The Mothership Read online

  Hooper fired at the nearest drone, shattering the disk as the recoil sent him spinning backwards, head over heels. His motion drew the attention of more drones outside. They concentrated their fire on him as his helmet crashed into the far wall, leaving him barely conscious and adrift in the air.

  In front of Beckman, the elevator doors opened. He touched his midget’s firing surface, but nothing happened. How could they all fail at once, he wondered, as he realized the elevators were empty!

  Black disks crashed through the windows behind him, circling their helpless forms, firing constantly. Even when they’d released their weapons and lacked the strength to resist, they were hit again and again. Simply drifting in zero gravity was enough to attract the drone’s motion sensors, even long after they’d been neutralized.

  After an eternity of pointless torture, the drones ceased firing and a monotone voice sounded in their earpieces, “Exercise terminated. Brace for gravity.”

  How do we do that? Beckman wondered absently, so numb from multiple electrocutions, he found breathing difficult. The Earth’s pull returned and they all crashed to the floor amidst a shower of loose equipment and abandoned weapons.

  “Man, that really sucked!” Timer muttered.

  “I thought we were doing OK, right up until we got our asses kicked,” Tucker said bitterly.

  The radio cracked with a deep basso voice, “Is it over? I’m freezing my God damned balls off out here!” Corporal Ramone Steamer Massey growled. The second former SEAL in Hooper’s squad now lay ‘dead’ in the snow outside, cursing his luck for being killed in knee deep snow.

  “Frag your balls, my tits are freezing!” Kim Vamp Gerrity, the second female member of the team snapped through chattering teeth.

  As official KIAs, the rules of conduct required them to remain where they fell until the exercise was terminated. Beckman stretched his jaw, trying to make his tongue work, then thumbed his mike so everyone would hear. “Stand down. We’re dead. Again!”

  With a mix of anger and frustration, they peeled off their snow suits and body armor to reach the hated kill simulators strapped to their chests. The net like vests were woven with wires and connected to a belt mounted battery pack. The infra red sensor over the chest triggered a small, nonlethal electric shock each time it was struck by a targeting laser.

  “God, I hate this damn thing,” Tucker said as he hurled his kill sim at a wall.

  “Sadistic sons of bitches!” Timer said through clenched teeth, referring to the scientists who’d invented the kill sims to make their training more realistic.

  “OK people,” Hooper said weakly, propping his back up against a wall. “Get your gear, check safeties, and switch off kill sims.”

  “Switch off kill sims?” Tucker said incredulously. “Mine juiced me so many times, it’s fried.”

  The door to the left of the reception desk opened and General Lawrence Hickson stepped through, followed by medics and equipment technicians.

  “Anyone hurt?” Hickson asked, running an eye over the team. The kill sims did no permanent damage, but falling paralyzed from zero-g with all their gear could break bones.

  Beckman stretched, trying to get some feeling back. “Didn’t expect zero gravity, sir.”

  “Good,” General Hickson said with satisfaction. “We’re training you to expect the unexpected.”

  “How’d you do it?”

  “We strapped a couple of gravity plates from Roswell Two to the elevators. When the lifts got close, you were caught inside the field’s radius.”

  “Nice trick.” Beckman said sourly, looking over his stunned team and the discarded equipment strewn across the floor. “That’s our third wipe this month.”

  “Yeah, but you learned an important lesson tonight.”

  “Yeah, we stink,” Tucker growled.

  The General indicated one of the specials lying near the security desk. “Our mission analyses indicated you’ve become too dependent on the recovered weapons. Every time the going gets tough, you go straight to them. It’s a bad habit. The specials aren’t perfect. As you discovered, they don’t fire in zero gravity.”

  “Why not?” Beckman asked.

  Hickson shrugged. “No idea. Maybe zero-g confuses their targeting systems, or it might be a safety feature to prevent them punching holes in ships in space. Whatever the reason, it’s a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry.”

  “A memo would’ve been less painful,” Beckman said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Our weapons might be primitive by comparison, Bob, but they work. More importantly, we know how they work.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The General took one last look around as the medics started their checks, then said in a low voice, “Let’s take a walk.”

  Beckman followed the General out of the training complex to a waiting staff car. It took them across the base, past runways, hangars and machine shops to the command center.

  “The drones are new,” Beckman said. “Does that mean we’ve cracked the gravity problem?”

  “No, we’re not even close to figuring that out. They’re just fiberglass disks with an internal propeller for vertical lift, a gyroscope for stability and a targeting laser controlled by a motion sensor to keep you on your toes.” Hickson suppressed a smile. “No more dangerous than a flashlight, without the kill sims. The air force is evaluating them for low altitude target painting.” He paused, then added, “We didn’t realize the drones would keep firing once you were weightless. That was as much a surprise to us, as you.”

  “No, General,” Beckman said earnestly, “I can assure you, it was a much bigger shock for us.”

  The staff car stopped at a large brick building. Hickson led Beckman inside, past several sets of armed guards, to the base’s situation room. It was two stories high, with three large screens dominating the far wall. Glassed-in offices occupied by military personnel looked down on several rows of computer terminals arrayed in front of the three wall-mounted screens. The operators were a mix of air force officers and white-shirted civilians. Several men smoked anxiously, their eyes glued to their respective screens. The chief of operations, a civilian in his early forties, paced the room behind the second row of terminals. He wore a loosened thin black tie and had eyes that flitted nervously from screen to screen, taking in everything at once.

  On the central wall screen was a map of the southern hemisphere spanning the Indian Ocean. A curved trajectory was plotted from Mozambique in East Africa to Sumatra in Western Indonesia. Astride the trajectory curve was a small satellite icon, just east of Madagascar, inscribed with USA-325. The two other screens listed satellite telemetry, none of which Beckman understood.

  “Four minutes until the bird clears the horizon,” a civilian from the National Reconnaissance Office reported from the front row. He was the leader of the NRO team managing the deployment of the satellite.

  “How are we tracking?” the Operations Chief asked.

  One by one, the operators provided summaries of the information they were receiving.

  “Pine Gap is negative.”

  “Diego Garcia has a good feed.”

  “Guam’s got nothing.”

  “The USS Blue Ridge has telemetry, but no pictures.”

  “The Joint Space Ops Center at Vandenberg says the orbit is good,” the NRO officer said. “Radar is off, passive IR and optical sensors are on, feed is good. The camera is at full off angle, maximum field of view. We’ll zoom as soon as we have a target.”

  The flashing green icon of the NRO spy satellite drifted past the tiny dot of Rodriguez Island in the western Indian Ocean, then began to crawl north east, towards Sumatra.

  A phone rang, and was promptly snatched up by an operator on the far right of the second row. “Uh huh,” the operator repeated several times as he scribbled notes. When he hung up, he peeled off his wire-thin headset and turned to the Operations Chief. “The George Washington’s lost contact with global hawk six, two minutes ago ove
r the Timor Sea. She never got a look.”

  The Operations Chief nodded, turning his eyes to the satellite’s current position. He decided to wait until it had completed its pass before asking the carrier to try again.

  General Hickson whispered into Beckman’s ear, “That’s the fourth UAV we’ve lost in six hours.”

  Beckman said nothing, but wondered who would want to shoot down their reconnaissance drones in that part of the world.

  “Two minutes to first look,” the NRO officer announced.

  An operator in the second row with one cigarette in his mouth and two smoldering on his ash tray spoke without looking up. The finger tips of his left hand rested on his earpiece, holding it firmly in place as he listened to a report. “Australian air traffic control report JAL flight 5144, Melbourne to Tokyo, has disappeared off their screens.”

  The Operations Chief asked, “How many people?”

  “I don’t know, but it was a 747.”

  A young air force officer sitting in the front row turned in his seat. “At least three hundred and fifty people.”

  “Damn!” an Air Force officer standing towards the back muttered.

  The operator with the cigarettes added, “The Australian Government has grounded all civil aviation north of the Tropic of Capricorn. All incoming flights have been turned back. They’ve declared a terrorist emergency.”

  Beckman gave General Hickson a curious look.

  “It’s a cover story,” the general whispered. “The Aussies have lost an AWACS, two reconnaissance planes and a helo full of SAS trying to get in there. They know they have a serious problem on their hands.”

  Beckman hid his surprise as he wondered if he knew any of the SAS troopers on the downed chopper. The special forces community was small and tight knit, and the chances were he’d have served with some of them, somewhere.

  On the trajectory plot, the green icon approached the Cocos Islands in the eastern Indian Ocean. “OK, here we go,” the Operations Chief said. “Give me visual on one, IR on three.”

  The screen on the left side of the situation room filled with a side looking view of a vast green tropical forest through wispy white clouds. The wild vista raced across the screen as the satellite in low earth orbit sped toward the horizon. Its flight path, running far to the west of the target area, would carry it above the horizon for just seven seconds, before ducking and running. The screen on the right side, displaying the infrared feed, revealed yellow tropical heat shimmers in the foreground and a searing red glow blooming into the sky beyond the horizon.

  “Damn! That thing is hot!” the IR specialist exclaimed.

  “Our bird will breach the horizon in five . . . four . . . three–” The NRO operator stopped as the readout on his screen vanished. “I’ve lost telemetry!”

  The images on screens one and three were replaced by white noise, while the satellite icon on the big central screen began flashing red.

  “I’ve got nothing,” a civilian technician called from the front row.

  “Give me status reports,” the Operations Chief demanded crisply.

  “System telemetry, negative.”

  “Visual and IR feeds, both negative.”

  “USS Blue Ridge is negative.”

  “Diego Garcia has lost it.”

  “Pine Gap had it for a few seconds, but they’ve got nothing now.”

  “Guam, negative. They never made contact.”

  The Operations Chief focused on the NRO civilian in the front row, who listened intently to his head set, speaking inaudibly several times. Finally, he turned and shook his head. “Vandenberg’s got nothing. Chantilly confirm, all our stations have lost it. It’s gone.”

  “I’m calling it,” The Operations Chief declared bitterly, looking at his watch. “Four fifteen AM, central time, contact lost with USA-325, presumed destroyed by hostile action. Log it.”

  “And that, people, is how you scratch a two billion dollar satellite!” the nervous smoker in the second row declared.

  Beckman leaned toward General Hickson and whispered, “What’s going on, General?”

  “It’s the real deal, Bob. It came down hard, and it’s big.”

  “How big?”

  General Hickson pursed his lips. “At least two million metric tons.”

  “What!”

  “It entered the atmosphere at over one hundred and fifty times the speed of sound, decelerating all the way down.” The General gave him a sobering look. “We’re assuming there are survivors, because it’s shooting down everything we send over to look at it. So far, we have zero penetration.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s still top secret. Just us and the Aussies know about it. No idea how long that will last. Every satellite in sight of ground zero is gone. It’s a total no fly zone, so you’ll have to go in on foot. So far, they’ve only blinded us. They haven’t attacked any population centers or strategic targets, so it doesn’t fit any of the aggressor scenarios. Washington believes it’s a forced landing, not an invasion. We’re proceeding on the assumption that they’re buying time to make repairs. Hell, they might be gone before you even get there.”

  “Are we going to grab the ship, General?”

  Hickson looked doubtful. “A lot of people in Washington want that, but this thing can defend itself, so it’s probably not an option. Your job is to get in there and assess threats and opportunities.”

  “If they’re shooting down aircraft and satellites, they’re not going to let us get close on foot.”

  “I know. They’re your orders.”

  “Understood.”

  “And one more thing.” From the look on the General’s face, Beckman knew he was not going to like what was coming next. “Washington has assigned two civilians to your team.”

  “Civilians? What kind of training to do they have?”

  “Assume none.”

  “Nursemaiding a couple of civilians will endanger the mission.”

  General Hickson nodded. “I agree, but this is from the top, Bob. Nothing I can do about it. You’re in charge, but these two guys somehow managed to buy a ticket. Even I don’t know who they are.”

  “Since you put it like that . . .”

  “You leave in an hour. You can sleep on the plane.”

  “Yes sir,” Beckman replied crisply, thinking, We’re not ready!

  CHAPTER 2

  Bandaka Wirrapingu sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose at the acrid fumes lingering near the crash site. It was a smell unlike anything he’d encountered before in the forest. The Yolngu hunter rested his spear on the ground as he peered warily through the trees toward the charred clearing fifty meters away. He’d been searching for it since he’d seen a column of black smoke rising into the sky earlier in the day. The smoke had been too black and oily for a campfire, too thin for a bush fire. Bandaka guessed the source of the fire was on the eastern slope of Mount Fleming, just north of the Walker River. It had burned itself out hours ago, but the unnatural caustic odor remained like an invisible spirit haunting the land. He wondered if it was the smell that had silenced the creatures of the forest, or something else beyond his understanding.

  The only sign of life was a dark gray, wedge tailed eagle circling high above on wings whose span was greater than the tallest man. Bandaka had always admired the great eagle, the largest hunter in the sky. He took its presence as a sign that a great spirit watched over the land and who, even now, spied the charred wreckage scattered amongst the tall, white limbed gum trees ahead.

  Gathering his courage, he crept toward the burnt out clearing, moving as silently as if he were stalking his prey. He saw a light gray tailplane resting against a tree, marked with a forward pointing half arrowhead. It was then he realized the smell choking the area was the remains of jet fuel that had exploded on impact. As he neared the scorched ground, he spied the blackened outline of a slender fuselage, emblazoned with a bright red kangaroo against a white background inside a blue circle. Bandaka had seen Ro
yal Australian Air Force Super Hornet fighters before. They flew training missions over the land to the west, and above the sea to the north, but this was the first time he’d ever heard of one crashing in the forest.

  The fighter had shattered on impact, scattering debris for a hundred meters through the trees and igniting a series of spot fires. A battered torpedo-shaped device lay against a boulder to his right. The glass plate on its underside, shielding the pod’s camera, had cracked but not splintered. Bandaka glanced at it, not recognizing the photo reconnaissance pod or suspecting the leaders of the western world were desperate to retrieve its contents. Instead, he crept past the F/A 18’s landing gear to the cockpit, which had separated from the fuselage when the plane had been torn apart during the crash. Inside, he found the charred remains of the pilot, still strapped in his seat wearing his helmet and partially melted oxygen mask. Even though Bandaka lived in the forest, isolated from modern civilization, he knew fighter pilots ejected from aircraft before they crashed. He wondered why this pilot had ridden his plane into the ground. It never occurred to him that the pilot had tried desperately to eject, but had been unable to do so when every system on his aircraft had inexplicably failed.

  Bandaka felt sadness for the dead flier and made a sign to the fallen man’s wandering spirit. There was little else he could do. He looked curiously over the fragments of the jet fighter strewn through the trees, wondering why the white men had not come. He knew they should have been there by now in their rescue helicopters. The fact they weren’t, unsettled him. He’d seen the great falling star, an evil omen whose frightening meaning his tribe knew well. Now the white man’s warplane had crashed and no one had come.

  It was very strange.

  Bandaka swallowed apprehensively. The Yolngu people had lived harmoniously with the natural environment for tens of thousands of years. They belonged to this ancient and sacred land, the domain of great and wise spirits, but now he sensed something was wrong. Instinctively, he looked skyward for the majestic hunter of the air, but the great eagle had vanished, leaving Bandaka feeling very much alone. The forest was like an old friend, but it had inexplicably changed. Where before there’d been the promise of food and protection, now there was danger. He knew he must seek old Mulmulpa’s guidance. The old man with his dreaming vision would know what was happening.