Skywave

by K Patrick Donoghue

  SatFleet in orbit around Callisto

  November 1, 2018

  The new instructions spread from CUBE-11 to the other five probes in the fleet. Those probes included CUBE-2, which had earlier been ordered by Warner’s programmers to join the rest of the fleet in a new geosynchronous orbit over the southern hemisphere of Callisto.

  With the new instructions disseminated, the CUBEs’ VLF engines powered on for the first time since leaving the asteroid belt. Jolting violently, the CUBEs broke out of their stationary orbits and curled around the far side of the moon, arcing northward as they flew. Twenty minutes later, with their engines at full power, the CUBEs passed the massive Valhalla crater.

  When they emerged on the Earth-facing side of the moon, the fleet split into two groups and began to dive toward Nuada crater, their engines blasting the moon’s magnetosphere with a torrent of ions.

  Two of the CUBEs were programmed to crash into Cetus Prime, obliterating any trace of the ship. The other four were targeted at points along the crater wall towering above the alien structure, hoping to trigger an avalanche big enough to bury the structure.

  Inside Nuada, dots of light began to appear from the curved structure nestled against the crater’s northern wall. At solar wind–like speed, the dots arced toward the fleet’s two ion trails. As the UMOs zoomed into the ionosphere, they began to pulse in unison. In a motion that could only be described as bees gathering to honey, thousands of additional lights swirled upward from all directions. They fell into line behind the lead lights, adding their pulses to the group’s throbbing energy…and then they split into two groups and began to spin…

  Green Bank Observatory

  Green Bank, West Virginia

  November 2, 2018

  It was just past midnight when the gigantic dish of the Green Bank Telescope began its slow swivel toward Callisto’s position in the night sky. The observatory complex, wedged into an interference-free valley between hulking West Virginia mountains known as the United States National Radio Quiet Zone, is a workhorse for academics and amateurs who lack access to NASA’s worldwide network of radio telescopes.

  Sixty percent taller than the Statue of Liberty, the telescope is capable of transmitting and receiving radio signals at frequencies as low as 290 MHz and as high as 100 GHz, more than covering the full spectrum of Cetus Prime’s four antennas.

  Morgan stood in the telescope’s control room next to Carillo, who had driven from her home in Charlottesville to meet A3I-One’s passengers at the Green Bank Airport. Along with them were Davenport and Chu…and twenty-eight others, including the observatory’s staff and those whose projects had been displaced to afford Morgan his time with GBT.

  When Morgan first saw all the extra people, he had pressed Carillo for an explanation.

  “Price of admission.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You wanted the telescope all night. It was necessary to tell them who wanted it and why,” Carillo said.

  “You did what?”

  “Relax, the Skywalker legend trickled out from underneath NASA’s cone of silence a long time ago. All these people know the story. I told them they’d get to meet you if they agreed to give up their time, take pictures with you, that kind of thing. Don’t worry, they all surrendered their cell phones.”

  “But you told them about Cetus Prime?”

  “Uh-huh, and I told them they’d get partial credit for any discovery you make,” Carillo said.

  He gazed at the smiling faces and waved. Though Morgan now looked like a bong-banging, boogie-boarding hippie, none of those gathered seemed to notice. To them, Morgan was the astronaut strapped to a jetpack streaming into the black to save his crewmate and they wanted to be witnesses when he did it again.

  On speakerphone, still two hours away from landing, was Hector Jimenez. From memory, he recited NASA’s X-band frequency for Cetus Prime. The telescope operator adjusted the telescope’s transmitter frequency accordingly. At a computer next to the operator, Davenport used the USGS map of Callisto to calculate the azimuth of Nuada crater. He read off the coordinates and moments later the dish finished tilting upward. “CAPCOM, we are go for ping.”

  Seated on the other side of the operator, Chu typed the ping sequence used to handshake with Cetus Prime’s X-band receiver. “CAPCOM, ping ready.”

  “Ping away, DCS,” Morgan said.

  “Ping sent.”

  Morgan leaned over and touched his forehead to Carillo’s. “Thank you.”

  Barely able to speak, Carillo whispered into his ear, “Roger that, Skywalker.”

  20: SILENT NO MORE

  Dr. Dennis Pritchard’s residence

  Bethesda, Maryland

  November 2, 2018

  Outside Pritchard’s house, a gust shook loose leaves from the trees lining the sidewalks on both sides of the street. As they tumbled down, they mingled with fallen foliage pushed upward by the same wind. Brock, from the window of Pritchard’s office, watched the leaves twist and dance in the moonlight, changing shapes and hues as they passed in and out of shadows.

  At the sound of footsteps, Brock turned to see Pritchard approaching with a tray laden with steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of cookies.

  “Ah, just what I need,” Brock said. “Caffeine and sugar.”

  “Just like old times at Canaveral.” Pritchard smiled and held out the tray for Brock to make her selections. After placing the tray on his desk, Pritchard picked up his coffee and lowered himself onto an easy chair wedged into the corner of the cherry-paneled room.

  On the walls around Pritchard were dozens of framed pictures. To Brock, they represented a stroll through the history of spaceflight. There were signed photographs of astronauts geared up for liftoff, others performing spacewalks and a few of men standing on the Moon. These were mixed in with photos of rockets, spacecraft and autographed snapshots of mission control teams. She had been in this room half a dozen times during Pritchard’s stint as chief administrator and never noticed the photograph propped on a bookshelf by Pritchard’s chair. Between nibbles of a cookie, she asked, “Has that picture always been there?”

  “No, it’s been tucked away for a while,” Pritchard said. He lifted the photograph of the Cetus Prime crew from the shelf and studied their faces. “I still can’t believe Augie found the ship.”

  “It does defy imagination,” Brock said. “Especially finding it intact.”

  “It defies the laws of physics,” Pritchard said.

  He replaced the photo on the shelf and the two sat in silence, sipping coffee. It was a surreal scene to Brock. She’d arrived at Pritchard’s house expecting him to share her fears and outrage upon hearing the news about Mayaguana and Space Command commandeering DSN. But he’d been remarkably calm. Too calm. When he invited her to join him for coffee, Brock had wondered if he was sedated or high. Then it had dawned on her — he knew these things were going to happen. Breaking from her thoughts, she said, “Dennis, what’s going on?”

  “A monumental exercise in stupidity.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning our leaders have once again put self-preservation ahead of doing the right thing,” Pritchard said. Setting his cup down, he stood and turned to look out the window. “I’m partially responsible. I played this wrong with Augie. He should never have been an adversary.” He paused and lowered his head. “We’re supposed to be scientists, for heaven’s sake. People who embrace discoveries. Not people who work to hide them…no matter how unnerving the discoveries might be.”

  Brock understood. She harbored similar sentiments, as did most of her colleagues with knowledge of the UMOs, and she imagined the same was true of those who’d been involved with the Cetus Prime mission.

  “Well, no more,” Pritchard said, raising his head to look at his reflection in the window.

  Amen to that! Brock thought. “I’m with you, Dennis. Whatever you decide to do.”

  “Thank you, Helen,” he said. “But it’s alread
y done.”

  “What’s already done?”

  Pritchard reached for the television remote control. Clicking on the power button, he eased back onto his chair and changed the channel to the World Network News. He looked down at his watch and said, “You’ll see in about twelve minutes.”

  World Network News

  Manhattan Studio

  New York, New York

  November 2, 2018

  The control booth was a madhouse as the production team scrambled to organize the flurry of unfolding developments during a commercial break. While the anchor on set demanded someone tell him what to lead with out of the break, the assistant director barked at a production assistant to ready a graphic that read, “Breaking: Startling new developments in Marine raid on Mayaguana.”

  Meanwhile, the broadcast’s director conferred with the network’s news director. “Okay, we’ll lead with the scoop on the firings, then go to the audio of the woman inside the compound. That’ll give you time to get your confirmation from the White House. But, I’m telling you, if you don’t get an official comment before the audio finishes, we’re running with the picture anyway.”

  “You can’t do that. We have no corroboration. It could be a hoax.”

  “The freakin’ head of NASA sent us the picture, Sheldon! He gave us an exclusive. I’m not sitting on it,” the director said. Turning to another production assistant, he asked, “Have you gotten hold of the ham operator?”

  “We’re efforting it,” the assistant said.

  “Not good enough. I want a live connect with the woman inside Mayaguana, ASAP!”

  In the background, someone called out, “Coming out of break, in ten...nine…”

  “Someone tell me what the fuck to say!” growled the anchor.

  Seconds later, the anchor was all sugar for the camera as he read from the teleprompter. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, it has been an eventful night on the remote Bahamian island Mayaguana. What started out as a surprise military raid of a civilian communications installation earlier this evening has escalated into a war of words between the White House and representatives of A3rospace Industries, with each side trading charges of treason and cover-up.

  “Furthering the intrigue, WNN has learned within the hour that President Andrew Jennings has dismissed three high-placed officials this evening, including Secretary of Defense Elliott Zimmer, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Albert Oxley, and NASA’s chief administrator, Dr. Dennis Pritchard. So far, the White House has not confirmed the dismissals.

  “Which brings us to the latest chilling developments. With more on that, here’s Jenna Toffy.”

  The live feed cut to a reporter standing against a backdrop of palm trees illuminated by red and green lights. The graphic below read: “Jenna Toffy, South Beach, Florida.”

  “Thanks, Donald. A short while ago we received a bombshell audio recording from an amateur ham radio operator here in South Beach containing a message from Dr. Kiera Walsh, an aerospace engineer employed by A3rospace Industries. Dr. Walsh is trapped inside the Mayaguana facility along with over a hundred of her colleagues. Here’s an excerpt of what she had to say.”

  The screen switched to a red background. At the top left, there was a candid photograph of Kiera lifted from one of her social media accounts. Her name and title appeared below the picture. As the audio began to play, WNN displayed the scrolling text of Kiera’s comments in white against the red background.

  “…they attacked us because we discovered an old U.S. spaceship on a moon of Jupiter, a ship called Cetus Prime. It was sent to Mars in the nineties to investigate…”

  Over the next two minutes, Kiera exposed the details of the twenty-three-year-old secret, including a robust description of UMOs. She finished with these words, “The government doesn’t want anyone to know what happened to Cetus Prime; they don’t want anyone to know about UMOs. I know what I’ve said sounds crazy, but it’s true and we have the proof to back it up! Lots of proof.”

  Office of the National Security Advisor, The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  November 2, 2018

  General Warner leaned over the speakerphone. “What do you mean they changed direction?”

  “I can’t explain it,” the Space Command officer said. “Data from the last downlink shows both CUBE groups got within fifty-eight kilometers of the surface and then, bam, turned away back into space.”

  “UMOs,” Shaw said. “There must be UMOs around Callisto.”

  “Where are the CUBEs now?” Warner demanded to know.

  “The last reported position of both groups showed they were headed toward Jupiter at over three hundred thousand km/h,” the officer said. “Assuming they maintain the same heading and speed, they’ll crash into Jupiter in the next two to three hours.”

  “Can you turn them around?” Shaw asked.

  “I don’t know, sir. We uplinked new guidance as soon as we saw the data, but that was only twenty minutes ago. Given the time it’ll take for the transmission to reach the probes and for them to reply, we won’t have new telemetry for an hour or so.”

  Warner was about to issue another command when Hawkins appeared in the doorway. “We’re screwed. WNN has the photo. They just put it out.”

  Telescope Control Center, Green Bank Observatory

  Green Bank, West Virginia

  November 2, 2018

  An hour and a half after transmitting the X-band signal to Cetus Prime, no return ping had been received by the Green Bank Telescope. By then, Hector Jimenez had landed at the airport and joined Morgan and the others in the control room.

  With the assistance of Davenport and Chu, Jimenez sent out another ping, this time to Cetus Prime’s Ku-band antenna. Shortly after, Morgan conferred with them. “I appreciate the fact you’re being methodical, but I think we should go right to UHF. Send another ping. Let’s not wait for a return Ku.”

  The three controllers agreed and directed the telescope’s operator to adjust the frequency to the ship’s UHF band. Minutes later, the ping was on its four-hundred-million-mile journey to Nuada crater.

  With a half hour still to go before the possibility of a Ku or UHF return ping from Cetus Prime, Morgan was approached by one of the researchers. The young woman, bundled in an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, introduced herself as a doctoral student from the University of Maryland and then asked him the question everyone in the room wanted to pose. “If we get a return ping, what then?”

  “What exactly did Dr. Carillo tell you about Cetus Prime?” Morgan asked in return.

  “She said it was a secret NASA ship that went to Mars twenty years ago and then vanished,” the woman said.

  “Twenty-three years ago,” Morgan corrected. “Did she tell you it had astronauts aboard?”

  As the woman nodded, three others in the room came up beside her. One of them, a stout Asian man, said, “Dr. Carillo said there was a crew of three.”

  “That’s right,” Morgan said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photo badge of the crew and handed it to the man. The others craned their heads over the man’s shoulder to see the badge. “The black man in the center was Lieutenant Colonel Avery Lockett. He was the commander of the ship. The redheaded woman on his left was Mission Specialist Christine Baker. The blond guy on the right with the toothy smile was Captain Nick Reed, the flight engineer.”

  As the Asian man handed the badge to the person standing next to him, he asked, “Why only three? I thought Space Shuttle crews were typically five to seven back then.”

  “Good question,” Morgan said. “Given the length of the journey to Mars, we needed a lot more room for supplies compared to Shuttles. It was either build a bigger ship or fly with a smaller crew.”

  Within a short time, all but the former NASA mission controllers were ringed around Morgan asking questions about the ship, the crew and its mission. As they passed the photo badge around, Morgan noticed they did the same thing he did wh
en he looked at it in private. They rubbed their fingers over each of the crew, as if trying to will them back to life by their touch.

  Morgan felt rushes of different emotions as he answered their questions. Some answers made him happy, others made him sad. But the overwhelming sensation was one of relief — the kind of feeling one experiences talking about something that’s been bottled up inside.

  “What was the secret mission?” asked the woman who’d started the impromptu Q&A.

  He turned to Carillo and said, “Why don’t you take that one, Julia. You met UMOs in person.”

  Carillo blushed as the crowd turned her way and she quickly became the center of attention. As Morgan sat back and listened to her answers, gazing at the wonderment on the faces of her audience, he felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned to see a young man in a wheelchair. In his hand he held out Morgan’s badge. “They look so happy.”

  Morgan received the badge and pinned it on his shirt. “You’re right, they were happy. They were proud of what they were doing. They were excited to explore.”

  As Morgan chatted some more with the man, he looked up to see Jimenez, Davenport and Chu engaged in a poker game with the telescope operator. He was about to yell at them to pay attention to the operator’s computer monitor when he noticed Jimenez angling his head around Chu’s shoulder to do just that.

  Jimenez stiffened and his mouth dropped open. He mumbled something to his counterparts and they turned toward the monitor. Morgan excused himself from the conversation and maneuvered around the group talking with Carillo. Jimenez stood up and looked in Morgan’s direction. When they locked eyes, Morgan called out over the din, “Got something?”

  “We have a return ping! UHF!” Jimenez bellowed back, silencing the Carillo group.

  It took a few seconds for the news to sink into Morgan’s consciousness, but when it did, he shot up both arms and yelled, “Yes!”