Voyager

by Carl Rackman

  She clicked it open to find the exact same wording as the letter she had just thrown in the trash. The sender’s address was Josephson, just like the letter, and had a caltech.edu domain.

  She ran a quick search on both the Caltech and NASA directories but both came up blank with the name. She copied the originating IP address and server. One of the IT geeks could take a look later. Or should I take this seriously?

  She picked up the phone to the front desk.

  “Security.”

  “This is Dr Woolf, VIM Project Manager.”

  “Yes, ma’am. How can I help?”

  “I need two things. First, I need you to check the video surveillance for my office since eighteen hundred hours last night to check if anyone has had access. And I need the entry logs for the building since then.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I need your authorisation code, please.”

  “Hold on…” Callie flipped through her Rolodex. Even in the era of smartphones and shared contact lists, the geezers of VIM still relied on them. “Hotel, X-ray, three, five, five. Woolf.” She spelled out the name.

  “Thank you, Dr Woolf. Please sign the authorisation docket on receipt of the printouts. Return it to the front desk before you leave, please.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  She hung up and then forwarded the e-mail to JPL security with a request to trace the sender. She added that a hard copy had been placed on her office desk. She was sure nobody would look at it before Monday.

  She carefully retrieved the crumpled-up letter. She cursed herself for not being more careful; trace evidence could have been destroyed. She used the edge of the letter opener to carefully open the page, holding it by the corner. She managed to flatten it enough to slide it back into the envelope.

  She looked up at her clock again – the rest of the team would be coming in soon. The results of Jerry’s interrogation of the probe the previous morning would be due back, and she would make the decision whether or not to download the tape. Monday afternoon would be the moment of truth.

  There were footfalls on the cheap carpet outside, then a light knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  The security guard opened the door and handed over an authorisation form, which Callie took a minute or so to fill in. He examined her signature and cross-checked her ID with the information on the form before handing over a one-page printout with the entry record.

  “Thank you, ma’am. The record needs to be returned to the front desk before you leave the premises.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  After the guard left, Callie looked at the list. There were seven names from the cleaning crew and just six other names, all familiar from the program.

  She called down to security again.

  “Security.”

  “Hi, it’s Dr Woolf again. Can you cross-check the names of the cleaning crew to see if any were different than the previous nights?”

  “Sure, let me have a look. Can I call you back?”

  “Of course. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome. Should take about twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, thanks again.” Callie hung up. She wasn’t getting very far. Everything was a waiting game.

  She had barely begun trawling through her e-mails when her desk phone rang. The caller ID was a JPL number.

  “Callie Woolf.”

  “Please hold for AD Trask.” Callie sat up straighter and cleared her throat.

  “Dr Woolf, it’s Bill Trask.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  He cut straight to business, as usual. “Dr Woolf, I’m getting concerned at how things are going down there. I’ve had some reports, but I need to hear it from you.”

  Callie took a deep breath. “Sir. At ten hundred hours on Friday morning, an unexpected signal was received from Voyager One. It was a telemetry signal requesting to downlink the contents of the storage tape. This isn’t scheduled until January next year. It’s not possible that Voyager One’s current activity could account for the storage tape being anywhere near full at this point.

  “While investigating this anomaly, we discovered that the imaging system on Voyager One had been energised for a few seconds. That system was permanently deactivated in 1990. We are trying to establish if it’s an on-board problem, but we are also investigating if an outside agency might be trying to communicate with Voyager One, either by a spoofed telemetry signal or possibly by a software hack uploaded with the last update.”

  Trask remained silent. Callie took a breath. As she listed the problems, they seemed to become ominous.

  “In addition, I have personally received two identical messages, one via e-mail and the other delivered to my office by hand, stating that Voyager has been interfered with, and a reference to its eyes, which suggests the imaging module. In the context, I don’t think it’s a simple practical joke.”

  Trask was silent on the other end of the phone for a few moments before speaking. “Is that all?”

  “Sir, I have a full team meeting tonight. We’re going to get the data back from our interrogation yesterday. That will determine the next actions we take. I’ve also lined up some extra time with DSN to download the storage if necessary. It’s possible that Voyager is working normally, but it might have some on-board issues with the storage tape. We’re going to work all the angles, sir.”

  Trask sighed. “Listen, Callie. Voyager can’t cost us another dime, you understand? That DSN time will take away from other projects. There’s not much left that Voyager can give us in terms of nightly news broadcasts. Every cent we spend on Voyager from now until 2020, we’re not going to get back in terms of revenue or funding. It’s a dead duck.”

  Callie felt a hole opening in the pit of her stomach. Oh no.

  “This gets fixed by Monday, Callie, or I’ll have to make the recommendation at Senior Review that we bring forward the withdrawal date for Voyager as soon as Voyager Two has finished its plasma experiments.”

  “But, sir, that’s April next year!” She couldn’t help her voice rising.

  “Then bring me some good news. I’ll be out of the office until Monday. When’s the data review?”

  “Ah, we should have the data downlinked by fifteen hundred hours Monday. Assuming we can get the imagery processors online—”

  “‘Assuming’?”

  She had forgotten it was Trask’s least favourite word.

  “You don’t already have them online?” Trask was in an unforgiving mood tonight.

  Callie’s heart sank. “At present, sir, we don’t even know if they still exist.” It sounded even lamer when she said it out loud.

  “Okay… I’m giving you till Wednesday the seventh to come up with a plan, including budget. Senior Review is set for Friday the ninth. My office will copy you in. I’m sorry, Callie, but we’re real tight right now. Voyager One just might need to be cut loose. It’s been a good run, but we can’t afford to nurse a crippled probe for the next ten years. It’s too risky.”

  “I understand, sir. I promise—”

  “Wednesday, Callie. Hope it’s good news.” He hung up.

  Humiliation made Callie’s face burn. She had worked twenty-five years on Voyager, and the engineers had been here fifteen years longer still. Trask the bean counter was going to pull the plug on it, just like that. The realisation lit a fire in her belly. They were going to goddamn well fix Voyager, bring back the data, and screw Trask and his bureaucrats!

  Callie rummaged in her purse and popped a couple of Advil with a few gulps of bottled water. Her headache was all due to tension.

  She could now hear snatches of conversation from the corridor; the team members were starting to arrive. Callie felt good about her people – they were old school, which meant they were courteous and always kept appointments. It was like working in a gated community – they just flew spacecraft instead of playing golf.

  Right now, they were gathering in the Mission Control Room in Building 600 as they
had the previous night. But this was going to be an action evening, not just information sharing. They were on potentially new ground here, and everyone would be looking to Callie to make the right call.

  She gathered her notes and left the office, being careful to lock her computer and the office door behind her. She was just about to walk away when she heard her phone ring. She rummaged her keys back out again and let herself in.

  “Callie Woolf.”

  “Ma’am, it’s security. I checked the cleaning crews.”

  “Oh, that’s great. What can you tell me?”

  “Ma’am, that was a good call. There were only six cleaners, all the same names, all week. But last night there was a seventh name. I’ve passed the information up to Lab security. They are going to follow it up with the contractor.”

  “Did you check the surveillance?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Your office was accessed at zero one fourteen hours.” The man sounded uncomfortable as he added, “Ma’am, there was no reason to suspect—”

  “No, it’s fine. I understand. Thank you. You’ve passed all this to the Lab?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They will be sending a team down. It would be useful to them if you don’t re-enter the office until they’re done.”

  Would have been nice to know earlier, thought Callie. “Okay, I’m just leaving. I’m locking the door.”

  “That’s fine, ma’am. Thank you.”

  She hung up and gathered everything she needed for the meeting. It was time.

  The entire room was silent, like the vacuum through which Voyager was hurtling at that same moment.

  Jerry was just poring over the data received fresh from the DSN feeds from Canberra in Australia. He was flanked by Brymon and two other flight control specialists.

  Leon Schlitzky, the head of the imaging team, had the seat on his right, eyeing the telemetry from the imaging system. It had been at least twenty years since he had worked on it, so he was rubbing his thinning, grey hair and kept taking off and replacing his glasses, rubbing imaginary specks of dust from the lenses. It was a mannerism he displayed when he was unsure of himself, which was very rarely.

  By 2230, the men began printing off the data before retiring for a quick conference with Callie. There were a few hushed exclamations; the others in the room strained to hear what was going on. They would find out soon enough but the tension was unbearable.

  For Callie, this was the moment of truth. She collected the sheets and asked for the data to be projected on the main screen, which was suspended from the ceiling bracket in a laughable parody of the huge Spaceflight Operations Facility up at the Lab. She took a deep breath and stepped out to address the room, where the apprehension practically dripped from the walls.

  “Okay, gentlemen. First I’d like to thank those who have been working the weekend to get us this information. I also want to thank all of you for giving up your Saturday night to come in.

  “The primary purpose of this meeting is to determine if we can proceed with Voyager One’s Interstellar Mission. I’m pleased to tell you that our initial response from Voyager One confirms that we can.”

  There were audible sighs of relief around the room.

  Callie continued, “Voyager One is not malfunctioning, so far as we can determine. But it has begun to activate some dormant modules, which will have a severe effect on its battery capacity and may mean that the mission plan must be curtailed. Our main issue here is that the imaging system was fully reactivated, possibly by a remote signal. Voyager has taken up to twelve still images using the wide-angle, high resolution camera. This means it’s trying to downlink to free up the tape.

  “Our top priority is to bring home the data. We need the imaging processors online on Monday evening and they need to be working through the night. This is our top priority, guys. We need some working images by lunchtime Tuesday.”

  There were derisive groans and gasps from Schlitzky’s team.

  “We are on the clock, gentlemen! DSN will be listening out from fifteen hundred hours tomorrow afternoon. I need the image processors ready to go by Tuesday morning.

  “The second priority is to isolate the remote signal. Lab security has been notified, and Morris has been working with federal agencies to try to isolate and stop the source of the interference. There’s not much more we can do, but Morris and the comms team will be working with DSN and the Feds. This will be a full effort from comms, and we’re going to need IT support for processing. Sorry, guys, but you need to be in for the weekend. I will be offering compensatory time for every hour worked since Friday.”

  Some ironic whoops followed this announcement.

  “That’s it for now. I’ve set up a secure workgroup on the VIM server for this phase. Log on using your normal ID. All comms will be routed through the workgroup, so make sure you are online by tomorrow night. And one more time – this situation is confidential. Nothing is shared outside the team without my permission. Call anytime – use my cell if you need to. Let’s get this done.”

  Callie waited until the instruction had been sent by DSN to Voyager 1 initiating the downlink; it would take approximately seventeen hours to get there and the process would take at least another twenty-four hours to complete. That left them looking at Monday night before they could even begin to process the images. It would be very tight.

  She collected Morris and Schlitzky and took them in her car to the Lab. They would be burning the midnight oil trying to find the missing image processing computers, if they even still existed. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Six

  Thursday, 8th September 2016

  Newark Liberty International Airport

  “Speedbird One Eighty-Five, cleared to land, Runway Twenty-Two Left.” The tower controller spat out the words, slurring them together in a rapid-fire delivery; time on the radio was costly when there was a daisy chain of twenty-seven aircraft strung out across fifty miles of airspace in the tight corridor bordering JFK and La Guardia.

  Matt kept his eyes moving between the speed, altitude and runway aiming point as he looked through the 787’s Head-Up Display. The flight path symbol on the HUD sat glued to the touchdown markings in his field of vision. He kept the speed nailed and watched the altitude roll steadily downward as they followed the glideslope guidance lights at the side of the runway.

  The radio altimeter began to countdown from fifty feet in a robotic voice just as they crossed the runway threshold.

  The aircraft seemed to hover momentarily above the runway and then sat smoothly down on the tarmac right on the centreline.

  Matt exited the runway and taxied the aircraft around a few ninety-degree bends before arriving opposite their stand where a marshaller in shorts and high-visibility jacket waited at the head of the stand.

  Chris switched off the nose taxi light so as not to blind her.

  As they drew closer, Matt saw she was wearing shades and chewing furiously on her gum while waving the aircraft closer and closer.

  Just as it seemed she had brought them too far, she crossed the wands; Matt braked to a halt. A thumbs up from the marshaller confirmed she had stopped them right on the correct line. A good job all round.

  They completed the shutdown checklist. Matt occupied himself with the technical log entries for the flight.

  It had been an uneventful seven hours and forty-two minutes – just as he liked it. However, he felt his adventure was about to begin; trying to enter the US without a passport was a very risky proposition in the current security climate.

  After the postflight formalities were completed, Julie, the cabin manager, came in full of positive vibes and smiles as ever telling Chris that all the passengers had disembarked.

  The aircraft dispatcher followed her in with warm greetings and yet more paperwork ready to serve them. Then the ground engineer entered to prep for the next flight. The flight deck was getting crowded, so Matt decided this was his cue to leave. He grabbed up his flight bag and retrieved his ha
t and jacket from their storage behind the seats.

  It was once the two pilots had left the aircraft and were walking up the air bridge that Matt decided to try his acting skills. After letting out a loud expletive and patting his jacket pockets, he rummaged in his bag and looked flustered.

  “Chris, I think I’ve forgotten my passport,” he announced.

  The captain’s face fell. “Oh God, don’t tell me that! You might as well stay on board!”

  “Look, let me sort it.” Matt was as apologetic and accommodating as he could be. “You guys just make your own way to the hotel. Me and the handling agent can sort it out. I’ll call you to let you know what’s going on.”

  Chris shook his head. “No, I’ll wait for you.”

  “I think you should go with the crew in case there’s an issue with the hotel.”

  His plea did the trick. Despite his helpful offers, Chris wanted to hang around waiting for Matt like he wanted a hole in the head.

  “I’ll come with you to the desk and make sure the handling agent sorts you out as far as secondary checking. Have you got money for the cab?”

  “Yeah, of course! Look, it’s my own fault. I don’t want to hold you guys up. I’ll pay the fine or whatever. I’ve still got my visa, so I’m sure they won’t just throw me back on the plane. I’ll let you know as soon as.”

  Chris shrugged slightly, it was one of those things that happened occasionally, and the Customs and Border Patrol guys at Newark certainly weren’t the worst on the network.

  They walked up the air bridge together, their legs stiff from sitting in the cockpit for the better part of nine hours altogether with only a few breaks.

  They caught up with the handling agent in the arrivals hall. She was none too pleased with the unexpected problem but dealt with it efficiently. She immediately radioed the office to get the airline to fax the colour copy of Matt’s passport on file, and then she called her rep in CBP.

  Chris took his place in the aircrew immigration queue while Matt went with the handling agent to Secondary Checking.

  He joined the various waifs, strays and inadmissibles who had been pulled out of the usual line for immigration control. A sign of the times – most of the twenty or so people there were families with headscarf-clad women and heavily bearded men.