“That’s what I mean by funky, sir,” the tech replied. “It’s a discontinuous stream too. The peak keeps coming and going.”
“You realize what the definition of a discontinuous stream of particles is, right?”
“Yes, sir. A signal.”
“So far, so good,” Miller said. He had an extendable camera poked over the lip of the depression they’d hunkered down in. “No nuke. I’m glad the gate stabilized before we got here.”
“It only turns off for about two weeks,” Weaver reminded him. “I’m wondering about response. I don’t think it’s going to be quick.”
“So how long do I do this, sir?” the commo tech asked. “I don’t mean to whine, but my wrist is getting worn out. I don’t do Morse much anymore.”
“Well, it’s long enough for them to see the greeting,” Weaver replied. “Go on to the message…”
“U… S… A. U… S… A,” the supervisor muttered. He could read that much Morse code. “There are survivors.”
“Or Dreen trying to catch us out,” the tech replied. “It’s changing. What’s that?”
“I think we’re getting a full signal, but it’s too fast for me to catch,” the supervisor said. “You’re recording?”
“Continuous,” the tech said.
“Johannsen spent some time in signals,” the supervisor said, straightening up. “I’ll go get him and start trying to figure out how to reply.”
“What do you make of it?”
“It’s a hell of a long time since I did Morse, sir.”
Eric Johannsen had started off as a nuke but experienced “confinement issues” during a deployment and had transferred to a land base, then out of the Navy. However, he’d spent his time on the land base in a commo position. Modern commo didn’t involve much Morse code, it was all about switches, encryption and video compression. Now he was trying to dredge up three-year-old memories of one class and it wasn’t coming fast.
“USA, USA, USA.” He fast forwarded through the transmission and then paused, looking at the time counter. “That’s continuous for the first fifteen minutes.”
“They were saying hello,” the supervisor said. “What’s the rest of that mess?”
“It speeds up, too,” Johannsen said. “There’s somebody who really knows Morse on the other side. Let’s see… Operational Immediate. Eyes Only Presidential. Codeword: Eagle Whisper. Verification Alpha Delta Niner. Eagle Whisper Mission has reached the attack site. No survivors found ATT. That would be ‘At This Time.’ Confirmed Dreen attack… Jesus Christ, sir. What the grapp is the Eagle Whisper Mission?!”
“Don’t keep reading,” the supervisor said, leaning over and shutting off the playback. “I have calls to make.”
“I’m glad to know they made it,” the President said. “How do we respond?”
“I’m loathe to drop the defenses, Mr. President,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs replied. “But the easiest thing to do would be to open the gate and go through. In a suit, admittedly. And there would be a heck of a drop on the other side. But we could handle all that.”
“Set up an emitter on this side,” the national security advisor suggested. “I think that the people down there could probably do that. We might even be able to set up direct communications from here.”
“Open the gate for a moment and send through a note,” the President replied. “Tell them that we’re working on it from our end and we’ll get back to them. Send that right now. And tell the people down there that they’d better keep their mouths shut.”
“I’m running out of air,” the commo tech said. At least he wasn’t being forced to keep sending with nothing coming back.
“That’s why we brought spare bottles,” Chief Miller growled. He was lying on his back watching the take from the camera. He was used to sitting in one place and watching nothing for days on end. Sniper hides came to mind. “Crack one open.”
“The ship isn’t coming back until the Marines are done with their search,” Weaver said. “Or we get some response telling the CO to land. So I’d suggest you get comfortable, PO.”
“Yes, sir,” the tech replied, picking up one of the O2 canisters. “I need some help.”
“Got it,” Bill said, trying not to sigh.
“And we have response,” Miller said suddenly. “I thought for a second it was a nuke and I nearly wet myself. But something just shot through the door and landed on the edge of the crater. And it is not a nuke. Metal canister of some sort. Let me modify that. I don’t think it’s a nuke.”
“They would have shot one long ago if they thought we were spoofing them or didn’t get the message,” Bill said, slotting the tech’s replacement in. “Go get it, would you?”
“I hear and obey O swami,” Miller said, rolling over and standing up. “Be right back.”
“Huh,” Bill said. The “message canister” was a Number Ten can, apparently formerly holding coffee. It had a screw lid and his claws just skittered across it. “Open that up, would you?” he asked, holding it out to the commo tech.
“That thing’s hot as hell, sir,” the tech said, backing up. “I respectfully decline.”
“Gimme,” Miller said with a sigh. He wrapped his claws around it and crushed, then ripped the top off. “Piece of paper inside.” The paper fluttered to the ground as he tipped the can up.
“Paper does not retain radiation very well, PO,” Bill said, gesturing.
“Your suits do, though, sir,” the tech pointed out.
“Okay, Miller, back away slowly.”
“It’s a standard message form,” the tech said once the suits had backed up far enough for him to approach the paper. “From: SpaceCom To: Commander Eagle Whisper. Stand by for communications gear to be set up. Estimate four hours.”
“Hell, it only took us twenty minutes,” Miller said. “Why four hours?”
“We’re a carefully selected group of top-flight specialists,” Bill pointed out. “Naturally it would take a group of regular techs longer. And the guys on the other end don’t have Tchar’s maze of junk.”
“This place is a maze,” Smith said. “Left or right?”
The streets of what had once been a major city now resembled canyons, many of them blind. Fallen rubble choked them and in many places it was unclimbable. Holes opened up without warning. Already two suits had been damaged from falls.
The map that the archaeologists had left behind wasn’t much help. It had been scanned and Berg was looking at a blow-up on his internal monitors. But it didn’t appear to be to scale and landmarks were denoted with cryptic terms that only made sense to a small group that discussed their work every day. But “Lag Pile” didn’t mean anything to Berg. And it was a two-dimensional representation of an area that was, among other things, often three dimensional.
“Grapp if I know,” Berg replied. “But any survivor, if there is one, can’t be far from the base. He or she had to haul supplies. How far do you think they’re going to go?”
“Well, we’ve searched most of what’s on the map, right?” Himes said.
“Right,” Berg replied. “And Bravo found the workings they were working on. Nobody there, signs of Dreen. But… Chither. Top said something about a doctoral candidate… exploring a new section. Which means it’s not on the map.”
“That’s very helpful,” Smith pointed out, looking at the Y intersection. “So left or right?”