Chapter 8
One of the radios at the end of the glass table squelched. Stone Angel stood and headed for the equipment. The Striker pointed to an ear piece to let me know he was listening to the radio call.
“Go Heavy Rain, I’ve got J-Pop here,” Stone Angel said once he’d reached the microphone and speakers.
“Have Mister Piran drop by,” Heavy Rain’s voice came through the speakers, “I’d like to show him some possible sites for Snow Industry’s facility. Make it after night fall, so he can enjoy the view.”
“Tell him I’d love to experience the night sky with him,” I said trying to match his cryptic message.
“Plan on dinner for two,” Stone Angel replied before flipping off the mic.
“I take it he’s watching the Hall of Heroes and the ELF display,” I said.
“You’d be right. His location is adjacent to the highway so you can’t get to him without being seen during the day,” Stone Angel stated, “He does want to show you something but after dark is best.”
“No problem. So how far from Heavy Rain is the National Park and the old hydro farm site?” I asked.
“It’s highway for the most part,” Stone Angel replied, “When the farm was founded, there was no road. It shouldn’t take a vehicle more than twelve hours to get there. If you leave Heavy Rain’s position at three, you can be at the old farm by late afternoon.”
“Vehicle suggestion?” I asked knowing he’d looked at the route.
“I’d like to say sedan for comfort,” he said shaking his head, “but you’ll need a motorcycle to get into and out of Heavy Rain’s hide.”
“Then a motorcycle it is,” I said turning and heading to the kitchenette.
“One more thing,” the Striker said.
I turned and a handheld radio came flying across the room. Snagging it out of the air, I said teasing, “Good thing I have cat like reflexes.”
“I noticed that Sir,” Stone Angel replied, “On a number of occasions.”
Pocketing the radio, I strolled out of the radio room.
‘The Jalal dynasty began with a man who changed after a mysterious action at the end of the Great Schism. And he married a stranger who became the matriarch of the Jalal family. Just who was this daughter of a wood carver?’ I thought.
I also wondered when the carpenter’s family had arrived on Planet Tres. And, if they were associated with the Druid woodwork at Dilshad’s. I didn’t know. Right now I needed a nap, before packing for a road trip.
Warlock and I took the elevator to the garage. She carried one of the overnight bags and led me to a motorcycle frowning all the way.
“It’s not a good idea,” she said again, dropping the bag besides a big touring bike, “that far from our base, the team can’t help you.”
“I realize that,” I replied, “It’s just a quick look at the old agricultural facility after I check in on Heavy Rain.”
We’d been going around and around about the benefit of my side trip to the Jalal’s hydroculture farm. The Strike Kill team leader was aggressively arguing against the visit. Despite her stance, I stayed firm.
“It shouldn’t be dangerous,” I stated, “A nice cruise in the country on a sweat bike. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“And if you run into a Constabulary force?” she said upping the degree of danger in her argument, “You’ll be on your own. There is no way we could reach you.”
In most cases, I’d be put out or even displeased by a Sergeant nagging at me. However, Warlock, her team, and I were working outside established guidelines. We were supposed to be on thirty days of shore leave. Instead, we were covertly observing facilities and building an intelligence folder on a Galactic Councilor, an Ambassador, and her diplomat mission. I could see her issue. Her senior officer, really her only officer, and her pilot was traipsing off to a see a national park. It sat in the middle of nowhere and, worst of all, it was over twelve hours of driving time. She wasn’t pleased with me being out from under her protective umbrella.
“Relax Master Sergeant,” I said driving my thumb into the starter button, “I’ll be back day after tomorrow.”
Her reply was drowned out by the whirl of the motorcycle engine. It began as a whistle, high pitched with a low frequency, increasing as the electron rotary engine picked up revolutions. Warlock placed one hand on a hip and brushed back the blonde streak in her black hair with the other. As the rotary element spun up to full power, it began to violently effect the air surrounding the bike. Left open, the engine would trap my legs on the vents while attempting to blow my torso into the roof of the garage. For a second, my calves were pinned to the engine, the vents closed sealing off the rotary, and the suction on my legs lifted. Warlock stepped back and flew a casual hand salute in my direction.
With a nod, I released the clutch. The motorcycle rolled up the ramp and through the garage door. I hit the avenue in front of the facility while still in second gear.
I leaned the bike onto a ramp and reached level two. Traffic was heavy and the big motorcycle complained about the stop and go as the vehicles around me creeped along. Between my legs, the sealed rotary element roared and I could feel the vibrations but felt no heat or exhaust. Fifteen long minutes later, I followed a truck onto another ramp. Above the top of the truck bed, I could see stars as we reached level one. With a gentle twist of the power control and a slight tilt, the motorcycle curved around the truck, and I headed for the highway.
On the main road leading out of Tres, traffic lightened. I could see the nightlights of the Hall of Heroes museum far below as the highway dropped from the height of level one descending to planet level outside the city. As directed, I bypassed the first exit and continued on to the fourth.
The road stretched out into the darkness. Following Stone Angel’s directions, I left the highway at a cloverleaf. One ramp led to another and that took me up onto the road heading back towards the city. Two exits later, with no traffic in either direction, I eased the bike onto an exit ramp.
Half way down the ramp where the guardrail ended, I slowed the motorcycle and pulled off the hardtop. It was dirt at first but the surface became grassy as I circled back under the highway. Above me the underside of the elevated road was darker then the night. I could tell when the grass became dirt again by the crunch of gravel under my tires. The motorcycle effortlessly climbed the hill that matched the ascending highway above me.
My GPS flashed red and I squeezed the breaks and rolled off the power control. After shutting down the motorcycle, I stepped away.
In the quiet night air, I listened for Heavy Rain. I scanned the area for the huge Striker. Not a sound or a sight could I find of the former Scout-Sniper. Hiding and targeting were his stock in trade and I was beginning to appreciate how well he performed the job. Just before I whispered his name in an attempt to locate his hideaway, something thumped into the ground behind me.
I dropped to bent knees and spun around. A rope was suspended from above me. Squinting my eyes, I peered up at the underside of the highway. Mostly, it was dull grey black but a section directly above me was inky black. Almost as if the miniscule amount of light was being totally absorbed in that one area.
“Take the rope Lieutenant,” a voice called down from on high, “Elevator’s out of order.”
I gripped the rope and hand over hand climbed up. The terminus of the line was inside a tent suspended from the concrete above and the beams on either side.
“Give me a second,” Heavy Rain said.
I felt his arm reach around me and I heard a zipper. Moments later, a light flickered on and I looked around at the hide. Within the black walls, the Striker had a motorcycle suspended from above by lines, a bed roll area, a platform with a scope attached to a laptop computer and a small box with food and water packets.
If it was on the ground, I’d call it a camp site. Suspended from the underside of the highway with everything hanging from fixed lines, I wasn’t sure what to name it.
“Welcome to my home,” Heavy Rain said as he handed me a water packet.
“Nice digs,” I replied, “What have you got?”
I pointed to the scope and the attached computer. They were facing in the direction of the Hall of Heroes museum and the pad where I’d seen the layers of Extremely Low Frequency beams.
“The ELF frequency was difficult to identify,” he said reaching around the crowded space for the laptop, “It powered up while I was scanning.”
“Old technology is a challenge,” I said, “Modern equipment isn’t always compatible with gear that’s hundreds of years old.”
“You’re right, except, I began by using a program that translates copper wire transmissions,” he explained, “but it didn’t register. Turns out your Extremely Low Frequency isn’t created by tech hundreds of years old. It resembles a magnetic field strength in terms of the magnetic flux density as seen on a Teslameter. But, it isn’t. That’s why, I missed the first two hours of the transmission. Stone Angel and I worked on the adjustments trying to isolate the ELF. Then, he suggested we try a different approach.”
“Wait, the ELF isn’t being generated by old technology?” I asked, “I thought the structure was part of the Empress’ Palace?”
“Hardly, Lt.,” he replied, “The Palace was seven times the size of the pad down there.”
His screen glowed and he flipped through a few files before settling on one. It displayed a structure shaped like a cone with a rounded off point.
“This was the Palace,” Heavy Rain explained, “Its footprint would have extended far beyond the museum buildings with the ELF pad about in the center. The pad and the power generator below it are relatively new construction.”
“Someone built the pad so it resembles palace ruins?” I asked, “What about the weapon emplacements?”
“Those are replicas and pretty good ones at that,” he explained, “It makes for a great historical display for the tourists.”
“So, how did you and Stone Angel resolve the ELF issue?” I asked.
“Thermal Imaging. We adjusted the scope to measure the heat generated around the pad,” he stated, “Once we had the heat variances, Stone Angel figured the frequency. From that, I got a lock on the wave lengths and recorded it.”
“Where does the heat come from?” I asked.
“A geothermal system powers the generator and creates the heat signature. The antenna for the ELF are electrified alloy lines running deep beneath the surface. Think of a jelly fish. The tentacles are the antenna stretching deep below ground and the hood would be the pad surface where the ELF layers appear,” he explained, “We measured the heat signature around the pad.”
“When do you begin recording?” I asked.
“I’m recording right now,” he explained, “The signal activated about an hour ago. When it shuts down, Stone Angel will calculate the area of space where the ELF is visible. It’s a function of the rotation of planet Tres and the length of time the ELF is active.”
“You say the construction is new?” I asked, “Is there a way to tell how old?”
“Not from here,” he said, “You could go inside and have a look around.”
“Inside?” I responded.
“Sure. I located an access door when I ran the thermography images,” he stated, “It’s behind the pad off the corner of the second museum building.”
“So much for a few hours of sleep,” I mumbled as I climbed down the rope.
I rolled the motorcycle away from Heavy Rain’s sky high camp before firing up the beast. There was no one around but operational protocol required me not to do anything to draw attention to an observation post. The hill made it easy and I coasted to the ramp. Firing up the bike and the head lamp, I drove to the end of the ramp and took back roads until the wall surrounding the Hall of Heroes museum complex appeared.
On a deserted road, I found a place to stash the motorcycle. A few minutes later, I scaled the wall and slinked to the second building of the museum.
The pad lay dull in the moon light until I donned my Knight Protector of the Clan gear. In my cowl, it glowed with delicate layers of energy. As a signal beam or a radio beam it was almost useless, but, as a glowing spot on Planet Tres, it identified the planet’s location from deep space. For what or who, I still hadn’t figured out but combined with the other activities on Tres, it couldn’t be good.
The access hatch was an alloy plate etched with a note. ‘This is the location where the walls were breeched.’ It was one of many around the museum grounds so tourist on walking tours could experience the final days of the Empress’s rebellion. Of course, it was wrong as the actual walls had been hundreds of meters away. I ran my hand under the edge of the plate and located a latch. It snapped up a little and I was able to fully open the hatch. After climbing onto a ladder below the plate, I lowered and sealed it.
Ten steps down, the floor stretched out before me. I didn’t need light as my hood displayed the walls, floor and ceiling. They were lit up from the ELF radiating around the structure. For all the mystery of the newly build pad and the ELF signal system, there was one item with hard information. I set off looking for it.
Two turns later, I opened a door, and sitting on metal legs was my goal. It hummed from the liquid drawn from far below the earth. The super-heated liquid transferred its heat to a converter and the generator created electricity to power the array for the ELF. On the generator was a manufacturer’s tag. On the tag was hard information, a serial number.
Stone Angel could research the serial number and we’d have the buyer and date of manufacturing. For all the stealth of the facility, one number would give us a timeline and a buyer. We’d at least know who was behind the deep space marker.
I slipped out of the access hatch, re-latched it and sauntered to the wall. With my Knight’s gear on I was invisible, and it was a great night for a stroll.
After radioing the serial number to Stone Angel, I climbed on the motorcycle. It swirled up, the vents closed, and I guided it back the way I’d came. Three turns later, I stopped at an intersection.
On my right was the ramp leading back to Tres, the SNO safe house and a warm bed. To my left was the ramp to a long highway, a national park, the ruins of a hydroponic facility, and a sleepless night. I’d spent most of my life in space and in space you always erred on the side of safety. With so many elements trying to cook, freeze, asphyxiate, or otherwise snuff out your life force, safety was paramount.
The other constant in space was the possession of oxygenated gases. Breathable air whether from a tank, a rebreather or a room filled with the stuff, you needed it. I inhaled and realized the planet was covered in air. It was free and all around me.
I released the clutch and felt the transmission engage. The power grabbed the rear wheel and with a slight lean to the left, the motorcycle rocketed onto the ramp leading to the highway. First gear flowed into second and as I hammered the gears in an attempt to match my twisting of the power control, I thought, ‘The quest for knowledge is a rocky path.’ My Druid teachers probably never thought it would apply to an overnight road trip, or, maybe they did.
Chapter 9
The wind’s pressure on my chest was unrelenting as I drove through the night. My joints tightened and the blur of dark objects on the road side soon gave way to grey outlines as dawn approached. I was hungry and thirsty but I didn’t pull over until the sun broke the horizon.
I stretched my legs, shook out my arms and gnawed on a power bar. On either side of the now two lane highway, trees edged close to the roadway. In the distance ahead of me, they rose higher as the flat terrain rose into foothills. Beyond the foothills, mountain tops ended in low hanging clouds. After fifteen minutes, I threw my leg over the bike, started it up, and motored towards the hills and the national park.
Shortly after noon, being ahead of schedule, I located an inn sitting just outside the gates of the national park. I secured a room for the night and cleaned up. Not for anyo
ne’s benefit but my own. It had been a long night and a longer morning on the motorcycle. After lunch, I climbed back on the bike and took the forest road into the park.
Stone Angel’s directions had me turning off the hard top and following a trail between two hills. The dirt path was just wide enough for the touring bike. It took two hours to break out of the foliage between the hills. In the valley, I turned the bike around and drive back down the trail until the bike was hidden. There was no obvious reason for the security measure except the valley’s location.
The valley was flat, wide, long and almost inaccessible. In other words, not the proper location for a hydroponic farm producing food for a growing planet. Tall grass and a few trees occupied the valley floor. I walked around searching for signs of farm structures or at least the ruins of their foundations. Nothing of the historic register’s number one site was immediately visible. Figuring about four hours of daylight left, I planned to spend two of them searching the valley before heading back to the inn.
I was ten paces from the tree line when the whine of an engine broke the peace of the valley. Although filtered through the trees on the surrounding hills, the sound was unmistakable. A shuttle was about to fly over. Figuring it was a wealthy family on their way to a mountain cabin to rough it for the week, I stopped and searched the sky.
High clouds drifted across the clear blue sky and I inhaled the clean air. Memories of my time as a Druid candidate came back to me. The valley resembled, although in miniature, the Druid homeland.
The whine increased and I stood with my memories watching for the craft. A thick fuselage reflected the afternoon sun as a combat shuttle topped a hill and arched upward. I dove to the ground and crawled to a depression I’d seen briefly on my way down. Craning my neck, I watched as the GunShip reached elevation and began to circle. I recognized the maneuver but not the shape of the war craft. It was flying a combat air patrol, CAP, over the valley. The only reason for it to be there as a guard dog was another shuttle. One with a VIP on board.
Galactic Council Realm 3: On Guard Page 8
