Eareckson had been Shemya Air Base until a few years ago, first inhabited by the U.S. military in 1943 after kicking the Japanese off the island, and continuously since then with a peak of some 1,500 personnel in the 1970s. Now there were only 85 people on the two-mile by four-mile rock; mostly government contractors there to help with re-fueling military aircraft on the long flights from stateside bases to Asia. But that would soon change.
Standing outside a brick building built in the mid-80s, trying desperately to keep his cigar lit, was the future commander, Colonel Tim Powers. In the old days, the colonel could have simply lit up in his office and enjoyed this vice without losing an appendage to frostbite. Now, though, because of Air Force-wide regulations, the little pleasure he got from the cigar was hardly worth the effort.
Only hours ago they had landed in their modified Boeing 747, which now sat huddled comfortably in a hardened hangar, technicians combing over the craft and ensuring all was well with the advanced Airborne Laser, with its high-energy Chemical Oxygen Iodine Laser (COIL) system.
The door opened and a man in a parka approached the colonel.
“Sir, nothing’s going in or out of the airport for at least the next twelve hours.” The voice was Senior Master Sergeant Gary Isham, the future squadron’s first sergeant. Future, because the squadron would not be completely manned and operational for another six months.
“Thanks, Gary. I had a feeling. The pilot said we were lucky to land.”
“What’ll the fallout be from your shot?”
The colonel thought about that. He had been placed in charge of converting this old air base, used during the Cold War to pick up a first strike by the Soviets by both ICBM missiles and Sub-launched Ballistic Missiles, into a sophisticated testing facility for the new airborne laser interceptor technology. The older Cobra Dane phased array radar had served well to track and collect data on Soviet and Russian test launches to the Kamchatka impact area and the broader impact area of the northern Pacific Ocean in compliance with the START, START II and INF treaties. The radar had variously been used by NORAD, Air Force Space Command and the Air Intelligence Agency. But now, still under construction, was the follow-on to Cobra Dane, which would track missile launches and relay that information to laser sites in central Alaska, which would then shoot down any missile fired from Russia, China, or, more likely, North Korea.
In the past six months, Colonel Powers had been in charge of construction of this new radar, and, as far as the U.S. was concerned, their mission had gone unnoticed, he was sure. In fact, he was equally sure that the Russians had no idea they had re-opened this facility. From any satellite shot, the base looked deserted.
“The politicians can worry about that shit,” the colonel said, sucking on his cigar and bringing it to a glowing orange.
“You got another one of those, Sir?”
“Jane doesn’t want you smokin’ these nasty things,” the commander said. He smiled at his first sergeant, and then said, “Screw her if she can’t take a joke.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out another cigar, handing it to the sergeant.
“You took the words outta my mouth, Sir.” He accepted the cigar and then lit it from the commander’s, drawing in as hard as he could to keep it lit.
The commander had come to depend on his first sergeant ever since they were first stationed together in Germany years ago. They had both returned to the States around the same time, picking up assignments with Space Command in Colorado Springs. Six months ago, Colonel Powers had requested Senior Master Sergeant Isham by name to help lead his troops in Alaska. In fact, almost everyone in the unit had worked with the colonel at some point in their career. The mission was so important he only wanted those he knew for this assignment. If the colonel didn’t know them personally, then the first sergeant had known them at some time in his career.
“Sounds like the old software worked as advertised, Sir. Why the need for new software?”
The colonel raised his head and let out a stream of smoke. “They’re always upgrading, Gary. We had the advantage with this first strike. We knew when they would launch, where they would launch from, and the trajectory was predictable. The new software will help with the land-based system while the missiles are out over the arctic and are on a less predictable flight pattern. We’re talkin’ about concentrating a beam of light the width of a Dodge on an object flying at over twenty-five thousand kilometers per hour.”
“Damn.”
“Damn right,” the colonel said. “That’s one helluva project in vector calculus and physics.”
“We gonna make our operational deadline, Colonel?”
Failure was a prospect the colonel couldn’t fathom. He had never failed at anything in his life, and this would be no exception.
“The Russians now know we can shoot down their missiles, Gary. They gotta be shitin’ their pants right about now.”
They both sucked on their cigars in unison.
The colonel only wished his group was as far along as everyone thought.
6
Fog shrouded the entire Bay Area, despite the fact that it was early afternoon. Soon rush hour traffic would clog California 101 to a near standstill.
Clifford Johansen sat at his desk on the third floor of the Brightstar International industrial complex. He looked out at the parking lot, spotted his ten year old Toyota Camry sitting in a sea of BMWs and Mercedes, and knew that what he was about to do was the right thing. It had to be.
He swiveled his slight frame around in his chair, shifting his black-framed glasses askew on his narrow nose. With his middle finger he shoved the glasses back into place-a reaction that had almost gotten him beat up in high school. He laughed to himself thinking about how many people he had, supposedly through an inadvertent reaction, flipped off over the years. His clueless colleagues at Brightstar never seemed to get the point.
Rising above the cubicle wall and seeing the normal afternoon shuffle of workers trying to appear busy, Cliff turned to his computer, clicked through security, and found the files he had hidden days before. He had marked them with innocuous file names that would not catch anyone’s eye, and then compressed and zipped them. He should have saved them to a DVD, but he could be checked at the security post on his departure. As he knew with all computers and with all software, there was always another way. Always a way to make things work.
“Cliff, what’s up?”
Cliff nearly jumped from his chair as he hit a key to change his monitor to a mountain scene screen saver.
The voice was from one of his office friends, Steve Lempi. His office friend because, although they talked often at work, they never did anything together after they left the Brightstar compound at the end of the day. Part of that was distance. Steve lived in Redwood City, while he lived across the Bay in Fremont. The other part, Cliff was sure, was that Steve was not a typical computer geek. With his perfect blond hair, his athletic physique, and his charming personality, he had a better chance than most at Brightstar of actually having a life outside this compound.
“Steve, never sneak up on a programmer like that,” Cliff said, shifting his glasses up on his nose. “I could have lost an entire day of code.” This wasn’t true and Steve knew it, but since they were both programmers, each understood the severity of losing anything dealing with one of their projects.
Steve leaned against the cubicle wall, the sweat stains visible under his left arm and his biceps nearly bursting out the white cotton shirt. “Back it up and make a copy.” That was the mantra of Brightstar.