Ancient Birthright (12 page)

Duane flipped over one of the sheets of paper and began sketching the hardware configuration he’d build using surplus parts and items they could find in the town junkyard and dump.

“I think we need to use two antennas, one for transmitting and one for receiving. That way we’ll simplify the configuration and we can optimize each one to a single purpose. It doesn’t make a difference now, with the turn-around-delay being almost two hours. But later, when they get closer, it will, and we won’t have to wait for the system to reconfigure from transmit to receive.” Duane turned his block diagram so Cindy and Bel could follow his explanation.

Four weeks later, Beldon soldered connectors to data cable ends. “This last month has been a lot like old times, Dad. Remember when you’d help me with my science projects when I was a kid?”

“Like it was yesterday.” Duane walked around the two large twelve-foot satellite TV dishes he’d scavenged from the junkyard. They were mounted in the backyard of their house. “Well let’s fire up this bad boy and see if it works.”

Beldon plugged in the control cable from his computer, and gave Cindy the signal to start the program. The large satellite dish with its moveable feed horn swiveled through one hundred and eighty degrees of travel from horizon to horizon. The elevation drive took over and ran the antenna through the limits of vertical travel, stopping at ten-degree intervals for Beldon to mark the indicator position on the elevation scale.

“Looks good Cindy, set it to go to ninety degrees azimuth, and sixty degrees elevation.” With the purr of gear reduction drives, the antenna swung to the requested position. “Turn on the transmitter and broadcast a low power continuous sine wave,” Beldon ordered.

Cindy clicked on the transmit button. Beldon watched as his Dad used a handheld meter to read the transmitted signal strength.

“Looks good, Bel. The transmitted power matches my calculations.”

They then ran through the same movement tests for the receive antenna.

Beldon moved to the computer, and sent what he hoped was his last transmission using the VLA. He had arranged with Saigg to begin transmitting a continuous signal aimed at Earth. They would use it to lock his homemade receive antenna to the position of the
Universe Explorer
. Once he located the ship the first time, it would only take fine adjustments each day to keep the antennas locked on target.

After sending the transmission, Bel closed the communications link with the VLA, leaving the antenna locked on to the
Universe Explorer
’s location.

An hour and fifty-two minutes later, they heard a faint buzz coming from the computers speakers. Beldon clicked the button to launch his tracking program, and the twin dishes began minute adjustments as they centered on the signal. Beldon clicked on the transmit button and said into the computer microphone, “
Universe Explorer
we are receiving your signal. Please respond.”

Just under two hours later, “Bel, this is Saigg Garuu on the
Universe Explorer
. Hello. On behalf of our ship and crew, we make happy to speak at you.” His voice was raspy and tended to soften on a few hard sounds; ‘crew’ sounded more like ‘hrew’. The exchange went on for hours. Each side would transmit almost two hours of explanations to answer questions the other had asked. They recorded the answers for later study.

In order to cut down on the number of misunderstandings from the vocal intercourse, Beldon included a digitized text version of each question and response. In the hours they conversed with Saigg, they received the full story of the origin of the
Universe Explorer
and its current mission.

Beldon was still reeling from the revelation that the
Universe Explorer
originally launched from Earth, and was returning home after depositing its load of colonists on a planet one hundred and twenty-six light years away. Saigg’s claim that the
Universe Explorer
had left Earth over two hundred and thirty million years ago seemed ridiculous. It would mean the ship and its crew were from the Jurassic period. His other claim that there were multiple intelligent species working together to crew the ship had to be impossible. It must be a misunderstanding because of their incomplete knowledge of English.

#

“Mr. Wilkins, take a look at this,” called a maintenance tech. “The spare antenna on the maintenance track is out of its stowed position again. The pulse transmitter is off, but its temperature readout shows it has been in operation.”

“That’s the fourth time this month. We need to find out who’s using that antenna. Turn on all the receivers and start recording. I want to see if a delayed response comes in. Query all the operators and see if one of them is using that antenna for something. Check the use log for the spare antennas and let me know if they’ve logged activity.”

The maintenance tech swiveled his chair, so he faced Wilkins. “The use logs show that one or the other of the antennas has been in daily use for eight-hours a day almost since the day they were upgraded over three years ago. We haven’t needed them, so no one’s paid any attention to the logs. We don’t have a record of who used them or why. Whoever’s doing this is using remote access from off-site.”

“Print out everything. I’ll give IT and Security a call and get them back tracing the IP address that sent the instructions.”

“Sir, you’re going to want to hear this.” The tech patched the received signal into the room loud speaker.

“Bel, this is Saigg Garuu on the
Universe Explorer
. Hello. On behalf of our ship and crew we make happy to speak at you.” The end of the transmission trailed off to silence as the antenna moved out of alignment with the
Universe Explorer
.

“Who was that? Do the Russians have a manned mission up that we don’t know about?” Watkins asked.

“I haven’t heard of any manned missions, and the antenna is pointing in the wrong direction to pick up the International Space Station,” answered the tech.

“Where is it pointing?”

“Off into deep space. Well off the ecliptic. If the antenna was used to communicate with someone in space, they’d have to be close to Earth. There’s nothing out in that direction once you get beyond Earth’s satellite belt.

“What the hell is going on? Could this be a bounce signal from a satellite or something reflecting off the moon?” Wilkins asked as he nervously ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Put a command logger on the C&C program for those two units. I want to know if someone accesses them again. Mary!” Wilkins called to his assistant. “Get me the Director on the phone. I need to talk to him…”

#

The elevator doors opened, granting access to the fifth floor of NRAO’s administration building. Colonel Mathew Striker stepped forward with unconscious military precision as he scanned the hall for the door to the director’s office. Striker noted the thick carpet and wood paneled walls.
No institutional light green or gray paint on poured concrete for the headman.

The deep russet colored carpet muffled his steps as he walked to the door emblazoned with three inch gold lettering proclaiming “Dr. Theodore Breathsword, Director, National Radio Astronomy Observatory.”

Striker paused in the hall for several minutes to scan the dossier on Dr. Breathsword: forty-eight, PhD in Astronomy from an Internet university, Masters in Independent Studies from a university in Switzerland, and a BS in Physics from Coulter College, no location given.

How the hell does a guy with these credentials become director of a national observatory? Ah, here it is, his brother is one of New Mexico’s senators and a big supporter of the President.

The previous employment listed was all as campaign staff member for various state and national politicians, mostly in the fundraising sector. Breathsword got his appointment to this job three years ago when the previous director was fired following an OSHA accident investigation. Striker flipped back a page and noted that Breathsword received his PhD two months before his appointment to his current position.

Time to see what the frantic call for assistance is all about.

A young, good-looking, female receptionist greeted Striker as he entered the outer office of the suite. “Good morning. May I help you?”

“Colonel Striker United States Air Force, I’d like to talk to Director Breathsword.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, Director Breathsword called my office and demanded our immediate assistance.”

“Oh, you needed to call back and get on his schedule. He’s a very busy man. I’m sorry I can’t interrupt him. He’s in a meeting. I have a fifteen-minute slot open tomorrow at three-forty-five if that will work?”

“I need to see him now. I’m scheduled to leave in three hours for meetings in Washington.”

“That’s impossible, sir. His schedule is totally booked for the rest of the day.”

A commotion behind him drew his attention. The inner office door opened, and a corpulent man dressed in golf clothes and carrying a pair of golf shoes walked from the inner office. He stopped at the desks of the three assistants in the outer office, and gave each lengthy and detailed instruction on what he wanted accomplished. Striker moved aside to make room for the man to pass. He stopped in front of the receptionist.

“Miss. Watterson, I’ll be in conference the rest of the day, if there is an emergency get someone to handle it,” he said as he reached for the office door handle.

“Yes Director.”

“Director Breathsword, could I have a word with you?” Striker asked.

“I don’t have time, I’m a busy man. Make an appointment,” Breathsword snapped.

“Sir, you called my office and asked for our assistance,” Striker said, losing patience with this pompous ass.

“Assistance...with what?”

“I don’t know. You said it was a matter of national security and demanded someone come immediately.”

“I did call, but I didn’t think anyone would get here this soon. I only called an hour ago.”

This officious butthole is the type to put in a call and demand immediate action just to prove how important he is.

“I was in a meeting at GEODSS our deep space surveillance site when the call was transferred to my phone, so I ended the meeting and came right over. You called and demanded someone come meet with you immediately on a matter involving national security. Now you’re telling me you are leaving the office and will be unavailable. Enough with the games. What is this about?”

“I told you I don’t have time to talk about it now. Make an appointment, and I’ll see you then.” Breathsword pulled the door open and almost ran from the office as he slammed the door behind him.

“Will three-forty-five tomorrow work?” asked the wide-eyed receptionist.

“I don’t think so. I’ll assign this problem to an airman and see if he can fit it into his other priorities. If he can, he will call and schedule something, maybe next month, if he can juggle his schedule to give the director a couple of minutes.”

The angry set to Striker’s mouth caused the receptionist’s voice to rise to a squeak. “Could I get your name and organization for my contact log, sir?”

“Colonel Mathew Striker, Commander, United States Space Surveillance Field Operations. You know...the organization that funded the VLA pulse transmitter upgrades and provides funding for sixty-five percent of your operations.”

The receptionist typed for several seconds. “Thank you Sir. I hope to hear from that airman and will make every effort to accommodate his schedule.”

“Have a nice day, Miss Watterson. I have just enough time to catch my flight to Washington for my budget meetings. I think I just figured out where to make the major budget cuts the President has ordered. He’s trying to shut down the entire national space program anyway. Now I know of a good place to start making those cuts.” With that parting shot, Striker calmly left the director’s office.

The elevator doors opened, and Striker started to step in before he realized someone was getting out. He stepped aside to let the man exit.

“You here about the signal intercept?” the man asked out of the blue when he noticed Striker’s uniform and rank.

“Director Breathsword called the Air Force and asked for someone to come to NRAO,” Striker answered.

“I’m Larry Wilkins. My team recorded the signal, and I contacted the Director. I thought I’d stop in to see if he had gotten ahold of anyone who could explain why we received an audio communication from an area of deep space that should be empty.”

“I see. I tried to see the Director, but he told me he was too busy to meet with me. I was informed...I needed to make an appointment. He just left dressed for a round of golf,” Striker said.

“That’s right. Today is Wednesday. Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday he has a standing tee time with his brother and his nephew,” Wilkins explained as he gestured Striker onto the elevator.

Striker turned to face the doors. “I have about an hour before I need to catch a flight to Washington. Why don’t you show me what you have?”

“Let’s go to the maintenance area Colonel. I have everything recorded and transcribed,” Wilkins said.

An hour later, having listened to the recording numerous times, Striker pulled his cell phone from its clip, entered a text message and hit send. He then called his office. “Colonel Striker here. Connect me with the duty officer.”

Several clicks later. “Major Dooley, this is Colonel Striker. Do you have any information on an object located at the coordinates in the text message I sent to your unit a few minutes ago? Or, do you have information of any manned flights currently in orbit other than the International Space Station? I’ll hold while you check.”

A few seconds later, the reply came. “Colonel, no to both of your questions. If you have evidence of a transmission from those coordinates, it must have been from an atmospheric vehicle. We’re checking with air traffic control for aircraft in the vicinity at that time… I just received their answer. There were three commercial craft in that general area at the time. They report that all communications were standard air-traffic guidance interactions. Nothing that matches the text you sent us.”