by M R Cates
A pause, then, “N chg.”
Sandra kept prattling on. Any detail that became visible she reported. It was hard for her to babble thusly, but she stuck with it. Finally, she said, “I'm guessing I'm a mile from our stop point. Am I right?”
“Pt 7. T 3.32.”
Sandra finally sighed. Her non-stop description had oddly kept some of the reality from striking her consciousness. Even more than two miles away the floating object, 200 feet wide and rising 45 feet above the ocean, was quite distinctive, if not clearly revealed. Turning the boom a little and leaning on her rudder, the astronomer made what she expected to be her last adjustment. The rock was directly in line with the Devil fish prow. Up and down she went, gently, in long swells, sail puffed out and steadily pushing. Aft, the fiber optic cable was in place, forgotten. It had been perfectly reliable. The tedious work of the cutter deck crew, releasing and monitoring the miles of cable, had not been seen by her, but had been performed flawlessly. Sandra kept talking, more slowly now, but wanted the words to keep flowing, as much to indicate her condition as to transmit visual information. There was no way to know what to expect. Any surprise was possible.
“Count me down to four o'clock,” Sandra said, knowing they were very close to the destination. “Every minute, okay? Just use numbers, going backwards. And give me range to stop point.”
“OK. 3.51. 9. 1200 ft.”
“Really close,” she muttered. “I'm slowing down. Here goes.”
“8. 923 ft.”
“Is that range accurate to the third place?” she wondered aloud.”
“Y.”
“Damn they're good. I'm very slow now.”
“7. 633 ft.”
Sandra swallowed. “Am I lined up on the stop point?”
“200 ft NN.”
“Damn, I'll turn it a little. Here goes.”
“6. 520 ft.”
“And alignment?”
Pause, then, “30 ft NN.”
“Good enough,” Sandra said, almost in a grunt.
“5. 400 ft.”
“Slowing more,” she said. “I'm going to put this baby on the spot, so help me. Thank you, Pacific Ocean!”
“4. 295 ft.”
“Slowing more. Tweaking to the left, too.” Sandra's voice sounded as if she were totally taken by her sailing task. The looming rock, two miles away, was of secondary importance.
“3. 205 ft.”
“And my aim?”
A pause, then, “5 ft S.”
Sandra whistled. Then blurted out, “By damn! Bet they'll take that.”
“2. 135 ft.”
“Great,” Sandra muttered, only to herself. Then aloud, “I'll try to stop it when you get to thirty seconds. After one, give me 45, 30, 15 and zero, okay? No ranges.”
“O K. 1. 60 ft.”
I'm an idiot, Sandra thought. They could never expect this kind of accuracy. How in the hell did we ever manage to do it? She smiled, a gesture lost to everyone except herself. And maybe the watching aliens.
“45.”
“Slowing more.”
“30.”
“Sail furled. I'll be drifting.”
“15.”
“At zero, tell me where I am.”
“0.” There was a pause, then the green, red display flashed again. Sandra couldn't pick up the sequence.
“Can't read you, Jon. But I'm here, by damn!” She put her head behind her hands, turning her face toward the floating rock. “Give me that range again.”
The displayed was flashing as she looked down, but it was still unreadable. Maybe their Morse Code translator was messed up. Sandra started to say something then noticed the display color. The green “dots” were blue, and red “dashes” were orange!
“Jon, if you hear me, stop flashing!”
The flashes continued.
“Uh oh,” Sandra muttered. She looked around her. Everything seemed the same. She wasn't sure, however, what to look for. Trailing behind the Devil Fish, the fiber cable strung out into the water just as before. She was drifting, she knew, but not particularly fast. At four o'clock she had have been within twenty or thirty feet of the precise point. Once more, she said, “Jon, stop the flashes. Don't know if you can hear me.”
The flashes continued, bluer now, with the orange shifting to red-orange.”
“They're doing something,” Sandra announced to herself, and hopefully to the world.
Putting a hand to her head, the astronomer scratched and thought. I'm probably cut off from the cutter. But was it intentional or unintentional?
Then the buzzing in her ears suddenly stopped.
Sandra yelped, involuntarily, “What?” The silence, internal though it was, independent of the noise of sea around her, was deafening.
“Okay, visitors,” Sandra suddenly said aloud. “I'm waiting.”
The air around her stirred. It was like a freshening of the wind, swirling a little. She heard the hissing sound of the moving air. The sound was something like a sizzle, high pitched. Air rushing through a narrow part of the rigging would sometimes sound that way. The hissing continued, then began to modulate. Sandra's eyes were now on the distant rock, occasionally checking her flashing display. The modulation in the hissing noise was peculiar to her. Once more Sandra said firmly, “Jon, do something to tell me you can hear me.”
She glanced at the flashing display. It was dimmer, but still random, deep blue and red-orange. “Okay, guess you can't,” she announced, sounding as matter-of-fact as possible. “Alright ..” Sandra stopped.
The hissing wind was sounding eerily like a whisper. Listening for a moment, a quiver went through Sandra's entire body. She shook her head firmly, trying to clear the feeling. The whisper began to take shape, sounding something like the background mumble of people in a crowded room, but very quiet. Then she heard it.
“Doctor Sandra Hughes,” the air around her said, “thank you for coming.”
Chapter 38
Jon Greenberg turned, seeing Françoise Marnier standing behind him.
“Have you lost her voice?” asked the student, wide, concerned eyes belying her calm tone..
“Just as she reached the planned location,” he said, turning a little, knowing that Carl Von Drath was also intent on his words. “You heard it cut off. No sign from the cable monitors that there's any break.”
Françoise crossed to the door and out on deck. The cutter was anchored, rising and falling in the ocean. A steady breeze teased at the young woman's dark hair, inducing her to push at it as she walked briskly forward. The heels she wore, though practical – non-spiked and low – were not deck shoes, causing her to stumble a little in haste.
“Is the line okay?” Françoise asked. It was a question already asked through their headsets.
“Normal,” said one aloud. This was a tall Coast Guard corpsman with skin as tanned as the student's. “We heard the doctor's communication is lost.”
“Have you tried the OTDR?” Françoise asked, referring to the Optical Time Domain Reflectometer that sent monitoring pulses down the fiber, using their return strength and time as indicators of the optical material's integrity.
“Yes. But it's weird. Not broken though.”
Françoise, in her business suit, looked entirely out of place on deck, but immediately moved up to the console the two corpsmen were using. “Show me the weird part,” she said loudly, cutting through the wind with her voice. Her tone was both concerned and demanding.
The other corpsman, also a man, shorter, blond, and freckled, indicated the OTDR display. “We send out infrared pulses, at 1.3 microns,” he explained. “It's the same wavelength we use with the microphone she's speaking over. The OTDR return went away. But no glitches that would show a break.”
“Ah,” said Françoise. “It is, you see, perhaps a color shift. To shorter wavelengths. Sandra said to look for that possibility.”
“The OTDR can't shift,” the operator said.
“Is your return signal fi
ltered?”
“I think so, to keep down background noise.”
“Can you switch off the filter, then? Turn it off?”
The first corpsman came over. He apparently was the senior of the two. “It's here,” he said, curious about Françoise's point. Throwing a switch that took the filter out of the optical path, all three saw a sudden return pattern on the screen. The OTDR and the microphone optical circuits were linked, using the same type of laser diode light sources, sharing the same detector. The monitoring OTDR could be optically switched into the long fiber cable path when needed.
From inside, Jon Greenberg, spoke into his microphone connecting him outside. “We got something now! It's distorted but ...oh, it's gone again. Well, just noise anyway.”
Outside, Françoise saw the signal vanish. She asked quickly, “Is there now a break?”
“No sign of one,” said the freckled corpsman. “What could have happened?”
“I think, you see, it is outside the wavelength range of your detector. Perhaps. What wavelength can you detect? On the microphone line? How short?”
The lead corpsman consulted a manual. Françoise was bouncing from foot to foot, trying not to show her anxiety. Every second was important. After a full minute, he said, “Cuts off at one micron. Internal filter. Can't do anything about it.”
Françoise looked at him. “Merd!” she muttered. “Thank you,” she added and moved back toward the cabin. The two young men watched her sleek form retreat, thoughts for a moment diverted from their emergency to more basic human nature.
Carl Von Drath sat beside Jon Greenberg. “The aliens,” he said, speculatively, “have probably begun to respond to Sandra's presence. Can she be seen, Mr. Greenberg, by the aircraft monitors?”
“Just a moment,” Greenberg said, listening intently to his headphones. Several communications channels were available to him. “The shore link still works, though is noisier,” he said. “They've shifted from a satellite relay to direct radio, which helps.” A pause. “Yes, the aircraft scopes see her. But poorly. There is a lot of distortion around the sailboat, like ...” He listened further. “Like heated layers in the air. But the infrared sensors don't show anything out of the ordinary.” Again he paused. “They're still working on it.”
Carl nodded, eyes de-focusing in thought. He was going back in his mind to conversations he and Sandra had had. “If the time domain is somewhat shifted,” he said softly, almost to himself, “it can cause peculiar light transmission problems. Confused space-time definition.” He mused again. “Photons are the messengers across the continuum.”
“I didn't get that,” Greenberg admitted, hands and ears busy, going from channel to channel.
“Just a contingency Sandra and I discussed,” the old man said. “Perhaps the actions being taken interfere with the return image. It is possible that the measured image is made up of many parts of images formed at slightly different times.”
“That is very hard to imagine,” Greenberg said, not sure whether to dismiss the old astrophysicist's comment out of hand or take it seriously.
Françoise re-entered the cabin at that moment. “Her signal is shifted,” she said aloud, basically to Carl. “They cannot record it, you see.” Disappointment was writ large on her pretty face.
“I didn't think about that,” Carl muttered. “Should have.”
Greenberg, listening, said, “Dr. Von Drath, Ms Vigola wants to speak with you, sir.” He indicated a phone headset.
Carl, lifting the receiver, said, “Yes, Ms Vigola?”
“Do you understand something of our situation?” she promptly asked.
“Not thoroughly, I'm sorry to say,” was his reply. “However, I suspect the aliens' reaction to Sandra's presence has inadvertently distorted our communications.”
“You don't think this is a ploy of some kind on their part?”
“I doubt it. As Sandra would say, they have given no indication of such behavior.”
“There is general concern in Washington,” she said.
“I suggest we wait a while,” he said. “Especially since our aircraft seem to be able to continue to locate the sailboat.”
“But very unclearly,” she said, sounding exasperated. “All we can tell is that the sailboat is there. It is very difficult to know if we're seeing Sandra.”
“There is very little else we can do,” he reminded her gently. “Sandra herself indicated we might have to prevent ourselves from taking precipitous action.”
The Chief of Staff said, “I'm tempted to send a helicopter in there and take her out. This whole sailing thing has been a great concern to me.”
Jon Greenberg suddenly interrupted. “Excuse me, Ms Vigola,” he said, “coming in on their conversation. “The sailboat is ... as they describe it, moving jerkily toward the floating alien craft.”
“Jerkily?” Vigola asked.
“It seems to be moving that way, but not smoothly. Hard to follow its motion.”
“That's consistent,” Carl said, “with the possible time-space distortion Sandra speculated about. We might be seeing mixed images. Would you agree, Françoise?” he asked over his shoulders.
“Yes, I think so. I would like very much,” Françoise said, visibly keyed up, “to see the image data, you see. We could possibly unfold it.”
“Later you'll have it,” Vigola said, having heard her in the background. “Right now, we need to make a decision.”
“It has been made for us,” Carl said.
“We are risking her life!” Vigola reminded everyone who was listening to her.
Françoise picked up an available phone headset. “Ms Vigola,” she said, speaking as fast as her English skills would allow, “we are all very worried, you see, but this is what Sandra is there for! She will meet with them!”
“I think I'll send a chopper in closer,” Vigola said. “To observe this process. It's the least I can do.”
Greenberg, well informed on the planned rendezvous, spoke out, “The fifty mile circle is very important, isn't it?”
“We don't know for sure,” Vigola said. “I'll take the risk.” She paused, taking her head away from the phone a moment. Then back, she said, “It's on the way!”
Françoise said, “I hope this will not ... not cause danger for Sandra.”
“We'll be careful,” Vigola said. “I'll stay in touch.” Then she disconnected.
A call came from the two corpsman handling the fiber optic cable. “Line going out! They're pulling her!”
Those on the anchored cutter saw the Blackhawk helicopter – probably already airborne and waiting for such a possibility – sweep across the invisible 50-mile radius just to the north of them. The streamlined military craft was designed to do more than 200 miles an hour and appeared to be a full throttle. It carried a crew of three, with an additional technician on board to operate its sophisticated telescope, positioned in the forward cockpit, occupying the space next to the pilot. The telescope could be locked on target, automatically tracking and locking onto images. Its major sophistication was an ability to distinguish an image that was changing in detail but maintaining a general character. In this way it could watch events occurring without losing reference.
“Colonel Greenberg,” said the voice of the pilot. “Do you copy?”
“Copy,” Greenberg replied. “Is this Jim Wu?”
The Chinese-American pilot responded, “Yes, Jon. I'll report as we go.”
“Got you on the speaker here, Jim, for our team to hear.”
“Ten-four,” came the reply. “We're forty miles from the sailboat and closing.”
“Ask him to continue speaking, please,” Françoise suggested.
“Keep your channel open, Jim,” said Greenberg.
“Wilco,” came the reply, sounding suddenly distorted.
“Noise, Jim. You hear it?”
“Pickup in ...” A static burst followed. Then, “... stabilizing rotor ...” More static.
Greenberg spoke into
another channel, contacting one of the circling C-5s, “Are you tracking the Blackhawk?”
“Got him,” came the rapid response. “Looks like he's turning.”
Jim Wu in the helicopter came through again, punctuated by static, “... main rotor ... -bility ... will turn away to ... EM disrup ... “ then static.
“The chopper is definitely turning back,” announced the C-5. He got into about 30 miles.”
“Electromagnetic disturbance,” Greenberg announced, his voice sent onto several channels. “I don't think they can keep the engine operating right in that noise field.”
Vigola's voice was back. “How can that affect the Blackhawk engines?” she asked, sounding somewhat angry.
“A lot of control circuits,” Greenberg explained. “Everything depends on them.”
“I'll bring him back,” Vigola said. Her words had a bitter bite to them.
“It seems, you see,” Françoise said, “that they were honest about the boundary.”
There were a few minutes of genuine concern as the Blackhawk made its way back. The chugging main rotor experienced a number of lurching effects, lifting and dropping the craft in a bouncing motion. Jim Wu had his hands full for several long minutes. Finally he appeared in sight of the cutter, and his communication returned strongly.
“It was a real bummer!” he said, relief showing in the tone. “We nearly dropped into the drink. Couldn't keep our engines stable.”
“Any useful images?” Vigola asked, getting to her main interest.
“I think so,” Wu said, after a brief pause to query the operator next to him. “I'll have Jeff stream them over after we get clear of the noise area.”
In three of four minutes, the first of the telescope images arrived. Vigola and her team were looking also looking at it.
“The Devil Fish,” Françoise said, “is very close to the craft.”
“I'd say within a quarter mile,” Greenberg ventured. “That's a really messy image, though.”
“The cleanest we have, except before the sailboat had moved that far,” explained the pilot. “I'm about to set down.”