by Tom Abrahams
Marie and Chris would resist reading books, but Jackie would insist. With no Snapchat, Instagram, Kikk, or YouTube, they’d have no excuses. She’d probably start Marie on the dog-eared copy of Grapes of Wrath she kept by the bed. Animal Farm would be a good starter for Chris. He might not note the fascism subtext laced into the narrative, but he’d like the story. It was short enough to hold his attention. Both books would be remarkably appropriate given the real-world circumstances in which they found themselves.
Maybe they’d play board games, Monopoly and Life. Jackie was ruthless at both. She’d amass properties to the brink of bankruptcy before draining everyone else of their funds. Chris loved being the banker. Marie was always the Scottie dog.
“Who am I kidding?” he said aloud, the pain in his head throbbing. He swung his feet from the floor and lay down on the bed on his left side. He hoped the pain, pulsing with the stress of an elevated heartbeat, would lessen.
Who am I kidding? They don’t have time for games or classic literature. They’re busy surviving.
Given Jackie’s instincts, she’d probably taken in neighbors. She’d loaded her Glocks, barricaded the doors, and filled the bathtubs with water. She’d be fending off those who’d do them harm, not bargaining or explaining radial authoritarian nationalism.
Bile slid into his throat. He wasn’t sure if the nausea was from the sudden headache or the thought of his family fighting without him. He opened his eyes and stared at the wall opposite the bed. His DiaTab was perched on the edge of the desk. Clayton remembered what he’d said the first time he’d sat at the desk the day before. He’d asked himself an important question he hadn’t yet answered.
How do I engineer my way out of this?
He focused on the DiaTab. There were answers in that machine. He knew it.
There wasn’t anything he could do about what was already done. There was no point in dwelling on it. He needed to look forward, do what needed to be done to get out, and yet again find a way home.
Fighting the jolt of pain in his eye and head, he got up and crossed the room to fetch the tablet. He palmed the device and carried it back to his bed. The DiaTab was meant to be an all-in-one communicator, data-finder, and tracker. It had restrictions built into its software that would prevent the average user from manipulating its functions in a way those in command didn’t want it to function. There had to be a back door into the device that might give him a better idea of where he was and how he could get out.
Clayton was no hacker, but he was an engineer with a love for all things technology. He’d bought the first-generation iPhone on June 29, 2007. When it died, he took it apart and studied its guts. He’d been among the first with a Google Pixel. He’d purchased two of them, one to use and one with which to experiment. He’d experimented with TOR and had built a PC from scratch that ran both Microsoft and Apple operating systems. Some guys played softball or ran marathons, others hunted and collected guns. He was a tech nerd and knew enough to be dangerous. Although he’d tried to get Chris interested, it hadn’t taken.
He thumbed awake the DiaTab’s screen and tapped his way through a series of applications until he found an icon labeled MANAGE. He tapped the MANAGE icon and nothing happened. He held the icon for several seconds. Nothing.
He held the icon and the DiaTab’s home button at the same time and the haptic response vibrated against his finger. The screen was replaced with a display that resembled a telephone keypad. Underneath the keypad were the words ENTER AUTHORIZATION.
Clayton’s initial excitement at having accessed the MANAGE application was ebbed by the need for a passcode. He had no way of knowing how many numbers or letters were required. It could be four, six, or more. Still, he gave it a shot.
I-L-L-U-M-I-N-A-T-I. Enter.
The keypad flashed red.
“Worth a try,” Clayton mused.
Instead of wasting his time deciphering the impossible combination, he tried something else. He remembered the iPhone had a glitch in an early version of its ninth-generation operating system. There was a combination of tasks that would bypass the locked passcode.
By asking Siri, the phone’s digital assistant, the time, it would generate a clock on the screen. A user could then tap the clock, a plus sign, and then enter gibberish into a search bar to ultimately bypass the lock and gain access to the home screen of the phone.
Given this device was relatively new and probably functioned with a variety of bugs, there had to be a backdoor into the MANAGE application. For close to an hour he manipulated the device in countless ways until finally a combination of taps and holds and verbal commands overloaded the software.
At first he thought he’d ruined the device. The screen went black for nearly a minute. When it awakened, it displayed a screen Clayton hadn’t seen before. There was a grid of new applications, all of them under the heading MANAGE.
His headache having subsided, Clayton scrolled through the options. Each of them had toggle switches that would allow the user to turn the various functions on or off. All of his were in the on position except for one. Those activated included Li-Fi connectivity, GPS/GLONASS, Voice-Activated Auto-Record, Data Transmission Interval, and DiaWatch connect. The only option turned off was one labeled KeyCard.
He hovered his thumb over the screen, deciding which one to tap first, considering the benefits and pitfalls of each application. If he turned off the tracker or the Li-Fi connectivity, they’d suspect he’d tampered with the device. The DiaWatch connect was a convenience. He wouldn’t change any of those applications.
He did tap the VAAR and DTI toggles, turning them off. They wouldn’t miss recorded and transmitted conversations from a man who was supposed to be in a solitary environment. He could only hope his device hadn’t already transmitted his conversation with Chandra. If it had, there was consolation in the thought that whoever monitored the transmissions couldn’t filter through every conversation happening within the bunker compound.
That left the KeyCard toggle. Clayton’s eyes drifted from the screen to the magnetic pad adjacent to the room’s entry door. He tapped the toggle, turning it on, and walked over to the door. He swiped the device across the pad and a metallic click accompanied a green light.
The door was unlocked.
Clayton reached for the handle but stopped short. If he opened the door, alarms might sound. They’d know what he’d done, that he’d figured out the device and could roam undetected through the maze of hallways and rooms until he figured a way out.
The likelihood of escaping alone, though, was zilch. He’d need help. He’d need Chandra. It was better to wait and be smart than rush and be foolish. Now wasn’t the time to open the door, but simply knowing he could was satisfaction enough. He waited until the door clicked again and the light at the pad turned red, turned back to the desk, and set down the DiaTab. He’d give Chandra a chance to help him.
CHAPTER 10
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 29, 2020, 9:34 AM CST
JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, HOUSTON, TEXAS
“Remind me why we’re doing this?” Jackie panted. She and Nikki were on their third lap around a loop composed of three intersecting roads on the JSC property. Nikki was a few beats ahead of Jackie as they turned left onto Avenue B from Fifth Street. She slowed to answer her new friend.
“Just because the world went to pot doesn’t mean we have to do the same,” she said. “I’m thinking zombies are coming any minute now. We’d best be able to run.”
Jackie laughed. “Right,” she huffed. “Zombies.”
The former mixed martial artist’s strides appeared effortless. It was almost as if Nikki floated from step to step.
“Seriously,” Jackie called, “can you slow it down a bit? I’m not as young as you are.”
Nikki slowed, but not because of Jackie’s breathless request. Up ahead of them, stepping into the women’s path, were two men. They stood in the road with their arms folded across their chests.
Jackie caught up with N
ikki. “Can I help you?” she asked, bending over to catch her breath.
Both of them looked at Jackie. “We need you to follow us,” said one of them.
Jackie gulped a breath of air and motioned toward Nikki. “Can she come with me?”
The men looked at each other and shrugged. “That’s fine.”
“What is this about?” Jackie asked. “Is it something urgent? Something about my husband?”
She realized as she followed them that they were the same two men who’d visited her home with Irma Molinares.
“We’re going to the Communications and Tracking Division,” said one of them. “You’ll want to see it for yourself.”
The men walked briskly, not waiting for either woman, even though Nikki kept pace. When they neared the entrance to building forty-four, Jackie sped up. One of the men was holding the door for them; the other was inside awaiting them. Jackie stepped across the threshold into the dark space. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust.
“Follow us,” said the man who’d held the door. He was the taller of the two. It struck Jackie as they wove their way through the first floor that neither man had ever introduced himself.
“What are your names?” Jackie asked. “You know mine. You know Nikki here.”
“I’m Bowman,” said the man leading them to wherever it was they were headed.
The other man called from behind the group, “I’m Perry.”
“So Bowman and Perry,” Nikki asked, “what’s with the cloak-and-dagger stuff? Why not just tell us what the deal is?”
“No cloak-and-dagger,” Perry said, opening the door to a large room that looked like a mini version of master control. “We’d just rather not have to explain things more than once.”
“Or out in the open,” said Bowman, shutting the door behind them. “You never know who’s listening.”
Jackie and Nikki exchanged glances. Irma Molinares was standing at the far end of the space. She smiled at the women and moved toward them. The men offered Jackie and Nikki seats in front of a desk equipped with four large computer monitors. Each of the screens displayed different information. It was gibberish to Jackie.
Bowman sat on the edge of the desk nearest Nikki. He spoke softly, as if he were a third-grade teacher explaining quantum mechanics to a toddler.
“These screens display for us critical systems information about any given mission,” he said. “Typically, of course, the information isn’t something we share with anyone outside of the group of people who need to know.”
“Understood,” said Jackie.
“I am aware that Molinares told you we know the Soyuz hatch was opened and that we have some satellite imagery that tells us he left the Soyuz. We know it was him because of an intercepted radio communication in which he used his amateur radio license callsign.”
“Yes?” said Jackie.
“Typically, we’d be able to communicate with our Russian partners,” Bowman continued. “They’re the only ones who can see the descent module after separation. Most of the telemetry ceases because much of the instrumentation is jettisoned. But they have these Luch relay satellites that—”
“She doesn’t care about that,” Irma interrupted. “Stick to the basics.”
“Okay,” said Bowman. “The basics…”
Perry stepped toward the desk. “Once the parachute deploys, the module starts checking in with GPS and GLONASS satellites. That’s the only telemetry data it sends and it goes to the Russians.”
Nikki raised her hand. “What’s GLONASS?”
“It’s the Russian version of GPS,” said Bowman. “It stands for Globalnaya Navigatsionnaya Sputnikoyava Sistema.”
“You don’t have access to it?”
The men looked at each other. “Not technically,” said Bowman. “That data gets transferred to an international satellite system for search and rescue. It’s called COSPAS-SARSAT. That way the Russians can find their capsule even if they lose it on the way down.”
“The crew has a GPS receiver and a satellite phone in their survival kit,” Perry said. “It’s been in there since 2003. There was a ballistic entry and—”
“The basics,” Irma reminded them.
“The bottom line is,” said Bowman, “the Russians would be more likely to know where he is than us. All of that, however, depends on the satellites’ functionality. And since the CMEs hit, the satellites aren’t what they were.”
“We can neither confirm nor deny,” Perry said with the hint of a smirk, “that we have ways to circumvent the Russians’ exclusivity.”
“While most of the satellites have failed because of the repeated blasts of electromagnetic energy,” said Bowman, “a satellite called SBIRS miraculously survived.”
“What’s SBIRS?” asked Jackie.
“SBIRS is a space-based infrared satellite system. It is intended as an early missile warning system that—”
“Like Star Wars?” Jackie cut in. “President Reagan’s big idea forty years ago?”
Bowman smiled. “Yes, exactly. The satellite has nuclear-hardened components. It’s always on, and it’s easily maneuverable.”
“So what have you seen with this SBIRS?” asked Jackie. “I have to assume this setup is leading somewhere?”
“Yes,” said Perry. “Typically our military runs the system. They have an asset here who works with us. We put that asset to good use when we first detected the Soyuz had separated from the ISS.”
“The infrared system is incredibly helpful,” said Bowman. “That’s how we spotted the Soyuz landing site in the Columbia Icefield in Canada.”
“In conjunction with some other specialized technology, it helped us learn that your husband moved from the landing site to a visitors’ center at the edge of a large glacier,” added Perry. “We also know he left that area in a vehicle. Heat signatures revealed that, somehow, the person he connected with on his ham radio found him and picked him up.”
“Heat signatures?”
“Typically, we wouldn’t be able to see it. But because there is no traffic on the roads, we were able to detect trace increases in ambient temperature. As we said, the infrared system is incredibly helpful.”
“So you know where he is?”
“We think we do,” said Bowman. “Your husband is remarkably resourceful. I mean, remarkably. It’s amazing.”
Jackie rubbed her sweaty hands together and clasped them in her lap. “Where is he?”
Both men answered together. “Denver, Colorado.”
“Denver? How? Why?”
“He managed to secure a working aircraft,” said Bowman.
“He found a plane and flew to Denver?”
“Yes,” said Perry. “We believe the second CME damaged the plane mid-flight.”
Jackie suddenly felt heavy. Her arms, her legs, her head—all were hit with the weight of what she worried Perry was about to say. She sank back in the chair, only half aware of the words flowing from the men detailing what they thought had happened to her husband. Nikki grabbed her hands, squeezing them for support.
…survived a crash…could be injured…disappeared…no evidence of a body…
“Mrs. Shepard?” asked Bowman. “Mrs. Shepard, are you all right?”
Irma Molinares put her hand on Jackie’s shoulder. “Jackie?”
Unable to respond, it was as if reality was slapping Jackie with increasingly powerful waves. Despite having prayed for information, for a sign that Clayton was coming back to them, she now wished she knew nothing. It was better to imagine her husband finding his way home. Having proof that he was on his way and struggling was worse than ignorance.
Several months before he’d lifted off on his doomed mission, she’d been at a local HEB grocery store. She was waiting for a batch of freshly made guacamole and was scanning Marie’s Snapchat story on her iPhone when an alert flashed on her phone. It was from a local news station promoting its early afternoon newscast.
Remembering Columbia and its crew sixte
en years later. The exclusive story tonight at five.
“Sixteen years?” she’d said aloud. “How can it be that long?”
They weren’t in the astronaut corps in 2003. Clayton hadn’t even thought about it. They were pregnant with Marie and had only just purchased their first house. But she remembered that day as if she’d been in Mission Control.
It was a Saturday. The weather was beautiful. The seven crew members had all but completed their eighteen-day mission. They were sixteen minutes from landing at Kennedy Space Center. They’d crossed the California-Nevada state line at twenty-two times the speed of sound, but sensor readings were already indicating issues. Mission Control called the shuttle to report anomalous tire-pressure readings. The commander, Rick Husband, responded. His transmission was garbled. MCC asked him to repeat.
“Roger,” said Husband. “Uh, bu—”
That was the last communication before the shuttle burned up in the blue skies over Texas and Louisiana. Camcorders caught the fiery disintegration and it was aired on television. It was a nightmare. Husband, William McCool, Michael Anderson, Kalpana Chawla, David Brown, Laurel Clark, and Israeli astronaut Ilan Ramon all died. They were among the twenty-two men and women who lost their lives either training for or executing a space mission.
While Jackie stood waiting for her guacamole, she recalled how she’d felt that day, how she’d imagined the shock, pain, and denial of the family members awaiting their loved ones’ safe return from orbit. The cook handed her the plastic tub of deliciously mixed avocado, onions, tomatoes, cilantro, jalapeno peppers, limes, salt, and black pepper. She blankly thanked him and smacked the sour taste growing in her mouth. She’d never transposed that sense of loss onto herself. Until that moment, standing in the grocery store, she’d not considered the emotional burden of sending her husband into space. Even if he made it into orbit safely strapped inside a tube laced with explosives, and he survived months orbiting around the planet in an inhospitable vacuum, there was no guarantee he’d land on Earth intact.