‘No sir they did not.’
‘Just for my colleagues who are new to the situation, walk me through it briefly.’
‘We have a large satellite in orbit, high orbit. It is quite old and we were maintaining it regularly as part of the space defence initiative. However, due to changes in priorities, reallocation of funds and just bad luck, this platform has become unstable.’
‘Define unstable Mr Fisher.’
‘It is in a decaying orbit, and unless we can get up there in the next twelve hours, it will re-enter the atmosphere.’
‘And what is the likelihood of us getting any spacecraft to it in time.’
‘None at present sir.’
‘Can the Russians not launch to assist us?’
‘That is the other problem sir. The Russians do not know officially it exists.’
‘How unusual, tell me Mr Fisher, what exactly is on this satellite? What’s its purpose?’
‘It appears on the outside to be a weather satellite or space telescope. The cover story is that it is scanning the Moon and Mars for water, but went inactive some years ago. That stops anyone asking to actually use it.’
‘And the real purpose?’
‘It is a space based nuclear weapons platform, in breach of most treaties.’
‘And does it have any weapons on board?’
‘A Small contingent of four weapons, armed and ready at all times. They each have a twelve megaton yield.’
‘Why did we leave them up there?’
‘The team that used to maintain and monitor it was caught in budget cuts, and they could not really state why they needed the money could they?’
‘Indeed, I understand the need for deniability. Should they impact the Earth when the satellite re-enters the atmosphere, will they detonate?’
‘Unlikely sir, they are designed to be shielded should that happen, the problem is the impact. It is possible that the casings may crack from such a severe impact on the ground, leaking radioactive material at the crash site.’
‘How did we lose control of this in the first place, can we not remotely control it?’
‘We lost that ability a month ago sir. The Chinese tested one of their anti-satellite missiles, and the debris from the test, some particles must have hit our platform, disabling its navigation unit.’
‘And we have not been able to replace it?’
‘Correct sir.’
‘So it is going to crash, we cannot stop it?’
‘That is correct sir, the predictions I made which you have, show that if the unit hit’s a populated area, devastation and loss of life will be substantial.’
‘Do you know where the crash site is?’
‘Preliminary calculations indicate a rough area, but nowhere exactly, it depends when and where….’
‘Just give me ball park Mr Fisher.’
‘Texas sir, south east Texas.’
‘How big is this object?’
‘One hundred fifty tons, it will leave a very large crater, and the fireball will be seen all the way through the atmosphere during re-entry.’
‘So they are going to see it coming?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Well we will take your information under advisement, and take what action we can.’
‘Should we not inform the public so they can evacuate?’
‘No, absolutely not! That would cause panic and if your estimates are off, it may push people into the impact zone.’
‘But I have to do something.’
‘You already have Mr Fisher, everything you can.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘No, just stay in the facility, we will deal it.’
The call ended, Fisher sat down at his desk, watched the computer screen predict the path of the waning satellite. In less than twelve hours parts of Texas would be uninhabitable for the next thousand years, and no one knew it was coming.
THIRTY FIVE
Alfred Perfidy was on Governors Island south of Manhattan, East of Liberty Island. The junction of the East and Hudson Rivers merging and flowing on down to the Upper New York Bay. The island had been the Governor of New Holland’s residence, a fort, a jail, naval base and originally a place to pick nuts, but for now a national park. It was the birthplace of New York in 1625, but today would become the location of death for a President. The tourist season did not start until June so any person would stand out to the locals. Alfred had planned for that.
He had taken a Water taxi to Red Hook from Pier Eleven on Wall Street, passing by Governors Island. He walked up from Red Hook in Brooklyn, to the docks, down to the Pier Twelve development, no cruise ships at rest today. It was late afternoon around 4 p.m. he knew that President Uncotto would be leaving at 7 p.m. according to the schedule he had extracted from the careless personal assistant. It was not the young man’s fault, but his phone was set to allow access from anyone, so while Alfred was sitting listening to Uncotto, his phone hacked and downloaded all the information from any electronic device with Bluetooth or infrared capability in the room. It always stunned him that with all the paranoia regarding security that a simple set of instructions could protect these devices from casual snooping.
The president would take a motorcade from the hotel to JFK, but if the road was blocked, which Alfred ensured it was, there was an alternate route. Manhattan Heliport on the East River onto JFK International airport in Jamaica Bay, a short trip from the hotel, but an exposed exit route. First he had to get to his firing position on Governors Island. He donned his dry suit hidden below the pier, standing on a small ledge he had put in place the previous night along with his gear. The Port Authority made regular patrols, and he almost got caught by a wayward spotlight checking the piers and backwaters. With dry suit and helmet to keep out the brown river water slapping below his feet, he dropped into the cold beige liquid. With his flippers in place, and his sea scooter powered up, he took a compass bearing for the northeast side of the island, and submerged.
The visibility was virtually zero, and he could only use a compass and estimate the distance travelled. He went down to twenty feet, the Buttermilk Channel between the island and Brooklyn was only forty feet deep at best, climbing up to twenty-five near the piers he intended to land at. The sea scooter whirred along, full throttle to get through the centre section of the channel, his weapons and other kit in a cylinder towed between his legs. The current was flowing against him and pushing him towards the island, he was constantly compensating and checking the compass heading displayed on his helmet visor. Within an hour he had reached the small piers near Kimmel Road, opposite the Admiral’s house, and came to rest below.
His sea scooter was tethered under the water, out of sight, ready for his extraction later. He hauled his tube container out, his large arms having little resistance from the forty pounds of kit. He moved rapidly to shore, removed his dry suit, opened his container, the park ranger uniform and weapons protected from the river. With his green trousers, light shirt and cream brimmed hat he put the remaining kit in his rucksack, stowed the container in a bush and moved off up Kimmel Road. He only had a short walk to get to his firing position; his sniper rifle was in another container offshore, awaiting retrieval. He walked at a sedate pace, the trees which bordered the road reminding him of his childhood in Russia. Passing the junction of Andes Road another ranger approached; something he had allowed for, but not desired.
The polite and smiling face of the Ranger, black hair a small beard and moustache surrounded a large smile ‘Are you new here buddy?’
Alfred answered, his accent impeccable, ‘yeah just got here, going to check the top shore.’
‘Oh that’s all done, doing extra checks with the camera’s being out up there.’
Alfred had disabled the cameras the previous night, assuming they would be inspected and repaired after he had left; the ubiquitous budget restraints.