Stormhaven Rising (Atlas and the Winds Book 1) (49 page)

“Really,” he said, cocking an eyebrow as he chugged a sports drink and threw the bottle in a trashcan under his desk. “Do they have an appointment?” He wiped the sweat off his face with the white towel that hung around his neck.

She shook her head, but he already knew the answer. He never had appointments in the afternoon. That was his personal time.

“Well, why don’t you get them booked for sometime next week, and we’ll talk then,” he said, waving his hand to dismiss the three men. None of them moved. He stood up, hoping his presence would be enough to give them the idea. They still didn’t move.

“Mr. Brubaker,” the shorter of the men said, “I’m Field Agent Preston Sinclair of the Department of Homeland Security.” He stepped forward and offered his hand. Brubaker studied the man closely. He was large and imposingly formidable himself.

Brubaker crossed his arms in front of his chest and waited for the man to continue. After several seconds he realized the agent wasn’t giving ground. “So what can I do for you, Sinclair?” he said.

The agent turned, and one of the two standing by the door stepped outside, almost pushing his secretary into the outer office. He stopped at parade rest blocking her out of sight. “Should I call security, Mr. Brubaker?” she hollered as the other one closed the door.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sinclair said over his shoulder.

“What’s this all about?” Brubaker said, deciding intimidation wasn’t going to work. He sat back down behind his desk. The agent sat in one of the chairs across from him and smiled thinly.

“You’re going to give me a job,” Agent Sinclair said.

“And why am I going to do that, Preston?” he asked, trying to assume dominance with his tone.

“Because you want to keep your FCC licenses,” he said, the smile never changing.

“My licenses are all up to date, and we’ve not had a single sanction or violation of any kind since I took over—“

“That’s very true, Mr. Brubaker,” he said. “And we’d really hate to see that change, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Are you threatening me?” he said, feeling anger pushing his blood pressure up like a 400 pound bench press. “I’ve got attorneys by the acre foot—“

“I’m sure you do,” he interrupted again. “But we have the judges in front of whom your attorneys would appear.” The smile disappeared, leaving a look of simple confidence that seemed far less contrived than the smile had been.

“Now that we’ve finished posturing, Mr. Brubaker,” he said, holding out his hand for a file folder the other agent carried. He opened it and read: “By Executive Order, this date, you are hereby instructed that all news stories and other media productions of Satellite News Network obtain authorization from the Department of Homeland Security Liaison Officer prior to broadcast. This order applies to all broadcast forms, whether they be via online, direct satellite, or other undefined media. Furthermore the administration, employees, subsidiaries, and affiliates of Satellite News Network are hereby prohibited from disclosing this Authorization Requirement to any person outside its organization. Any unauthorized broadcast will result in the immediate seizure of facilities and equipment, as well as forfeiture of operating licenses and imprisonment of those responsible for said broadcasts. Signed, Sylvia Hutton, President, United States of America.” He closed the file and set it on Brubaker’s desk.

“You can’t do this,” he said. “This is a free country, we’ve got constitutional rights.”

“Not in times of national emergency, Mr. Brubaker,” Sinclair said. “Now as I said earlier, you’re going to need to find me an office. I’m to take my position as Liaison Officer effective immediately.”

***

Amundsen Radio Observatory, Amundsen Crater:

Several new inflatable habitats were scattered under the reflective Mylar back panel of the immense radio telescope like half-filled beach balls. The central scope hung from a cable grid anchored to pilings around the rim of a secondary crater almost a thousand meters across. The underside of the dish, normally impenetrably dark, was lit with the harsh glare of arc lamps as a dozen men in pale yellow spacesuits worked to pull more of the inflatable domes into place. By lunar standards, the construction here in the floor of this crater was a breeze. There was never any direct sunlight to deal with and the wide-spread arc lights gave much better illumination than natural light.

Prefect Czao Yeiwan sat in the cabin of the only pressurized rover at the Southern Facility. He wore his spacesuit but his helmet was hanging over the headrest of the seat. He was getting his first tour of the Radio Telescope/He3 Production Facility. It was far smaller than he’d imagined. Not the scope, but rather the lab facility.

“It is amazing to me that so much effort has been put into the observatory, when to all practical purposes it is nothing more than a cover for the Forced Helium Reaction Experiments,” he said.

“Actually the radio telescope is doing valuable scientific work,” Manager Pau said as he navigated the rover slowly around several boulders. “As I am not a scientist, I cannot speak of the details, but I do know that the three astronomers who are using the dish speak often of its sensitivity and power."

“I am sure that is true,” the Prefect said. Under ordinary circumstances the astronomy mission would be where his personal interests ran, but at this moment he had only one channel of thought; building and testing the
Zhen-Long
warhead.

The rover crawled up to the only airlock at Amundsen that had a docking snorkel. In truth it was the Emergency Medical Evacuation facility, where critically injured workers could be transferred back to Chang Er without having to put them into a pressure suit. It was a kindness to the Prefect that the Manager chose this entrance to save him the trouble of putting his life-support gear back on. The red stripes and sign over the door advised this port was to be used for emergency egress only.

The room beyond the airlock was small, without the usual racks for recharging the LS packs. The floor and walls were clean and sterile, and a table sat along one wall, presumably an emergency bed for the injured. Czao noticed immediately that the pervasive stench of the lunar dust was absent as he sniffed the air.

“The processors are outside the lab,” Pau said, recognizing the expression on the Prefect’s face. “We keep this building as free from contaminants as possible. The triage room provides an environmental buffer between the outside and the Helium Workshop beneath us."

“I understand,” Czao said. He’d read the blueprints for the facility, but seeing it in reality was quite different than seeing it in the abstract. One of the things he’d not seen in the designs was the small robot that rolled out of a cabinet under the medical table and began vacuuming the traces of dust off the floor as they walked across the room. Pau ignored the unit, not noticing its presence.

“Access granted,” an automated security door read their identities and opened as they approached. Through the door a ramp corkscrewed gradually down to the right.

“Watch your step,” the Manager said. There was a handrail to the left and he nodded at it. This was the first time Czao had been in a multistory habitat since he’d arrived at Chang Er. “Walking up or down inclines takes some getting used to. Even with the traction-enhanced floor, you’re liable to slip and bruise your dignity as well as your backside.” The Prefect smiled.
Pau has a personality after all,
he decided, heeding his advice and holding the rail as he descended.

Another security door opened at the bottom of the ramp and they stepped out into what he assumed to be the lab. It wasn’t what he’d expected. It looked more like life-support recyclers than a research facility. He glanced at the Manager who nodded through the room to a door on the other side of the complex tangle of pipes. The door was open and Czao could see three men in white coats working around what had to be the warhead.

Dr. Chun glanced up as the two men approached, his eyes distorted by the magnification hood he wore. He blinked several times flicking his head back to flip the unit off his eyes. Even without the lenses over his face his eyes were large and bugged out. He glanced at his watch, shocked by the time.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I did not realize how late it was.” He bowed to the Prefect and gestured for them to follow him into a back office.

Czao followed him through the door. The other two scientists glanced up, blinking their eyes through their hoods, but returned to their work without acknowledging the Prefect.

The doctor had taken his seat behind the small desk that crowded the room claustrophobically. Two chairs sat facing the desk and he gestured for them to sit. They squeezed into them, bumping their knees together and twisting to try to find an arrangement that would allow them to not press together.

“Prefect, it is nice to see you again,” Chun said. Czao had the feeling he’d seen the scientist before, but he couldn’t place him. Apparently the confusion showed on his face because the doctor politely offered. “My wife, Chi-Lin was your first secretary after you were appointed the Directorship at Jiuquan.”

“Ahh yes, I remember,” Czao said, smiling. “How is she doing? I haven’t seen her in years.”

“She is dead,” he said. “Cancer.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” the Prefect said, embarrassed with his social blunder.

“Her death is why I took this assignment,” he said. “I needed to get away from her memory and the work here is challenging. I rarely have time to miss her.”

“I understand,” Czao said.

The silence hung for several seconds before Pau said, “The Prefect is here to inquire about the new timeline for testing the first unit.”

“We will be ready within two weeks,” the scientist said. “The helium has been loaded and compressed in the reaction core. We’re doing containment verification tests today.”

“Excellent,” Czao said. “What can I do to help you facilitate the test?” He pulled an e-scribe out of one of the zippered pouches on his suit and activated it with the tip of his finger.

“As soon as the fission catalyst arrives, we will complete the detonator assembly. From that point on our only challenge will be the deployment of the sensor grid, and the transportation of the unit itself to Tsiolkovskiy.”

“Tell me, Doctor,” the Prefect said, “have you considered the security aspects of this test?”

“When we are on the moon?” the scientist said, looking back and forth between the two men, confusion playing across his face.

“Yes, but is it not possible for the Americans to detect this?” Czao said.

“It is possible that they will detect the seismic shockwaves.”

“Would these seismic detectors be able to locate and determine the yield of the detonation?” Czao said.

“I am sure they would,” Chun said. “But why would it matter?”

“There are more possibilities for this technology than just the immediate application,” he said. “In the long-term it might be undesirable to let the Americans know the current state of our development.”

“Of course,” he said, looking like the realization that the helium cycle warhead was a weapon that might be used on Earth, had never occurred to him. “But we need to test—"

“I understand,” Czao said, amused at the naiveté of the scientific mind. “What we need to do is develop a test process that will minimize the level of unavoidable exposure.”

“I suppose we could detonate the warhead above the surface,” Chun said. “If they were unaware of the altitude, then the seismic waves they receive would produce little usable data for their analysis.” He paused for several seconds, lost in thought. “We would need to modify some of the sensors, and would need some way to launch the unit to the desired altitude.”

“Perhaps we could use one of the older skimmers and operate it by remote control?” Pau offered. “I know they are about to salvage one of them. Perhaps it could be made available?”

“Perfect,” Chun said. “It should take us a few days to make the modifications but I do not think it will affect our timeline.”

“I will have it delivered,” Czao said, standing to leave. “Please be sure to keep me posted on your progress, Doctor. I am always available if there is anything I can do to help.”

***

Osaka, Japan:

Takao Mito sat alone in his office, staring out the virtual windows toward the launch pad. A launch pad that should have been busily active with preparations for the next supply mission to the ISS. Instead it looked abandoned. Light clouds that cast changing shadows over the landscape were the only visible motion in the scene.

His epad beeped, startling and loud in the stillness. He was receiving an upload and glanced at the screen to see who’d sent it. Akihiro Kuromori. He tapped the screen to open the file.

“Excuse me, President Mito,” his assistant said over the intercom. “Ambassador Kuromori is holding for you.”

“Thank you,” he said, clicking the icon on his videoscreen. “Ambassador.” He nodded at the image of Kuromori.

“I have just sent you a copy of the proposed agreement with Stormhaven,” he said. “I think you will find it interesting.”

“I have not had a chance to review it yet,” Mito said, pulling the epad toward him.