by Stephen Moss
Madeline laughed. “Yes, that sounds about right. So I doubt you’ll be doing very much strolling around up here, either.” Normally, perhaps, Madeline would have waited for some response, witty or otherwise, but the exigencies of distant laser-based communications encouraged longer statements rather than banter, and so she went on, “Which brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about. As you know, we are getting ready to ramp up operations here. We have our first ileminite mining platform at Mare Humorum nearly ready, and our water extraction works here at the South Pole are well underway. Which brings us to your part.”
She waited. Moira had been very busy in the many months since she joined TASC to replace the lost Birgit Hauptman. Now they were sending her off world as well, though this time in a less spectacular and far more deliberate fashion. She would be travelling with a smaller Exo-Atmospheric Light Lifter that was being designated for lunar operations and was very nearly ready for launch.
The EALL was already being dubbed the Cool J, rather predictably, a name that was helping put Moira slightly more at ease with her coming departure from the planet. But depart she must. A cadre of students she had trained would remain at Districts Two and Three, but with the last of the EAHLs and Big Feet already finished and in motion, attention was moving to actual weaponry production at last.
“Yes, Madeline,” said Moira eventually, her tone becoming more serious. “I have been reviewing the potential Helium-3 mining sites at Oceanus Procellarum. It is still too early to be absolutely certain, but it does look like we will be able to find a dual-use site there.”
She sent a file up through the multipurpose system they were speaking through. While their voices, and the minimal bandwidth they required, were able to be forwarded in real time, the data packet detailing Moira’s analysis would have to join a queue. They continued to chat regardless.
“That is great news, Moira,” said Madeline, “thank you. I will assign a Wrecker and a probe team to the potential site as soon as I get your data packet. We should have confirmation of viability either way by the time you are inbound.”
There was a pause and then, “That’s great,” said Moira, a touch meekly. Then with more verve, “And there are actually three potential sites, ranked by probability, in my analysis. I’ll leave it to you whether to assign more teams or have them look at each in order … of course.”
Madeline smiled. “I’ll take a look and make a call based on how strong the data is. But don’t worry about making recommendations to me. Once you are up here, Moira, this will be your baby. I am only here to supervise until the subspace link is established back to Earth. After that …”
After that, Moira would be in charge. In charge of the construction of the Lunar Missile-Mine Phalanx. Once they had production in full flow here, and on the recently tethered Hekaton, they would switch all available production on Earth to the making of its own mines for transport up its ever-growing number of elevators.
The moon, Hekaton, and Earth. Three massive phalanxes. Three massive salvos. Once combined they would form a tidal wave of self-propelling mass to launch at the coming Armada. They would continue production up until the last minute. Three years, four months, three days, five hours, and twenty-three minutes. Approximately. They would continue production until they knew that they had no longer: until they had to launch whatever they had in order for it to reach the Armada before the Mobiliei were close enough to make out the very real and massive changes humanity was making to its very world.
For just as the appearance of Hekaton had set off a chain reaction across Earth, so would the sight of its arrival signal to the coming Armada that all was not as it seemed at the terminus point of its great mission. Once it was close enough to distinguish the new moon now orbiting around Earth, the Mobiliei Council would know for sure that the satellites were dead, and that all was far from peaceful on the western front.
They had an estimated date when that would become physically possible, given John and Quavoce’s knowledge of the Armada’s sensors. Possible to see some evidence of Hekaton, that is, but nothing conclusive. They had another, later date when it would become all but certain. They would plan to hit them between these dates. Hit them with everything they could muster.
After they had launched their swarms of missile-mines, all attention would switch to building up the big guns: the fleet of Skalms to engage with their fighting craft, and the larger, fixed particle weapons to attack the Mobiliei fleet-craft. Then they would brace for the far closer, far bloodier combat that they knew would then come with whatever embittered and emboldened remnant of the Mobiliei Armada survived the first strike.
Chapter 24: Preemptive Strike
They had requested landing permission as a diplomatic mission well in advance, with all the accorded benefits that implied, and they had been summarily denied. They had sent the request again, through multiple channels, and again had been rebuffed. But the date of their arrival had stayed the same on every request, as had the language. They had not said they would like to come. They had said they would come.
And so they did.
The StratoJet came in at altitude. They approached from the north, from over the Caspian Sea, not so much to sneak by the Iranian Air Force but to limit the amount of time that force would have to react before they were over Tehran space.
They also came up on Iranian airspace at Mach 2, only slowing to more politically acceptable speeds once they had crossed the border proper, and the calls had begun.
“Unidentified aircraft. You have entered Iranian airspace. You are instructed to turn around immediately or you will be fired upon. I repeat. Turn around immediately or you will be fired upon.”
The voice had originally come through in Persian. After they had responded, also in Persian, and stated their purpose and intention, the voice had changed to English. It somewhat undermined their claim that the craft remained ‘unidentified’ despite their clear report as to their identity, but what was Jim to do? He was nervous. And he was all but alone.
This was not his normal purview. But he was not without recourse. In the cabin with him were five Phase Eleven automatons, fully armed and ready for bear. And the plane was being piloted remotely by none other than Banu herself. Should they actually fire upon him, she was more than capable of getting them out of trouble, in theory, anyway.
“Iranian air traffic control, this is TASC Diplomatic Mission. As I said before, I have formally notified the Iranian government of my visit on multiple occasions and will be coming in to land at Mehr Abad International Airport shortly. I request landing authorization, but if denied I will land anyway. I repeat, I will land anyway. I have an important message for the grand ayatollah, the president, and the Iranian Parliament, which must be delivered in person. I am an official representative of the Terrestrial Allied Space Command, and as such enjoy its full protection. I come in peace.”
He waited once more. He had said it three times now. The main difference being that the first two times there had not been three Dassault F1 Mirages on his tail. He glanced back at them with virtual eyes once more. He was strapped in to a gravity gel-couch, just in case Banu should have to do some close quarters maneuvering. But he was fully plugged into the plane’s sensor systems, as well as Minnie’s many eyes above, and it was through these that he studied the three fighters falling in behind him.
Minnie:
Jim went to speak, to pretend confidence, but Banu spoke up instead.
Banu: ‘don’t worry, mr. hacker. i have flown against far more enemies with far faster planes. they won’t catch us. and if you need me to, i can chase them down instead. i can take them so easily.’
Jim staunched a new fear. As bold as this maneuver was, Jim had not come here to start a war, he had come to stave one off.
Neal: ‘don’t worry, jim. banu knows
this is not that kind of mission. ¿don’t you, banu?’
Jesus, but this was a strange conversation, thought Jim. Did Neal just use baby talk with the pilot of the plane? The most feared pilot in the world, at least until Amadeu and Minnie trained up a new cadre. Banu acquiesced, clearly a little bored with it all already. And hopefully it would remain beautifully boring for the rest of the flight, thought Jim. Hopefully they would be able to land without incident.
He studied the Iranian jets, aware that eyes far more trained than his were watching them far more closely. Watching for the slightest hint of action.
The voice blared out its warning once more, and as an emphasis radar-lock alarms filled the StratoJet’s systems.
Still they stayed their course. Jim repeated his Public Service Announcement. If they were going to refuse to acknowledge him then he would do the same. He was essentially daring them to shoot him down. It was a dare he would lose only if they didn’t fear the repercussions. He was making a gamble. Or rather Neal was making a gamble, with Jim’s life.
Either they would fire on him and miss, in which case TASC would lambast them in the world theater and demand an audience to avoid all out war. Or they would fire on him and hit, meaning they did indeed have tech ten capable units, in which case … TASC would lambast them in the world theater and demand an audience to avoid all out war, only Neal would also probably take the leashes off Banu and whatever Spezialist forces Ayala no doubt had roaming the Iranian countryside below, even now.
Or they would actually let him land. Once on the ground, the same three choices started all over again, only at closer quarters, right up until he either had some kind of dialogue with a representative of the Iranian government, or Neal forced the Iranians to give him the impetus he needed to kick things up a notch.
It was an ugly looking decision tree, and Jim sure as hell would not have deigned to climb it if he hadn’t have been the one who had come up with the whole scheme in the first place. It had been all he could do to offer an alternative to the ever more martial options being considered by the rest of TASC’s leadership.
He stared at the planes, focusing in on the tips of their missiles. Note to self, he thought, stop coming up with plans.
- - -
Far away, the various powerful players in the intensifying game watched the plane. They watched from the many eyes of Minnie and they watched from the eyes of Iran’s own capable military machine. As tensions mounted, the world began to tune in. The flight’s progress was being aired around the planet by Jim’s own people, with Wislawa giving a running commentary to any station willing to broadcast it.
But there were many other pundits interpreting the coverage, voicing wildly different opinions and predictions on how it would or should play out.
In Tehran, Ahmad Sayeedi’s eyes were glued to the screens in front of him, as they always were. “Switch to camera 2, zoom. Audio to Bayazid in three, two …”
Bayazid Kutty took the cue smoothly, speaking from a spot outside the Vikal Abad Palace that was one of the ayatollah’s main residences. It was far away from Tehran, in Mashad, in the far east of the country. It was a city that Shahim had once skirted with the fugitives Jennifer Falster and Jack Toranssen, before escaping north into Turkmenistan. It was a different time now, though. A different city. The countryside had been decimated by the plague, and the city now stood as a hollow shell of its former glory.
Only the palace, a resplendent provincial capitol, remained whole, corpulent even, nourished as it was by the public and private fortunes of its prime resident, the grand ayatollah.
“No word yet from the Supreme Leader’s spokespeople, though I am informed they are monitoring this illegal violation of our sovereign airspace closely. The world watches as the interlopers from the illegitimate Western military state known as TASC barge into our country, uninvited. Only the ongoing reasonableness of the grand ayatollah prevents them from being fired upon by the Air Force.”
The man waffled on, like other pundits around the world, expounding mandated opinions as though they were their own. He was not lying, per se, just omitting some minor points. Like the fact that it was not only ‘reasonableness’ that was precluding action against poor Jim Hacker in his little plane, but a very real doubt as to whether they were even able to take the plane down.
And then, of course, there was the swathe of information the reporter was not privy to, on both sides. The stratagems and hidden assets of both sides that were on the move. The plans that were forming and reforming as events unfolded. Tools being honed, blades being sharpened as the various factions braced for whatever was to come next.
No matter what the soundtrack was, no one could doubt that the eyes of the world were turning to the little plane, as had been the intention. The flight was being broadcast around the world. And in the end it would probably be that which would save Jim. A powerful spotlight was on him, and it would light his way all the way to Mehr Abad, banishing any militant intent like scurrying shadows fleeing the beam.
With the world holding its breath, the scene was bringing into focus the two main sides of the debate raging around the planet, as Neal had intended. For now, denial started to fade into the background as this very tangible sight penetrated homes, offices, and bars; computers, phones, and televisions.
It was symbolic of the greater dichotomy of thought around the world. And while the skeptics still shouted it all down in their call for … well, for exactly what they did not know, more and more people were coming to see these two more active sides as the real debate. Was this the beginning of humanity’s fight against the coming Armada, or its fight within itself to scour themselves of whatever alien influence was already present?
“I will stay here, as we hope you will all stay with IRIB News, reporting from across Iran on this incredible action by the Western interlopers.”
The voices babbled on, and far away again, a commander reached out to a supervisor.
“Mother, are any of them ready?” he asked.
There was silence as progress was reviewed against the supervisor’s understanding of the current situation.
“No, Commander, I am afraid not, not to intervene here. The first class will have graduates from Flight School to Fight School in a matter of days, but then we still have to see how they perform in the combat simulators. I have high hopes,” a ping appeared in the commander’s mind with statistics and performance data on four children as the supervisor went on, “but to send them into combat at this stage would be … unwise.”
The commander was disappointed, but not surprised. Nor was he angry. This must be done correctly. When they revealed themselves to the world they would have to do so from a position of overwhelming superiority. They would only have one chance. Either they would prove themselves indomitable or they would be obliterated. Very well, sighed the commander, they would have to see how this charade played out.
For now.
Chapter 25: Reaching Out
Jim Hacker stepped from the plane and into the harsh light of the Iranian sun. Tehran was a city of climactic shift, bridging the border between the broad desert plain of the south and the great Alborz Mountains that separated it from the Caspian Sea to the north. Here in the south of the city it was often ten to fifteen degrees hotter than in the northern districts, where the city began to climb the slopes of snow-capped Tochal Mountain.
He was greeted, not surprisingly, by a bank of soldiers and military vehicles. They were not shy at pointing their weapons at him, though he noticed that a single, clearly senior officer stood well out in front.
Ayala: ‘that is a good sign, jim. if he was behind the soldiers i would tell you to stay behind the phase elevens as well.’
Jim nodded, though he did not know why. Then he realized that she was as aware of his movements as he was. He was being monitored both inside and out, and both by his friends and his enemies. He hoped the rest of the world was watching just as closely.
He breathed deep
ly. He was dressed smartly, in a suit. A notable contrast from the two Phase Eleven automatons that had lumbered down onto the tarmac before him. His only concession to security, other than the military machines that formed his escort, was a body suit under his more conventional one, and a set of glasses not unlike the ones Cara had worn into her meeting with the minister in Vienna.
Not that Jim knew of Cara, or the deadly face-off she had been forced into. The details of the minister’s betrayal and his brutal conversion back to the cause had been lost in Ayala’s ever-growing files. All Jim knew was that the signal from his little glasses was being broadcast far and wide, an insurance policy similar to Cara’s, though his audience was far larger than just a vigilant Hektor.
As he stepped forward, leaving his automata behind, he hoped the officer’s seniors would be taking note of that signal he was broadcasting, taking note of how the view being broadcast by TASC was from him, not his guardians. He would not take the robots with him, but they would remain ready. Ready to come for him at a moment’s notice. Jim hoped they would see that, even without the dangerous-looking machines, he was still in constant contact with TASC, and the world at large.
He stepped up to the officer and extended his hand, noting that the officer had an earpiece. He was clearly receiving instructions. The man’s expression was a changing sea of emotion. The unfortunate officer knew he had just become the focal point of an international game of brinksmanship. He waited for orders.
Someone, somewhere realized that Iran itself was being judged by whether it took that hand or not. Would it be polite or would it refuse? They were in a corner. The tiny speaker in the officer’s ear sparked to life and slowly, gingerly, the officer extended his hand.
- - -
Across Tehran, a busy side street bustled with activity along an exposed section of the Karaj canal. It ran a full fifty-three kilometers right from the town of Karaj on the outskirts of the province, to the center of Tehran, supplying a good deal of the drinking water of the districts it passed through.