Twisted Spaces: 1 / Destination Mars

by E. N. Abel

Langley

  Wednesday, 09.11.2016

  The President's order was as simple as it was clear: Get that technology first! At any cost! They didn't like it that way, it was too intense, inviting extreme measures, not talking about the consequences. But that was to no avail, an order from the American President ranked just one step under a personal word from the Almighty himself. Even if he'd already lost the election and was factually already half out of office.

  DDI and DDO stood behind a satellite reconnaissance specialist, a man in his thirties, who was sitting in front of a flat screen monitor and hacking away on his computer keyboard. Although aware of the two directors behind him, he seemed totally at ease.

  ''Pass complete, target area out of sight,'' he announced, then, after a moment: ''Data coming in.'' Again he typed on the keyboard: ''Decoding ... done. Displaying.''

  A grey-and-white picture started to develop on the screen, blooming into a satellite's view of an airport with runways, taxiways, a tower, a multitude of buildings, interconnecting streets. Then, after a few seconds, the picture gained colour, a light, transparent yellow covering everything.

  ''Colour differences show the intensity of a gravity variation. The darker, the bigger the difference.'' the sat technician explained. Suddenly an intense red dot appeared on the screen, in north-east corner of the air base's compound. ''There.''

  Instinctively, Atkins asked: ''What's it?''

  ''A gravimetric anomaly, sir,'' the technician replied, moved his mouse onto the dot and read a text popping up under the cursor: ''Gosh: zero gravity! In that dot there is no gravitation at all! That's impossible!'' Amazed he turned to the generals: ''How can that be?''

  The DDI ignored the question: ''The coordinates, quickly!''

  The technician pulled a pen from his lab coat, wrote a series of numbers on his note pad and held it to the General. It was the DDO who took it, already dialling a secure phone, calling his adjutant. Reading the coordinates into the speaker, he commanded: ''Send in the team!''

  The reconnaissance specialist twisted on the graphical controls, the picture changed to a Google-ar like appearance and the airplane shelters were clearly visible now. Pointing at a shape near the target shelter he asked: ''What's that?''

  Walthers took one look and answered: ''A helicopter, and a large one. Try to identify the type.''

  The DDO paused a second, digesting, then continued with his adjutant: ''Myers, tell them they are not the first. Someone was faster, came by chopper. Hot LZ procedure!'' He listened a moment, then just said: ''They are authorized to use all force necessary,'' and replaced the receiver. Turning to his colleague he added: ''They have Ospreys. ETA twenty-two minutes. Maybe the President should place his call now.''

  ''French model,'' the technician suddenly spoke up. ''Computer says: AS 332 Cougar.''

  The DDI knew the rest: ''Troop carrier.''

  ''Damn.'' The DDO picked up a phone, fast-dialled a pre-programmed number. ''Mr President, twenty minutes. Yes. Better do it right now. Yes. Thank you, sir.'' He replaced the receiver, sat down. ''God in heaven, I hope everyone stays very cool over there.''

  Chapter 49

  Berlin

  Wednesday, 09.11.2016

  The German Chancellor, Peter Steinbeck, was ready to call it a day - a remarkably slow and boring day at that. On his desk in front of him a glass tumbler with Scottish whiskey was warming, and his old friend and political mentor was sitting on the nearby couch, nursing a fine Cognac. An atmosphere of peaceful contemplation prevailed.

  Suddenly the outer door flew open and his secretary rushed in, startling the two. ''Chancellor,'' she breathlessly whispered: ''The President of the United States ... line two.''

  With raised eyebrows Steinbeck picked up the receiver, pressed a button: ''Good evening, Mr President. Or should I say: good day?''

  Two minutes later he put the receiver back and turned to his friend: ''You will not believe this.''

  ''What does he want?''

  ''Send a combat troop to storm an old airplane shelter at Spangdahlem air base.''

  ''Spangdahlem?''

  ''A former US air base in the Eifel.''

  ''I remember. But isn't that commercialised? Wait ... what? A combat troop? To storm a shelter?''

  ''Yes.''

  ''Is he mental?''

  ''I don't know. Didn't sound nuts to me ...''

  ''You didn't allow this, did you?''

  ''I did.''

  ''Why?''

  ''He informed me that they suspected an extremely dangerous terrorist group is building a nuclear bomb in that shelter.''

  ''What?''

  ''And he told me flatly that if I intervened in any way, he would risk a direct confrontation with us. Even break the Atlantic treaty. He used the phrase put you on notice.''

  ''That means the bombs are nearly flying! My God, he must have lost it!''

  ''I don't think so.'' Steinbeck picked up his phone: ''Petra, please connect me with the air force headquarters, Quick Reaction Staff.'' Turning to his friend, he continued: ''Even if I don't interfere, a few photos would be nice.'' He put the phone on speaker. ''Better you hear this, too.''

  ''Hauptquartier der Luftwaffe, Generalmajor Aschbrenner,'' a voice sounded up.

  ''General, Chancellor Steinbeck speaking.''

  ''Sir!''

  ''Listen closely. Something is happening at Spangdahlem air base. The Americans are rushing in with an armed team from Frankfurt, probably with their helicopters. I want you to put two recon planes in the air. Now: do not interfere with the Americans, but take lots of photos to make a nice, hard case. Understood?''

  ''Completely, sir.''

  ''General Aschbrenner, it's of the utmost importance that you don't start a shooting incident. Just get me lots of photographic proof. Don't interfere, let them withdraw in peace.''

  ''Yes, Chancellor. We'll be there in ten minutes.''

  ''Good. Proceed.'' He hung up.

  ''What do you want with the photos?''

  ''Use them in the next NATO steering committee meeting, to squeeze the Americans a bit. Ease our financial burden some. Or to blackmail them, if they find something there that we want to get our hands on, too.''

  The Chancellor's friend laughed, lifted his glass: ''Tricky bastard you are.''

  Steinbeck smiled into his tumbler: time for a compliment.

  ''I learned from the best.''

  Chapter 50

  Spangdahlem

  Wednesday, 09.11.2016

  Marcel's second appearance was a bit more spectacular. The chopper pilot touched ground right beside the shelter, leaving Marcel no more than fifty meters to walk to the sparsely lit compound.

  He approached the guard by the broken car, offered the code word in passing, got a nod and continued to the personnel door. It opened to his code numbers just like two days ago, only this time there was no armed committee waiting. Marcel, hearing his helicopter take off again, walked into the shelter's inner space and pointed himself to Mike's office. Before he could reach it, Mike and Ellie came rushing out of the cubicle, nearly bumping into him.

  ''Welcome back,'' Mike offered.

  Marcel just nodded, then held out the briefcase he had been keeping close for the last three hours: ''Not much to look at, I'm afraid.''

  ''You have ...''

  ''Yes. Two injectors. Now, I would be really grateful if you could rid me of them.''

  ''Certainly.'' Mike took the case and led the older man towards the engineering department. ''Alex will be delighted.'' Then he suddenly stopped. ''What else?''

  ''You have to expect an attack within the hour.''

  Mike pulled one of the quantum communicators from his pocket, shook it, then spoke: ''PM to all: expect incoming. PM to security: full red alert.'' Then to Marcel, pointing: ''Let's hurry, there's Alex already.''

  The Russian came sprinting around a bend: ''You have it?''

  All three nodded simultaneously.

  ''To the ship, at once.''


  They turned as one, started running.

  Chapter 51

  Spangdahlem

  Wednesday, 09.11.2016

  The two Ospreys lowered themselves like giant scavenger birds from the sky, aiming for the space between the shelters. The area, having been designed with fighter aircraft maintenance in mind, held plenty of room to choose from. Approach was easy, even in the dark. But with all these massive shelters around and all looking alike, the lead pilot became confused for a moment and landed close to the wrong one, a good three hundred meters away from the intended target area.

  The unloading of the troops took a mere minute, and the planes moved off to the main runway. The regrouping took another minute, and four groups of twenty-five heavily armed soldiers swarmed out, surrounded the wrong bunker. To identify their mistake and re-evaluate they needed another two minutes, then somebody checked his GPS and pointed at the correct one. Again everyone started moving, spreading out, only to be challenged by a loud hail a mere hundred yards from the shelter.

  ''FREEZE!''

  Surprised, everybody stopped.

  ''YOU HAVE ENTERED A PRIVATE SECURITY AREA. RETREAT OR WE'LL OPEN FIRE.''

  Lieutenant-Commander George Wright assumed command: ''Forward.''

  His group took five steps, when a burst from an automatic weapon roared over their heads. Immediately everybody dove for every available cover: mostly low walls, trenches and bigger concrete blocks.

  Wright found protection behind a smaller bunker-like structure and waved at his communication sergeant. A microphone was pressed into his hand and his amplified voice echoed over the shelter's courtyard: ''This is the United States Army. You are surrounded. Drop your weapons and come forward, or WE WILL ATTACK.''

  There was a moment of silence, then the speaker voice laughed contemptuously and said in a sarcastic tone: ''The United States Army is just a bunch of green painted pussies. Couldn't even clean out a kindergarten full of toddlers armed with sling shots and pop-guns, much less a fortified, well protected bunker. You want us, come get us. But bring your own body bags.''

  Wright stared at his comm sergeant in mere disbelieve. ''What the fuck ...'' He rose, yelled: ''Group One, ...'' the word charge did not leave his mouth, when a bullet grazed his helmet, twirled him around hard and smashed him to the ground. It took him a second to recover. He took off the helmet, peeked at the streak in the Kevlar and realised that he wasn't hurt.

  ''That one was for free, you amateur,'' the insulting voice called. ''The next idiot who gets up is dead.''

  ''Snipers!'' Major Redkins, his second in command, whispered.

  Wright understood he had a killing zone in front of him, a killing zone for his men. But he also knew how to handle this: ''Get the smoke grenades. Prepare the anti-tank missiles. And call the Ospreys to get up, we might need some air support.''

  Chapter 52

  Spangdahlem

  Wednesday, 09.11.2016

  Marcel, Ellie and Mike were standing in the machine compartment, when the loud hailer sounded up and urged the intruders to retreat. Then an MG burst rang out, after a moment followed by a single shot.

  ''What's happening?'' Ellie's voice sounded concerned.

  ''I guess,'' the French sergeant replied dryly, ''Security is doing its work.''

  ''How long?'' Mike asked towards Rosskov.

  ''Fifteen, twenty minutes. Reactor has to warm up a bit before we can rush it.'' Alex looked up: ''One injector is in the loading station, the coils are powered up, temperature level is rising slowly. First annihilation is possible at about ten Tesla. That will take us about ten to twelve minutes.'' He turned to them: ''Don't you guys have better things to do than watch me?''

  That brought back some soberness. Ellie nodded: ''Let's go to the bridge.''

  Chapter 53

  Spangdahlem

  Wednesday, 09.11.2016

  ''Ready Sir.'' Redkins reported.

  ''Throw the grenades.''

  A multitude of arms hurled smoke pods over their covers. Within seconds, clouds of white fog drifted towards the shelter, obscuring the killing zone.

  ''On my command fire one missile onto the bunker left of the target!''

  ''Yes, sir.''

  Wright took the microphone again: ''Now see here, smart boy.'' He nodded to the missile soldier, and a streak of light rushed quick-as-thought towards the targeted bunker, touched it and detonated in a massive bloom. A huge hole could be seen in the bunker's side through the ensuing fire.

  ''This is my last warning! You have five minutes to surrender, or your shelter will be next!''

  He switched off the microphone, leaned back: ''That will cool them down.''

  Unknown to him, a total of ten sharpshooters were lying on the neighbouring shelters' roofs, in shooting distance between two and five hundred meters, equipped with commercially available sniper rifles and high quality night vision scopes. According to their engagement rules, they lay completely still under their covers, patiently waiting for the order to attack, the cross hairs of their sights resting on their primary targets: command personnel and missile guys. With five secondary targets pointed out for each sniper. One order, and the command structure of the attackers would be history.

  Radio controlled heat pods were at the ready, on every shelter, every bunker, dozens of other places - to distract the infrared scanners of attacking planes and choppers. A few men with Red-Eye ground-to-air missiles were waiting. Acquired on the eastern black market and not exactly the latest toys from the world's armouries', they were effective enough at close range - especially in the hands of capable shooters.

  They had all learned their lessons in the same forsaken place. And come back from it alive.

  Chapter 54

  Spangdahlem

  Wednesday, 09.11.2016

  ''We need more time,'' Ellie stated. ''Ten minutes. At least.'' She turned to Michael: ''You think we can delay them that long?''

  ''No,'' Mike answered, ''I expect them to start their attack immediately after the ultimatum runs out.''

  Ellie looked at Marcel, to get assurance.

  ''I think Michael's right,'' the old sergeant replied.

  ''Damn, eight minutes! Can't security do something about it?''

  ''Sure. The snipers will keep them busy and away from our shelter, but that does not protect us against an armour piercing missile.''

  Ellie knew her husband far too well to know that this statement could not be entirely true. He had had time enough to think this one over, and then there had been these closed meetings with his friends from his former unit, playing security for them now. And she had learned one or two things about him and his 'friends', their tours to dune country and their very special bond and abilities.

  So she had witnessed one of the guys, a dark-skinned man named Acar, handle an especially ugly bar brawl in Bitburg one night single-handedly: four against one. Well, better: one against four. The guy had cleared the situation in a heartbeat, kicked the shit out of the attackers and thrown them out onto the street. His buddies hadn't even bothered to get up from their beers; Mike had just ordered a fresh one for him.

  The Americans might have gotten off one missile, but Ellie had the firm impression that they most likely wouldn't get the chance to fire a second.

  ''A blood bath will result,'' Ellie said quietly to herself, totally calm. ''Our guards will kill them off.''

  Marcel had overheard her. ''Yes, that's a possible outcome.''

  Ellie took a deep breath. With her history, she simply couldn't bear the thought of it. She felt a sharp wave of guilt rise in her chest.

  That moment Mike switched on the ship's intercom: ''Now hear this: all flight personnel must come on board. All ground personnel to the bunker.'' Then he turned to Ellie: ''Take your position, baby. We may have to start in hurry.''

  But Ellie did not move. After a few seconds she said absentmindedly: ''I know how to divert them.'' Then, looking at Mike: ''Take the helm, prepare for lift-off. And prepare a gr
av trap.'' She gave him a kiss and a smile, ''I love you.'' Then she turned away and pushed herself into the lift's opening, drifting downwards.

  Mike seemed paralysed until Marcel hissed in his best Legion-French: ''Lieutenant MacMillan! Grab your balls!''

  This made Mike wake up. He pulled himself into one of the seats with a 'Pilot' sign sticking on the back, buckled up, switched on the intercom again: ''Flight personnel to the ship. Ground personnel to the bunker. Preparing for take-off in ... eight minutes.''

  Marlene drifted up the elevator tube, floated over to the control panel, swung into the seat with the 'Astrogator' sign on the back, strapped in. Took control of the navigation panel. More people entered the bridge, filling the seats and stations on the rim. Mike busied himself with the activation of the control panel and the monitor board, preparing the start phase.

  ''How do you want to get out of the shelter?'' Dupont was interested.

  ''Through the roof,'' Mike answered absently, ''We'll destroy the concrete with a small grav mine.'' Seeing the confused look on his guest's face he added: ''Something we developed in passing; basically a bomblet that creates a massive gravitational burst, basically a short-lived singularity.''

  ''A singularity?'' Marcel couldn't believe this. ''You mean a fucking black hole?''

  ''Yes, but a very special one. Exists only a microsecond or so, but will destroy the molecular structures of all that stone and steel in the ceiling.'' He pointed at one section of the main screen where the chief engineer was visible, working on a metallic-black object the size of an orange. ''Alex is already loading it with an antimatter droplet from one of your injectors and will fire it from a launch tube on the engine deck.'' He looked up at Marcel: ''Wonderful times we live in, don't you think?'' Then he picked up a communicator: ''Guards, at the ready. Engage any identified threat.''

  At least this Marcel understood all right: a hunting licence, Legion style.