by E. N. Abel
''How heavy were the crates?''
''Three hundred eighty five kilogram.''
Marcel's mouth dropped open, but no sound escaped.
''Thank you, Chang.'' A bow from Ellie followed by a bow from Chang, and he was gone. She turned: ''So he just stowed three and a half tons.''
''Unbelievable.''
''We can do all this with our diesel power-stations,'' Ellie remarked. ''You can hear them, they are in the neighbouring shelter behind this one.''
''Can you imagine what we can do with a single gram of anti-matter?'' Mike asked.
''To be honest: no.''
''It would allow us to lift the sphere as far as the Moon's orbit and linger there for a few weeks.''
''So why do you need so much of that stuff - you asked for one full kilogram, if I remember correctly.''
''Without a functioning anti-matter plant and a sufficient supply we are sitting ducks,'' Mike replied. ''As soon as we lift off, the world will go nuts. The nation states will monitor near Earth space with eagle eyes, trying to catch us when we land for a supply run.''
''Yes, without question.''
''You know how to win a battle against a superior opponent.''
Of course Marcel knew that: good intelligence, good equipment, secure supply routes and good men with real guts. He also knew that the soldiers of the US Special Forces had plenty of the latter.
''See, we are not even properly armed,'' Mike spoke on. ''A few assault rifles and pistols, a hand grenade or two, that's not a serious arsenal. At least not in my book: no heavy machine guns, no mines, no grenade launchers or recoilless guns, no flame-throwers. We couldn't even fight off a decisive ground attack of the Bitburg Sport Shooting Club. Our little ball there'' - he pointed to the floating sphere - ''is designed to be airtight and highly insulated, but a 20mm shell from an airplane cannon will rip right through it.''
''So you are defenceless''
''Not completely. We have the grav generators and can do dreadful things with it.''
''Your little demonstration at CERN?''
''Scaring a few swells?'' Mike smiled. ''Naa, that was nothing. With our generators we can produce a self-consuming singularity and fire it off, like a cannon shell. It would appear somewhere and consumes anything humanity can bring up - just eat it up. A bullet, a plane, a city.''
Dupont gulped visibly.
''Now,'' Mike continued, ''we expect some people to produce an anti-matter weapon sooner or later, but we would prefer not to be the first ones to do it.''
''Our goal lies elsewhere,'' Ellie added, pointing up. ''Oh, see there ...''
Marcel turned to see another crate arrive, this one pushed by another man.
''Sergeant Dupont, meet Alex, or should I say Lieutenant Alexandrej Rosskov, Ex Red Army Speznaz Corps, our chief engineer. Tremendous theoretical physicist. Alex, what are you bringing us?''
Rosskov shook the hand of the perplexed man, then replied: ''Our Mars Orbital Station.''
Dupont fixed him sharply, feeling tricked. But Rosskov just continued, smiling: ''It's inflatable. A platform a hundred by a hundred meters, one foot thick, with a hangar twenty by twenty on one end and a few connected personnel quarters, all airtight. Made of super-tough Aluminium-Kevlar webbing. Pressure it with an atmosphere out there and it will be hard as steel.''
''In combination with anti-gravity we can use it as a small space station.'' Ellie explained, pointing towards the sphere. ''You know, artificial gravitation on the platform's surface, and you can work on it quite efficiently. Even offers more space than the sphere.''
''We will also load another foil to form a dome over the platform. But we'll have to see if we get it airtight enough,'' Alex reported proudly.
''You people are serious with this? Flying into space?''
''Yes, absolutely,'' Ellie answered and both men beside her nodded.
''We need the antimatter,'' Mike added, ''as soon as we have it, we'll hand out the promised knowledge. And leave Earth.''
The moment of silence persisted, then Ellie waved their guest towards the sphere. ''Come on, take a look inside.'' She pulled a little box from her coat pocket: ''Your arm, please.''
Chapter 37
Langley
Monday, 07.11.2016
Four-star General Matthew Walthers, Deputy Director Intelligence (DDI) of the Central Intelligence Agency was ten months short of mandatory retirement. For nearly sixteen years he had held this position, through three presidencies and four wars. He deemed himself an old hand and, today, a tired old hand ready to leave. And now this: the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to go down in the history books - or to be kicked out in shame. Well, he knew the Deputy Director Operations, Brigadier General Erwin Atkins, to be worse off. If the sky fell, it would be him holding the stick.
Walthers was currently leading this hastily formed task force into their third hour of this early meeting. The super-flash message from the Zurich station chief had dragged them from their homes at an ungodly hour and forced them to assemble in this illustrious group. By now the information from the dispatch had been picked apart sentence by sentence, word for word.
After a short introduction to the topic by one of the service's scientists (also called in way before office hours) everyone around the table knew what was at stake: nothing less than the economic future of the United States of America. Unlimited, environmentally safe energy, produced in-country in de-centralised plants all over the States. No more kowtowing to Sheiks and kings ... no more bending to banana-republic dictators. True independence. Forever.
Due to the severity of the whole situation the CIA should have been on high alert, but the vulnerability of their source made that impossible. So it all had to be handled with the utmost urgency and discretion (luckily the service was far better at this than the public believed). The main problem remained: their only lead began and ended at CERN. They knew a Chinese satellite was part of the game too, but unfortunately they had no access to that. Only the Chinese did, and only if they found out, then - maybe - they could turn that into an advantage - a small but critical advantage. Naturally the DDI had ordered a research team to look into the possibility of breaking into the satellite anyway and to try and find a trace, but since they didn't even know which one of the dozen or so it was, he didn't foster much hope. A hacking attempt might also waken sleeping dogs ...
But there was another option, of course, one of which the men and women in front of him had no knowledge of. At some stage of any operation, the Chinese Intelligence service would have to report to the central committee. And there, in deep cover, the CIA Station Chief Beijing had a source. At some time in the near future, the DDI would know what the Chinese knew.
The question was: would it be early enough? By the time he received the needed information of the group's location it could be too late to reach them first. So while the discussion of his analyst-group went on, the DDI had already decided. He composed an email to the Director of the Intelligence service, the DI, asking him to contact the president and suggested putting all task forces around the world on an increased alert status - very discreetly - which would enable them to reach nearly every place on the planet within an hour. This was a risky move, because the activity would surely be noticed and again could wake sleeping dogs, but the reason for it was serious enough. Finally he forwarded the email to the DDO, keeping him in the information loop, too.
Chapter 38
Spangdahlem
Monday, 07.11.2016
Senior Master Sergeant Marcel Dupont was mystified. He was floating beside Ellie and Mike in the control room of the sphere above a row of ordinary sport car seats and marvelled at the simple but efficient methods the builders had used to achieve their purpose: the ability to control the ship's machinery. This was done with a semi-circular control board, divided into sections for the various on-board functions, named by simple signs fixed above the screens: navigation, communication, helm, defence and something called 'jump control'. Everything seemed to be stand
ard material, bought in local shops, everyday technology. The seats even had the ordinary four-point safety harnesses used in rally cars.
The pilot, Dupont had learned, used a higher quality gamer's joystick to steer this golden ball around. Most control computers had been purchased at superstores in Trier and the surrounding area; merely the central computer was a small, powerful blade center (also commercially available). The view port to the outside world consisted of a collection of thirty-two normal large flat-screens, stripped from their casings and mounted on a rectangular 8x6 screen frame. The pictures came from video cameras glued all over the outer hull, interconnected by radio links and powered by field induction, thereby leaving the plastic wall unpunctured.
''Let's sit,'' Ellie said, grabbed a backrest below her and swung herself elegantly into the pilot's place, then secured herself with the seatbelt. Mike pointed to Marcel, and the older man imitated Ellie's movements slowly. He was surprised how easy it was: in a moment his belt buckle clicked, and he watched Mike descend and strap in.
''How do you feel?'' the young woman asked.
''Well! Thank you.'' The three scopolamine patches on his forearm, attached by an insistent Ellie, had effectively prevented him from becoming nauseous in the weightlessness.
''Good.'' Ellie pressed a button on the console in front of her. ''Attention on deck!'' Her voice echoed through the sphere and, as Dupont suspected, through the hangar, too. ''Project control hereby exercises it's right for an unannounced feasibility inspection. Please stand back.''
''Feasibility, my ass,'' an amused voice shouted up from the lower deck. It sounded suspiciously like the chief engineer's.
''Shut up, wrench boy,'' she retorted over her shoulder, causing a short laughter from down below. She leaned forward, touched an iPad mounted to the control board.
''Identification,'' an austere female voice demanded at once.
''MacMillan, Elisabeth,'' Ellie replied into thin air.
''Authentication,'' the voice demanded.
''One-five-nine-three-five- ... six.''
''Accepted.''
The various control boards lit up, and Marcel could see that every surface of the desks were plastered with more iPads and similar tablet computers, dozens of them. Each one seemed to play the role of a specific control instrument of sorts.
''Watch it,'' Mike warned, then touched a sliding control on the pad in front of him and moved it down. At once an invisible force grabbed hold of Marcel and pulled him towards the deck. While he gained weight, he understood: the young man had activated artificial gravity in the room - or switched the Zero-G field outside off. This last idea vanished, when Ellie turned on the big screen: in one sub-picture from a camera within the hangar he saw that the sphere was still floating.
Mike, sitting in one of three pilot seats, took hold of the joystick. ''Turning left,'' he announced. At once the hangar seemed to rotate to the right, but Marcel had no feeling of movement.
''Turning right.''
The hangar swung left.
''Up.''
The viewpoint rose.
Mike let go of the joystick. Ellie spoke into the air: ''Ship! Auto control. Return to parking position.''
''Command accepted,'' the austere female voice replied. The viewpoint dropped, the sphere turned a bit, then stood still.
''Your turn,'' Mike waved at his guest.
''What ... ?''
''The joystick on your armrest. Take it and turn the ship to the right. Careful movements, please.''
Dupont felt petrified, unable to move.
''C'mon,'' Ellie teased, ''you have steered tanks, and this is just a child's balloon in comparison. Take the stick, slow moves.''
Marcel hesitated a moment longer, then, with a deep breath, took the joystick and tilted it carefully to the right. At once the screen went into motion, everything seemed to race to the left. He held the stick until the sphere completed a turn, then he took her up, down, forward a few meters. ''Unbelievable, just like a toy.''
Both Mike and Ellie understood that as a serious compliment from a real professional.
''How do I put it back?''
''Let go.''
Marcel released the stick.
Ellie again spoke into the air: ''Ship! Auto control. Return to parking position!'' The sphere maneuvered a bit, then came to rest. The woman bent forward, touched a few screens: ''Position locked. Careful ...''
The weightlessness came back.
''Ship! Lock systems, secure ship!'' she commanded.
At once the voice answered: ''System locked, ship secure.''
A moment of complete and thoughtful silence remained.
''Well,'' Mike summarized, ''that's all our three diesel generators can achieve, huge as they are. More when we have the antimatter.''
He started to unstrap, when Marcel nodded towards the defence console and spoke up: ''There is a control saying 'Schutzschirmprojektor' ... that means 'Defence shield projector', doesn't it?''
''Carl Muller's little toy,'' Mike replied. ''It's still experimental. During the testing of the space drive we practically stumbled over the principle. The idea is to put a protective layer around the ship, two radial shells of gravimetric/antigravimetric forces in very close proximity and pointing their field vectors at each other. Sounds complicated and sure is technical, but the result is simple: an incredibly strong wall of energy that diverts or deflects material objects - at least that's his theory. You would think of cannon shells, of course. We think more of small, high-velocity meteor chips that can puncture our hull. In the vicinity of asteroids, moons or planets space is supposedly full of them. Can cause nasty problems. We call it a deflector shield; it's in a prototype stage.''
Marcel nodded, then pointed cautiously to an iPad on the console: ''That control says 'forward particle cannon' ...''
Ellie looked at Mike, laughed out loud: ''Told you.''
''OK, you got me there, mon chef-sergeant,'' he admitted, grinning. ''Alex has been playing with the idea of a particle weapon. See, if you manipulate the grav generator a bit, it doesn't put out the 'usual' matter/antimatter mix but emits something we call dirty matter. Basically burning plasma. If you compress and directed that with a magnetic field you get a tight beam of a fifty thousand degree hot stream of nuclear debris. Now point that at a target ... well, you can guess. But up to now that's just a theory, no way to test it without a running antimatter reactor. So basically it's one of the things from my wish list. I'm no less paranoid than you, mon sergeant. I think you understand.''
''Oh yes,'' the French sergeant nodded. ''The officer in you is looking for more protection for your troops. Old habits die hard.''
''That about covers it. Now, shall we disembark?''
''A final question, maybe?'' Marcel asked.
''Fire away.''
''What are all those green patches?'' Dupont pointed at a wall.
''Chloroplast cells,'' Ellie replied. ''They absorb carbon dioxide and produce oxygen.''
''You mean like the leaves on a plant?''
''Yes,'' Ellie nodded. ''All interior walls are covered with them. It's a relatively new high-tech material that helps with our air regeneration. It just needs light and a bit of water steam now and then and stretches our oxygen reserves tremendously - now they last months instead of weeks.'' She smiled shortly. ''Time for some serious briefing, so you have something to present to your Colonel.''
Chapter 39
Beijing
Tuesday, 07.11.2016
Chan woke up, feeling stiff but refreshed. The smell of tea and warm congee had teased her senses for a while and called her back from oblivion. She rose and saw the lieutenant sitting on her chair.
''Welcome back,'' he said with a smile.
Chan stretched, displaying some interesting movements under her shirt to the delight of her guardian.
He smiled admiringly then turned his eyes down. Becoming serious, he held up an envelope: 'Message from the boss.''
Chan took
it, came to her desk and fetched the teacup. After a sip she opened the envelope, withdrew a sheet and, reading, asked: ''By the way, who are you and why are you here?''
''I'm Lieutenant Feng Chin,'' the man said and executed a bow. ''Liaison officer between General Xao and you.'' That made her look up in astonishment. ''De facto I'm your adjutant. At your service, ma'am.'' This time he bowed deeper.
Chan's mouth opened, then closed again. Surprised she turned back to the letter and read it again. ''I do need to get to the computer,'' she said, pointing at her occupied chair.
''Sure,'' Lieutenant Chin replied, nodding towards the food: ''As soon as you have eaten that.'' Then he produced a small transparent pouch containing a toothbrush and paste, a hairbrush and other utilities. ''You also might want to use these. Fresh towels are in the toilet across the hall - now your private bathroom.''
Fifteen minutes later Chan fired up her computer. The general's letter had contained one ground station in Australia and further access information. It was all Chan needed to start a cyber-attack. Lieutenant Chin stayed with her and she unconsciously began to share her thoughts and explain.
Chapter 40
Geneva/CERN
Tuesday, 08.11.2016
The midday sun still provided some warmth on this fine Monday, in the second week of project 'Task-Force AM'. They were ready. It had all worked out just perfectly and due to Jennings' tireless efforts - he had been everywhere, anytime, clearing obstacles, smoothing ruffled feathers - it also was early. The product was ready - even in duplicate. As soon as it became apparent that the assembly really was child's play, Kaiser had authorized the construction of two reactors instead of one.
Mrs Mayerling's delivery had contained more than enough raw material, and so a second machine was built - by a second engineering team and in a hall that was two hundred meters away from the first. They only had one anti-gravity generator, so they were forced to share it between the sites to perform final tests on both units. A healthy but fierce competition had evolved, resulting in two functional, car sized machines mounted on reinforced plastic platforms. One of the stronger forklifts could move them around effortlessly.
