“Right again. It seems as if the strength of the signal only depends on where it is in the cycle, and that the power is the same cycle after cycle.”
Isaacs paused, then asked, “Do you see any way this could be artificial? Man-made?”
“Not without a position fixed on the Earth’s surface,” replied Danielson.
“But it seems not to be a normal seismic phenomenon?”
“Too many of the properties are strange, particularly if the path is fixed in space and not with respect to the Earth.”
“Could there be some tidal effect? A collective action of the Sun and Moon?”
“I don’t see how. There’s no obvious way to trigger such an event. In any case there seems to be no connection with the position of the Moon, which has orbited several times without changing anything while we’ve monitored the data. Still, we’re dealing with something strange here, so possible subtle or indirect tidal effects should probably be explored.”
Isaacs fixed his gaze on the tired young woman in front of him. “I think you’re right; you’re onto something peculiar,” he said slowly. “Why don’t you go home and get a good night’s sleep. Come in tomorrow and we’ll go into your evidence in detail.”
Danielson smiled abashedly, acknowledging her fatigue once more. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” She rose and let herself out the door.
Isaacs leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He quickly decided he needed more information. A detailed discussion with Danielson tomorrow might show some flaw in the analysis. That was unlikely, however, despite the strange nature of the situation, considering the careful work Danielson usually produced and the sophisticated computer analysis groups on which she relied. But more information or no, this problem required expert consultation to begin even to categorize it.
He leaned forward and punched the intercom. “Kathleen?” When she responded, he said, “Get in touch with Martinelli. I want a one kilometer resolution photomontage of everything within ten degrees of thirty-three degrees north and south latitude and a first order scan for anything out of the ordinary. I don’t know specifically what to look for.”
Isaacs then leaned back and contemplated the situation. After some time he realized that he was imagining an extraterrestrial civilization beaming a mysterious ray at Earth from some point in space. He shook his head ruefully as he put Danielson’s problem out of his mind and retrieved the Tyuratam summaries from his desk drawer.
Chapter 5
Hot, late afternoon air rustled through the kibbutz. Duma Zadoc cautiously flipped a switch and smiled as the old water pump started up with a functional din, rewarding her afternoon’s efforts. She wiped a forearm across her forehead, replacing sweat with grease, and kneeled to her final task. Methodically, she began to cinch down the bolts of the pump housing, a diametric pair at a time to ensure even pressure. She cringed as the first of the fourth pair turned too easily and the head of the bolt sheared off. With an uncharacteristic show of disgust, she threw the wrench down. The bolt head popped loose from the jaws of the wrench and rolled crazily across the floor. Duma stood up with hands on hips and watched with dismay as droplets of water began to seep from the seal near the broken bolt. As she tried to decide whether to attack the lodged remains of the bolt this afternoon or wait until tomorrow, a strange noise suddenly rose above the sound of the clattering pump. It came from the nearby orange grove, a mixed roar and hiss.
Terrorists! thought Duma and the image of her mangled infant flashed before her eyes. Thirty-five years as a Sun-toughened sabra gave her the instincts to react coolly and quickly, quelling any hint of desperation. She raced from the pump house for the alarm. She punched the button starting the klaxon’s howl, then ran the forty meters to the attack shelter and stood at the door assisting the children and then older kibbutz members who streamed inside.
Despite the sound of the siren and the hubbub of voices, Duma kept an ear tuned to the original sound. She had realized that there was something unorthodox about it. Unlike an incoming mortar round, this noise had gotten quieter and there had been no deadly, thumping explosion.
She wandered away from the shelter toward the orange grove. She heard the noise again, faint but growing in volume. Although the sound sent a chill down her spine, something told her there was no immediate danger. She squinted up toward the direction indicated by her ears, but saw no sign of the source. She followed the indicated trajectory as the noise reached peak intensity and then vanished. At the same time she saw a puff of dust arise just beyond the barbed wire fence of the compound.
Duma crawled through the fence and paced back and forth in the area where the dust had kicked up. She half expected to find an unexploded shell casing. Instead, she saw absolutely nothing. Puzzled, she crossed the fence again. As she headed back into camp, she waved an “all clear” sign at a compatriot, and the klaxon faded away. She decided the broken bolt in the pump housing could wait for another day.
Two more weeks were absorbed in the intensive routine of monitoring developments at the Soviet launch site at Tyuratam. Isaacs spent rare moments with Danielson discussing the seismic project. There seemed to be no flaw in Danielson’s analysis, but they could not contrive a reasonable explanation for her data. The photomontage of the suspect latitudes provided by Martinelli showed nothing of interest. The routine was interrupted by a phone call.
Isaacs hung up the telephone and glared at the opposite wall of his office. He clinched his teeth, rhythmically rippling the prominent muscles over his jaws. The call had been simple. Kevin McMasters’ secretary requested that Isaacs report to the office of the Deputy Director immediately. The secretary’s voice was briskly formal, as that of the second in a duel, announcing his man’s choice of weapon. It suggested the black mood of the official who had given the order. Isaacs instantly recognized the root of the problem; indeed, he had expected the call. His bid to eliminate two more of McMasters’ outmoded pet projects had succeeded. McMasters could not counter Isaacs’ arguments, but he would find some way to strike back, his vindictive urge whetted by defensiveness over his role in the fate of the FireEye satellite and the orbital confrontation to which that had led. Isaacs had no clue to McMasters’ target, something not immediately subject to objective scrutiny, but he was certain that the ploy was about to begin.
He stood up and faced the window for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, unconsciously rocking up and down on the balls of his feet. Then he turned abruptly and walked briskly out of his office.
“I’m going to see McMasters,” he announced to Kathleen.
She nodded, confirming her deduction.
Isaacs used the stairs to ascend two flights and then paced a long hallway and half of another before turning into the suite of offices commanded by the Deputy Director for Central Intelligence.
The secretary looked up at his arrival and arched an eyebrow.
“He’ll see you in a moment—won’t you have a seat?”
Without the protective anonymity of the telephone receiver, she seemed pleasant and proper, giving no hint of reflected animosity.
Isaacs replied, “Thank you,” curtly, but remained standing, fidgeting tensely. For five minutes his irritation grew, but then he made a strong conscious effort to calm himself. Obviously, McMasters designed this childish trick, requiring him to cool his heels, to put him in a rash state of mind. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, glanced at the secretary and settled into a chair.
In the next ten minutes he catalogued most of the projects that commanded his direct attention. Tyuratam continued to be the central concern, particularly planning sessions to suggest strategies when the launch occurred. He glanced at the calendar on his watch, June 2, seven weeks since the first laser was destroyed and the Soviets had begun their crash program on the second. Launch was anticipated in two or three more weeks. Surely, there was no ground for attack there where everybody was pitching in on the common goal. They had not spent time on Mozambique and still remained uncertain about the origin of the arms cache. Could that be a weak point? Their lack of progress on some back burner problem? He attained a controlled state of mind, yet was unable to fathom where McMasters would elect to apply pressure.