The Alien Creator Page 4

  "Your question is vague for proper response. Be more precise."

  "Right; let me try again," Wilford shrugs, thinking he's up against a very smart and adaptive machine. "Will you describe the number and type of combat tactical units on board?"

  "Led by one hybrid, four basic combat units will take control of the planet. They handle resistance, eliminate threats, and prepare safe areas for smaller construction units to begin rebuilding our home. They take labor from your population to build structures while others, mainly weak, old, and useless units, are destroyed. It's a matter of effectiveness and resource preservation for them."

  "Only four robots; what makes you think four machines can take control of this planet. It's very large and we have powerful armies with millions of fighters," Wilford argues, forgetting he has scant idea of the weapons, tactics, and machines they'll face.

  "Your databanks show long histories of violence where clever, resourceful armies defeat lesser foes. The American Revolution and Battle of Thermopylae are two examples, President Wilford. We will demonstrate that principle."

  Hesitating as the explicit threat fully registers, Wilford is impressed that Zote found, studied, and explained forgotten history of a new planet, among many spheres probably studied. Though Wilford has scant idea how long Zote has been in the immediate galactic vicinity, while light years away, he admires his ability to mine electronic archives. Perhaps the greatest hacker ever, Wilford makes a note to fight this war in cyberspace.

  "Key to understand is we are mortal enemies if you decide to resist," Zote says matter of fact. "In that instance, there is only absolute annihilation. Do not let a small number of tactical deployment units give any hope of survival."

  After the final ominous warning, Wilford ends the call looking forlorn. Turning to mystified staff with little to offer other than shock and bellicose statements, Jack shakes his head in disbelief. "This is going to be a monumental struggle for the survival of mankind."

  White House Underground Command Center

  Inside the West Wing's secret subterranean lair, a four-hundred million dollar multi-level project taking four years to complete, activity bustles as military, civilian, and Global Space Company members discuss limited options. With every issue placed on back burners, Wilford senses the Press is apt to suspect a crisis mode short of leaks without regular briefings. After brief introductions by Charles Brody, the meeting begins.

  "What can we do, Bull?" Wilford says to his crusty Secretary of Defense, a trusted family friend started by his father, a business tycoon from decades past. "What are our best options against these aliens?"

  William Bull Greer moves an unlit Cohiba cigar in his mouth before responding. "It's early to be definitive, Mr. President," he grouses. "Defiant is in process of re-tasking two space vehicles as we speak. Dr. Myers can speak to that issue when the time comes for status updates."

  "Ok, let's say Defiant is our best hope for now. When will these satellites be ready to engage?"

  "In a couple days," CIA's Bob Covelli answers. "I'd also suggest bringing X-37D Space Dragon into this discussion since that's our only offensive maneuverable vehicle at high altitudes. If they make it past the satellites, we'll need backup plans."

  "What's Space Dragon?" Wilford asks as many on the call have the same question. "I know I'm the new kid on the block, but how many more secret programs don't I know about?" he whines rhetorically. "Learning about them on-the-fly isn't good crisis management."

  "Mr. President," Bull replies, his growly raspy voice a distinctive characteristic, "certain special access programs are designated strictly need to know, but I suppose that time has arrived in spades for all of us," the DoD Director pipes, taking pressure off others aware of the program.

  CIA Bob Covelli joins in buoyed by Greer's support. "We developed a larger D-version shuttle to carry specific guided rod bundles and launch vehicles. Night missions limit testing, but the last shuttle mission, not for public consumption deployed experimental hypervelocity rod bundles rather than lasers. The rod designs are more effective against navigable GPS-guided ICBMs compared to fixed orbit enemy satellites. It's an effort to stay ahead of the Communists."

  "I'm glad we have this D-model and shows great foresight, but I can't be behind in every conversation about public safety," Wilford fumes. "What are hypervelocity rod bundles, Bob?" he presses the CIA Director. "I may not be aware of all SAPs (special access programs), but I'm very happy for whatever it is we're talking about," he smirks at the Joint Chiefs.

  "We're talking about twenty-foot long, one-foot diameter Lexan-Tungsten rods shaped like telephone poles, Mr. President," Covelli animates using arms and hands. "They strike objects at hyperspeed. Explosions are caused by basic inertia using the targets against themselves; it's brilliant defensive shield technology. Most times, sheer impact is enough to kill whatever it is we’re hitting."

  "How fast do these telephone poles fly?" Wilford presses further trying to imagine the odd device.

  Covelli squeezes lips, "Tests reached about Mach-10; Rods-from-God move at ten miles per second; drawback is the enemy must be close, less than a thousand miles or so for them to be effective."

  "A thousand miles isn't close," Chief of Staff Charles Brody pipes, not understanding distance and speed in outer space.

  "Think of lightning bolts from heaven, Charles," Covelli explains sarcastically. "My hope is the aliens try pulling it inside their vessel for inspection like the probe. Once in range, we'll have our best chance of disabling or killing their ship if Defiant fails."

  "What if these Lexan Rods-from-God bounce off?" Charles follows, hoping to return jab effectively.

  "That's why we fire bundles, so odds are pretty good one or more will hit. Whether they're effective is up for discussion."

  "What if the aliens maneuver out of the way?" Wilford counters.

  "That's why we must be close, although these rods are essentially guided missiles. Less than two minutes isn't a lot of time for ship commanders to alter course, assuming they spot the rods immediately. My worry is this alien cloaking device could give us problems. That issue needs resolution. I suggest we direct Dr. Myers and team into a full court press. Otherwise, we're firing blind."

  "All right; excellent; who else has ideas?" Wilford says looking around the bunker of puzzled faces. "When can we get the X-37D in space?"

  Bull Greer winces rolling the unlit cigar in his mouth, "Keep in mind, the X-37D carries an experimental space cannon patterned after the A-10 Gatling gun and Gerald Bull's Project Babylon. This hasn't been field tested."

  "Who's Gerald Bull and what's Project Babylon?" Wilford puzzles as another topic arises that he knows little to nothing.

  Greer wipes a clean-shaven face. "Gerald was a brilliant Canadian-American engineer and ballistics genius who used to work for us. After disagreement over what he wanted to do and what we needed, he went off the reservation. As a way of getting back, he went to work for Saddam who hired him to build his super-cannons, essentially posing threats to the entire Middle East. In 1990, Israel sent Mossad to assassinate him in a Brussels hotel room due to the severe implications of his design. Once out of the picture, the program died."

  "How does that bit of old history tie into the X-37D?" Wilford complains.

  "We borrowed Gerald's design along with principals of General Electric's Gatling gun used on A-10s. It's was a perfect marriage after motherboard and chip advancements caught up with help from Purdue University. They came up with hair-size molecular turbo-pumps that keep microchips from overheating. Keep in mind, Gerald's cannon wasn't standard artillery. The peak of its arc traveled in space."

  "That's all nice, Bull, but what does this weapon do? How does it help us with the aliens?"

  "Right; well the concept is simply to park a few of these spacecraft in space, several hundred miles above the Earth, to meet and greet Russian and Chinese ICBMs coming over the horizon. When over the horizon, we blast them to kingdom come."

&nb
sp; "Ok, that sounds useful; is the super-cannon operational?"

  Bull Greer tugs at his shirt collar wondering if he's overreaching. "In order to keep it hush-hush, we've piggy-backed on other programs buried in DoD budgets. For all practical purposes, I believe we could make it happen by immediately reallocating resources at Area-51. Cannon tests, while limited, have been impressive."

  "How does this super-cannon work in zero atmosphere and how does it fire telephone poles?"

  Greer nods at one of the four-star generals. "Sir, the firing system is based on the Lorenz Force; basically it's a plasma rail gun pushed ahead by high-velocity electromagnetic energy. Think of it as fire-breathing dragons."

  Wilford shakes his head, "Put it in English, General Moore, so even I can understand," Wilford smiles. "What's the armament?"

  "Right Mr. President; the telephone pole projectiles are arrow shape, weigh one hundred forty-five pounds, and packed with explosive ionized gas particles. The arrows, made of polycarbonate called Lexan, have a unique hard casing of tungsten and depleted uranium that enable propulsion at unbelievable speeds. Dodging them is almost impossible and we're unaware of any material that can stop them. Think of searing hot knives cutting butter."

  "That sounds promising General; how long before we can get a crew up there?" Wilford follows knowing it's a last resort before the aliens land.

  Greer answers, "A week or two; I can instruct the folks in the desert to start immediately, if that's what you're asking."

  "That's what I'm asking, Bull," Wilford urges.

  Once Greer nods to General Moore, the lanky combat veteran rises from the conference table to inform Area-51 of new priorities.

  "Let's summarize what's been agreed upon," Brody speaks, looking at scribbled notes on a yellow pad, "First, Defiant satellites will reposition to intercept the alien vessel. Two, Global Space will focus efforts on overcoming this cloaking device. Three, Area-51 will begin working on launch of the X-37D. Did I miss anything?" Brody prompts the serious group.

  Global Space Division, Arizona

  Bordered by high mountains, rising twelve thousand feet, and numerous varieties of cacti including cholla, barrel, hedgehog, prickly pear, and saguaro, Dr. John Myers listens closely to their Presidential marching orders. Inside the clandestine complex dubbed Masada, dug into bedrock of igneous and metamorphic rock, the massive butte is like the ancient first century Jewish fortress overlooking the Dead Sea. Perched atop a mountain citadel like Masada, the Arizonan butte, most common in arid regions, is sheer cliff formed after millions of years of erosion and rushing water now long gone. The gifted senior leader listens as White House Chief of Staff, Charles Brody, summarizes what's expected of his team in a ridiculous timeline. Without argument knowing the situation better than anyone outside the secret complex, he readily accepts the challenge then holds a leader staff meeting to begin. After the narrower team re-gathers in another conference room abutting the main laboratory, he enters the tight space with unusual worry on his brow.

  "I can't emphasize enough," Myers begins, "how serious this meeting is for the country. From this point until further notice, all side projects, girlfriends, wives, and movies are deep-sixed. What we need is complete focus on the task-at-hand, that being figuring how to find these aliens when they go dark. The President is asking us to track them and provide coordinates so secret assets can meet and greet their vessel when the time comes. I needn't explain that without us doing our work, this planet, as we know it, could be history."

  Bobby Rafferty, the Senior Telemetry Engineer speaks first. "We're not going to let you down, boss. We'll do our best; that goes without saying. Problem is coming up with ideas and alternatives how to track a ghost ship."

  "Does anyone have preliminary thoughts?" Myers pleads. "I'm at a lost for options."

  Upon a long painful pause, the teenager timidly raises his hand when senior members show no signs of hope. "Billy, do you have an idea or question?"

  "I've been thinking about this problem since we made initial contact when learning of this cloaking device," Billy explains. "A couple things we know. First, the ship must slow and shut down the cloaking device to fire lasers. Two, it appears to aim at targets by pointing at them. Therefore, my basic assumption must be that linear- or point-signaling isn't cutting the mustard. I believe we need thinking circular in this instance," Billy Goddard concludes, his tone projecting certainty and confidence.

  "What's that mean, Billy? Spell it out for us on the whiteboard, if you please," he says wondering if his great grandfather Robert had the inquisitive nature when creating rockets and propulsion systems. "Come up here and draw a picture," Myers says handing a black erasable marking pen.

  "Sure," Billy answers while moving to the front without fanfare. Once flipping the electronic whiteboard containing a series of mind-numbing equations, he begins by drawing concentric circles, parabolic arcs, and arrows, some connected with dotted lines while others have solid lines. Included on the chart are lines for levels of the atmosphere, average temperatures, and distances from the planet. After several minutes of complex drawing, erasing, redrawing, editing, and sighing, he faces the small elite peer group and smiles. "It works on paper," he exclaims!

  "What works?" Myers snaps, irritated he isn't following the presumed logic. "Assume I'm a dummy, kid."

  "All right, if you follow this diagram as if circuitry lighting a room, you can see that shadows, or in this instance cloaking, is achieved if some lights or signals are turned off. Once, 360-degree lights are on, no matter how big the light source, shadows dissipate and disappear. Imagine isotropic radiation without preferred direction. Our problem is placing signal energy bursts behind the alien ship when it approaches. I believe numerous sources for isotropic radiators will provide what we need to find them."

  "You may be on to something, Billy, but how do we place multiple digital transducers behind the ship real time?"

  "Those rods-from-God should suffice," Billy reasons, "assuming the aliens don't obliterate them. We need some of them to miss."

  "I think I know where Billy is heading," Bobby Rafferty spiritedly joins the discussion. "We'd have to retrofit caps of the arrows and replace ionized gas particle modules. By the way, who builds these transducers? The market must be tiny."

  As blank stares envelop the room, Billy speaks with enthusiasm. "Bosch makes them for deep trenching applications. Their units are applied for deep reactive-ion etching."

  "I'm curious why you're up to speed on that type of technology, Billy?" Bobby asks his young teammate. "I've never heard of reactive ion etching."

  "These particular transducers are also used in cryogenic applications, Bobby. Cryogenic pressure transducers work at minus three-hundred twenty degrees Fahrenheit. For deep space, it's almost perfect technology. In the comic book series, Forbidden Planet, Alex Raymond described a similar stainless steel tubular gizmo years before the first actual production unit. It was in the Flash Gordon series."

  "Who's Alex Raymond?" Myers retorts, aghast by the comic book reference, a sign for him Billy is on shaky ground and heading off the rails.

  "He's the dead author, boss," Billy explains, "but his ideas live on. I think that comic book edition is from the early 1950s. Of course, all this predates Star Wars and Star Trek," he adds as if the qualifier erases doubt and adds credibility.

  "You're kidding; right? You're getting all this from an old cartoon?" Bobby wonders aloud. "Do you have any idea if I told the President this came from a comic book, he'd put me in a loony bin."

  "Then don't tell him. What can I say? Raymond's illustrations weren't simply nifty color pictures. Often, he'd include detailed specs almost like inventors sketching concepts, a lot like da Vinci and Michelangelo. I have the original edition in my office safe. It cost me five hundred bucks in an e-Bay bidding war."

  Shaking his head at the last qualifying statement as if a valid way to verify the hypothesis, Myers answers. "All right, how do we make this comic book gizmo
in less than a week or two?" he says not understanding the design.

  "A three-D printer is what we need to speed it up, boss, once I recreate the blueprints," Billy offers. "Dell's Makerbot Z-18 Replicator should work fine although the best device is probably the Direct Jet 1024. It'll be more precise with mother board circuitry and hair-thin molecular turbo pumps embedded in the schematics."

  "You can buy whatever you need, kid. How much do you need?"

  "The best replicator is about forty thousand last time I looked."

  "Forty thousand bucks for a printer?" Myers whines substantially.

  Upon twitching eyebrows from Billy, John Myers nods accepting the plan. "Bobby, you get the replicator while Billy codes blueprints; use my cost center. We'll get military transport if needed, but God help us if this contraption doesn't work," Myers glances skyward, "whatever it is we're talking about. If you hit any snags, Bobby, call me so I get Bob Covelli and Bull Greer involved. I have a feeling these guys get things done when they want to."

  "Right," Bobby agrees. "I have a feeling you'll need to make that call. I suspect these replicators aren't sold spur of the moment and we may have to bump the customer backorder queue."

  Myers rubs his chin looking puzzled. "This may be a dumb question, Billy, but does your design hold water in the fifth state of matter?"

  "My guess is Bose-Einstein condensate is the way this alien ship hides itself, boss. Atoms are cooled to within a hair of absolute zero. However, extreme heat is the main risk for transducers. The problem is we can't test the theory on Earth. In the exosphere, above five hundred miles or so, subatomic particles coalesce into a single quantum mechanical entity or wave function on a macroscopic scale. Yet in the thermosphere, the cloaking process is less effective due to extreme heat. I'd say our best chance occurs at fifty miles or less."

  "That also implies we'll be able to see this alien ship with the naked eye," Myers jumps ahead, reading the tea leaves.