The much larger question: What should they share with the American public, and how? Had it not been for the massive Nor’easter, the entire East Coast would have known about the detonation. Had it not been for the unusual implosion or whatever they did with the interceptor, the EMP would also have given away the nuclear detonation. And had it been lower in the atmosphere, the blast wave would have done far more than just rattle a few windows.
To the chagrin of several hawks who wanted to act at once, to at least hit Siberia with a Minuteman ICBM, President Garcia chose to continue investigating, monitoring, and waiting. For now, key personnel like Colonel Draper and his team at Peterson were sworn to secrecy. Missile and bomber crews were brought down to only one notch above normal alert status, with a rumor of a satellite malfunction.
Garcia and his Russian counterpart would be given a little more time to avoid full-out nuclear war. The President directed that the U.S. response to the first-ever nuclear attack against the United States would be…wait.
After the rest of the staff was dismissed, Garcia and his Secretary of Defense called Senator Matthews back in. Together they conducted a secure teleconference with General Alvarez to learn how soon the second and third aircraft could be built and placed on alert.
Sunday afternoon, shortly after the teleconference ended, General Alvarez received an urgent email from Justin and was speaking to him from a SCIF within minutes. An incredulous Alvarez wanted to call the President back, or at least Senator Matthews. But he knew the correct military imperative was to first secure the asset. Too much depended on protecting Guardian and Roger. He’d break the news about the prototype once he had more facts.
For now, he’d secure System One and think through what he had to tell DPI tomorrow. They had to expedite the buildout and fielding of System Two, the first production plane. As far as he was concerned, as of last night the test program was complete except for an abbreviated set of characterization flights. Beyond the prototype, three production planes had been funded. The prototype was to become a trainer, leaving the other three so that at least one was on alert at all times, even if one or two were in maintenance. As of one hour ago, the schedule for System Two was moved to the left to just six months.
It had been a long weekend.
+ + +
Roger watched Air Force personnel rush to open the hangar furthest from the grass strip where he’d parked his aircraft. They raised the large door.
It was strangely comical. Clearly, they were attempting to hurry. But from Roger’s perspective they moved like an animated slow-motion cartoon.
He was almost ecstatic to see them carry in food and water bottles. He’d been busy recalibrating communications and exchanging messages with Justin. From Justin’s perspective, he’d hit “send” and would almost immediately get a reply. From Roger’s perspective, Justin’s replies took forever. The airmen drove back away from the empty hangar.
Showtime. This’ll be interesting.
Back in the front seat, Roger fired up the turbojet. Fortunately, the third-generation lithium iron phosphate battery was extremely stable, lightweight, had ample capacity for multiple engine starts, and should last for a decade. Within thirty seconds, the turbojet was throttled up. Roger taxied the aircraft off the grass and onto the tarmac, then past the first and second hangars. Roger kept glancing over at the airmen, now a full hundred meters away from the open hangar.
Clueless. Incredible.
As he taxied, he folded up the wingtips. He turned into the third hangar. It was large enough that he could lock his left main brake and rotate the aircraft around to face back out…just in time to see an airman’s flight cap blow off. In slow motion, the team looked around to determine the source of a blast of hot, Jet-A.
“Inside and secure. Lower and lock the door.” Roger emailed to Justin and powered down the jet engine.
Justin relayed the message to the general, who relayed it to who-knows-who at Robins Air Force Base, who told the airmen, who closed the hangar door.
Roger exited the aircraft and headed for the groceries, again grateful that his request was granted. The airmen had opened the box of Meals Ready to Eat—MREs—and laid them out in a line, making it easier for him to “convert” one for his late lunch. Same with the water bottles.
Roger devoured one of the former and two of the latter. He was surprised at how hungry and thirsty he had become. He looked over at Guardian, sitting silently in what should have been a dark hangar.
The aircraft that didn’t officially exist, and now couldn’t be seen or heard, and which had just defeated the first attempted nuclear attack against the U.S., was secure. And suddenly, Roger again became very tired. Exhausted.
Circadian rhythm?
One more thing Roger hadn’t thought through. If “his” reality was clocking four times faster than “their” reality, did that mean he’d need to sleep every four hours of “their” time? For two hours? He felt like he’d been awake for days. He woke that morning just before the late November sunrise…
A strange, low-pitched, melodic sound caught his attention. Very slow; it played for several minutes. Eventually, he realized it was the base “Giant Voice” speaker system, playing the National Anthem. So now, away from the aircraft’s chronometer, he knew “their” time: 5:00 p.m.
His legs ached, he was exhausted, and there was no way he felt like climbing back up into the cockpit. But he suspected that if he changed the GPS-synched chronometer to read additional digits—hours, minutes, seconds, and tenths—he’d be able to see the tenths of seconds tick by. He put that on his mental to-do list, likely around 8:00 p.m. Eastern after he’d gotten a full “night’s” sleep….
This will take getting used to.
Roger lay down on the soft concrete beside the aircraft nose wheel and fell fast asleep.
29. DARK REALITIES
Senator Jason Matthews was back in his condo after the grueling weekend meetings. The world was at the brink of nuclear war and only a few dozen people were even aware of it.
He was about to pour himself a drink when he received a call.
“Yes?” The call came in on his standard but unlisted personal Multiphone.
“Sir, it’s Tamika. You told me to call you after I’d been at DPI a few months?”
“I’ll call you right back.”
Senator Matthews never discussed sensitive matters on any phone except his DARPA prototype. And no one had that number. Part of the phone’s security is that the number was untraceable, so he always called back.
He stepped into the interior study of his condo, which he had scanned for “bugs” every month, for appearances only. What he really depended on was his own security sweeps for monitoring devices—again using the best available from DARPA, thanks to his Senate position over classified programs. The inside room prevented microwaves or lasers from collecting audio vibrations off his windows.
He was bone tired, but he never missed an opportunity to move his overall long-term plans forward, even after suffering a short-term defeat.
You’re interested in her, her career. Encourage her loyalty. Remind her that she owes you.
Like a good customer service representative, he put a broad smile on his face to convey that level of friendliness in the conversation. He called her back.
“Miss Steward, how are you enjoying your internship? Is it sufficiently challenging for you?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you so much!” She gushed.
“Sure you wouldn’t prefer to test metallurgical tabs on GE engines the rest of your career?” He chided. It hadn’t been a bad job for her. Tamika’s undergraduate degree in chemistry and her hard work had put her in an enviable position of managing quality control over materials used in General Electric’s front-line unmanned bomber engines. But Jason had seen more than a competent quality engineer with a pretty face. He saw someone with places to go and things to do. Someone with a lot of potential. Most importantly, someone he could eventually manipulate
. He had Cliff Nesmith give her a call…and a position.
“Oh, this’ll do…for now,” she said grinning. “And thanks for suggesting I get to know Justin. He certainly is interesting.”
Play dumb. “Hmm? How so?”
“Well, we enjoy a lot of the same things. Motorcycles, extreme fitness and obstacle courses, even watching football. But, you know, the strangest thing…we were watching a game last night, he got a phone call, and he, well, zoned out.”
“Zoned out?” he probed.
“He just, you know, went into his bedroom and forgot about everything. His big game, me, the special night we were having.” She didn’t elaborate.
“Did he, uh, did he stay in there, or did he come back out and send you home?”
“No, whatever it was, it was obviously very important to him. Sounded like he was talking to our program lead, Roger. Very intense. I waited around half an hour, then left.”
“No idea what they were talking about?”
“Something was happening. Something right then. Big. I didn’t hear much. A couple of technical things caught my attention because they were out of the ordinary. I heard the term ‘Battle Short’ and ‘overrides.’ No idea what any of that meant.”
“Hmm.”
“I thought I’d at least hear from him today with an explanation or apology, but I haven’t heard a word.” She suddenly caught herself. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry. I’m just chattering and I know you’re an incredibly busy man. Thanks again for this job. Uh…Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, Tamika, nothing at all,” he lied. “Just wanted you to call and let me know how it’s going.” He paused. “You know…there actually may be something you could do. I take my Senate position seriously and want to make sure we wisely invest every penny of the taxpayer’s money in these perilous times. We’re spending a lot of money at DPI. I get the formal reports, of course. But I’d appreciate hearing your take on everything. Like what the military describes as ‘boots on the ground.’”
“Sir?”
“Yes. Just keep observing. Call me back every week about this time and give me an idea of what’s going on from your perspective. And I’m curious whether Justin gives you an explanation for being so, well, rude to you.”
“Sure, Senator. I’ll let you know.”
“Tamika, I knew I could trust you to be a great patriot there. I can see you going places, young lady. I helped you get a good start; the rest is up to you. I’m counting on you.”
After he ended the call, Jason smiled and poured himself his first drink.
I’m interested in her, her career. I encouraged her loyalty and reminded her that she owes me. Check and check.
Jason mused to himself, “So Justin was a part of crushing my plans along with Roger. I’ve got him right where I can keep my eye on him.”
Thoughts of the lovely, athletic Tamika Steward put him in the mood for a young Black girl tonight. He made that call and then began his evening game while he waited for his evening’s entertainment to arrive.
+ + +
The tingling continued. As before, Roger slept hard. Then he started dreaming. Vibrant, 3-D dreams with surround sound. Like IMAX on steroids. Unlike anything he’d ever experienced before the conversion.
He and his wife were having lunch that Sunday afternoon with Karen in 2006. He could taste the sweet tea, then the after-dinner coffee. He smelled his favorite perfume that Cindy wore. He heard Karen explain that her husband died of pancreatic cancer, and there was nothing they had learned from their research into her genetic change that could save him.
“As he lay dying, he told me to keep seeking God, that He had something special for me, and to live my unique life to the fullest. Folks, that’s why your message today about seeking strong foundations for our lives meant so much to me. That’s why I wanted to meet you both and ask you to pray for me.”
Roger awoke with a start. Why am I dreaming about her?
He slowly got up, his legs stiff and sore. He slowly paced inside the hangar around the aircraft.
Is it because we’re both unique?
He thought of the special gift Karen sent to him when she learned that his wife and kids were killed in the accident. It meant a lot to him and motivated him to pray for her even more fervently. While Roger was still in rehabilitation, a package arrived for him. Inside the wrapped box was the unusual, elegant painting he later hung in his office at DPI. It was the one that Justin admired so much.
She had included a simple note:
Roger, so sorry for your loss. As you and your wonderful Cindy have prayed for me over the years, so I will be in prayer for you.
As I’ve said before, thanks for helping me focus on the foundations. I hope this little gift ministers to you and gives you hope that God is still in control, no matter how bleak our circumstances may appear.
I won’t trouble you with more of my story, other than to say that when I learned of your loss, God used it to shock me back to reality. I had lost my focus and was heading down a very dangerous path.
As I prayed about the difficult circumstances you and I both face, this picture came to mind and I painted it as quickly as I could. May it bless you, as it has already blessed me.
Quietly in His love and service,
– Karen
Her thoughtfulness was overwhelming. He certainly needed that encouragement now.
I’m not getting any younger, he reflected, as he stopped pacing and rubbed his aching thighs.
Thinking of age brought on a wave of depression.
Good Lord! I’m sixty-four. If “my” reality is clocking four times faster than everyone else’s, I’ll be well over eighty-four in just five of “their” years!
As he had prayed so often over the years, especially after losing his wife and family, he said, “Return quickly, Lord Jesus.”
Roger realized that he was famished. He slowly walked over to the table, “converted” and devoured another MRE and drank two bottles of water. It seemed to only take about half the time before he could firmly grasp them as it did previously. He did a quick estimate of how close the supplies were to Guardian. Maybe they’re close enough to start converting without me actually touching them?
He also noticed a dead mouse near a trash can. He absent-mindedly kicked the mouse as he threw his containers into the can. His shoe made solid contact, and the dead animal skidded several feet away.
So…you were close enough to convert. And the conversion killed you.
Roger walked over to the mouse and stooped down for a closer look. He wasn’t an expert on mice. But this one appeared to have died in agony.
A deepening darkness descended on Roger. He felt so isolated; so alone.
+ + +
“They call that intel?” Cindy shook her head and scowled. Sam’s got to be furious. The email was short:
“Karen, here’s what I’ve got:
World Islamic Caliphate—WIC—growing significantly in Iran, uniting many other terror cells and organizations as they see the possibility of a true Caliphate. Their financial resources are growing at an alarming rate, both from known terror supporters and a considerable amount from unknown sources. Their radical tactics, extreme by any other standard, are seen as moderate only when compared against what’s left of ISIS.
ISIS continues to lose members and resources as they fail to consistently hold on to any land. No land, no legitimacy. Their desperate leadership is becoming even more extreme, more unpredictable, and more of a danger to Western countries. Most at risk is the United States, which they see as a major part of their downfall since Obama left office. They believe they can win the propaganda war and resume their role as the leader in global jihad, if they can successfully conduct serious attacks against the U.S. And, of course, against Israel.”
Karen—Cindy—started typing.
“Sam, I went a lot deeper into the psychographics of their recent communications and activities. Some public, and, as you can imagine
, I uncovered some that is not public knowledge. They’re not looking at hard targets like industry or military. Not even soft targets like banking and commerce. I don’t even think they’re looking at infrastructure like utilities.
They want to really hurt the heart of the U.S. Since they have absolutely no respect for human life and are sexual predators, I’m afraid they’ll go after kids, likely pubescent.”
Cindy shuddered as she thought about the violent, heartless assaults she had suffered from Jason Matthews. Those occurred when she was an adult. She teared up thinking about the cruelty she anticipated with this attack, and possibly more attacks like them, against children.
Demonic. Absolutely demonic, from the pit of hell.
30. SIX MONTHS
Not your normal day at DPI. Not for Justin Townsend or for any of the rest of the team, many who had worked on Guardian for the previous four years.
General Alvarez chose to personally explain the heroic and successful intercept to the entire DPI team since each employee had the required compartmentalized, top secret clearance. The Twenty—they could no longer refer to themselves as “The Twenty-One”—were joined by the rest of the team. Eighty technicians, systems operators, material handlers, quality assurance personnel, and others brought the current total to one hundred. The entire team was crammed together for the “all-hands” announcement in the SCIF’s conference room.
For once, he chose not to use the Telepresence robot, even though its security protocols allowed it to operate in the classified SCIF. He believed that, in this case, the multimedia system would be more proper and official, yet personal.
General Alvarez explained the truth as it was known at the time. The unexplainable launch of a single missile, and that it came from over the South Pole giving more time to respond. But there were no assets able to provide that response. None; except for their experimental hypersonic aircraft. Unusually, the plane was being transported “wet”—with enough fuel for both the turbojet and the scramjet/ion drive.
The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2) Page 14