by Td Barnes
Stacey asked. “Are there more? What about that heckler at the picnic? He came across as a disgruntled religious fanatic.”
“We don’t know.” The way he said this indicated his desire to close the subject for now. The mess hall was not the place to be discussing something this serious. To make his point, Bradley turned to the ladies and smiled to include them and make this a social event.
Since arriving at the mountain after the EMP, both Barlow and Stacey had worn their hair stylishly short. While they talked, Bradley noted the pleasingly graceful and stylish appearance of each of the women at their table even in their different attire. He envisioned these beautiful young women—resplendent in elegant evening gowns at a social event. Perhaps, Callahan’s Las Vegas shopping trip might include a social dress for the mountain as well.
One of the first things that Stacey did four years ago was to locate among the residents two young ladies experienced in cosmetology. She knew from her military travel and experiences the importance of maintaining high morale. She set up a primitive, but effective beauty salon in one of the alcoves for the female residents and a barber shop for the males by designating days for both genders, both using the same two cosmetologists.
Once she started organizing the various departments making up the populace of the mountain, other organizers followed her lead and picked up the load for their department. Stacey was one of the first of the civilians to adapt to wearing Kevlar for head protection inside the mountain., the danger of sloughing rocks diminished over time to eliminate the constant need for head protection.
Today, dressed in western attire, but still showing great pride in appearance, Stacey, and the others at his table continued to be trendsetters inside the mountain. Bradley noticed this and left the lunch gathering feeling regenerated to focus on being a trendsetter for the male population. This did not include his potty mouth that he failed to recognize and that others considered being the sole and unique trademark of their colonel.
“Tom, have you dropped in on Specialist Dawson today?” If Bradley heard Stacey, he showed no signs of having done so. Stacey recognized his 1,000-yard stare and knew something serious entered his thoughts. The others recognized the look on his face and stopped their conversations in uncomfortable silence.
Bradley stood up, his mind so engaged in thought that he appeared dazed. Bradley was a veteran and often been the brains behind the cyber exploits and war games of the NSA and DIA during the FBI’s Project Carnivore. Only now did he realize this made him the only one in special projects with experience on satellite exploitation. He blamed himself for all this waste of time, and not his people who never knew of his past expertise because of security protocol existing before they came into the mountain.
Bradley stormed into the alcove like a blast, addressing everyone in the room in his loudest whisper possible. “Did any of you check the side lobes of the signal sources?” His look told them all that this included both Mitchell’s weather service satellite and Doctor Hains’ Internet or a communications satellite.
He knew that they all accepted the signal frequencies from Carlos at face value instead of checking for lobes using the parabolic antenna. Doing so, they would have found a set of high magnitude side lobe frequencies on either side of the main lobe. He did not doubt them knowing about frequency lobes. Like him, when Carlos announced locating a satellite transmission, they jumped on it without reason to question it.
Neither Hains nor Mitchell needed to answer this question. Their puzzled looks said it all—they accepted Carlo’s findings at face value.
“Get it done, gentlemen. This might provide us with the answers that we are seeking.
The Groom Lake exploitation team brought with them various satellite dishes salvaged from other systems at Groom Lake. Mitchell, however, moved the dish affiliated with his meteorology station at Groom Lake.
At the mountain, they cemented two eight-foot sections of four-inch pipe into the ground and mounted a dish on one of the pipes. Knowing the general direction of the satellite helped in locating it, but even with it beaming down a constant stream of data, locking onto the signal required various adjustments.
Two of the crew gently moved the dish while someone read the signal strength on the receiver. At the time, the two could locate the decoders and receiver outside the mountain and near enough to the dish that they could yell directions to the two moving the dish. However, now with the electronics all being inside the mountain, it took the entire special projects team to relay instructions between those inside the mountain and those handling the dish.
Bradley did not place blame on Hains or Mitchell for lack of verifying the data downloaded from the first satellite. He blamed himself for doing as they did—accepting the source of the data at face value.
Determined that this would not occur again, Bradley personally organized and directed the adjustment of Mitchell’s dish first before doing that of Hains. He selected Mitchell’s dish to be first because they did not have to wait for an intermittent transmittal to obtain results. Even having a continuous transmission to work with proved to be daunting with a satellite located 22,000 miles in orbit. Being able to display the results on the 12-foot screens also made first working with Mitchell’s satellite much more logical.
“Hold it right there,” Bradley called over to Silverman reading the signal strength on the receiver.
“Freeze it,” Silverman yelled to relay the command to the ones handling the dish. “Sir, we a higher signal a moment before,” Silverman informed Bradley.
“Come here, Silverman,” Bradley said in a mysterious tone. He pointed to the initial images and those taken since and then pointed to the big screen.
“Unbelievable,” Silverman said in quiet, surprised tone. “These are different signals.”
“This is what I am looking for.” Tell them to lock down the dish and come in.”
“Do you want the camouflage net placed back on the dish?”
“Affirmative. We are through for the time being,” Bradley relayed back.
While the others wrapped up outside the mountain, Mitchell swiveled in his chair to study the ever-changing data string displayed on the big screen. He held an image of the original data in his right hand from which he alternated his gaze between that and the big screen. He laid the image down and pressed a finger against his temple as though the pressure might pop out an explanation for the difference in data.
“Colonel, I think we need two heads on this one. I do not see the picture here. In the image and on the screen now is data processed and using the same LNB, Low Noise Amplifier Block down converter. We are using the same RG-59 coaxial cable, feed horn, and satellite receiver.”
“What are the frequency specs?”
“The signal is in the C-Band range, 3,700 to 4200 MHz. The LNB is a low noise temperature model that converts the signal of the satellite dish to a more manageable L-Band range of 950 to 1,450 MHz.”
While they reviewed and analyzed the situation, the rest of the team entered the alcove, gathered around to listen, and participate where possible.
Bradley picked up the image held by Mitchell. He went to his desk and retrieved images taken later that all appeared to be the same data. He spread the pictures for all to see and compare.
“You can see that these came from jamming signals. Note their constant amplitude, constant frequency. The images are saturated, which means our system is picking up very high power signals.”
Bradley’s tone and posture changed as he transformed from searching for answers to speaking with knowledge and authority on the subject.
“We are experiencing either orbital or terrestrial jamming of the satellite. We cannot tell the difference by viewing it on the screen. Terrestrial interference requires a location with line of sight to the target satellite. The targeted frequencies are area-specific, interfering only with the frequency emanating from a satellite in an area. What all someone needs are a satellite dish and a transmitter sit
uated close to the receiving target.”
Doctor Hains appeared shaken by the implications of what Bradley said.
Bradley continued, “Orbital jamming requires the perpetrator beam a signal towards our satellite via a rogue uplink station. The interference or jamming signals are mixed with the right signals and override the valid message. If we are looking at an orbital jamming operation, it is affecting everyone using the satellite. We have no way of knowing if it is targeting only us or someone else. In any case, a geostationary orbit is about 22,400 miles above the Earth. One would think that this great a distance would place the satellite out of harm's way from us earthlings. I am sure the stationary satellites escaped the EMP. However, a sabotaged satellite could transmit a high signal in the satellite’s direction using the same frequency of the programs being transmitted from the original ground transmission station.”
The alcove became deafening silent as all eyes focused on the changing data display on the big screen while their minds drifted into their knowledge and experience seeking answers to which they felt they were not erudite enough to answer.
Bradley broke the silence and everyone’s train of thought.
“Whose satellite is this that we are so focused on? What type is it? What is that data that we are receiving? Why is its data being jammed? Who is jamming it? How are they jamming it? Why are we looking at it instead of our satellites? Why are we not finding our satellites?”
He looked at Doctor Hains. “Doctor, we all know that a communications satellite uses a very narrow beam, and transmits only on command. What are the chances of someone locating such a satellite without knowing its exact azimuth, elevation, frequency, or when it would send a carrier for them to lock on to? Bingo—we manage to come up with a satellite lock and begin looking for ways to hack into it. What are the odds of that happening?”
“Juan Carlos located both, sir.”
“,” Bradley hissed. “Carlos waves his magic wand, and like magic, we have two satellites that we have now fiddled with for over two months.” He looked to Silverman. “Any headway on the hard drives?”
“No, sir. Sir, the timeline does not fit for this computer. He requisitioned it from quartermaster after arriving here at the mountain—after we located the satellites. That is of no consequence anyway, since we had no idea when the jamming started.”
Bradley acknowledged him and looked at Mitchell. “We have our work cut out for us. Mitchell, I suggest you learn what you can about the lobe signal. There are ways we can get around the jamming, but why bother if this satellite data is of value to us. In any case, we must solve the mystery of our missing satellites.”
####
South Portal-Same Time
Major Callahan and 1SG Jack Curtis leaned against the fence of the corral containing the milk cows and visited while watching SFC Stratton organize and ready the vehicles, weapons, and men for tomorrow’s shopping trip into Las Vegas.
One after another, the vehicles worked their way past the corrals to the entrance of the south portal where they lined up in a row. These included the security detail’s four JLTVs with turret-mounted.30 cal machine guns.
A deuce and a half truck sat parked in the middle of the row of vehicles to carry drivers and personnel to load the trucks that they planned to acquire on Craig Road.
The soldiers loaded handcarts into the truck along with 5-gallon jerry cans loaded with fuel for the trucks that they expected to acquire. “Don’t forget funnels,” Curtis called to Stratton.
Stratton called back, “On the list, First Sergeant.”
“He is a good man, Top,” Callahan commented. “Stratton always completes his mission and never embarrasses the service.”
Curtis replied, “He is good with the troops.”
“The mountain has quite an operation down here,” Callahan commented, indicating a beehive of activity by members of the Mountain caring for the livestock and poultry. Behind them, inside the corral, a group of all ages, male and female cleaned pens while others fed and watered the cattle. Neither noticed Carlos being among the workers and listening to their every word.
Curtis stood erect and said, “Care to check out the garden with me, sir?” The two drifted past the row of vehicles and entered the central alcove containing Dr. Kathy Sanders’ photosynthetic gardens.
Starting as an experiment inside the mountain after the EMP, Sanders developed a food supply intended for some extraterrestrial planet into a primary food source for the residents of the mountain. The garden was a labor of love where children of the mountain performed the delicate and gentle work of caring for the plants, fish, eels, water fleas, and newts that fed off the algae also eaten by the residents. This aided Doctor Sanders and provided a form of kindergarten for the children. Assisting Kathy with the children was a volunteer cadre of teenagers, female.
“Top, everything is ready,” Stratton called into the alcove. “We will shove off at 0800 hours tomorrow.”
“Be safe. I assume you have chosen your stops.”
“Yes. We will pick up the trucks at the warehouse on Craig Road and then split up to hit Costco on South Martin L King Blvd, Walmart at W Craig Rd, Losee Rd, and West Lake Mead Blvd. On the way out, we will stop by the Starquest facility to look for some spacesuits. Dr. Kennedy will be accompanying the mission to ensure we get the survival packs and whatever else we need.”
####
0700 Hours the next morning
Throughout his military career, Bradley always adhered to his belief that even if a commander could not lead his troops into harm's way, he should be there to send them off. Knowing that the Las Vegas detail planned to depart from the south portal at 0800 hours, he invited Stacey to join him for an early morning ride that they would conclude with seeing the troops off even if they were not under his command.
He and Stacey arrived at the stable at 0630 where they saddled their horses and ventured out of the mountain. They rode through the sparse vegetation of Jackass Flats, out onto a small dry lake bed where they allowed the horses to run until they enough and came to a stop.
They no more than turned their horses around to head back to the mountain when Stacey spotted a fast-moving JLTV headed in the direction of Lathrop Wells. She pointed out the vehicle to Tom.
“What the hell?” He exclaimed. “That doesn’t make sense.”
They rushed back to the mountain where they found SFC Stratton just discovering one of his vehicles missing.
Stratton and Bradley exchanged salutes, though Bradley was wearing civilian clothing. Since the military switching to wearing civilian clothing, the saluting ritual became optional while the military transitioned to change.
“Sir, I don’t have a clue what is going on. I’ll assemble my squad to see if anyone is missing.”
Major Callahan arrived moments later, and with no one knowing any details on the missing vehicle, decided to dispatch the detail short one vehicle. None of the detail was missing, so determining the identity of someone missing from the mountain could take hours.
Stacey held the reins of both horses while standing beside Bradley during this exchange. She said, “Tom if you need to leave, I’ll attend to the horses. I think I’ll stay and work with the cattle a bit. If the handcar heads this way, you might have someone bring me some coffee and something for breakfast.”
Bradley needed to be at the War Room alcove, so he kissed Stacey patted her on her butt and hopped onto the waiting handcar with his dog, Sarge to head up the tunnel to the north portal. The handcar departed, making its way past the animal pens and an accumulation of Guinea hens and cats hanging around this end of the tunnel seeking free handouts of food from the farmers. Bradley, being a Republican, referred to the moochers as Democrats.
During his journey back to the War Room he tried to make sense of the missing JLTV, wondering who was driving it and why. His thoughts on the subject switched upon his entering the alcove to see SP5 Dawson there with her newborn son with Jer pushing her wheelchair. Sam
mie stood beside them, holding and fawning over the child.
Bradley’s worrisome look transformed into one of happiness when he saw Dawson and the baby. He rushed over to give Dawson a peck on the cheek and held his arms out to steal the baby from Sammie. Everyone smiled broadly at the scene of their no-nonsense colonel gushing over the child like a new grandpa. At their feet, Sarge walked on his hind legs as he waited his turn to meet a new playmate.
Bradley watched the Dawson entourage leave the alcove, relishing the moment and the memory of this morning’s pleasant equestrian experience with his lovely mate, Stacey. He fought it, but the ever-present shroud of responsibility smothered the fun moment to remind him of the urgency of the tasks expected of him.
Despite his desperation for results, he knew the satellite projects took time and often trial and error. He could advise, but not micromanage.
Bradley saw Mitchell focused on something on his computer screen. He glanced at the big screen, but it was blank of data. Glancing at the external radiation level readings, he noted the level still being safe. In the radio section, he noted Specialist “Buzz” Jones, a slender, clean-cut Afro-American soldier coworker of Sp5 Dawson busy with the radios. He approached Mitchell, hoping to learn of some process.
Mitchell glanced up at him. “Good morning, sir.” His body language invited Bradley to join him in viewing the screen. “We have tons of satellite and astronomy information stored in our digital library. I am looking at the weather satellite locations now.” He strolled through the page to a chart. “This is a chart that should point us to any satellite we desire. See the satellite here?” He pointed to an identification graphic depicting a satellite. “This is the one we are receiving a signal from. I am thinking that someone is using a Radio Data System, what we call RDS, to transmit to an unused and unencrypted channel and that is what we are receiving.”
