by Bob Mayer
"Range three thousand meters."
Foster reached up and turned on the forward spotlights, fixing the other boat in their harsh glare. There was no one visible on deck. He leaned out the open side window. "Warning shots," he ordered.
The twenty-five millimeter spit out a burst of rounds, the tracers arcing across the front of the other boat.
Foster exchanged the night vision goggles for a set of powerful binoculars. He trained them on the other boat He could make out the name stenciled on the bow. "Aura II," he read aloud.
Caprice had already accessed their onboard computer registry. "It's not listed, sir."
"Why doesn't that surprise me," Foster muttered.
The yacht had not slowed or changed course, despite the warning shots. They were now less than two thousand meters from the other boat and closing. He scanned the boat once more. Something was strange about the silhouette. There was what appeared to be a large SATCOM dish just aft of the bridge, but instead of pointing up to the sky, it was level, pointing right at Foster.
The captain once more keyed his SATCOM handset. "Key West this is Warde. Over."
There was just static, but he transmitted anyway. "Identity of vessel is the Aura II. Not listed in registry. We are-" There was another sharp break in the transmission and Foster almost dropped the handset as a shock went up his arm "What the hell?"
"Sir-" Caprice was next to him
"What?"
"Something's wrong. Don't you feel it?"
"'Feel it'." Foster repeated. "What do you mean?"
"There's something-" Caprice began but then they all felt it.
Just above the slight swell of the Caribbean, between the Warde and the Aura II, immense power rode on electromagnetic waves at the speed of light. It washed over the Warde, penetrating the hull and every person on board.
Caprice dropped to her knees, hands pressed against her ears, mouth opened in a silent scream. Foster staggered back, feeling a spike of red-hot pain ripping through his brain. Blood seeped out of his ears, nose, and eyes. Within seconds, he collapsed on the steel plating. The body twitched once, again, and then was still.
With a dead crew, the Warde continued straight on course, cutting across the wake of the other ship and disappearing into the darkness.
The Aura II slowed to a halt. Two Zodiacs were lowered over the side, each filled with a load of cocaine. The rubber boats headed directly for shore. As soon as the boats were clear, the yacht's engines powered up and it cut a wide turn, heading back to the southeast.
*****
There was no where, no when, no form, no substance. Time and space, the two linchpins of human existence, were a vague memory, like the taste of an exotic food that he could not recall the name of and didn't know whether he had really tasted or merely dreamed up.
The entity that was the psychic projection of Jonathan Raisor on the virtual plane was trying to form something that he might call self. It was one step worse than that feeling of being between sleep and consciousness, when one was somewhat aware of the outer world, but commands from the brain couldn't make it through the nervous system to move the body, and the mind, the self, was frozen in place unable to influence the real world. Raisor was having a difficult time connecting the scattered images to form a cohesive thought to even begin to send a command. And where would he send it, with his body frozen in its isolation tube back at Bright Gate?
All he knew was gray, stretching in all directions around him. Even his psychic essence was gray; a formless fog of gray inside a limitless cloud of gray. Where did he end and the outside begin? And what was the outside in this virtual plane? And where was the real world? Beyond, below, outside, inside of-- with respect to the virtual?
The one thing Raisor's psychic essence clung to, one overriding emotion, was revenge. This had been done to his sister. His body, like hers, now floated inside an isolation tank at Bright Gate. If he still existed, and there were moments when even he doubted it, that meant she still might exist somewhere on the psychic plane.
The way he currently was, he knew he could not do what he needed to. He had to find Bright Gate. That was one firm thought that echoed in his psyche. But to find Bright Gate, he needed Bright Gate's power and computer to give him form and substance and for the ability to move along the virtual plane and then reenter the real world.
He went back to the only thing keeping him from dissipating: He had been betrayed, his power and connection to Bright Gate cut off. As his sister had been betrayed. Revenge was the one thing keeping what there was of him intact, an emotion more powerful than the dullness of the psychic plane he floated in. Without it, he felt that he would blow away, like fog in a stiff breeze, until there would be nothing of him left.
Every so often he sensed something in the grayness. Something or perhaps even someone. But always at a distance, as if avoiding his presence. Perhaps the disembodied psyches of others like him, spirits lost without being able to get back to their bodies; maybe even his sister. Or perhaps Psychic Warriors from Bright Gate, going about their business. But somehow he picked up that these distant presences were entirely different. Ancient. Powerful. And that they sensed him more clearly and avoided him deliberately. The remote viewers at Bright Gate had reported such presences from the very beginning of the program.
Like a high-power searchlight, a beam pierced the gray. Raisor turned toward it, willing his essence to move, uncertain if it was possible. He wrapped himself around the hate he felt for those who had abandoned him. For those who had betrayed his sister. He was unable to judge the distance, but almost imperceptibly the beam of light grew closer.
Just as quickly, the light was gone and he was in the gray once more. If he had lungs and a mouth, he would have screamed his dismay, but he could only feel the despair. Whatever it was, the beam was the only change he had experienced in however long he had been lost here.
If it had come once, it would come again. Raisor's entity had nothing else to do than to wait and be ready. He was a man lost at sea waiting for a life preserver that had come tantalizingly close.
Chapter Two
Against the darkness of space, a sliver of light appeared as the payload doors of the shuttle Endeavour began opening. On the seventh day of an eight-day mission, the crew of the Endeavour had already accomplished all the tasks that NASA had publicly announced for it prior to the flight. However, NASA had not yet told the public that. The press releases issued each day by the agency spread out the announced missions to cover all eight days, allowing the last two days to be used on the unannounced, classified assignments. It was the way most shuttle flights were conducted. Without the influx of money from the Pentagon, NASA would hardly be able to launch a third of the flights that it did. And the last thing the Pentagon wanted was publicity for the missions it assigned to the shuttles.
Each cargo bay door was sixty feet long and fifteen in diameter. They locked in the open position, opening the bay to space. The bay was practically empty, the three civilian satellites the shuttle had brought into orbit already deployed.
In the airlock at the lower bottom of the flight deck, a single man was donning an EMUS-Extravehicular Mobility Unit Spacesuit-with the assistance of one of the crew. The man climbing into the suit was not officially listed on the shuttle's crew; he was known only by the code name Eagle Six. He had boarded the shuttle the night before the launch, hidden among the swarm of workers making last-minute preparations. When the official crew made their way to the shuttle under the glare of TV cameras, he was already on board, ready to go.
Eagle Six was the most experienced astronaut at EVA, extravehicular activity, in the United States, having done twelve similar missions, yet he wasn't a member of NASA. Officially, he was a member of the National Security Agency, at least according to government records.
Once Eagle Six insured that all the seals were secure, his assistant placed the PLSS-Primary Life Support System-on his back. Once that was working, the astronaut cleared the air
lock, sealing the door to the crew compartment behind him. He was breathing pure oxygen, and would for several minutes. He waited patiently, reviewing in his mind the actions he would be taking. He had learned the importance of being certain of every movement he was going to make before he made it. Space was a completely unforgiving environment.
The pilot on the upper flight deck had their target in sight. The first thing he had spotted was the large solar panels. As they got closer he could make out the main body of the long, rectangular satellite perpendicular to the panels. It was dotted with several circular parabolic antennas pointing earthward along with other types of antennas.
With delicate touches on his maneuvering thrusters, the pilot edged the shuttle closer and closer to the satellite, at the same time orienting the craft so that the bay would face it. It was a slow and intricate process, the last fifty meters taking fifteen minutes of tiny adjustments.
When he was done, the satellite was directly "above" the shuttle cargo bay. Inside the airlock, Eagle Six depressurized and opened the door to the cargo bay. He took a moment to look up at the satellite, then turned to his right. In the front port side of the bay was the FSS- Flight Support Station-which held the MMU, or Manned Maneuvering Unit
He stepped up on the platform, sliding his boots into the loops at the base of the FSS. The PLSS on his back pressed against the MMU. Carefully he belted himself into the MMU. Then he ran through a system check The MMU was a larger system that fit over the PLSS, with control arms coming out around his sides. It was a propulsion system that held two nitrogen-under-pressure fuel tanks. There were twenty-four holes on the exterior of the MMU, which the nitrogen could be directed through to provide thrust.
The hardest thing about EVAing was the three-dimensional aspect along with the two types of movement involved: translation and rotation. Translation was straight line movement while rotation was a spinning movement. It got complicated when the two were combined, because he had three types of translation: up or down; forward or back; and right or left. And then he had three types of rotation: pitch, yaw, and roll. Three times three equaled nine ways of movement. It confused many who entered the astronaut program and was the cause of numerous washouts of otherwise highly qualified candidates. In the weightless-environment training facility in Houston, he had watched trainees get confused and disoriented in the pool by the multiple movement options.
His left hand controlled translation while his right dictated rotation. He had trained with the MMU so often in the pool that his movements, like those of a helicopter pilot, had become instinctual. If he stopped to think, he would be lost.
All was go. He released the MMU from the FSS. He was no longer an astronaut but a satellite. He was free of everything, of Earth, of gravity, of the shuttle. It was as close as a human could come to being God; at least that’s what he thought, floating high over the planet. He could move in any direction with just a slight twitch of his hands. Despite the sense of power, there was also an almost overwhelming feeling of being very, very small against the vastness of space. This mixture of opposing feelings could overwhelm at times. He'd learned that when moving he had to keep his focus entirely on his goal.
He jetted down the bay to a large box strapped to the floor. Carefully, he removed the straps, then attached a leash to his boot. With a nudge of the controls, he headed away from the shuttle bay and toward the satellite. There wasn't much thrust from the jets in the MMU, just the equivalent of 7.56 Newtons of power, but in space it was more than enough.
As he got closer he could see the letters stenciled on the side: MILSTAR 4. After working on a dozen deployed military satellites, he still couldn't understand who bothered to put the name on each. It wasn't like anyone else was going to stop by and check it out or that Space Command would lose track of one of the many satellites and they wouldn't be able to find it.
He was between the shuttle and the satellite when he halted, locking the automatic attitude control with his right hand. Below him was the Earth. In this way Eagle Six was no different than the NASA crewmembers: no human could fail to be awed by the spectacle of the planet in its totality. There was a storm over the Pacific, a swirl of white clouds over the blue, and he watched it for several moments. It was hard to imagine that people were beneath that, being battered by wind and rain.
Forcing himself to concentrate on the mission, he continued on his way. Eagle Six had watched NASA astronauts do work in space using the MMU, particularly the Hubble repair, and he knew he could have done the labor in half the time, given his experience. Working in a suit was difficult, and flying the MMU compounded that. The good part was that every piece of the MMU had a built-in fail-safe. No single failure could cause a system failure, which, given the parameters of the environment, would be fatal. Compensating for the box attached to his foot made it much more difficult. If NASA was doing this mission, there would have been two astronauts, hauling the box between them.
He arrived, braking with small blasts of nitrogen as he got closer. He felt the tug on his foot as the box went past He was ready for it and prevented himself from tumbling with a few expert movements. He unleashed the box from his foot and clipped it to the satellite.
He had enough energy and oxygen to last six hours. He'd done this exact mission three times before. The first time, it had taken almost five hours, but the last one had been just under four, so he felt confident he had plenty of time.
He opened the top of the box, revealing a set of tools and another lid below the first. Taking out what he needed, he unbolted the panel on the front of the satellite and made sure each bolt and the panel itself were secure, using magnets on the side of the box. He reached into the satellite and unhooked a computer and then a transmitter, securing both on tethers.
Then he flipped open the next lid on the box, revealing a new computer and transmitter. He slid them into place, making sure all the connections were secure. He ran a systems check and everything came back green.
Eagle Six had been out for just over three hours. Collecting everything he'd brought with him, he made sure all was secure inside the box. With a deft touch of the controls, he spun about, facing the shuttle. He moved away from the satellite until he was once more halfway between it and the craft. Then he changed his attitude until he was facing Earth. He unhooked the box and gave it a shove, sending it slowly tumbling "downward" into Earth's gravity well. Of course, the shove sent him "upward" in reaction, and he stilled the movement with a burst of the jets on his back.
He stayed still for minutes, watching the box slowly disappear, savoring the absolute solitude of his location and the beautiful vista of the planet below. The Pacific was below and he could see lightning flickering in the large storm cloud. Letting go of the controls, he reached both hands out, framing the storm between his gloves.
Reluctantly, he returned to business. He activated his secure communications channel to the MILSTAR satellite, bypassing the crew and NASA. "Boreas, this is Eagle Six. Over."
The reply was instantaneous. "This is Boreas. Over."
"How do you read me. Over."
"Read you six by six. Over."
"MILSTAR 4 has been upgraded. Over."
"Wait one while we check it. Over."
The astronaut didn't mind waiting. To the right of the Pacific, he could see the edge of the west coast of the United States, sweeping from Baja up to Alaska. He knew everything he could see, MILSTAR 4 could reach with its transmissions. The MILSTAR system was cutting-edge communications technology for the American military, consisting of a series of satellites that could exchange secure communications with each other and the planet's surface at bandwidths and speeds previously thought impossible.
The speaker in his helmet came alive with sound. "Eagle Six, this is Boreas. We read MILSTAR 4 on-line for HAARP transmissions and upgraded. Good job. Out here."
Eagle Six's hand flicked the control and he spun about, facing the shuttle. He jetted toward the cargo bay. He landed smoothly and ba
cked the MMU into the FSS. He unbuckled from the maneuvering unit and made his way across the cargo bay to the airlock Above him, the cargo bay doors slowly began to swing shut. He entered the cargo bay and cycled through. As soon as he got into the lower level of the crew compartment one of the shuttle crew was there to help him remove his suit. He stripped down to his underwear as the crew went about its business preparing to conclude the flight.
As he zipped up his flight suit, the collar flipped up for a second, revealing a small pin in the shape of an elongated cross. He quickly covered the pin, then went to his seat as the shuttle maneuvered for reentry orbit.
Behind the shuttle, the antennas and dishes of MIL- STAR 4 loomed over the planet.
Chapter Three
The windshield was streaked with mud, the wipers pushing aside as much of it as they could. Dalton had taken the road down from Rollins Pass much too fast, almost skidding off twice. His reckless driving hadn't stopped on the Peak-to-Peak Highway or the other roads on the way to Fort Carson as he outraced his headlights. Instead of getting on I-25, he took the more dangerous roads in the foothills until he arrived at the post.
He was almost disappointed to have made it. There had been times when the grimy windshield, winding mountain road, and excessive speed, combined with tears blinding his eyes, should have sent him flying off into the darkness to crash hundreds of feet below in a mangle of flesh blood, and metal. But each time the Jeep veered toward oblivion, there was a sense of Marie guiding him, causing him to jerk his hand and skid back on the road.
He pulled into the driveway of his quarters and turned off the engine, sitting alone in the dark, listening to the ticking noises of the engine cooling. The small house was dark, not even the light on the porch on. He felt his chest constrict. That had been Marie's ritual every evening. As soon as the sun began to set behind Cheyenne Mountain, she turned on the porch light, then the living room light next to the front window. And when Dalton drove home from work, the glow would be there to welcome him. It had been that way in all the quarters on all the army posts they'd lived at through his career.
