The Hundred Gram Mission (26 page)

In the mess, dinner was greenhouse rice and peas, served with aquaponic tilapia. Men – some aggressively tattooed and pierced - nodded and smiled at the scientists.

"People are looking at us," said Simmons stiffly. "I don’t like how those guys are looking at us."

"Are you worried they’re going to rape you?" asked Johnson, suddenly smiling. "My God that’s it; you’re worried they’ll
rape
you."

"Our ship brought butter, Simmons," said Henrikson cutting into his fish. He held a morsel on his fork. "This has been sautéed. I wonder when the last time was that they had real butter."

"We’ve made our own margarine once, but it tasted foul," said Johnson.

"You made margarine?" asked Henrikson.

"It wasn’t the engineers, but we helped get the equipment. It was one of the prisoners."

"You have a prisoner chemist?" asked Simmons.

"Ken Brown, no, he's just creative. Prisoners tend to be; it's that or make do without."

"Ken Brown? I
know
Ken Brown."

A Caucasian man two tables away, looked up at the mention of 'Ken Brown'.  Johnson beckoned and he came over.

"Mr Brown," Henrikson stood and shook his hand. "You look well."

Brown smiled and shrugged. "Bone deterioration agrees with me. Nice of you drop by and check up on us."

"Well, I wasn't really here for that."

"I know." 

"I hear you made margarine."

"I eat it too, but I think I'm largely alone in that."

"Where did you learn how?"

"I've been taking online classes, little harder out here but Doctor Johnson sorted it out for me."

"That's great to hear."

"Can you help us with the antimatter problem?" asked Simmons.  Henrikson frowned at him. "What? His guess is as good as ours right now."

Ken smiled. "No but I
can
help you with the nuclear waste problem.  I can build a rail gun to hurl waste, out of the solar system."

"Ken, we talked about this," Johnson shook his head.

"But really, I can. I'll only need parts that are already here, and unused. I've done the math, too. It could launch up to a kilogram of waste, per shot." 

"Can I go over it?"

"What?" Simmons' fork stopped on the way to his mouth.  "
No!
"

"Why not?" asked Henrikson.

"
Seriously?
You're considering this?"

"What's the problem?"

"Have you noticed that orange jumpsuits are trending out here? This isn't the place to build shotguns that fire nuclear waste."

"It's still a great solution."

"Try to think about the bigger picture."

"Respectfully Sir, do you really want to leave this stuff lying around?" said Brown. "Everyone here knows it's dangerous - and is trained in how to handle it. The more there is, the easier stuff will go missing.  Especially as output scales, is the program going to track waste, closely? Sure eventually, but what about right now? When new problems still don't have solutions?"

Simons said nothing.

"As long as Doctor Johnson signs off on everything, you can build your rail gun, Ken," said Henrikson.

It was like an orphan seeing Santa in the window.

"Thank you Sir!"

"No, thank you."

"This is a bad idea," said Simmons, after Ken left. "You should have at least cleared it with Legal, first. They're always worried about us getting sued."

"Fuck legal. They're the ones who want to break the law, the most."

"Forget this rail gun nonsense. What are we going to tell Spektorov about the antimatter problem?"

"The truth.  That his space program is on hold till we can raise efficiency.  That it will take time, trouble, and money to solve, and I don't know how much. That this is more like developing a better fusion reactor, not a better hang glider. Not to hold his breath, and to be realistic about his options."

"He won't take it well."

"Too bad. If he's serious about space, he has to learn that Physics doesn't care how rich he is."

"The Hundred Gram mission profile is not possible."

"You mean not legal. And that, not nuclear garbage launchers, is Legal's problem. Like you said Simmons, try to think about the bigger picture."

"It's getting too big for me."

"I fear it's only just started." 

Abdul Kareem Al-Rashid, III

Abyan Governorate, Yemen

7pm local time

"The US is moving three Global Fire Support satellites."

Kareem looked up from
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
.  "Is that confirmed?"

"It's on Open Skies," said Faisal's voice on the speaker phone. "Satellite-tracking hobbyists in Japan and Hawaii have confirmed it. Three Independence class, laser artillery satellites. Their burns started on the other end of the world, Kareem."

"So?" Harry was just facing the Basilisk!

"So if you want to fly right over us, that's the optimum place to change orbit and save fuel."

Kareem put the book down, the Basilisk would have to wait. "Let's keep an eye on them."

"Have you heard back from Hisham?"

"No, it's about 9:30 over there. He is not meeting with them till tomorrow but he did have a call with them in the afternoon."

"Shouldn't he have updated you about it by now?"

"Yes, but according to the BBC, the entire country is having a blackout."

"The entire country?"

"It's quite exciting. There's been shooting in the capital, an American was arrested. Hisham will send the update before he goes to bed, I'll see it in the morning."

5am local time

Kareem awoke and checked his phone, no messages. He checked his email and media accounts. There was nothing from Hisham.

He dialed his number. It didn't connect. He tried it again.

Nothing.

He tried a different number.

"Did I wake you up?"

"No," said Faisal, "I wanted to be up early to check on those orbits, I'm doing that right now. Do you need anything?"

"Hisham didn't send me any messages. I tried calling him and I couldn't even connect. Faisal? Faisal? Faisal are you there?"

"All three satellites are going to pass right over us, one after the other. Six hours of loiter coverage. Minimum."

Silence.

"How long do we have?"

"I can't say for sure. Maybe an hour. Or less."

"Evacuate the base."

The stars were still out. There was no wind, but the morning desert needs none to chill. Scattered shrubs struggled out of the sand, small lizards hiding in them as men ran about.

A man carrying two jerry cans ran to a flatbed truck.  One lost its cap, petrol sloshed out. He kept running. Another man stood on a pickup, feeding a brass belt of bullets into a machine gun. His comrade hefted up the huge crate it fed from. Until-just-then-air-conditioned men carried out 3d printers and centrifuges, stacking them in neat rows. They ticked off lists and asked where were samples B9 through D6? Gruffer men, chewing tobacco and picking their noses, invaded their order.  They shoved the equipment into trucks, wedged between potato sacks and piled rifles.

"I've just talked to Al-Ganim," Faisal walked up, assault rifle slung over his back. "Ansar Al-Sharia is sending reinforcements from Sana'a."

"How many?" Kareem looked up from his tablet and adjusted his flak vest.

"Three hundred. They'll be here within the hour." He looked at the trucks pulled up at the entrance. "Do you think we can get all this out in time?"

"No. But if the GFS satellites were going to bombard us, they would have by now.  And they would only need one for the job. Even if Hisham gave the Americans only vague coordinates, it would study the terrain and figure it out."

"They could be waiting for us to scatter - whatever runs first is the most important thing to shoot. All the way to Sana'a is a long time to be vulnerable."

"Yes. We'll wait them out in Zinzibar first, outside the mosque and the school.  But, the civilians should be enough."

"How are we for IEDs?"

"The command wire ones have all been tested, they're in good order. The main approaches are covered.  I'm not bothering with the cell phone triggered units; they'll just get jammed. We'll need to use bombers."

"Children?"

"No, keep them on the rooftops. Bring me parents."

"How many?"

"How many can you spare?"

Be quiet and behave, Ali's mother had said to him. She always said things like that. Sometimes with a stick to smart her words into his running-away bottom (on that note, never call Mama a bitch). Today was different. Mama wasn't angry or tired. Today Mama was scared.

It was dark - the stars were still out. He pulled on the blanket he shared with his mother. Across the rooftop, Little Yosri yawned and grumbled. His mother clutched him closer, her baby sleeping over her shoulder, thumb slipping out of its mouth.  Ali waved, but Yosri's eyes were already closed again.

"Just wait," said Ali's father, pulling the boy's hand down with his. Father's hand was sun-dried like a lizard's back. His nails were ground down from farming. He wouldn't take his eyes off the men who were standing. The men with guns.

There were lots of families on the roof. It was like being dragged to a wedding, or hiding from Saudi planes. People were packed together like bricks. There were many children, but all too sleepy to play. 

"Baba?"

"Yes?" whispered his father.

"Shouldn't you be going to the field soon?"

"The Khat
[lv]
can wait," he looked up as a gunman walked past.

"You always say the Khat is important, Baba."

"Yes," he smiled too quickly. "Everything will be alright soon."

"Mustapha, don't talk to him about this," said Mama sharply, giving away too much. Across the roof, a baby woke up and started crying. One farmer was arguing - quietly - with a gunman. He tried to stand, but the gunman waved him back down.

"What's going on?" Ali asked, rubbing his eyes. Sleep wiped off in his fingers.

"Be quiet and behave," said Mama.

"It's nothing, Son," said smiling Father.

"Is it water? Will we get water?"

"Of course we will," said Father.

Ali nodded. There had been no water in Mama's village. That's why they left, and came here. The men with the guns had water. They let Father farm for them, but said he was only allowed to grow Khat.

Ali once asked if they could find water elsewhere. Father said it didn't matter. Wherever there was water, there were men with guns.

A gunman's walkie talkie squawked. He spoke for a few moments and finished with some nods. He looked up and started calling out names, pointing to each person.

"Mustapha Akbar," he finished, looking at Ali's father. "All of you get up, you're coming with me."

"What about our families?" asked the arguing farmer, standing.

"Don't go," Mama said, holding Father's hand as he stood.

"They will be fine, and so will you, Aida," said Walkie Talkie. "We just need your help with the loading.  The sooner that's done, the sooner you can all go back to your homes."

Farmer Arguer started again. Walkie Talkie repeated himself, his tone climbing. Other men started arguing with him. Women started arguing with the men. Single men started arguing with each other.

Ali looked out over the rooftop, into the sky.

"Hey!" he jumped up, and tugged on his mother's sleeve. "Mama, look!"

"Be quiet and behave!"

"Look!" he pointed to the sky, while facing her. Aida looked. Other people did the same. None of them were smiling.

"Meteors, Mama!"

Three tears formed in the night, leaving tracks like a brilliant claw mark. They fell towards the horizon.

Walkie Talkie turned on his device. "Drone strike, inbound."

"From space?" asked Wahlid "Why not from Saudi, or Oman?"

"Deployment time," said Faisal. "The US can deorbit and land drones anywhere on Earth, under 30 minutes.  And maybe more
are
coming from Saudi or Oman."

"That, or they noticed us loading up the trucks," said Kareem. "They need to hit before everyone gets away. At the least, it will force us to rush and leave behind valuable material."

"Who cares?" Wahlid threw up his hands. "They can just bombard us from space, right now! What are they waiting for?"

"Drones are thorough: they can climb down stairs and check basements," said Faisal. "And they're surgical. They knew or guessed we'd have civilians here. And drone strikes don't kill civilians."