Orbital Cloud Read online

  I’m on a roll, he thought. Might be time to give Friday a bonus . . .

  Spinning his creaking chair to face the kitchen, Ozzy saw Friday approaching him, wide-eyed and shaking his head.

  “Telephone, Mr. Cunningham.”

  “Telephone? That’s a word I haven’t heard in a while.” Ozzy reached deep into his desk, groping for the cordless that had only rung twice since he’d arrived on Desnoeufs, before realizing that he hadn’t actually heard the phone ring.

  “Not that one, Mr. Cunningham,” Friday held up an aged blue Nokia. “They called mine instead.”

  “Who did?”

  “I should like to ask the same question.”

  Friday pushed the phone, still sticky with fish scales, into Ozzy’s hands. Ozzy wiped the face of the phone with one of his hot dog napkins and put it to his ear.

  “Ozzy here. What are you doing calling Friday’s phone?”

  “Ah, good,” said a male voice at the other end. “Ozzy Cunningham, tech billionaire, I presume. Read your email once in a while, would you? We’ve been trying to get in touch.”

  Whoever it was spoke in that rapid-fire way unique to Americans trying to use their high IQ to dazzle their audience. Not West Coast, this guy. He was from back East.

  “You call your partner on that desert island ‘Friday’?” the man continued. “Terrible, just terrible. I recommend switching to Johansson. Wouldn’t want to give anyone the idea that you were violating his human rights.” There was a pleasant, if practiced, laugh. So he knew Friday’s real name—the one that even Ozzy sometimes forgot.

  “Who the hell are you?” Ozzy asked.

  “I don’t care to talk on this line. How about you take a video call?”

  “Why didn’t you—” Call me directly, Ozzy started to say, before realizing that the point of the exercise was to make a visible show of power. I know everything, the man was saying. You’d better do as I say.

  “Fine,” Ozzy said finally. “My ID’s—”

  The line went dead, and a pop-up appeared in the lower right of Ozzy’s display. A videoconference request from “Unknown.” Whoever they were, they knew Ozzy’s video ID too.

  Ozzy pointed his web camera at himself and hit the Return key. The screen filled with some kind of visual he’d never seen before, then cleared to reveal an impeccably dressed black man. His close-cropped hair and goatee shone in the ruddy sunlight that lit his face from below.

  Ozzy calculated the time difference based on the angle of the light. The sun had just risen over the Indian Ocean, so that put his caller somewhere in the Americas at sunset.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cunningham,” the man said. “Name’s Bruce. Give Johansson my thanks too, for lending his phone. Back here is Chris.”

  The man who had introduced himself as Bruce moved his chair, revealing himself to be in a well-appointed room with a white-haired woman seated behind him poring over something in a binder. The woman named Chris raised her head and waved to the camera with a smile. The sunset glare was dazzling on the natural-wood paneling and crisp white walls. The table looked to be mahogany. A huge amount of money had obviously gone into this room. Ozzy didn’t care much for the low ceiling, though. Small windows too, he mused, before realizing where his interlocutors were calling from.

  This wasn’t somebody’s home. The room with the sun shining into it from below was the cabin of an airplane in flight. And not just any airplane—a private jet.

  People in expensive suits with unremarkable names. Superficial friendliness, high-quality furnishings. There was really only one way to sum up the scene Ozzy saw through the video call.

  “What is this, a spy movie?” he asked.

  Bruce laughed, revealing white teeth. Behind him, Chris narrowed her eyes.

  “You win, Mr. Cunningham,” said Bruce, clapping his exquisitely manicured hands together and leaning toward the camera. “We are, as you suspect, with the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  Ozzy nodded.

  “We’d like to ask you some questions about that article of yours Geeple picked up, and the illustration of the Rod from God by one Jose Juarez. Is now a good time?”

  Sat, 13 Dec 2020, 20:04 +1700 (2020-12-13T03:04 GMT)

  Peterson Air Force Base

  Freeman had had a bad feeling about this meeting ever since arriving at Colonel Lintz’s habitually open-door office to find the door closed.

  Entering the office, he saw the colonel and Major Fernandez on a sofa opposite a man and a woman in expensive suits sitting with their legs crossed. The man was black and tall enough for his legs to look uncomfortable in the limited space available. The woman was in late middle age and had her silver hair in a flawless coiffure. Both of them smiled and stood to welcome Freeman as he walked in.

  “So nice to meet you, Staff Sergeant Freeman,” said the woman. “I’m Christina Ferguson. You can call me Chris.”

  The man, standing behind her, reached out to offer Freeman his hand. “Bruce,” he said.

  Chris urged Freeman to be at ease. “We’re here from McLean,” she said. “You may not have been at this job long, but I suppose you understand what that means.”

  McLean, as Freeman did indeed know, was the city in Virginia where the CIA had built its new headquarters. Of more concern to him, however, was the reason he had been summoned to this meeting, and on that score he had no idea. Nor did it bode well that both Colonel Lintz and Freeman’s own direct superior, Major Fernandez, were present at the meeting.

  Chris and Bruce lowered themselves back onto the sofa, and Freeman took up a position at ease beside the table.

  “Our apologies for the interruption at such a busy time, Sergeant,” Lintz said. “It seems our two guests have some questions for you about a certain Rod from God.”

  Freeman cocked his head quizzically and asked, “Are you referring to SAFIR 3, sir?”

  “Here we go again,” Bruce said, raising his palms. Lintz sighed. Apparently this topic had already been discussed.

  Chris glanced at the two of them and then turned to Freeman with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Staff Sergeant Freeman—may I call you Daryl? A bit less formal.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please don’t be offended. It’s just that we’ve heard the same story five times since this morning. We dropped by Cape Canaveral and they were quite emphatic—firing an ICBM is overwhelmingly more efficient than dropping something from orbit. Correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Freeman nodded.

  Chris went over the proofs NASA had offered, counting each one on her fingers as she went. One, the cost performance for a weapon that lifted objects into orbit only to drop them again would be pitiful. Two, an orbital weapon intended to cause mass destruction would by its very existence violate various space treaties. Three, even if a Rod from God could be put into orbit, it would be exceedingly difficult to guide a dropped projectile to a precise location. A ballistic missile would be many times easier.

  Freeman listened closely to Chris’s review of the facts. The jargon didn’t give her any trouble at all. Apparently she had done her homework. At the very least, she clearly understood better than Major Fernandez, who was nodding along in the chair diagonally opposite. His area of expertise didn’t extend above the limits of the atmosphere.

  “Four,” Chris continued, folding her fourth finger over. “Unlike in years past when only the US and the Soviets had high-resolution radar, nowadays every object in orbit, large or small, is logged in a database so that even private citizens can track satellites. An orbital weapon operating in secret simply could not exist. Therefore, a Rod from God is impossible. Does that about sum it up?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That is also my understanding.”

  Freeman was pleased to hear that the specialists at NASA agreed with his analysis but remained wary. Chris had gotten the
facts from NASA straight and understood them well enough to repeat them in her own words. So why had she even brought the topic up with him?

  Bruce produced a folded piece of paper from his pocket and spread it out on the table. It was X-Man’s article. Chris tapped the illustration with one tastefully manicured finger, the nail painted a soft pink.

  “What bothers us,” she said, “is this illustration.”

  Fernandez craned his neck over the table to see. “Not a bad job,” he remarked. “Lots of fine detail. Looks almost real.”

  “I should hope so,” Chris said. “It is real.”

  Fernandez looked up at her sharply. Lintz and Freeman took another, closer look at the picture.

  “This illustration,” Chris continued, “is based on plans for an antisatellite weapon that were extracted from SDI and provided to an operative in North Korea in 1989.”

  “I knew it looked familiar,” Lintz growled. He looked up at Chris. “So it was the CIA that leaked SDI plans to the Communists, was it? Which side were you on, anyway?”

  “Colonel.” Bruce uncrossed his legs and opened his palms. “If you’re still hung up about the Cold War, write a book about it. I’d love to read what you come up with, and I’m sure our countrymen would too. But for the moment, we need to stay focused on this Rod from God floating around up there as we speak. That’s the real threat right now.”

  Lintz snorted and sat back in the sofa, apparently not interested in pursuing the matter.

  “If I may, sir—Bruce?” Freeman said, choosing his words carefully. “This object you call the Rod from God is the second stage of SAFIR 3, launched from Iran. It’s a used-up rocket shell.”

  “Yes, that’s the other thing everyone keeps telling me,” Bruce replied, one eyebrow raised.

  Freeman was surprised at how nonpatronizing the gesture looked. This man had total mastery over his expressions, and Freeman could tell he was not the sort of person who could be beaten in an argument.

  “But that object is speeding up,” Bruce continued, “And its altitude is increasing. True?”

  “Yes,” replied Freeman.

  “Can a spent rocket shell speed up?”

  “No. But—”

  Bruce raised his hand with impeccable timing to cut Freeman off. “What I’m saying is all direct from you rocket jockeys,” he said. “For the second stage of SAFIR 3 to move into that orbit would have been impossible. That leaves only one conclusion: that object zipping around up there on its thrusters isn’t the second stage of SAFIR 3.”

  Freeman was appalled. The facts about how SAFIR 3 was moving were exactly why it was vital to find out what was making it move.

  “Think about it,” Bruce continued. “Just as the object is discovered, the leader of North Korea gives a speech hinting at the existence of orbital weapons. And to make sure his meaning gets across—” He paused to point at the illustration. “This picture. A drawing based on plans the North Koreans got from us, the CIA. They’re trying to make a statement. They have something.”

  Freeman looked at Bruce’s hands, which were as neatly manicured as Chris’s. In the hangar earlier, spreading out the pressure suits, he had noticed the oil that had already seeped into his own fingers. He balled his hands into fists, hiding the stains.

  “You think this is just politicians and the intelligence community seeing what they want to see, right?” Bruce asked. “Well, fine. But when we receive a message this loud and this clear, we have no choice but to respond.”

  He was now leaning forward over the table. Chris held up a smartphone behind him. On the screen was a picture of a hugely overweight man in a tank top.

  “This is the source of the Rod from God story,” she said. “Ozzy Cunningham, a.k.a. X-Man. We got in touch with him earlier. He said he didn’t know anything, but we’ll be poring over all of his communications for the past three years.” She held her upright posture, shoulders straight. “At the beginning of next week, Bruce will pay a visit to Jose Juarez, the LA-based illustrator. Either Cunningham or Juarez is definitely getting information from North Korea. Do you understand? We are serious about chasing down this Rod from God.”

  Bruce got to his feet, standing beside Chris.

  “We also want details about the plausibility of the Rod from God as an orbital weapon,” he said. “For that, we need someone who knows space. A professional. NASA can’t help us; most of their work is done by civilians. So we came to NORAD, where we won’t need secrecy agreements.”

  Lintz, arms folded, turned his head to face Freeman. This was it—the source of the bad feeling Freeman had had since seeing the closed door. He was going to be asked to babysit a couple of spies chasing down a fantasy.

  “Daryl,” Lintz said. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Bingo.

  “Could you analyze the data based on the assumption that SAFIR 3’s second stage is actually a Rod from God and estimate its capabilities in that case? You can assume that the design shown in that illustration is accurate. We want to clarify exactly what sort of tactical maneuvers a weapon of that sort could perform.”

  Freeman did not relish the prospect of writing a report based on false premises, but it might be better than sorting through Cold War–era documents and trying to make nice with pilots nearing retirement. “Yes, sir,” he said. “What should I do about the ASM-140 report?”

  Fernandez raised his hand in acknowledgment. “Freeman,” he said, “The experimental phase at NORAD is over. The ASM-140 has been adopted by and will see actual operation under USNORTHCOM. I’m sure the handover will proceed without a hitch, thanks to the documentation you prepared.”

  Actual operation? Were they really going to attach the engines when they’d only just finished testing them? More importantly, the ASM-140 was a weapon that violated the debris-reduction guidelines of the Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space. It might be permitted for research purposes, but it was hard to believe it would see active service.

  “Oh, were you involved in the ASM-140 project too?” Chris asked. “Perfect. We wanted to learn more about how well Operation Seed Pod works, too.”

  Operation Seed Pod?

  Fernandez rocked backwards, slapping his forehead. “How exactly does the CIA know about Seed Pod?”

  “Of course the CIA knows about it,” said Chris. “We were the ones who proposed using the ASM-140 to destroy satellites in the first place. Just imagine—an antisat weapon whose operation we can restrict to North American airspace. We’ve already started working on the Russians and the Chinese to make sure they won’t complain about the breach in the guidelines.”

  Chris paused for a moment to glance at the box the Santa hat had come in, still beside Lintz’s desk.

  “To be honest,” she continued, “Operation Seed Pod is the sort of proposal that really should have come from NORAD as part of your weapons-development program. I know you’re busy tracking Santa right now, but perhaps you could be a little more proactive about your defensive role.”

  Ignoring the dark expressions that clouded Lintz’s and Fernandez’s faces, Chris held up her arm and checked her watch, casually conveying that her business with them was over. “Is the guest house ready?” she asked.

  “Major Fernandez will show you the way,” Lintz said. “Staff Sergeant Freeman, it’s getting late. You can get started on that project tomorrow.”

  Freeman clicked his heels and saluted. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I will support our two guests in whatever capacity they may require. Where should I report in the morning?”

  “We’ll use this room, Colonel Lintz,” Chris said. “You can reach the hotline anytime you like, after all, just by reaching under your belly.”

  Bruce stood up and put his arm around Freeman’s shoulders.

  “Skip the uniform tomorrow, Daryl. We might need to take you off base. Can you whip up a short lis
t of Denver’s best restaurants?”

  These two were no doubt very good at what they did. But they were laboring under a serious misconception. Poring over all of X-Man’s—Ozzy’s—communications? What they needed to do was study his photographs. Whatever was making SAFIR 3’s second stage move that way was many times more important than this mythical Rod from God.

  As Freeman was turning toward the door, Bruce’s arm still around his shoulder, he noticed Lintz trying to catch his eye. Lintz’s index fingers were both pointing up. Fernandez, standing beside him, was doing the same thing.

  “See you tomorrow, sergeant,” Lintz said. Together with Fernandez, he raised his hands and then let them fall to the left.

  “Yes, sir,” Freeman said. “See you tomorrow.”

  He recognized the gesture now. It was one of the hand signals used to communicate with aircraft on the runway.

  Proceed at your own discretion.

  Sat, 12 Dec 2020, 10:55 -0600 (2020-12-13T04:55 GMT)

  A Hotel in Seattle

  Shiraishi put his glasses back on, produced a postcoital cigarette from somewhere, and lit up. His brow, still sticky with sweat, shone briefly in the lighter’s orange glow.

  “That’s against the rules here,” Chance said.

  “Whatever,” Shiraishi replied. He propped himself up on one elbow and took a deep drag as he gazed down at Chance’s naked body. “It’s not like we ever use the same hotel twice. Shame about that, actually—the beds here are quite comfortable.”

  Without getting up, Chance stretched out her right hand and snuffed out the cigarette without even removing it from Shiraishi’s mouth. The sharp tang of melted latex mingled with the tarry smell.