"You have a prisoner chemist?" asked Simmons.
"Ken Brown, no, he's just creative. Prisoners tend to be; it's that or make do without."
"Ken Brown? I know Ken Brown."
A Caucasian man two tables away, looked up at the mention of 'Ken Brown'. Johnson beckoned and he came over.
"Mr Brown," Henrikson stood and shook his hand. "You look well."
Brown smiled and shrugged. "Bone deterioration agrees with me. Nice of you drop by and check up on us."
"Well, I wasn't really here for that."
"I know."
"I hear you made margarine."
"I eat it too, but I think I'm largely alone in that."
"Where did you learn how?"
"I've been taking online classes, little harder out here but Doctor Johnson sorted it out for me."
"That's great to hear."
"Can you help us with the antimatter problem?" asked Simmons. Henrikson frowned at him. "What? His guess is as good as ours right now."
Ken smiled. "No but I can help you with the nuclear waste problem. I can build a rail gun to hurl waste, out of the solar system."
"Ken, we talked about this," Johnson shook his head.
"But really, I can. I'll only need parts that are already here, and unused. I've done the math, too. It could launch up to a kilogram of waste, per shot."
"Can I go over it?"
"What?" Simmons' fork stopped on the way to his mouth. "No!"
"Why not?" asked Henrikson.
"Seriously? You're considering this?"
"What's the problem?"
"Have you noticed that orange jumpsuits are trending out here? This isn't the place to build shotguns that fire nuclear waste."
"It's still a great solution."
"Try to think about the bigger picture."
"Respectfully Sir, do you really want to leave this stuff lying around?" said Brown. "Everyone here knows it's dangerous - and is trained in how to handle it. The more there is, the easier stuff will go missing. Especially as output scales, is the program going to track waste, closely? Sure eventually, but what about right now? When new problems still don't have solutions?"
Simons said nothing.
"As long as Doctor Johnson signs off on everything, you can build your rail gun, Ken," said Henrikson.
It was like an orphan seeing Santa in the window.
"Thank you Sir!"
"No, thank you."
"This is a bad idea," said Simmons, after Ken left. "You should have at least cleared it with Legal, first. They're always worried about us getting sued."
"Fuck legal. They're the ones who want to break the law, the most."
"Forget this rail gun nonsense. What are we going to tell Spektorov about the antimatter problem?"
"The truth. That his space program is on hold till we can raise efficiency. That it will take time, trouble, and money to solve, and I don't know how much. That this is more like developing a better fusion reactor, not a better hang glider. Not to hold his breath, and to be realistic about his options."
"He won't take it well."
"Too bad. If he's serious about space, he has to learn that Physics doesn't care how rich he is."
"The Hundred Gram mission profile is not possible."
"You mean not legal. And that, not nuclear garbage launchers, is Legal's problem. Like you said Simmons, try to think about the bigger picture."
"It's getting too big for me."
"I fear it's only just started."
Abdul Kareem Al-Rashid, III
Abyan Governorate, Yemen
7pm local time
"The US is moving three Global Fire Support satellites."
Kareem looked up from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. "Is that confirmed?"
"It's on Open Skies," said Faisal's voice on the speaker phone. "Satellite-tracking hobbyists in Japan and Hawaii have confirmed it. Three Independence class, laser artillery satellites. Their burns started on the other end of the world, Kareem."
"So?" Harry was just facing the Basilisk!
"So if you want to fly right over us, that's the optimum place to change orbit and save fuel."
Kareem put the book down, the Basilisk would have to wait. "Let's keep an eye on them."
"Have you heard back from Hisham?"
"No, it's about 9:30 over there. He is not meeting with them till tomorrow but he did have a call with them in the afternoon."
"Shouldn't he have updated you about it by now?"
"Yes, but according to the BBC, the entire country is having a blackout."
"The entire country?"
"It's quite exciting. There's been shooting in the capital, an American was arrested. Hisham will send the update before he goes to bed, I'll see it in the morning."
5am local time
Kareem awoke and checked his phone, no messages. He checked his email and media accounts. There was nothing from Hisham.
He dialed his number. It didn't connect. He tried it again.
Nothing.
He tried a different number.
"Did I wake you up?"
"No," said Faisal, "I wanted to be up early to check on those orbits, I'm doing that right now. Do you need anything?"
"Hisham didn't send me any messages. I tried calling him and I couldn't even connect. Faisal? Faisal? Faisal are you there?"
"All three satellites are going to pass right over us, one after the other. Six hours of loiter coverage. Minimum."
Silence.
"How long do we have?"
"I can't say for sure. Maybe an hour. Or less."
"Evacuate the base."
The stars were still out. There was no wind, but the morning desert needs none to chill. Scattered shrubs struggled out of the sand, small lizards hiding in them as men ran about.
A man carrying two jerry cans ran to a flatbed truck. One lost its cap, petrol sloshed out. He kept running. Another man stood on a pickup, feeding a brass belt of bullets into a machine gun. His comrade hefted up the huge crate it fed from. Until-just-then-air-conditioned men carried out 3d printers and centrifuges, stacking them in neat rows. They ticked off lists and asked where were samples B9 through D6? Gruffer men, chewing tobacco and picking their noses, invaded their order. They shoved the equipment into trucks, wedged between potato sacks and piled rifles.
"I've just talked to Al-Ganim," Faisal walked up, assault rifle slung over his back. "Ansar Al-Sharia is sending reinforcements from Sana'a."
"How many?" Kareem looked up from his tablet and adjusted his flak vest.
"Three hundred. They'll be here within the hour." He looked at the trucks pulled up at the entrance. "Do you think we can get all this out in time?"
"No. But if the GFS satellites were going to bombard us, they would have by now. And they would only need one for the job. Even if Hisham gave the Americans only vague coordinates, it would study the terrain and figure it out."
"They could be waiting for us to scatter - whatever runs first is the most important thing to shoot. All the way to Sana'a is a long time to be vulnerable."
"Yes. We'll wait them out in Zinzibar first, outside the mosque and the school. But, the civilians should be enough."
"How are we for IEDs?"
"The command wire ones have all been tested, they're in good order. The main approaches are covered. I'm not bothering with the cell phone triggered units; they'll just get jammed. We'll need to use bombers."
"Children?"
"No, keep them on the rooftops. Bring me parents."
"How many?"
"How many can you spare?"
Be quiet and behave, Ali's mother had said to him. She always said things like that. Sometimes with a stick to smart her words into his running-away bottom (on that note, never call Mama a bitch). Today was different. Mama wasn't angry or tired. Today Mama was scared.
It was dark - the stars were still out. He pulled on the blanket he shared with his mother. Across the rooftop, Little Yosri
yawned and grumbled. His mother clutched him closer, her baby sleeping over her shoulder, thumb slipping out of its mouth. Ali waved, but Yosri's eyes were already closed again.
"Just wait," said Ali's father, pulling the boy's hand down with his. Father's hand was sun-dried like a lizard's back. His nails were ground down from farming. He wouldn't take his eyes off the men who were standing. The men with guns.
There were lots of families on the roof. It was like being dragged to a wedding, or hiding from Saudi planes. People were packed together like bricks. There were many children, but all too sleepy to play.
"Baba?"
"Yes?" whispered his father.
"Shouldn't you be going to the field soon?"
"The Khat[lv] can wait," he looked up as a gunman walked past.
"You always say the Khat is important, Baba."
"Yes," he smiled too quickly. "Everything will be alright soon."
"Mustapha, don't talk to him about this," said Mama sharply, giving away too much. Across the roof, a baby woke up and started crying. One farmer was arguing - quietly - with a gunman. He tried to stand, but the gunman waved him back down.
"What's going on?" Ali asked, rubbing his eyes. Sleep wiped off in his fingers.
"Be quiet and behave," said Mama.
"It's nothing, Son," said smiling Father.
"Is it water? Will we get water?"
"Of course we will," said Father.
Ali nodded. There had been no water in Mama's village. That's why they left, and came here. The men with the guns had water. They let Father farm for them, but said he was only allowed to grow Khat.
Ali once asked if they could find water elsewhere. Father said it didn't matter. Wherever there was water, there were men with guns.
A gunman's walkie talkie squawked. He spoke for a few moments and finished with some nods. He looked up and started calling out names, pointing to each person.
"Mustapha Akbar," he finished, looking at Ali's father. "All of you get up, you're coming with me."
"What about our families?" asked the arguing farmer, standing.
"Don't go," Mama said, holding Father's hand as he stood.
"They will be fine, and so will you, Aida," said Walkie Talkie. "We just need your help with the loading. The sooner that's done, the sooner you can all go back to your homes."
Farmer Arguer started again. Walkie Talkie repeated himself, his tone climbing. Other men started arguing with him. Women started arguing with the men. Single men started arguing with each other.
Ali looked out over the rooftop, into the sky.
"Hey!" he jumped up, and tugged on his mother's sleeve. "Mama, look!"
"Be quiet and behave!"
"Look!" he pointed to the sky, while facing her. Aida looked. Other people did the same. None of them were smiling.
"Meteors, Mama!"
Three tears formed in the night, leaving tracks like a brilliant claw mark. They fell towards the horizon.
Walkie Talkie turned on his device. "Drone strike, inbound."
"From space?" asked Wahlid "Why not from Saudi, or Oman?"
"Deployment time," said Faisal. "The US can deorbit and land drones anywhere on Earth, under 30 minutes. And maybe more are coming from Saudi or Oman."
"That, or they noticed us loading up the trucks," said Kareem. "They need to hit before everyone gets away. At the least, it will force us to rush and leave behind valuable material."
"Who cares?" Wahlid threw up his hands. "They can just bombard us from space, right now! What are they waiting for?"
"Drones are thorough: they can climb down stairs and check basements," said Faisal. "And they're surgical. They knew or guessed we'd have civilians here. And drone strikes don't kill civilians."
"This is also the first time one of our sites has been attacked," said Kareem. "They want to gather materials: drives, computers, documents. They want to learn more about us. A drone strike will do this."
"So what do we do?" Wahlid.
"This changes nothing," Kareem shook his head. "We stay with the plan."
13 km SW of Zinzibar
"I've never fought an American drone."
Twenty pickup trucks came bumping down the N4 Highway. Decades of war and nation building gave it schizophrenic surfacing. Mounted on the truck beds were heavy weapons; jammers; and serious men.
Seated on the floor, men checked their rifles and adjusted homemade flak vests. One was reading from a pocket copy of the Quran. Another checked their GLONASS[lvi] coordinates.
"I have," said a craggy-face man next to the boy.
"How did you kill it?" asked Boy.
"We shot it a lot," said Craggy Face. Some of the other men laughed. "Really , that's all there is to it. I remember when the Americans used Humvees. You blew them up with roadside bombs. Then they armored the Humvees, so then we used bigger bombs. Then they switched to MRAPs. You just shoot rockets at the engine block - make it catch fire. Then they dismount. The Americans like their machines: disable them, and they have to fight you, man against man. Drones are just machines."
"With these drones," Boy adjusted his Apple Wearable, "they've stopped sending men."
"They're harder to kill than men," the old man patted his RPG launcher. "But easier to kill than an MRAP. The Americans think they can solve anything with technology. Every time they make a new machine, we find a new way to kill it. That's why we'll win. Because there is no machine that can defeat a man!"
The air went painfully white, something exploded ahead of them. Boy covered his eyes - the men around him were screaming. He heard trucks slam stop, or hit each other. Their own truck pulled to the side of the highway.
Boy opened his eyes.
There was a burning crater where the lead truck had been. Men were howling and falling on to the road, clutching their eyes.
"Can you see?" a hand viced around his arm. It was the old jihadi. He was staring behind Boy's head. "Can you see?"
"Yes! What the hell happened?"
"Cover your eyes, and run!"
"What?"
"Just do it!"
The rearmost truck exploded, white light for shrapnel. Boy took two eyefuls and was permanently blinded. Eighteen more explosions pulped the column into boiled tar, steel droplets, and blinding, visible light.
"The laser satellites destroyed the Al-Sharia column. We just lost three hundred brothers."
There were gasps around the loading area. One of the engineers dropped a gene sequencer, it smashed into plastic and glass.
"Keep working," Kareem snapped a clip into his pistol. "Everyone stay at your tasks. We will get through this."
Mustapha bent at the knees, like they showed him, and put his arms around a crate.
"No," Kareem tapped him on his shoulder. You come with me. All the farmers, come around the back with me.
A pair of guards stepped up to Mustapha, faces like masks. They stared at him till he stood and followed after their leader. Mustapha looked about: guards were herding all the other farmers. Before he passed around the corner, he saw them wave back the unmarried ones.
"You are all very fortunate," said Kareem, walkie-talkie and pistol drawn. "You will become martyrs today."
Beside Kareem was a table with thick vests in neat rows. Armed guards flanked him, and formed behind the group.
"You said you would protect us!" Arguer stepped forward, hands into fists. The guards tensed. "You said you would never hurt us or our families!"
"Azzam, I am not trying to hurt you. I am giving you a chance to help your family. If you don't take it, they will die here, and so will you. So will everyone."
"You cannot do this to us!"
"These are radio controlled," Kareem ignored Arguer. "All you have to do is get close to the drone. You won't have to worry about when to activate it. We will do that."
"You coward!"
Kareem shot him through the throat. The farmers gasped, two got down to try and help him. Arguer was still, blood pooled und
er him.
"Azzam's wife and daughter," Kareem said into the walkie-talkie. He stood there, staring at the farmers. Then they heard women screaming from around the front. There were two shots, and then more screaming.
"There isn't a lot of time," Kareem motioned to the vests. "Put these on, or you know what will happen."
"Alright, start the truck."
Yosri and his mother Aida sat in the back of the crammed, Toyota Hilux[lvii], wedged between two pharmaceutical printers. In his lap was a dark, solar panel he had been given. Sticky taped wires ran from it to a small fridge. Standing over them was a guard, his rifle shadowed the panel. He was staring into the morning, where Yosri had seen the meteors.
Soundless, the electric vehicle started moving.
"No, wait," said the man on the ground, he wore a keffiyeh and a flak jacket.
"We need to go before they get here," the driver leaned out.
"They're already here," said the truck guard, pointing. "Do you see it?"
The horizon fired a dot, it expanded into a black, pilotless, helicopter. Those with scopes saw rocket pods under its wings and a machine gun. Men with RPGs and shoulder-launched anti-air missiles rushed up and took aim.
"Nobody shoot!" said Keffiyeh. "AA-teams, put your weapons down and get behind cover."
At 200 meters, the helicopter turned and started to orbit the base.
"What is that?" asked an RPGer on the roof.
"QAH -97[lviii], attack helicopter," said Keffiyeh. "It's doing recon."
"So why don't we kill it?" asked an AA crewman from behind a crate.
"You mean try to kill it? You fire, and they know you're there, and what weapon your using. Then the real attack begins. Nobody shoots at it till I say so - even if it starts shooting at us."
The helicopter's orbit crossed the road, the guard's head followed it.
"It's seen us," said the driver.
"Alright, go twenty meters, and stop. Turn on your radio. You," he pointed to Aida. "You want your son to live?"
She nodded.
"Then stand up."
Aida got to her feet. Her hand went to Yosri's head.
"Don't sit down again, till the guard tells you. Do you understand?"
The Hundred Gram Mission Page 19
