, I’d say. Sounds good too.”
We just want to use the Internet without hindrance, he thought. That’s not so much to ask.
It was a moderate request that the government should have been able to accept easily. He had carefully removed all passages and phrases that suggested democratization or seemed critical of the president. It wasn’t as if they were rejecting censorship or demanding unrestricted access to foreign social networks. They fully understood that Iran faced difficult challenges concerning security. They just wanted permission to use inside the country even half of the information that Western nations like America soaked up like warm sunlight. Foreign companies operating in Iran had a certain degree of access, and Iranians deserved the same. True freedom would follow. In the meantime, they had to avoid bringing about in Tehran that state of anarchy called the “Arab Spring” that the sudden rush onto the Internet and social networks had wrought.
Alef put the sheet of paper down and imagined the streams of thousands of students that were set to gather that day. In front of the main gate, they would erect a stage approximately 30 cm tall. After Alef climbed up there and seized the gaze of the students, he would make a fist, look to the sky, and say, “ ‘Thank you to all my brethren assembled he—’ ”
Hearing a rattling sound, Alef swept his gaze around.
“Nice pose, Leader,” said a man peeking his head out from the top of the cubicle wall. Wearing a green scarf that covered his mouth, he spoke Persian fluently but with a terrible accent. On his shoulder he carried a Kalashnikov rifle.
“… Who are you?”
When the man shook his head, two other men dressed identically slipped in through the gaps in the cubicle. The first to enter pointed his Kalashnikov at Alef and jerked the barrel of the gun to indicate that Alef was to approach the wall. The man who came in next took the paper from Alef’s hand and passed it to a man standing outside the partition.
“Mr. Kadiba. I’m relieved to see that you’re even more handsome than in photographs. However, we cannot tolerate your speech.” The man who spoke twisted himself into the gap that Alef had retreated to, pulled down his scarf, and brought his scarred face close. “You’re going to begin your speech with Allahu Akbar. God is great.”
“This country is one of the nations of Islam too, so saying this is fitting, don’t you think?” The man continued, narrowing his eyes and repeating a prayer quickly three times. His accent was hard to follow, but no Muslim could fail to recognize that this was the adhan, the call to worship. This man’s adhan had an unfamiliar tone to it, and Alef noticed that “Ḥayya ʿala khayr al ʿamal. The time for the best of deeds has come!” had been omitted. This was a sign that this man’s adhan was not that of Iran’s national religion, Shia.
“… What are you Sunnis doing?”
“I’m just chanting it in its original form. It�
��s no big deal.”
Alef sat down hard on the floor. The demonstration, thousands of students strong, was being surveilled by the government authorities, so at the very least, the police would come to prevent the demonstration from spreading. If he said the Sunni adhan, it would be seen as a proclamation from Alef and all the students that they were antinationalists.
“Afterwards, read this to them.” The man bent his arm to reach into an inner pocket from the side of his cape. Seeing this awkward motion, Alef realized that the men were encumbered with body armor. These were armed activists. Members of Hamas who’d entered the country—no, more likely they were from God’s Warriors, a group that had been gaining influence recently. A piece of torn-out notepaper was raised in front of Alef, reading, “Dissolve the cabinet. Islamic law demands freedom.”
“N-no way. If I do that—”
“Have you memorized it?” asked the man, seeming oblivious to his reaction, and withdrew the paper. “The rest you can make up as you go long. Demand Internet access as you planned or whatever you like. The arrival of another Arab Spring in Tehran is desirable for us too.”
The man reached out his hand to Alef and said, “All right, let’s go, shall we? A crowd of ten thousand is assembled outside. There are no television cameras with them, but we’ll make sure that everyone knows the name of the man who gave his life to advocate a noble cause, the great Alef Kadiba.”
Alef pulled his arms away, but the man grabbed him by his shirt around the chest, stood him up, and kicked over the cubicle wall. From beyond the open doors of the front entrance came a chill draft along with the voices of the crowd. It was just as the man had said. There were far more than the one thousand or so people Alef had been expecting. The brick road that ran from the student center to the main gate was thronged with people. Men with black faces who didn’t look like students were waving their dusty hands toward the student center.
The man pulled out a handgun from his waist, stuck it to Alef’s back, and urged him toward the entrance. “There’s another welcome party for you outside the gate. Can you see them? It’s the Iranian army.”