by Doug Farren
“Ugh!” Tom picked up his plate. “I’ll be in my stateroom so I can enjoy this.”
Three and a half hours later, Sorbith walked into the Orion’s conference room where he found Tom and Lashpa hunched over a game of chess.
“I thought you two would be hashing out ideas on how we’re going to solve our problem with the Purists,” he chastised them.
Tom reached out and moved a rook out of danger. “We have,” he said. “But nothing we’ve come up with so far gets around the problem presented by the nuke. We can drill a hole into the facility and gas them, we can try to take them out using a concentrated space-based attack, or we can just do nothing and hope they starve to death.”
Lashpa tipped her king over. “I resign,” she told Tom. Turning to Sorbith, she said, “All of those options fail because the Purists would still have time to detonate the nuke. We also considered cutting off their power and any number of other ways to try to convince them to give themselves up. But all scenarios fail because of the possibility they have a 30-megaton nuclear warhead to use as a bargaining chip. Our best hope is to believe they’re lying. In that case, we can breach the facility by cutting the cement block out of the way.”
Sorbith walked over to the dispenser and ordered up a triple espresso. Of all the refreshments other than water consumed by the various members of the Alliance, coffee seemed to be the most universal.
Tom began putting the chess set away. “I was hoping we could find a way to remotely disable the weapon,” he said. “But if one existed, it would also allow an enemy to disable our own missiles. We could remotely detonate it if we knew the codes, but there’s no way to put the weapon into safe mode remotely.”
“There’s only three ways to ensure a nuke can’t be detonated,” Lashpa said, helping Tom put the pieces away. “Locking the weapon into a storage rack, removing the control module, or inserting a safeing key. All of which require physical access to the weapon and none of which are feasible in this situation.”
Sorbith pulled his cup out and took a sip. “I’ve been on a conference call with the Mayor, the Governor, the President of the United States, and the World President,” Sorbith said, sounding tired. “So far, the only plan that has a chance of working without ending up killing a few million people is one presented by the Mayor. He was a city engineer and came up with a way to at least verify that the Purists are telling the truth about the nuke.”
“How?” Tom asked, setting the chess set aside.
“Ever hear of a robot called a sewer rat?” Sorbith asked. After seeing Tom and Lashpa shake their heads, he said, “It’s a small remote used to inspect piping. It can crawl inside a pipe as small as four centimeters in diameter. It trails a thin signal cable behind it allowing operators to see the results of the inspection as well as control the movement of the robot. We’re outfitting one now with a small transceiver.”
“What good is that going to do us?” Tom asked.
“We’re betting the original connection to the city sewer system is still intact,” Sorbith replied. “We’re going to run the sewer rat through the pipes and see if we can’t find a way in. If so, we’ll turn on the transceiver. My ship will use it as an extension of its tactical data network. If we’re lucky, the weapon will verify the protocols, connect to the tactical data network, and identify itself. If it does, we’ll know what type of weapon we’re dealing with.”
Lashpa shook her head. “And if it doesn’t, we still won’t know if they’re lying.”
“That’s where option two comes in,” Sorbith replied. “The World President has officially rescinded Safa’s status as an Earth protectorate. All citizens of Safa are being ordered to leave Earth immediately. A request for the rest of the Alliance to do the same has been made to the Grand Council.”
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Lashpa asked.
“It’s obvious the facility here is operating under orders from Safa,” Sorbith replied. “Threatening to detonate a nuclear warhead on Earth is being viewed as a declaration of war. A small fleet of ships is now on its way to Safa with orders to obliterate all major cities if Cleveland is destroyed. I’m sure word of this will make its way back to the facility here on Earth.”
“It’s about time we put the Purists in their place,” Tom said. “We’ve been too lenient with them so far.”
“How long before the sewer rat is ready?” Lashpa asked.
“A few more hours,” Sorbith replied. He took a final gulp from his mug and stood up. “I suggest we all get some sleep. I’ll have your ship wake you when we’re ready.”
Chapter 25
Although Tom tried to sleep, the best he could do was to rest. Instead of sleeping, his mind kept trying to figure a way into the facility without giving the Purists time to set off the warhead. Tom had no doubts that the fanatics running the show wouldn’t hesitate to carry out their threat. In their twisted mind, this would make them a martyr.
“Tom?” the ship quietly said.
“Go ahead,” Tom replied.
“The sewer rat robot is being introduced into the piping leading to the Purist facility. I have an audio data feed from the Tri-Star if you would like to hear it.”
Tom got out of the command chair and headed for the galley. “Put it through the speaker in the conference room when I get there.”
Lashpa was just coming out of the guest stateroom as Tom neared the entrance to the galley.
“I’m afraid I made a horrible mess in your bathroom,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Terran toilets are not designed for Rouldian physiology.”
A pair of service robots came around the corner and went into the guest room. “I’m so sorry,” Tom apologized. “I didn’t think about that.”
“Neither did I until it was too late,” Lashpa replied.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tom said. “The ship will clean it up.”
“The ship shouldn’t have to clean anything up,” Lashpa replied, her tail swinging around in annoyance. “Bathrooms on peacekeeper ships should be designed to accommodate any species. Someone should be able to design a universal toilet!”
Tom put a comforting hand on the side of his friend’s jaw. “Or at least one that can reconfigure itself,” he said. “I’m going to get something to eat. Can I get you anything?”
“Eggs,” she replied.
“I only have powdered ones.”
“Eggs, powdered or not, are one of the few cooked meals I can stomach,” she replied. “It’s better than going hungry.”
Lashpa walked down the passageway to the conference room while Tom went into the galley and started making a large batch of scrambled eggs. The Tri-Star provided them with periodic updates as the sewer rat made its way through the pipes. It was being guided by Sorbith’s ship based on maps of the piping as well as the data being sent back from the robot.
Fifteen minutes later, Tom walked into the conference room carrying two plates of scrambled eggs, one of which was piled considerably higher than the other. A freshly-brewed cup of coffee was waiting for him.
“Thank you,” Lashpa replied.
“If the maps are accurate,” the Tri-Star’s AI reported, “the robot is now entering the facility.”
Lashpa picked up her large spoon and scooped up a pile of eggs. Instead of putting them in her mouth, she stared at them.
“Liquefied, pasteurized, and flash frozen for long-term storage,” Tom said, holding a forkful of yellowish eggs in front of him. “At least it’s edible.”
“Barely.”
Six minutes passed, giving the two friends time to finish most of their breakfast.
“The robot has reached what appears to be the siphon tube of a toilet. Extending the antenna … Activating the transceiver … The weapon has responded.”
Tom’s eyes grew wide with surprise. “They weren’t lying!” he said.
“Identification confirmed,” the Tri-Star said. “Requesting status … Status report received … Withdrawing antenna. The w
eapon is a standard Alliance anti-ship missile armed with a 30-megaton warhead. It’s currently in standby mode awaiting targeting instructions. Proximity sensors are armed which most likely indicates it’s located in a small room. Propulsion system is fully fueled and operational.”
“Son-of-a-bitch, they have a live missile down there!” Tom said.
“Tri-Star,” Lashpa said into the air, trusting that the Orion would route her inquiry to the other ship. “What else can you tell us about the weapon?”
“Data from the serial number registry shows it was built by General Dynamics a little over five years ago. It was identified as being one of the missiles misappropriated by the Purists prior to their attack on Earth. It was assumed to have been used during that conflict.”
“The Purists modified most of the missiles in their custody,” Tom said. “I’m surprised it connected to the Tri-Star’s tactical data net.”
“They didn’t need to modify it,” Sorbith said, his face appearing on the wall monitor, “because it was destined for this facility. Perhaps we can use this to our advantage.”
Lashpa shook her head. “I don’t see how,” she said. “It’s not possible to remotely disarm an Alliance weapon. Additionally, I believe these weapons are programmed to detonate if they believe their control system is under attack or has been compromised.”
Tom was sitting with his hands in front of him, the fingertips of one hand lightly touching those of his other. “True,” he said in a quiet voice. “But something about this weapon rings a bell. Orion! Search all recordings for any reference to a General Dynamics missile.”
“Boris Kazapov mentioned it in a conversation,” the ship replied less than a second later.
“Play it!” Tom said, standing up.
“This is an old General Dynamics model,” a man’s voice said. He was speaking quietly and rapidly, almost as if he was talking to himself. “I remember the stink when it was discovered they had a serious bug in their- - -Oh! You’re fine. You’ve got the updated software.”
There was a moment of silence, then Lashpa asked, “Who’s Boris?”
“The master weapons technician who checked my missiles a couple years ago to make sure they hadn’t been altered by the Purists. He talked almost continuously, rambling on about everything from his kids to the missile he was working on. I was only half-listening to any of it.”
“What’s this bug he mentioned?” Sorbith asked.
“Orion, any data?” Tom asked.
“I have no information concerning a software bug in any of the General Dynamics missiles,” the ship replied. “Such information, however, would be kept secret as it represents a potential flaw in our weapon systems.”
“Orion, get in touch with Boris,” Tom ordered. “I don’t care if you have to send the police to his house. Get him to Lashpa’s ship. As soon as he’s there, open up a secure channel.”
“Acknowledged.”
“You do realize it’s almost three o’clock in the morning there,” Sorbith said.
“I don’t care,” Tom replied. “This guy seemed to know everything there was to know about Alliance weapons. If there’s a way to disarm the weapon through this software bug then he’ll know it and getting it from him will be a lot faster than trying to find someone at General Dynamics who might know about the bug.”
“Contact me as soon as he arrives at the Krish,” Sorbith said. “I need to report what we’ve found to the government. Sorbith out.”
Forty-five minutes later, the Orion announced that Boris was approaching Lashpa’s ship. Sorbith’s face appeared on the left side of the monitor. The right side showed a view of the Krish’s empty conference room. A few seconds later, Boris entered the room and looked at the camera. His gray-streaked black hair was a wild mess sticking out from under a ball-cap.
“Hello,” he said, stripping off the light jacked he’d been wearing and tossing it on the table. He pointed at the monitor and said, “I’m not good at faces, but you look familiar.”
“I’m Peacekeeper Tom Wilks and this is Peacekeeper Lashpa Krish,” Tom made the introductions. “Peacekeeper Sorbith is also joining us from a different location. A couple years ago you checked out the weapons in my ship.”
“Oh yeah!” Boris replied. Looking around, he said, “I remember you. This don’t look like a human ship though. Where’re you at?”
“That’s not important,” Tom said. “One of the missiles you worked on was built by General Dynamics. You mentioned that the older missiles had a bug in their control system. Can you tell us about it?”
“Is that why you drug me out of bed at three o’clock in the morning?” Boris replied, sitting down on the edge of a chair built for Rouldians.
“Please Mr. Kavapov,” Sorbith said, “This is a very serious matter. We have an armed General Dynamics QT11 in the hands of a terrorist organization. We need to know if there’s any way we can remotely disarm the weapon. Can you help us?”
“How the hell did- - -” Boris stood up and waved his arms in the air. “Never mind! Tell me about this weapon.”
“It’s a General Dynamics QT11 built about five years ago. The weapon is armed and awaiting targeting instructions with the proximity sensors triggered. We have reason to believe it was obtained by the terrorists shortly after being manufactured.”
“Then it probably still has the targeting bug unless these terrorists of yours have upgraded the software. What do you want to know?”
“Can we use the bug to disable the weapon?” Tom asked.
“That’s what caused such a stink when the bug was discovered,” Boris replied. “What’s the status of its propulsion system?”
“Fully fueled and operational,” Sorbith replied.
“Good. The bug doesn’t appear unless the propulsion system passes the self-check. If the software hasn’t been updated, you can trigger the fault by giving the weapon an impossible set of targeting coordinates. Instead of rejecting the coordinates, the control module assumes it’s encountered an internal error and goes into a self-diagnostic mode. But it never clears the targeting coordinates. After doing a self-check, the CPU reloads the same coordinates and the diagnostics are triggered again putting the control module into an endless loop. While in self-diagnostics mode, the weapon won’t detonate. It becomes a dud.”
“I need to know exactly what sort of coordinates to send to ensure this bug is triggered,” Sorbith said.
“That’s easy,” Boris replied. “Take the weapon’s location from its status report, alter the mark angle to anything over 360 degrees and feed it back as a relative targeting coordinate. You don’t even have to tell it to initiate. The bad coordinates will be picked up as the targeting routine attempts to plot the course based on the missile’s current location.”
“That’s it?” Tom asked.
“That’s it,” Boris replied. “There’s one hitch though.”
“What’s that?” Tom asked.
“If the terrorists are familiar with the QT11, they’ll know they can reset the control module by pulling it out and then reinserting it. This will perform a cold restart of the module, erasing the faulty coordinates. They can then re-arm the missile and detonate it.”
“How long would that take?” Sorbith asked.
“Depends,” Boris replied, rubbing his eyes. “If the casing is buttoned up, an experienced technician can pop it open and reset the electronics in about ten minutes as long as they have the right tools. As a safety precaution, the weapon must be physically disarmed before the module can be removed. Re-arming the warhead will take another minute or so.”
“Does anyone else have any further questions for Mr. Kavapov?” Sorbith asked.
“Oh!” Boris began. “I almost forgot. There’s one more hitch you might run into.”
“And that is?”
“Since retargeting via a hacked TDS is a potential threat, all Alliance weapons are designed to allow the targeting coordinates to be locked either before a weapon is launch
ed or by a valid TDS. Once that happens, the control module will refuse to accept another set of coordinates until it’s reset.”
“What about the shield?” Lashpa asked. “The QT11 is equipped with a shield. If we activate it, we effectively isolate it from the terrorists.”
“Won’t work,” Boris said, shaking his head. “There’s an interlock preventing the shield from activating if the proximity sensors are triggered which you said they are.”
“Anything else?” Sorbith asked. After a moment of silence, he continued, “I want to thank you for the information. You’ll find a suitable compensation in your bank account for being inconvenienced at this hour.”
“You’re welcome,” Boris replied. Grabbing his jacket off the table he looked over at the monitor and said, “Does this ship have a restroom I can use?”
Tom couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “It does.”
“I’m about to bust a gut here,” Boris replied, sounding annoyed. “I was asked to leave my house so fast I didn’t have time to go before I left.”
“Krish,” Lashpa said, “Let him use the bathroom in the guest stateroom.” She turned, looked at Tom, and added, “At least it has a Terran toilet.”
“I said I was sorry,” Tom said.
“Acknowledge, Krish out,” Lashpa’s ship replied.
“Do we risk it?” Sorbith asked as soon as Boris was out of the link.
“This affects Earth,” Tom replied. “The decision is yours. My only concern is how we’re going to get inside the facility. We can’t spend all day cutting through a multi-ton block of reinforced concrete. We need to disable that nuke and get down there before they can re-set the control module.”
Sorbith thought for a moment as the others waited. “A team of engineers have been looking into the quickest way to breach the facility and have come up with a plan. I’ve already authorized the modification of a truck to turn it into a breaching device. The only thing I was waiting for was to see if they actually had a nuke down there. I didn’t expect to find a way to disable it. I’ll make the arrangements and then inform the civilian officials that we’re going in. Gear up, I’ll see you at the command post in an hour. Sorbith out.”
