These Few Brave Souls

by Rodney Manchester

  "It's just not possible" he said. "The orbit must be wrong. Nobody can get something this big in orbit. They just can't. It must displace over a million tons. Check the orbital statistics again."

  "It won't change because you don't like it, George," the other technician said. "The orbit is what I said it was. Period. Let's take this upstairs."

  Onizuka Air Force Base

  Sunnyvale, California

  The Sunnyvale Air Force Base was renamed for Lieutenant Colonel Ellison S. Onizuka in August of 1987, following his untimely death in the Space Shuttle Challenger. This facility is home to several Air Force commands, including the 2nd Satellite Tracking Center.

  Lieutenant Harlin was proud of the bases' namesake and especially proud of his mission within the Air Force. His was an important job but sometimes he felt like a goldfish in a bowl. There were more stars behind him just now then there were in the half the night sky. Word had passed quickly to the 2nd Satellite Tracking Center about the size of the anomaly. Everyone who could reasonably find an excuse to be in this room was here, with the heavy rank right behind him. The silence was full of tension as the clock marked the passing seconds slowly. The anomaly was coming over the horizon in just seconds. Every eye was on his monitor as the clock marked zero.

  Nothing.

  Thirty seconds stretched by with no indication of the object.

  "Where is it?" someone voiced the question on everyone's mind.

  Harlin began a systems check to insure the proper functioning of his workstation. Everything checked. He recalculated the projected orbit based on his original data. When that checked, he calculated in ever increasing percentages of error. Each passing second made the error projections larger and less likely to be mistakes, but rather an intentional change in the orbital path.

  "There!" The voice caused every pair of eyes in the room to swivel. A finger pointed unnecessarily at the screen.

  "What the fuck," a General said. It had to be a General. No one swore like that in front of a General but another General.

  "Lieutenant?" questioned Captain Nunley.

  "Working sir."

  Harlin's fingers flew over the familiar keyboard as he worked the new orbital ballistics into the equations, then paused as the machine digested them. The answer came up as a series of figures.

  "Sir, we have a series of solutions based upon the objects current ballistic path. It leads into an orbit over the equator in about three hours, but must have power applied at that time to stabilize. The different solutions show differing orbital planes and altitudes, but my best estimate is within 5 degrees of the equator and possibly geosynchronous."

  "Geosynchronous over where?" Colonel Newburg asked.

  "Over South America probably, but they could change that very easily sir," Harlin replied. ."

  No. 10 Downing Street

  London, England

  The Air Vice Marshall entered the room and waited for the Lord High Treasurer of the United Kingdom to look up from his desk. Unofficially known as the Prime Minister, the leader of the British Empire mentally noted the presence in the room, but continued his hand written correspondence long enough to finish the sentence he was writing.

  The position of Prime Minister is by convention and not officially designated by law or rule. Her Majesty appoints the person most likely to have the confidence of the House of Commons, which is determined by a vote of confidence, again by convention and not law. Traditionally this role is fulfilled by the First Lord of the Treasury, thus the confluence of position, title, responsibility and residence.

  “Good evening George. What have you got?” Prime Minister William Westmorten, affectionately known as Billy West by the Fleet Street mob.

  AVM McClearun marched over to his leader’s desk and handed him the documents.

  The prime Minister took the proffered package, leaned back in his leather chair and started to flip through the pages. Moments later he leaned forward rather quickly, the chair making a noise as the momentum of his movement hit the stops built in to the chair. “What the bloody hell is this?” he said, unknowingly echoing Junior Technician Reynolds’ comments of an hour previous.

  “The Yank’s picked this up and queued it to us a short time ago,” Marshall George McClearun said. “Our boys confirmed that there’s something up there. We just got these photos from the RAF USAF liaison. Our experts tell us that this object is enormous, perhaps as large as a football pitch, or maybe even larger. It’s not one of ours,” he said, stating the obvious and letting the words hanging in the air.

  “Mutt’s Nuts!” William Westmorten exclaimed after a moment, belying his personality that prompted the moniker of Billy West, “This is fantastic! Check and see if Steve is available for a chat.”

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  "I need to see the boss," Henry Lawson said to Howard Cartier on the phone.

  "How long Henry?" Howard replied. He had long since stopped complaining about disruptions in the Presidents' schedule when Henry and a very short list of others called. Henry would be as quick as he could and that was that.

  "It'll take me about three minutes with what I've got to say. How long the President keeps me is up to him. I've had 18 holes of golf put off for this, so you know I'll be quick," Henry joked.

  Howard chuckled and said, "I guess this'll be the quickest meeting you've ever had. I can get you in in twenty minutes. It's a good day for interruptions. Nothing heavy for the rest of the day."

  "Thanks Howard. I'll see you then."

  Eighteen minutes later Henry Lawson, Air Force General William Easterly, and Howard Cartier stepped into the Oval Office.

  Steve Bermin looked up from a stack of paper and said, "So Henry, what's up," He nodded at General Easterly and rose to shake his hand. "Welcome, General."

  "Thank you, sir." General Easterly was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and new to his job. He had been on the fast track with his career from day one as a lieutenant flying the F-4 Phantom to commanding an air wing in the Gulf War. He was a take charge and get it done kind of guy and he looked it. His uniform looked like it had been designed especially to fit his large muscular frame. His hand firmly gripped the President's.

  "Mr. President," began the National Security Advisor, "approximately two hours ago an unidentified satellite appeared in a polar orbit south bound over Canada. Subsequent investigation has shown this satellite to be huge, almost 2000 feet long and displacing over a million tons. We obviously didn't put it there and we don't know who did. Quite frankly, we can't imagine any nation doing so at all, let alone quietly. This satellite just changed from a polar orbit to a configuration that will yield a geosynchronous orbit somewhere over South America. Photographs taken a short time ago reveal a roughly cylindrical object with various protuberances about it. There are markings on it that are unlike any flag or national symbol. We have aimed various antenna toward it and are checking for any emissions, but nothing yet."

  The room was quiet as the implications sunk in. E.T. was here. Or so it seems.

  "Henry, is there any possibility that the Chinese, or anyone else for that matter, are involved. We need to be as sure as we can about its origins. Or at least where it's not from. Is it a hollow shell with some kind of subterfuge involved?"

  "Mr. President," began General Easterly, "we obviously don't know everything that happens on earth or what various national leaders are planning to do, but I can assure you that this object did not originate from earth. If it lifted off in the last 48 hours, I would have heard about it. No nation can conceal a rocket lifting a payload this size. We have satellites designed for just that purpose. If they were laser flashed in an effort to conceal something, I would know about it. Nothing unusual has happened."

  "Okay General, you say within 48 hours," said the President, "What about before that?"

  "We have staff currently looking for anything unusual in the past that was even partially unexplained," the General replied. "Howeve
r, there is nothing in anyone's memory to indicate anything like this. I think that's a dead end, but we are rigorously checking. If anyone has done anything we can't fully explain, we'll find out."

  "Mr. President," National Security Advisor Lawson said, "I believe we may have something here. At least for now we need to consider what course of action is prudent to take if it's real."

  The words hung in the air for some moments. The air ventilation system hummed and the smell of fresh latex paint was faintly in the background.

  The President leaned forward and pressed a button on his phone and spoke. "Dorothy, get Marvin in here right away please."

  "Yes sir," the speaker by the phone replied.

  Marvin Winston was a short stocky man who had served as Steve Bermin's press spokesman for a number of years. He entered the room trailed by the aroma of after shave lotion. His pock marked face was testimony to his adolescent bout with acne and his ruddy complexion brought contrast to the image of a Presidential Spokesman. He was quickly filled in on the details.

  "Gentlemen," the President began. "We need to look at this from several perspectives. First, is there a threat to the security of the United States? Second, what U.N. considerations are there? Third, we need to consider how society may be affected if this is extraterrestrial. All but the first of these things are to some extent or another dependent on when knowledge of this becomes common. And how do we spin it for public consumption?"

  "Howard," continued the President "Set up a deputy’s crisis working group ASAP as quietly as you can. I need answers and options. Marvin, get back to me as soon as you hear anything in the media. I don't want to appear flat-footed on this. General, I want military options. Can we put together a manned mission to go for a visit, or can we shoot it down if we have to? What kind of international support would be helpful or even needed?"

  There were nods and 'yes sir' was spoken more than once as the men left the oval office.

  The president’s phone beeped and his Administrative Assistant spoke through the box. “Mr. President, I have the British Prime Minister for you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Wareham, England

  Major Cecil Mumsford was sleeping soundly when his telephone rang, jarring him from a vivid dream of a sexual encounter with a stunningly beautiful woman. He rolled partially over his wife, reaching for the phone. His erection poking her in her hip as he picked up the loud, irritating device.

  She reached down with her hand and wrapped her fingers around his manhood. “You missed,” she murmured. “You need to practice more.”

  “Major Mumsford,” he announced, mentally trying unsuccessfully to wipe the lurid images from his brain. His wife’s hand began to move rhythmically and he struggled to concentrate on the call.

  “Get your squadron together Major. The Colonel has ordered the Regiment assembled immediately.” Cecil recognized the voice of Lt Colonel Manfred, his commanding officer

  “Yes sir!” he barked as his wife continued her ministrations. Damn, she’s hot he thought as his training kicked into high gear. He hung up. “Minxy, you have no idea how much I hate doing this,” as he removed her hand from his Willy.

  “You have to leave?” she asked.

  “Damn it, yes I do.”

  As the leader, Black Group, M Squadron, Special Boat Service, he was responsible for an elite band of warriors, whose mission could include heliborne assault or anti-ship terrorist intervention from submarines. Previous nighttime alerts had been for training purposes only; Major Mumsford had no idea that this phone call was about changing the world.

  Less twenty minutes later, with full kit in the boot, he began to drive the 10 kilometers to Royal Marine Base Poole, home of the Royal Marines Special Boat Service. There he found his men hurrying to the squad room, where he ordered them to wait for a briefing. An hour later he restricted them to base and told them to get some rest. It would be a very long day indeed.

  San Diego, California

  Jesus Escobar had been a policeman for seventeen years and a detective for twelve, the last five in Homicide. His suit was crumpled and worn, giving him a disheveled appearance. But he wasn't a slob, just a good, hardworking cop. Thorough and meticulous.

  He stood five feet seven and one half inches tall. His eyes were brown and his hair was black, parted on the left. A cigarette dangled unlit from his lips.

  The crime before him was one he had seen many times. This was just bloodier than most murders. The victim seemed to have been killed by trauma to the head with a blunt object. The witness, Jorge Valdez, had not seen the crime occur, but had been the last to see Mrs. Juarez alive and had seen her husband leave moments before he discovered the body. He said the husband, Ramon Juarez, had a cast on his arm. There seemed to be particles of something that could be fiberglass cast material in the oozing paste that was once the victim's face. The smell of human waste was very strong in the room, threatening to make him gag. Machismo forced him to silently endure the scene of death with stoic indifference.

  "Messy one, huh?" the uniformed officer asked. He was new and this was the bloodiest murder he had ever seen.

  "Yeah," Jesus replied "makes me want extra ketchup on a burger."

  "You’re really sick, you know," the first cop said as he grimaced.

  "Part of my charm," Jesus said with a sardonic smile.

  "Jesus," John Johnson, his partner, said "I'm going with the wagon to the morgue. Pick me up there." Detective Johnson followed the Coroner's people out with the body.

  "OK," Jesus replied. He walked into the bedroom and looked around. There was a pair of trousers on the floor that he squatted next to. The smell of urine wafted up to his nose. This isn't Mr. Cool he thought.

  He straightened the pants and saw flecks of blood and pieces of tissue staining the garment. There was also a soiled pair of jockey shorts. He tagged them for the forensics people and shifted his attention to the dresser and closet. It looked like Mr. Juarez left in a hurry. Clothes were hanging up in the closet and appeared to be evenly spaced, but the dresser was a different story. Drawers were opened and clothes scattered about the floor. Probably threw a bag together and left, he thought.

  "King 31," he spoke into his hand held walkie talkie.

  "King 31," replied the dispatcher.

  "Do we have anything in the local computer on Ramon Juarez. D O B unknown but about twenty to twenty-five years. If you can get a D O B run him N C I C," Jesus said.

  "Copy," the dispatcher said.

  "King 31," the radio said moments later.

  "King 31" said Jesus.

  "Clear local. I crossed his address to C L E T E S and got a D O B. He's clear all around."

  "Do you show a previous address?"

  "No, but I've got reference to a green card."

  "Copy and thanks," Jesus said to the radio.

  Escobar left the bedroom and walked outside. The uniformed cop was standing by the apartment door, keeping neighbors away.

  "King 31," the radio squawked.

  Escobar sighed and lifted the radio to his face. "King 31," he said.

  "10-21 Charles 30," the dispatcher said.

  "10-4," Jesus replied as he returned to the house and walked to the phone in the living room. It was covered with sooty black fingerprint dust. He nodded at the fingerprint technician and said "Lift anything off the phone yet?"

  The technician said "Yeah, but watch the mess."

  Escobar went into the kitchen and reached for a paper towel rack on the wall. Returning to the phone, he laid the towel across the receiver and brought it close to his face without touching it. He punched in a phone number.

  "Homicide, Lieutenant Jackson."

  "Lou, Jesus, the Captain wanted to talk to me."

  "Yeah, hold on."

  "Escobar, what's the scoop?" Captain Washington asked a moment later.

  "The short version is that hubby catches wife with neighbor. Neighbor leaves and hubby beats wife to death with the cast on his freshly bro
ken arm. Hubby is an immigrant. My guess is that he went home. I'm going to ICE next," Jesus said.

  "OK," Washington said. "This just got real political. It seems that wife is sister-in-law to some Mexican diplomat. The deputy Mayor called to chew on me about solving this one quick."

  "Well, Mexican connections might help. I think that's where hubby is from and if he went back, it puts the heat on Mexican Federalies instead of us."

  The Captain chuckled and said "I like the way you think. And get a B O L out right away. Maybe we can pop him at the border or something."

  "You got it Cap'n."

  Washington hung up and Jesus re-dialed the phone.

  "Central dispatch."

  "This is King 31, Jesus Escobar. I need a Be On the Lookout for Ramon Juarez. Wanted for 187 P C. You can get descriptors from the computer. Alert Highway Patrol, Border Patrol, and San Diego County Sheriff. He may be on his way to Mexico."

  "Copy," the call taker said. "We'll have this out in a few minutes detective."

  "Thanks," Jesus said, hung up and walked outside, lighting his cigarette as he stepped across the threshold and inhaling deeply, feeling the nicotine rush to his brain.

  The uniformed cop nodded at Jesus and asked "What do you think?"

  "I think he went home," Jesus replied, placing his zippo lighter back in his pocket and blowing gray smoke into the early afternoon breeze.

  "He doesn't live here?" the cop asked.

  "Oh, he lived here," Jesus said "but it wasn't home. When ordinary people do stupid things, they almost always go somewhere familiar, usually home. I was involved in a code three pursuit where a father kidnapped his children from his ex. We chased him into his own driveway. Had two units waiting for him. Really stupid when you think about it, but when people get scared, they go someplace they think of as safe."

  The rookie uniform nodded his head sagely, just like he knew what Jesus was talking about.

  Enough philosophizing Jesus thought and he got into his car and drove downtown to Immigration and Customs Enforcement.