Soon, Roger could receive multiple signals across various bands. Because of antenna mismatches, readings were down by as much as ten decibels and would be similarly impacted during transmission. Fortunately, the aircraft was designed with superior receive sensitivity and transmit power.
He sat back and pondered. At least for now, he would put his main plan on hold. But he would have to reconsider it if he couldn’t actually re-establish communications.
When the airmen had lowered Roger into the cockpit, Roger was certain he would die if:
One, he couldn’t light the ion drive;
Two, he couldn’t pull out of the dive;
Three, the ion shielding failed;
Four, there was any other major malfunction; or
Five, he tried to land the plane without the use of his legs.
Six, he didn’t try to land, ran out of fuel, and crashed.
In other words, he knew he would be dead within an hour; two at the most.
But all three slugs missed. The only chance to stop the warhead would likely detonate it, which he assumed had happened. He had survived, but lost communications. Since he couldn’t coordinate landing an aircraft so highly classified that fewer than 150 people knew it existed, he had figured he would nose it into one of the foothills of North Georgia or into the Okefenokee Swamp. Then he’d remembered the secure facilities at Robins Air Force Base.
But even now, he knew he could not allow Guardian to “convert back,” not even near the runway of a military installation. The project was too sensitive, both militarily and politically, to suddenly “go public.”
He couldn’t think of any way, by himself, to refuel the aircraft. So, his plan was to launch and climb as high as he could over an unpopulated area around central Georgia with his remaining fuel. Then he would put the nose straight down. Conversion, time-shift, whatever; there shouldn’t be enough left for anything except claims of a UFO crash and government cover-up.
If he couldn’t re-establish communications.
+ + +
“Intense” didn’t begin to describe Justin’s concentration inside the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, or “SCIF” at DPI.
A programmer couldn’t write the code necessary for Guardian to re-calibrate after each slug fired from the mini rail gun. Not without a very strong math background. And a mathematician would have to possess impressive programming skills. The program had to capture gigabytes of data at the exact instant a slug missed its target. It then had to do all the calculations to account for aircraft speed and heading, aim of the gun up to two degrees from centerline, projectile speed, and the speed and heading of the target. Factor in any output power anomalies of the coils, atmospheric drag, gravitational anomalies, and effects at that particular altitude above the earth, and “do the math.” Then program the analysis and the resulting offset vectors into Guardian’s unique Ternary Operating System. Finally: Do it all in seconds.
Cliff had both the programming and the math skills to make it all happen. So did Justin. And on his life-changing ride to DPI, Justin knew what segment of code to study.
In under four hours, he was convinced. At 9:00 a.m., Sunday morning, Justin would just about bet his life that the code was perfect. He then conducted simulations that added another standard of deviation to his confidence. Analysis of the specific telemetry reported from Guardian to Justin’s workstation—then summarized and transmitted to his Multiphone during the intercept—verified that everything worked as intended. At least, between the first and second shots. But the recalibration segment of code didn’t repeat between the second and third shots. It couldn’t have.
There was no reason in the code he reviewed. The code that had been written, submitted to peer review, simulated, and loaded into Guardian; no reason that the subroutine wouldn’t automatically execute after every shot. It was right there. And to make certain, Justin double-checked against the base-lined code that had been stored “read-only,” under strict configuration management once it was loaded into the aircraft. That software module had no engineering change requests pending. There were no engineering change proposals approved and applied. That module was secure, unchanged. Perfect.
Justin was more perplexed than ever.
+ + +
So was Roger. His radio recalibration programming had been interrupted by an almost painfully bright, deep orange colored light rising in the east.
Must be seeing in infrared. At least the sun has some color, even if it’s weird.
After another hour or so of work—the chronometer showed only fifteen minutes had passed in “their” time—he climbed out of the aircraft and walked through the hangar wall as he had the night before. He helped himself to some more snacks, then took advantage of the indoor plumbing. Well, sort of. He didn’t try to “convert” the toilet seat, he just squatted over it. He did convert the toilet paper, sink faucet, soap, and paper towels.
A loud, low roar caught his attention and he walked back through the wall, just as an F-15 Strike Eagle went vertical. It was performing a high-performance takeoff as part of its final test flight following depot maintenance. Noise from the twin engines in full afterburner should have been overwhelming. Yes, it was loud. But not that loud, and the pitch was low. So low that the earth should have been shaking. It wasn’t. At least, not that Roger could feel.
Just before going back into the cockpit, he realized something else. The rising sun on that clear, cloudless morning cast long, distinct shadows of every structure, every tree, and each of the J-STARS aircraft on the tarmac.
There was no shadow associated with him. Or with Guardian.
Oh, great. So now I’m a vampire?
He painfully climbed back into the rear seat and continued programming.
27. CONTACT
Cindy Jacobs finished drying her short hair, put on a comfortable jogging suit—red with black stripes—and her favorite sneakers. She went to the kitchen and made her daily “super nutrition smoothie.” She hadn’t changed this SNS recipe much over the years except to take advantage of local organic produce when it was in-season. She poured peanuts, walnuts, and almonds into a blender along with raw fruits and vegetables and some yogurt. She ran the blender a few moments then poured her breakfast into a large sixteen-ounce insulated cup.
She stepped out onto the balcony of her third-floor apartment, closed her eyes, and savored the cool, clean air left behind by the previous day’s Nor’easter.
Karen enjoyed being Cindy. This particular alias was one of her simpler ones. Her eyelash color and hair were close to her natural color, as well as she could remember. She liked the sportier, shorter hair style and enjoyed not using any dental appliances to alter her jaw structure. True, her eyes were brown rather than the natural hazel. After years of intentionally looking different, it was a good disguise to go back to near-normal. Of course, the whisper-thin graphene gloves were imprinted with unique fingerprints to match her current identity.
She tried not to dwell on the constant cat-and-mouse dynamic…too depressing. It was her life and had been for well over thirty years. Change locations at least once a year, or sooner if an alias was compromised. Move around the country. Around the world. Stay away from Jason Matthews. Live her genetically-enhanced life to the fullest, alone, since her husband was long dead.
She had made her mind up years earlier. She wouldn’t intentionally attack Jason and his henchmen. But if it ever came down to it, she would fight to the death. Jason Matthews would deeply regret ever having touched her, or ever having tried to recapture her.
She began a shopping list to send to a long-time friend. Mick Thompson actually worked for her, although only the two of them knew it. To the outside world, Mick was the owner/operator of a modest but successful manufacturing facility in a rural, financially depressed HUB Zone part of Tennessee. There were only two other workers, and they all knew about the ultra-secure area they referred to as Level 2.
She sent the email, using the same
ultra-secure protocols she developed to communicate with Sam.
“Mick, need four Commando Flips, eight Incapacitators and six Blades by Wednesday. Also, forty—make that sixty—Video Spots, and three Pole Climbers. One Commando Suit, gray, with helmet, for me; same measurements as before. Matching sneakers, same shoe size. Vehicle Light and Sound Bar. Send to the Charleston address where you sent the sets of gloves. Must be here Tuesday morning. And Mick—urgent—please pray!”
Sam and Mick both owed Karen their lives. She took the last “Five Score and Ten” dose—FSAT—to save them, believing that it would result in her own painful death. It didn’t, and a determined Jason Matthews and his thugs relentlessly hunted her down to learn why. Other than Jason’s people, only Sam, Mick, and Roger Brandon knew of her genetic transformation.
Karen continued to help Sam and Mick occasionally. And at times like this, Mick would help her. He and his team would put in some overtime in Level 2 and she’d have her highly proprietary and extremely lethal supplies, body armor, and intel gadgets within a few days.
What she heard from the audiobook matched what she’d followed on the news feeds and the behind-the-scenes snooping she’d done on her own. She hung her head and slowly shook it side to side.
Illegals came in, and we didn’t secure the borders. Billions of dollars a year in drugs and crime, and we didn’t secure the borders. Terrorists came in, and we didn’t secure the borders. Now, we secured our boarders, and it’s too late. California shootings…nightclub shootings…firebombs…no, if anything, Sam’s really underestimated this one.
+ + +
Before leaving DPI, Justin emailed Lieutenant General Alvarez over the classified network. He didn’t go into any analysis or details, just a simple statement and question:
“General Alvarez,
No contact with Roger. Assume system is lost. Cliff is on a cruise with no secure contact possible. Anything you need from me before tomorrow? I’ll leave here at 11 if I don’t hear from you. You can always catch me by cell.”
Moments later: “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Time for some comfort food.
Ten minutes later Justin was back on his Tesla Tiger. The loss of his friend, no sleep, no breakfast; he was famished. He was also frustrated over the maddening quandary with the recalibration code. It was perfect! He knew he had to “disengage to re-engage,” as Roger used to say. His ultra-lean, muscular body didn’t handle fasting as well as Roger, who joked about “living off the fat of the land.” So their occasional late nights often included a trip to a local always-open IHOP restaurant. Roger would get the Senior Omelet, and substitute in the Harvest Grain and Nut pancakes. Justin would go with the full Western Omelet. After that and a pot of coffee between them, they’d head back to work and often accomplish more in the next two hours than in the previous six.
Justin finished the final bite of his breakfast-anytime omelet and washed it down with the last of his third cup of coffee. He left his usual twenty percent tip; his mother raised two sons and a daughter as a single parent, working as a waitress. A server had to have a really bad attitude or do poorly for him to leave fifteen percent, and if it were worse than that? Justin would speak to the manager. Justin reconsidered and increased his tip to twenty-five percent. The elderly white lady who served him was as sweet as she could be.
He paid his bill and walked to his bike. The meal had indeed helped him to “re-engage.” He was certain the code, as written and as stored under configuration management, was correct. And it wasn’t possible that an earlier version of the code was loaded into the aircraft. That critical recalibration segment dated back so far that the plane would have been un-flyable with a software version that old.
And it worked; it just didn’t re-execute after the second shot.
Somehow, someone must have changed one specific line, calling for the routine to be repeated OTO—one time only. And they had to have done that directly on the aircraft itself after the code was loaded. Three people at DPI could have done this. Maybe four? No more than five.
The most logical suspect was…Roger. Was there something about his Christian convictions that would cause him to fight for Guardian’s success, but then undermine its ability to successfully intercept?
His Multiphone chirped. He absent-mindedly picked it up, continuing the disagreeable train of thought. And then he had sacrificed himself to cover up what he’d done?
It was an email from Roger.
Roger…?
“Justin,
Didn’t know who to contact first. A lot to share but can’t talk. Literally, can’t. Well, I can, but no one can hear me.
Be careful. Third shot should have been perfect! There were no hardware problems. Check the code. Suspicious.
Send codec so we can communicate securely.
Urgent. I cannot communicate through any normal means.
Simple question: DID WE SUCCEED?”
Justin stared at his screen, a thousand emotions all caught in the same Atlanta-in-a-snowstorm traffic jam. The roar of a Boeing 787 flying overhead jolted him back to reality.
Roger!
He quickly sent his response:
“Y!! Better than anything we hoped. Going back to the SCIF; will send codec. Start typing!!”
In two hours, Justin was using the secure server in DPI’s SCIF to uplink their private codec to Guardian, so they could “talk” by ultra-secure text and email when necessary. Justin couldn’t understand what Roger meant about no one being able to hear him. Their Enigma codec was at least a generation—in current software terms, about five years—ahead of National Institute of Standards and Technology—NIST. Whatever they needed to discuss would be more secure than the best that NSA or the DOD offered, and it would even be private from DPI.
After he sent the codec software, he did something he never would have considered just one day before. He logged into the server as Administrator and deleted all evidence that the codec had been sent.
In ten minutes, he heard their unique ring tone he thought he’d never hear again; the short version, indicating an email.
If Justin was surprised outside IHOP on a cloudless November day on Florida’s Space Coast, he was overwhelmed with all that Roger methodically reported in his message.
Once again, Justin had to kick himself into action. There was no time to consider consequences, or to analyze the aspects of trans-dimensional realities of walking through walls or seeing in infrared. His friend needed help.
He agreed with Roger’s action points, starting with the Bottom Line Up Front: “BLUF: Believe you should contact Gen Alvarez. He needs to go through channels and let me taxi into a hangar. Will need food, water, etc. Post guards so nobody gets too close. No idea what the effects might be or how far they extend. I see dead insects around us!”
It was time to contact the general again and get him to his SCIF. He’d be able to find the J-STARS Commander and get a hangar open.
They may not see or hear it; wonder if they’ll feel the jet blast as Roger taxis into the hangar? Better warn the general. This is just way too cool!
Then the thought struck him that for Roger, it wasn’t cool at all. Roger was now, in a very real sense, the most isolated person alive.
28. RESPONSE AND SECURE
President Juan Garcia splashed cold water on his face and bowed his head in silent prayer. He would rejoin his crisis team in a couple of minutes, but he needed a few moments to himself.
Why? Why an unprovoked attack on the United States? The nuke could have quickly killed several hundred thousand. More than twice that number would have ultimately died from radiation and the breakdown of infrastructures and utilities, even without an all-out war. And the economic impact…
He slowly shook his head and prayed for discernment, for wisdom. The truth was that if the warhead had detonated at full design power, the economic impact on the U.S. economy—finally recovering from years of uncontrolled deficit spending and negative trade balances—wo
uld have been catastrophic.
Was that the plan?
President Garcia, his Joint Chiefs, his State Department, and every other available trusted advisor with adequate clearance, were exhausted. They had reviewed the what-ifs and what-nows countless times since the first meeting in the Situation Room the night before.
Uncharacteristically, the Russian President, Viktor Savin, had been going out of his way to reduce tensions. He called the President directly every six hours with updates on his investigation. His position was clear:
First, he emphatically denied knowledge of the missile which should have been decommissioned decades earlier;
Second, he was not aware of who gave the order, and he never would have ordered its unprovoked launch;
Third, he was not aware of any other such missile; and
Fourth, he was expending every legal—and some not so legal—effort to find those responsible for the unauthorized launch, and the existence of the Cold War relic.
Words; just words. But what impressed Garcia and some of his staff were the unusual ways Viktor backed up his words with action. Or rather, the absence of expected action.
While United States’ missile and bomber crews had remained on high alert, the Russians did not. They even directed several deployed fleet ballistic missile submarines back to port, and “stood down” a major planned exercise of their Navy forces; something that never would have occurred under Putin. Savin confessed that he had used up every last ruble of political capital to stand down his forces for no apparent reason.
Juan shook his head, dried his face and hands.
None of it makes any sense. Almost like someone set this off as a catalyst, a provocation. Someone not acting as part of any official government. Who? Why?
The President re-entered his Situation Room and they continued their analysis and discussions.
The U.S. team did not breathe a word about Guardian and the nearly impossible intercept. In no way, Garcia emphasized, was the Kremlin to know of the hypersonic manned intercept capability the U.S. had developed, and that was destroyed to save Norfolk. As far as anyone knew, the warhead malfunctioned after its decades of secrecy. As for the bright flash of the exploding warhead, those satellites that did record it, along with the agencies represented, were led to believe it was an exploding meteor.
The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2) Page 13