“But if I told someone, they'd know I was looking at data I wasn't supposed to be looking at,” Jimmy said simply.
“Good God,” Conners shook her head. “We have met the enemy and they is us.”
“What?” Jimmy frowned.
“Forget it.” Conners focused her mind. “All right. What do you think is causing this?”
“I don't have a clue,” Jimmy said. “The patterns are very regular though and the lines intersect and seem to focus on several spots on the planet's surface. So its not random.”
“Not random,” Conners muttered. “So something’s causing this?”
“Of course something’s causing this,” Jimmy said.
“No,” Conners shook her head in exasperation. “What I mean is someone is causing this?”
Jimmy squinched his face. “Well, actually no. Nobody could do this. I mean, the pattern is not random, so that would suggest that there is a guiding cause, but nobody could propagate something like this so-” his words tumbled on top of themselves to an awkward halt.
Conners walked over and looked at the lines. “What effect is this going to have?”
“At the current levels,” Jimmy said, “not much at all. But it seems to be growing in power.”
“And if it keeps growing?” Conners pressed.
“Gee, I don't know, Pat.” Jimmy rubbed his chin where a few hairs struggled to hint at a beard. “But it would be bad if it went, say four powers higher. The electromagnetic stuff could knock out power grids, cause certain types of electronic devices to malfunction. You know how they ask people to turn off their laptops and cell phones when a plane takes off? Well, those things aren’t really a problem but the airline doesn’t want to take a chance with anything interfering with the plane’s systems. Right now, at the center of each of these points, the interference is about four times more powerful than that sort of equipment.
“The radioactive stuff, now that's a whole 'nother ballgame. I don't see how this upswing could be happening, but if it keeps up for a few more days at this rate, we're going to have some very sick and some very dead people at the intersections of some of the flux lines.” Jimmy brightened. “But it can't keep growing.”
“Why not?”
“Well, cause-” Jimmy paused. “Cause, I mean it just happened and… “ his voice trailed off.
But Conners had suddenly noticed something about the map. She reached for a three ring binder on her desk and flipped through it. “Oh, my gosh,” she muttered.
“What is it?” Jimmy was alarmed at the ashen look on her face.
Conners jabbed her finger into the book. “I think I know how this is spreading. And I think I know where it's coming from.” She ripped out a page and carried it over to the mosaic. With a red marker she begin making small X’s on the paper.
“It’s not all of them, but some of them fit.”
“Not all of what?” Jimmy asked.
“MILSTARS satellites. See how these are along the lines of propagation? You have a MILSTARS satellite in geosynchronous orbit at each of these points. Whoever or whatever is doing this is using satellites as a medium.” She remembered the strange data on the MILSTARS-16 satellite and now knew what it meant.
“But how can that be? You can't do that,” Jimmy said. “It's not technically possible.”
“I don't care if it's technically possible,” Conners said, “but someone is doing it. This all fits too well.”
“But why?” Jimmy asked.
“I don't know why because I don't know who’s doing it,” Conners said. “But I can tell you exactly where all this power is originating from.” She touched a point on the mosaic. “Right here in north-central Cambodia where good old Mister Foreman wanted me to take a look with Bright Eye. And that someone didn't appreciate us taking a look because they blasted Bright Eye right out of space.”
Jimmy's eyes opened wide at that. “Bright Eye blew up?”
“Damn right.”
Jimmy shook his head. “These lines aren’t originating from just the one point. Not anymore. They were, I mean, from what was requested before, but not now.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“The colors,” Jimmy said. “The shades. They tell-” Jimmy paused, as if trying to figure out how to explain to her. “All right, just trust me on this. I can read these colors and patterns, OK?”
Conners nodded.
Jimmy went on. “OK. I went back when I saw all this, trying to get a read on how quickly the power was growing.” He gave a slight smile. “And not only was I able to get an estimate on the growth rate, but also the path the propagation is taking. It did indeed start in Cambodia, but it seems to be picking up power from a couple of other places now.”
“Where?” Conners asked.
Jimmy’s long finger tapped the spots as he called them out. “Here, off of Bermuda. Here, in western Russia, right about Lake Baikal, and here in the western Pacific off the coast of Japan. It started in Cambodia and that’s where the most powerful force is generating, but these others are growing in strength and propagation ability, feeding off of whatever is in Cambodia.”
“But-” Conners paused. She had been about to ask why, but she knew it was a pointless question. “Maybe Foreman knows what all this is. I sure hope he does.”
The USS Wyoming was part of the Second Fleet, headquartered at the naval base at Norfolk, Virginia. It was not due to put out to sea for another three weeks as part of its normal rotation of duty. But one phone call from the Chief of Naval Operations to Captain Rogers, the submarine’s commander, changed all that.
For the last two hours phones had been ringing all over Norfolk and the naval base, alerting members of the crew and ordering them to report to duty.
Standing high on submarine’s sail, Rogers watched his crew arrive in spurts, grumbling about the strange alert. He wasn’t concerned about morale-submariners were the elite of the Navy and he knew he could count on his men. He was, however, concerned about the strange nature of the tasking the CNO had given.
First was the fact that it had bypassed every link, and there were many, in the chain of command between Rogers and the CNO. Second, the CNO had simply ordered Rogers to put to sea as quickly as possible, and go at flank speed to a set of coordinates in the ocean and await further instructions. Rogers had had the distinct and troubling feeling that the CNO himself wasn’t quite sure why he was giving these orders and was acting on orders himself. And to Rogers that meant the orders could only come from one of two places: the Secretary of Defense or the President. Either way, it meant whatever was going on was dead serious.
But Rogers had plotted out the coordinates in the chart room and they puzzled him. They were for a point about 600 miles from Norfolk, to the southwest of Bermuda.
Rogers rubbed a hand over his freshly shaved face as another bus pulled up to the gangplank, disgorging a pile of sailors. Now why, he wondered to himself, would someone need a ballistic missile submarine at those coordinates? Rogers could feel the thrum of the engines through the steel plate under his feet, as the reactor got up to power. He looked to his rear, along the massive desk of the Wyoming at the 24 sealed hatches that walked to the rear fin in pairs. Inside those silos he had enough nuclear power on board to destroy the world, or at least a very good chunk of it.
“Eight hours to be on station at the designated coordinates,” his executive officer, Commander Sills, reported to him, coming up the hatch out of the conning tower.
“Crew status?” Rogers inquired.
“Sixty-seven percent accounted for.”
“Let’s get under way,” Rogers ordered.