The remotes dropped to the floor and rolled out into the hall, down the passageway towards a pair of large double doors. Two Inspectors opened the doors wide. Mackey looked up at them, wanting to apologize for being a remote, for some reason. But the Inspectors didn't give the self-propelled shapes a second glance.
In the cavernous hangar, white lights on the ceiling illuminated a tiny squadron of small white vehicles. Each was without pilot, without cockpit, without even much airframe. Some had fixed wings, others had rotors. One type even had two pairs of rotors on separated vertical wings, not unlike Parsons' prized Vail aircraft. A few had obvious weapon mounts, but they all had small, teardrop-shaped pods hanging from the undersides of fuselages and wings.
"Well," Hopper said, "this explains the appearance of the drone."
"These are target aircraft," Parsons said. "For training fighter pilots."
"They've been used for more than that," the Assistant Secretary corrected. "They've been doing reconnaissance for years, taking photographs. We've also used similar drone vehicles for electronic conflicts. They can be used as countermeasures, for diversions. And as we've seen today, they can be armed. Although most of the time they are too small to carry much in the way of ammunition."
"I think I know what those small pods are," Mackey said, speaking of the small teardrops underneath the drones. "They are jamming pods, aren't they?"
Hopper's remote approached the drones for a closer look. "I believe you are right, Mackey."
"Do you know what they might be used to jam, Fred?" asked Parsons. "If the Inspectors open one up for you, could you tell?"
"I could look," he offered. "But I would really need my lab equipment back at the Electromagnetic Bureau to be able to say for sure."
"Who made these?" asked Ross. "I've never seen any of these airframes, and almost every military or Departmental design comes through Plant 42 at some point for testing."
"I know where they come from," Thompson offered, cautiously. "And I'll tell you. But first I need to tell you something about myself."
The remotes adjusted, each catching Thompson's remote with one of their camera lenses, though his remote showed no sign of emotions, or any other human indicator that would have given them insight into his cryptic pronouncement.
"I think," Hopper said quickly, "we've seen enough here. Commander—we're going to cease remote operations. Thanks to both you and your troops…very brave under fire. I'll see that the Secretary hears of your heroism here today. Please, secure these remote units, and maintain a security perimeter at this complex until you hear further from me."
"Yes, Assistant Secretary. Thank you, ma'am."
The view of the hangar area faded into static before being replaced by the NATSB logo, and then the white grid of the helmet. Mackey sat up in the tank, his back sore, skin covered in sweat, balance disoriented in the dark of the helmet. Pulling it off, he saw the others climbing out of the tanks, rivulets of saline fluid running off of them and onto the laboratory floor, stretching their limbs and jaws, getting over the sudden rush of muscle disorientation as their brains reoriented to their bodies.
Hopper put her glasses on, her white suit still shedding liquid. "We'll change, and meet in the adjoining conference room. Then we'll hear what Ranger Thompson has to share with us."
There was no conversation as they changed clothes, each merely conducting their own awkward struggle as they lurched out of the tank gear. Mackey's muscles were oddly sore, as if even in floatation they had been tensing and relaxing without his full awareness of them—or perhaps imbued somehow with the heavy motions of the hovercraft. He could still feel the odd, gliding sense of hovercraft motion, the lingering delay of effect between control change and motion change, the balance of weight necessary in a heavy, hovering vehicle, not quite airplane, not quite boat. His glasses, put back onto his eyes, helped a little to replace the missing sensation of the screen that had taken over his sense of space.
As he dressed, Mackey held up the electromagnetic amulet around his neck. It was motionless, still, like nothing more than a piece of fashion jewelry. He tucked it underneath his shirt as he buttoned it, smoothing down the wrinkles with his hands.
In the conference room they gathered silently, again around a table with Mackey and Thompson on one side, Parsons and Ross opposite, and Hopper at the head.
"I realize," Thompson began, "that telling you this might endanger my life once again. But I cannot keep silent, because I believe I have crucial information about what is to happen."
He continued. "There is no time for Mr. Mackey to receive the drones at his lab and analyze them. But I know where they come from—a private factory, called Rand Aeronautical, in San Diego. We must go there at once and determine what the drone will be used for."
Ross spoke up immediately. "I think I speak for all of us when I ask how you know this."
He nodded, his eyes low, and continued. "My name is not Gene Thompson. It is Evgeny Tikhonov, and I am an agent of the Russian Bolshevik Technocracy-in-Exile."
The faces around the table were stunned. Thompson—or Tikhonov—continued speaking into the silence. His voice was still a perfect American accent, his deep brown skin betraying no quiver, no panic. He looked exactly the same as he had, only now exposed as someone completely different than they thought him to be.
"You were right, Assistant Secretary, to suspect that the Anti-War may be a factor here. I am sorry to tell you that your problems are not simply with the Department of Commerce, nor simply with the URER, but with both. Your Department of Commerce has been, for some time now, funding certain aspects of URER technological development, and aiding them through the leaking of new technological patents. This is against your laws, of course, as well as it is potentially politically embarrassing for both the URER government and your own government. We Bolsheviks, enemies of all capitalistic exploitation of technological resources, sought to expose this collusion in Russia and abroad."
Mackey was completely unsure of what to believe. "Why would Commerce want to help the URER?"
Tikhonov folded his hands on the table. "The tensions of the Anti-War are largely viewed by Commerce as being bad for the Department of Transportation. Furthermore, your Department of Commerce believes in competition, to its very core. They want the government and corporations of the URER to be a technological competition for the Department of Transportation. And through that competition, they believe they will level the playing field, and gain power of their own against Transportation."
Mackey was still unsatisfied. "So they broke the law to do it? Orthogonal Procedures are one thing, but leaking technological patents of the United States government is essentially treason."
Hopper spoke up. "If Commerce wanted to leak information on new technology to the Russians, they couldn't do it from the Patent and Trademark Service. That would be too obvious, and the information there is under high security."
Mackey nodded. "Ever since the Pykrete Scandals in the 1940s. Patent and Trademark have access to every technological advance made by any agency of government, but they are heavily locked down and tracked. Any suspected leak would trigger a full review of access."
"That is correct," Tikhonov responded. "But the Smithsonian Cultural Service has no such restrictions. Material in their archives can be accessed freely by any government."
Ross thought aloud. "The National Standards Service gets information from the Patent Service, in the form of proposed changes to scientific and industry standards, due to new technologies."
"Numerologists and free energy enthusiasts, respectively," Parsons said to himself.
"Suggested changes to the standards are then logged by the National Standards Service in the Smithsonian archives," Mackey said, ignoring Parsons, and fitting together the pieces proposed by Ross and Tikhonov. "They could track potential new technology, if they are watching the proposed revisi
ons of standards. It would be difficult and cumbersome to work backwards from standards to the technology, but not impossible. Like, if there was a proposed revision of the bandwidth allocations for radio phones, one might suspect that a new technology involving higher throughput of radio phone frequencies was in the works."
"And each of these agencies have large liaison offices between them, which help to identify the most helpful material," Tikhonov suggested.
"It's true," said Mackey. "The Patent Service has a full Standards Communications Office, Standards has an equivalent office to communicate with the Patent Service, as well as one with the Smithsonian, who has one for communicating with Standards. That is something like four hundred bureaucrats, all for transferring information concerning proposed changes on scientific standards. That does seem bloated, even for bureaucracy."
"With four hundred personnel and some good computer analysis, it would be easy to look backwards through the standard revision information, and identify the most likely new patents under development. Reverse engineering, in a sense," Hopper concluded.
"Internally, they call it ‘forecasting and foresight.' And not only that, but they embed reports of these technology forecasts within the standards data in the Smithsonian archive," Tikhonov completed the circle. "Some of it is embedded in code, other parts are in plain language. The pieces only need to be decoded and fit together once the URER accesses the archives, and then it is a matter of experimentation until nearly the same patent invention can be ‘discovered,' as if independently."
"So they are communicating, without communicating," Parsons mused. "Like reading each other's minds, but through hundreds and hundreds of pages of bureaucratic documents."
"Technological advance is much easier if you know exactly what to work on, what materials to use, what industrial processes to try," Ross said. "It takes out months and months of guesswork. The URER would be getting hundreds of pages of these hints, giving them a shortcut to new breakthroughs."
Hopper turned to the now-revealed spy. "You can prove all this, Tikhonov?"
"We are on the verge of doing so. I was undercover with the Forest Service, doing reconnaissance on Roerich to determine his role, when I was discovered. That is when we crossed paths, thankfully for me."
"But other than to thwart the URER, why are the Bolsheviks interested in helping the Department of Transportation?" Mackey asked. "We're not as market-oriented as Commerce, but we're still part of a capitalist country."
Tikhonov smiled. "We seek to shut off the URER's exploitative access to free technology, first of all. But as well, we admire how the Technocrats run things, just not all of their aims. Your technology is, of course, the best in the world. If only you were interested in using it to empower the workers and allowing them to control their own technological destiny, rather than, say, sending mail to the moon. If your material and historical aims were only slightly different, perhaps we would be best of friends."
"Politics aside for a moment, what does all of this have to do with drones?" Parsons asked.
"That, I do not know for sure," Tikhonov admitted. "But I know of these drones and their manufacturer, because it was among information leaked to the URER that our agents intercepted. New models produced by a private company with very good remote capabilities, not unlike these remote tanks here at the NATSB. Those are the drones we saw in Michigan. That company must be linked to Roerich and his scheme with the satellites and radio waves, although I can't say how."
He turned to Hopper. "I realize you must arrest me now, as a Bolshevik spy. But you have saved my life, and I have no regrets about aiding you with this information. You must go to Rand Aeronautical in San Diego, and figure out what Roerich is up to before the satellite deadline, now—" he checked the clock on the wall, "only ten hours away."
Turning back to the rest of the group, he let his eyes come to rest on Mackey. "I'm sorry for deceiving you in this way. But you must understand that it was the only way for me. Our revolution, in which technology is owned entirely by those who use it, required my dedication. To that goal, I am completely pledged."
Hopper stood up. "We can debate ideology later perhaps, Tikhonov. But now, we need you. You have filled in a number of missing pieces here, but we still do not have the entire picture. We have yet to determine what the drones and the satellites are meant to do. And so there is work for us yet. If you are able to continue making your services available to us, I think the Department of Transportation could use a Bolshevik partner."
From the expression on Tikhonov's face, he had clearly expected handcuffs. "You don't want to arrest me?"
Hopper shook her head and, reaching for her briefcase, stood up. "Under unique circumstances, you've become a part of this team. You're an asset to me, and to the Department, and assets are things that I do not give up lightly. So, if you are willing—"
"You certainly proved yourself in the hovercraft battle," said Mackey.
"You ask good questions," Ross added.
"And what you don't know about the occult, you make up in knowledge of scaring off bears!" Parsons smiled.
"Well, if it seems that you are all of a single opinion about it, then I have no choice but to be of any help I can," Tikhonov decided, "at least until I am able to return to my country."
They all shook hands.
"If we're quite finished, we all have aircraft to catch," Hopper urged. "Mackey, Tikhonov, and I will be headed to San Diego on the PE-70. We will investigate Rand Aeronautical. Ross and Parsons, you get back to Plant 42 and ready a strike team. As soon as we find the location where this drone, submarine, and satellite scheme is to take place, we will move."
"Will you be dropping us off?" Parsons asked. "Because I've had quite enough astral projection for one day."
"There weren't any ballistic transports ready at Plant 42," Ross broke in, "but there is a unit kept at ready station on Wallops Island. If we take that, you can fly direct to San Diego."
"Fantastic!" Parsons slapped his hands together. "Can we take the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel? I love the Bay Tunnel!"
September 4, 1958
Dear Fred Jr.,
Just writing to let you know how proud your mother and I are of you, as you enter your final year of engineering school. I can't say that I have much faith in the rest of the world. Eisenhower, like the career HQ staffer that he is, has just fired Postmaster Truman. Your mother and I heard him on the radio this morning, saying how the "Age of Administrationism is at an end, and it is time to move on to new things." That's horse pucky. "New Things," like falling behind the Russians, and letting them have outer space all to themselves. New things like letting the damn Commercialists sell everything we've worked for off to the highest bidder. Same old thing, more like. If Administrationism was good enough for us in the Postal Squadrons during the war, I say it's good enough to take us to the stars. And yet here we are, with Idiot Ike selling us all short.
But enough about politics, you're probably tired of hearing your old man's rants. At any rate, I'm glad that you will soon be a fully qualified engineer. I hope you'll follow in your father's footsteps by providing service to your country as best you can, forever championing the cause of science against the interests of greed and avarice, taking your generation forward into the technological future.
We're very, very proud of you, son.
Fred Mackey, Sr.
Chapter 10
Emergency Brake
Hopper was on the satellite phone the entire flight to San Diego, the white plastic handset pressed to the edge of her impassive face. Her agenda was unknown, but one of the tasks must have been arranging for a landing at Miramar Postal Air Station. The San Diego sun was beating down upon them from the moment they stepped out onto the tarmac, with the Pacific humidity meeting the desert dryness nearly exactly halfway. Not five minutes after coming to a halt, Tikhonov, Mackey, and the Assistant Secretary were
in a Department P-car, spinning up the entrance track to the West Coast Arterial, heading north through the San Diego hills to the location of the Rand Aeronautical plant.
They discussed the upcoming task in the car. "From what I know, it is a private facility so the security will not be as good as a government site," Tikhonov told Mackey. "But that doesn't mean that the doors will be wide open."
Hopper was on the radio telephone in the car, as always, communicating with forces unknown out across an etheric abyss. Not an ether of electromagnetic radiation, which Mackey understood very well, but with secret government forces and nebulous offices of bureaucracy. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and spoke quickly to Tikhonov and Mackey. "It appears ownership of Rand has changed hands in the last six months. We can't say for sure, but it looks like the new owners could be a front for Megatherium."
"Megatherium, owning private companies? That seems like an obvious conflict of interest for Commerce," Mackey said.
"Megatherium isn't technically a part of the Commerce Department," Tikhonov explained. "It never was an official agency or part of a Service. It was more of an agreement between Commerce executives, especially those related to the Smithsonian. And that is the way it has continued to exist, very secretly, from the end of World War Two until now. As private individuals, the Commerce executives form empty companies, called shell companies. These, in turn, own interests that they could not hold publicly as executives."
"You know all about Megatherium and Commerce, it seems." Mackey eyed Tikhonov. "But you were asking all those questions about federal bureaucracy before, as if you didn't know anything about it." He didn't feel hurt exactly. But it was a shame that Thompson—Tikhonov—was one more myth himself. Another thing that couldn't be trusted to be what it seemed.
Tikhonov looked away from Mackey, out the Perspex bubble, to the residential complexes lining both sides of the arterial. The soft sounds of Hopper's whispers and Tikhonov's heavy pause were punctuated by the soft thumps of cars passing in the slipstream. "I am sorry that I've had to mislead you, Fred. I'm sorry that I had to mislead all of you. It's just that the time wasn't right to reveal who I really was. I had to feign a bit of ignorance in order to see what all of your motivations were. Please understand—I didn't lie to you because I thought you were gullible, or because I wanted to deceive you. I had to, in order to protect myself and my work."
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