Isaacs thought a moment. “So the net power in the signal isn’t changing.”
“Right again. It seems as if the strength of the signal only depends on where it is in the cycle, and that the power is the same cycle after cycle.”
Isaacs paused, then asked, “Do you see any way this could be artificial? Man-made?”
“Not without a position fixed on the Earth’s surface,” replied Danielson.
“But it seems not to be a normal seismic phenomenon?”
“Too many of the properties are strange, particularly if the path is fixed in space and not with respect to the Earth.”
“Could there be some tidal effect? A collective action of the Sun and Moon?”
“I don’t see how. There’s no obvious way to trigger such an event. In any case there seems to be no connection with the position of the Moon, which has orbited several times without changing anything while we’ve monitored the data. Still, we’re dealing with something strange here, so possible subtle or indirect tidal effects should probably be explored.”
Isaacs fixed his gaze on the tired young woman in front of him. “I think you’re right; you’re onto something peculiar,” he said slowly. “Why don’t you go home and get a good night’s sleep. Come in tomorrow and we’ll go into your evidence in detail.”
Danielson smiled abashedly, acknowledging her fatigue once more. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” She rose and let herself out the door.
Isaacs leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He quickly decided he needed more information. A detailed discussion with Danielson tomorrow might show some flaw in the analysis. That was unlikely, however, despite the strange nature of the situation, considering the careful work Danielson usually produced and the sophisticated computer analysis groups on which she relied. But more information or no, this problem required expert consultation to begin even to categorize it.
He leaned forward and punched the intercom. “Kathleen?” When she responded, he said, “Get in touch with Martinelli. I want a one kilometer resolution photomontage of everything within ten degrees of thirty-three degrees north and south latitude and a first order scan for anything out of the ordinary. I don’t know specifically what to look for.”
Isaacs then leaned back and contemplated the situation. After some time he realized that he was imagining an extraterrestrial civilization beaming a mysterious ray at Earth from some point in space. He shook his head ruefully as he put Danielson’s problem out of his mind and retrieved the Tyuratam summaries from his desk drawer.
Chapter 5
Hot, late afternoon air rustled through the kibbutz. Duma Zadoc cautiously flipped a switch and smiled as the old water pump started up with a functional din, rewarding her afternoon’s efforts. She wiped a forearm across her forehead, replacing sweat with grease, and kneeled to her final task. Methodically, she began to cinch down the bolts of the pump housing, a diametric pair at a time to ensure even pressure. She cringed as the first of the fourth pair turned too easily and the head of the bolt sheared off. With an uncharacteristic show of disgust, she threw the wrench down. The bolt head popped loose from the jaws of the wrench and rolled crazily across the floor. Duma stood up with hands on hips and watched with dismay as droplets of water began to seep from the seal near the broken bolt. As she tried to decide whether to attack the lodged remains of the bolt this afternoon or wait until tomorrow, a strange noise suddenly rose above the sound of the clattering pump. It came from the nearby orange grove, a mixed roar and hiss.
Terrorists! thought Duma and the image of her mangled infant flashed before her eyes. Thirty-five years as a Sun-toughened sabra gave her the instincts to react coolly and quickly, quelling any hint of desperation. She raced from the pump house for the alarm. She punched the button starting the klaxon’s howl, then ran the forty meters to the attack shelter and stood at the door assisting the children and then older kibbutz members who streamed inside.
Despite the sound of the siren and the hubbub of voices, Duma kept an ear tuned to the original sound. She had realized that there was something unorthodox about it. Unlike an incoming mortar round, this noise had gotten quieter and there had been no deadly, thumping explosion.
She wandered away from the shelter toward the orange grove. She heard the noise again, faint but growing in volume. Although the sound sent a chill down her spine, something told her there was no immediate danger. She squinted up toward the direction indicated by her ears, but saw no sign of the source. She followed the indicated trajectory as the noise reached peak intensity and then vanished. At the same time she saw a puff of dust arise just beyond the barbed wire fence of the compound.
Duma crawled through the fence and paced back and forth in the area where the dust had kicked up. She half expected to find an unexploded shell casing. Instead, she saw absolutely nothing. Puzzled, she crossed the fence again. As she headed back into camp, she waved an “all clear” sign at a compatriot, and the klaxon faded away. She decided the broken bolt in the pump housing could wait for another day.
Two more weeks were absorbed in the intensive routine of monitoring developments at the Soviet launch site at Tyuratam. Isaacs spent rare moments with Danielson discussing the seismic project. There seemed to be no flaw in Danielson’s analysis, but they could not contrive a reasonable explanation for her data. The photomontage of the suspect latitudes provided by Martinelli showed nothing of interest. The routine was interrupted by a phone call.
Isaacs hung up the telephone and glared at the opposite wall of his office. He clinched his teeth, rhythmically rippling the prominent muscles over his jaws. The call had been simple. Kevin McMasters’ secretary requested that Isaacs report to the office of the Deputy Director immediately. The secretary’s voice was briskly formal, as that of the second in a duel, announcing his man’s choice of weapon. It suggested the black mood of the official who had given the order. Isaacs instantly recognized the root of the problem; indeed, he had expected the call. His bid to eliminate two more of McMasters’ outmoded pet projects had succeeded. McMasters could not counter Isaacs’ arguments, but he would find some way to strike back, his vindictive urge whetted by defensiveness over his role in the fate of the FireEye satellite and the orbital confrontation to which that had led. Isaacs had no clue to McMasters’ target, something not immediately subject to objective scrutiny, but he was certain that the ploy was about to begin.
He stood up and faced the window for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, unconsciously rocking up and down on the balls of his feet. Then he turned abruptly and walked briskly out of his office.
“I’m going to see McMasters,” he announced to Kathleen.
She nodded, confirming her deduction.
Isaacs used the stairs to ascend two flights and then paced a long hallway and half of another before turning into the suite of offices commanded by the Deputy Director for Central Intelligence.
The secretary looked up at his arrival and arched an eyebrow.
“He’ll see you in a moment—won’t you have a seat?”
Without the protective anonymity of the telephone receiver, she seemed pleasant and proper, giving no hint of reflected animosity.
Isaacs replied, “Thank you,” curtly, but remained standing, fidgeting tensely. For five minutes his irritation grew, but then he made a strong conscious effort to calm himself. Obviously, McMasters designed this childish trick, requiring him to cool his heels, to put him in a rash state of mind. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, glanced at the secretary and settled into a chair.
In the next ten minutes he catalogued most of the projects that commanded his direct attention. Tyuratam continued to be the central concern, particularly planning sessions to suggest strategies when the launch occurred. He glanced at the calendar on his watch, June 2, seven weeks since the first laser was destroyed and the Soviets had begun their crash program on the second. Launch was anticipated in two or three more weeks. Sure
ly, there was no ground for attack there where everybody was pitching in on the common goal. They had not spent time on Mozambique and still remained uncertain about the origin of the arms cache. Could that be a weak point? Their lack of progress on some back burner problem? He attained a controlled state of mind, yet was unable to fathom where McMasters would elect to apply pressure.
The intercom on the secretary’s desk buzzed, and he heard the low fidelity rattle of McMasters’ voice though he could not make out the precise words.
“He’ll see you now.”
This time Isaacs caught a note of excitement, a school child announcing a fight on the playground. Despite the imminent confrontation, Isaacs found this droll. He maintained a serious face as he opened the door to McMasters’ office, but just before he stepped through he looked back over his shoulder and gave the woman a broad wink. To his satisfaction, this incongruous act on the part of a respectable, if beleaguered, high official of the organization caught her by surprise. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open slightly. Isaacs closed the door behind him.
Several steps took him to McMasters’ desk in the middle of the spacious room. The DDI sat erect, but with eyes focused on a folder on his desk. A hint of pot belly spoiled his medium build. At fifty-nine, short, wavy, salt-and-pepper hair covered his head, the waves shorn short on the side. His face was an elongated rectangle, with pale green eyes that receded into the surrounding folds, giving no access. His aquiline nose suggested the refinement evident in his comportment. He had a habit of holding his chin high so that he literally looked down his nose at people to whom he spoke.
Now he raised his gaze to Isaacs and spoke in a measured, cultured voice, “What—is—this—bull—shit?”
The epithet was delivered slowly, poisonously, reinforced by the contrast to his excessively proper demeanor.
“Sir?” Isaacs said, taken aback despite himself.
McMasters picked up the folder in front of him and gestured with it.
“With the fate of this nation and the free world at stake, you have deliberately chosen to squander the time of yourself and others and the resources of the Agency in an absurd wild-goose chase after Earthquakes that follow the stars! We are not here to do astrology, Mr. Isaacs.”
Isaacs caught a glimpse of the folder. It was labeled QUAKER, the code name for the strange periodic seismic signal. His mind whirled and locked like a magnetic computer tape searching for the appropriate data strip. He felt a certain relief. He was involved in a number of areas of immediate importance where McMasters’ interference would have been disastrous. Apparently, those were safe for a moment. Yet McMasters had chosen shrewdly. Isaacs would be hard put to objectively defend his interest in the bizarre seismic signal that Pat Danielson continued to study when she could spare the time from Tyuratam. There was not the slightest hint that it represented a danger in any way. Nevertheless, his career-honed instinct warned him that to neglect the signal with its true nature still unknown would be foolhardy.
He started in a calm tone, “That signal is unprecedented, I…”
McMasters interrupted him coldly.
“We operate in an environment awash with information, some of it unprecedented and most of it trivial. If we are to maintain our precarious hold on freedom, we must be ruthless in our drive to focus on the crucial and ignore the rest. This is no time to idly follow pet fancies. The monitoring of seismic signals is not even this Agency’s business. I must question your competence in choosing to mobilize the resources of the Agency to chase such a chimera.”
The bald personal attack on his judgment stirred Isaacs’ anger. Tension crept into his voice.
“Sir, we are in full agreement on our goals. We must select the important elements from a flood of information, but my record demonstrates that I am effective in doing just that.”
He had stressed the “my” and McMasters’ ears tinged with red at the riposte.
Isaacs extended a vigorous forefinger at the report on the desk and continued, “There is something profoundly disturbing about this seismic signal. Of course, there is a chance that it is insignificant, but I don’t believe that is the case. I believe we must pursue this thing until we understand it.”
“You believe?” McMasters spoke with anger and mockery. “On what basis? Is there a clear and present danger to the nation?”
“Not clear and present. You can’t expect…” Isaacs began hotly.
“Is there any hint of the slightest bother to anyone, anywhere?” McMasters interrupted.
“Not yet, but…”
“Your concern for this trivial matter is foolhardy.”
Isaacs suffered the second interruption and gritted his teeth.
McMasters continued, “You occupy a position of great authority and the Agency can ill-afford such lapses. I order you to desist totally in your pursuit of this matter. I will draft a memo summarizing your ill judgment. If there is any repeat performance, I will be forced to place that memo in your file and report your case to the Director.”
Isaacs recognized this as part bluff. His record was good, and McMasters could not impugn him recklessly to the Director without endangering his own position. Still, the Director’s reliance on McMasters for advice on internal affairs was well-known. McMasters, in turn, used his favored position adroitly. Isaacs was aware that McMasters could influence the Director in a manner that could damage Isaacs professionally and, worse, could interfere with important Agency operations.
Isaacs gestured with his hands at hip level, tense fingers spread, palms facing each other, an aborted, instinctive reaction to his desire to clutch and shake the object of his frustration.
“For god’s sake!” he shot. “You’re taking me to task for doing my job the best I know how.”
“Perhaps your best is not good enough,” McMasters replied sharply.
Isaacs raised his arms and eyes toward the ceiling in dismay. Then he brandished a weapon-substitute finger at the older man.
“We both know the real reason for this confrontation,” he said, louder than he intended. “The root of it is not my competence, but yours. You’re irritated because I managed to scuttle some of your outdated programs.”
“Don’t raise your voice to me,” McMasters responded with surprising volume. “My competence is not the issue here, whatsoever.”
Outside in the anteroom, the secretary smiled slightly. To this point the conversation within had been entirely muffled. The latter outbursts did not carry clearly through the sound-proofed door, but their tone was clear. The two distinguished gentlemen were, indeed, at each other’s throats.
As if aware of this monitoring, McMasters lowered his voice, if not the level of his irritation. He continued, glaring at Isaacs.
“Your suggestion borders on insubordination. You are not improving your position.”
Isaacs, on cue, lowered his tone.
“This discussion is ridiculous. We both want what is best for the Agency. You know I acted in good conscience when I argued against your programs. You are doing neither us nor the Agency a service by threatening to interfere with me in general and a potentially critical area in particular.”
“I am threatening nothing,” McMasters responded. “I am simply carrying out my assigned duty, which is to see to it that the Agency functions in the most efficient possible manner. I am putting you on notice that your unilateral authorization of worthless projects and disrespect for this office will not be tolerated. I repeat you are to terminate the operation regarding this insubstantial seismic phenomenon.”
Isaacs calculated quickly. He was in a no-win situation, with no chance of talking McMasters out of his vindictive position. He had little beyond his intuition to justify the effort he had authorized to understand the queer seismic waves. The expenses involved were small, but still a finite drain on Agency resources. He did not want the project to come up for a full-scale Agency review as McMasters could easily arrange. In such a case he would be forced to rank the seism
ic project below a goodly number of others. Even the Director, through no malice, was likely to suggest a “compromise” in an effort to quell disagreements among his subordinates. His best hope would be to lose only the seismic project and prevent McMasters from lopping off any other projects. He would be no better off than now, but the disagreement between himself and McMasters would have been aired widely, and that could only lead to other trouble. He had little practical choice but to accede to McMasters.
Isaacs stared down at the man before him.
“All right,” he conceded, “both of us stand to lose if you insist on dragging our personal disagreements before the Director, but I won’t risk Agency programs being gratuitously interrupted for the sake of exposing your machinations.”
“You’ll abandon your investigation of this seismic folly?”
“Yes.”
“You understand that this is an order carrying the full authority of my office?”
“Yes, dammit!”
McMasters eyed him for a moment, then snapped, “You are dismissed.”
Isaacs promptly whirled and strode out of the office. He resisted a temptation to slam the door behind him. The secretary half expected another wink. Instead he treated her to the sight of his back as he crossed her office and disappeared down the corridor.
In his office, Kevin McMasters wrote a brief note to his secretary, attached it to the file before him and dropped the file in his “out” box. His gaze lingered on it, and he smiled a small, self-satisfied smile.
That afternoon Pat Danielson was one of a handful of people to receive the following memo:
Due to a reordering of priorities, active investigation connected with operation code name QUAKER will terminate effective immediately. Please act promptly to deliver to central inactive files all material relevant to Project QUAKER that is in your possession.
The Krone Experiment k-1 Page 10
