Atlantis (22 page)

“But if I told someone, they'd know I was looking at data I wasn't supposed to be looking at,” Jimmy said simply.

“Good God,” Conners shook her head. “We have met the enemy and they is us.”

“What?” Jimmy frowned.

“Forget it.” Conners focused her mind. “All right. What do you think is causing this?”

“I don't have a clue,” Jimmy said. “The patterns are very regular though and the lines intersect and seem to focus on several spots on the planet's surface. So its not random.”

“Not random,” Conners muttered. “So something’s causing this?”

“Of course something’s causing this,” Jimmy said.

“No,” Conners shook her head in exasperation. “What I mean is
someone
is causing this?”

Jimmy squinched his face. “Well, actually no. Nobody could do this. I mean, the pattern is not random, so that would suggest that there is a guiding cause, but nobody could propagate something like this so--” his words tumbled on top of themselves to an awkward halt.

Conners walked over and looked at the lines. “What effect is this going to have?”

“At the current levels,” Jimmy said, “not much at all. But it seems to be growing in power.”

“And if it keeps growing?” Conners pressed.

“Gee, I don't know, Pat.” Jimmy rubbed his chin where a few hairs struggled to hint at a beard. “But it would be bad if it went, say four powers higher. The electromagnetic stuff could knock out power grids, cause certain types of electronic devices to malfunction. You know how they ask people to turn off their laptops and cell phones when a plane takes off? Well, those things aren’t really a problem but the airline doesn’t want to take a chance with anything interfering with the plane’s systems. Right now, at the center of each of these points, the interference is about four times more powerful than that sort of equipment.

“The radioactive stuff, now that's a whole 'nother ballgame. I don't see how this upswing could be happening, but if it keeps up for a few more days at this rate, we're going to have some very sick and some very dead people at the intersections of some of the flux lines.” Jimmy brightened. “But it can't keep growing.”

“Why not?”

“Well, cause--” Jimmy paused. “Cause, I mean it just happened and . . . “ his voice trailed off.

But Conners had suddenly noticed something about the map. She reached for a three ring binder on her desk and flipped through it. “Oh, my gosh,” she muttered.

“What is it?” Jimmy was alarmed at the ashen look on her face.

Conners jabbed her finger into the book. “I think I know how this is spreading. And I think I know where it's coming from.” She ripped out a page and carried it over to the mosaic. With a red marker she begin making small X’s on the paper.

“It’s not all of them, but some of them fit.”

“Not all of what?” Jimmy asked.

“MILSTARS satellites. See how these are along the lines of propagation? You have a MILSTARS satellite in geosynchronous orbit at each of these points. Whoever or whatever is doing this is using satellites as a medium.” She remembered the strange data on the MILSTARS-16 satellite and now knew what it meant.

“But how can that be? You can't do that,” Jimmy said. “It's not technically possible.”

“I don't care if it's technically possible,” Conners said, “but someone is doing it. This all fits too well.”

“But why?” Jimmy asked.

“I don't know why because I don't know who’s doing it,” Conners said. “But I can tell you exactly where all this power is originating from.” She touched a point on the mosaic. “Right here in north-central Cambodia where good old Mister Foreman wanted me to take a look with Bright Eye. And that someone didn't appreciate us taking a look because they blasted Bright Eye right out of space.”

Jimmy's eyes opened wide at that. “Bright Eye blew up?”

“Damn right.”

Jimmy shook his head. “These lines aren’t originating from just the one point. Not anymore. They were, I mean, from what was requested before, but not now.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“The colors,” Jimmy said. “The shades. They tell--” Jimmy paused, as if trying to figure out how to explain to her. “All right, just trust me on this. I can read these colors and patterns, OK?”

Conners nodded.

Jimmy went on. “OK. I went back when I saw all this, trying to get a read on how quickly the power was growing.” He gave a slight smile. “And not only was I able to get an estimate on the growth rate, but also the path the propagation is taking. It did indeed start in Cambodia, but it seems to be picking up power from a couple of other places now.”

“Where?” Conners asked.

Jimmy’s long finger tapped the spots as he called them out. “Here, off of Bermuda. Here, in western Russia, right about Lake Baikal, and here in the western Pacific off the coast of Japan. It started in Cambodia and that’s where the most powerful force is generating, but these others are growing in strength and propagation ability, feeding off of whatever is in Cambodia.”

“But--” Conners paused. She had been about to ask why, but she knew it was a pointless question. “Maybe Foreman knows what all this is. I sure hope he does.”

***

The
USS Wyoming
was part of the Second Fleet, headquartered at the naval base at Norfolk, Virginia. It was not due to put out to sea for another three weeks as part of its normal rotation of duty. But one phone call from the Chief of Naval Operations to Captain Rogers, the submarine’s commander, changed all that.

For the last two hours phones had been ringing all over Norfolk and the naval base, alerting members of the crew and ordering them to report to duty.

Standing high on submarine’s sail, Rogers watched his crew arrive in spurts, grumbling about the strange alert. He wasn’t concerned about morale--submariners were the elite of the Navy and he knew he could count on his men. He was, however, concerned about the strange nature of the tasking the CNO had given.

First was the fact that it had bypassed every link, and there were many, in the chain of command between Rogers and the CNO. Second, the CNO had simply ordered Rogers to put to sea as quickly as possible, and go at flank speed to a set of coordinates in the ocean and await further instructions. Rogers had had the distinct and troubling feeling that the CNO himself wasn’t quite sure why he was giving these orders and was acting on orders himself. And to Rogers that meant the orders could only come from one of two places: the Secretary of Defense or the President. Either way, it meant whatever was going on was dead serious.

But Rogers had plotted out the coordinates in the chart room and they puzzled him. They were for a point about 600 miles from Norfolk, to the southwest of Bermuda.

Rogers rubbed a hand over his freshly shaved face as another bus pulled up to the gangplank, disgorging a pile of sailors. Now why, he wondered to himself, would someone need a ballistic missile submarine at those coordinates? Rogers could feel the thrum of the engines through the steel plate under his feet, as the reactor got up to power. He looked to his rear, along the massive desk of the
Wyoming
at the 24 sealed hatches that walked to the rear fin in pairs. Inside those silos he had enough nuclear power on board to destroy the world, or at least a very good chunk of it.

“Eight hours to be on station at the designated coordinates,” his executive officer, Commander Sills, reported to him, coming up the hatch out of the conning tower.

“Crew status?” Rogers inquired.

“Sixty-seven percent accounted for.”

“Let’s get under way,” Rogers ordered.

Sills’ face showed his surprise. “But what about the rest of the crew, sir?”

Rogers put a foot through the hatch and felt the rung. “The CNO said ASAP and sixty-seven percent makes us mission capable. Radio the harbormaster and tell him we get under way in five minutes.”

CHAPTER NINE

“You can go one of two ways,” Hudson said.

Ariana looked from the communications man to Mansor, who had just climbed down from the small opening, his mission to find a break in the cable unsuccessful. The three of them were gathered around a small table on which were spread the schematics for the plane.

Other than Mansor’s mission, the last hour had been uneventful, for which Ariana was grateful. No more beams of light had gone through the plane. Nor had there been any noises outside of the plane but none of that helped the atmosphere inside much. The bodies of Daley and the engineer killed in the crash were in the rear of the plane, covered in blankets, reminders of their perilous situation, as if they needed any.

Ariana looked across the table. Mansor was layered with dirt, grime and grease and looking none-too-happy. It had taken over an hour for him to traverse the crawl space to the base of the two stanchions that held up the rotodome. The SATCOM cables had been intact the entire way and disappeared up into the right stanchion, out of sight. Ariana was running out of options; that left going outside to check the rotodome. For all she knew, the entire system might have been sheered off in the crash and the satellite dish lost.

“You've got the emergency over wing escape door or the emergency overhead hatch,” Hudson pointed out the two doors on the chart, one opening onto the right wing, the other onto the roof of the aircraft just behind the pilot's cabin.

“Do you think the overhead one might have been damaged with the cockpit?” Mansor asked.

Ariana remembered the way the metal had been cut. “I don't think so. The opening ended before the back of the cockpit.”

“What about the beams?” Ingram asked. “What if they're being aimed by someone outside and once they spot you--” he stopped, the others knowing the end to the sentence.

“We're not in a stable situation here,” Ariana said. “We have to act and act quickly. My father would have sent a rescue party as soon as he lost contact with us. It’s long past the time for such a party to have reached us, so we have to assume we’re going to get no outside help. I don’t know why, but that’s the situation. And the message we received told us we had only twelve hours. We’ve already wasted some of that.

“The first step is to try to get satellite communications and see if we can contact someone. If that doesn't work, then I’ve made the decision we're going to have to leave the plane. I say we try the radio first.”

Given those choices, the others nodded their heads. Mansor stood, shaking some of the dust off his clothes.

“I'll go with you,” Ariana said, grabbing a mini-mag light and sticking it into her pocket.

“There's no--” Mansor began, but he was silenced by the flash in her eyes.

“Let's do it. We'll go out the top hatch,” Ariana decided. “That way we won't have to climb up from the wing.”

Mansor held up a reel of co-axial cable. “I'm ready.”

Ariana turned and walked toward the front of the plane. The emergency overhead access door was in the ceiling of her office. They unhooked her heavy metal desk and pushed it underneath. Mansor climbed up, after tying off one end of the coaxial cable to a leg of the desk. He grabbed the emergency latch and twisted it. With a loud popping noise, it opened inward, swinging down, revealing a pitch-black rectangle. There were no stars visible, nothing but utter blackness. He glanced down. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Ariana said, climbing on top of the desk and crouching next to him.

Mansor pulled himself into the darkness. He disappeared for a second, then his arm reappeared. Ariana grabbed his hand and he pulled her up and out of the plane.

*****

“We had a rescue team on standby,” Freed said. “Lucian coordinated it.”

“And?” Dane asked. Chelsea was rubbing against his leg. The four Canadian mercenaries were waiting by the plane, as was the pilot, out of earshot.

Freed laid the facts out. “As per our emergency plan, Lucian ordered the team in once he got word the plane went down. It went toward the last plotted position we had for the
Lady Gayle
.”

“And you never heard from it again,” Dane summarized.

“Contact was lost and has not been reestablished,” Freed said.

“Who were the lucky sons-a-bitches?” Dane asked.

“Cambodian Special Forces,” Freed said. “A twelve man A-team, plus two men in the helicopter crew.”

“That explains why the Cambodian government is so eager to support you now,” Dane said.

“Screw the Cambodian government,” Michelet said. “I want my daughter out of there.”

“Those Cambodian soldiers had lives too,” Dane said. “Families.”

“Their families have been well compensated,” Michelet said. “It was the nature of their job.”

“Running missions for rich Americans?” Dane asked.

“They took the money quite eagerly,” Michelet said.

Dane ignored the old man and stared at Freed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We don’t know what happened to the team, so there wasn’t much we could tell you,” Freed said. Seeing Dane’s stare, he sighed. “All right. We didn’t think you’d come if we told you the team had disappeared.”

Dane was thinking of something else. “The tape. Was it real?”

“Yes,” Freed assured him. “The
Lady Gayle
picked up and forwarded that message before it went down.”

“Maybe someone taped us back in ‘68 and . . .” Dane's voice trailed off.

“And saved it for over forty years to use?” Freed asked.

“Who ambushed us at the warehouse?” Dane asked. He knew Freed and Michelet weren't lying about the tape. He'd known it from the moment he heard it. But he’d known the two men were withholding other information.

“It must have been people hired by Hie-Tech,” Freed said.

“Maybe they were Cambodians pissed about the Special Forces guys,” Dane suggested.

Freed shook his head. “No. There wasn’t enough time. It had to be Hie-Tech. And we did pay a considerable amount of money to the Cambodians and their families.”

“What else don’t I know?” Dane asked.

“You know everything now,” Freed assured him.