Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (11 page)

Rothschild stared at Richard for a moment. When he went to speak he was stopped by a sudden knock on the door. “Come in,” he said, his attention diverted.

“Sir, the Minister is here, and Professor Nieve. In fact they are on their way up as we speak.”

Rothschild checked his watch. “Really . . . is that the time! Thank you, Grenville. Show them into the briefing room please, and have them take their seats. Perhaps cups of tea all round. We are coming through immediately.”

“Thank you, sir.” Grenville closed the door quietly behind him.

Rothschild refocused on Richard. “What you are about to hear is security sensitive information. The European Space and Science Agency have allocated the briefing their highest level – and us, Cabinet Classified status. The Americans, however, in their wisdom, one level lower – President Level Class Two. God only knows why. If any of this gets out it could cause widespread panic. Even if pressed, please keep our discussions this morning private.”

Richard nodded; he understood the implications.

CHAPTER 6

Incoming

Richard was about to take his seat in the briefing room when the main door opened. First to enter was Professor Nieve. His mop of white hair was as wild as ever, if perhaps a little thinner. Richard stepped over to greet him.

“Professor. Good to see you. Unexpected as always, but good nonetheless.”

“Interesting, my boy,” Professor Nieve answered cagily. “I knew that you would be here a few days ago. The security level, I suppose.” The Professor smiled in a friendly manner and put a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Now, where am I sitting?”

“Seems a lot of people knew about this meeting well before I did,” replied Richard, as he looked towards Rothschild.

Three other men had entered the room. Richard already knew one of them – William Bryant. He still had his job –
long serving,
thought Richard. He recognised another as a government minister, one who seemed to always be on the terrestrial news playing down the law and order situation. He had a vague recollection of the third. Rothschild spoke to one of the orderlies. From the mutual nodding everything appeared to be in order. Richard watched him check the time and spin on his heels to address the gathering. At that moment Laura Bellingham walked in. She gave Rothschild a brief smile and mouthed the word
ready
. Rothschild subconsciously adjusted the already immaculate Half Windsor knot of his red tie, set it centre against the collar of his white shirt and said, “Gentlemen, please, your seats; we go live in three minutes.”

Each place around the table was marked. Laura Bellingham, scurrying around the room with an electronic tablet reader, making final preparations, acknowledged Richard with a smile. She was dressed in a well-fitting black trouser suit with a cream-coloured silk blouse and her auburn hair was cut in a short bob.
I preferred it long,
thought Richard. He gestured hello. She had a pretty smile and a very efficient manner.

Richard was about to sit down when Admiral Hughes in his naval uniform strode in and shut the door behind him. Richard stood again out of respect. The tall, slim, elegant man with an air of nobility met Richard’s gaze and indicated for Richard to sit. The table of seven was complete. Laura Bellingham indicated
two minutes
as the large monitor screen burst into life. Richard focused on the three-dimensional colour picture that shaped in an instant, finding himself immediately recognising the subject – General Roper. Richard was aware of Roper’s promotion to five star status a year or so earlier and also his recent appointment as the US Secretary of State for Energy, replacing Admiral Ghent upon his retirement.
He’s aged considerably since I last saw him,
thought Richard. That had been almost four years earlier – apart from a recent picture in the cyber-news – and now he was almost entirely grey. The words beneath Roper on the screen read:
Washington DC
.

“Gentlemen, if I may, the formalities for the Minutes,” launched Rothschild. “Professor Nieve at the far end, newly appointed Senior Scientist to His Majesty’s Government and Director of the UK’s Space Administration. Next, Sir Christopher Edmondson, Home Secretary and Cabinet Minister. Then Mr William Bryant, the Energy Secretary and Cabinet Minister. Admiral Hughes on my left, Chief of Military Staff.” Rothschild turned and indicated towards Richard. “On my right, Commander Richard Reece of the United Kingdom’s Joint Forces Naval Division, presently Commanding Officer of Andromeda’s Shuttle Wing . . .”
He said that as if it’s temporary,
thought Richard. “And finally, Mr Brian Grant, Senior Scientific Analyst to the European Space and Science Agency.” Rothschild’s attention was momentarily diverted by Laura Bellingham – she indicated
three, two and one
with her fingers and nodded. “General Roper, can you hear me?” Rothschild directed his question towards the screen.

“Yes, good morning, Peter; we have a good link,” replied the smart-suited man in his early sixties. He had a strong American accent.

“Thank you, sir – and your team?”

“Everybody’s here.”

Rothschild looked at Laura with a
here’s hoping
expression. “Professor Mubarakar in Alexandria, can you hear me?” he asked.

The picture on the screen flashed to another location – an imposing room. A hunched figure came into view and sat down in a comfortable-looking winged chair. Richard was surprised; his old friend looked tired and ill. It had only been a year, perhaps a little more, but clearly there was a marked deterioration in Mubarakar’s health. The camera zoomed-in a little.

“I am here, I am here,” the old man said in a gravelly voice. He sat down slowly and then perched a hand on the polished golden cap of an ebony-black walking stick positioned between his legs.

“Good, thank you Professor,” said Rothschild, with eyes now fixed on the screen. “Professor Bryn Jones in Mexico, how are you there?”

The picture changed again and this time the scene was outside. It was dark. The words at the bottom of the screen read:
Local Time 03:03
. It seemed heavily overcast, even gloomy, and the illuminated man centre-screen wore a warm coat, but it appeared to be dry. Richard noticed that fact immediately. But the man’s collar was turned up against the cold. Middle-aged, Professor Jones had a red-cheeked rotund appearance and it was clear from his accent that he was Welsh. He moved to keep warm and stamped his feet and looked up occasionally at the sky until someone out of sight gave him the cue. Professor Jones nodded in response. “I’ve been here some while,” he said. “Not much of a summer here!” An impatient rubbing of hands followed. Richard noticed the impressive backdrop – a towering flat-topped pyramid with central steps and a temple building on its apex that was all subtly lit as a tourist attraction. Richard recognised it immediately as Mayan –
the temple at Uxmal
, he thought, part of that ancient city on the Yucatán peninsula.

“Thank you Professor Jones, we are about to start. The link to the Space Federation Headquarters has already been established?” Rothschild looked to Laura Bellingham for confirmation; she sat behind him and nodded in agreement. “Then Ladies and Gentlemen your attention please,” Rothschild continued. “In the first instance, this meeting has been convened in order to establish the facts relating to a total loss of communication with the Space Ship
Hera.
It has now been over four weeks since our last contact. I apologise again for the inconvenient timing, however, the grave news we are about to impart represents a new chapter in the global energy crisis and possibly the most serious intelligence breach in the history of the International Space and Science Federation. We also have a number of other items on the agenda and we must agree our strategy in preparation for the international forum later this morning. But first, our fears for the
Hera
. Over to you Mr Grant.”

Mr Grant, a man in his fifties with slightly gaunt features, wore a dark blue suit that was shiny with use and a white shirt and blue tie that displayed the classic NASA motive. He had black hair that was swept backwards and spoke with a clear, refined, English accent. “Ladies and Gentlemen, one of my responsibilities within the science directorate is the correlation and presentation of all data received from our array of space sensors. These include all federation-owned optical telescopes, both on the surface and in orbit, all fixed arrays and all electromagnetic detection antennas. Towards the end of last month, the twenty-eighth to be precise, and in the very early hours, the orbital Hubble 2 telescope was scanning a sector of deep space that lay adjacent to the planet Jupiter. Peripheral to the main focus, the telescope captured light given off from an unusual stellar micro-burst. Because this occurrence was relatively short lived and not the centre of focus that evening, no incident alarm was triggered and it went unnoticed by staff arriving for the following day’s work. As a result, it was five days later on 2nd December that an astronomer in the Canaveral Centre discovered the event, which was prompted by a call from an amateur astronomer who wondered why nothing had been formally posted on the NASA World Net site. A routine mass spectrograph was taken of the residual effects of the micro-burst, which seemed to occur in close proximity to Io, Jupiter’s fifth moon. Analysis of the spectrograph has revealed some disturbing results. I would say at this point that our results have been verified by data derived from a similar spectrograph taken three hours later from the Andromeda Space Observatory.” Brian Grant frowned; it served to darken his expression. “Our results clearly identified several naturally-occurring elements that were present in the burn-off: iron, carbon, manganese, phosphorus, sulphur and nickel to name a few. If one adds these elements together in varying proportions, steel is the result. The addition of chromium makes stainless steel – we found this element, too. Cobalt is another, added to steel to harden it, and titanium, beryllium . . . We also found evidence of long-chain polymers composed of hydrocarbons and the element chlorine from which plastics are manufactured. I am saddened to say that these are
all materials used in the construction of our spacecraft.” Grant took a deep breath and rubbed his brow for a moment. As he looked up his expression became sullen. “But there was another material that we identified quite easily . . . plutonium, or more precisely the isotope Pu-239. It is not a naturally occurring element in the galaxy, Ladies and Gentlemen – it is synthesised, made by enriching uranium; a process that was banned in 2016 or thereabouts – the New Geneva Convention prohibited its manufacture. Up until that time, most plutonium was produced in research reactors or plutonium-production reactors called
breeder reactors
. Over a period of a few years these reactors were all shut down. The International Nuclear Commission made sure of it. None survived intact – not even the ones in the Asian autocracies. What I’m saying is that there is no production facility on the planet capable of making this element . . .”

“Not that we are aware of, anyway,” interjected Rothschild.

Grant shrugged and considered the remark. “Plutonium is a gamma emitter, Peter. Normally, we would expect to identify sources of gamma rays radiating from the Earth’s surface – we have not; not for a long, long time anyway.”

“You are quite correct,” Professor Nieve concurred. “Even a very faint trace would be detected by our satellite network.”

“Can it be manufactured underground or in a sealed facility?” asked Richard.

“Yes, I suppose so, but the shielding requirements would be considerable and any such facility would be very expensive indeed to construct.”

“Well we know of a few corporations with the financial clout and real estate that is remote enough to hide this sort of facility,” said Richard, and he turned and met Rothschild’s glare.

“Don’t make rash accusations, Richard, particularly not on record.” Rothschild indicated the Minutes taker.

“The corporations you have in mind, Commander Reece, are considered to be toeing the line by the international community. We have no reason to suspect otherwise,” said William Bryant, mindful of previous misdemeanours by such organisations.

That’s a change of heart,
thought Richard.

“Yes, anyway, to continue, if I may,” said Grant.

Richard gestured his apology.

Grant was clearly troubled. “Plutonium is classified according to the percentage of the contaminant plutonium-240 that it contains. The parlance for plutonium alloy that bears an exceptionally high fraction of Pu-239 – by which I mean more than ninety-five per cent – is ‘supergrade’. Historically, this material was only really used for warheads; it isn’t compatible with nuclear reactors that produce electricity for a number of reasons, not least expense.” He paused momentarily. “Our spectrograph analysis revealed the presence of such a plutonium supergrade. Indeed, our results indicated an isotope with less than three per cent Pu-240. I am of the opinion that there was a nuclear detonation in the vicinity of Io whilst the
Hera
was planned to be in orbit. Since that micro-burst, we have heard nothing from her – not a single transmission.”

There was a collective gasp. Richard was quick to interrupt. “Are you sure? Are you damn well sure? You can’t write these people off because of a chemical trace, a wavelength of light, for God’s sake . . .”

William Bryant lowered his head. “Grave news indeed,” he murmured. “We are totally reliant on that consignment of crystals for our future energy needs.” His expression became drawn.

“My people have double-checked the results and an independent team on Andromeda has done the same,” explained Grant. “Also, we have cross-checked by using the spectrometer on Space Station
Spartacus
, although by that time the trace was all but dispersed. That spectrograph showed the same results. Nobody wants to believe it. I’d like to report it as another element, really I would, anything other than plutonium. But it is simply not the case.”

Richard stood. “This can’t be right! There must be a mistake! Not Mike Matheson, Duval, Alex Elston . . .” He shook his head. “Mike is one of the best fighter pilots around. He’s the only man I know who beat Chuck Yeager, Douglas Bader and the ace-of-aces Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron, in a one-to-one in the historic fighter pilot’s simulator programme,” he explained, as if that fact alone would have saved him from any fatal situation. Richard paused, bowed his head at the thought of such a tragedy, and then sat back heavily in his chair.

“Wait a minute!” boomed the voice of General Roper from the visual. “Let me get this straight. You are saying that the reason we have not heard from the
Hera
for the last few weeks is that she is destroyed . . . caught up in a nuclear explosion? I was under the impression that she was in an area of electromagnetic interference and that she would be in contact soon.”

Grant nodded. “That was the theory, General – a dense electromagnetic environment caused in the main by Jupiter’s immense gravity. The calculation was approximately three weeks without comms, including a buffer to allow for unforeseen delays. However, that deadline passed almost seventy-two hours ago. We waited; hoping; praying. At first we thought that she may have jettisoned something, but the IFFS and the contractors have confirmed that there is nothing on-board that utilised plutonium.”