Rock Killer
Page 17
Faruq took his cue from his adversary. “Surely you are mocking me, habibi. I am the president’s most loyal and humble servant. I have no ambition but to serve him.”
Sa’ud sneered. “You speak well. Perhaps it is that talent that moved support in the Party to you.”
“Or, more likely, it is disappointment with the actions of the president in dealing with the Zionist state. I, too, have heard these voices of dissent and I assure you, General, I am as concerned as you for the future of the president.”
The large man released a loud, snorting laugh. “I have no time for your deceptions, Faruq. But remember, I will see you dead before I see you president.”
“Perhaps it won’t be me that dies,” Faruq said with a hint of menace in his voice.
“In sha’allah,” Sa’ud growled back. He executed an about-face and strode out of the room, the clack of his boots on the tile a perfect, rhythmic cadence. The soldiers released Faruq’s man and followed their leader.
“Forgive me, aquid,” the guard said sheepishly.
Faruq replaced his pistol in his desk. “It is already forgotten. Now, back in the hall; I have work to do.”
Faruq saw the admiration in the man’s eyes. You can’t force that kind of loyalty from a man with weapons; you have to earn it. If Faruq had one skill it was gaining the loyalty of those around him. He’d need it in the next few days.
***
Congresswoman Polasky had long ago checked FBI files against the photo of the woman named Shari Johnson. She even did a face recognition search through federal government archives of digital photos that matched the face in the digital photo she took of the woman. Nothing turned up and she basically forgot the whole thing.
She went to her office late in the afternoon after spending time on the floor voting on this and that amendment to this or that bill. She entered the outer office and her secretary told her that she had an appointment with a clerk at the Justice Department named Brian Hocking. Polasky said she knew him and went into her office.
“Hello, Brian,” she said, doffing her wet raincoat. It was a rainy, early spring in the state of Columbia.
“Good afternoon, Congresswoman,” Hocking replied respectfully.
Polasky sat behind her desk. “When was the last time I saw you, Brian?”
“The rally for the complete shut-down of NASA.”
Polasky nodded. She remembered. She’d voted for the bill that stipulated eliminating the useless, wasteful National Aeronautics and Space Administration and spending the money on low-income housing. The United States didn’t need a space program. Weather and communications satellites could be rented from the Japanese or Russians. In the U.S., only the military was involved in space, maintaining the exorbitantly expensive and needless “Star Wars” system. Repeated attempts to shut it down were blocked by the military-industrial complex and their radical, right-wing dupes. But the war machine was so entrenched in American society it would literally take a revolution to dismantle it. Polasky was just one of the many working toward that revolution.
“Yes,” Polasky said, “I remember that. What can I do for you today?”
Brian took a computer from his briefcase. “This is strictly confidential,” he said almost officiously. “But I feel I must bring this to your attention.”
“Yes?” Polasky prodded.
Brian explained his job at the Justice Department. “I found this file. It seems an FBI agent interfered in a bias crime case.” He held up the computer.
“May I see?” Polasky asked.
He handed the computer to her.
Polasky looked at the picture. “Brian,” she asked “does this file have ‘Employer’ on it anywhere?”
“It’s towards the bottom, under her registration for probation for the unlawful self-defense offense.”
“Oh, yes, here it is.” Polasky studied the screen for a few long minutes.
“Brian,” she said casually, “this is interesting. May I have a copy of this file?”
“Yes. But, I would appreciate if you would not reveal your source.”
“Of course.” She handed the computer back to him, told him the proper code, and it downloaded to her computer.
Of course she wouldn’t reveal her source; she wasn’t going to leak this to the press, as is the usual practice in Columbia. She shooed Brian out of her office and turned on the computer. But before she could tell it whom to call, her secretary interrupted.
“Congresswoman, there’s a Mr. Fowler of the Green Party here to see you.”
Polasky vented a sigh and switched and said, “Show him in, please.”
It took Polasky until almost nine to get Fowler out of her office. She didn’t want to evict him out on some pretense. She always tried to help the Greens whenever she could. The Greens had endorsed her in her district since there was no one from their party running. If she didn’t take Fowler seriously, it could jeopardize her career.
As soon as Fowler left, Polasky called Trent’s office. A computer answered, reporting that the office was closed for the evening.
She then called Trent’s residence. Vera answered; there was no video since Trent insisted on using a simple computer with no video.
***
Beatty seemed to be watching Charlie more. She didn’t know if it was because he found her suddenly attractive or suddenly suspicious. She knew she was being paranoid. But was she being paranoid enough? In any case she didn’t want any attention, amorous or not, from that man.
As she went to bed that night she decided to break into the basement. She hoped she would find something, anything for Freeman and then get the hell out of this house.
About midnight, the couple in the corner finally was quiet. Charlie, dressed only in panties again, padded barefoot to the kitchen. She didn’t like being so naked but, then again, a bare chest might give her a needed distraction.
She slid the panel back and studied the door. It didn’t look incredibly sturdy. She got a chef’s knife out of a drawer and, keeping her ears open, began prying the doorjamb off. Charlie used the tip of the now much-abused knife to push back the bolt. Before she could push the door open the bolt sprung back into place.
She tried again and this time the door opened easily. A dark set of stairs descended into black velvet darkness. She found a light switch and bathed the stairwell in light. Charlie carefully went down the wooden stairs, closing the door behind her.
***
The Rock Killer had been chasing the asteroid for just over a day. Knecht smiled and turned to Griffin. “I’ve got it visually.”
“What do you need to plot intercept course?”
“Range, velocity, bearing, course.”
“Can we get that without using radar?”
Knecht shook her head. “This ship doesn’t have laser range finders. I can only estimate range visually based on an estimate of the rock’s size. Velocity and course I would have to estimate on stellar occlusion, subtracting the component of our velocity in their course. It’s pretty tricky.”
“I want only passive observations. No telling what kind of equipment they have on that thing. How long before we can get radar lock on for the missiles?”
Knecht shrugged her shoulders. “About an hour.”
Griffin smiled. “At this distance, how long for a message to reach Earth?”
Trudeau spoke. “About 22 minutes.”
“Knecht,” Griffin said, “let me know 20 minutes before we can launch missiles. We can send the message then and it’ll get to Earth just after the attack begins.”
“Okay,” she said. Then she smiled at him.
Griffin climbed down the ladder to the level below the bridge. He went into the captain’s quarters and sat at the desk. His stomach was knotted with anticipation and he stared at the blank wall. Griffin didn’t believe in the Judeo-Christian God of his grandparents, but he did presume some superior force existed in the universe that would approve of Griffin’s actions on behalf of Its environmen
t. To that idea, he prayed for success.
Suddenly, he felt himself get heavier. The Rock Killer was accelerating at one full gee for the first time since leaving the Belt. His watch said only 15 minutes of the hour until launch had passed when he heard someone descend the ladder. Knecht came into the room.
“Is it time, already?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “No, about 25 minutes until you want to send the message. I wanted to talk to you alone.”
“Have a seat,” Griffin said.
She shook her head. “No, this won’t take long. I just wanted to say I appreciate...” her voice trailed off.
“What?” Griffin asked.
“I appreciate,” she tried again, “how you...”
“Yes?” he prompted.
“How you don’t–or rather, how you accept me for what I can do, not how I look.”
Griffin shrugged. If she wanted to believe he didn’t consider her looks that was fine with him. “I know you’re good at your job,” he said.
“It’s the first time anyone, any man, has accepted me as a person and not a...”
“A what?”
“A thing,” she spat with disgust.
“What do you mean?”
“Remember,” she said,” when I told you about my step-father and all that?”
“Yes,” Griffin breathed. The implicit horror of her story had haunted him since.
“Well,” she continued, “I just want to tell you that you’re the first person I’ve trusted for a long time. It’s so nice to be able to confide in a person.”
“You do keep up quite a barrier,” Griffin observed.
“I know,” she agreed. “Force of habit. Last person I confided in, Trent, didn’t care about me. She only wanted me to advance the revolution and for her own gratification.”
“What about now?” Griffin asked.
“I guess,” she whispered, “I trust you.”
Griffin stood and moved toward her. She didn’t move away. As he touched her, she stiffened momentarily. She put her arms tentatively around him and slowly met his mouth with hers. Then all reluctance disappeared. Hands reached expectantly for zippers and Velcro as the bodies moved to the bunk.
He wondered briefly why she was suddenly lissome—perhaps the tension of the impending attack. But he soon stopped wondering and continued acting on instinct. She lay beneath him and he supported his weight on his knees and one hand while the other investigated her strong yet silky body. She strained to kiss him while they finished undressing one another.
He moved his hands across her skin and finally touched her between the thighs. She gave a startled yelp, then relaxed and her face showed her contentment.
“No one ever did that before,” she said softly before pulling him down until they fused.
***
Charlie held a KS-900 nine-millimeter submachine gun, like the one that had killed Frank, in her hand. It was shaped like a pound of butter with a short barrel and long magazine and a pistol grip. She smiled. This weapon could get Beatty and Whaltham extradited to Japan or Europe to pay for Frank’s death.
She continued to search the basement. There were more weapons, some explosives, and enough ammunition for the revolution that Beatty and Whaltham kept hoping for. She didn’t find any space suits, though. In one corner on a desk she found a very modern, very expensive IBM superconducting portable mini-mainframe. She turned it on and discovered the operating system was the current standard. But the files were encrypted. But the encryption system was in the memory. She almost laughed when she found it.
Upon opening the first file, Charlie’s eyes grew wide. The computer documented GA finances for the past twelve years: where the money came from and where it went. The money came mostly from small donations from individuals, the occasional large donation from some persons with more money than brains, and some charitable foundations. There was one such foundation listed that SRI had contributed funds to in the past.
The money went to the mortgage on the house, various vehicles, and incidental expenses. What Charlie was really interested in was the weapons, ammunition, and supplies bought on the black market, including the purchase of Russian pressure suits from Yemen. The purchase of the South African KS-900 was well documented. Someone in the GA organization was a fastidious record keeper. They’ll regret that, Charlie thought.
She found a data chip in a drawer and began copying the files.
***
It was early evening in Tokyo when the message from Ceres arrived. Mitchel had just sent Meyoung home and ordered up some dinner from the restaurant on the top floor of the building when his computer beeped and an email message popped up in a box. Mitchel expanded the box to fill the screen and read it:
27 APR 0802Z
TO: SEC HEAD MITCHEL, SRI HQ, TOKYO
FROM: CHIEF OF SEC MC KENNA, SEC DEPT, SRI ASTEROID FACILITY, CERES ASTEROID
SUBJECT: “ROCK SKIPPER” PROVISIONS INDEPENDENT SHIP, THE “GINNEY-MAE” RETURNED CERES YESTERDAY. OWNER, JEAN-CLAUDE MOURET, COMPLAINED OF ASSAULT BY GAIA ALLIANCE MEMBERS. SAID HE RENDEZVOUSED WITH “ROCK SKIPPER” AT COORDINATES: 297,406,500 KM RHO, 087 DEGREES THETA, 95 DEGREES PHI, FOUR DAYS AGO. HE HAD NO IDEA WHAT THEIR PLANS WERE. NOTE: MOURET SAID THE GA MEMBERS REFERRED TO “ROCK SKIPPER” AS “ROCK KILLER.”
“Damn,” Mitchel whispered. He worked on his computer a few minutes. Soon it displayed all SRI assets within four days travel at 1.5 gees from 297 million kilometers from the sun, 87 degrees from Earth’s position on January first and 5 degrees above the plane of the elliptic. It was a sphere with the radius of almost three astronomical units, or just over Ceres’ mean distance from the sun. That meant they could be almost anywhere in half the solar system. Rock Killer, he thought. Damn. While Ceres was sometimes called an asteroid, it wasn’t referred to as “rock” like an asteroid moving to the inner solar system. Even the media referred to SRI’s mobile asteroids as “rocks.”
Currently, there were three such asteroids in space. SRI-1859 was pretty much in pieces at Lagrange point five and attacking it would be redundant. SRI-1960, at L-4, was vulnerable but could be evacuated easily. Also, why would they go all the way to the asteroid belt, just to return to attack a target in Earth orbit? Rendezvous with the miner? No, the Syrians could have supplied them close to Earth. SRI-1961, just leaving the belt, had to be their target.
“Computer, record outgoing message.”
The display showed “recording.”
“Message as follows: To: Director Chun, SRI-1961; from: Security Head Mitchel, SRI HQ, Tokyo. Subject: Possible attack on SRI-1961 by Rock Skipper. Text: Rock Skipper, armed with space-to-space missiles, may attack SRI-1961. SRI-1961 seems the most likely target of SRI-1960, SRI-1961, and Ceres. Time of possible attack is unknown. Alex, I don’t know what you can do but be prepared. End Message. Send, top priority.”
A cute little icon of a piece of paper with wings fluttered off the screen in a display that always struck Mitchel as silly and at this moment downright ludicrous.
He requested data on SRI-1961’s distance from Earth. It was over 360 million kilometers. At 300,000 kilometers a second, the light speed delay was about 20 minutes.
“Damn,” Mitchel said. “Computer, send a copy of that message to Ceres appended to the attention of the Director of Ceres, Kuffer.”
Another winged icon took flight.
“Computer, call Nakata.”
The Deputy Director of Space Operations for Asteroid Operations probably would want to order the evacuation of SRI-1960 as a precaution.
Nakata was in his office, despite the late hour. Mitchel didn’t know anyone on the executive floors who didn’t regularly work 60 to 70 hours a week.
“Yes, Mitchel?” Nakata said on the screen.
Mitchel was always at a loss about what to call the DDSOAO. Technically, they were peers. But Mitchel was younger and had been a section chief fewer years than Nakata. Also, the other man had an ambiance around him that made it
impossible for Mitchel to call him anything other than, “Mr. Nakata. I have reason to believe the Gaia Alliance will attack either SRI-1961 or 1960. I have already sent a warning to Director Chun. I wondered if you would want to evacuate 1960?”
Nakata thought for a moment, then said, “Do you think an attack is imminent?”
“Yes, I do. However, I believe 1961 is the most likely target. I still thought you might want to evacuate as a precaution.”
“Yes,” Nakata said. “That would be prudent. I will have all personnel evacuated to the support ship and the ship return to the Low Earth Orbit Facility. It shouldn’t take long.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nakata.” The screen went black and Mitchel sat back in his chair. He looked over the metropolis below. He’d done all he humanly could do. He was afraid it wasn’t enough.
***
Trent picked up the phone/computer and punched in a remembered address. “Whaltham,” she said, “Do you know who this is?”
“Yes. It’s the middle of the God damn night. This better be good.”
“It is. I sent a woman to Beatty two months ago. Shari Johnson.”
“Yes, I know. I met her.”
“She works for Space Resources Incorporated.”
“Shit!” he yelled into the computer’s handset.
“I just found out,” Trent defended herself.
“God damn it. Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay,” Trent said, not knowing what else to say.
“It’ll be taken care of,” he repeated before disconnecting.
“What is it?” his wife asked.
“Nothing, go to sleep. I have to make a call. I’ll do it from the terminal in my den.”
“A patient?”
“Yes.”
***
Griffin and Knecht emerged from the lower depths onto the bridge. Trudeau and Cole watched them climb up. Cole’s face registered her disgust.
Knecht walked to her computer. “We can launch in 15 minutes.” She turned to Griffin. “Sorry, Alan.”
“No problem, Barb. Trudeau, send the message.”
The plan was that, since they were about 20 light-minutes from Earth, the announcement of the attack should be timed to be received just as the attack was happening. That meant the message had to be sent before the actual strike.