“At this early stage, we don’t know what we’re up against. We learned a lot the last twenty-four hours, but we’ve got a long way to go. This virus protects itself. When we attempted to remove it from one computer, it moved to another—similar to squeezing a balloon. Squeeze it in one place and it bulges out somewhere else.
“The origin of any virus is difficult, if not impossible, to investigate. It’s likely we’ll never understand where it came from, but we’re sure this infection was no accident.”
When questioned as to what he meant by that remark, Roberts declined to elaborate, but did comment that sometimes we create our own problems.
“We’ve every indication that this was a malicious act,” Roberts concluded. “This super virus has infected every major computer system onboard Space Station Freedom and, frankly, today we don’t have the cure. Fortunately, the SDI armada has built-in redundancy to compensate for these unforeseen problems. Within the next few hours, Cheyenne Mountain plans to transfer control of the armada to Space Station Hope."
At first, Saddam held the paper with trembling hands, but then he changed. Carefully studying every word, he drew strength from what he read. A proud fire ignited in the old man’s black eyes—defiance blazed like a flame. The shake in his hands lessened as he stood his scrawny carcass upright again, straightening his old weary back. With a sardonic smile, he crumpled the paper in his fist and shook it before the heavens. Looking out into the darkness beyond the Tigris River, he declared, “Now I know why Allah kept me alive all these years. Nobody hurts me unharmed. Al-lahu Akbar!"
PART
5
THE DAY OF
RETRIBUTION
DAY 4-
DECEMBER 10-, 2014
16
The Chicago Craftsman, 12/10/2014, 0850 Zulu, 1:50 A.M.
Local
Car Rental Pickup Area,
Stapleton International Airport,
Denver, Colorado
The most dangerous phase of the operation was yet to come. Up to this point, their operation had been planned by fax and picture phone. Toni, a professional craftsman of accidental death, flew to Denver nonstop from Chicago carrying the tools of his trade with him, disguised as skiing equipment. Dressed for a skiing vacation, he arrived in jeans, cowboy boots, and a ski jacket. He picked up his tools at baggage claim, then met his Denver connection waiting by the Avis counter.
Nicknamed Wrangler, Toni’s Denver connection was a large physical type who looked like he’d played linebacker for the Chicago Bears. They recognized each other immediately, and together they carried Toni’s luggage to Wrangler’s car, a white Honda Accord. At 1:50 a.m. early Wednesday morning, they drove to Colorado Springs for a firsthand look at the scene where Toni’s next accident would take place.
From Stapleton International Airport, their drive to Cheyenne Mountain down 1-25 South took about ninety minutes. While Wrangler drove, Toni did a little extra homework. Using a laptop PC, Toni carefully studied an information package the Iraqi Intelligence Service had hand-delivered to his organization. The package described everything the Iraqis knew about the accident victim, Shripod Addams—his habits, automobile, apartment, hobbies, debts—everything. Toni took special interest in the make of Shripod’s car and a map of the Cheyenne Mountain area. The map showed the location of Shripod’s apartment and highlighted his daily drive to work. Toni planned for Shripod to die on his drive to work; it was the only way he could deliver a convincing accident on such short notice. Tonight, Toni would come to know Shripod’s drive to work like the back of his own hand. He’d feel every bump, every bend in the road, and by the end of the day, with a little luck, he’d drive to Boulder for a long skiing weekend.
“This is it,” Wrangler announced, slowing to a stop at a red traffic light by the Loaf ’N’ Jug convenience store.
Toni saw a green road sign marking the intersection of Highway 115 and Cheyenne Meadows Road. Leaning his head against the window on the passenger side of the car, Toni stared at the silhouette of Cheyenne Mountain against a clear moonlit sky. Its twin peaks were marked with the red flashing lights of television antenna towers, and about one third of the way up its slopes, bright klieg lights illuminated the entrance to Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Base. Sitting in the pitch-black shadow cast by Cheyenne Mountain, Toni thought the photographs he’d seen didn’t do the mountain justice; it was much larger than he’d expected. Brought back to the real world by the traffic light turning green, he said, “Take this left on Cheyenne Meadows Road about two tenths mile, then take the next right on West Meadow Drive. We can’t miss it. Mountain View Apartments will be on our left.”
Under the orange-yellow glow of streetlights, they circled through the apartment parking lot about three-thirty a.m. and found Shripod Addams’ black Honda Accord, tucked away in the space designated for Apartment 21. Wrangler’s white Accord was the exact make and model of Shripod’s and this coincidence was no accident. Toni was glad to see the Accord parked next to a roadside curb. The curb blocked visibility underneath the car and would provide a useful shield later when he installed Shripod’s custom-made appliance. Grabbing his flashlight, Toni pulled himself out of the car and measured the approximate position of Shripod’s driver’s seat with respect to the steering wheel. He chuckled quietly, noting that the driver’s seat was practically in the backseat passenger’s lap. After shining the flashlight on his watch, he said, “Let’s make the loop.”
Wrangler zeroed the distance indicator on his mileage odometer and began tracing Shripod’s drive to work. They drove down West Meadow Drive, Cheyenne Meadows Road, and Highway 115 to the Cheyenne Mountain AFB exit. “It feels shorter than I expected,” Wrangler said. “I’d figure five miles, maybe thirteen minutes tops.”
After making the drive from Shripod Addams’ apartment to the Cheyenne Mountain AFB exit four times, Toni’d seen all he needed. “This’ll be our last trip,” he announced. Around 4:15 a.m., in the darkest part of the morning, Highway 115 was practically deserted, no traffic in sight. As they drove away from Shripod’s apartment to Cheyenne Mountain for the last time, Toni explained, “Pull over and let me out when we get to that Colorado Springs city limits sign ahead. I want you to knock down a milepost. I’ll show you the one.”
The white Accord screeched to a halt on the shoulder of Highway 115. Toni jumped out of the car, ran down the road shoulder about fifty feet, then stood alongside a milepost. The green metal milepost was identical to those used to support stop signs.
Wrangler needed no prodding; he put his car into drive and plowed headlong over the metal post, laying it over and snapping it cleanly in two at the base. Toni walked off the distance from the base of the milepost to a rough seam, or bump, in the four-lane highway. The tar-coated seam extended the width of the highway and allowed the road to expand without buckling during the hot summer months. In need of repair, the raised seam formed a six-inch bump in the road and created a loud thump-thump sound every time they drove across it.
“Perfect!” Toni declared. “Open the trunk and we’re outta here!” Toni tossed the milepost in the trunk and they were off.
Doesn't take much to make some people happy. Wrangler grinned. These guys outta Chicago run one brick shy of a full load.
Voice of an Angel, 12/10/2014, 1309 Zulu
The Recovery Room,
Space Station Hope
Where am I? Pasha wondered. His first conscious emotion was fear. Suddenly, every reflex demanded he breathe deeply. He needed fresh air and couldn’t get enough of it, like coming out from under an ether-induced sleep. Buried alive! Gasping for air, needing desperately to catch his breath, Pasha found no relief. Horrified that he might suffocate, his panic eased when he felt a cool breeze of air blowing across his face.
Strapped tightly to a pallet inside a box about the size of a coffin, Pasha could see only a porthole above his face flooded with white light.
He moved, but only slightly. The struggle to lift his arms against the straps quickly exha
usted him. Slowly bending each finger, he felt his hands touching his chest. Thank God I’m alive!
Resting for a moment, he heard the muffled sound of his own breathing, the sound of air whistling through his nose as he inhaled. Speaking softly, he heard himself, but his voice sounded muted. His ears felt plugged, like they’d been filled with cotton.
Squinting in a valiant attempt to keep his eyes open, he watched the porthole through narrow slits between his swollen eyelids. His eyelids felt heavy—almost stiff. Drifting away, he watched his porthole to the outside world fade to gray. Where am I?
As his eyes closed, he heard the soft muffled voice of an angel calling. “Come back, Pasha, please don’t die. Your children need you. Don’t leave us now. Come back. Come back.”
Forcing his eyes open again, he saw the surreal outline of an angel’s face gazing down on him through the porthole. Heaven—could this be heaven? He wanted to touch her, needed desperately to touch her, but his arms and hands were bound tight. He couldn’t make out any details of her face, but he loved the sound of her voice.
This must be a dream, Pasha told himself, fighting to maintain consciousness. Then he recognized Linda’s voice and remembered his last excruciating minutes in Hope's control room before he’d blacked out. He knew this place, though he’d never been inside Hope's rapid decompression chamber.
“Scotty,” he muttered, drifting off to sleep again.
After checking the monitors and life-support equipment attached to Pasha, Scott felt optimistic about his chances. She’d been awake nearly eighteen hours, watching Pasha’s condition round the clock. His first twenty-four hours in the chamber would be critical. While she and Guardian took care of Pasha, Mac and Gonzo worked on the data link problem with Headquarters.
Scott looked up when Mac walked into the Recovery Room. His bleary, red eyes revealed how he felt. He’d been working straight-out since Pasha’s accident. With an exhausted smile, Scott said, “He’s all right, heart’s strong, vital signs improving.”
Looking concerned, Mac gave Pasha a once-over through the porthole, then agreed. “Good. He needs every break he can get. They’re sending relief, but I don’t know how they’re going to get through.” Mac shook his head and grimaced. “We’re in a tough spot.”
“Anything new on Freedom? Any contact?” Any word, any word at all about Jay?
Mac’s sad, sympathetic eyes betrayed his feelings. “I’m sorry, Scotty—not a whisper. They don’t know what’s happened, but Headquarters ...” He stopped short. Trying to offer some glimmer of hope, he said, “Kaliningrad’s got over two hundred people working through Centurion’s log, one line at a time. They’ll find something!”
What if he’s injured? Scott sighed, turning away toward Pasha. Shaped like a coffin, Hope’s decompression chamber didn’t make her feel any better. I can’t think about it now or I’ll go crazy! We’ve problems enough here! “What about our comm link?”
“Link to Headquarters is operational, but Centurion won’t let go,” Mac reported with a grim expression on his face. “Centurion won’t give up DEWSAT control without a fight.”
“That’s not surprising,” Scott observed in a weary voice. “What was Headquarters’s reaction?”
“They’re planning to punch a hole through the DEWSAT armada, then move Marines to Hope. They’re training ’em here, then storming Freedom.”
“How many more’ll die?” Scott wondered aloud. “Punch a hole? Sounds like political hype. How’ll they get past the DEWSATs?”
“Blow ’em out of the sky.”
“What’s up their sleeve?” She felt like a mushroom, always in the dark, told only what she needed to know.
“The Ground Fire laser—the DEWSAT’s granddaddy at Los Alamos. They’ll create a diversion over New Mexico using air launched ASATs. When the DEWSAT comes about to shoot, the Ground Fire laser’ll take it out.” “If reinforcements do get here—what about Freedoml Freedom’s a fortress.” Scott sounded apprehensive.
Mac raised both eyebrows and shrugged. “I wouldn’t wanna be in their shoes.”
Diversion, 1211012014, 1400 7.ulu, 6:00 A.M. Local
Cockpit Of Hailey’s Comet,
South Facing Runway,
Edwards AFB, California
In the predawn twilight, the clouds of condensation boiling off Hailey’s Comet looked ghostly, almost surreal. Blue and green runway lights twinkled through the swirling fog while Major Art Hailey waited for takeoff clearance.
“Comet, you’re clear to roll,” announced the tower.
Sitting on top of the XR-30, engulfed by engine noise, Major Hart Hailey yelled, “Roger, tower! We’re go for takeoff.” He figured their mission was about as straightforward as they could get—a steep climb over friendly skies with an ASAT release on top. He didn’t like Headquarters flying his plane during the ASAT release, but he wasn’t paid to like his orders, just carry them out.
Hailey's Comet was identical to Hell Fire, an aerospace plane built around its six scramjet engines.
“Backseat’s ready.”
“Belly’s ready!” barked the recon officer.
“Buckle up boys, and sit tight!” Hailey exclaimed. He throttled each scramjet engine to full military power—the flight computer flashed a green All Systems Go. The high-pitched noise of the screaming jet engines approached the point of pain inside the cockpit.
Major Hailey locked the throttles together, then advanced all six engines into afterburner. Bolting down the runway, he depressed an ignition switch at the appropriate time which sparked his rocket engine to life. Jamming his overhead rocket throttle hard forward against the stops caused Hailey's Comet to shake violently. Accelerating down the runway, propelled by over 400,000 pounds of thrust, he pulled back on the stick and her nose came up. With his rocket engine wide open, he held the stick back for longer than usual, pointing her nose up in a steep sixty-degree climb, and continued to accelerate in afterburner.
What a rush! Hailey thought, raising the landing gear then backing off the rocket throttle. Pressing hard against the seat, breathing was tough even with one hundred percent oxygen.
Belching smoke and flame in her wake, the sight of her long fiery tail accelerating down the endless expanse of runway delighted the ground crews. The earth trembled from the fearsome roar and raised goose bumps on those lucky enough to be there—to feel the power, the wind, the heat and thunder—like watching a space shuttle launch. The thrill of the launch never faded, an awe inspiring experience. When a launch grabs you by the scruff of the neck and shakes the ground you walk on, you take notice.
The last view the tower crew had was of her fiery tail. As the tower trembled beneath them, they were absolutely silent, totally absorbed by the sight and sound of takeoff. Soon, Hailey’s Comet disappeared through the clouds and only her roaring thunder remained. Life stood still anytime an XR-30 took off—it was an unwritten rule around Edwards.
Turning east toward the dawn, Hailey’s Comet climbed higher and higher through the clear New Mexico sky, illuminating the black desert sky like a fiery shooting star.
The XR-30 kept going up, passing through 60,000 feet, climbing toward the skies directly over the White Sands Missile Range, due south of the Ground Fire laser at Los Alamos. Hailey checked his fuel, then backed off his afterburners, waiting for word from Headquarters’s mission control.
“Comet, this is Big Shot. We have you locked on visual. You copy? Over,” the mission controller said into his headset.
Transfixed to his instruments, Hailey replied, “Big Shot, this is Hailey’s Comet.” He paused, working hard to stay within his missile launch envelope. “We’re on profile.”
“Roger. Commence launch sequence on my mark. Three, two, one—mark!”
“She’s all yours,” replied Hailey. Reluctantly, he loosened his grip on the control stick. Cheyenne Mountain controlled Hailey’s Comet via data link for the remainder of the climb and ASAT launch sequence.
Hailey watched all s
ix throttles move forward. Cheyenne Mountain didn’t waste any time before punching the burners again and hauling back on the stick. Feeling the rudder pedal and stick controls move on their own was an eerie experience for Hailey. Like most pilots, he never took his thumb off the manual override switch.
Standing on her tail and rocketing into the sky, Hailey's Comet performed beautifully. Major Hailey locked his eyes on his instruments as the altimeter spun up with no end in sight. His speed was now in excess of Mach 6 and increasing.
“Scramjet transition complete,” Hailey observed. “Tail reads trim.”
“Visual confirmation on the tail,” echoed the back-seater, looking over his shoulder. After all six engines transitioned to scramjet operation, the cockpit heat shields automatically rolled up.
“DEWSAT’s illuminated us in all bands,” the back-seater announced after checking his radar detection equipment. “He’s seen us. Target’s on track, south of us bearing one seven zero degrees. ASAT launch in sixty seconds.” The XR-30 was passing through 87,000 feet. Launch altitude was one hundred.
At 1448 hours Zulu, as their speed passed Mach 8, Major Hailey heard: “ASAT’s armed. Stand by. Three, two, one ...”
BAROOM! BAROOM! BAROOM!
Hailey’s Comet shook violently from side to side as she ejected her six missiles, two at a time. Shock waves pounded Major Hailey’s brain against his skull and left him feeling dazed, like a punch-drunk boxer.
Immediately, the XR-30’s nose dropped as Headquarters began a wide sweeping turn, heading her back toward her California home. After Hailey's Comet was clear, six ASAT rocket motors fired simultaneously.
Suddenly, the back-seater began shaking his head, as if trying to clear a garbled circuit. All his life he’d been driven by logic, and his logical mind couldn’t accept what his eyes perceived. Did the violent ASAT launch shake some electrical connectors loose? Was there some problem with the radar detection equipment? There must be. After running a series of exhaustive equipment diagnostics, his computer screen read:
Virus Page 19
