Solar Weapon

by David Capps

“Those repeater antennas. Are they near cities or towns?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Don’t they need electricity?”

  “Of course. For an antenna in this range, you’d need a lot of electricity.”

  “So where is the electricity coming from?” Jake asked.

  Stafford enlarged one of the photos. “Each one of the antenna towers has a small concrete building at the base of it. There has to be a generator inside the building.”

  “And who refills the fuel tank?”

  Stafford expanded the photo again. “This one’s on a peak of some kind. It’s not buried in snow, so I’m guessing it isn’t that high an elevation.”

  “Shouldn’t there be a road or at least tracks where a truck delivered fuel to the generator?” Jake asked.

  Stafford expanded the photo more. “I don’t see any tracks, or a road.”

  “So how does the generator run without fuel?”

  “It can’t, can it? We need to get into one of these buildings.”

  “Uh huh,” Jake said. “Let me know when you find one close to us.”

  The photos continued to arrive on the computer throughout the night. The locations were on the other side of the world. The satellite needed to be above daylight on the surface. Infrared could be used at night, but it was difficult to get an idea of the antenna sizes from the images. With dawn of the last day of the deadline, more photos from South America began showing up on the computer screen.

  Honi’s phone rang. It was Brett. She listened and then said, “I’ll have to get back to you.”

  “Brett’s been working on Thornton’s computer, but it requires an encryption key. It has a three-try lockout security feature, so we’re going to have to have the right encryption key to get into his computer.”

  “I’ve got a repeater close to us,” Stafford announced.

  “Where?” Jake asked.

  “Paraguay. Six hundred and twenty-eight miles north.”

  “So how do we get there fast?”

  “Private jet and helicopter,” Agent-In-Charge Clayton answered. He picked up the phone and made the arrangements. “Your FBI credentials and American Passports aren’t going to get you through customs in South America. I have some Brazilian Passports we can use, but you’ll need to look like very prosperous business people. Wealthy people get preferential treatment in this part of the world. There is an upscale clothing store on the way to the airport. We can stop there while my people are preparing your papers for customs.”

  A twenty-minute shopping spree transformed Jake, Honi, Stafford and Ken into what looked like a business investment group for a Fortune 500 corporation. In fifteen minutes they were boarding a private Learjet 45 at the Aeroparque Jorge Newbery Airport in Buenos Aires. An hour and twenty-six minutes later, they landed at the Silvio Pettirossi International Airport in Luque, Paraguay.

  “What do we say to the customs officials?” Honi asked. “We don’t speak any of the local languages. Won’t they know we’re Americans?”

  Clayton smiled. “For very wealthy people, such as yourselves, all that is required is registering your passports and paying an entrance fee. You don’t have to appear before them in person. I will make all of the necessary arrangements.”

  While Clayton took their passports to the local customs office, the four transferred immediately to a Sikorski helicopter waiting for them on the tarmac.

  A half-hour later, they landed on a flattened portion of a large rocky hill. Jake, Honi, Stafford and Ken climbed the slope to the top where the antenna was located. The antenna tower was over a hundred feet tall with the fractal antennas mounted above that. Transmission cables ran down the tower and into the concrete building at the base of the tower. Jake checked the metal door. It was locked. He checked the deadbolt and pulled his lock pick set from his pocket. While Jake worked on the lock, Stafford used a small meter device to check for an alarm circuit.

  “It looks clean. No sign of an alarm system.”

  “Probably figured no one would come up here on a rock hill in the middle of nowhere,” Honi commented.

  Jake slowly opened the door and peered inside. “Some kind of blue light in there.” He opened the door further and the four of them slowly walked inside.

  “Well,” Ken said. “This answers the lack of fuel deliveries.”

  The electronics for the repeater were housed in a metal enclosure on the right front section of the building. In the back was a circular machine, six feet in diameter and two feet tall. A metal dome covered both the top and bottom portions of the machine. Heavy wires ran from the top and bottom of the machine over to the electronics enclosure. From the center, a rotating ring was exposed with another ring partially visible inside of that. The rings were spinning counterclockwise. The whole machine was surrounded by a gentle blue glow.

  Jake slowly began to approach the machine, but when he got six feet from the blue glow, the hairs on his arms and head raised up. Stafford grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back.

  “Better not. Too much static electricity. You could get electrocuted just getting near it.”

  “Possible radiation hazard, too,” Ken added.

  Jake stepped back. “So what the hell is it?”

  “We’re going to need Andropov,” Honi said. “Maybe he can figure out what this machine is and how it works.” She pulled her phone, but there was no service.

  They stepped back out of the building and Stafford took out his phone.

  “No service. But we have GPS. From the angle on the antenna our transmitting source is due northwest from here.”

  “We need to get back to civilization so we can contact our people,” Honi said.

  They scrambled back down the hill to the helicopter and took off toward Luque.

  When they landed, Jake called General Davies.

  “General, it’s Jake Hunter. We need Andropov flown down to La Paz, Bolivia immediately. We have a general location for the Organization’s communications center, sir. We think the satellite control system is in central Bolivia. We need an immediate military ground assault force put together, with full air support, to take control of that satellite command center. We’re less than eight hours from the deadline.” He listened carefully. “Yes, sir, I understand. If this doesn’t happen in the next seven hours and forty-three minutes, seven billion people are going to die.” He disconnected.

  “So what’s the problem?” Honi asked.

  “Logistics,” Stafford answered. “It takes time to put physical assets in place.”

  “Like what?” Ken asked.

  “Aircraft consume a large amount of fuel. We can refuel in the air, but only if there is an air tanker where you need it. South America isn’t exactly military friendly to us, so we don’t have enough logistical support to operate in the middle of Bolivia.”

  “We need to be on the assault team,” Honi stated. “How are they going to pick us up?”

  “Leave that to me,” Clayton said. “We have a small private airfield outside of La Paz that we use in partnership with the DEA for drug interdiction missions. We can use that.”

  “Okay,” Jake said. “Get us to La Paz.”

  Honi pulled her phone and called Brett. “Get the NRO satellites covering central Bolivia. Look for a tall antenna tower out in the middle of nowhere. Send me the photos and the GPS coordinates as soon as you have them.”

  They boarded the Learjet 45 and took off for La Paz.

  “This is going to be close,” Jake said.

  CHAPTER 18

  They landed at El Alto International Airport, 8 miles southwest of La Paz, at half past noon, local time. The most immediate sensation was the thinness of the air.

  “What’s our altitude?” Jake asked.

  “Thirteen thousand, three hundred twenty-five feet,” Clayton answered. “You’re standing on the highest international airport in the world.”

  They passed through customs without incident, and entered the four-door sedan of the loca
l FBI office chief.

  “I’m FBI Agent-In-Charge Tony Wessler, La Paz office,” he said, leaning over the seat.

  They all shook hands. After an hour drive into the mountains to the east, they stopped at a small grass runway airfield nestled in a narrow valley. On the east side of the runway stood a twenty by thirty-foot wood construction office, two six-by-eight storage sheds and four one-thousand-gallon fuel storage tanks. The air was cool and thin.

  Jake’s phone rang. It was General Davies. “Yes, General.”

  “Are you in Bolivia?” General Davies asked.

  “Yes, we’re at a small drug interdiction airport east of La Paz.”

  “Okay. I know where that is. You will be picked up on the way to the target. How close are you to an exact final destination?”

  “Close. We should have an exact location for the Phoenix Organization’s communications center by the time your forces are in the air.”

  “Understood. I have Andropov and the President’s Unit on super-sonic transport. As soon as they arrive we will initiate the mission.”

  “Thank you, General.” Jake disconnected.

  “Well, at least we have cell service out here,” Honi said.

  “We have our own tower,” Wessler replied. “Operational requirement for drug interdiction.”

  Honi called Brett. “How are the NRO photos coming?” she asked. “Uh huh. What about infrared?” She grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper. “Okay, go ahead.” She started writing numbers down. “Got it. Thanks Brett.” She disconnected.

  “There’s only one thing there and it shows up in the infrared spectrum. GPS coordinates are -17.349362 degrees Latitude and -59.735368 degrees Longitude. It’s in the middle of the Chiquitos Province.”

  “What does the facility layout look like?” Stafford asked.

  “Trees.”

  “What do you mean trees? There has to be some kind of structure there.”

  “There is. But only on infrared—single rectangular structure—the satellite photos show only trees—no buildings.”

  “That’s got to be some really good camouflage,” Stafford said.

  “We’ll find out how they did that when we get there,” Honi replied.

  “Meanwhile,” Wessler said. “We have camo-fatigues and bullet-resistant vests for you in the first storage shed. You’re going to have to pick and choose boots from what we’ve got.” He looked at Honi’s feet and grimaced. “Probably don’t have anything in your size, sorry.”

  Honi looked down at the black high-heeled shoes she had picked out for her business suit. “Whatever you have has got to be better than these.”

  Honi picked out the smallest sized fatigues, boots, and four pairs of socks, and went into the office bathroom to change. When she came out Jake, Stafford and Ken were standing in the office wearing their fatigues. They looked at her. Jake raised his eyebrows. She had her shirt cuffs turned back and buttoned, but the shirt was still billowing out around her. The pants fluffed out like old-fashioned riding trousers, which she had stuffed down into her obviously oversized boots.

  “How are the boots?” Jake asked.

  Honi looked down at her feet. “I feel like a duck. Four pairs of socks and they’re still loose.”

  “Can you walk and run in them?”

  “Maybe. I’ll let you know.”

  She walked out the office door. Jake watched as she jumped and shook. Then she ran awkwardly back and forth next to the grass runway. When she came back in, she looked discouraged.

  “This isn’t going to work.”

  Jake pulled his phone and called General Davies.

  “We need a set of battle fatigues. What size?” he asked Honi.

  “Women’s size four. And size five boots.”

  Jake repeated the information to General Davies.

  “Thank you, General.” Jake disconnected.

  “They’ll be on the transport.”

  She looked a little sheepish. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Are you kidding? We’re going into battle. I want you there right next to me.”

  She looked back at him, eyes locked on his, and didn’t say a word.

  “And right next to me,” Stafford said. He and Ken had come out to check on Honi.

  “And me,” Ken added.

  “We’re a team,” Jake said. “Come hell or high water, we’re still a team. Nothing is going to change that.”

  She tightened her lips and nodded. “Thank you,” she said confidently.

  “Now let’s pick out our weapons,” Jake said.

  The back room of the office doubled as a sleeping area with four cots, and an armory. Jake and Stafford picked out M-16 rifles, Honi and Ken selected H&K MP5s. They all stuffed an extra clip in each vest pocket.

  Jake’s phone buzzed. He looked at the message. “Assault force is in the air. Based on the carrier, USS Carl Vinson, off the coast of Chili. They’re six hours out.” He looked at the clock. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. Six hours from now would make it eight in the evening local time, which was midnight, Universal Time—the deadline. He shook his head. “It’s too close. Too much can go wrong.”

  “It’s all we can do,” Stafford replied. “We’ve got to try.”

  Jake nodded and started pacing back and forth.

  “Save your energy,” Stafford said quietly. “You’re going to need every ounce of it when we take the facility.”

  “You’re going to need to eat,” Wessler said. He had opened six cans of beef stew and was warming it in a pot.

  The warm food was welcomed and helped them relax a bit. Jake noticed each one glance at the clock on the wall every few minutes. In some ways, waiting was the hard part, not knowing what to expect, uncertain of the conditions they would encounter.

  Jake, Honi, Stafford and Ken drifted outside as the sun set. The mountain shadow had long ago cut off the direct light of the sun. Now, what light remained was fading fast.

  “They’ll refuel in the air,” Stafford said. “Maybe twice, depending on the aircraft. You don’t want to go into combat with an empty fuel tank.”

  “What bothers me is that we don’t know what kind of technology or weapons we’re going up against. We might not stand a chance,” Jake said.

  “And what chance do we have if we don’t stop them?” Stafford said.

  Jake looked at Honi and Ken. They were calm and determined. “Then we give it everything we have.”

  Jake’s phone buzzed again. He checked the screen. “ETA ten minutes. Our ride’s almost here.”

  They went inside, checked their weapons and walked back out to wait in the chilly night air. The heavy throb of large helicopter blades began to shake the air. Red and green lights appeared over the trees and a brilliant landing light came on, illuminating the landscape. The downwash whipped at them as an MV-22B Marine Osprey settled in over the grass runway and softly touched down. The back ramp opened up and two Army Special Forces soldiers bounded out toward them. The first soldier handed a stack of clothes and a set of boots to Honi.

  “Uniform for the lady. Compliments of the United States Army. You can change on board, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  The four of them followed the two soldiers up the ramp, which closed just as the Osprey lifted off. The landing light and the running lights were turned off as the aircraft went dark for its approach against the target. Each soldier turned his back as Honi changed into her new uniform.

  “Everything fit?” Jake asked.

  “Perfectly.”

  Everyone settled in for the half-hour flight to the Phoenix Organization’s communications facility. The Osprey rose and fell as it skipped over the terrain. Within a few minutes, three other Ospreys joined up next to them, one on the right and two on the left. At ten minutes before the attack, a soldier on each side of the Osprey opened the side panels and clamped the high-speed Dillon M134D Gatling Guns into position. They connected the curved ammunition feeders to the side of the weapons
, plugged in the power cords, and started them up.

  “Ready on the left,” a soldier yelled over the noise.

  “Ready on the right,” the other soldier echoed.

  Honi stood and looked out the left side panel.

  “What the hell is that?” she shouted. She motioned for Jake to join her.

  In the distance in front of them, Jake and Honi saw a glowing disc rise out of the darkness of the trees, and start moving off to the left at high speed.

  “UFO, ma’am,” the left-side gunner said. “I’ve seen ‘em before. Just pray it keeps on going. They’re real nasty to deal with, ma’am.”

  She turned to Jake. “Well,” she said with a smile on her face. “At least we know we’re in the right place.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Jake, Honi, Stafford and Ken strapped on their helmets and powered up their night-vision systems. Everything appeared in various shades of green, with heat sources particularly bright.

  “We’re goin’ in!” the left-side gunner shouted. “Air support is sixty seconds out.”

  Soldiers ran from the building below and started shooting at the Ospreys with automatic weapons. The Osprey gunners returned fire with the Gatling Guns. The hand-held weapons used by the men on the ground fired 10 rounds per second. The Gatling Guns on the Ospreys fired 50 rounds per second. The difference was decisive. Jake and Honi watched as the Osprey gunners swept over the soldiers running out of the building. Every fifth round fired from the Gatling Gun was a tracer, with a small amount of phosphorus burning at the back end of the bullet. The effect in the night-vision goggles was an almost constant beam of bright green light streaming from the Gatling Guns, which allowed the gunners to see where the bullets were going in the dark.

  There were two large saucer-shaped objects covered with camo tarps on the ground next to the building. Jake watched as an enemy soldier yanked the tarp off the first saucer and ran into a lowered ramp on the underside of the vehicle.

  “Open door!” Jake shouted to the gunner pointing at the saucer closest to the building. “Focus your fire into the open door!”

  The gunner swept his fire into the doorway as the ramp began closing.