“I think they’re all tied to the propulsion system in Sparrow’s belly. I think it has something to do with dark energy.”
“What?”
“Dark energy. It’s seventy percent of the total mass-energy in the universe. I personally think it’s vacuum-state-energy, particles popping in and out of existence. Our benefactors have found a way to tap into it.”
“That sounds pretty advanced for the Russians,” said Dillon.
“Yeah, that’s been bothering me, too. I’m trying not to think we’re dealing with little green men in disguise.”
“Ten thousand feet. There’s the Grand Canyon. The terminator is chasing us. Sparrow to Flight Com, we’re coming in on auto. Advise, please.”
“Right on glide path, and just ride her in,” said Hendricks. “Maybe we won’t need pilots anymore.”
“That’ll be the day,” said Dillon. He hadn’t relaxed during the entire descent, body rigid, hands hovering near the controls.
And then, quite suddenly, one-by-one, the green lights went out on the panels by Eric’s knees. There was a whine, and a smooth vibration in the cockpit. Eric’s buttocks pressed into his seat, and his stomach fluttered. The holodisplay flickered and disappeared, and they were flying blind.
“Oh shit,” said Dillon, and grabbed his knees with his hands.
Eric felt Sparrow slide sideways, hover, then descend. There was a thump, a settling in his stomach, and the whine went away.
“Touchdown,” said Hendricks, “and looking good. Congratulations.”
Two techs were on Sparrow’s stubby wings before Dillon popped the canopy open. Red light flooded them. Far above, the roof of the bay was sliding closed. A red-tinged cloud floated beyond it. The techs saluted smartly, and began fumbling with chest harnesses. Dillon pressed his helmet off, and grinned at Eric. “We’ve got to do this again real soon.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” said Eric, and flinched at a pinched ear as his helmet came off.
Hendricks was waiting for them on the floor, and he looked pleased. A small crowd applauded as Dillon and Eric stepped down off a wing and shook hands with their flight com. Eric immediately spotted Sergeant Alan Nutt in the crowd. Nutt smiled at him and gave a mock salute with two fingers. He held his usual clipboard and two thickly filled manila envelopes under one arm.
“Everything was seamless,” said Hendricks.
“Pretty much, once we knew how to use that icon for the return trip. You can thank Doctor Price for that,” said Dillon.
“Another revelation, Doctor?” said Hendricks.
“I don’t know what else to call it.”
“Relax. I asked Brown about it, and he said subliminal methods had been used by his people to feed you information in a secure way at critical points in our testing. But he would not tell me why you were favored over others to receive it. At this point I don’t even care. We’re scheduling a full-power test one week from today.”
“Yes!” said Dillon.
“And for once, I don’t have a clue as to what will happen,” said Eric.
Hendricks paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, then, “If I believe what Mister Brown told me today, we will be taking our first step towards the stars.”
Dillon wiggled an eyebrow at Eric. “We’d better pack a lunch.”
Everyone laughed at that.
Eric was still checking when Sergeant Nutt stepped up to him and handed him the thick envelopes he’d been carrying. “You might need more than lunch, sir. Here’s your operations manual for the final test. There are copies for both you and Captain Dillon. You should be ready to recommend a flight profile in three days.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Eric. He opened the envelope, took out two slender volumes bound in hard covers and handed one to Dillon. Neither man bothered to open their manual. “Right now I’d really like a hot shower and some breakfast. I’m starving,” said Eric.
And euphoric, he thought.
A sudden thought, and Eric drew close to Alan Nutt, whispered, “Anything new on Leon?”
“He’s critical, sir. They’re working on him right now. I’ll let you know when there’s something new.”
Later, after he’d been bathed and fed, Eric retired to a conference room to do a quick overview of the new manual he’d received.
What he read there both shocked and thrilled him. Apparently the effect was the same for his pilot, because halfway through Eric’s read there was a pounding on the door and then Dillon was there, gibbering with excitement.
“Do you believe what it says here? I’ve been testing high-performance aircraft for a decade, and I never even dreamed of this!”
“Me neither. I think we better be conservative about our flight profile.”
“Over my dead body we will.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” said Eric. “No matter. I think a higher intelligence has already decided our profile for us.”
“I think maybe you’re right,” said Dillon, “but we’ll file one anyway.”
And they did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DECEPTIONS
There were times when being military liaison was worse than a boil on Alan’s ass, and listening to Davis rant and rave had been one of them. But in his years of diplomatic service, Alan Nutt had learned to know when it was safe to simply tune out a diatribe and go to a higher, peaceful state while his antagonist vented a spleen, so to speak.
It had taken Davis several minutes to vent his anger; all the while believing Alan was actually listening. Whatever, it had worked. A few minutes later, Davis was teachable again. The threat to the base was real, and required a substantial force to counter it. A foreign power that had gifted a priceless technology would provide that force at no cost, if only to protect their investment. What was there to be debated and discussed? The orders had come from the oval office. Davis could obey them, or relinquish command. End of discussion.
The argument had soured his stomach, and Alan was not in the mood for conversation or even comforting words for a man he really liked. Eric was working with Dillon in Sparrow’s bay, finalizing a flight profile. If Alan came through there he would have Eric all over him about Leon, would have to say nothing was new, again, but the man was in good hands, et cetera, et cetera. To say nothing was new was truth, of course, but Leon had been rushed through the portal, and Alan had no idea what had happened to him on the other side. Eric’s pain over his friend was horribly real, and came in powerful waves that Alan could not contend with at the moment. He avoided Sparrow’s bay, went back to the main tunnel and took the back entrance past the machine shop to get to portal bay.
Three men were at the console when he arrived. They stood, and Alan motioned for them to be seated again. The bay below them had been cleared of all personnel, and was empty. Quarters had been readied on level four, and two service elevators would be used. The duty roster was divided into three shifts of thirty men, ten of them cloaked at all times.
It was ten minutes until activation. Alan poured himself a small cup of coffee from a thermos, and made small talk with the console operators to put them at ease in his presence. It was their first rotation away from home, and they were far too conscious of his rank when he was with them. It had nearly led to problems of explanation for him when Davis had been present on two occasions.
“You all must be getting anxious to go home. It’s nearly a year, right?”
“Yes sir,” said one man, a boy, really.
“Stuck down in this hole, no suns, no salt in the air. I’m working for surface leave, and the council is listening, but it won’t happen until we’re flying. I think it’ll be soon.”
The three young men smiled, but nobody spoke.
“A young person can go nuts down here. No women.”
That earned a reply. “What are they like up there, sir?”
“The women? Oh, same as home, maybe a little more outspoken and aggressive, some gorgeous, some plain. Same people
, Ensign. Remember that.”
“I do, sir. I’d just like a chance to find out for myself.”
“I’ll work on it,” said Alan, and patted the kid on the shoulder. Towards the end of the console, a board suddenly lit up. Heads turned.
“Incoming signature. B-42, sir.”
“That’s the one. Let ’em in, Ensign.”
Fingers played over the console boards. The bay below darkened, and a wall shimmered red, then flashed brilliant blue in rippling waves. Alan exited the control room and went down a spiral staircase to the bay. As he walked towards the brightly glowing wall he saw the dimples come and go on its surface as the first, cloaked personnel came through. He counted ten, and stepped up close to the quiet ripples of the portal.
“Welcome to Hole-in-the-Ground, gentlemen. Good to have you with us. Looks like a 1694 day.”
“A sunny day,” came a voice out of clear air.
“Very good,” said Alan, and looked at his watch. “I have ten-forty-two. Officer briefings and a lunch with the Council are at twelve hundred. Noncoms will be served in the Mess. I’m taking you straight to quarters to get settled in first.”
The air shimmered, and the figures of ten men appeared in front of Alan. They were dressed in fatigues, were burdened with heavy field packs and helmets with darkened faceplates. All carried stubby, black automatic weapons. The man nearest to Alan put a hand to his throat and said, “Proceed,” then held out his hand and smiled.
“Good to see you again, sir. It’s been a couple of years.”
“Jack,” said Alan, and shook his hand. “Haven’t you had enough yet?”
“It was either this or a desk, sir. How about you?”
“One more tour after this one, someplace where I can get a sunburn, then home. We could have a bad situation here, Jack.”
“I understand, sir, but for once our Intel is good. Watt’s outfit has been porous for the past year; people are positioning themselves to be in the President’s favor when arrests begin. His mercenaries are good, but they won’t have time for rehearsal. We’ll be ready for them. I don’t know about you, but I never did like Watt, even when he was the President’s right hand. Shifty-eyed, always said exactly what people wanted to hear.”
“He wanted to be President,” said Alan. “He still does. The obsession has run away with him.”
“Too bad,” said Jack. “Our orders come direct from Blue Tower, sir. There was some argument about mining the portal and the bay here to lower the risk to our own personnel, but in the end they accepted the value of keeping the portal intact for the star craft project. No prisoners are to be taken. That includes Watt.”
“I agree,” said Alan, “but we’ll have to find him first. Let’s get you settled.”
Three lines of men had marched out of the portal and arranged themselves in three platoons behind the single squad of men who had been cloaked. Jack turned to face them.
Alan whispered, “Elevators are to your left. One platoon at a time. Cloaked personnel remain here until the rest are settled.”
Jack barked a command, and one platoon moved off. Ten men spaced themselves at regular intervals around the bay, and disappeared from view. Jack went with the first platoon, came back later for the second, then the third, and Alan joined him for the ride up in the elevators.
The flickering, shimmering wall in the bay went to orange, then red, and was rust-colored rock again. The lights went out, plunging the bay into darkness. Above the floor, a dim red light went on in the control room.
A door snicked shut, and the portal bay was peaceful again.
* * * * * * *
Dario Watt had done all he could to create a positive atmosphere for the meeting. The boardroom was large, with variable lighting from brilliant to near darkness. The air conditioning was more than adequate and the chill would serve to shorten debate on any trivial matters that arose. Most importantly, the air would remain fresh, the odor of his guest neutralized and swept away. The slightest hint of it would be offensive even to the least sensitive of the few men who had remained loyal to Watt, those men who were destined to serve on his cabinet once he had taken power. Privately he agreed with their beliefs in ethnic purity, but now was not the time to indulge in it, a conclusion he knew was not lost to any of them.
The meeting began promptly at seven, and Watt used the half-hour he’d allotted himself to explain why it was necessary to move so quickly, that once the star craft was in space it would be virtually impossible to destroy it with the resources available to them. Everyone seemed to agree, and there were no questions or arguments. The longer they waited the more chance their operation would be discovered by a president who had previously shown no mercy to dissidents. Discovery meant death for all of them.
At seven-thirty there was a knock on the door and Watt himself answered it. Ustiss Kroic had dressed himself in military blues, and saluted sharply. Watt ushered him in and seated him by his side at the end of the big conference table. The five other men had seated themselves near the other end, in anticipation of Kroic’s arrival.
“I hope you had a pleasant trip,” said Watt.
Kroic’s voice was the sound of a small engine needing tuning. “Only because we arrived with embassy personnel in the dead of night. There were few people to gawk at us. My troops arrived before us on a private jump ship.”
Kroic paused, and absently scratched an unusually thick scaly patch on his face with a long fingernail. “It is very dry here,” he said.
“Misters have been arranged for your quarters,” Watt said pleasantly, then, “What I would like for this meeting is a brief summary of your strategy for the operation, and the probability of its success.”
“Of course,” said Kroic. “I must first say that based on the information I’ve been provided there will be little opposition to a lightning strike. The bulk of my force will be used to transport ordinance for destruction of the target. There is only a police force to contend with, but the ordinance comes in four large crates that must be moved quickly to optimize positioning for maximum effect. The bays are separated by twenty feet of rock. The individual weapons are moderate in yield, but shock reinforcement will take out both bays and a one-mile section of tunnel simultaneously. I guarantee this.”
“Won’t the weapons be detected when they come through?” asked a man at the far end of the table.
“Our intelligence efforts have indicated the portal has never been equipped with radiation detectors at any wavelength. The one installed for the Americans is an older, commercial model, not military. The crates will be brought through as supplies for the base, and preset to detonate within a few minutes. Half my force will be cloaked, the rest disguised as laborers.”
“Really?” said another man. “And how will you do that?”
“By the judicious use of thin polymer masks, and darkened face plates. We wouldn’t want to frighten anyone.” Kroic’s voice dripped hostility, and matched the tone of his inquisitor.
The odor that burst from Kroic’s body was like fecal matter in moist earth, and Watt fought hard to suppress a gagging sensation. “The plan is excellent, but ordinance placement is critical. Your people must remain until that is accomplished, and the portal must be closed before detonation. Do they understand the risks?”
“Yes,” said Kroic, his voice a low rumble. “They are professionals, all of them. Their courage is beyond question.”
“Portal shutdown and detonation must be synchronized,” said a man in gloom at the end of the table. “Our own facility can be destroyed if there’s an error in timing.”
“Our plan includes a twenty minute window. I will carry a remote that can reset the timers, but you must control the portal. We must be in constant communication.”
“Absolutely,” said Watt.
“If all goes well the crates will be delivered and properly placed, and we will leave without incident. At worst there will be a limited exchange with a small contingent of guards and police and we wil
l withdraw under fire. The end result will be the same, but you must keep the portal open during this time.”
Kroic half smiled, half scowled at the men at the other end of the table, and it was an unpleasant thing to see.
“I will be there to oversee everything,” said Watt, and gestured to the others. “We will all be there, gentlemen. That’s two days from now, the usual morning transmission at nine. Our usual friends have been paid, and the preparation bay will be open only for our group at eight. The transmission will not be logged in; officially there will be a two-hour portal hold for maintenance. Unofficially this is a private, black market operation, and the people we’ve dealt with have supported such in the past. There can be no hint of a military operation until it has begun. Weapons must be out of sight, and disguises intact.”
“As I’ve been instructed,” said Kroic.
“Yes, and now I’m sharing it with the rest of you.”
There were questions. Watt could see it in the eyes of the others, but they all held their tongues.
“Are there any questions for Commander Kroic?” asked Watt, and saw the mercenary’s posture go rigid beside him.
“No?” He turned to Kroic. “Funds have been deposited as you instructed.”
“They are received, and will be distributed. It is a generous sum.”
“The future of our civilization is worth it,” said Watt.
Kroic made a strange sound in his throat, but said nothing, and stood up to leave.
“Thank you for coming, Commander. We’ll see you in two days.”
Kroic nodded, walked in his heavy-footed way to the door, and left the room.
A long silence followed. Watt poured a glass of water and drank it slowly.
“He disgusts me,” said a voice in the darkness.
“I know, and you made little effort to hide it. That is stupid, my friend. We have no supporters for what we’re doing. They will surface, of course, when we are done. Until then we work with whomever we have to, and you’ll be wise not to jeopardize it. Besides, our association with Kroic and his mercenaries will soon be terminated.”
Sedona Conspiracy Page 25