Part 26 (1/2)
happens when a billion overseas consumers boycott American corn and fast food and computers and
movies?”
Kyle's other guests crossed a glade halfway down the hill. Whatever he'd done wrong, he had to make amends. Quickly. He did a mental rewind. ”A moon program isn't affordable?”
”Not politically. Not economically.” Kneeling, Britt began to collect bits of gla.s.s. ”I apologize for my
outburst.””It's all right.” But it wasn't. How dire were circ.u.mstances? Take something when you can't have everything. The advice that popped into his head could have come from Britt's years of mentoring, or Dar's more recent influence. It wasn't his normal approach to problems.
”Britt, excuse me. Forget I mentioned the moon, and we'll get back to certainties. The aliens eavesdropped on us by satellite. Their software translated and interpreted what they overheard. And our most optimistic projections say we disabled fewer than half the masersats.”
Erin, Ryan, and Darlene made known their imminent return in an outburst of laughter. Erin Fitzhugh roared the loudest, no doubt relis.h.i.+ng her own raunchy joke. A grinning Ryan Bauer followed her from the woods, waggling the beer emptied during the brief hike. Darlene appeared last, looking sheepish.
”Enjoy your meals, folks.” Britt straightened, a cupped hand holding a carefully arranged mound of gla.s.s shards. His confident manner belied his earlier, unwonted anger. ”It looks like we have work yet ahead of us.”
* * * Darlene blushed at another peal of laughter, as Britt, Ryan, and Erin made their ways to their cars. She made a production of dumping paper plates and plastic utensils into the trash-it kept her back to the hall from which Kyle, having escorted the others, would reappear. As she dawdled, crunching gravel marked the departure of vehicles.
”Thanks again for the help.” Kyle had stopped in the doorway. ”For the side dishes and getting me time alone with Britt.”d.a.m.n that Erin Fitzhugh. Darlene began sc.r.a.ping serving bowls. ”My pleasure.”
”Leave those. That's above and beyond the call of duty. You've got a long drive, too.”
She puttered a little longer at the sink, until she felt her face was no longer red. Frantic scratching at the patio door gave her a good excuse to turn. She'd brought the kittens for the day. ”Mind if I let in Blackie?” Stripes was already ramming around inside.
”Sure.” Pregnant pause. ”On the back forty before dinner . . . why all the cackling?”
She was a trained diplomat, and she could surely spin, digress, or weasel her way out of any admission.
But this wasn't work; maybe she'd play it straight. Wiping damp hands on her jeans, she swiveled to face
him. ”How shall I put this? Erin speculated somewhat colorfully about the . . . closeness . . . of our friends.h.i.+p.”
”I can imagine how delicately she made the suggestion.” Kyle grimaced. ”If you don't mind my asking,
Dar, what was your response?”
She hadn't dignified Fitzhugh's gibe with an answer. Darlene crouched to scratch Blackie between the
ears. The kitten was a gangly teenager now. Swelk loved the cats-and she'd never see them grow up.
Darlene fought back tears.
Life was too short to always play it safe. They kept skirting the edge of a deeper relations.h.i.+p, and then shying away. As Erin would have said, screw this. ”I defended your virtue.”
”Ouch! You sure know how to hurt a guy.”
Saying nothing is an old ploy for making the other person say more. She said nothing for a long time.
The moon peeked over the ridge, cool silver light streaming through the patio doors.
”And you said nothing I didn't deserve.” He crossed the room and kissed her. ”The moon is beautiful
tonight. Let's sit outside for a while.”
CHAPTER 32.
In his heart of hearts, the campaign that began at Kyle's barbecue was Project Swelk. Not only, he liked to think, would his friend have approved, the private name also befit the plan having three stages. The plan's final part, however, was something best unarticulated . . . at least for now. His reticence left unchallenged Ryan Bauer's proposed code name: Project Clear Skies.
Today was a big day in the execution of Phase One.
Kyle sensed the weight of the mountain, deep within whose bowels the command center was burrowed.
It wasn't claustrophobia, which had never afflicted him. No, his awareness of the vast bulk of Cheyenne Mountain manifested itself in feelings of safety. Easily a billion tons of rock separated him from the masersats-rea.s.suring despite his conviction that today's activities could draw no hostile attention here.
The imagery he so eagerly awaited was being collected by pa.s.sive sensors scattered around the globe.
Much of the comm link from each telescope and instrument to these underground warrens traversed buried, military-use-only-which was to say, supposedly untrackable and unhackable-optical fibers.
If you're so confident, Kyle, why is that gigaton of s.h.i.+elding overhead so comforting?
He was in a VIP viewing area, whose gla.s.s front formed the top half of the rear wall of the s.p.a.ce control center. Fingering his tie nervously-he was in a suit; his three companions were Air Force officers, and in uniform-Kyle scanned the tiers of workstations below, and the men and women laboring intently at their terminals. An enormous, flat-screen display dominated the front of the control center. The screen showed a world map, overlaid with the ground tracks of orbits of interest. Bright spots on the ground tracks marked the current positions of specific satellites. All but one orbit shown was for alien weapons platforms. The side walls held lesser, but still impressively large, displays. Those were currently blank.
s.p.a.ce Control, one of six major operations in the NORAD complex, kept tabs on everything in near-Earth s.p.a.ce. Satellites operational and otherwise, spent upper stages of rockets that had launched those satellites-and debris from rockets that had exploded in the attempt, tools dropped on manned orbital missions . . . all in all, there were thousands of objects to be watched. NORAD did not reveal just how small an item it could detect, but they did, from time to time, warn NASA and commercial satellite owners to tweak a mission's...o...b..t because a bit of s.p.a.ce junk would otherwise pose a hazard.