God’s got me here for a reason. He’s chosen me for something and even healed my paralysis. As He gives me strength, I will serve Him, even as the loneliest man alive…
His sadness remained, but the deep, dark depression gave way to rest. Roger slept. This time, there were no dreams.
39. ALIAS
One purpose in life. That’s all that was left. Many would consider such a narrow focus as morbid, depressing. For Skylar Brown, it was enough.
There she is!
The fifty-eight-year-old African American was instantly alert. In moments, he executed “Plan Alpha” around Charleston, South Carolina. He gave no thought whatsoever to the dozens who had been killed or injured by the terrorists’ diversionary attack at the shipyard. He had no concern at all about the others who died or were seriously hurt by the next set of diversions on the major bridges twenty minutes later. And the faculty and staff killed at the main target, the school? Or what the terrorists might have planned for the teenagers? Not important.
But eyewitness accounts from some of the youth, that a lone woman had quickly overcome and killed four heavily armed and highly trained terrorists? In minutes? Priceless!
Plan Alpha meant that in minutes, police would be deployed to train and bus terminals to take pictures of all females over eighteen who were around five feet six and between 130 to 160 pounds and note their destinations. Airports already had sufficient cameras, so he’d just use Senator Matthews’ credentials to authorize tapping in. “The lady,” as he referred to Karen Richardson, never purchased a vehicle on-the-spot, always waiting till she reached her destination. He hoped that would still be the case. But he would send investigators to review the driver’s licenses for any one-way rentals of any women who fit those general physical characteristics.
That was the legal, legitimate side of Alpha. Law enforcement personnel would meticulously follow orders and do honest work, based on phony information Skylar had already prepared for just such an opportunity.
In the meantime, his team would deploy. Well, he couldn’t really describe it as his team anymore. He was no longer officially part of the primary team. Even with the full knee replacement, his age and permanent reliance on a cane had put him on the sidelines. Still, Matthews paid him well to hunt for “the lady.” Skylar was the one person who wanted Karen Lane Richardson—dead or alive—almost as much as Jason Matthews. Preferably, alive. He had a score to settle with the superwoman who caused him many years of excruciating pain, followed by embarrassing rehab to break free from addiction to the painkillers, and worse.
Sure, she could have killed him back in 2020, but she chose instead to spare his life. He would gladly return the favor and leave her some things to remember for the rest of her life. Rumor had it that she might live to 110 or longer.
The rest of Matthew’s personal team—meaning, those who weren’t paid by or known by the government personnel responsible for protecting the senator—would converge on Charleston within hours.
He closed up his notebook workstation, grabbed the prepacked bag he always had at the ready, put on his coat, and turned out the lights. Cane or not, Skylar Brown wasn’t about to sit this one out.
+ + +
How many times had it been? How many years?
Ellen O’Brien sighed, closed her eyes, and hung her head. How many aliases had she hidden under? How many times had she moved, both in the U.S. and abroad? Somewhere around thirty-six times over what, thirty-plus years?
She breathed in the cool, crisp mid-day sea breeze, and for the first time in years enjoyed what was for her both a luxury and a necessity—a week-long ocean cruise. She lay in a padded lounge chair near the cruise ship’s stern, snacking on fruit cocktail and staring at the mesmerizing wake trailing aft.
Ellen—Karen Lane Richardson—needed to break out of her routine. Not for “R and R,” although she desperately needed both rest and relaxation. No, she literally needed to break out of her routine, to escape.
This time, there had been no cameras to capture her defeat of the vicious ISIS attack against the youth at the Charleston school. The students were in such extreme danger that none of them had an opportunity to capture her on video or in pictures. Even if they had, her armor suit, helmet, and visor hid her identity.
But Jason Matthews and his team would know it was her. One woman, defeating a team of well-armed, trained, and suicidal terrorists?
Yes, they knew. They also would expect her to immediately head to the nearest bus station, or rent a car and drive at least 800 miles, stopping only to fill the tank, grab some snacks, and use the bathroom. Out of Charleston? Maybe they’d look for her to catch a north or southbound Amtrak train.
One of those options. That’s what she always did.
So, it was time to take a cruise. She would leave, relax, return, and then relocate. They would look for her everywhere, except right where she had been: Charleston, South Carolina. With a new identity, of course. Now a green-eyed redhead, wearing glasses, and a dental appliance that artificially rounded her lower jaw. Of course, a new set of transparent, whisper-thin graphene gloves with fingerprints identifying her as…Ellen O’Brien.
Thirty-eight. Yes, thirty-eight different aliases, not including the ones she and her deceased husband used together during their years on the run.
She had shipped everything back to Mick Thompson before getting her ticket for the cruise; the Commando Flips, the remaining Incapacitators and Blades, the Pole Climbers, her Commando Suit, and her helmet and armored sneakers. She sent the destruct code to each of the Video Spots. Even if and when they were discovered and taken down from the poles and trees near Charleston’s schools, the insides were fused solid. No reverse-engineering possible.
A winter cruise. Great food, some entertainment, and a chance to run some research through the new genetic modeling algorithms she had developed. A strange thought had occurred to her the night she prepared the video feeds to monitor Charleston schools for an expected attack. While placing a camera at one school, she looked at its playground and had grieved over her inability to ever have children. She would never know that special intimate bonding of a mother with her child. That level of oxytocin.
Oxytocin. Which is also very high with other forms of human bonding. Like when she risked her life in the early nineties to save Dr. Richardson, who later became her husband. And Mick and Sam. Oxytocin…
40. SHE’S ALL THAT
"There it is!”
Roger Brandon couldn’t believe it was so simple. One character. A line of code beginning with “D” for “Documentation,” used in Guardian’s ternary code to automatically generate documentation for the code’s Software Design Description.
The line of code that should have repeated the recalibration of the Terminal Targeting System each time the rail gun fired was preceded by a “D,” making the instruction non-executable.
“How in the world did we miss that?” Roger asked himself.
Or did we?
Roger emailed his finding to Justin Townsend, who insisted that he’d already checked for exactly that possibility the Sunday morning he rode to DPI after the “incident.” But at Roger’s recommendation, he checked out the configured software code again…and verified that the “D” was there.
“I guess I somehow missed it,” Justin replied in his email.
Moments later, through their “back door” communications link using their secure Enigma codec: “Roger, that’s exactly what I looked for that next morning. I KNOW I checked that code. Someone made that change to the aircraft software, then changed the repository’s configured copy of the code after that Sunday!”
A gnawing uneasiness settled on Roger.
After the fact. Only Justin, Cliff, or I…maybe two or three others at DPI…could have intentionally made that change and then covered it up in configuration management.
Roger’s dark musings were interrupted by another message from Justin, this time back on the normal link. “How soon can you
be ready to launch? We’re being pushed to see what capabilities she still has. What do you need?”
“A co-pilot?” Roger teased.
They compared notes and schedules. “Next Wednesday,” Roger finally responded. “You set the time and the tests.”
Knowing they could now fully calibrate the gun, and with Guardian arguably the ultimate stealth aircraft, Roger asked if Justin had considered the possibility of ground and sea attack. Justin’s reply answered in the affirmative: “Got some software I’d like you to try. You know I moved more of the controls up front so you can operate better alone. I’ve also wondered if we could modify the weather radar for surface attacks. I’d like to try it.”
Roger nodded thoughtfully. The weather radar didn’t have any traditional target acquisition functionality, nor did it have any countermeasures to use against enemy jamming. But, with the timing and frequency changes provided by the strange trans-dimensional shift, it just might work. Plus, it would allow look-down target acquisition in all weather conditions.
+ + +
Wednesday, 0600
Roger awoke from a good “night’s” sleep, all two hours of it, and ate a great breakfast. He suited up in his new flight suit, tailored specifically for him and designed to protect him from both high-G maneuvers and during high altitude flight. He put on the test pilot’s helmet he used for his previous flight, grateful for the new insert that more comfortably conformed it to his own head. After rechecking all the suit and helmet adjustments, he climbed aboard his fully fueled aircraft. Solid rocket boosters—SRBs—hung under the fuselage like sleek air-to-air missiles. Inside, the rail gun’s cartridge contained a full complement of twelve “slugs.” He attached audio and oxygen feeds to his helmet, turned on the aircraft avionics, and ran through system self-tests.
Tests complete, Roger started the turbojet, remotely opened the hangar doors, and taxied out.
Communications would be verbal, in a synthetic sense. Roger couldn’t operate and monitor the aircraft’s performance while typing and reading emails. So, he and Justin had optimized popular commercial, off-the-shelf voice recognition and speech synthesis software to their specific voices and technical vocabulary. Their “hands-free” communication was hitting over ninety-nine percent accuracy. Of course, from Roger’s perspective, there were long pauses between sending a message and getting a response back from Justin. From Justin’s perspective, he would receive a response almost as soon as he said the word “send.”
Most communications would take place between the two of them with General Alvarez and Cliff Nesmith monitoring. NORAD was not even aware of the test—or even of the aircraft’s existence—as they still believed that Guardian and Roger were vaporized in the blast weeks earlier.
Roger lined up on the runway and completed his preflight checklist. The new satellite data link to the National Air Traffic Control network showed clear airspace all around and above as planned.
While he waited for superconductivity, he visually verified the aircraft control surfaces worked. Effectors smoothly curved sections of the wing that only vaguely resembled traditional ailerons and were only used for maneuvering at subsonic and low supersonic speeds.
“Clear to go. Have fun,” Justin sent.
“This time I will. Send.” Roger responded. No gut-wrenching drop out of the back of a cargo plane, slamming into the slipstream. No neck-snapping pullout just seconds before creating a giant crater. No threat of blacking out as he climbed out of a brutal dive or of getting the bends from not having a pressure suit.
Magnets sixty percent to superconductivity. Roger began his takeoff roll. At 3,500 feet down the runway he smoothly pulled up and retracted the landing gear. As he continued a gentle 1,000 feet-per-minute climb, the magnets went superconductive. Roger slammed the large Main Charge circuit breaker to ON. In moments, the first LED bar segment illuminated to a bright green as the magnets for the magneto-hydrodynamic ion drive began charging.
Roger appreciated the colors inside the aircraft. Everything outside, even the cloudless sunrise over North Dakota’s cool, crisp, snow-covered landscape was just shades of gray.
The next LED segment illuminated as he continued climbing through 6,000 feet.
Roger narrated the status one item at a time.
“Charged to forty percent. Send.”
“Charged to sixty percent. Send.”
“Charged to eighty percent. Ready to bring MHD online. Send.”
“One hundred percent. MHD now online. Firing SRBs. Send.”
“SRBs ignited. Increasing rate of climb; passing 10,000 feet; started at zero-point-four Mach. Send.”
“Altitude 20,000; Speed is zero-point-eight Mach. Send.”
“Passing 26,000; zero-point-nine-five Mach. Send.”
Mach One, and the ion drive screamed online, quickly followed by the scramjet. The acceleration slammed him back into his seat. The spent SRBs dropped off over open fields and parachuted down…
What in the world?!
“Justin… Uh…wow. The figures aren’t making sense.” He struggled to catch his breath. “Uh…okay, I’m fighting off four-point-eight Gs. Incredible acceleration. Send.”
He was climbing through 60,000 feet and already close to Mach Three! Leading edge heat sensors were turning from green to yellow. Roger quickly engaged the ion shielding and Ion Aerodynamic Control System. Before the transformation, Guardian’s sonic boom was subdued by the ion shielding. Now, after the transformation? Maybe a few distinct animals or carefully tuned instruments could detect it; people could not.
“Alright, everything’s going faster than expected, even given my 4-X perspective. I just brought the shielding and the IAC online. Had some thermal sensors go yellow, one went red…they’re all green now. I’m throttling back a little till I catch up with what’s going on. Already at Flight Level Seven Zero and Mach Seven. Send.”
Not only does everything still work, everything’s working better! Just how fast can she go now?
Per the plan, Roger was heading due west. At a steady Mach Seven at 70,000 feet, he tested the IAC at increasing levels of bank, and to two Gs in each direction. Smooth as silk. He already knew—all too painfully well—that Guardian could pull more positive Gs than he could endure, although the new flight suit and working legs should help him handle one or two more. But he had no interest in finding out. Finally, he performed some minor dives to minus one G.
After each test, he reported the results to Justin.
Now it’s show time.
“Charging capacitor bank. Send.” Roger initiated the third mandatory manual action, charging the super capacitor network that would power the electromagnetic rail gun.
He pushed the throttle forward.
“Throttling up again. Acceleration at four-point-eight Gs. Send.”
“Mach Eight…Nine…Ten…Justin, I’ve got Mach Eleven! Send.”
Roger didn’t announce that the aircraft actually reached a steady-state level flight speed of Mach Twelve-point-Five. He felt compelled to reserve that factoid for a private Enigma message to Justin later.
Surprisingly, even at that speed the leading-edge temperatures were within tolerance. He throttled way back to Mach Three to conserve fuel, and flew wide, lazy S’s so he wouldn’t overshoot the West Coast. At his altitude, he didn’t bother with the ATC overlay. Virgin Galactic didn’t have any scheduled flights, and currently no Google Wireless Balloons were aloft within a thousand miles.
“Got a target for me? Send.”
Now General Alvarez responded. “De-orbiting now. You should be able to acquire within eight minutes.”
A classified low-orbit satellite had intentionally been left in space beyond its primary mission, as an eventual test target for Guardian once other scheduled flight tests were completed. Months ahead of that schedule, today was the day. The first phase of Roger’s test flight was timed to be completed as the satellite came into position.
“De-orbit burn confirmed. Target should
begin re-entry 250 nautical miles west of Vandenberg Air Force Base, California. Monitoring systems online.”
If the engagement succeeded, monitoring stations would simply report that the classified satellite burned up upon re-entry out over the ocean. Roger entered the parameters into the Terminal Targeting System, selected Auto Engage, and took his hands off the controls.
All right. Let’s see what you’ve got.
“Acceleration of two Gs. She’s climbing at 1,000 feet-per-minute. LIDAR is scanning. Send.”
Justin, who’d been quiet while Roger was hands-on, now responded. “Any magnetic anomalies?”
“Negative. Send,” Roger said. “The LIDAR works; target acquired. Send.”
“Fuel status?”
“Sixty percent remaining. More than twice what I need to get home. Send.”
“Engagement points?”
“Three automatically set at one-hundred-twenty, at eighty, and at forty nautical miles; speed now Mach Eight. Level at 80,000 feet. Send.”
At precisely 120 nautical miles from the unseen target, the first slug fired. The scream of Guardian’s ion drive and scram jet was more subdued and yet more ominous since the trans-dimensional shift. The “whomp” of the rail gun had also taken on a lower but more sinister sound.
Strange. I don’t see the slug’s trail.
“Miss. Huge miss. And I didn’t see the ablative glow from the slug. Send.”
He saw a faint trail from the satellite as it heated up and its shield began ablating.
Eighty miles. The gun fired again.
“Second slug away…and…a miss. First slug was one kilometer ahead of the target. Second was one hundred meters ahead. Still not seeing the slugs or their trails. I’m guessing they’re not encountering the expected drag and are going a lot faster. Wonder if they’ll go right through the target? Send.”
He needn’t have worried.
The satellite was constructed to resemble a warhead upon re-entry. If Roger used the aircraft optics for a close-up, he would have seen a five-foot-long cone as it streaked down into the upper atmosphere. At a range of forty miles, the rail gun fired again, and a split second later the satellite exploded in a blinding flash. Roger’s helmet visor instantly darkened to shield his eyes, or he would have been temporarily blinded. Perhaps worse.
The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2) Page 20