“GPS interface ready.” The RSO activated his Global Positioning System interface, a delicate, computer-controlled aiming system from the sensors that used positional readings from satellites to let the image computers know the exact location of both target and platform. It was less for the visible-light sensors than for the SAR, particularly when the mission called for narrow observation, as this one did. The basic premise was that clarity in the representation of the data gathered was dependent upon two things: knowing precisely where the platform and target were at all times during the pass. Knowing the location of just the platform was not enough, as the target was also not in a consistent location, a problem caused by the simple fact that the earth moves, and, therefore, every point on it follows the motion. If the position of a GPS ground station was known in relation to a target that has none, the location of the unknown could be determined. Noting the position of the platform was just a process of taking GPS readings forty times per second. These positional readings were then used to correlate the “picture” created by the SAR and place landmarks and geological features within an overlay of the area of observation. Because of the precision allowed by the GPS interface, the SAR could begin imaging the target while still approaching, giving oblique views that were combined with the overall data package to give extreme three-dimensional detail.
“Uprange three minutes.” The pilot checked her performance readings. Everything was fine. This was not the time for a minor glitch to disrupt the mission. “Systems are nominal.”
“Shooting now.” The RSO activated the SAR with just the touch of a button. Target information had been fed in before takeoff. Three feet below him, and running toward the rear of the aircraft another thirty feet, the powerful radar-imaging system focused on a point 180 miles away. Seventeen-thousand-two-hundred-eighty inch-square planar radar transceiver/receivers protected within the graphite epoxy housing swiveled toward the target in fractions of a millimeter until the computers decided that the energy was properly focused.
“Receiving data.”
The pilot again checked the systems. A bunch of microprocessors told her everything was A-OK, and there was no arguing with that. Flying sure had changed from her days at Colorado Springs and, later, piloting the TR-1, the updated version of the famed U-2. She barely touched the stick — a six-inch form-molded handle on her right console — during flights in her present ride. But looking through the tiny viewport above her head — the windscreen was covered by a retractable shield during the climbout to altitude — she could think of no complaints. Day was breaking 130,000 feet below her, but straight up, a direction she hoped to go one day in the right seat of the Space Shuttle, it was a beautiful indigo with flecks of white still visible. Low and slow was the way some fighter drivers liked it, but not her. High and fast, riding a rocket, was the only way to go. Someday. This would do for now, though.
“That’s a wrap,” the RSO reported five minutes after the pass began. He immediately began compiling the data for relay to NPIC. He’d have to do no preprocessing on this package.
“Okay.” The pilot took one last look upward. “Let’s head on home.”
Why was he driving like that? The needle was passing fifty, then sixty, then seventy, then eighty.
Johnny, slow down.
He turned and smiled at her, his face as young and smooth as ever. She looked back at him from the passenger seat.
Sis, hang on. This is fun. He glanced into the backseat. Right, Thom?
Frankie’s head jerked to the left. It was him! Sitting there, just fine! Tommy! You’re all right.
But he didn’t answer. He just smiled, looking like a little boy. Tommy, why won’t you say anything?
She felt the car go around the corners at a speed that seemed impossible. Her stomach twisted and turned as the speed increased. Johnny, please.
Easy, Sis. You’re such a crybaby, just like when Mom used to go to work. Stop your worrying.
She looked out the front window again. Telephone poles rushed past and the brown walls of dirt lining the roadway seemed to be one long…what?…tunnel. No, it couldn’t be a tunnel, because she could see the sky.
Hey, who are those guys?
The car stopped instantly, going from a hundred to zero in the blink of an eye. Frankie felt her insides jump, but it wasn’t from the motion, or cessation of it. No!
Johnny stepped out of the car first, followed by Thom. They walked to the front of the Camaro and waved at the two men approaching them.
Frankie tried to undo the seatbelt, but there was none. Then why couldn’t she get out? Why were her legs frozen? Johnny! Thom! Stay away from them! She reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded pictures. It was them! The men who had…were going to kill… She shook her head, trying to drive the confusion away.
Hey, fellas. Johnny motioned for Thom to follow him.
No! “Johnny! Thom! Don’t!” Frankie could see the men. They had guns! She reached to her hip for her weapon, but it wouldn’t come out of the holster. Looking down, she could see the top strap undone, but it still wouldn’t come out. She pulled hard on it, her teeth gritting, as she watched the distance decrease between those scum and two men she cared about. Please! Please! One of the men started to lift his gun, pointing it at Thom and Johnny.
“No!” There was a loud sound, a sharp crack, just as her weapon came loose from its holster. Frankie drew it up and pointed it toward the… “FREEZE!”
A soft whimper broke the grip of the nightmare. “Mom-ommy…”
Frankie saw her little angel past the sights of her gun, which was trained on her crying face. “Oh, my God.” She moved the gun aside and laid it on the bed before slinking off the mattress to Cassie.
“Mommy. Mommy. Why did…?” The tears were coming in sobs now, from both mother and daughter. A second later the first of three generations of Aguirres rushed into the bedroom.
“Francine, what…?” Amelia Aguirre saw the gun on the bed and the small lamp lying on the floor near the door. Her daughter had always told Cassandra to open the door gently, as it easily hit the dresser when pushed too hard. But why was her gun on the bed? Oh, no. “Francine, what happened? You were yelling.”
“Oh, Mom. I’m sorry.” Frankie looked up to the woman she worshiped as she hugged Cassie as hard as she could without hurting her. “I didn’t mean to do it. I was dreaming about Johnny and Thom, and they were…” She couldn’t explain anymore.
Amelia Aguirre went to her knees and wrapped her arms around her two little girls. “It’s okay, mija. She is all right. She is fine.”
“But I could have…” Frankie collapsed into the arms of her mother and little girl, they now consoling her. There was something not right about it, but also something completely right about it. It was familia. It was safety.