It had been an uneasy truce with Constantine, but there was no longer any question of who was in charge. Without Chandra, there could be no test. It was as simple as that. After years of association, Whit Constantine now served at the pleasure of his own creation.
Chandra gazed out the window at his domain—hundreds of dull, green cylinders arranged in a grid of concentric circles. Around this grid, other members of the test team, wearing white hard hats and matching contractor jump suits, scurried like frantic white mice.
Viewed from a distance, the grid pattern resembled a Navajo sand painting—a magic circle—sketched by a giant hand on a powdery and flat expanse. However, the grid’s purpose was quite different from that of a sand painting. It was not fashioned by medicine men to heal sick people. It was not made to restore harmony between man and the cosmos. Techno-warriors built it to test a weapon of unusual design.
The crew made adjustments, enabled power sources and rehearsed test sequences. They examined the base of each three-foot high cylinder and looked for biological leaks. The crew did not know or care that the technology under test was foreign, in every sense of the word. Their government contract required only that they evaluate the capabilities and limitations of the technology. They did not need to know its source.
Only the Test Director and Weapons Director knew.
Curiosity carried severe penalties—loss of clearance, loss of contract and worse. And so, with all questions excised from their brains by a harsh and unforgiving government bureaucracy, the men went about their work, focused only on the test at hand.
Within the Test Director’s, special cupola atop a high-chassis truck, Whit Constantine concentrated on preparations. His unique vantage point allowed him to survey the entire site. He was not neutral about the test. Project funding was at stake. More importantly, the young Richard Chandra watched his every move like some paranoid Shiva, waiting to destroy him.No screw-ups , he thought.
With the clock ticking inexorably toward test time, one last item remained on the critical path. Constantine keyed the microphone and barked an order: “Jackson and Ryder—Install the target.”
Wearing fatigues and headsets, the two-man installation crew carried the target toward the center of the grid. They passed several cylinders along the way. Each had a small door at ground level and a ventilation grill above it. Cylinders on the outer ring flashed a pattern of strobe lights. Several trucks were parked beyond the edge of the grid.
Jackson and Ryder arrived at the center—a pad of concrete. They put down the thermally insulated coffin and knelt beside it. Thick gloves protected their hands as they opened the lid. Dry ice vapor spilled from the interior. They grabbed opposite ends of the body bag inside the coffin. Jackson nodded. With a single, coordinated movement, they lifted the bag onto the concrete pad. Opening the top of the bag revealed the frozen face of a corpse. Radio chatter continued over the Test Net. It seemed very matter-of-fact and disconnected from the heightened emotions the two men were now experiencing.
“Marty, you need to reset the Event Chronometer to 14:26:00 on my mark.”
There was a crackle of static, then: “Roger. On your mark, over.”
“Four, three, two, one, Mark.”
“Chronometer reset.”
Jackson and Ryder removed the corpse from the bag and locked it in an upright position on a frame.
The corpse wore a suit and tie.
Within the cupola, Constantine inspected status lights and display panels. His video monitor now showed an image of the corpse. As he surveyed the site from his privileged position, reality seemed warped by the shimmering lens of reflected heat.
He ran through a check list, then scrawled his initials at the bottom of the page. He flipped the cover back on his clipboard and tossed it on a seat. It read:
TOP SECRET MAJIC
Project Ganymede Proof-of-Concept Test
Malebolge
22 April
TOP SECRET MAJIC
“Okay, let’s do it,” he announced. “Everyone back in the trucks.” He pushed a button, briefly sounding a warning horn.
The crew began final preparations. Jackson and Ryder tucked the empty body bag into the coffin and carried loose materials away from the pad. Green ready lights illuminated on the cylinders. Combat boots stepped over cables on the ground. Truck doors opened and closed sporadically as the test team returned to the protection of their vehicles.
Inside the cupola, Constantine looked at the video monitor. A slight breeze carried the corpse’s tie like an undulating airfoil. The Director spoke with Richard Chandra on the radio. “On my mark, Richard.”
“Copy, I’m ready.”
“Three, two, one, Mark!”
Constantine pressed a button markedOPEN . A cascade of metallic noises issued from the cylinders. The noises were followed closely by the squeals of many small animals and the mechanicalwhirrr of data recording equipment.
High above the desert floor, at an altitude of approximately 400 kilometers, a Russian-made Earth imaging satellite also observed the Event. Successive panchromatic stereo frames recorded an irregular gray-black mass moving out of the cylinders. The mass converged on the concrete pad, engulfed it, then retreated. From low Earth orbit, even with the KVR-1000 high resolution camera system, the mass was indistinguishable from a sea of ink or a giant amoeba.
On the ground, Constantine was unable to communicate verbally during the Event due to the noise level. Human sounds were drowned by thousands of screeches. It was as if a myriad of locusts nested in his head and conspired to stop all thought.
A fog of dust wafted through his open cupola. He punched a button.
On the other side of the site, theSHUTDOWN icon appeared on Richard Chandra’s console, signaling test termination procedures.
As rapidly as it all began, the squeals subsided.
The Test Director punched another button markedCLOSE . Metallic doors snapped shut across the grid. He verified the status of each cylinder on his test panel, then visually inspected the area using remote-controlled video cameras. Satisfied, he announced, “Weapon safe,” then activated theALLCLEAR signal.
Doors on contractor vans opened and the crew began mop-up procedures. Jackson and Ryder returned to the target pad. The Test Director heard Jackson’s excited call on the radio: “I’ll be damned!”
Constantine could see results on the video monitor.Verylikely , he thought.Very likely we’ll all be damned .
Ryder took still photographs with a Nikon camera. The rapid-fireclick-click-click of the focal plane shutter was the only noise on an otherwise hushed site.
The corpse was in pieces, like a hunk of meat attacked by piranha. Its head lay among shredded materials on the pad. It was chewed to the bone. Empty eye sockets stared upward into space.
28. INTELLIGENCE INTERMEZZO
23 April 1994
Ben Nightwalker perched like a telephone line repairman atop the 12-foot high sensor station. His Native American face was as weathered as the cowboy hat, jeans and dusty leather boots that comprised his uniform. The station was part of an electronic barrier along the perimeter of Groom Dry Lake Base. Its purpose was to detect, record, analyze and report forbidden entry. The system, including the central security computer, is what made security around the vast Nellis Range Complex possible. It could distinguish between humans and animals, tumble weed and vehicles. A metal plate on the station’s instrumentation panel read:Sentinel Data Station/When security counts .
It was late afternoon. Ben was running a diagnostic check on the equipment when his test computer sounded an alarm. A light-emitting diode inside the instrumentation box flashed, signaling an intrusion. Ben pulled up the diagram of the sensor fence. A section of fence blinked, indicating the location of the intruders. They were not far away. Ben carefully returned tools to his belt, then looked through binoculars slung from his neck.
He tracked the line of sensor stations to a distant point, where he could see three intrud
ers running into the controlled area. One of them appeared to carry a portable television camera. Another was weighed down by equipment bags. He recognized the third figure. The intruder had a beard, carried a walking stick and hobbled to keep up.
“Zfar, you old rascal,” he murmured.
The distant figures stopped and arranged themselves. The cameraman pointed the lens and appeared to record an interview or news shot.
Ben looked in another direction. “Well, where’s the cavalry?”
He scanned past the Test Area with its circular grid of cylinders. There were a few trucks around the perimeter. He continued to scan, stopping on a group of buildings in the far distance.
Two soldiers in battle dress ran out of a distant metal hut, hurried to a van and drove away. “Aha!” he said.
Ben looked back at the three intruders. The camera shoot ended. They re-packed equipment and raced hurriedly back toward the perimeter. They climbed an embankment to reach a van parked on a dirt road. The man with the cane stumbled, slipping down the embankment. The two others rushed down to help, pulled him up and into the van. They started the engine and drove away.
Ben put down the binoculars, adjusted his hat, then started down the rung ladder. At the bottom, he shaded his eyes and looked toward the adjacent ridge. A cloud of dust receded like a brown rocket contrail, tracing the path of the intruders’ vehicle on the dirt road. Looking to his right, Ben saw another cloud of dust in the far distance—a vehicle on an intercept course.
He smiled, shook his head and walked away.
* * *
The van carrying the three intruders sped along a dusty road. It was packed with broadcasting equipment. The driver, Jeff Bailey, concentrated on avoiding bumps, potholes and sand traps. Shorts, a tank top and baseball cap provided scant respite from the heat. The steering wheel was slick with sweat.
At the sight of the road block, Bailey hit the brakes. He yelled to the crew in back: “We got company, boys and girls!”
The TV control van, markedActionNews , skidded to within ten feet of a police cruiser markedLincolnCountySheriff’sDept . The cruiser straddled the dirt road. Behind it was the Groom security van.
Between the cruiser and the security van, a sign read:
WARNING
YOU ARE ABOUT TO ENTER A
U.S. GOVERNMENT INSTALLATION.
PHOTOGRAPHY PROHIBITED
A plume of incriminating dust led from Bailey’s van to the forbidden installation.
“Don’t panic,” a female voice said from the back of the truck. “Freedom Ridge is on public land. It’s not part of the base. We’re okay.”
Bailey cracked gum, smiled a tense smile and wiped his forehead. “Thank god for amateur lawyers. We’re saved!”
A door opened on the police cruiser. A uniformed sheriff and deputy exited. Two soldiers in desert camouflage left the security van. Each gripped a pistol. Bailey’s head sank to the steering wheel. He closed his eyes.
“Sheeit,” he muttered.
* * *
Amid the quiet clicking of computer keys at the Russian SIGINT Operations Center in Washington, D.C., Dmitry briefed Katrina.
“We’re back online, Major,” Dmitry said.
Katrina scanned the area and nodded approvingly.
“We checked all the U.S. origin equipment and found a few more problems.”
Katrina cocked an eyebrow.
“I have to admire the Americans,” Dmitry volunteered, enthusiastically. “They took a lot of advanced technologies and put them together in new ways. They’re good.”
“Tell me about the printers.”
Dmitry nodded. “The printers are tied to classified systems in the Ops Center. They are physically and electrically isolated. The Americans may have tried to create an audio bridge to the unclassified system—like a prisoner in solitary tapping out Morse code that someone in another cell block can hear. There may have been a glitch and they got caught. At least that’s my working theory.”
“But we found all their sensors?”
“Right. The printer system may have been the conduit. But without sensors, they’re blind.”
“Do we have enough evidence to lodge a diplomatic protest?”
Dmitry slumped. “Not exactly. It is logical to assume the Americans were behind it, but there is no irrefutable proof. They can plausibly deny it. This code bomb, or whatever you want to call it, is particularly mysterious.”
Vladimir called from across the room, “Katrina?”
She motioned for him to hold on, then finished with Dmitry. “But as far as you know, we’re clean now?”
“We’re clean.”
“I want you to verify the communications path for getting data out of the Center. We need to plug all the holes to stop future penetrations. And if you find any proof it was the Americans, bring it to me, immediately.” She patted Dmitry on the shoulder for a job well done, then walked to Vladimir’s console.
* * *
Back in the desert, the Lincoln County Sheriff smiled. It was anI’ve-got-you-now-you-son-of-a-bitch smile. He had perfected it over a five-year reign as King of the Desert. The smile fit nicely with his swarthy face and meticulous manner.
“Can I see your driver’s license, please?” he asked.
Bailey complied.
The Sheriff looked at it and took a few notes. He smiled again. “Did you know that photography of the government installation is prohibited?”
As Bailey’s brain raced to compute a solution to this incriminating line of inquiry, an answer exploded from the back of the truck: “It’s okay. We didn’t take pictures of the installation.”
A blond head popped into view and smiled. The Sheriff frowned.
“We’re only here to observe. We’re getting background for an Action News report.”
“Right,” the Sheriff said matter-of-factly. “And who might you be?”
“I might be Jill Sommer, a producer for Action News. Who might you be?”
With an ease that suggested he had been through this before, the Sheriff handed Sommer a card with his name, rank and badge number.
Sommer retrieved it through the open window. “Thank you,Sheriff Gibson,” she said. “So you’re anelected official?
Wa-al... meet the press!”
Bailey rubbed his eyes, slouching against the steering wheel. He thought that if he slouched far enough, he might be invisible. No such luck.
Irving Gibson frowned, but remained calm. “Everyone out of the vehicle, please,” he ordered. Gibson heard low-level mumbling inside the van as the news team discussed options. There were sounds of moving equipment and ripping fabric. Finally, the side door slid open. Sommer and Bailey exited the truck, followed by an older, bearded man with scraggly, shoulder-length white hair and bell-bottom jeans lifted from some 1970s time capsule. Gibson couldn’t decide whether his hobbling walk was from a leg injury or badly made shoes—sandals fabricated from discarded automobile tires. A hammered bronze medallion dangled from the man’s neck. It saidEarth First, Universe Second .
“Well, Zfar,” Gibson said. “I guess I should have expected this.”
Zfar Jafri’s beard trembled as the thought leapt out. “Sheriff Gibson. Delighted to see you. As you know, I’m only here to search for the truth.”
“Truth is, Zfar, you’re a pain in my butt.”
In a surprise move that quickly raised the temperature of the confrontation, Jill Sommer began video taping the scene with a handheld palmcorder. The Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department and battle-dressed soldiers were about to become news.
“Hey, put that down,” Gibson demanded, shielding the camera lens with his hand.
“This’ll look great,” Sommer said. “Like you’re trying to hide something.”
Looking through an open door into the van, Gibson’s deputy yelled, “Hey Will! There’s a ton of camera equipment in here. Shouldn’t we check it out—to verify their claim?”
Gibson grabbed the camera from Sommer.
“Yeah! Looks like we’ll have to confiscateall cameras.”
“Wait a minute!” Sommer yelled. “These are company cameras. That’s maybe $65,000 worth of equipment. You can’t just steal ‘em. Our lawyers ‘ll be all over you like stink on shit!”
“I’m trying to stay professional here, Miz Sommer, and you’re making it very hard. We got a proper search and seizure warrant by radio.”
He showed her a piece of paper. “My Deputy will inventory the equipment. You and I will sign a receipt. Your lawyers can contact my office to find out how and under what conditions you can recover the cameras. We will review all tape. We will develop all film. If it’s not contraband, you can get it back.”
“You’re gonna develop all the film?” Sommer asked.
“Yes.”
“Could you make double prints?”
Gibson’s face flamed red. He marched down the line of intruders, like a drill instructor greeting new troops, looking each of them in the eye.
“Now! Every one of you! Turn around! Put your hands on the van!” Gibson—still bug-eyed with anger—was able to smile again. He was in control. He frisked the two men, then came to Jill Sommer.
She looked at him with ‘I-double-dare-you’ eyes. Her halter top wrapped tightly around her breasts. A bare, slim midriff separated it from an ankle-length skirt. She turned, to profile a majestic mammary glandscape.
“Let’s see,” she said, framing an imaginary headline with her hands, “Lincoln County Sheriff Frisks Action News Producer. We’ll include a picture of you in all your swarthiness and a picture of me. We’ll follow up with interviews of local residents discussing your sex life. It’ll make great copy. Your wife and family will love it.”
She drew closer and winked. “Go ahead, Sheriff, make my day.”
* * *
The Ganymede Project Page 15
