by E. N. Abel
Upon entering the small 'docking bay', a room on Deck Five, two levels below the bridge, he found a little gathering: six men standing - Marcel between them, and two more lying on the floor - Ellie's half-naked body and the wounded Major. A third, the American commander, was leaning against a crate. Margaret, the ship's medical officer, was bending over the Major and working away frenetically. That alone told the story.
''Report,'' Mike ordered his troopers, eyes on Ellie's lifeless shape.
''No problems encountered.'' Dupont answered as the most senior and most experienced, instinctively recognised by the other five men as their leader. ''The Major caught one in the left lung, penetration wound. Looks clean.'' He paused, then, with sadness in his voice: ''Ellie is dead, Mike. Heart shot.'' He pressed Michael's arm. ''I'm so sorry.''
The young man seemed to shrink, took a deep breath, nodded thanks, and while kneeling down to his wife, replied: ''You didn't kill her, Marcel.'' Then, throwing a quick look towards the unconscious Major: ''That one did.'' He pulled Ellie's body into his arms, stroked her hair, held her for a long while, weeping silently. Nobody moved, nobody spoke. Only the doctor working on the wounded soldier. The American commander watched the young man in silence, again asking himself who these people were.
Suddenly Mike looked up, tears in his eyes and addressed the American: ''Why did he shoot her?''
The commander returned his gaze: ''I will only answer to your leader.''
Marcel moved off the wall, replied casually: ''You will answer him.'' He pulled a very sharp looking dagger from somewhere.
Mike lifted his hand protectively: ''Mon chef-sergeant, s'il vous plaît.''
The knife disappeared.
Upon hearing and understanding the salutation, Wright hesitated, took one look at the weathered man who gave the impression of an old, combat-proven warhorse, then answered in an explaining tone: ''SBS. Thought she had some kind of a bomb.''
''What? And you took him on a mission?'' Marcel fumed, ''with a Suicide Bomber Syndrome?''
''Psych's signed it off,'' the Lieutenant-Commander replied, ''I objected, got overruled, and that was that.''
Mike, sitting on the floor, holding his dead wife in his arms, took a few deep breaths, then reacted unexpectedly sober: ''What can you tell us about your mission parameters?''
That took the American by surprise. This was military slang, not terrorist lingo. He cautiously answered: ''We were ordered to secure that shelter of yours.''
''Why?''
''No idea,'' the American fended off. He saw no sense in passing confidential information to a potential enemy.
Again the old sergeant started to move, again Mike held him back. Instead he pointed at the man: ''May I introduce Senior Master Sergeant Marcel Dupont, French Foreign Legion. Retired.''
Marcel hinted a grim bow to the perplexed American.
Pointing at the five troopers, Mike continued: ''Master Sergeant Smith, Lieutenant Snider, First Sergeant Muller, Sergeant Wolfram, Sergeant Heinrichs. All war commissions, all US Special Forces. Iraq 2010, Afghanistan 2011, Iran 2012. Retired now. US citizens.'' He pointed at himself: ''MacMillan, First Lieutenant, US Special Forces. Retired.'' Then he repeated the round, in the same order: ''Dr Claus Smith, solid-state physicist, Ralf Snider, Master of mechanical engineering, Carl Muller, Master of structural engineering, Walter Wolfram, Master of electrical engineering and last Peter Heinrichs, Master of aircraft engineering. They all work part-time as mission security, too, with Snider as their leader.''
Then he nodded to the working medic: ''That's Dr Margaret Hamilton, MD, Captain of the United States Army, retired. And last, me, Dr Michael MacMillan, computer science, and acting project manager of project Twisted Spaces. US citizen, too.'' He paused, eyes on Wright. ''Now, my friend, I ask again: What can you tell us of your mission parameters?''
The American commander took a deep breath. That explained why he had run into the sniper trap: he had been told to expect a group of fundamentalist duds building a backyard nuke - and encountered a combat proven team of ex-soldiers that had fended off his ranger platoon with embarrassing ease. And after their service tour in hell, these people had stayed in contact, had gained impressive qualifications and then had united to build ... this. He instinctively knew that pulling the citizenship card would lead to nowhere. These men had paid any obligation imaginable to their chosen homeland. No debt left. He decided. ''Maybe answer some questions first?''
''Of course. But not down here - and I need your word that you don't try anything stupid.''
Wright reacted, astonished: ''You trust my word?''
''The word of an American infantry officer? Sure, any time.''
''Then you have it.''
''Good.'' Mike carefully laid Ellie's body to the side, his shirt soaked red with her blood. He got up stiffly, wiped his eyes. Turning to his medic he asked: ''Margaret, what can you tell me?''
''Same as the Sergeant, Mike. Clean penetration wound. Left lung partially collapsed, but I could stabilise it and fill the wound channel with XStat sponges. He will live, but needs to get serious medical attention soon.''
''We'll land within three hours. Drop him off at CERN. Is that satisfactory to you?''
''Yes, Mike. That'll do.'' She took a deep breath: ''What shall I do with Ellie? You want to leave her at CERN, too?''
''No. Please keep her cool, we'll deep-freeze her later. I want to bury her on Mars.'' With a sigh he continued: ''She deserved that much.'' Then, addressing the commander, he added: ''You'll stay behind at CERN, too.''
''You are letting me go? And him too?'' Wright asked, nodding to the unconscious Major, ''just like that?''
''This is not about revenge,'' Mike replied. ''It wouldn't bring my wife back. And he,'' nodding towards the major, ''is only another victim of those damned wars. Collateral damage, like my Ellie.'' Turning to the Lieutenant-Commander, he continued: ''And you just followed your orders. Although, I must warn you: it's possible the Swiss authorities will hand you both over to the Germans or the international court in Geneva; after all, you took part in an assault on German soil and he did kill an unarmed woman. But that's not in my hands.'' He took a breath. ''Pah, the US government will bail you out anyway.'' He eyed the Colonel sharply: ''But you tell him this: he has killed my wife. I am sparing his life, but he owes me a blood guilt. And you tell your superior: we have the whole event on video. Perfect evidence. We haven't released it - yet. Understood?'' Upon a silent nod from the officer he turned towards his men: ''Cut him loose.''
That done, Mike nodded towards the lift opening: ''Let's go up. I'm in need of a change of uniform.'' He turned a last time to the waiting troopers: ''Gentlemen, thank you. Very well done.''
The five men watched their Lieutenant floating upwards, with burning eyes. He was holding up very well, doing his duty, they knew, and would continue to do so as long as necessary. But in due time he would have to sit down, think of Ellie, remember and crash. Mourn his lost love. Drink himself into oblivion. They knew. Each and every one had experienced extremely painful losses. They would be there, mourn with him, drink with him. They had done it before, for other now absent friends. They had all loved Ellie, of course: her jolly nature, her friendliness, her wicked humour, her very female curves - and her fabulous Irish dishes.
During their tour in dune country the men had learned of Mike's vision - to get away from this world's senseless violence, to open the gate wide, for a new and greater future. They had dealt themselves in, knowing that their undertaking was far beyond crazy, outrageously dangerous and they could expect to face and meet death - just not such a senseless one. Hopefully Ellie's sacrifice was their last offering to human stupidity.
An hour later a visibly subdued Mike, a watchful Marcel and a cautious Commander Wright were sitting in the small galley, the group completed by Simone Goldman, who had been asked to join in. The ship's intercom was on and the whole crew could listen in. A monitor on the wall showed the picture of a slowly turning b
lue planet a thousand kilometers below.
The artificial gravity made them feel at ease, and after some coffee the conversation from the docking bay resumed. At a discreet signal from Mike, Simone started a short summary. ''Lieutenant-Commander Wright,'' she drew the Americans attention to her, ''we know you were ordered to apprehend a group of people in Spangdahlem. You have said as much over the loud speaker in our shelter's courtyard. Now, Spangdahlem is part of Germany and, last time I checked, the American Army has no jurisdiction there.'' She paused. Wright remained silent. ''That was a high-risk move, Commander. The German Air Force fought it out with the Russians for over thirty years and is more than capable of handling a few stray Ospreys. But, surprise surprise, nothing happened, no jets came to intercept you. So either your planes slipped through the German Air Defence Network undetected - or the Germans were informed.'' She smiled wickedly: ''The Russians never achieved the former - and by God, they tried, so I suspect the latter.''
The American, turning to Mike, asked: ''Who is this strident young lady?''
''This - insistent - young lady is Dr Simone Goldman, Psychiatrist and our Head of Intelligence.'' Mike gave a sad smile: ''Our ears and brains, so to say. Behind her back we suspect her to be able to read minds, too. But we would never dare to admit that openly.'' He nodded at Simone to continue.
''Your country is not stupid enough to pull off such a ludicrous provocation without a paramount reason.'' Simone went on, obviously unruffled by Mike's tease. ''The time when America could trample on the Germans is over. So there must be something else, something more sinister or dangerous to force your president's hand - he is the only one powerful enough to authorize such a stunt - and to clean up the mess afterwards. I don't believe the former - in my opinion the American government is by no way more vile than any other, so it must be the latter. Let me ask a simple question: did your order come from the operations department of the CIA?'' Again Wright remained silent, but after a moment of considering nodded once. Simone sat up, barking an order: ''Intel to Comm. Immediately initiate a radio connection into the US mobile network!'' She pulled out her mobile phone, held it to Wright: ''Call General Atkins at once!''
''What?'' The officer, dumbfound by her action and the fact that she knew the DDO's name - something that surely wasn't common knowledge - eyed her suspiciously: ''Why?''
''Because your DDO has been set up: this is most likely being used as a mole hunt. A search for your spy in the country where your information originates. Your source has been fed manipulated data to lure you into action and thereby unveil hints pointing back towards your operative. If your DDO is not exceedingly fast and exceedingly clever, your agent is lost.''
When Wright still hesitated, Simone asked laconically: ''Were you told to apprehend a terrorist group building a home-made nuclear bomb?''
George Wright stared at the young woman, then took the phone, started dialling.
Chapter 66
Beijing
Wednesday, 09.11.2016 / Thursday, 10.11.2016
This is one of those days, Xao thought, stirring his tea, reflecting on the message he had received not even ten minutes ago. One of those days without end when you believe an especially vengeful God is looking over your shoulder and fouls up any plan you come up with. Convinced communist he was, he knew of course, that there was no such thing as a God, but ... well.
It had all gone exactly as planned. The placement of the advance party in form of a very attractive female agent with fitting ethnic appearance had been child's play. After her arrival in Frankfurt she had passed through customs without the tiniest complication. Hiring a German National to do the aero-passes over the target area had even been easier: quite a number of them were working in Chinese-German liaisons or Chinese owned companies. It wasn't even necessary to make up a complicated story: the participants just had to be told that a number of survey flights needed to be performed before a major investment could be considered. This happened all the time these days. And because a few days of flying over the Eifel and spending the evenings in the Bitburg pubs was far more attractive than sitting behind a desk in the office, there were plenty of volunteers to choose from. So a representative of one off those well known companies had simply called up a private airline which offered sightseeing flights from the former Bitburg Airbase. They booked the plane for ten consecutive days, six flights a day. After receiving a fat reduction on the standard fare for tourist flights they made a schedule, and that was that.
Unknown to the representative, Xao had deployed his field operative to a vantage point close to Bitburg, having her overlook both old air bases, with orders to watch in silence. And it was the report of this field officer that now lay in front of him. In simple, clear words the document stated that the mission had failed - the targeted group had somehow been able to escape in a spectacular move.
On observing that weird light phenomenon, the operative had decided to abandon her post and rushed to Spangdahlem. There she entered the air base and drove around the runways - to be stopped at a clearly improvised checkpoint by armed American soldiers. Upon presenting her false press card, she had been politely but determinedly denied further access. It didn't matter, she had found the target area and was able to see enough from her current position: a shelter with a blackened, man-sized ragged hole in its side, another shelter with hordes of armed soldiers moving in and out. Strangely flattened items were scattered around - like crumbled signposts and fences and a compressed car in front of the busy hangar.
After some loud protests in order to stay in her role and an impounded memory chip from her camera she had turned around, left the target area and simply called the Berlin station by encrypted mobile phone, reporting her observations. Ten minutes later the info was in Beijing, on Xao's desk.
The General immediately ordered the 'abort' signal to be sent to his insurgent team: no sense in exposing an operation before it even turned hot.
''These forsaken Americans!'' Xao cursed, ''They have beaten us again!'' He looked at his assistant, Lieutenant Feng Chin, radiating frustration. ''How could they identify the target area so fast?''
''From CERN?'' Chin suggested. He knew that an operative was placed there, but had no further details.
''No. Well, at least our source didn't hear anything pointing to the hiding place.''
There was a moment of silent contemplation, then Feng Chin spoke up: ''If I understand this right, the agents of all nations at CERN have had the same basic information - same as ours. Only we have another, different trail: Chan Li followed the route of a message that was smuggled through our satellite. So either the unknowns did the same with an American satellite and they found out too - and tracked the message route - or ...'' He didn't have to finish, both thought the same: too many coincidences. There was a far more likely explanation.
''The Americans have the information of the target area from us,'' Xao deducted.
''We may have a leak,'' Chin acknowledged.
''And at government level.'' The General stared at his hands for a while, deep in thought, then turned to Feng: ''How could they pinpoint the exact location so much faster than us?''
''They have a very special satellite in orbit. A gravitational probe.''
''What? How would you know?''
Feng Chin took a deep breath: ''Well, sir, our little wonder-girl did even more than she confessed to you.'' He smiled about Xao's wrinkled brows. ''Chan talked to me during the last session, explaining a lot. From this I know that NASA has an advanced scientific probe circling Earth in low orbit. It's collecting a highly precise gravitational map of our planet.''
Xao gasped: ''Don't tell me she tried to steal ...''
''But of course she did. Used a cracked South-American account for the attack.'' Chin grinned again. ''We have a persistent little devil on our hands here, sir. Very clever, very dedicated. No-Go is no option for her.'' Again he paused a moment, then went on: ''She failed, though. The gatekeeper software was just too good, fended her off
. She said it had an NSA signature - super-tough stuff. Said maybe she could crack it anyway, but that way she would leave footprints herself, and the owner might be able to identify where the attack came from. So she left it alone. The CIA, on the other hand, would be able to access it - they just had to kick some asses at NASA.''
''So the next question: how did they know to use a gravitational probe?''
''From us, probably. It was Chan's idea.''
''And we kept a tight lid on it. We do have a leak.'' Xao settled back, thinking for a while. When he looked up again, he smiled. ''Maybe our operation wasn't a total disaster.''
Feng had an idea about where the General was heading: ''Mole hunt?''
''Yes. It seems the information is flowing very fast from us to the Americans, and that makes it vulnerable. You know, we have a canary trap out. Now all we have to do is wait for it to spring.'' He looked at his assistant: ''Alert the hunting team. We need to have every intercept from the Americans over the last two days examined.'' Then, after a moment of consideration: ''And give all messages that IT can't crack to Chan. Maybe she can use her skills - again.''
Xao stood, stretched: ''I'll go get some sleep now. At nine I have to inform the committee.'' He smiled wickedly. ''About our failure.''
Chapter 67
Earth Orbit
Wednesday, 09.11.2016
The needs of the wounded Major in mind, Mike had decided for a fast approach. The sphere, protected by a fiercely flaming deflector shield, fell from the sky like a meteor and dropped down towards the Italian Mediterranean Sea. It swept over Corsica, levelled off at a mere two hundred meters above the water and rushed northward at Mach Ten, approaching the Alps from the Ligurian sea. Staying away from night-time Monaco it headed towards Geneva and flashed across a five hundred kilometer distance in a mere two-and-a-half minutes - doing over eleven thousand kilometers per hour.