Dean looked around at his shipmates. He could feel the tension of their stares, knew it would be up to him to fix this. Somehow. He was tempted to remain silent, but the awful truth was this might be the ultimate vindication of his darkest theories.
“Whatever it is,” Dean said, cautious to keep his tone neutral and his voice strong, “it’s a massive event.”
He took a deep breath and added, “I’ll need to run some new models,”
“Okay, run your models,” ordered Mansfield, “in the meantime, the rest of you try to reestablish communications. Yes, I know it’s impossible, but try anyway. We need to know what the hell is going on down there.”
The crew snapped into action. Dean felt a rush of adrenaline, looking at Shane for confirmation. The pilot nodded, agreeing with his friend that this was the right track.
* * *
The crew spent hours trying to raise ground control, hours more trying to raise anybody at all. It wasn’t difficult to receive basic communications, despite the impact the barrier had on specific channels. The airwaves were completely flooded, so much so it was impossible to make anything out for long. Panic stricken calls for help, official warnings and breaking updates, all blended together into an incomprehensible logjam of babble. Trying to make themselves heard through all that noise proved as impossible as Mansfield had feared.
Mansfield was able to intercept military communications out of Central America and along the border. Not only U.S. military chatter, but scads of hysterics in Spanish. Retreat requests and demands for relief. He caught some references to attacks and bombs, and a few desperate pleas for help amid the devastation. In the confusion, the consensus seemed to point to America, hitting them with a massive surprise attack. But that made no sense. Space Force One hadn’t been out of touch that long. Hardly enough time for their boys to pull off some new offensive on such a massive scale.
* * *
Dean Eckert ran seventeen new simulations, basing his assumptions on the coordinates of the northeast coast of South America where the lights had first appeared to vanish. He ran it as an upward thrust from the southern hemisphere, precipitated by the plane of the anomaly and radiating out from there. All seventeen programs came back green. This was the shift he’d always known had to happen. His theory was proven.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t allow himself any show of emotion, particularly not in front of Joseph Mansfield. He wasn’t able to hide the fact that his calculations were proving out, but he didn’t need the commander, or any of them, to think that he was pleased about it. He was as horrified as anyone, but the relief, the happiness he did feel stemmed from the fact that now he was sure he could fix it. But they wouldn’t understand. He could hardly process the dichotomous emotions himself.
When the commander entered the module, Dean had been in the midst of his final revisions, but caught himself and snapped to attention, employing a crisp military fashion he was fast growing accustomed to.
“What’s the good word, doc?”
“Hey commander. Have a look at this,” Dean called out without looking up, his nose buried in the latest quantum calculations. He knew it was all meaningless to the commander, but he’d certainly come to show his appreciation anyway, if only for the fact that Dean had predicted this very outcome like some sort of swami. “The verifications have lined up so far, although I’ve still got a few more to cross-check,”—he finally looked up from his work—“but we can break orbit as soon as we’re ready. I’ve confirmed the coordinates down to the millimeter, there’s no need to wait it out anymore.”
Mansfield nodded, looking appropriately impressed, and called in the order to Colonel Douglas. He was about to say something else when a sharp jolt knocked him off-balance and straight into Dean. He would’ve taken them both out, save for the fact that Dean was clutching the computer console with his free hand. He steadied the commander as a blare of klaxons rang out.
“What the—”
Dean had barely uttered those two words of surprise before the commander was gone, launching himself toward the flight deck with one powerful push-off. A second jolt sent Dean flying the opposite way. Giving in to momentum, he sailed along until he hit the wall, where he was able to grab hold of a rung and swing himself into the nearest jumpseat. His pod was the proper place to be in an emergency, but there was no way he was getting there now, not in the middle of this suddenly severe turbulence. He was stuck down here, with no way of knowing what the hell was going on. But at least he was strapped in and out of the way.
53.
Mission Control never gave up their attempts at contact, even under the working assumption that it’d be impossible until well into the deployment phase. It was assumed that they’d be able to get through at that point, as an opening in the anomaly stream was expected to materialize, but even that was theoretical conjecture. Despite the lack of response, one of the flight assistants was on-desk twenty-four/seven, calling every thirty seconds.
The flight director was on the floor most days, even if there was no pressing need. With all relevant ops essentially on auto-pilot, there wasn’t much to do, but he liked to keep his eye on things. Houston was well within the disaster zone, and that was where most of his staffers were from, so there was plenty for them to worry about. As he picked up whatever slack he could, he allowed them to make their phone calls and write their letters whenever their responsibilities permitted. It was a good balance, and his people appreciated it.
When the president and his entourage walked onto the floor that morning, the skeleton crew leapt to their feet as one to greet him. They were unaccustomed to pop-in visits, but it didn’t show. The director stepped forward to receive his CinC properly, but the president waved off the protocol.
“Relax, everybody,” President Webster said, his tone amazingly jaunty for all the stress he was under, “I just need to consult with your boss for a few minutes. Director?”
“Yes, sir,” the director said, prepping inwardly for the task of delivering whatever the president might need, “what can I do for you?”
“Mind if we take it into the conference room?” he asked, pointing to the side chamber where daily briefings were held.
“Of course, sir,” the Director replied crisply, leading the president and his staff in. He noted with pride that his team stood tall, taking it in stride, no unprofessional reactions among them despite the sudden disruption. The one man who’d not risen, the flight assistant, had also followed the proper procedure. He was waiting out the remainder of the thirty seconds before calling out to Space Force One in the blind once again.
Inside the conference room, the president launched into an explanation for his visit. “My people and I have been looking into options for getting a message out to our boys,”—he pointed skyward, a sign that had become common language around the mountain—“and we think we might be on to something. But there’s a catch.”
“What’s that, sir?” the Director said, keeping any hint of doubt out of his voice. They’d already tried just about everything, but he tried to be open to new possibilities.
“The technology we’re looking at hasn’t been in widespread use for well over a half-century,” the president explained, “so we’ve got a lack of operational expertise here. My people are already working on that, but we’ve also got a lack of technical skill when it comes to building the thing. Now I know that you’re team is working flat-out keeping up with the mission, but if you could spare a few of your more hands-on guys…”
So much for the down time. But that didn’t matter. If they could reach the ship, that was the only thing that mattered. “Of course sir, anyone you need. I’ll draw up a list of candidates for you to choose from.”
“Much appreciated,” the president said, “and I’ve got to tell you about something else that’s come to my attention as well.”
The director remained silent, cocking an ear in the direction of the boss.
“There’ve been some sabotage attempts. For
eign players who’d like nothing better than to see our mission fail, so they can try one of their own. Or maybe not try at all, and leave us all here to rot.”
“Surely they’re aware of the fact that the anomaly is mobile, no? Their own countries will get hit sooner or later.”
Webster nodded. “When it comes to short-term gain, it’s amazing what people will sacrifice.” He paused, frowned, then went on; “In any case, we’ve got to find out who’s been approached, what was said, anything that’ll help me get to the bottom of it. I need you to start some discrete inquiries, and in particular I want to hear from anyone having any contact with any people from Joffrey.”
“You’d have to start with me, sir. I’ve had extensive talks with the two in the mountain.”
This seemed to come as no surprise to the president, but he waved it off. “I know you’ve had technical discussions, but I also know you’d have reported anything improper. What I’m looking for are people who had no reason to speak with them, but who were approached anyway.”
“Understood, sir,” the director said. Nobody else had anything to contribute, so the meeting broke soon after.
54.
Half a world from the continental calving, the European front was ablaze in a different sense. Population centers in Northern Europe experienced severe flooding and other consequences of the disaster, but outside of coastal regions the fighting continued on unabated. And a second mass exodus, nearly equal in scope to the one in the Americas, was underway. Tens of thousands began the long migration, fleeing endangered or embattled cities by land and sea, in any direction that promised safer territory.
In the continent-wide panic, those refused permission to travel turned to desperate alternatives—any conveyance they could rig or rob, taxing the infrastructure and hindering the armed forces. The Eurozone leaders attempted an all-out ban, with strict penalties for non-compliance, but the horses were out of the barn. Restrictions did little to stem the tide, and clogged thoroughfares ground to a standstill.
Cooler heads called for a better, more reasonable, more compassionate alternative to laws they couldn’t hope to enforce anyway. If the people wouldn’t clear a path, then the armies would have to work with them. They would put down their weapons and embrace cooperation, for at least as long as the humanitarian crisis demanded their attention.
Taking their cue from the Americans, the Eurozone nations began a concerted disaster relief effort, helping even those who had aided or abetted the enemy. The aid came with a now-familiar caveat—it would be refused to those who stayed and fought. Further, and perhaps even more compelling, it would also be refused to the families of those who stayed and fought.
With that threat born of desperation aimed squarely at their loved ones, the desire for revenge was grudgingly, temporarily, set aside. With the loss of their support network, most Southern European and African militants were forced to retreat. Those who fought on were quickly subdued by the combined forces of the north, their own governments too wrapped up in their own problems to protest. A stalemate at best, but it was the best that could be managed.
* * *
The Asian onslaught, too, ran unchecked, and a quick overthrow of the northern powers was all but assured. In an odd parity, the relative lack of devastation meant their enemies could keep fighting full-bore, despite all the earthshattering events elsewhere. Their supply lines were intact, and they were firmly entrenched. Hailing from third-world countries to begin with, and now even poorer for the endless conflicts, they quite literally had nothing to lose.
General Secretary Zhang appeared in a globally televised address, pleading with the enemy to consider the consequences.
“Continued hostilities will only lead to your annihilation, and the destruction of your homelands. Consider the alternatives! As our American and European friends have pledged, so we, too, do pledge our aid. You have only to break off your attack, and we will help you. If you refuse, we can not help you. Consider your lives. Consider your loved ones. I implore you to see reason!”
Unlike the sincere compromise made by President Webster, without consideration for the past, or the pragmatic end to hostilities that paused the European crisis, the enemies of China viewed Zhang’s proposal as a mark of desperation. The offer of assistance, a dishonest ruse. Their homelands were already in ruins, and had been since before these disasters had even struck. For them, the hunger for revenge was their only tangible reward, and it continued to churn. For them, the war had just begun.
The Russians took another tack, implying further nuclear strikes might occur in retaliation for recent loses. They tried to get Zhang onboard once more, reaching out through back channels, but he was done with them. The fools in Moscow would watch the world burn before admitting their mistakes, and he was too pragmatic for such idiocy. If necessary, he’d throw his fate in with the west, and let Moscow go to hell.
By refusing to join forces, Zhang knew their nuclear threat was reduced to a bluff. A terrorist incident was one thing. Full-on nuclear warfare was another bridge entirely, one they wouldn’t dare cross. This was pure saber-rattling—an attempt to shake up an implacable enemy. Like their failure in Afghanistan decades ago, they underestimated the desperation of the truly hopeless, assuming it to be akin to their own people’s struggles. But there was poverty, and then there was destitution. The Russians never did have a proper sense of degree.
* * *
In the wake of the great southern megashock, entire ecosystems collapsed, others came into being out of the ashes, others still vanished beneath the waves, only to come back in altered form. Of immediate effect and impact, insect populations soared on the backs of so much new moisture and fresh meat, resulting in a frightening surge of malaria and dysentery. A profound shortage of trained physicians lead to a revival of medicine-men and tribe-oriented healers. Impromptu religious gatherings sprang up, often held in the open air, where people lamented the anger of the heavens and prayed for understanding about what it all meant.
As these pockets of humanity fought to survive, and new modes of existence became the norm—a deathly and constant fear persisted; Worse is yet to come. This apocalyptic notion permeated the scattered populations, and came in many forms.
The oceans will rise up again, this time swallowing all the land there is.
The Americans and their allies will exact total revenge upon the people who attacked them.
The gravity effect will intensify until the planet explodes.
The gods themselves will come down from the heavens and put an end to the world.
Mixed in with these new beliefs, tales of the effort to save humanity continued to persist. Ever since those small-towners in Joffrey staved off the worst, if only for a short while, the world knew such miracles were possible. Before the nukes, the wars and the tsunamis, other places had been attempting similar solutions. There was hope that somehow, in some way, there were people out there, working on a solution. The idea that someone was trying to save them, too, worked its way into the fabric of the new lore.
* * *
In an effort to contact his mission crew, President Webster was trying every avenue, short of sending up a second ship. He even gave that some serious consideration, but the only type available was the unmanned variety, and Space Force One was under orders to regard unknown arrivals with suspicion. The commander wouldn’t allow the craft to dock, and if the issue were forced, he’d destroy it. This was written into the contingency plans, under the assumption that some power might attempt to knock the American ship out of commission rather than allow them access to the anomaly. That it might serve to hinder them instead was more irony at work, but there was no sense in debating the finer points of how badly Webster had blown it. In his quest to tame the beast, he’d unleashed all the more misery on the world instead.
Ham radio operators were a dying breed. Given the speed of internet communications, and the simplicity of contacting anyone, anywhere, anytime, it was hardly surprising t
hat such hobbies had gone by the wayside. But some enthusiasts were still out there. And those people could indeed send a message into space, assuming there was someone up there to receive it.
Dark Alignment Page 34
