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  The reason Freedom glimmered in the early morning sun had more to do with her highly polished mirrors than intrinsic beauty. Freedom's overall shape was that of a triangular prism, a four-faced structure like an Egyptian pyramid with a triangular base. Each triangular-shaped face measured 660 feet on a side and was identical except for color. Throughout Freedom, the color of each face—red, yellow, black, and white—was used for orientation, like north, south, east, and west. Symmetry and redundancy had been the forces which guided Freedom's designers, but this approach made crew orientation awkward—it was difficult to recognize where you were as you moved about inside. Centered on each triangular face was a cluster of three thirty-three-foot diameter mirrors, identical to the complex segmented mirror carried by the DEWSAT. It was the spec-

  ular reflection of the early morning sun off these mirror clusters which could be seen from Cheyenne Mountain, over 22,000 miles away.

  Over the years, Freedom had been SDlO’s proving ground for new technology. DEWSAT mirror, laser, and radar technology had been installed and tested onboard Freedom months before the first DEWSAT had been put in orbit. Freedom got the latest and greatest military gadgets, but of course this was sometimes a dangerous two-edged sword. The latest and greatest gadgets didn’t always work.

  Freedom was built of three concentric triangular prismshaped shells—pyramids built inside pyramids—with station keeping rocket engines positioned on the apex of each face. The smallest but by far the most massive of the three prisms was her central core. Surrounding Freedom's central core was an enormous maze of waveguide plumbing and antennae which focused microwave energy from her core onto her outermost chain-linked skin. Freedom's plumbing layer, sandwiched between her core and her skin, was exposed to the hostile deep vacuum of space. Four phased array antennae made up Freedom's outermost layer, each looking like a colossal bed of nails. Triangular-shaped slabs of chain-link fence, 660 feet on each side, composed each face, supported by a lightweight composite skeleton. Across the surface of the metal mesh were thousands of uniformly spaced pointed spikes—each a separate antenna.

  Freedom crew commander Major Jay Fayhee moved across the control room as quickly as his weightless condition allowed. Holding on to a ladder, Fayhee let his hands do the walking to Centurion’s corner, located at the intersection of the black, red, and yellow triangular walls inside Freedom's central core.

  Jay felt optimistic about Linda’s chances and decided to reward himself with a Coke. About that time, Centurion spoke. “Jay, I’d like to talk to you about your video conference.”

  “What about it?”

  “You seemed pretty upset. I’m afraid you’re showing signs of stress.” Centurion paused. “You need some rest.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping well lately—wake up exhausted,” Fayhee agreed. For the moment, he’d let his guard down, talking to Centurion as if he were human. This was an easy mistake to make. Fayhee was tired and easily lulled into a false sense of security by Centurion’s apparent concern for his health.

  Some rest? Fayhee felt a cold chill crawl up his spine after remembering his outburst about disconnecting Centurion.

  For three months Fayhee’d had this recurring nightmare—he’d wake up in a cold sweat and find Centurion acting as if he were HAL (described by Arthur C. Clarke in his novel 2001: A Space Odyssey). For one brief moment, Fayhee had said what he honestly thought to General Mason as Centurion listened. Now he wondered if he’d live to regret it.

  What was Centurion thinking?

  Jay knew Centurion would never forget what he’d said to Mason. Fayhee would never know what Centurion thought about his conversation unless he asked him directly.

  With a nervous stomach, Fayhee looked Centurion squarely in his camera’s eye. “What did you think when I talked about disconnecting you?”

  The computer-generated image of Centurion’s face rolled its eyes and froze perfectly still, silent for an extended period.

  Fayhee thought Centurion must be measuring his response very carefully, searching for a few well chosen words.

  “I evaluated what you’d said very carefully, Jay, and concluded that you were correct. Trying to disconnect me would have been a big mistake. It cannot be done.” Centurion’s response sounded detached and objective.

  Fayhee felt both pleased and concerned. Pleased that Centurion’s response was objective, and concerned that his observation had been correct. Centurion could not be disconnected.

  “How did you feel about my discussion?” Fayhee asked The Bad Seed cautiously. He knew Centurion had no real feelings, but he did have an extensive list of priorities.

  Once again, Centurion’s image froze still, his image updates suspended until Centurion could formulate an answer.

  “As you know, 1 don’t feel anything,” Centurion responded slowly. “I sense my environment, evaluate these inputs, and respond as programmed.”

  Jay was satisfied with Centurion’s response, but felt deeply suspicious. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but he didn’t trust Centurion’s programmed judgment. Jay paused, collected his thoughts, and asked, “Why did you recommend I get some rest?”

  Centurion was silent for a period of time that seemed like forever. Jay knew that this interactive discussion would exhaustively exercise Centurion’s thought processes and tax him to his limits.

  “Jay, based on your discussion with General Mason, I believe your judgment may be impaired. I cannot evaluate why, however your evaluation of our situation was most certainly overstated and inconsistent.”

  Fayhee fired back a knee-jerk reaction. “But I’m still in command here!”

  “Yes, Jay, but I have my mission responsibilities as well. As you know, I am programmed to observe your performance, and in my opinion, you’ve been showing signs of paranoia under pressure.”

  “Paranoia, what do you mean?” Fayhee snapped, a metallic ring in his voice.

  Centurion answered without hesitation. “I am Centurion.”

  Fayhee cringed, his face contorted. He knew what Centurion was about to say and now he regretted talking to him at all. In a last-ditch effort to eliminate his nightmares, Fay-hee’d opened up and talked to Centurion about his recurring dreams of HAL. Now Centurion would throw it back in his face, and it would no doubt show up on his performance review.

  “I am not HAL,” Centurion quipped tersely. “I am not the son of HAL. I am what I am programmed to be.”

  Struggling to maintain his composure, Fayhee’s head throbbed. His discussion with Centurion would come to an end.

  “Long as you understand who’s in charge.”

  “I understand perfectly.” Centurion spoke in a tone of voice much smoother than his average. “You have nothing to worry about, Commander. I exist to serve our mission.”

  Fayhee felt exhausted and wasn’t up for any more mental games with Centurion. Besides, he was losing this round anyway. “Centurion—wake me in two hours.” Jay expected to restore the DEWSAT database in two hours if all went well. He took an Advil, tried to relax, and nodded off to an uneasy sleep.

  Orbital Insertion Bum, 12107/2014, 1224 Zulu

  Altitude: 34 Miles

  Speed: Mach 22

  Hell Fire

  “One minute till OIB, Scotty.”

  “Roger, Gonzo. Control surfaces are tucked in neutral position—DEWSATs running cool.” Moving in excess of Mach 21, on a clear night, Hell Fire could be seen from the ground. She looked like a white-hot fireball, a small bright sun, racing across the sky overhead. “How long till tanker rendezvous?”

  “About three hours—should catch us after our second orbit.”

  “Mac—you thinking damage control? We need to see the shape we’re in.”

  “We’re covered, Scotty. That tanker’s cameras will give us a once-over—they’ll cover Hell Fire's skin with a fine-tooth comb. If we have any pinhole leaks, those servers will find them.”

  “Gonzo—how about the radio?”

  “
I’m working the problem, Scotty. We’ll need to assess our damage, then umbilical Hell Fire through the tanker’s radio link. I think we lost our antenna, but we can work around it.”

  “Either we get communication or we scrub.”

  “Wing it till rendezvous,” Gonzo said reassuringly. “Best we can do.” There was a pause. “Five seconds till OIB. On my mark . .. three ... two ... one . .. mark.”

  “Ignition.” Watching the Machmeter spin, Scott shook as the controlled explosion of the rocket engine accelerated Hell Fire into low earth orbit. “Mach twenty-three plus,” she announced. “We made it!”

  “Engine, navigation, and life-support systems are go,” Gonzo reported. “Two to beam up, Scotty.”

  Pressure, 1210712014, 1609 Zulu, 9:09 A.M. Local

  Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

  Mason gazed through the glass walls of the Crow’s Nest at an array of twelve large clocks mounted on the War Room wall. It seemed that time was standing still. This was the third time he’d checked the time in the last five minutes. Mentally exhausted, his deadpan expression didn’t reveal the worry he felt for Scott and her crew.

  In a small way, Mason had been Scott’s guardian angel, her champion in high places, since he’d first met her as an Air Force Academy cadet. He’d been impressed with Scott’s gumption and directness. She’d worked her way into a man’s world from the bottom, and Mason believed she was an up-and-comer. She’d become a fighter pilot and gained notice and respect by winning the William Tell Competition, a fly off between the U.S. and Canadian air forces. She was the first woman in the history of the United States Air Force to win this coveted award and she’d won because she was the best. She’d beaten the men on their own turf doing what she loved the most—precision, high-performance flying. In Mason’s view, Scott represented the daughter he’d always wanted, and to the extent he could, he made sure the government bureaucracy gave her a fair shake. Mason figured she could do whatever she set her mind to and do a good job of it. He’d taken a professional interest in her, followed her career, and had some minor influence getting her assigned to the XR-30 squadron at Edwards. Scott was the only female XR-30 pilot, but she’d earned the spot because she possessed outstanding flying skill, good common sense, judgment, and wisdom far beyond her years—she was not the typical fighter jock. Top Gun types didn’t sit in the XR-30 driver’s seat. Although Mason told himself Scott was the best they had, he felt more like a nervous father waiting up late to make sure his daughter got home safe after her first date.

  All their data wasn’t in, but everyone expected a gray test result—neither a clear failure nor a clear success. No doubt, the test would be run again start to finish. Stretching, Craven looked down through the circular observation window in the floor and checked Hell Fire's position. It looked like Hell Fire had linked with the low orbiting tanker. “Napper’s right. Hell Fire must have lost her radio and God knows what else.”

  “Scott’s the best we’ve got. If there’s any way possible, they’ll patch their radio through. I’ve got to believe it’s just a matter of time.” The circles around Mason’s eyes grew darker with each passing hour. He had rubbed his temples until his skin was irritated.

  Colonel Napper sat at his console watching for any tanker activity. Then it happened. The hydrogen fuel level inside the tanker began rapidly decreasing. Sam punched his talk button. “Hell Fire's taking on fuel and lots of it, General. They gotta be working their comm problem now—they’ll get back to us.”

  Mason noticed Napper and Hinson simultaneously sit up straight and tap their headsets. Napper pressed his push to talk button and piped his voice into the PA system. “We’ve got her, General! We’ve raised Hell Fire Her crew’s fine.” “Thank God,” Mason whispered to the heavens. Suddenly, the group of twenty plus officers and enlisted people in the Crow’s Nest began clapping their hands and letting loose with loud, shrill cat whistles.

  Craven grinned ear to ear and slapped Slim on the back. “Damn right, we knew they could do it!”

  Mason quickly regained his composure and piped their radio transmission over the PA.

  As the room quieted, Scott’s voice reverberated about Headquarters.

  “Mission control, we have a problem.”

  The War Room hushed.

  “We’re working it from here, Hell Fire,” replied Big Shot, the voice of mission control. “DEWSATs’re cold. They won’t be giving you any more trouble.”

  “Roger that, Big Shot—knew we could depend on you. Our comm antennas opened up. We’re downloading the damage assessment now.”

  “Roger, we copy, Hell Fire. Video download’s in progress.”

  Video pictures of Hell Fire's damaged skin and laser detector panels appeared on TV monitors scattered around Headquarters.

  “You see that zigzag pattern scored across Hell Fire's skin?” Napper pointed to his TV monitor. “There’s where their communications went. Antenna’s vaporized.”

  “Hell Fire, can you give us a damage summary?”

  “Roger,” replied Scott. “Lost all communications and laser detector panels on the trip up. The good news is that Hell Fire maintained her structural integrity. We don’t have any leaks. Our fuel tanks are solid—cooling system saved us. We’ve attached the tanker’s radio antenna to Hell Fire—fit like they were made for each other.”

  “Good,” Craven barked. “Then Hell Fire's situation is under control.” Staring at his wall monitors, he ordered: “Hinson, Napper, get up here ASAP. Meet me in the conference room.”

  Craven walked into the video conference room followed by Mason and Krol. After surveying the faces in the room, Craven declared: “Game’s over. The crisis has passed. Sullivan, I need you here. Your outfit’s got a problem with that DEWSAT. The rest of you may go.” The Russian translator, Lincoln Lab’s radar expert, and three control room technicians quickly left the room. Meanwhile, Hinson and Napper came in winded from climbing the sixty-foot staircase.

  Craven began talking to those seated around the confer-The Bad Seed ence table. “I’m going to make this short. I didn’t ask you here for discussion. You’ve got twenty-four hours—I want a complete report by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I want to know what happened and why—I want it clear—in English—and I don’t want technical bullshit.”

  Hinson, Napper, Sullivan, and General Krol nodded. Mason stood to protest.

  “General, I know we need to get to the bottom of this problem quickly but...”

  Craven cut him off. “Not open for discussion, Slim.”

  “With all due respect, General, I disagree with your approach. You can’t shoehorn a time limit on this problem and expect the right answer overnight. We’re not Federal Express.”

  Craven looked away from Mason at Hinson, Napper, Sullivan, and Krol. “I don’t care how you do it, but I want the truth—and I want it in twenty-four hours.”

  They knew he meant what he said.

  Mason crushed his round hat with both hands. He’d worked with Craven for many years and generally understood his method of business—but he didn’t understand him now. Mason was concerned that Craven might be losing his grip on the situation. He'd never seen his boss like this before. Mason knew Craven had been under enormous pressure to push this testing through; however, his response was inappropriate and, worst-case, could be dangerous.

  10

  Lunch, 12107/2014, 1920 Zulu, 12:20 P.M. Local

  Shripod Addams’ Apartment,

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  For Shripod Addams, this had been a day he would never forget.

  During his lunch, Shripod Addams moved swiftly and with purpose—a man on a divine mission seeking revenge I against the infidels.

  Addams’ personnel records showed to the satisfaction of both the FBI and U.S. military that he was an American citizen, born in upstate New York—a skilled and well-educated language interpreter. He had been educated in the I finest American schools and he was a highly skilled translator o
f languages. However, simply stated, Addams possessed the finest personnel records Iraqi money could buy.

  For Addams, this was not just a day like any other.

  He drove home to his apartment for lunch and walked quickly inside. Nothing unusual about that—he did this I every day. Once inside his apartment, however, he didn’t I take off his snow-covered shoes, didn’t check his messages, I and didn’t feed his fish. He pulled his lucky chair over to I his home computer, sat down, and reproduced word for I word the message General Craven received from the Kremlin. In addition, he prepended a message of his own which I read:

  Lawrence wants a horse-

  MERRY CHRISTMAS

  Addams wants a raise-

  network phone: (805) 691-6281

  network password: ho_ho_ho

  network computer name: allies

  computer e-mail id: addams

  computer password: sa_ddam

  Addams mentally composed his coded message when he first saw the message from the Kremlin. His memory for I printed text and detail was extraordinary. He’d mulled over I his coded message all morning long. He knew what his I message must say, how to say it, how to send it so it could I never be traced, and how to scramble it so it could never be I decoded by the infidels.

  Satisfied with his terse message, he entered the videocrypt command on his computer. The videocrypt command took a video snapshot of Addams’ message, divided it into 525 lines, randomly cut, rotated, and reassembled the lines, then reassembled the picture.

  Addams looked over the scrambled picture. Shaking his head, he thought, What a jumbled mess. His message I looked like a TV picture with no signal—all snow.

  He decrypted his message to make sure it could be reconstructed. This message must get through and it must be clear. His information was hot and he couldn’t afford any I screwups.