Silver Enigma

by Rock Whitehouse

  "I meant what I said about the invitation, except now I think it should also be notarized. Can't be too careful."

  They watched the room for a while, exchanging a funny, mostly unkind commentary about the patrons as they came and went.

  "So, Joanne, I'm about to be divorced. Wow, that sounds strange. What about you?"

  She hesitated, looked away, looked back, finally gathered herself to tell him her story.

  "Divorced, long time now."

  She took a sip of her drink.

  "He was my coach, and I thought he was a lot more than he really was."

  She paused, then continued, the pain still echoing in her voice.

  "And he thought I was a lot less than I really am."

  "Ouch - that had to hurt."

  "Yes, it was a hard time, but it was necessary. I'm glad to be on my own."

  "You don't find it lonely?" Ben was really asking about his own fear about the future.

  "It can be, but I have the Fleet to distract me." She stopped to look directly at him. "You may find it harder than I do, Ben. I've seen people who do fine, and others who really hate it. Me, I am free to serve as I want and to think and do as I want without having to weigh anyone else's feelings or needs. That works for me."

  "I see," Ben responded.

  There was a long silence as they sipped their Scotch and watched the blizzard of activity in the bar.

  "Ben, I haven't had a friend to talk to in a long time. I come in here from time to time, some of the drunker townies will try to pick me up, the Fleet people mostly just stay clear. Fiona will sit with me sometimes, not that often. I do love the Fleet, but it can get quiet at night. When it's too quiet, I wind up here."

  "Well, Joanne, seems we can both use a friend right now."

  He reached out his hand, she shook it, sealing their deal.

  A little later Ben finished his second drink, picked up his parka, and went back out into the cold night, heading for the sofa in his living room. The bed that had been his was now somewhere out west.

  The Cookie Factory Bar

  Near Space Fleet University Campus

  Northern Ohio

  Monday, January 17, 2078, 2100 EST

  About the time Ben Price and Joanne Henderson were toasting their new friendship, an average height, average looking young man in jeans and a plain hoodie slipped out of the freezing, snow-less evening and into The Cookie Factory and sat at the end of the bar, two stools removed from the next patron. He carefully curved the bill of his ISC hat to give himself the illusion of being alone in a crowd, his eyes hidden within.

  David Powell was less than happy to be in the Advanced Intelligence Analysis Class to begin with. Now, of all things, there was an honest-to-God war on, and there up on the media screens was a really lousy picture of Carol Hansen. He looked at it almost in spite of himself, his gut twisted itself near in half to see that face, one he loved and missed so much, on such display. She was in the middle of it, right where she belonged. Right where he belonged, too, he thought. But David was stuck back here in Ohio, finishing the Intel school, after which he'd probably be the lead Intel tech on a ship. Not in command, not the boss, just the brains. It didn't help that he could look across the campus every day and see the main SFU building, the one he had spent over three years in, had excelled in, and in which he had last laid eyes on Carol one Friday that seemed an eternity ago.

  He nursed his tall draft IPA, looking up occasionally to see who else was around. He dismissed the offer of a menu with a wave, and the bartender frowned at him as she turned away. The Cookie Factory was a place, something like The Drive, that catered to Fleet students. He saw three others of the eight in his class seated in a booth. They would glance his way from time to time but their faces made it clear that none of them were interested in a conversation with him. David knew he had only himself to blame for that. He'd come in not knowing anyone and really not caring, at least at first. The other seven had come together right out of Warrant Candidate School, which he'd been able to skip. Fleet bumped their eighth classmate to make room for David. So, in their minds, he was an outsider from the start.

  He had an obligation to fulfill, but it was no secret to anyone that this was not his first choice and he'd really rather be somewhere else. Somewhere with Carol, he admitted to himself. His classmates were all good candidates, smart and dedicated, and he knew they'd do fine. But he was clearly first in the class, slapping down every unit check and final exam with far too much ease. That he didn't seem to care what the others thought about that only exacerbated his separation from them. If it's going to be so damned easy for him, they said among themselves, the asshole could at least be friendly about it.

  The instructors knew his history. SFU had denied his request to return and finish, so the best possible second-alternative was this Warrant school. But no one let on about why he was there to his new classmates. As far as they knew, he was just a jerk.

  On another level, he knew he was being distant and cold to them. At some point during the course he'd hoped to break out of that funk, to let himself just be where he was, but something held him back. Selfishness? he asked himself. Self-pity? Anger? Grief? None of those really felt completely accurate but bits of each seemed to fit his dark mood. He felt as locked in place as someone in a bad dream where the freight train was bearing down and they couldn't get their feet to move them off the tracks.

  So, he asked himself, what the hell was he doing here in a bar full of people when he thought he only wanted to be alone? Good question, the other part of him answered.

  Leaning over with his elbows on the bar, he was about half way through the draft and crafting an exit when he was aware of someone sitting next to him. Sneaking a look over he saw the lead instructor, an older Senior Warrant named Ray Salazar, looking down at him.

  "Jesus, Powell, you're such a pain in the ass," he said flatly.

  "Yes, Mister Salazar, I suppose I am."

  "I mean it. Your attitude is screwing this up for everyone, including yourself."

  "Really, Mister Salazar, I'm just trying to do my job."

  David looked up again at Carol's crummy picture. Salazar looked up at the image and then back at David.

  "Stop looking at her, Powell. She's there and you're here. Get your head back where your ass is."

  "Sir?"

  "I know all about Hansen, Powell; wonderful girl, shitty boyfriend. But you're not going to get any closer to her by locking out everyone around you."

  "OK-" David was about to object to this line of the conversation but Salazar wasn't opening that door.

  "You can't keep this up, Powell. It's not like you. I checked with a couple of your old instructors."

  "Oh, great," he said sarcastically.

  "Actually, they used that same word, but without the snarky attitude." Salazar picked up his dark beer and turned to face Powell directly. "This shit is easy for you, Powell, I know that. But you know what? It isn't for everyone." He took a swallow and set it back down. "Last time you were in that situation, you were the first one to help, the first to lend a hand."

  "So?"

  "So, where the hell is THAT guy in MY class?" he demanded.

  David had no answer.

  "The little dark haired one?" Salazar started.

  "Margie Nixon," David responded.

  "So, you know her name? I'm surprised." Salazar took another sip. "Yes, Nixon. She's getting by but she doesn't have the Physics background that most of you do. And Browning-"

  "Gregg."

  "Holy crap, Powell, two names? Do you know them all?"

  "Yes, Mister Salazar, I do. I'm not-"

  "Good," Salazar interrupted, "Browning is doing better than Nixon but not what he could be."

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  "What would the old Powell, you know, the one who was like second in his Cadet class, what would he do?"

  David thought about it a moment before replying.

  "He'd form a
study group and try to bring them along. Coach them."

  "Helluva idea, Mister Powell, genius!" Ray Salazar drained the rest of his Porter and pushed the glass away, standing up off the bar stool. "Tomorrow, Mister Powell. Tomorrow you start the road back to being yourself." He was smiling now. "Good luck! You're going to need it."

  "Mister Salazar, is this all about me, or them?" David asked, puzzled. What had started out as an off-the-record dressing down had suddenly turned into a counseling session, then a pep-talk. All in five minutes.

  Salazar looked at him for a few seconds before responding.

  "Everything is about everything, David. You help them and someday they will help someone else, and helping them helps you. Meantime you'll all be better analysts and better people."

  "Yes, Mister Salazar, I guess so."

  "No guessing required, Powell. Just get it done." Salazar turned, pulled on his parka, and headed out the door, leaving David to consider just how he was going to break down the brick wall he'd built between himself and his classmates. It might not be easy, but the more he thought about what Salazar had to say, the more annoyed he became with himself for not being ready to be fully engaged where he was. After all, he was in the Fleet where he always wanted to be, and he had a chance to do interesting work. He smiled at the older man's advice: Get your head back where your ass is.

  He finished his beer, and got up to leave, surprising the bartender with a smile, and surprising her even more with a generous tip.

  ISC Fleet HQ Intel Section

  Ft. Eustis, VA

  Thursday, January 20, 2078, 0900 EST

  The meeting with Randy Forstmann was surprising easy to arrange. Davenport hardly had to begin asking before Forstmann enthusiastically agreed to sit down with FleetIntel. In only a few days, the FPI Executive Shuttle arrived at Fleet HQ and three men made their way to the Intel Section, where Ron waited for them at the front desk.

  The first two were large, nondescript but carefully groomed. Ron took them for engineers or executives or, worse, lawyers. They wore expensive suits and shoes and carried expensive briefcases. The third man, his face instantly recognizable, was shorter, thinner, dressed informally in cotton and denim, good but not extravagant leather boots, carrying only a tablet computer case.

  They arrived in the midst of a heated argument that they were unsuccessfully trying to keep from being overheard. The words 'NDA' and 'limits' and 'sir' leaked out of their intense but quiet argument. Finally, the two suits shook their heads at the smaller man.

  "Sit down here and wait for me," came the exasperated but clear tenor voice of Randy Forstmann, as he pointed to a few chairs in the waiting area. "Try not to make a nuisance of yourselves." He turned to Ron.

  "Captain Harris, I presume?" he said with a smile, extending his hand.

  "Yes, Mister Forstmann. Welcome to FleetIntel."

  They walked to the full but quiet FleetIntel conference room. Forstmann looked a little older than his years, but the active hazel eyes and short gray hair were just as they were in the documentaries and sensational media shows about him. The Fleet personnel rose as one when he came in, the sound of old chairs skipping over the tile floor disturbing the peace. Randy Forstmann moved to the foot of the table, opposite Ron Harris, and took a seat. The Fleet personnel sat when Forstmann did.

  Ron opened with a respectful appreciation for the man's willingness to even talk to them.

  "Mister Forstmann, thank you for meeting with us today. We hope you are aware how vital this is to our efforts here."

  "Yes, I am Captain, and I am glad to be able to assist," Forstmann paused briefly. "But I do actually have a few ground rules, if I may?"

  Ron indicated that he should continue.

  "My name is Randy. I don't really like to answer to 'mister' or 'sir' as it makes me feel even older than I already am. I want to know each of your names - beyond what is on your uniform - so that we may talk more freely."

  "Anything else, Randy? No subjects off limits?"

  "My personal life is the stuff of media obsession and fantasy, so let's stay off that if we could. Otherwise, fire away!"

  The room relaxed noticeably as they came to realize that Randy Forstmann wasn't some Howard Hughes-ish recluse gazillionaire remote from the world. He was a regular guy, direct, an engineer like several of the Intel staff, a little shy maybe, unassuming, who also happened to be a gazillionaire. They went around the table doing introductions. Randy took notes on his tablet, typing quickly without looking at his hands. It was an amazing thing to watch. He made eye contact, he acknowledged what they said, he laughed at all the right places and asked the right follow up questions. By the end, the staff found themselves completely taken with him.

  Introductions completed, Randy opened the discussion.

  "So, Ron, you have questions for me?"

  "We do. Let's start with this - during your research either before the discovery of The Drive, or later, have you become aware of an alternative method for FTL travel? We're trying to gauge the likelihood that this culture has separately discovered Forstmann drive or are using something else."

  Randy responded immediately.

  "I am not aware of any such method. The graviton/anti-graviton approach is the only one I know of. But, I have to add, this has not been a major area of research for us. Once I devised a workable drive concept, we concentrated on scaling it up, optimization, control, electrical efficiency, things like that, not on alternative approaches."

  "But in your research, you did not see another path to FTL?" Ann Cooper asked.

  "No, Ann, I did not."

  "Are you aware of a method by which a ship running Forstmann Drive FTL could be detected?"

  "Under the Drive ships are in their own, uh, segment of space-time. The space in front is bent towards the ship, and the space behind is bent away. I don't see how that can be remotely detected. If a ship passes nearby, with the right equipment one might detect some excess gravitons, but it should not be detectable from any distance."

  Frances had her doubts about the certainty in his answer. History was full of disasters where scientists or soldiers were certain they knew something that turned out to be false. She decided to follow up on his statement.

  "How close is close in your mind?"

  "A few thousand kilometers at most."

  Unsatisfied, she continued, "Randy, does the drive emit anything besides gravitons and antigravitons? I'm interested in anything that might give our opponents the ability to find or track our movements."

  "We have tested the Drive in a variety of ways, Frances, measured the net output versus power input, and monitored it across a range of EM frequencies. I am certain that it emits nothing harmful, and confident that there are no unintended energies being radiated."

  Frances inclined her head a bit, one eyebrow raised as she wrote in her notebook.

  "You are unconvinced?"

  She set down her pen, leaning back in her chair.

  "It is my job be unconvinced, to doubt and to probe. Part of your answer you are certain, the other part confident; those are different concepts. If there is one thing that modern technological war has taught us - right up to the Second Korean War in 2033 - it is to be skeptical of our own abilities and respectful of the enemy's."

  "Yes, I see." He spent perhaps a minute typing on his tablet. "I will talk to my engineers about this question to see if, even after twenty years of experience, there is any potential for detection that we have not considered."

  "Randy, can we talk about SLIP?" Roger asked.

  "We can talk about anything, Roger, but what about SLIP interests you?"

  "We're trying to work out how this enemy culture might communicate. We sort of assume that they have FTL propulsion and that they also have FTL communication. So, the question is, if they were also using SLIP could we detect it?"

  "SLIP is a very sensitive technology. The easiest description for outsiders, which is not technically accurate, is that we communicat
e by phase modulation of vibrations in what we think of as the layer below normal space-time."

  "How is addressing handled? Can SLIP receivers see messages not intended for them?"

  "Good question. Yes, they can. Addressing is handled within the structure of the message."

  "You mean, like TCP/IP?"

  Forstmann smiled.

  "I didn't think anyone still remembered that. Yes, exactly like TCP/IP."

  "If that is the case, if a SLIP message recipient is offline at the time the message arrives, it will be missed?"

  "Yes - it behaves like radio to some extent."

  "Does a SLIP signal radiate in all directions like radio?" Frances asked.

  "Yes."

  "Could one build a SLIP receiver that would copy all SLIP traffic, regardless of destination? Like a network sniffer?"

  Roger Cox was now on a roll. Randy looked surprised and thought for a few seconds.

  "Yes, such a thing could be built, but I never thought of doing that."

  Randy began typing as Roger continued.

  "If I had such a generic SLIP receiver, or several, I could triangulate the source of a SLIP transmission, could I not?"

  "You could, yes, based on time difference of arrival," Frances interrupted.

  "Time difference?" Randy asked, puzzled.

  Ron indicated that Frances should explain.

  "Any message that is radiated outward, like a radio wave, can be intercepted. If the same transmission is received at multiple locations, given accurate enough timing, it's a straightforward math problem to calculate where the transmission came from."

  "But that means..." Kelly Peterson started, then stopped, as a cold realization made a sudden change in atmosphere in the room. Dark clouds now covered the early sunshine of the meeting.

  "Shit," came the quiet word from somewhere around the table. Several heads nodded, and the room became very quiet.

  "Why?" Randy asked.

  Ron looked across at Randy, realizing that while he was a technological wizard, he had no experience in military history or the application of technology to military intelligence. He tried to speak kindly, without condescension, as to someone who could understand but had not yet learned what they needed to know.