Virus

by Bill Buchanan

  Within limits, stealth technology had made enemy aircraft and cruise missiles impossible to detect using conventional radar or infrared heat sensors. Each DEWSAT was designed to overcome stealth targets using an extraordinary radar, laser, and infrared telescope. In addition, anything airborne that it could detect, it could destroy using its high-power laser.

  As part of the DEWSAT acceptance testing, Scott’s mission tonight was to fly Hell Fire in an assault competition against Centurion—the space-based supercomputer controlling the Star Wars defense system. The idea behind this testing appeared straightforward—launch stealth cruise missiles then watch Centurion track and tag them using the DEWSAT armada. Scott thought of this testing as a high-tech game of laser tag she preferred not to play, because DEWSATs would steer their lasers toward both Hell Fire and her cruise missiles. When a laser tagged (illuminated) a threat, Centurion’s defense team would score a hit. When any missile made it to target undetected, Scott’s team would score.

  Allied Headquarters believed their new brilliant-class DEWSAT would make stealth technology obsolete, but they needed testing and hard data to prove it. Scott, Mac, and Gonzo hoped Headquarters was right, but over the last two years they’d been through several tests similar to this one.

  “Twenty years in the service and I’m still working the graveyard shift,” Mac said with an exhausted smile. “Looks like they’re looking to put the stealth troops outta business again.”

  “We’ve been trying to detect them for years,” Scott said, climbing down the scaffold. “With a little luck, tonight could be our night, so let’s get on with it.”

  “Roger, Scotty.” Mac toggled a blue switch on his handheld remote control unit. ''’’Hell Fire's cooling down—fuel pumps running.” Immediately, a snow-white frost formed on Hell Fire's matte black nose, wings, and air breathing underbody. Hydrogen slush chilled to minus 435 degrees Fahrenheit would circulate throughout Hell Fire's heat shields during flight. Without this cooling, surface temperatures would soar to 5000 degrees Fahrenheit during hypersonic flight and Hell Fire would disintegrate. The fastest aerospace plane ever built, Hell Fire was a massive flying engine fueled and cooled by hydrogen slush.

  As Scott, Mac, and Gonzo walked under Hell Fire's nose, the trio zipped their flight jackets shut. A dense fog continuously boiled off Hell Fire and slowly settled on the hangar floor, causing the temperature underneath to drop twenty degrees. Hell Fire looked like an enormous wedge of dry ice, an enormous fog machine, about the size of a DC-10.

  Gonzo carried his flight systems checklist over to Scott. “Next problem: target Nevada Test Site—all missiles programmed and loaded.” Gonzalez pointed to the Anti-SATellite (ASAT) missile mounting rails inside Hell Fire's stubby wings. “Mac hung ’em on ASAT hard-points.”

  “Unarmed stealth hawks and ASATs?” Scott glanced at Mac for approval.

  “Right, Scotty. Twin ASATs and three Hawk cruise missiles. Headquarters ordered Hammer, Phantom, and Jammer Hawks,” replied the chief as he led Scott and Gonzo to three duplicate cruise missiles on a loading rack alongside Hell Fire's front tricycle gear.

  Mac looked across the hangar toward his office and noticed an ankle-high fog layer covering the floor. Extending his arm above his head, he signaled an airman to open the gargantuan hangar doors. As the doors creaked open slowly and warm air rushed in, the cool fog layer poured out of the hangar over the taxiway, forming an eerie glowing ground-level cloud. Hangar lights caused the cloud to glow while the warmer outside air caused it to swirl, boil, and then slowly dissipate.

  Scott returned Gonzo’s checklist and asked him, “What about HopeV'

  “Covered. Got their parts and supplies loaded.” Once their testing was complete, they’d deliver replacement parts to Space Station Hope.

  “And Freedom?” Scott paused. She felt her face flush. Major Jay Fayhee commanded Space Station Freedom. Her heart raced like she was a kid again in high school.

  Gonzo looked at Scott’s beet-red face, smiled gently, then winked. “Yeah, Scotty, we’re bringing him everything he needs.”

  She looked forward to their reunion with mixed feelings. There was a part of Scott that wanted her dreams of Jay to come true, but another part prayed to get over him. “He meant more to me than I ever did to him,” she sighed. After recovering her composure, she announced, “Then that’s it. Checklist’s complete. We’re ready to go.”

  “Not quite,” replied Gonzo. “We’ve gotta be sure those DEWSAT lasers are throttled back before we go anywhere.”

  Mac smiled a big toothy grin. “I’ll roger that, Gonzo. Those lasers deliver a twenty-stick kick! They’d blow us out of the sky.” From a distance of one hundred miles, each twenty megawatt DEWSAT laser delivered a punch loosely equivalent to about twenty sticks of dynamite.

  “We’re expecting safe laser confirmation in fifteen minutes, fellas,” Scott said, checking her watch.

  Scott, Mac, and Gonzo climbed Hell Fire's access scaffold, carefully lowered themselves into Hell Fire's heated cockpit, and strapped in. A towing vehicle attached itself to Hell Fire's front tricycle gear and slowly pulled her out of the hangar to the south facing end of the runway.

  Sitting in the darkness forty feet above the green and blue runway lights, Scott, Mac, and Gonzo configured Hell Fire for takeoff, then waited for their safe laser confirmation. Scott felt apprehensive about their sortie when she had time to think about it. For good luck, she felt underneath her flight suit and rubbed something about the size of a dog tag nestled between her breasts. Jay always loved it there, she thought with a smile. Around her neck, Scott wore a present Jay’d given her back in high school. Sealed in a smooth case of clear solid acrylic was a tiny four-leaf clover he’d given her for good luck. As a diversion, she turned on their forward landing lights and leaned her helmet against the cockpit canopy. Watching clouds of condensation boil off Hell Fire's nose, she wondered, What’s he doing now?

  3

  Centurion, 12107/2014, 1030 Zulu

  Altitude: 22,300 Miles In Geostationary Orbit,

  SDI Space Station Fortress Freedom

  Freedom crew commander Major Jay Fayhee felt alone and melancholy as he rested his forehead against the observation window and watched endless lightning flashes off California’s southern coast. At night from an altitude of 22,300 miles, the earth reminded Fayhee of a glimmering Christmas ornament—a large reflective ball which glistened with the sparkle of lightning from electrical storms. From Fay-hee’s window, the earth looked small and remote—about the size of a beach ball at arm’s length. Christmas music played softly in the background as Fayhee dreamed of days gone by, of the woman he’d loved and lost a long time ago.

  Seemed like a hundred years ago, but he remembered every detail like it was yesterday. He wondered if she’d be the woman he remembered, the one he used to know, or had she changed? Fiercely independent, she’d always gotten along Fine without him. After giving the matter some thought, he expected that she’d be whoever she darn well pleased. She always meant more to him than he did to her anyway. Linda could live without him easy enough, but she’d never divorce flying.

  He didn’t understand it at the time, but he’d been jealous of her flying because he couldn’t compete. Flying was always Linda’s top priority. In retrospect, he could see it more clearly now. Jay knew she couldn’t change, he wouldn’t want her to, but most of all he needed to talk to her, really open up and talk like in the old days. His eyes teared as he imagined picking up where they’d left off. But that was only a dream and dreams never came true on board Freedom. Besides, she’d never love him again after what he’d done.

  Staring out his window, he cried out to the night in a soft whisper, “I’d do anything if she’d only love me again.”

  The idea that time healed all wounds offered hope for the brokenhearted, but little else. Time provided Jay an anesthetic, a pain killer, but his wound had never healed—never even closed.

  He wondered how she’d look. Li
ke he imagined—no, probably even better. She’d always been like that, the older she’d gotten, the better she’d looked.

  He loved her smile, her laugh, but most of all he loved the twinkle in her eyes. Would her eyes twinkle? Probably, but not for him. Her entire face would light up when she was happy.

  Breathing deeply, he remembered the marvelous smell of her hair. If only he could hold her again.

  Tenderly, he caressed an old faded letter, one of the last letters he'd gotten from Linda before he'd started doing most of his thinking between his legs. Jay wasn’t any different from any other man he’d ever known. He loved sex like Linda loved flying. He thought himself an excellent lover, always considerate, patient, and he came back often—never learned to say no. He’d needed her desperately and within reach, but she was always gone. Even so, the other women weren’t worth it and this job wasn’t worth it—not worth losing Linda.

  Divorcing her was the biggest regret of his life. He’d found happiness in his own backyard with the girl next door, but didn’t understand that until it was too late.

  As the last line from the song “I’ll be Home For Christmas” slowly faded, a grating voice abruptly startled him.

  “Jay, we need to talk.”

  Fayhee sighed, but didn’t turn away from the window.

  He struggled to remember the details of his dream, then wrote them down. During his eleven-month stay on Freedom, Fayhee had learned to freeze and restart his interrupted dreams. Some time later he’d read his notes, reconstruct his dream, then pick up dreaming where he left off. After collecting his thoughts, Fayhee reluctantly turned away from his observation window and left his dreams of Linda on hold.

  Space Station Freedom, the flagship of the armada, housed a six-member crew: two men plus four supercomputers. Depack McKee kept watch over the computer crew—Centurion plus his three networked subordinates— and Fayhee watched over Depack. Together, they provided Headquarters with an option for human intervention when anything went wrong. Fayhee and McKee often joked about playing second banana to Centurion, but their primary mission was maintenance—to their dismay, they were Centurion’s keepers.

  “Wake up, Jay,” snapped Centurion with a grainy voice sounding like sand and glue.

  As Fayhee looked into the television monitor, his head throbbed as his blood pressure began to rise. What a freaking waste of screen space, Fayhee thought. A three-dimensional, computer-generated talking head stared him squarely in the eyes. Looking repugnantly generic, but politically correct, Centurion’s face was liked by no one because you couldn’t tell what he was. Fayhee’s jaw tensed—he hated looking Centurion in the eyes. It made him uncomfortable, so he looked away into his flat panel display and gazed at his own reflection. During his conversations with Centurion, he’d always felt uncomfortable because he’d never identified where Centurion’s voice came from. Fayhee had learned to hate living with Centurion. In a disquieting sense, Centurion existed everywhere on board Freedom, knew everything, possessed a quick tongue, and displayed no tact. On board Freedom, privacy existed for Fayhee only in his thoughts and imagination.

  Fayhee reluctantly read over the test script Centurion displayed in bright red print. “Centurion—make ready to alter DEWSAT behavior.”

  Centurion was the central nervous system and mouthpiece for the Star Wars defense system. Technically, Centurion was the finest example of state-of-the-art computer technology the world had ever produced—a third-generation free space all optical supercomputer built with massively parallel computation capability based on neural networks—modeled after the workings of the human brain, but built of mirrors, lenses, and lights. He wasn't much to look at, but he learned fast, serving as primary control computer for the space-based missile defense system.

  “Very well, Jay,” Centurion responded immediately, “DEWSAT behavior records have been retrieved and await modification.” Centurion spoke with a distinctively male voice, although his timing and inflection sounded mechanical.

  Jay repeated the DEWSAT configuration instructions from his test script. “Turn down the power of every DEWSAT laser passing over the test zone. Black out the test zone completely. We track and tag targets tonight— don’t destroy them.”

  “Very well. Jay,” Centurion replied immediately.

  Fayhee raised his head and looked over the control console at a large, brightly colored image which dominated the control room—Centurion’s globe. Spherically shaped, Centurion’s globe was a three-dimensional holographic picture of the earth projected in the center of the control room.

  Seventy-two DEWSATs circled the earth in six polar orbit planes—twelve DEWs per orbit. Circling the earth in a chaotic frenzy, the DEWSAT armada reminded Jay of swarming bees.

  Fifteen seconds later, Centurion spoke plainly with increased and considerable volume. “Jay—the blackout directive is complete. All DEWSATs passing over the test zone will disable their lasers.”

  “Very well,” Fayhee said as he studied the eight-foot diameter globe projected in the middle of the room—Centurion’s view of the earth and sky seen through satellite eyes. “Keep your eyes and ears on. We need total global coverage.”

  The Star Wars defense system consisted of an armada of satellites orbiting the earth. Organized into three layers, like an onion skin, the armada consisted of orbiting weapon, sensor, and communication satellites. Orbiting closest to earth, the weapons fleet was built of two types of satellites: suicide interceptors and DEWSATs. In orbit above the weapons, the sensor satellites, and above them all, communication satellites populated the outermost layer.

  Cheyenne Mountain, Centurion, and the DEWSAT armada clearly understood their job—defense. Cheyenne Mountain assigned target priorities, Centurion assigned targets to individual DEWSATs, and the DEWSAT armada did the fighting. The division of labor was simple and it worked well.

  Fayhee knew the DEWSAT armada would tag Hell Fire during testing tonight. Any laser configuration error could reduce Hell Fire to dust. “Show me everything we have. There’s no margin for error.” Fayhee’s flat panel display was immediately updated with Centurion’s report:

  DEFENSE SUPPORT PROGRAM—SATELLITE

  ARMADA STATUS

  • LOWSATs: 18 Low Orbiting Warhead SATs orbit 125 mi: 252 coverage • DEWSATs: 72 Directed Energy Weapon SATs orbit 115 mi: test zone black-

  out • SLCSATs: 12 Submarine Laser Communication SATs orbit 275 mi: 66% coverage • EYESATs: 24 Recon SATs orbit 500 mi: 100% coverage • EARSATs: 14 Sensor SATs orbit 1640

  mi: 100% coverage • COMMSATs: 6 Communication SATs orbit 22,300mi: 100% coverage • Space Stations: 2 Control SATs orbit 22,300 mi :

  • Master -> SS Freedom- 100% coverage • Slave -> SS Hope: WARNING—BACKUP

  DATA LINK FAILURE

  RECOMMENDED ACTION: REPLACE TRANSMITTER

  “As you see, Jay, we maintain total global visibility—our eyes and ears are on, but we cannot shoot over the test zone.”

  Fayhee scanned the report, concluding his job was done. Space Station Hope had transmitter problems, but Hope was in geostationary orbit halfway around the world off the southern tip of India. That transmitter was someone else’s problem—not much Fayhee could do about it from Freedom. He quietly read the notes he’d made earlier about his Christmas dream, turned around to face the outside wall, and rested his forehead on the observation window. Gazing once again toward earth, Jay watched the lightning glisten and wondered, What's she doing now?

  The Texas Sunflower, 12/07/2014, 1034 Zulu

  Altitude: 115 Miles In Polar Orbit,

  Orbital Inclination: 86.5 Degrees,

  Onboard A Directed Energy Weapon Satellite (DEWSAT)

  Headed due north at over 17,000 miles an hour, a satellite passed 115 miles above Austin, Texas, during the darkest part of the night. From one quarter mile away, the satellite resembled a sunflower in a flowerpot. Looking friendly and familiar, the satellite’s shape revealed no clue to its actual size or ominous purpose.
Seventy-two of these satellites orbited along lines of longitude, each a Directed Energy Weapon SATellite (DEWSAT).

  Positioned with its long slender stem pointing toward the earth’s center, the sunflower head faced Austin. The DEWS AT, whose structure would have been awkward and lanky on the ground, raced with effortless grace across the big Texas sky.

  The DEWSAT’s business end was its flower-shaped head, a large segmented mirror thirty-three feet across. The mirror was made of smaller moving pieces—a circular center segment and twelve identical outer segments surrounding the center like petals of a flower.

  Connecting the large mirror to its flowerpot base, the one-hundred-foot-long stem provided the key to the DEWSAT’s twenty-million Watt laser punch. The DEWSAT’s Free Electron Laser accelerated high energy electrons down its stem, then converted them into infrared light.

  The flowerpot base was a cylindrical tube measuring thirty feet across and fifty feet long. All the DEWSAT’s vital electrical organs were housed within the upper two thirds of the cylinder while the volatile combustion organs were confined to the bottom third. The DEWSAT’s heart was a mammoth electrical power plant which pumped life into the laser, infrared telescope, and radar. Stacked below the electrical systems were the fuel tanks, pumps, and plumbing required for firing life into its rocket engines—all the stuff that a technician’s dreams are made of.

  As the DEWSAT passed over Austin, dim traces of city lights reflected off the mirror’s highly polished surfaces. Collecting everything it could see, the DEWSAT diligently searched for jet engine exhaust and missile plumes.

  At 1035 Zulu, the DEWSAT passing over Austin received an encrypted radio signal from Centurion which read:

  set laser power output = tag