SpaceCorp (28 page)

“There have been new developments in the plan to shoot down the American space station, Excellency,” Farahavi said. “Their new space station is a multi-generational improvement over the standard models they have been flying for years.”

“Our antisatellite satellite may not be up to the task, Excellency,” Shirazi said. “We put the odds at bringing down the station very low, certainly less than 50 percent, perhaps as low as 10.”

The Supreme Leader sipped his tea. “What will happen if we shoot and miss?”

“Forgive me, Excellency,” Shirazi said. “We are almost certain to hit. We are unlikely to do sufficient damage to destroy it.”

“Very well, what will happen if we shoot and hit but only do minor damage?”

Shirazi and Farahavi looked at each other. “Probably not much, Excellency,” Farahavi said. “The damage would be minor, they would fix it—they have considerable ability to do
in situ
repairs now.”

“They might complain in the press, but the uproar would die down quickly for want of a proven scapegoat,” Shirazi said.

“We could, if I may suggest, imply that the impact was not a missile but another wandering bit of space junk,” Farahavi said.

“Definitely not!” his Excellency said. “We have the Bomb! We will not squander Allah’s gift cowering before the West over our attempts to remove Western garbage from His heavens. It is the insipid and continuing presence of that Western garbage that distracts our faithful from their prayers!”

“Apologies, Excellency, I only meant to explore our options.”

“I
know
what you meant, General. Now know what
I
mean! I mean for you to destroy that space station by any means necessary. I mean for you to put the West on notice that Iran will not tolerate Western overflights of its sovereign airspace. And yes, we define our airspace to extend all the way from Persian soil to the very steps of heaven.”

With that the Supreme Leader turned, and Rahmani and Farahavi each bowed and departed, knowing his Excellency would neither see nor acknowledge the gesture.

*   *   *

In the hallway, Farahavi whispered to Shirazi, “
Any
means necessary?”

“I guess Rahmani may get his nuclear warhead after all,” Shirazi whispered back.

Farahavi shuddered, “Allah be merciful, I hope it does not come to that.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
S
EVEN

August 2071

Command Center,
Ilha do Corvo
, Azores

Ilha do Corvo
was the tip of a 730,000 year old volcano on a sea mount in the Mid-Atlantic Ridge that bisected the eastern and western halves of the Atlantic Ocean.
Corvo
Airport, on the southern tip of the island, was a bit over 450 kilometers west by northwest of São Miguel, the main island of the Azores. Counting ascent and descent times it was about a two hour flight in the privately owned but otherwise anonymous Twin Otter. A bumpy two-hour ride in a 4-wheel-drive from
Vila Do Corvo
would put you on the rim of the
Caldeirão
, the caldera of the dominant cinder cone of the island. At the end of the jeep trail stood a ramshackle building with a sign on it that roughly translated to ‘Volcano Souvenirs and Sandwiches.’ A lesser sign pointed to an outhouse about 20 meters away. Inside the shop were glass cases with bits of lava labeled as to type and approximately year of eruption. Sandwiches were made to order as long as you liked mutton. You could get little packets of ketchup or mustard if you paid extra. Available beverages consisted of water which you were advised not to drank, a sugary carbonated cola served at room temperature, and a local beer that was pretty good served chilled which it was when the cooler was working which today it was not.

The back of the shop led to a pantry and inside the pantry underneath an old rug was a concealed section of floor that opened up to a set of steep steps that descended about five meters to a cement lined room about 10 x 20 meters. The air smelled of vehicle exhaust although there were no vehicles present nor were there even any tire marks on the floor that was painted battleship gray. The back of the room held a large freight elevator into which the party of three stepped. There was no security. Visitors were vetted at the airport and escorted to a waiting jeep, never out of sight the entire time.

The interior Command Center was cool, dark, and probably hundreds of meters underground judging from the duration of the elevator ride. Inside were twin rows of monitors staffed by persons in island attire but of unknown ethnicity or origin. To the front was a large 3 x 5 meter situation monitor mounted on the wall. They were met by a swarthy chap who was probably Portuguese judging by his accented English. He had a bushy mustache that when he smiled, as he often did, framed large white teeth with a prominent gap in the middle.

“Welcome to
Ilha do Corvo, sehnores e sehnora
. I am Watch Commander Jones. I trust your journey to our little outpost was not too unpleasant?”

The
sehnora
was plump and still sweating profusely from the humid air outside. She wore a man’s white dress shirt open at the collar and tucked into men’s cut gabardine trousers with black leather oxford shoes. Her salt and pepper hair was cut in an unattractive mullet that stopped at her collar in back. “Who are these people?” she asked gesturing about the room.

“They are my watch,
senhora
.”

“I can see that, but
who
are they?”

“I am sorry,
sehnora
, but you do not have a need to know.”

She was about to retort when the taller of the visiting gentlemen placed a hand on her shoulder from behind. “What she means is can they be trusted? Can you give us some assurance that the details of this operation won’t leave the island?”

“But of course,
sehnore
. The islanders mainly speak
Portugues
, a few speak a little English. My staff speak neither.”

The shorter of the visiting gentlemen broke the tension, “Sort of like your own version of Oompa Loompas?”

The watch commander appeared confused for a moment then laughed, “Ah,
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
! Yes, yes, much the same.”

The image on the main situation monitor showed a map of Washington, D.C. with an icon for a drone tracing a lazy circle above. “How high is the drone?” the woman asked.

The Watch Commander pointed a remote control unit toward the monitor. He pushed a button and a red laser point hit the drone causing a set of numbers to appear left of the drone. “7500 meters,
senhora
.”

“Very nice,” the woman said. “And the other numbers?”

“Airspeed in kmph, heading, and lat/long—are you able to make them out,
sehnores
? We can make them larger.” He fiddled with a whiz wheel on the remote and the numbers grew and shrank accordingly.

“Excellent. Please continue.”

“At this time we will activate the ground view camera in the belly of the drone.” Another window opened on the monitor and a close-up view of the White House South Portico appeared. “Note the snipers positioned on the rooftop.” He motioned with his pointer. “You can see their muzzles pointing out from under their overhead protection.”

“Hmm. Sloppy,” the woman said.

“Yes,
senores
, besides giving away their positions, they are allowing the sun to heat their barrels inducing an error into their aim points. But notice the quality of the image—this is from 7500 meters and you can plainly see a rifle barrel!”

“What about the drone operators?” the taller visitor asked.

The Watch Commander fiddled with some more commands on his remote and four heads popped up in windows on the left margin of the monitor. The images were not technically sophisticated in that the operator’s eyesight was diverted slightly down from the screen camera giving him a downcast expression to the viewer in the command center.

“Can they see us or hear us?” the woman asked.

“No,
senhora
. They can only hear us when I push to talk.”

“Your commands are verbal?” the shorter gentleman asked.

“They can be,
senhore
, but mostly they are sent as digital scripts. These fellows are mainly there to launch and retrieve. Once airborne, our Command Center takes over until we release the drones for return to base. They are never aware of where the drones have been or what they have been doing.”

“Can’t they do a rough triangulation based on remaining fuel when the drones return?” the taller gentleman asked.

“No,
senhore
. The drones jettison all their remaining fuel when they descend to within 250 meters AGL—they glide the rest of the way.”

“Very well, Commander,” the taller gentleman said. “You’ve done a fine job.”

“Keep your teams on station,” the shorter gentleman said. “We could need them as early as Tuesday.”

“Very good,
sehnores
. Tuesday, September 2
^nd
.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
E
IGHT

06:00 HRS, August 29
^th
, 2071

The Washington Monument

A large stake body pickup was parked on the grass on 17
^th
Street, SW opposite the World War II Memorial. Senior staffer, Mickey Prescott, was speaking to a gathering of 100 demonstrators. Behind them was a gathering crowd of nearly twenty thousand people.

“Okay,” Mickey said, “I want each of you to grab a sign from the back of the truck—they’re all labeled with various cities and towns around the country—Lawton, Oklahoma, Rahway, New Jersey—all over the place. Lots of them are duplicates. Some just have slogans. Once you get your sign, spread out among the crowd and start leading them toward the White House. Pass through the Ellipse, cross E Street, and on into Presidents Park where the big fountain is. Then push across the walkway into the White House South Lawn.”

“Presidents Park is protected with a security fence—how do we get past that?” one of the agitators asked.

“We have ladder crews,” Mike said. “They’ll put ladders up on both sides of the fence. Demonstrators who are able enough should just crawl over.”

“No way!” another agitator said. “The snipers on the roof will open fire!”

“No they won’t,” Mickey said. “The Senator has coordinated with the Secret Service. As long as we don’t cross the driveway into the South Portico, they won’t shoot.”

“Sounds pretty risky—I’m not going over that fence!”

“Me neither—I didn’t sign up to take a bullet for… what are we supposed to be here for?”

“Okay, settle down!” Mickey said. “I will be the first one over the fence to show you that it’s safe.”

09:00 HRS, August 29
^th
, 2071

White House Bunker –inside the main chamber

The president was seated at his couch with the television showing news coverage of the crowd marching across the Ellipse. “What the hell is going on out there?” asked the president.

“Looks like a demonstration, sir,” Maccabee said.

“I can see that for myself, you imbecile! Find out who’s behind it!”

“Yes, sir,” Maccabee said as he ran off.

“And get my Secretaries in here!”

Maccabee stopped and turned, “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t just stand there—move!”

Maccabee started to turn and run, then turned back, “Yes, sir.” Then he turned and ran.

“And get my Chief of the Secret Service in here!”

By then Maccabee was out of ear shot.

The president mumbled under his breath, “Fine how do you do, getting blindsided with a damn demonstration like this. Hmm… big one too, from the looks of it. Must be over ten thousand out there. Shit, they’re putting ladders over the fence! Maccabee! Maccabee!” Fear seeped into his voice. Then he calmed. “Shitstick! That’s who’s behind this! Maccabee! Maccabee, I want that fucker thrown in jail! Maccabee? Where the devil is that scurvy little shit when I want him?” The president rose from his couch and looked around. The room was empty. “Damn. I need two Maccabees. One to yell at, and one to do stuff.”

10:00 HRS, August 29
^th
, 2071

Presidents Park

“Okay,” Mickey yelled through his bull-horn, “Everybody stop at the driveway. Just act mad and wave your signs.”

Some nearby agitators turned to the crowd, “You heard him, act mad!”

“Hey, Mickey,” an agitator asked, “What are we supposed to be mad about?”

“Uh… shit, he never said. Just have a big demonstration. Uh… make something up while I make some calls. Oh wait, I remember! We’re supposed to demonstrate until the president comes out and addresses the people. Okay, try this, ‘
We want a president, not a White House resident!’
”

“Not a White House resident? That the best you got?”

Mickey shrugged, “Use that till I get some more guidance.”

11:00 HRS, August 29
^th
, 2071

Presidents Park

“Okay,” Mickey yelled again through his bullhorn, “Let the port-a-pots through. The president won’t appreciate all of you pissing in his fountain.”

Several agitators grinned and began goading the demonstrators to urinate into the fountain.