by David Cline
“If you had read those reports,” he said, “or you saw the news coverage of the northern lights down here in California, you would know this is no longer theoretical. Our ionosphere has temporarily disappeared. The magnetic poles are shifting, and Earth is more vulnerable to solar activity than it has ever been throughout human history. I implore you to use your power as Secretary of Energy to take the necessary steps and prepare this country for the worst-case scenario.”
“What steps would you have me take?” Her voice was still condescending, but there was a glimmer of curiosity, perhaps even concern.
“Our people here at S.A.T.R.A. have worked around the clock for the last few weeks answering all those questions. We have outlined exactly what our recommendations are in those reports sitting in your office. You need to have the entire electrical grid on standby, and ready to kill power at a moment’s notice. If we were to be hit with a large solar flare right now, every transformer from Puerto Rico to Alaska would fry and the United States will go dark.”
“I am sure you are aware,” she said, “that the federal government is really only in direct control of approximately seven percent net generation and eight percent transmission. Our electrical grid is divided into multiple regions all over the country. The two biggest entities being the Western and Eastern Interconnections.” She paused as though to let that information sink in. “In summary, Mr. Stalbridge, my hands are tied.”
Stalbridge let out a long breath. “I’m not asking you to organize a hostile takeover of the utility companies. I am simply saying, a phone call from you or your office goes a long way. We have reached out to these interconnections, and they have all echoed the same thing as you. That our theories are concerning, and they will look into it.”
“We have extensive evidence that there is an organization purposely attempting to artificially trigger a solar flare unlike anything we have ever seen. Call the interconnection with urgency in your voice and simply tell them to have an employee stationed at the kill switch every moment of every day for the foreseeable future.”
Stalbridge heard movement on the other end. “Okay, I have the reports you sent us in front of me. My staff and I will look through them. She paused, as though selecting her next few words with care. “You and I have never met before,” she said, “but you have a polarizing reputation here in Washington. I either hear ceaseless accolades or withering criticism.” She paused. Stalbridge heard voices and rustling papers in the background. “There is one thing everyone agrees on though. When Jim Stalbridge from S.A.T.R.A. raises hell, you listen.”
Stalbridge’s eyes widened at the sudden compliment. Perhaps the best he had ever received from someone in that self-serving cesspool of a city. “Thank you,” he said. “I am available anytime if you have questions.”
He hung up and reflected on the phone call, grateful he had not skewered her with the verbal assault he had prepared. Maybe with some luck this could be the spark that got real preparations moving around the country.
A small 17th century sea clock indicated it was just after 2pm. He had discovered it at a shipwreck a few years back and dutifully restored it back to near perfect condition. He stood and walked to the large window looking out toward the Pacific Ocean. It was a beautiful cloudless day. Palm trees rustled pleasantly in the ocean breeze. The white froth of the breakers stretched horizontally out of view as an endless supply of waves crashed onto California’s sandy shores.
Stalbridge considered sneaking out and finding a nice local place to eat a late lunch. He couldn’t remember the last time he had left the office. It must have been at least a week. The only other person that might have him beat was Chris Danville. Whether it was 4am on a Sunday, or midnight on a Friday night, Danville was always near. He smiled to himself thinking of how Wood and Wilkins would react if confined to the office building. The very idea of being cooped up for more than one day would have them hurling themselves off the roof.
The smile faded as he recalled the last update he had received from them. Searching Argentina for Odessa headquarters. He made a mental note to reach out to them again. It had been a few days since he had heard anything.
He pressed his forehead against the glass window and looked down. There were a few people meandering around the entrance to the building. From where he stood, it was hard to ascertain who they were. Maybe staff getting some fresh air, or reporters looking for the next big story.
The only people on Stalbridge’s totem pole lower than politicians were reporters. These people profited from other’s misery and pain. He had always found the old saying amongst news agencies, “If it bleeds it leads,” revolting. When war, famine, scandal, and death are in your businesses best interest, you should change career paths.
Stalbridge was recently informed by his staff that entire websites dedicated to rumors swirling around S.A.T.R.A. existed. Their peppered history had created an eclectic group of enthusiastic fans across the world ranging from bloggers to conspiracy theorists. They opined on everything from digging up UFO’s to Hitler’s escape out of Berlin. He thought again of Wood and Wilkins somewhere in South America and grinned. There might be some truth to that last one.
Thankfully, since Stalbridge had been at the helm, no leaks from inside the organization had ever occurred. This was not Washington. Loyalty was one of the most critical characteristics to consider when hiring. Also, most of the staff shared his contempt for the media at large. The media were a bunch of self-righteous, condescending, intolerant, hypocritical, activists that feigned objectivity. He snorted and shook his head. Bastards.
His stomach rumbled and he thought again about lunch. He looked longingly at the sun. There was an underground service tunnel he seldomly used that would keep him concealed for an entire block. The journey was inconvenient, but he didn’t feel like dealing with anyone who knew who he was right now. He looked at the clock again and decided to go. He opened the drawer in his desk and grabbed his wallet and cell phone. As he stepped through the office door, the phone on his desk rang again. He backtracked and scooped it up.
“Jim, can you hear me?” yelled a deep voice. The deafening sound of jet engines in the background made the words difficult to understand.
“Admiral,” Stalbridge said, in genuine surprise. “Sounds like you are standing on the deck of an aircraft carrier.”
Admiral Stanley and Jim Stalbridge’s friendship went back decades. They had met just after high school graduation and had remained close ever since. While Stalbridge had joined the Army, Stanley had joined the Navy. Over the years, they had both worked their way up in rank. Drama on the international stage had kept them in close contact, swapping relevant information back and forth whenever opportune. They both had high level security clearances. Sometimes the classified information was in a grey area, but like the staff working for S.A.T.R.A. loyalty was a trait they both religiously adhered to.
The background noise ebbed somewhat and Stalbridge heard hard breathing. “Sorry,” came the Admiral’s voice. “I’ve forgotten how earsplitting it is to remove your earmuffs on deck. It’s a damn wonder I don’t have tinnitus.”
“Well if you ever retire,” Stalbridge said, “at least you would receive disability every month.”
There was a chuckle on the other end. “You know I am going to die at sea, Jim. What would I do if I retired? Pay taxes?” A door shut and the background noise vanished. The voice turned somber. “I’ve got some surprising news coming out of Japan.”
Stalbridge leaned against his desk and prepared for the worst.
“Our Japanese friends have really boosted their air defense systems the last few years,” Stanley said. “With China flexing their muscles, Russia trying to stay relevant, and the North Koreans playing chicken, no one can blame them. Anyway, they have been monitoring an enormous section of the skies with some new radar technology coming out of Tokyo. State of the art stuff. We received word a month ago of a series of shuttle launches somewhere down in the south pacific.
They thought it was us at first but decided to check with the State Department. A week later, the order came through to check the island out firsthand. We spent a day on the island and got back to port yesterday.”
Stalbridge hesitated while he processed the new information. “I assume you didn’t find anything on the island that read something like, ‘Biblical flood round two brought to you by Odessa.’”
Stanley paused, still catching his breath. “We weren’t that lucky. By the time we got there, almost everything had been removed. We didn’t find much besides cigarette butts and god-awful mosquitoes. We did find the foundations of some temporary buildings and the launch pad itself. They had dredged one side of the island to allow large vessels to supply the operation.”
“Any guesses on how long they had been working there?” Stalbridge asked.
“Based solely on the amount of work done, and the depth of some of the trails traversing the island, I would speculate a small crew was there for at least a year. Maybe two. We tried to find any garbage or sewage that could give us a clue to who these people were, but the island had been picked clean. Just scorch marks on a thick cement pad.”
“How closely did the Japanese monitor the launches?”
“We caught a break there. Even though they presumed it was us in the beginning, they used the launches as training for their new radar equipment. They monitored them closely.”
Stalbridge grimaced. “How many launches are we talking about?”
“Four,” Stanley said. “And this is where it gets interesting. The Japanese tracked the first launch into the upper atmosphere. The space shuttle, as well as most satellites, orbit the earth at a height of approximately 200 to 300 miles. This one traveled far beyond that. We now believe it was put into a geosynchronous orbit.”
Stalbridge thought back to everything he had learned about space. “This isn’t my area of expertise,” he said, after a brief pause, “but the shuttle at its height of a couple hundred miles above earth will complete a full rotation every 90 minutes. The moon orbiting at a quarter of a million miles away takes a month. There is a sweet spot in-between called a geosynchronous orbit. This means the satellite would match the earths rotational velocity exactly, so it completes an orbit every 24 hours. Meaning, from your position on earth, it would appear as though the satellite was stationary in space.”
“Precisely,” Stanley said. “Because Odessa doesn’t have a network of satellites to bounce a signal around, we believe they need line of sight to ensure they can continuously communicate with their satellite.”
“It’s genius,” Stalbridge whispered, trying to put all the pieces together.
“What’s even more interesting,” Stanley continued, “is that the final three launches hurtled through our lower atmosphere faster than anything they had ever seen and disappeared into deep space. Based on what you have told me, I can only assume those rockets are on their way to the sun.”
“How far apart were those final three launches?” Stalbridge asked, his heart racing.
“48 hours precisely,” Stanley said. “The biggest question I have, is why three? You think it is simply a failsafe? If one goes dark, there are two backups?”
Stalbridge thought about it. “I don’t think these people are planning on any of these rockets failing. If it were me, and I was attempting to accomplish something with no precedent, I would space them out far enough to make necessary adjustments to the vector or time of explosion for optimal effect. Then I would put a satellite high into space that could both track and communicate with the rockets, as well as track key data from the rocket 48 hours ahead.”
“Let me get on the phone with some of my contacts,” Stanley said. “Together we will put pressure on DC to blow that satellite out of the sky. We have the capability. I do not need to lecture you about how slow our government works, so there is no time to waste. I better get to it.”
“Wait,” Stalbridge said. “If we take out that satellite, we may be removing the only way to alter these rockets’ trajectories.”
There was a long pause on the other end. “So, this is the first time in history, we really can’t do anything.”
Stalbridge shook his head. “If they have active communication with those rockets, they must have the ability to change its vector. We have people trying to work out the science right now, but it is obvious Odessa is years ahead of the rest of the world. We are all just trying to play catchup. If we can find where they are headquartered, their physical location, we could theoretically assume command of these rockets and alter their trajectory by a few degrees, sending them into deep space.”
“Did the Japanese calculate maximum velocity of those Rockets?” Stalbridge asked. “If we know that, we can calculate how much time we have before we can expect fireworks in the sky.”
“They did,” Stanley said, after a brief hesitation. “We questioned the accuracy of their numbers at first. But they have been confirmed by multiple sources. They consisted of an earth-relative launch of about 50,000 miles per hour.”
“Wow,” Stalbridge said, impressed. “That’s cooking.” He could not help but marvel at what this small but resourceful group of people had accomplished. If they were not bent on eradicating life, they would be receiving Nobel prizes left and right.
“The craziest part is that the velocity of those rockets never plateaued,” Stanley continued. “They maintained their acceleration rate until the Japanese lost track of them.”
“When was the first launch?” Stalbridge asked.
“Over a month ago.”
When Stalbridge did not reply, Stanley asked, “Any leads on your end?”
“Just breadcrumbs all over the planet. We have a small team right now in Argentina, but they would have reported something if they had found anything substantial.”
“Argentina?” Stanley’s voice abruptly changed tone. There was a long pause and quiet voices spoke rapidly on the other end.
“What about Argentina?” Stalbridge asked, anxiety creeping back into his voice?
“Because their satellite requires line of sight,” the admiral replied, “and because it was placed into a geosynchronous orbit, we can hypothesize where their headquarters are. This is hot off the press. Based on our calculations, we pinpoint the Odessa headquarters somewhere along the border of Argentina and Chile.”
Chapter 27
The dock was empty when Wilkins threw the last bag of gear onboard and Wood untied the boat from the rusted cleat. Wilkins jumped aboard and eased the throttle, careful not to hit another boat tied up nearby.
There was a light breeze that felt cold against Wood’s face. The lights from the city cast an eerie glow out over the lake. A damp mist hung low near the water.
“You think we got enough gear?” Amara asked as she pushed a heavy container out of the way so she could sit down. A slender metallic pole protruded from the top of a canvas bag and she removed it for examination. “Is this a metal detector? For your Nazi gold?”
“Land mines,” Wilkins called over his shoulder. “Those little bastards are lethal for decades after conflicts have been resolved. Unfortunately, most the time its children playing or civilians shepherding their sheep that find the bulk of them. If Hitler really did retire here, I wouldn’t put it past him to scatter mines across the forest behind the mansion to cover their back flank.” In the darkness, he turned toward her and winked. “After everything I have survived, I refuse to let a Nazi landmine be my demise.”
Amara rotated the detector in her hands and shook her head. “Almost seems like overkill.”
Wood smiled at her. “As our good friend Shakespeare so wisely stated, ‘The best safety lies in fear.’”
When they had put some distance between them and the docks, Wilkins opened the throttle and the bow rose as the propeller dug into the water. Wood reached out and let the waves caress his fingers.
On the horizon, the firmament glowed in a soft black. The moon had not yet risen. Stars dotted the s
ky between scattered clouds. They seemed to be moving fast against the celestial backdrop.
Over the roar of the boat’s engine, he thought he heard some coyotes. Or maybe wolves. Whatever creature lived in the South American Andes at these altitudes.
The three of them made no attempt at conversation while Wilkins gunned the boat up the lake. No sense going hoarse yelling over the wind and engine. They all looked out at the furtive silhouettes of trees lining the shore, lost in their own thoughts.
Wood felt uneasy when he noticed there were no other lights on the lake. Sometimes even a stranger’s presence offered a kind of comfort. He looked across the water to the far shore. Besides the city lights now far behind them, there were no visible lights at all.
Amara had her head raised to meet the wind, her eyes closed. A faint smile played across her lips. Besides her hair gusting behind her, she looked like a beautiful statue frozen in time.
As though sensing his stare, she opened her eyes and smiled at him. Even in the darkness, she was stunning. Here they were hunting for the headquarters of the modern-day Nazi party, and she looked as comfortable and happy as though she was on a houseboat on Lake Powell on a lazy summer night. She broke the stare and looked out over the lake, closing her eyes again.
He wondered what kind of relationship they would have moving forward. So many times he had met amazing girls on escapades around the globe. Sparks of love would burn hot in the beginning as they shared incredible experiences together. Then the inevitable moment of truth arrived, and the only way to continue their relationship was for one to drastically alter their lifestyle and career. They would always part as friends with incessant promises to stay in touch.
