Confrontation

by William Hayashi

  “Okay, I get it. And the other two jumpers do the razzle-dazzle when the whale has to load up, drawing everyone away from the area,” said Peanut.

  “That’s the plan. I’m too old to have to go through any combat flying nonsense. Once I get the cargo loaded, we button up and hightail it into orbit. We all rendezvous high enough that no one can bother us and then head back here,” Lucius concluded.

  “Who’s going to pilot the ship and load everything into the whale?” asked Peanut.

  “The cargo ship?” asked Lucius. “Not sure. I hope to have at least two from people here. They may be enough to do the trick. I’m hoping we can purchase a fishing trawler and get everything loaded onto it. Anything bigger makes the whole proposition somewhat dodgy.”

  “I’ll get my team reinforcing the outer shielding on one of the bigger ships, and work with Doc Long on getting whatever he thinks might be needed. Is he going?” Peanut inquired.

  “Not sure,” answered Chuck. “Someone acquainted with combat injuries though.”

  Peanut looked up from his tablet, alarmed.

  “No, we’re not expecting any shooting, nothing like that. Otherwise I wouldn’t let Lucius go,” Christopher said, trying to calm Peanut’s fears.

  “But you never know what might happen, son. Hell, I might fall off the damn boat,” Lucius said with a laugh.

  “This is a big mission, how many guys are you taking?” Peanut asked.

  “It’s going to be a mixed crew. Angela for sure piloting one of the pursuit jumpers, Chuck for the bigger ship maybe. The pilot and crew for other jumper and the whale haven’t been selected yet; there’s plenty of time. And I fully expect the mission profile to change several times before we set out,” Christopher answered. “Genesis is going to secure a warehouse for our use, and some of our cash that Lucius brought here will be used to finance the operation.”

  “Can’t Genesis arrange for bogus electronic payments for all the stuff?” Peanut asked.

  “Sure. But we’re not thieves. It’s bad enough we’re personae non gratae on our home planet, but to be branded thieves would just be needlessly adding to the negative impression the press and everyone else has been heaping on us since we left.

  “Over the years, eighteen countries have sent messages of invitation to land in their territories. The U.N. has even sent two invitations to apply for nation status shortly after we left the moon, but I don’t trust anyone at this late date. There’s too many people who want our technology to trust the word of anyone sending us an invitation,” Lucius explained.

  “Genesis?”

  “Yes, Lucius. How may I be of assistance?”

  “Please do an analysis of the items currently on the wish list, including all of the departmental additions specific to the upcoming mission, and determine which coast would be best for accumulating all of the items,” Lucius requested.

  “Working … As nearly every item can be shipped, some with fees, either coast of the United States would serve. The only real variables are environmental: water depth, location of nearest military pursuit bases, and population density.

  “I have rejected the selection of another country, such as Canada or Mexico, as a temporary location for acquisition, and shipping everything to Alaska or Hawaii is logistically out of the question. May I inquire why the Great Lakes region was not considered? Are there logistical concerns that I was not informed about?”

  “No, Genesis. I was thinking about the combination of deep water and wide open spaces to help make detection more difficult. Why do you ask? Are there conditions that make the Midwest more desirable?” asked Lucius.

  “The radar coverage over Canada is calibrated for ballistic missile attack or commercial airline and cargo jet traffic, and the Great Lakes are located in the center of the country. If the same method of getting the initial jumper into the atmosphere is employed to get the whale into the waters of Lake Michigan, I believe I can eliminate any radar signature that would reveal the larger ship making it down to the surface.

  “If the items are shipped to Chicago, Illinois or Gary, Indiana, there are numerous water craft available that can be employed for transfer to the whale out in deep water. The economy of the area is greatly depressed, with one hundred forty-five warehouse facilities close to the two ports available for rent or purchase. There is less military aircraft coverage in the area compared to either of the United States coastal regions, and there are very few Coast Guard vessels on regular patrol,” Genesis explained.

  “Food for thought,” said Chuck.

  “We do know the area, and Chicago was a great staging area for us way back when we started this whole thing,” added Peanut.

  “I wonder if Ribs ’N Bibs is still around? I could go for a bucket of tips!” Chuck asked, naming their favorite South Side rib joint, eliciting chuckles at the suggestion.

  “I wonder if our building is still standing?” asked Christopher. “If nothing else, it should be a historical landmark. That is, if anyone ever found out that’s where this colony got its start.”

  “‘Fraid not. Two years after you all relocated to the moon, it was leveled to make room for some town houses,” said Lucius.

  “How the hell do you know that?” asked Chuck

  “Because I invested in the development. I was also the one who owned the land that old factory sat on. I bought it a year after you moved in. I wanted to make sure you’d be able to keep it as long as necessary,” Lucius said, winking.

  “I had no idea,” said Christopher.

  “It made me quite a chunk of change. As a matter of fact, Genesis has been managing what investments I left behind ever since I came here. Your cash isn’t the only asset we have to draw on if needed. Genesis and I have been quietly creating a foundation that’s going to be the entity, at least on paper, that’s going to make the purchases for this mission. We’ve got a charter, bank accounts, references and a credit rating. We’re good to go in starting the whole process of acquisition,” finished Lucius.

  “Damn, man. You still never cease to amaze me,” said Christopher, shaking his head in wonder.

  Chapter 13

  NOTHING FROM NOTHING

  “I’ll be glad when the atmosphere is thick enough in here to allow us to get out of these suits. I can’t stand not being able to scratch an itch,” Patrick complained, as he ran engine synchronization simulations from the Jove control room.

  “In addition, we’d all smell better when we got back to quarters. Although, now that I think about it, getting in and out of the diapers, inner suit, the med pickups and whatnot an extra pair of times a day is going to be a pain in the ass,” said Emily over the side frequency they were using. “How’s the simulation going?”

  “So far, so good. It looks like the control circuits can keep the engines synched within two-tenths of one percent.”

  “That make you happy?” she asked.

  “Damn right! How are your speed trials coming?”

  “We’re able to transfer eight terabytes of data a minute, even with full encryption! All your telemetry, as well as all the other systems, can send data back to Houston in real time until the communications lag gets too long. The data will still stream, it’ll just take more time to get back to Earth,” Emily explained.

  “Hang on a minute,” said Patrick as he switched over to the frequency the rest of his engineering team was on. “Okay, everyone. Great run, I’m shutting down the simulation. Everyone reset your boards and let’s call it a day.”

  Patrick laughed as he heard the chorus of cheers over the air. He waited until his console showed all systems were powered down and the controls reset, then he started a postmortem dump to his tablet to take back to the crews’ habitat for analysis.

  Switching back to Emily’s frequency, he radioed “I just cut my guys loose for the day. What are you doing after your shift?”

&n
bsp; “Nothing planned. I definitely want to get cleaned up and grab some chow. It’s times like these I really miss soaking in a tub! I’m tired and I can never seem to get warm enough. If I turn the heat up in my suit the way I like it, my power runs down too quickly,” Emily complained with a groan.

  “You! Every night when I get out of this suit, I feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with some middleweight prizefighter. I know everything is weightless, but trying to muscle mass around, pulling off access panels, plugging into or replacing the modules, especially when I forget to brace myself, is ten times harder than on Earth.”

  “Poor baby! Want someone to rub your tired muscles?” Emily said in an exaggerated, “come hither” voice.

  “Um, we’ll see,” Patrick answered, both intrigued and afraid of starting something that would lead to a sexual harassment complaint.

  Once back in the crew quarters, cleaned up and in his private cubby, Patrick put in an encrypted call to Dr. Milton to bring him up to date.

  “So the microprocessor interfaces seem to synch up perfectly, and according to the tech team, the propulsion units are aligned to within less than one-one-hundredth of a millimeter.”

  “Patrick, that’s excellent. The other teams are all running ahead of schedule, too. By the way, have you heard from Melody since you’ve been there?” Milton asked.

  “As a matter of fact, no. Why do you ask?”

  “Because she’s quit her job and her apartment is completely cleared out. Mathews says she fled back to California by way of Florida using another identity, then went underground somewhere in the Bay Area. I was hoping she was going to try to keep in touch,” explained Milton.

  “Nothing so far. I’ll definitely let you know if she gets in touch,” promised Patrick, sorry to have been reminded of the debacle back on Earth.

  “What’s next on the agenda for your team?” Milton asked, mercifully changing the subject.

  “Next week, fuel will be hoisted into orbit so they can begin to fill the ship’s tanks, I think Jove’s water tanks are going to be filled right after,” Patrick replied.

  “Yes, we’re accelerating the provisioning of the ship, not that it’s going to be heading out to the belt any earlier, owing to the immutable facts of celestial mechanics. But there has been word of the possibility of a test flight before the mission begins. It goes without saying that your participation in such a flight would be a plus,” Milton suggested.

  “This is the first I’ve heard of a test flight,” Patrick said, then paused. After a moment’s thought he added, “Given the way I was railroaded up here, I’m sure my saying ‘no’ is going to carry just as much weight as trying to get out of coming here did.”

  Milton laughed and said, “Believe me, I quite understand how you feel. Just think about it. As for the investigation down here, I’ll keep you posted if anything turns up. By the way, we changed the locks on your house and retained a private security company to keep an eye on it. Not that any really determined crook would find that much of an impediment, but we were erring on the side of reasonable caution. Anyway. I’ll check in with you in the next few days. Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m forwarding the engineering report to you in the next hour. I’ll catch up with you later,” Patrick said, signing off.

  * * *

  John Mathews was at an upscale restaurant on San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf, looking over the menu, keeping an eye on the former Melody Parker, who now went by the name of Francine Jacobs. Her appearance was somewhat changed from the few photos Patrick had scattered around his home. She was now a brunette, sporting a pair of silver, wire-rimmed glasses.

  A background check into the Jacobs identity led John and Weston to believe that Jacobs was her real name. The full work-up turned up very little in the way of former employers for the last dozen or so years, so she definitely had an income stream not easily traced.

  He had easily tailed her from the airport, having picked up her trail in Orlando. Her presence in Florida was a mystery, unless it was related to Patrick’s being sent into orbit to work onsite.

  She had stopped off at a two-unit bungalow, dropped off her single traveling bag and changed into a different outfit, adding a pair of, as far as he could tell, non-prescription glasses.

  John caught a glimpse of a silver-haired man in his late fifties approaching his quarry’s table; and, after a few words, the man joined her. John wasn’t able to hear what was being said, but he knew his backup outside was filming the woman’s face so her side of the conversation could be transcribed later.

  He watched as the waiter brought them drinks, and took their lunch order. Once he was convinced they were at least staying through a meal, John ordered a small seafood salad for himself. He propped up his mobile phone against the bread basket sitting on the table and used it to film their table, hoping that the resolution would be high enough so that the unknown man’s lips could be read.

  Over the course of the meal, John was able to see that the two looked like friends or business associates, laughing together every so often. They ate, chatted a bit over coffee, and then departed together, seemingly in no hurry.

  As John paid his bill, he stopped their waiter and said, “Excuse me, I think that man and I were in the academy together. Was that Frank Benson?” The waiter, quite happy to be of help, opened the folio with the table’s charge card ticket and said, “No, I’m afraid not, his name’s Rankin, Addison Rankin.”

  “Glad I didn’t stop him, he would have thought I was some kind of nut!” John said, his relief obvious to the waiter. “Thanks anyway.”

  When he left the restaurant, John signaled for his backup to follow Rankin after he and Jacobs shook hands and parted company on the sidewalk. John strolled the opposite side of the street from Jacobs, following her to the parking lot. She retrieved her car and drove off.

  He wasn’t too worried about keeping close tabs on her, as the car was now equipped with a GPS tracker. He had a two-person team on her house, and now another person of interest to research. He uploaded the video of the table to his account on the GST server, then called Seneca.

  He informed her that he needed a transcript of his video, and the video shot of Jacobs. He then asked, “Have you ever heard of a guy named Addison Rankin?”

  “Hang on, let me do a quick search … There’s a handful. What does he look like?” she asked.

  John described the man, and by process of elimination they figured out which Rankin it was.

  “He’s some kind of industrialist entrepreneur type,” said Seneca, reading a couple of the entries in the search results.

  “Sounds perfect for an industrial spy,” John observed.

  “Indeed. Let’s see what our own people might have on him. Hey! There’s a flag on this guy for working with the Russians, Israelis, and Pakistanis. Apparently he’s an industrial spy for hire. It says here that this creep even sold one of the advanced GST designs for CPU heat sinks to the Chinese. Are you sure this is the guy?”

  “Send a pic to my phone … ” John said, waiting for the incoming chirp. When the photo was downloaded, he pulled up the image and said, “Bingo! That’s the guy. Let Weston know. Also, forward the transcript to him so he’s up to speed. See what, if anything, he wants to do about this guy, and about the girl. If it was up to me, I’d just put round-the-clock surveillance on both of them and try to see who else we might catch. We should see where this Rankin guy goes next. Unless I’m really missing a guess, he’s either working for someone else or has a customer on the line for the Jove engineering designs. Looking at how they met so out in the open as soon as Jacobs got off the plane, they have no idea we know what’s up. I’m going to turn surveillance of them over to our local guys. No sense in getting the Feds involved unless Weston feels we need the help,” said John.

  “Got it. You need any additional support?”


  “No. I think Jacobs is through with young Mr. Jensen and the city of Houston. But I’m curious about her next move. Is she just a girl-for-hire, or was she contacted after she met Jensen? That whole initial meeting with Jensen on the plane seems too convenient. By the way, what’s up with her ex-boyfriend?”

  “He’s been in orbit a week now. There’s been nothing sent to his email address and, obviously, no phone calls. Do you want the report sent to you?” she asked.

  “No, he’s not my problem anymore. Where’s Tom?”

  “In New York. He’s due back in the morning. Want me to have him call you?”

  “Not unless he has something specific for me to chase after. I’m going to stick around for another day or two, see if either of these two do something interesting.”

  “I’ll let Tom know. If you need anything else, I’m in for another couple of hours. Otherwise call or text my mobile.”

  “Good enough. See you soon.”

  “You too, John,” she said, then disconnected the call.

  John called GST’s local security office in San Francisco and arranged an around-the-clock watch on Rankin and Jacobs, concentrating on contact they might make with anyone else. That was the essence of good detective work; seeing who the next link in the chain would be and following each link back to the source.

  John found it ironic how his job was to safeguard the mission that the United States was sending out to the separatists’ colony. That constant reminder continued to fuel the suspicion that Weston, and more than likely top management at GST, had some other role for him to play. There was little doubt that he would be pumped, either voluntarily or involuntarily, for whatever information he had on the separatists.

  He laughed as he thought about Pete’s greeting whenever he stopped into the bar during his infrequent returns home. “Been squeezed yet?” Pete always inquired. John assumed that everything he did, by phone or online, was monitored. He didn’t give it a second thought anymore. It was just a fact of life. In fact, most Americans were resigned to the fact that their email and mobile phone conversations were being listened to by an ever more nosy and intrusive government.