The Krone Experiment (13 page)
When he spoke, Isaacs took a middle ground,
that of attempting to elicit key facts. “Tell me more about the
nature of the signal itself. How close to the surface does it get?
What other characteristics does it have?”
Danielson leaned back and massaged her eyes
with thumb and index finger while she replied, “Pinning down the
position at a given instant is difficult because of the weak
signal.” She removed her hand from her face and looked intently at
Isaacs. “Our latest estimate of the period is eighty and a half
minutes, give or take a few seconds. We don’t get a signal from the
mantle, but then we pick it up as it proceeds back toward the core.
There is also difficulty in estimating the propagation velocity
without accurate positions, but it seems to pick up speed as it
approaches the core of the Earth. That is crudely consistent with
the behavior of an ordinary sound wave since the sound velocity
goes up in the hotter parts of the core. That’s about the only
thing it does like an ordinary seismic wave.”
“You say that it goes right through the
center of the Earth?”
“That’s right. It goes down on what seems to
be a straight line, then proceeds straight out to the opposite
surface, always on a line pointing midway between Gemini and
Cancer. As I said, it doesn’t behave like a wave in the sense that
a wave gets weaker as it proceeds. This may get weaker going down,
but it gets stronger, if anything, on its trip up. Then, as far as
we can tell, the next cycle is identical.”
Isaacs thought a moment. “So the net power in
the signal isn’t changing.”
“Right again. It seems as if the strength of
the signal only depends on where it is in the cycle, and that the
power is the same cycle after cycle.”
Isaacs paused, then asked, “Do you see any
way this could be artificial? Man-made?”
“Not without a position fixed on the Earth’s
surface,” replied Danielson.
“But it seems not to be a normal seismic
phenomenon?”
“Too many of the properties are strange,
particularly if the path is fixed in space and not with respect to
the Earth.”
“Could there be some tidal effect? A
collective action of the Sun and Moon?”
“I don’t see how. There’s no obvious way to
trigger such an event. In any case there seems to be no connection
with the position of the Moon, which has orbited several times
without changing anything while we’ve monitored the data. Still,
we’re dealing with something strange here, so possible subtle or
indirect tidal effects should probably be explored.”
Isaacs fixed his gaze on the tired young
woman in front of him. “I think you’re right; you’re onto something
peculiar,” he said slowly. “Why don’t you go home and get a good
night’s sleep. Come in tomorrow and we’ll go into your evidence in
detail.”
Danielson smiled abashedly, acknowledging her
fatigue once more. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” She rose
and let herself out the door.
Isaacs leaned back and clasped his hands
behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He quickly decided he
needed more information. A detailed discussion with Danielson
tomorrow might show some flaw in the analysis. That was unlikely,
however, despite the strange nature of the situation, considering
the careful work Danielson usually produced and the sophisticated
computer analysis groups on which she relied. But more information
or no, this problem required expert consultation to begin even to
categorize it.
He leaned forward and punched the intercom.
“Kathleen?” When she responded, he said, “Get in touch with
Martinelli. I want a one kilometer resolution photomontage of
everything within ten degrees of thirty-three degrees north and
south latitude and a first order scan for anything out of the
ordinary. I don’t know specifically what to look for.”
Isaacs then leaned back and contemplated the
situation. After some time he realized that he was imagining an
extraterrestrial civilization beaming a mysterious ray at Earth
from some point in space. He shook his head ruefully as he put
Danielson’s problem out of his mind and retrieved the Tyuratam
summaries from his desk drawer.
*****
Hot, late afternoon air rustled through the
kibbutz. Duma Zadoc cautiously flipped a switch and smiled as the
old water pump started up with a functional din, rewarding her
afternoon’s efforts. She wiped a forearm across her forehead,
replacing sweat with grease, and kneeled to her final task.
Methodically, she began to cinch down the bolts of the pump
housing, a diametric pair at a time to ensure even pressure. She
cringed as the first of the fourth pair turned too easily and the
head of the bolt sheared off. With an uncharacteristic show of
disgust, she threw the wrench down. The bolt head popped loose from
the jaws of the wrench and rolled crazily across the floor. Duma
stood up with hands on hips and watched with dismay as droplets of
water began to seep from the seal near the broken bolt. As she
tried to decide whether to attack the lodged remains of the bolt
this afternoon or wait until tomorrow, a strange noise suddenly
rose above the sound of the clattering pump. It came from the
nearby orange grove, a mixed roar and hiss.
Terrorists! thought Duma and the image of her
mangled infant flashed before her eyes. Thirty-five years as a
Sun-toughened sabra gave her the instincts to react coolly and
quickly, quelling any hint of desperation. She raced from the pump
house for the alarm. She punched the button starting the klaxon’s
howl, then ran the forty meters to the attack shelter and stood at
the door assisting the children and then older kibbutz members who
streamed inside.
Despite the sound of the siren and the hubbub
of voices, Duma kept an ear tuned to the original sound. She had
realized that there was something unorthodox about it. Unlike an
incoming mortar round, this noise had gotten quieter and there had
been no deadly, thumping explosion.
She wandered away from the shelter toward the
orange grove. She heard the noise again, faint but growing in
volume. Although the sound sent a chill down her spine, something
told her there was no immediate danger. She squinted up toward the
direction indicated by her ears, but saw no sign of the source. She
followed the indicated trajectory as the noise reached peak
intensity and then vanished. At the same time she saw a puff of
dust arise just beyond the barbed wire fence of the compound.
Duma crawled through the fence and paced back
and forth in the area where the dust had kicked up. She half
expected to find an unexploded shell casing. Instead, she saw
absolutely nothing. Puzzled, she crossed the fence again. As she
headed back into camp, she waved an “all clear” sign at a
compatriot, and the klaxon faded away. She decided the broken bolt
in the pump housing could wait for another day.
Two more weeks were absorbed in the intensive
routine of monitoring developments at the Soviet launch site at
Tyuratam. Isaacs spent rare moments with Danielson discussing the
seismic project. There seemed to be no flaw in Danielson’s
analysis, but they could not contrive a reasonable explanation for
her data. The photomontage of the suspect latitudes provided by
Martinelli showed nothing of interest. The routine was interrupted
by a phone call.
Isaacs hung up the telephone and glared at
the opposite wall of his office. He clinched his teeth,
rhythmically rippling the prominent muscles over his jaws. The call
had been simple. Kevin McMasters’ secretary requested that Isaacs
report to the office of the Deputy Director immediately. The
secretary’s voice was briskly formal, as that of the second in a
duel, announcing his man’s choice of weapon. It suggested the black
mood of the official who had given the order. Isaacs instantly
recognized the root of the problem; indeed, he had expected the
call. His bid to eliminate two more of McMasters’ outmoded pet
projects had succeeded. McMasters could not counter Isaacs’
arguments, but he would find some way to strike back, his
vindictive urge whetted by defensiveness over his role in the fate
of the FireEye satellite and the orbital confrontation to which
that had led. Isaacs had no clue to McMasters’ target, something
not immediately subject to objective scrutiny, but he was certain
that the ploy was about to begin.
He stood up and faced the window for a
moment, hands clasped behind his back, unconsciously rocking up and
down on the balls of his feet. Then he turned abruptly and walked
briskly out of his office.
“I’m going to see McMasters,” he announced to
Kathleen.
She nodded, confirming her deduction.
Isaacs used the stairs to ascend two flights
and then paced a long hallway and half of another before turning
into the suite of offices commanded by the Deputy Director for
Central Intelligence.
The secretary looked up at his arrival and
arched an eyebrow.
“He’ll see you in a moment—won’t you have a
seat?”
Without the protective anonymity of the
telephone receiver, she seemed pleasant and proper, giving no hint
of reflected animosity.
Isaacs replied, “Thank you,” curtly, but
remained standing, fidgeting tensely. For five minutes his
irritation grew, but then he made a strong conscious effort to calm
himself. Obviously, McMasters designed this childish trick,
requiring him to cool his heels, to put him in a rash state of
mind. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, glanced at the
secretary and settled into a chair.
In the next ten minutes he catalogued most of
the projects that commanded his direct attention. Tyuratam
continued to be the central concern, particularly planning sessions
to suggest strategies when the launch occurred. He glanced at the
calendar on his watch, June 2, seven weeks since the first laser
was destroyed and the Soviets had begun their crash program on the
second. Launch was anticipated in two or three more weeks. Surely,
there was no ground for attack there where everybody was pitching
in on the common goal. They had not spent time on Mozambique and
still remained uncertain about the origin of the arms cache. Could
that be a weak point? Their lack of progress on some back burner
problem? He attained a controlled state of mind, yet was unable to
fathom where McMasters would elect to apply pressure.
The intercom on the secretary’s desk buzzed,
and he heard the low fidelity rattle of McMasters’ voice though he
could not make out the precise words.
“He’ll see you now.”
This time Isaacs caught a note of excitement,
a school child announcing a fight on the playground. Despite the
imminent confrontation, Isaacs found this droll. He maintained a
serious face as he opened the door to McMasters’ office, but just
before he stepped through he looked back over his shoulder and gave
the woman a broad wink. To his satisfaction, this incongruous act
on the part of a respectable, if beleaguered, high official of the
organization caught her by surprise. Her eyes widened and her mouth
dropped open slightly. Isaacs closed the door behind him.
Several steps took him to McMasters’ desk in
the middle of the spacious room. The DDI sat erect, but with eyes
focused on a folder on his desk. A hint of pot belly spoiled his
medium build. At fifty-nine, short, wavy, salt-and-pepper hair
covered his head, the waves shorn short on the side. His face was
an elongated rectangle, with pale green eyes that receded into the
surrounding folds, giving no access. His aquiline nose suggested
the refinement evident in his comportment. He had a habit of
holding his chin high so that he literally looked down his nose at
people to whom he spoke.
Now he raised his gaze to Isaacs and spoke in
a measured, cultured voice, “What—is—this—bull—shit?”
The epithet was delivered slowly,
poisonously, reinforced by the contrast to his excessively proper
demeanor.
“Sir?” Isaacs said, taken aback despite
himself.
McMasters picked up the folder in front of
him and gestured with it.
“With the fate of this nation and the free
world at stake, you have deliberately chosen to squander the time
of yourself and others and the resources of the Agency in an absurd
wild-goose chase after Earthquakes that follow the stars! We are
not here to do astrology, Mr. Isaacs.”
Isaacs caught a glimpse of the folder. It was
labeled QUAKER, the code name for the strange periodic seismic
signal. His mind whirled and locked like a magnetic computer tape
searching for the appropriate data strip. He felt a certain relief.
He was involved in a number of areas of immediate importance where
McMasters’ interference would have been disastrous. Apparently,
those were safe for a moment. Yet McMasters had chosen shrewdly.
Isaacs would be hard put to objectively defend his interest in the
bizarre seismic signal that Pat Danielson continued to study when
she could spare the time from Tyuratam. There was not the slightest
hint that it represented a danger in any way. Nevertheless, his
career-honed instinct warned him that to neglect the signal with
its true nature still unknown would be foolhardy.
He started in a calm tone, “That signal is
unprecedented, I . . .”
McMasters interrupted him coldly.
“We operate in an environment awash with
information, some of it unprecedented and most of it trivial. If we
are to maintain our precarious hold on freedom, we must be ruthless
in our drive to focus on the crucial and ignore the rest. This is
no time to idly follow pet fancies. The monitoring of seismic
signals is not even this Agency’s business. I must question your
competence in choosing to mobilize the resources of the Agency to
chase such a chimera.”
The bald personal attack on his judgment
stirred Isaacs’ anger. Tension crept into his voice.
