The Hand of Christ

by Joseph Nagle

  Michael had no desire to hide his lack of comfort: wrapped uncomfortably tight in the anti-g suit, head covered by the helmet and face mask, and lying backward nearly face up, he simply just wanted to get it over with.

  The Captain returned, “Dr. Sterling, it was a pleasure to have had you aboard my carrier. Now, sit back, and try to relax; you will be at flight altitude before you know it.”

  I am sitting back, but you try and relax in this thing. It was all that Michael could think.

  “Listen, Doc,” the Captain’s voice turned serious, “as soon as we are done chatting here all ability to communicate is going to cease. The Shadow is designed to eliminate all detection by the enemy; there is no RF leakage with this plane. The next time you speak with someone it will be after landing at your destination. Your flight time is expected to be slightly less than one hour.

  We have received a recorded message for you from Langley, when you have leveled off and are at flight speed an onboard display will illuminate and the message will automatically play – but only once.

  Take care Doc, I hope we cross paths again and under different circumstances; I would love to hear about what really happened today. Brace yourself; launch will start in five-seconds.”

  As quickly as the Captain began the conversation, a sharp click signaled its obvious conclusion.

  Five-seconds.

  Michael let out a long, slow breath, and was squeezing the arms of the flight seat tightly. His stomach muscles were already clenched in the g-straining maneuver.

  Unseen to Michael, just outside of the Shadow on the deck of the Arizona, a yellow-vested sailor gave the tension signal. In the Arizona’s primary flight control center, the Air Boss controlled the flight operations and watched over the unfolding launch sequence. On the port side of the Shadow, the Shooter expertly ran down his checks, and then signaled the deck-edge operator to launch the bird.

  Violently, Michael felt himself accelerating. Along the three-hundred foot long EMALS launch system, rows of stator coils accelerated a carriage that was connected to the Shadow. Simultaneously, the Shadow’s engine roar escalated above the already loud rumbles and of its own volition. The energy needed for the launch peaked at 122 MJ’s exploding Michael off the deck of the USS Arizona. Michael – and the Shadow – reached one-hundred-thirty knots in just under two seconds. The Shadow’s engines then took over.

  The Shadow’s propulsion system works in three seamless stages. First, clean burning anhydrous ammonia fires through eight small internal rocket engines that gives the Shadow enough acceleration to reach mach three. (The engines were built by NPO Energomash; the Russian manufacturer of the RD-180 engine used on most Atlas Rockets, and is located in the Moscow suburb of Khimki.)

  On a dollar for dollar basis, the Russian technology for the RD-180 was by far superior to any rocket engine that US engineers attempted to create. When the Shadow was being designed, Lockheed Martin engineers were unable to design effectively the Shadow’s internal engines necessary for stage-one. A young engineer, and new graduate from Michigan Tech, daringly suggested having the Russians make the Shadow’s internal engine.

  He told his Senior Manager during a staff meeting that all that they had to do was convince the Russian engineers at NPO Energomash that Lockheed wanted small “test” engines, not unlike the RD-180, but with certain capabilities. The suggestion was met with a round of pretentious heckling from the older engineers, but it had been worth a shot. Hungry for revenue in a highly inflationary economy, the Russians were all too eager to build the engine and offered no questions.

  An anticipated problem encountered with the smaller engines was that they had a fantastically high heat signature. Any element of the plane that was visible to detection technology had to be eliminated, it was an absolute requirement.

  To accomplish this, the Shadow’s designers incorporated an unconventional tail pipe and exhaust system that countered the highly visible trail from the engine’s heat. In addition to the odd tail pipe, before leaving the aircraft, the engine exhaust is rapidly cooled internally and escapes through a narrow and wide slit - the unconventional tailpipe - at the rear of the aircraft. The design further dissipated the engine’s heat and made infrared detection impossible.

  During the second stage of propulsion, a second tank of ammonia is simultaneously routed into an ion thrust chamber where it is ionized into plasma by an electronic field between an anode and cathode, which conducts electricity. The electromagnetic acceleration uses the Lorentz Force to accelerate the ions; the engines made by NPO Energomash, along with the ion thrust, creates propulsion to mach five.

  Ion propulsion had been previously used only in space, and on its own is not capable of providing the required amount of thrust for hypersonic speed. However, unlike in space, the Shadow uses ion acceleration with a multi-stage approach overcoming the need for a high amount of power to reach maximum velocity.

  The technology is somewhat straight forward, and takes advantage of a simple law in physics; small charge to mass ratios can create very high exhaust capabilities. It was space age technology on Earth.

  During flight, the first two stages will not bring the Shadow to full mach capability, only getting her to the speed necessary for the final stage. The third stage is the most magnificent part and uses what had been theoretical – until the Shadow – scramjet research.

  During the final test of the Shadow, engineers nervously watched the first two stages from their command center located at Skunk Works, Lockheed Martin’s secret research and development facility in Palmdale, California, and the place to where the Shadow was now headed.

  Although scramjet technology is theoretically possible in allowing aircraft to travel ten, even twenty times faster than the speed of sound, there had been no way to use it on traditional aircraft.

  To use scramjet technology on an aircraft, it first needs supersonic airflow through the engine. Scramjet engines, on their own, cannot create enough propulsion to accelerate an aircraft to mach five; seemingly, a catch-22.

  The concept of scramjet technology is simple to comprehend: supersonic airflow exits the aircraft after having been compressed at a faster rate than it enters the inlet of the engine. The difficult question to answer was how to get an aircraft to mach-five on its own so that scramjet technology could be used. The three-stage approach unequivocally answered this question. By using two-stages to reach the necessary velocity for the third stage scramjet technology to work, the Shadow became the first true mach-fifteen (plus) aircraft in the US government’s arsenal, in any government’s arsenal.

  The shift from the first-stage to the second was imperceptible to Michael; all that he could feel were the compressive effects of the steep climb. When the third stage fired up, he literally felt like the weight of the world was now on top of him.

  Just like when he bagged the fat girl.

  He had no idea whether he was seeing colors or looking through a tube like the sailor had warned: the charcoal-black color of the air disallowed any conventional sight. The PBG mask strapped over his face was humming an oppressive tune and forced air into his lungs. The anti-g suit viciously squeezed the lower two-thirds of his body as if he were being crushed in the oversized hands of an angry giant.

  Having long forgotten about the g-straining maneuver, all Michael wanted to do was let out a scream; the force of the climb wouldn’t allow this. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he felt himself go black in a world that was already thick with darkness.

  Hypoxia: Michael went into g-LOC.

  From inside the tower of the USS Arizona, a stoic man sat in the Captain’s chair and watched over the flight deck and at the dissipating contrails of the Shadow. The room was empty. Inhaling sharply on the thick cigar that he caressed between his index and second fingers, he hesitated before exhaling the smoke. The phone was already at his right ear awaiting a connection to his party. “This is the Vice Admiral, he’s left the Arizona.” Cradling the phone to disconne
ct the line, he exhaled a thick, long plume of aromatic smoke before returning the cigar to his mouth for another pull.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nearly Home

  Palmdale, CA

  Dr. Michael Sterling, please authenticate –

  Dr. Michael Sterling, please authenticate –

  Michael stirred; he was barely conscious and unable to comprehend the echoing voice in his head. There it was again, calling out to him. Michael drunkenly said, “Sonia, baby, hit snooze one more time; just give me five more minutes.” Michael had momentarily expunged the day from his cortex and was sleepily calling out to his wife. In his mind, he had drifted back home, and was comfortably tucked into his bed; next to his wife.

  Suddenly, as if someone had turned on the mental faucet, his memory forcibly flowed back to him: the attack in Damascus, Yousef was dead, the book, he was in the Shadow, he had been catapulted off of the USS Arizona, and he had passed out.

  The return of his memory shocked him like a surge of electricity. Michael violently attempted to jump to his feet, but having not yet fully recovered all of his memory, or perhaps only having blocked out certain parts, he forgot that he was still securely strapped into his flight seat. The strength of the harness’s grip wrapped tighter across his chest as he lunged forward. It crushed against his ribcage and forced him back into the seat.

  The hypoxic effects were wearing off, and Michael was almost hyperventilating. Each one of his breaths was labored, but not as much as the one before. The sensation from the flight mask wrapped across his face came back. He reached up and felt the Kevlar flight helmet on his head. His body was righting itself, so was his mind.

  Michael made out a faint greenish glow through his barely opened eyes; his eyelids felt like they had been sewn shut. Had the sailor mentioned that this was a side effect? Michael couldn’t remember.

  Dr. Michael Sterling, please authenticate –

  Instinct took over, an occupational hazard due to the years of training, and he spat out the necessary authentication protocol, “Dr. Sterling, Michael. Authentication level Charlie India Alpha Tango Sierra Charlie, (CIA, Top Secret Compartmentalized). It is nice to see you today. Thank you for having invited me to a wonderful party. I look forward to reciprocating one day. Please allow me to call on you again.”

  The voice analysis software instantly analyzed the many times rehearsed and unassuming phrases that Michael had just uttered. Clearly, the silly string of archaic sentences just muttered were written sometime during the 1960’s – who the hell “calls” on anyone these days – he wished someone would have the sense to update the authentication phrases.

  The voice print of the CIA Officer was matched from syllable to syllable and sought to conjoin his tone, pitch, and accent with how he aspirated certain parts of the words along with any frication or glottal stop. These unique spoken markers are considered a vocal finger print and were compared to what was on the message’s uploaded digital file from Langley. It only took moments for Michael to pass the test and be recognized; almost instantly he was vetted by the machine.

  The fuzzy image of a face appeared on the small flat panel screen affixed to what, Michael thought, must be the front of the plane. Just as the sailor had said, Michael was now sitting upright in the seat instead of being positioned nearly flat and on his back. This automated movement of the chair occurred when he was unconscious from the literally mind numbing climb to one-hundred-thousand feet.

  His head felt like the time when he was twelve and had stepped off a really long circus ride after having just devoured an extraordinarily large banana split. His newly divorced mother’s way too young boyfriend of the moment had thought it would be great entertainment to chide him relentlessly for the nauseating look on his face. More so from luck than purposely directed anger, Michael had regurgitated the ice cream treat. Chunks of bananas and bits of cherries had strategically splattered onto the man’s sandaled feet. His mother never saw the man again after that, or perhaps it was more proper to say that it had been the other way around. Whatever the case was, Michael had enjoyed that moment.

  The man that stared back at him from the screen was the square-jawed face of Ron Willis, the Deputy Director of the CIA. Michael and Ron had crossed paths a few times at headquarters and during certain Congressional briefings to which Michael would be called as an expert for his testimony on a Middle East topic, or after a mission. The two men did not normally work together.

  “Dr. Sterling, we were extremely pleased that you were able to make it safely out of Syria, and, likewise, saddened at the unnecessary loss of life. I know that you were close to Yousef. This is a tremendous setback for the US and the Middle East. There will be time in the near future to discuss this in greater detail. By now you should have leveled out at nearly one-hundred-thousand feet and are flying somewhere close to mach fifteen. Your destination is Skunk Works, a Lockheed Martin, and black facility in Palmdale, California.

  Unfortunately, this message will only be played once, so pay close attention. Less than two hours after the attack by Hezbollah on you and the delegates in Damascus, the Ayatollah of Iran was assassinated in his home. We have reason to believe that the two events are related and that a third party is responsible. As can be expected, the implications of these two events will lead to dire consequences to both political and military activities between the West and the East.”

  Holy shit, thought Michael, the Ayatollah! This is not good.

  “You will be met by a team upon landing; they will debrief you and assist you on getting you to your final destination. Any information that you gathered in Syria before the attack may be of consequential importance. Unfortunately, I will require your presence at Langley; however, first, you will have a short layover at your home in Denver before coming to Langley. Go home and manage your affairs there, your flight to Langley is scheduled for early tomorrow morning. As you have probably gathered, the situation has become more complicated; your expertise will be necessary and required.

  You are to speak to no one other than the officers sent to debrief you. Upon your arrival at Langley, you are to report directly to me and to no one else. Dr. Sterling, this matter is of the highest national priority and is the President’s only concern at the moment. Speak to no one of this other than the officers I have sent. I repeat, do not speak to anyone of this, and not even your immediate chain of command. I will see you tomorrow morning, take care, Dr. Sterling.”

  The message ended and the screen went black, it had been the only source of light in the small cabin of the Shadow; Michael was thrown once more into a startling world of claustrophobic blackness.

  Good thing this is a short flight.

  Michael was annoyed more than he was confused. Flying home and then out again the next morning? Sonia was really going to love this. His senses were on fire, something about what the Deputy Director had said, the way he said it, bothered Michael, “Speak to no one of this, and not even your immediate chain of command,” had been the Deputy Director’s orders.

  Mid-thought, Michael felt the Shadow start to decelerate; the plane was readying to land. A muffled groan displaced the sound of the slowing engines; the landing gear was dropping from its arrested position. The change in the cabin’s pressure mingled with his inner ear, it made them feel as if they were suddenly stuffed with wads of cotton. There was a discernable feeling of the plane losing altitude.

  I am there already? For just how long was I unconscious? Michael thought, as he gripped the armrests tighter.

  The landing went surprisingly smooth, as gentle a landing as he had ever felt. Soon the plane had come to rest inside of an unmarked hanger at the far end of a restricted runway on the North end of the facility. It was the same hanger that housed the once Top Secret U-2, SR-71 Blackbird, and F-117 Stealth Bomber. The Shadow came to rest next to the newly de-classified model of the Skunk Work developed F-22 Stealth fighter.

  Skunk Works is the odd - but trademarked - name of the secret
design facility used by Lockheed Martin; it has been the location centric to most of the United States’ black aircraft related projects since 1943. The corrected name of a misspelling, the original name had been “Skonk Works,” and was borrowed from the Li’l Abner comic strips of the 1940’s. The comical Skonk Works was a backwoods secret facility that turned worn shoes and dead skunks into “kickapoo joy juice.” It is also from where the Skunk mascot on the facility’s logo is derived.

  The Shadow came to a soft rest and, almost immediately, the system of interlocks that had maintained an airtight seal on the door were released. A loud hiss signaled that the pressure inside was being equalized with the pressure outside; the door opened. The sudden onset of light viciously pierced the inside of the plane and caused Michael’s unadjusted eyes to slam shut. From the door’s frame, the figure of a man holding a pistol extended outward and shrouded by the light called out to Michael, “Sir, stay in your seat, don’t move until we have confirmed your identity.”

  “Are you serious? I was confirmed while on board. What do you think; I hijacked this plane mid-flight, at 9500 miles per hour, and killed the real Dr. Michael Sterling? Get me the hell out of this contraption!”

  “Sir, I repeat, stay seated, just let me do my job! Where’s your weapon?” barked the armed man.

  “I don’t have one,” replied Michael. The weapon had been irretrievably lost after his hand to hand fight with the Hezbollah solider in Saladin’s mausoleum. His boss wouldn’t like this; it wasn’t due to the cost of the customized chrome plated side-arm, but that its loss created a physical link between Michael and Syria. Michael was sure that he had holstered it, but it must have managed to fall out somewhere between Umayyad and his escape to the aircraft carrier.

  The soldier ordered, “Please keep your hands extended away from your body, and where I can see them. The soldier reached to the radio microphone attached to his shoulder and depressed the key, “Ready to confirm authentication of Shadow’s passenger. Passenger claims he is unarmed.”