All Hell (18 page)

Crew chief, Commander Ray Stromfeld, lowered the reports he was reading and looked toward Charlie. An unidentified bogey wasn't all that uncommon. It could have been an enemy satellite changing course for a new spying route or a dead satellite with a decaying orbit about to reenter the atmosphere. More likely though, it was a meteoroid. According to the astronomical reports, a meteor shower was scheduled for tonight. “Flight Pattern?” questioned the Commander.

“Coming straight down at free fall velocity, sir,” replied Charlie without looking away from his monitor.

“Check the inventory log for any dead satellites or other known objects that should have been orbiting in that sector.”

“Nothing on the list, sir.”

“What's your estimate on size?” asked Stromfeld.

“Judging from the blip, size is approximately fifty yards in diameter.” Being a big Denver Bronco fan, Charlie always thought in terms of yardage, not meters. “Should we bother NORAD with this, sir?”

“Let's wait a few minutes. In the meantime, Jones, get the TIP team on line. One hundred fifty feet is downright big. I'm not sure it will burn off in the atmosphere. Whatever it is, if it does make it through, I want to know where and when it's gonna hit.”

“Yes sir, Commander,” answered Airman Jones. He was young and eager to please.

Stromfeld made his way to Charlie's post. They hoped it was just a meteor that would die in the atmosphere and nothing more sinister. As much as Charlie hated the boredom, he knew the excitement had the potential to be much worse. Two minutes passed as they watched the object continue to fall.

“Jones, what's the TIP team's analysis?” asked
Stromfeld.

Airman Jones ripped the hard copy from the printer and quickly read it to his commander. “If it makes it sir, they estimate six minutes to impact in the Mid-Atlantic. It's impossible to give an exact estimate due to the fluctuating density of the atmosphere, but it will land in the water. No danger to civilians, sir.”

Commander Stromfeld grabbed the printout to see for himself. “Let's hope we have no nuclear subs in that vicinity.” He turned back to Charlie. “Status?”

“Sir, bogey is now at fifty miles heading into the mesosphere and still descending on its current trajectory—no loss of size noted.” Ablation, the process where the friction generated by speeding through the atmosphere would burn off a meteor's outer layers, either reducing its size or turning it to dust, should have begun by now.

“Damn.” Commander Stromfeld raced back to his desk and reached for the gold phone. “This is Commander Ray Stromfeld at the Space Surveillance Center. Flash alert for CINC-NORAD. We mark an unidentified bogey, approximately 150 feet in diameter, descending fast into the Atlantic Ocean. ETI six minutes, point of impact longitude 74 degrees, latitude 48 degrees, radius of error three miles.”

The blip was at forty miles altitude when something startling happened.

“Holy . . . Object just changed course, sir.” Charlie was stunned.

Stromfeld
hadn't known Charlie for a long time, but what he did know was that he was a damn good airman. About five months ago when Charlie was first starting, he successfully identified an ELINT—an Electronic Intelligence Satellite—that was confusing everyone else on post. Since then, the Commander developed a respect for Charlie's abilities. If Charlie said the object just impossibly changed course, then he was sure it had. Still, he had to see for himself. “Huh, hold on.” Stromfeld put the phone on his desk and walked over to Charlie's console. “New flight pattern?” he asked.

“It's still descending, only at a different angle and much slower. It now appears to be in an orbital spiral over the northern hemisphere.” Orbital spiral meant the object was circling the earth as it was falling.

“Any ideas?”

“It's definitely not a meteor,” said Charlie stating the obvious.

“Unknown satellite?” suggested Stromfeld.

“No. The speed's not right. Plus I've never seen a satellite execute a maneuver like that one. That course change was almost ninety degrees.”

“Jones?” snarled Stromfeld. Jones was already working. He ripped the new Trajectory Impact Projection estimate from the printout and handed it to Commander Stromfeld.

“Damn.” Commander
Stromfeld raced back to the phone. The boys at the Pentagon are going to love this, he thought. “Modify previous Flash Alert. Bogey changed course. New point of impact, Ellesmere Island, Northern Canada, longitude 85 degrees 30 minutes, latitude 75 degrees 45 minutes. Radius of error one mile. ETI in twelve minutes . . . that's 3:51 A.M. our time. Requesting Priority One Action message to Commander in Chief of North American Aerospace Defense Command for full use of all available networks of the SPADATS. Also requesting Priority One use on the computer-linked telescopic system along bogey's current trajectory. We need a picture of this thing and we need it fast.”

The computer-linked telescopic system was based in Malabar, Florida. It would take about four minutes for it to receive the coordinates, process them, align itself with the bogey, and transmit a real-time picture back to the Space Surveillance Center at Cheyenne Mountain. On an ordinary day this feat of computer technology would seem extraordinary.

Today it wasn't near fast enough.

The room began to fill with more men, most with a command rank on their uniform. The tension grew palpable, but not directly because of concern over the bogey. Most of the analysts were not used to being around so many high ranks. They were afraid to say the wrong thing for fear of looking stupid in the eyes of their superiors. A higher ranking commander asked Charlie for the status.

“Bogey is still on current descent trajectory. Speed also remains constant, sir.”

Time moved in slow motion. No one knew what it was, but speculation filled the room. However, no matter which hypothesis seemed at the moment to be correct, it was shortly cut down by some inconsistency which soon led to a new hypothesis. The cycle continued, but everyone knew the chatter was meaningless. Until they received the real-time pictures from Malabar, they would not have the answers.

“Commander, two bogeys are approaching on an intercept course,” Charlie said. “Probably Canadian RAF, sir.”

“How much longer until those pictures come in?” Jones whispered.

“About a minute for pictures, one more for impact,” answered Charlie.

“It's going to be a long minute,” mumbled Jones.

Thirty seconds more passed when suddenly the unthinkable happened. The occupants of Box Nine stared with disbelief.

“God dammit!” shouted Commander
Stromfeld.

It became official when Charlie spoke the words. “I don't understand it, sir. The bogey disappeared from the screen.” Charlie fooled with some knobs and dials but to no avail. The blip would not reappear.

One senior commander, seemingly unfazed by this unfortunate event, took control. “No need to panic yet, gentlemen. We'll be receiving visuals in about ten seconds.”

All eyes focused on the screen in front of them. The first picture finally flashed on and there was—
nothing
. If the object had exploded they would have at least seen some debris, but there was nothing there. Commander Stromfeld was furious. All of the billions of dollars in high tech equipment had resulted in nothing. Except that Charlie was right, the object heading to earth was definitely not a meteor. Other than that, they knew nothing at all and that didn't sit well with Commander Stromfeld.

He quickly reached for the gold phone ordering a priority one Teal-Amber search of the northern sky. The telescope would survey the night sky at an exact counter rate to the earth's rotation. This would, in effect, freeze the stars in place and highlight any unusual object in the sky. The search would last for five more hours but ultimately it would find nothing. All members on the third shift in Box Nine would be fully debriefed. No mention of this incident would be made to anyone else, including family and other officers. Not even to the other analysts on first and second shift. If anyone asked, tonight was routine, as it always was.

At 10:00 A.M. Charlie's replacement would arrive. His name was Airman Jack Henning. He was only twenty-two, but already he had developed that sallow complexion from being deprived of sunlight for most of the day. He would exchange the usual pleasantries with Charlie as he took control of the console. He'd put down his cup of coffee and begin his shift by reading Charlie's report. It would read—No unusual air activity. Charlie Faber, Nov. 9th, 2009.

IT

BEGINS

Chapter 1

November 9, 2:50 A.M. (Pacific Standard Time) Prince Rupert, British Columbia, Canada

Stacy Michaels gazed out over the wooden railing surrounding her deck, the cold breeze reminding her of the change of seasons about to take place. The moon shone down like a beacon of silver light, highlighting the cascading mountains in the distance. Thousands of stars illuminated an otherwise dark sky. Every once in a while a sliver of orange light from the Aurora Borealis would glance over the horizon. Without any city lights to interfere, Stacy admired all the beauty of the heavens.

Until a storm system from the west picked up speed and splashed cloud formations across the awesome celestial backdrop—as if Mother Nature herself was experiencing a mood swing. But even as the night brooded, Stacy remained out on her deck. She couldn't sleep and she much preferred the open outdoors to the confines of home, even in the cold and even though her home was spacious enough. She poured herself a glass of wine, wrapped herself in a black down blanket, and lowered herself into a lounge.

She took a sip of White Zinfandel, her favorite, and began to think of an idea for her next children's book. “OK Princess,” she said to herself as she grabbed a pencil and pad from the nearby table. “What perils will your kingdom face for your eighth adventure?” She tapped her pencil unconsciously on the pad as she gazed through the sliding glass doors into her own kingdom, an old country-style chalet filled with all the modern appliances this century had to offer.

A white tiger rug with fangs ferociously displayed covered the stained wooden floor—its yellow-green eyes staring down the arch-shaped fireplace. Circling the rug on its left side was a two piece leather sofa, jammed together so there was plenty of room to lie down and stare up through the skylight that was directly above. Perfect for sleepless nights when the weather didn’t permit her out on her deck. Adjoining the couch was a glass-topped end table, splattered with glamour magazines. On the adjacent wall, a white oak entertainment center supported a digital music player with mounted speakers, a large screen HDTV, and a DVD player. Over to the left, the pass-through showed a glimpse of the kitchen.

It was a very romantic setting, she thought. Unfortunately, a man wasn’t included in the picture.

She started sketching the Princess, beginning with her long silky black hair that framed her face. Then she added her trademark big brown eyes that mesmerized all those handsome knights. The pencil moved downward as she sketched her slim and shapely, well-proportioned body. She was quite beautiful. Stacy caught her reflection in the glass door and chuckled, wondering how many of her readers knew that Princess Zinfandel was actually her mirror image, only modified to give her that animated cartoon look that children adored.

“So why is your castle so empty?” Her pencil tapped rapidly on the pad now as she mulled over the answer. “It's because you’re a strong modern woman who chose to keep her individual freedom to pursue her own career.” Then she sighed because she knew that was a lie.

A quick sip of wine brought the truth to the forefront. Every time she managed to get close to someone, her constant nightmares, chronic insomnia, and irrational fears always seemed to be more baggage than they were willing to handle. Worst of all, she didn't even understand the fears. Sudden panic attacks causing her to become deathly afraid for no apparent reason. When they occurred during daylight, she would become frantic. A “total freak-out” her last boyfriend called it. While she was sleeping, they would force her awake screaming and sweating, but with very little recollection of her nightmare. But since she moved here five years ago—with the help of her therapist Dr. Miller—they became increasing less frequent to the point where they had almost subsided completely.

Yes, soon she would be fine. She withdrew from her thoughts. “OK, Princess Zinfandel . . . perhaps it’s time for you to finally meet your knight in shining armor, Sir Right.” That brought a sly smile to her face. She scribbled some notes on the pad then reached out for another sip of wine to warm her.

Then a thunderous clap abruptly shattered the calm darkness. It was as if the night itself cried out in a gasp of pain and its scream, echoed and amplified by the mountains, ripped loudly through the cold moist air. The wooden deck beneath her feet shuddered. Her metal lounge chair vibrated and shifted under her weight. Her wine glass shook and White Zinfandel splashed over the rim onto her blanket. Then the rumbling air moved menacingly through her. For a few seconds it jarred her soul, then it passed and the night grew silent once again—but this time much more eerily silent than before.

It was an experience she never had before, yet somehow it was familiar. Her hands trembled as she gave in to the sudden urge to race indoors, tearing the blanket away from her and tossing it aside. She shuddered as she fiercely pulled open the sliding doors, her entire body tingling with fear, and within a time span as short as ten seconds, her last five years of therapy came completely undone.