Contagious (40 page)

Well, not his ass per se, but the HTV-6Xb hypersonic fighter in which his ass was currently sitting, the same fighter that had that same ass hurtling through the night sky at Mach 10.
Mach motherfucking
10
.
Seven thousand miles per hour.
That shattered the official record for manned flight that had stood since 1967, when Major William J. “Pete” Knight took his X-15A-2 to Mach 6.7. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Pete.
Knight’s flight had been very different. For starters, Knight’s X-15 dropped from the bottom of a B-52 bomber, while Lindeman’s HTV-6Xb took off under its own power from a military airbase at Groom Lake, Nevada. Knight’s X-15 was basically a rocket with wings and a cockpit.
Lindeman’s plane used fairly standard turbojets for takeoff and landing, combined with scramjets to hit such obscene speeds. The most important difference? Knight’s plane was built for speed only. It couldn’t fight.
The HTV-6Xb was a bona fide war machine.
Known by its nickname, “the Wasp,” the HTV-6Xb was the world’s premier air-superiority weapon. The world didn’t know of its existence, of course, but that didn’t change the fact it could eat a couple of M16s for breakfast, wash them down with the best Mirage the French had to offer and then casually pick its teeth with an F-22 Raptor. The Wasp could reach any target zone faster than anything on the planet and outfly anything it found in that airspace.
This particular combat mission didn’t require a great deal of skill. Lindeman had taken off on a northwest heading, flown to ten thousand feet, then came around in a slow turn that pointed his nose toward South Bend, Indiana. The conventional jet-turbine engines drove the Wasp to Mach 2. At that speed, the turbines’ air inlets closed off, forcing that same air intake into the scramjet engines. The turbines had to shut off, because once the plane reached Mach 3 or so, air friction would melt the spinning intake fans. The scramjet portion, however, acted more like a funnel—it had no moving parts. Air shot in at supersonic speeds, compressed, mixed with a gaseous fuel and ignited in a highly controlled reaction that drove the plane to Mach 10.
Lindeman’s record-breaking flight would take him from Groom Lake to South Bend in fifteen minutes. Almost seventeen hundred miles. In
fifteen minutes.
Twelve minutes into the flight, Lindeman released an ASM-157 antisatellite missile. His speed of Mach 10 wasn’t even half that of the ASM-157, which would max out at Mach 22.7—fifteen thousand miles per hour.
Aircraft normally come nowhere near Mach 5, let alone Mach 10. As a result, anyone or anything watching the skies for unusual flight patterns would notice the Wasp. Hard to miss something like that.
Which was precisely the point.
There was no
way the Orbital could track every plane in North America. It couldn’t even track all the military planes in that area—far too much traffic to monitor. It did, however, try to keep tabs on particular military bases. So when the HTV-6Xb took off from Groom Lake, the Orbital noted the flight and marked a subroutine to watch its direction.
When the HTV-6Xb turned and accelerated to Mach 1, that didn’t merit the Orbital’s primary attention. At Mach 2 the Orbital changed the marking status to potential threat. By the time it hit Mach 5 and was flying straight for South Bend, the Orbital knew it was under attack. When the jet launched a missile, it was only 350 miles away.
At Mach 22, traveling 350 miles—the distance from San Francisco to Los Angeles—takes just under a minute and a half.
The Orbital ran through protocols, checking the decision tree for responses. As it did, it picked up another inbound threat.
Military engineers built
the NFIRE satellite to do two things. The first was the difficult task of tracking intercontinental ballistic missiles. The second was even more complex—shooting those missiles out of the sky.
The NFIRE orbited at an altitude of 240 miles. It targeted an ICBM’s apex, typically about sixty miles above the Earth. The part of the NFIRE that actually shot down an ICBM was known as a
kill vehicle,
a small missile that got close to a target, then launched a high-speed spray of dense shrapnel. In basic terms, the kill vehicle was a high-tech, $560 million exoatmospheric hand grenade.
Certain senators, however, objected to putting a kill vehicle in the NFIRE. Such an act would open up a new arms race, they said. It would begin the “weaponization of space,” and that was something the world could do without.
Defenders of the project said Congress was a bunch of myopic, tree-hugging hippies who deserved to die the radioactive death they would surely bring upon all freedom-loving Americans. The defenders said that only to themselves, of course. What they said
publicly
was that the kill vehicle had a range of only four miles, a minuscule distance compared to the vast ranges of space, so the kill vehicle could really only be used to shoot down a rocket aimed directly at the NFIRE. It was strictly for self-defense, and how could that be a bad thing?
Congress didn’t care. Senators insisted the kill vehicle would cross a line. So to secure funding, NASA and MDA (the Missile Defense Agency) had agreed to remove the kill vehicle and instead include a laser communications terminal, also known as an LCT.
The thing was, military engineers are pretty sharp cats, and they quietly figured out how to fit
both
the kill vehicle and the LCT into the NFIRE. So Congress, and the public, was told that the NFIRE did not include the kill vehicle.
That was the first lie.
The second lie was the four-mile killing range. Of the two whoppers, this might have been the big one because the NFIRE’s killing range was actually
thousands
of miles. Thanks to triangulation data piped up from NASA, the NFIRE could both target and hit the Orbital.
Exactly ten seconds after P. J. Lindeman released his ASM-157, the NFIRE launched its kill vehicle.
Primary threat: the
missile launched from the Mach 10 jet. The Orbital tracked the missile’s trajectory, then fired a supersonic stream of pellets made from an iridium alloy. The pellets spread out like a tight cloud, a cloud traveling at several thousand miles per hour. Air friction melted the pellets. By the time they intersected the missile’s path, they were globs of dense, molten metal that tore through the ASM-157 like twelve-gauge shot through rice paper. The missile shattered into dozens of useless pieces.
The Orbital switched its targeting solution to the NFIRE kill vehicle. As it did, temperature sensors suddenly registered a spot on its beer-keg-size surface that almost instantly shot from normal to five hundred degrees, then a thousand, and kept climbing. . . .
Four hours earlier
a heavily modified Boeing 747-400F cargo plane had taken off from Edwards Air Force Base in California. The flight plan called for a normal trip from Edwards to Langley Air Force Base near Hampton, Virginia. Unlike the HTV-6Xb, this 747 flew at normal speeds. It attracted exactly zero attention from the Orbital. Just another big cargo jet, just another cross-country flight.
This particular 747, known as the YAL-1, carried the YAL-1A airborne laser. The YAL-1A was designed to shoot down incoming missiles, including nuclear-tipped ICBMs or any other kind of ballistic missile. This
chemical oxygen iodine laser,
or COIL, could also theoretically be used against hostile bombers, fighters, cruise missiles—or even against low-Earth-orbit satellites.
Thirty seconds before P. J. Lindeman released his antisatellite missile, the crew of the YAL-1 had activated the COIL by combining chlorine gas, hydrogen peroxide and potassium hydroxide to create highly energetic oxygen molecules. Pressurized nitrogen then pushed the oxygen molecules through a mist of iodine, transferring the oxygen’s energy to the iodine molecules. These fired-up iodine molecules shed the excess energy in the form of intense light.
Intense light that created an infrared laser.
This light bounced between mirrors, forcing more iodine molecules to give up their energy as photons, further increasing the laser beam’s intensity. From there the beam traveled into a chamber where mirrors instantly adjusted to compensate for movement of the airplane and for atmospheric conditions. Finally the beam moved into a swiveling pod on the YAL-1’s nose. The pod focused the laser to hit the Orbital as a tiny, concentrated pinpoint of immense energy.
Within three seconds
a spot on the Orbital’s hull superheated to almost three thousand degrees Fahrenheit. The Orbital abandoned all calculations and just moved, gaining altitude as it shot due north. At fifty miles above the surface, the YAL-1A beam tracked on-target again, this time hitting a different spot on the Orbital’s hull. A four-second cat-and-mouse game ensued as the Orbital changed headings five times and climbed to an altitude of sixty miles. After each turn the YAL-1A’s targeting system instantly compensated and reacquired, but only for a second each time, and always in a different spot as the Orbital rotated to mitigate heat buildup.
The NFIRE satellite’s
kill vehicle tracked the Orbital’s evasive action. With a nice three-thousand-degree hot spot on its hull, the Orbital could bend all the light it wanted and still stand out plain as day to an infra red sensor. The kill vehicle marked the Orbital’s sudden acceleration and climb, course-corrected, then detonated a warhead that released an expanding cloud of shrapnel traveling at thirty-three thousand feet per second.
The Orbital was still accelerating when the kill vehicle landed the technological equivalent of a money shot.
Dozens of depleted uranium ball bearings punched through the Orbital, shredding its fragile interior, including the computer system that had caused humanity so much trouble. The multiple impacts instantly rendered the Orbital inoperative. The YAL-1A laser reacquired and started heating up another hot spot, but the Orbital performed no further evasive maneuvers.
The Orbital’s desperate actions had taken it out well over Lake Michigan. Cracked and shattered, a hollowed-out husk, the Orbital started to descend. As it reached terminal velocity, the surface heated to over a thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Air friction dug at the cracks, ripping free small bits and pieces of the once-pristine hull.
It didn’t melt. While a few pieces trailed behind, there was no comet-like flame trail. The Orbital just
fell
.
Three hundred pounds of broken machine hit the surface of Lake Michigan at well over two thousand miles an hour.
It made a pretty big splash.
The impact shattered what was left of the Orbital, breaking it into hundreds of pieces that spread and sank and sizzled as the water rapidly cooled them off.
The Orbital was truly dead.
Not that it had ever really been alive.
Perry stopped drinking
in mid-sip.
The grayness vanished.
For the first time since his triangles had started talking to him months before, his brain felt . . . clear.
He was so focused on this new sensation, or rather the absence of a sensation, that he didn’t notice the beer spilling out the corner of his mouth and down his chin.
“Kid,” Dew said. “Should I get you a sippy cup?”
Perry put the beer down on the computer-room console. He absently wiped his chin with the back of his hand.
“The jamming is gone,” he said. “Whatever was blocking me, it’s gone.”
Dew clapped once. “Fan-fucking-tastic! So where’s the next host? What direction?”
Perry closed his eyes, trying to hear, trying to
sense.
Trouble was, he didn’t sense jack squat.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not picking up anything. Nothing at all.”
Dew’s satphone buzzed. He pulled it out of his coat and answered, then just listened.
“Yeah?” he said after a few seconds. “No shit? Dawsey said the jamming is gone. We’ll keep you informed.”
Dew hung up.
“That was Murray,” he said. “Tight-lipped bastard has been up to all kinds of antics without filling me in. They found the mystery satellite and took it out. Just now, so gotta be the satellite that was blocking you.”
Perry smiled and grabbed Dew’s shoulder. “I’m not getting
anything,
man! Dew, I think that’s it. I think the
whole thing
is over! Guess what? Fuck their fourth-quarter comeback, because
we won
!”
Chelsea felt something. More accurately, she
stopped
feeling something. It was as if she’d had a ringing in her ears, a steady, low noise that had been there so long she didn’t even notice it until it vanished.
Chauncey?
No response.
Chelsea felt weak. She sagged to the floor of the Winnebago. What was happening? She couldn’t hold the connections. The network flickered in and out, fading.
Blackness replaced her vision.
Chelsea Jewell passed out.
Out on the
warehouse floor, Ogden’s soldiers sagged and lowered themselves to the ground. He felt a blankness, a twofold void, the second one far more powerful than the first.
He sat. A chunk of brick dug into his butt. One by one, his men passed out as if they’d been gassed.
The hatchlings didn’t seem to notice. They kept building.
Ogden watched them for the final few seconds he remained conscious, hoping they could complete the gate on their own.
Margaret stared at
the autopsy room’s flat-panel screen and smiled in grim satisfaction. There were twenty-five squares up there, but only one square held her attention. It showed a side-by-side picture of a crawler and one of the pollen pieces that looked like a fluffy dandelion seed.
A caption at the top of that square read LATRUNCULIN A. A toxin produced by a group of sponges found in the Red Sea that disrupted filaments of the cytoskeleton. Amazing to think that might make the difference in this battle, that one word,
latrunculin.
She
loved
that word.
Because below that word she watched both alien structures dissolve into smaller and smaller bits. The crawler’s long, firm, musclelike strands twitched, then seemed to morph into slack, lifeless little sacks of fluid.
The dandelion seed was even more entertaining—the latrunculin made the stiff structure break apart, crumble and liquefy.
“I’ve got you, motherfucker,” Margaret whispered.
She had never really wanted to kill anything before. She stopped disease because that was how you saved lives. This was different. She wanted the