by Peter Damon
“Yes, very pleasant,” Michael agreed. He picked up his cup and allowed his hand to shake as he drew it to his mouth to sip the strong brew.
“You must find it difficult, moving from London, a city with so much going on, to a relatively small and transitory community like Cambridge,” Stan observed.
“On the contrary,” Michael told him while noting that Stan knew of his past. “Cambridge University is a vibrant community within a community. Not only are there stories from both inside and outside the campus, but numerous occasions when the two clash.”
“Does that happen often?” Stan asked, mildly interested.
“Oh, often enough,” Michael nodded, allowing his eyes to travel over the display of liqueurs at the nearby bar. “Road works outside listed buildings during exam times, student pranks that cause traffic jams, Friday night queues in Accident & Emergency, to name just a few,” he said, recalling the most recent incidents and licking his lips before concentrating on his coffee cup as it rattled slightly against the saucer before he finally lifted it clear.
“And of course, a project to raise a new space station into orbit to form a new college. It is to be called ‘Cambridge University Annex’, isn’t it?” Stan asked.
Michael hesitated a moment, a shocked expression on his face, and then he laughed, a loud laugh that caused others across the room to glance across at them in mild interest.
“Robert Fuller owned up to stealing it from me then, has he?” he chuckled.
“So, it was your story,” Stan asked, seeking confirmation.
Michael nodded and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “The boy is so irritating, sitting at his desk like some pompous editor, listening in on all the stories we bring back to then produce something with his own name at the top.
“So I thought I’d teach him a lesson. I fabricated some background material and purposefully left it available to be stolen. Robert fell for it hook, line and sinker,” he explained, still smiling, the smile becoming just that little bit strained as he glanced yet again towards the liqueurs at the bar.
Stan nodded. “I thought the editor would have stopped such trivia,” he suggested, refilling their coffee cups.
“I guess my fabrication was better than I had thought. There again, the lad didn’t present it for publication for a week. April Fools was well past by then,” he shrugged.
“I see. An April Fool’s joke gone wrong, then,” Stan summarised.
Michael looked towards the older man enquiringly. “There must be more to this than you’re saying,” he said. “You are British Intelligence if I’m not mistaken, and for you to get interested in this trivia, it must have hit a nerve somewhere,” Michael murmured.
Stan wiped his mouth on the small paper napkin and shook his head. “I wouldn’t put that much credence on this, Mr Bennett. Truth is, our masters like to keep us busy; it looks better at the end of the year if you have a long list of accomplishments, even if most of them prove unnecessary,” he told the journalist.
“So that little fracas on Market Hill the other night; that wasn’t British Secret Service battling with their Chinese equivalent, then?” Michael asked.
Stan shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he murmured.
“Don’t take me for stupid, Mr Charway,” Michael snapped. “I may be washed up, and an alcoholic to boot, but I’ve still got a brain!”
Stan looked at him and slowly nodded. “Must have just been two local mobs; certainly wasn’t anything to do with me,” Stan told him.
“And that piece in the Guardian, about the Americans and Russians staying tight lipped about new satellites in orbit?” Michael cocked his head and waited.
Stan flicked his hand, as if to make the words meaningless and shook his head. “You know how these things work, Mr Bennett. We do what our masters ask of us.”
Stan rose and held out his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me, and setting my mind at rest about any intent to undermine the British authorities,” he said.
Michael rose and shook hands, and then watched Stan leave, mentally reviewing the meeting and what was said, and not said. He wanted to let Professor Rolle know that British Intelligence were in Cambridge asking questions, but he couldn’t do it on his mobile, or from a hotel phone. He licked his lips and sat down again, shaking slightly as a car blew itself up in his memory, his wife inside it. When he lifted the coffee cup to his lips, it really did shake, and he couldn’t stop it.
+++++++++++++++++
One of the Chinese agents nodded imperceptibly towards him, and Xu Dain stepped from the alcove he had been standing in to confront a surprised and worried Professor Rolle.
A shower had just passed and the street was still wet and puddled from the downpour while overhead, heavy rolling clouds had brought a premature darkening to the end of the day.
“Mr Xu Dain,” Rolle murmured, nodding his head in greeting while his eyes glanced nervously towards the other two Chinese men, both large, both purposefully intimidating.
“Professor Rolle. I am pleased to find you,” Dain told him, his smile as false as his straight teeth.
The professor looked worriedly towards the large and intimidating men as he reached into his overcoat to bring out a small bottle, filled with a brown liquid.
“Here,” the professor murmured, and looked about him nervously as he past Xu Dain the chemical.
“Ah! Very good Professor,” Dain nodded. “This will do very nicely,” he agreed.
“And the money? The balance of the money?” Rolle asked eagerly as the Chinese made to move away.
“We will check the chemical; make sure that it functions as we expect. Then we shall complete our agreement,” Dain agreed, and turned away before the professor would see the dislike on his face.
May 18th
“Alright,” Leanne Adler told Peter Bridge as she returned to the centre of the car park where he patiently waited. “I’ve now got three ‘ships’ broadcasting their own telemetry from the farthest corners of the car park, all too short to reach each other. This is what I call ‘Cloud Communications’. Each ship exists within its particular cloud.
“Now, we are travellers, so we’ve got our headgear on,” and she and Peter each put the goldfish bowl-like glass bowls over their heads, the rims dangling wires and small electrical components.
“Note the display on the face plate,” Leanne said, drawing Peter’s attention to the four lines that were reflected on the glass in front of his eyes. They told Peter where he was and on what planes he was moving on in relation to the coordinates he’d already given the guidance system, and the last ship of departure.
“So, as we move towards our input destination; the ‘ship’. Our display gives us details of distance, bearing, etc, just like a normal sat-nav, but in three dimensions and not two. Yes?”
“Yes, I see that,” Peter agreed, walking with her towards one corner of the car park.
“Right, now, we enter this ‘ship’s’ cloud, and all of a sudden our display has changed. Now, our values; inclination, speed, attitude, etc, are all relative to that of the ‘ship’,” she pointed out.
“Ah. So like, I get general information when I’m outside a cloud, and specific and detailed information related to the ship when I’m within a cloud!” Peter summarised.
They moved from the corners of the car park back into the middle and back out again. Wherever they went, the display provided them with details of where they were, and where they were going.
“Now, the logic will fit on flexible cards, so I’d like you to sandwich it into the suit, preferably on the back, below the shoulder blades, but also underneath the UV protection layer,” Leanne said.
“Yes, we can do that,” Peter agreed “How about under a magnetic flap of material, so we can un-plug one card and plug in another as you provide updates?” he asked.
“I’m beginning to like you, Peter,” Leanne grinned.
+++++++++++++++++
Gatwi
ck airport was gearing up for summer. Passenger numbers had already begun to rise following the normal February and March slump. The large hall in the South Terminal was busy with travellers moving to and from the rows of check-in desks, while still more stood in small and large groups, many looking about them with bemused expressions, others just looking tired. Excited children ran here and there, testing their parents resolve and the patience of other passengers, while a queue of passengers waiting to pass through security was getting progressively longer.
Into the hubbub of the main check-in area labelled ‘C’ came another fifteen individuals, all tipping the scales at over 140 kilos, all sporting a wealth of tattoos on their arms, chests and backs, the edges of the artwork rising above the necks of their shirts and from the arms of their vests. The Essex Rovers Rugby team were beginning their tour of Japan, and all were boisterous and happy, all hoping their wet-suits would join them before the Big Day.
Yes, their departure had been noted by the Essex Police, but only in a positive way. Burglary and car theft estimates for the month were revised downwards and applications for leave that had been held off to one side were suddenly approved.
+++++++++++++++++
Jonas Grun shook hands with Jake Collier, Matt Park and Allan Blake, bemused by their youth, their casual clothes and their lack of equipment. “Is this it then?” he asked.
The boys looked about them and chuckled. “Don’t worry Sir. We can lift this, no trouble,” Matt assured him.
Jonas nodded. “You travelled in your van?” he asked, still not reassured.
“The quickest way,” Jake nodded.
“And where are you staying?” Jonas enquired.
“Us? In the back of the van,” Matt told him.
“Where is it then?” Jake asked, picking up their single tool box. Allan already had the laptop and the folded blanket.
Jonas pointed to the building behind him, the one-time television studio that had been converted into a high security manufacturing and assembly unit where their prized possession had taken shape, and now waited to be launched into space.
ROSCOSMO had been due to launch it, but there wasn’t a slot available for another eight months, and the fee was just over $40 million US Dollars. Getting Cambridge University to lift the satellite was a huge risk, but the savings were incredible, and he had been assured by their satellite manufacturing team that they could build another satellite in the time available, should they need to, and still then be ready to use the ROSCOSMO launch window.
Jonas led the three lads into the facility and helped them through the company’s security regime before gaining them access to the clean room in which the satellite stood, standing proud and silent on its stand, a shroud covering it, just as agreed with the original launch team.
With a nod to Jonas, the three students set to work, each one knowing what was needed. The details of the satellite’s dimensions had been known for weeks, and the shrouded device had exposed fixing points, as had been originally required by ROSCOSMO for securing it to their launch vehicle.
Jonas felt a little better, watching the three working seamlessly together. Nonetheless, the lack of everything he knew to be necessary for a rocket launch left him just a little nervous. The cubes placed on the exposed fixing points seemed woefully inadequate to raise something weighing over 5,000 kilos.
“Do you know when you will be ready?” Jonas asked. “Only, I should give my people some warning,” he explained.
“Oh, three, four hours should do it,” Allan told him, and grinned at the man’s startled expression.
May 19th
It was nearly 2am when Allan approached Jonas to tell him they were ready.
“I hope the launch requirements have not changed. Cheryl Hall told me that the car park would be more than sufficient,” Jonas explained worriedly.
Allan shook his head. “Space is not a problem, but we should do this off your own property. Preferably somewhere common or owned by the town, like a broad road or a park perhaps?” he asked.
“Our car park is not good then?” Jonas asked.
The boys shook their heads. “The property is licensed for particular activities,” Allan explained. “We don’t want to contravene zoning regulations, whatever they are in Germany. Safer to use a road or public land,” he told Jonas.
Jonas shrugged and arranged for the large double doors to be opened wide and warned the security guard that the front gate would need opening shortly, the English boys giving him the instruction. In the end it wasn’t needed; Allan put some further details into the laptop, and the satellite rose another three metres to travel over the main security gate and into the clear road just beyond.
Jonas watched it move with a look of awe, constantly shaking his head and licking his lips as he watched the magic of a satellite weighing over 5,000 kilos move sedately and seemingly unsupported through the air.
“We ready?” Allan asked Matt and Jake.
Getting nods he looked toward Jonas Grun, who hastily nodded. Allan invoked the stored program, and the satellite began to move upwards, into the night sky.
+++++++++++++++++
At 2am Central European Time, the satellite, weighing 5,580 kilograms and over 6 metres long, rose from the empty road just outside Bonn and headed quietly and sedately into space. It took over 30 minutes to reach a low orbit, and after hesitating for just a few seconds to allow the shroud to fall away, accelerated outward to a new and specific orbit just under 36,000 kilometres above the earth, its speed placing it in a geosynchronous orbit. It reached its position at 7am, and after a nerve racking few minutes, transmitted its welcome code to its masters in the Bonn office.
Despite the early hour, the offices of Fernsehen Zentral were full. Everyone was gathered on the top floor where the board-room played host to the Board, significant investors and the senior management team, a large TV screen showing the telecommunications centre as they waited anxiously for news.
As the signal was received and communications started, the Fernsehen Zentral offices erupted in delight and, as the exultation subsided, Jonas looked about for the university boys to congratulate them and introduce them to his colleagues. They couldn’t be found though, and he was being pressed to rejoin in the festivities.
The payment of 6 million USD was transferred to the Isle of Man bank account, from where it disappeared almost immediately to buy Bearer Bonds in a number of large Japanese companies.
+++++++++++++++++
While it may have been the early hours of the 19th in Europe, it was only a little after 7pm on May 18th in Omaha, Nebraska, where the offices of USSTRATCOM were based. Situated close to the perimeter of the Offutt Air Force Base were two offices, each tasked with manning the monitoring arm of Operation Demeter.
Corporal Bill Hoffman sat at his new terminal, his mind drifting to the nearby bar where Sally Hayward worked. He was picturing her as he’d seen her the previous week, jeans stretched tightly over long, long legs, the denim seam cutting into her round buttocks, the waistband loose about her tiny waist, the top edge of her thong just in view, a pretty red cotton edged in white.
The appearance of a new red dot made him jerk and his chair fell backwards, dropping him to the floor.
“Sir, Sir, I have a Target!” he cried, scrambling to get up again, his face burning with embarrassment.
“Verify!” Sergeant Bradley, the Duty Sergeant shouted into the room.
“Verified, Sir! We have one unidentified satellite, Sir!” called another strident army voice from the other side of the room.
“Ok. Warn our observatories. We’re going to want pictures ASAP,” he told his staff. He picked up the new phone to be instantly connected to the second of their offices on the base, where images of the ground taken from US reconnaissance satellites were scanned for clandestine launches. “We have a target,” he told them, and listened to the reply before putting the phone down.
“Keep tracking the satellite,” he told the room, picki
ng up the normal phone to get in touch with Captain Reynolds.
“Sir, it’s not staying in low orbit,” Bill Hoffman noted, his heart hammering. It’s not in orbit, Sir, but moving further away.”
“Keep watching the Fucker, Corporal. We’re going to get this, this time!”
“Yes Sir, Sergeant Sir!”
+++++++++++++++++
It was 2am in Washington and General Pat Mears was on his third cup of coffee. The Situation Room in the basement of the White House was full, the only person missing being the President herself.
The screens had settled to show the movement of the unknown object as it moved away from earth, but that movement had just stopped, and phone calls were arriving to confirm that a new orbit had been taken up, a geosynchronous orbit on a European longitude.
“That damn thing has been up there five hours now. Don’t we have any better idea what it is?” he asked.
As if in reply a new image appeared on the main screen, one just taken from one of the optical observatories. It showed a long cylindrical shaped object, two broad panels of fuel cells extended from its sides and an unmistakable dish antenna pointing downwards. Without a scale to measure by, Pat had no idea as to its size.
“So, what is it?” he asked the room.
“It looks like communication,” said another voice, that of Glen Schroder, the President’s technical advisor.
Glen sat at the middle of the table, a serene figure compared to the personnel on either side of him who were making one rapid call after another, their faces reflecting their worry and concern as they cast glances at the images on the screens. A short man with short dark hair, his thin metal and round glasses imitated those of the late Steve Jobs.
Pat’s mobile vibrated agitatedly in his pocket and he pulled it to his ear. “Yes?” he barked. Even as he listened, other calls were being received by the management team in the Situation Room.