Intrigue Satellite Read online

Chapter Two

  The early rules of the Information war were simple; One: No obvious violence; Two: No mercy; Three: Deny Everything. It was not called a war, but each side had their armies and these armies went to battle on a daily basis. They didn't shoot at one another, or storm barricades, or drop bombs. They hacked, duplicated data, and sabotaged systems. They didn't wear uniforms or insignias on their shirts. Most of them were untraceable numbers or electronic addresses. They had many methods of information extraction, and all were put to use.

  Ever since the last worldwide-armed conflict, the defeated countries banded together and launched another attempt for global domination. Instead of using tanks, planes, battleships, and armies, they used computers, trade influence, and diplomatic status. It was extremely effective. The UN, after expelling these countries for consistent violations, fought back, using the scientific branch of its most powerful member, the US.

  Spies had infiltrated America for innumerable years. Sympathetic bureaucrats and ambitious elected officials looked the other way or lent them covert support. Corporations from overseas bought up every piece of property for sale and erected production facilities that swept American businesses out of its path. Unemployment plummeted, but all the employed now worked for foreign governments. The US Government found itself with a larger and larger debt, and no money to run even itself. Then a company from Switzerland made them a tempting offer: to run the public schools on subcontract. The senators and congressmen thought the burden of having to pay for education was going to be lifted from off them. It was. The Schweig Corporation came in and took over the administrations, forcing teachers to take competency tests, which most of them failed.

  It revamped the schools from the near hazardous slums they were into state of the art campuses. The more problematic students were given a more practical choice than school: work. Then it brought in its own teachers and curriculum. Violence dropped to a new low, test scores went up, but taxes did not. They taught everything in the new schools from reading and writing to nuclear physics. In a single generation, American schools became famous world-wide for their educational value. They taught everything, except patriotism. History was presented in a cold artificial manner, with emphasis on the innocents slaughtered by men such as Washington, Wilson, Roosevelt, and that guy from Arkansas. The politicians that thought they were doing their voters a favor by letting Schweig bolster the burden found even their own children considered them corrupt, pompous and wasteful. When these children were eighteen, they voted them out of office in hordes.

  The Democrats, self-righteous and serving, were flabbergasted, as they were removed from office and every program they had constructed was then dismantled. The Republicans, arrogant and viscous, were appalled at the same thing. Both groups were ignored, and some of them were jailed for crimes against the Senate, such as bank fraud, perjury, and being a public nuisance. The candidates that the Corporations endorsed replaced them and began their work. The power and influence of the United States Government was chopped down. Before a year was out, the post office and the armed forces was all that was left to them. Even these agencies had been stripped to the bone. The cadre of corporations then set its sight on the legal system. Bloated and hamstrung by legalities, the laws were rewritten to allow more freedom in business practices. The eye was on profit and productivity. Those that were unproductive were defined by how much of a help or hindrance they were to the corporations. They were soon dealt with.

  Real estate properties that had prisons on them were prime for development, and the areas around them suffered depreciation. The corporations were not about to let a limited valuable resource be wasted on criminals. Some crimes were simply made legal. Severe crimes were punished by death. Repeat offenders were punished by death. The range of non-severe crimes was expanded to aid the removal of the unproductive. Habitat and work facilities were constructed in space and connected to the numerous satellites that orbited the earth sub-rosa. It was here the unproductive were deposited.

  .

  Deckard awoke on the floor of his kitchen. He often woke up in different places than where he went to sleep. Channelle was on the counter, head on paw, with the other paw dropped off the side. She blinked slowly at him. He returned her gesture with a wide mouthed yawn. They rose, stretched, and then went into the bathroom. Here, as in other rooms, was an array of shelves and nooks. The bathtub was large and round. With the single press of a button, it began filling with warm water. As it filled, they watched the birds swarming around the bird feeder outside the window. When it was filled, Deck eased into it up to his neck. Channelle leapt to the edge of the tub and plunked in, water splashing over the tub onto the floor.

  "Real genteel." Mumbled Deckard, his eyes closed. Channelle swam about the tub for a few minutes and then climbed out onto the wide wooden window frame that was at the level of the tub ledge. She shook vigorously, cleaned her face, and then hopped back in. Then there was a knock at the door.

  .

  Deckard opened it, a little wet and shod in a black coverall. Channelle had been waiting at the door for a few seconds.

  "Hi Deck, How ya been." A middle-aged man asked pleasantly. He was dressed in the typical gray pinstripe with briefcase. Channelle hissed and spat loudly, her ears back claws out. She advanced, in stalk form.

  "You." Deckard spat out with undisguised bile.

  "Yes, I was in the neighborhood." An attempt at humor.

  More hissing from Channelle followed this.

  "You're never in the neighborhood." Blaine looked down at his companion, and motioned her back, twice.

  "Lucky you. If I'd been in a bad mood, she'd shred you alive, and I'd help her."

  "Look, can I come in and talk with you about something. It's important."

  Deckard did not stand aside.

  "Really important, to you, too. I'm serious. I really mean it this time."

  Deckard's eyes rolled back and he walked into his den, sat on one of the couches, and shrugged. His watchful partner positioned herself between Deckard and the other man.

  "Where's your uniform? Quit, or did they kick you out, McGregor?"

  "I'm in a different branch of the service."

  Growl from Channelle.

  "Could you please calm that animal down, please?"

  Deckard was on his feet, and took a light swipe at him in milliseconds. McGregor cried out in surprise and pain. Faint traces of blood appeared in rows on his cheek.

  "Down ever call her an "animal" again." Blaine growled at him softly, with an accompanying growl from Channelle.

  The former soldier froze, as the "animal" crawled up onto the couch and into his lap, her claws burying themselves into his flesh as she walked across him. She was showing off, proving she did not fear him. If he objected, Kitka would attack and not even Deckard, had he wanted to, would be able to stop her. She crawled off after kneading her claws thoroughly.

  "Do you have a reason for being here?"

  "Yes, I do." he reached into his briefcase, slowly and handed a couple of thick files over to Deckard.

  "What are these?" Deckard took them and dropped them on the floor.

  "The main proposal for the Habakkuk II."

  "Two? What was the first?"

  "It was an aircraft carrier made out of ice cubes. Built during the World War era. Never mind that. The Habakkuk II was planned to be the most precise, the most powerful electromagnetic pulse weapon to be built. Section X had the blue prints on file. The concept was viable, but, for some reason, the project just never went forward."

  Ice cubes? Blaine was interested despite himself. Channelle wandered over by him and sniffed them curiously.

  "At the last inventory made they turned up missing. They been stolen, we don't know by whom." McGregor was dabbing at his cheek with a tissue.

  "When was it stolen?"

  "The nearest we can speculate is they might've been gone for as long as a year."

  "A year ago? What do you mean speculate? How did they get in and who was it?" Blaine was looking at the files. They were complex, and baffling.

  "That's what I'm trying to say. We don't know whom, because we don't know how. The last time anyone saw them was at the main vault at The Meadows complex. The draftsman and two armed guards deposited them there almost ten years ago. The vault is inventoried every three years, and the Habakkuk II plans were in the vault at last inventory. The whole thing is on DV, signatures all check out. Frankly, it looks like some of your work."

  Blaine looked up in surprise. "My work?" He chuckled. Channelle was lying on the file that he had dropped on the floor. "What would I steal some plans for an Electromagnetic pulse thing."

  "To sell to the highest bidder. To get back at us. It's no secret that you left the service disgruntled."

  "Disgruntled!" Deckard snorted. "I was disgruntled because of the service. When I left, I regained my gruntledness. I haven't stolen any plans, if I did, do you honestly think that I'd just be sitting around here waiting for the assault team to show up?"

  McGregor waved him down. "I only said it looked like your work, I didn't accuse you of anything. We know you didn't steal them, but we think there's a good chance that whoever did was trained by the Section." McGregor hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. He looked straight at Blaine. We want you to track them down and bring back the plans, or destroy them."

  .

  After the initial tirade that followed, including laughter and accusations of delusions of godhood, Blaine calmed down enough for McGregor to explain.

  "Look, I know that you don't want come back into the Section, and you won't be, you'll have all the equipment and support that you want, and all the freedom to do what you think is best. Frankly, we've run out of ideas, and you're the only one that hasn't failed."

  Deckard sighed. "I haven't done this sort of thing for years. I'm not the cat burglar you used to know." Kitka leapt onto his lap and settled in, as he stroked her sleek fur.

  "No, you're not the cat burglar I used to know, you've gotten better. Don't try to deny it. We know when you first moved here, you broke into several homes, all members of this township's two political parties. You broke into their facilities and began monitoring them, tracking their movements, building up dossiers, you were in full collection. After about a year, your activities stopped altogether. I know it's not in your nature to stop anything you've started, so I assume that you've honed your skills to point where you're completely undetectable."

  "I got rid of your tracking device, if that's what you mean."

  "You did that and you took a few other precautions. I'm sure that you know what everybody is doing, when they do it, and to whom."

  "Okay, I understand, but what's the big deal about these plans, from what it looks like, it would take enough money to run a medium sized country just to build, and if anyone were building this thing, you'd know about, so why worry?" He paused as he sipped his drink he had gotten during his outburst. "I don't understand why a magnetic cannon is so dangerous."

  "No, not a magnetic cannon, a magnetic pulse cannon. The plans are for building a device that can deliver a huge magnetic pulse in a direct beam."

  It began to dawn on Deckard what the situation was.

  "That could disable computers."

  "It could dispose entire networks, right down to hand held calculators. Nearly everything with any electronic circuitry would be destroyed, and last time I checked that included nearly everything. You could turn the beam on a computer a thousand miles away, disrupt it, but not stop the watch of the person that was using it. The Habakkuk II was first set of plans that made this type of pulse feasible. These plans call for a device has to be mammoth to deliver a mammoth charge. But, someone with enough brains could scale this down. It could be built anywhere, and fired from anywhere. "

  Deckard grew thoughtful. During the last decade, the world had switched over to a near cashless system. The new generation of electronic currency was nearly foolproof. No one could use a stolen credit chit, because it worked on the users biomechanics, which was sampled every time a transaction was made. Sure, there were ways to fool them, but it wasn't easy to do. They were proof against almost everything, except maybe a massive electromagnetic pulse. If all the credit chits were wiped, along with the computers that held the records of their balances, anarchy would be the kind word for what would happen. However, MacGregor still sounded paranoid as hell.

  "Understand now?"

  "Yeah, I get it, but there are others, why me, not them?"

  "Look, let's face it, you were the best. The others didn't hold a candle to you. You remember Prague. How about Rabat? There is New Amsterdam, and well, a host of others. You were the best, both of you. The merge between you two was the most successful."

  "What about Murphy and Boden. They're pretty good, get them to do it."

  "This isn't their kind of job. I need you two."

  Realization. "You already asked them to do it, and they turned you down." Blaine said.

  Soft ripping sounds came from McGregor's side. He looked over and saw Kitka was sharpening her claws on his briefcase, which was leather and Italian.

  MacGregor ignored this. "Like I said, whoever did this was obviously trained at the section. We need you to come in and maybe see if you could pick up some clues that might've been overlooked. You were highly trained, but we know that out in the field, you developed methods of your own. Methods that were never reported on. We didn't mind tight lips, because it was better security for everyone. Nobody can spill information on what they don't know, but now it our side that's gotten the hit. We need your help. You put it in a nutshell, if you don't help, this thing will be built and society will crumble in the onslaught that will follow the destruction of the technology that we have all come to depend on. There it is. Now, will you help us?"

  McGregor stirred nervously, his face florid.

  "I'll want a lot of equipment, and support, no questions and all of you to stay out of my way." Blaine said. "Give me that and I'll do it."

  "Okay, that's the way we do it. I'll leave these files," He reached for his briefcase, which had been effectively shredded into fine leather strips. Channelle was licking her chops, glaring at him.

  "Great, now get out of here." Blaine stood. "Don't come here again. If you want to talk, you can't. You want a progress report, you won't get one." The door opened. McGregor opened his mouth to say something, but closed it and walked out.

  At the door, he stopped and turned. "I could never understand why you hate me so much."

  Deckard barked out a laugh of derision. "That's why you don't understand,"

  Kitka rubbed up against the access button, which had been placed at her level, and the door shut and locked.

  Blaine meant to ignore the files, but his curiosity got the better of them and he sat on the couch and opened the first one. It was the basic proposal plans of the Electromagnetic Pulse Engine. Throughout the report, it was referred to as the EPE, or pulse engine. The design seemed complicated enough, but Deckard reminded himself that these were the proposal plans anyway.

  The proposal, written by Dr. K. Wouk, outlined the design and its possibilities. All of it seemed tight enough. The pulse engine, once built, could deliver its charge to a specific target, say an incoming missile, or bomber. The charge would fry the circuitry within, so that if brought down, the bombs would not explode, even if the bomber carrying it caught on fire. Without its circuitry, it would remain inert.

  The problem was with size. In order to generate a sufficient pulse, the engine would have to be massive, the size of a skyscraper, which underlined Blaine's main protest. If anyone were building this, everyone would know about it. But MacGregor was right about the right brain in a lab-coat could make it any size he or she wanted.

  Kitka leapt up onto a counter that was near the DV. It had been running weather updates silently, until she activated it. Deckard had altered every piece of household equipment so she could turn it off or on. A soft double beep sounded, indicating that he had messages. He cast the reports aside.

  One was from the Department of Experimental Defense. There was a formal gala that night and the honor of his presence was required. Deck made a noise of contempt. They had these things about twice a year, for those who were ambitious to network, but there was an open bar and the food was usually good. Seeing the next one, and the visit he had had today, he knew what the next message was, but he read it back anyway.

  It was from Boden, wanting a call. Blaine smiled slightly. Boden never was more specific than that. Channelle, sitting, her tail waving slowly back and forth over the edge was watching him. He signaled Channelle to activate the stored code for Boden. Seconds later, an iron jawed, crew cut stern face filled the monitor.

  "Yeah?" He grunted.

  Blaine stepped closer to the monitor, so his image could be picked up.

  "Hello Boden."

  "Blaine, good to hear from you." There was a sharp bark in background.

  "Murphy says hello." Pause. "You going?"

  "Maybe. You?"

  "I never miss free drinks and chow. What time?"

  "Around nine."

  "I'm going to be there at eight thirty. Are you going to be there at nine or nine thirty, or nine ten, or what?" Boden was punctual and expected others to be so.

  "Definitely by nine fifteen, but not before eight fifty." Pause. "How's that?"

  "Good, I'll get us a table near the bar. Don't be late." The image faded.

  Bowden and Blaine had crossed paths in the field during the Infowar, and later during the Corpwar, their teams were even paired to work together a couple of times. Off duty they had run onto one another and palled around. After the war, Bowden tracked him down. He was living in the same area. They had been through situations that only they could understand. That was some time ago. His life had been quiet for some time, but now, it seemed it was beginning again.

  .

  Blaine was dressing in his formal uniform, what was called 'class A'. It was a stiff pair of black wool pants and jacket with green piping. It had a heavy black belt with a brass buckle and a garrison cap. All of his medals and merits and decorations hung on the left side. His designation and unit were on the right, rank on both shoulders. They were all lies. Deckard Blaine had never been attached to a separate unit or designation type. He never remembered getting any medals or a promotion. His rank was a fictitious as the rest. He had never commanded anything, troops, or machines. Once on a mission, he accomplished it or not, if he'd been caught, he would've been killed. The only note in his file might have been: Overdue, presumed deactivated. When he left the Section, they had given him the uniform in a big gray garment bag. They said they he might want it. Even Kitka had a rank and designation in her official files. They had not supplied her with a class A uniform, however.

  Blaine also slipped on a set of composite metal holsters, one on each wrist. They held the modular projectile wrist rockets. The projectiles were caseless with solid propellant back ignited by small lasers. There was no recoil and very little report. They could be flung into the hands by a combination of muscle control and inertia or they could be fired without being drawn. The lack of a case meant no open action, just spiral shaped spring loaded clips. The wrist holsters were used for more than one reason.

  In a search, the place most often skipped was the wrists. Even the inside of the thighs were patted down over the wrists, which made no sense to Blaine. How fast could you get a weapon that was in your underwear? He made a few practice draws before he donned his jacket, then he called Kitka, who had been lazing in the windowsill. She hopped upon the dresser and stretched her neck out. Deckard fastened a diamond choker around her neck. It was a small rope of tiny white diamonds with a large blue one for the centerpiece.

  He stepped back and put his hands on his hips expectantly. She blinked at him, eyes half closed. He raised an eyebrow at her. Then suddenly, Channelle vanished. Blaine stared hard at the place she had recently occupied. She had moved. It was the most important piece of equipment from the old days, the blackout collar. The collar projected a light-bending field on all sides of a specific area. The developers of it could never get it much larger than Kitka with perfection. The larger it was, the more the actual shape could be defined and there were cheaper methods of mere camouflage. At the end of his conscription, he had been required to turn it all in. It had taken a diligent search and some serious money to replace it all. Money he had, they had paid him off quite well.

  "All right, it works." He said loudly. Sometimes during a test, she would leave the room entirely, a little joke of hers. He felt a large weight land on his shoulders and settle there. He looked in the mirror he was standing in front of, and she slowly came back into view.

  "Time to go." The clock on the wall read eight thirty. They would have to move it, in order not to be late.

  .

  The guard at the foyer looked over her list.

  "Yes sir, Captain Deckard Blaine." Her accent was French. She made a check mark as he looked at the ID screen. She looked at Kitka sitting on his shoulder, looking upward with slight interest.

  "I'm sorry sir, but the cat will have to remain in your transport." She was part of the IAG honor guard that always swarmed around the Section, but had little idea what they did.

  "She's invited, check your list for Commander Channelle Kitka."

  Skeptically, she keyed in the name and received the scan. Her eyes widened and she stood up, coding the door open.

  "Sorry for the delay, sir," She nodded at him and then at Channelle. "Mademoiselle."

  They ignored her salute and went through the pressure doors. Their rankings were best described as slippery. Sometimes Kitka was called Commander, Lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander, and others. He had been called anything from Captain to Colonel. It didn't make any difference: rank meant nothing to them. There was a receiving line to the right and the bar to the far left. The buffet was at the very back. People in all types of formal wear and uniforms were mingling about everywhere. A live band composed mostly of brass and stings played softly in the background. Kitka softly voiced her protest.

  "Yes," Deckard said, nodding and scanning the crowd.

  He spotted what he was looking for. Boden and Murphy. They both sat at a table between the buffet and the bar. Avoiding the receiving line, he made his way through the crowd. Boden cast a large shadow, at about six seven. His chiseled features made his countenance stone cold, ruthless. His wide shoulders and chest accentuated the number of ribbons and decorations he had. His Special Forces beret even had a theater patch on it. His rank was clear enough: Master Sergeant. Murphy, an enormous German Shepard with black and gray stripes, sat next to him. Around his neck was an olive drab coaler with black studs on it. From it dangled a black rank insignia: Staff Sergeant.

  There was a large bowl on the table full of a frothy liquid. Boden held a large beer mug. Blaine extended his hand and Channelle loped down his arm and jumped over to the table. Murphy and she began sniffing at one another. Boden shook Blaine's outstretched hand. He sat.

  Bowden glanced at the bartender, a gaze that could freeze water, and he hustled over with a tall-stemmed glass and a bowl. He sat them on the table and scurried off.

  "So, what's the dope with McGregor?" To the point.

  "He's got a job for me. You know the details."

  A nod. "You gonna do it? I had Murph chase him up a tree and hold him there before I heard him out."

  "A tree? Really? How tall was it?"

  "He got about seven feet up before he had to stop."

  "Good. Channelle tore his briefcase to shreds."

  A smile cracked itself across his visage. "That Italian one? That's totally cool." His accent was euro-hick, making cool sound like Kuuhl.

  Murphy and Channelle had finished their ritual of sniffing each other out, and had settled into their places, bowls before them.

  "I haven't decided what to do yet." Deckard took a sip of his drink.

  "Bullshit, You'll do it."

  "Why's that? And why didn't you take it?"

  "Because, this isn't our kind of work. It's too," Boden gestured, trying to find the words.

  "I know what you mean."

  "Yes, well, that's it. Can you imagine the two us investigating quietly about?" We attract attention at football games, for God's sake." Futbol Gamez "Besides that, we don't trust them."

  "Well, we don't trust them either."

  "Yes, but you know more about their ways, you can outsmart them." He paused and put down half of his mug of beer. "You're more sneaky."

  Blaine smirked. "It that we are?"

  "Yes, and so are they, but you're better at it. You could find this thing that they want, and not get burned in the process."

  "Yeah, that's what I'm worried about."

  "Well, I told them to go to hell, but you, you just tell me what to do, and we'll do it. I won't work for them, but if you need any help, just let me know."

  "Okay, That sounds perfect, you're the only I've ever trusted in this outfit anyway. With you out of their official loop, that'll make it all the better. Just be sure and tell them nothing."

  Silence passed between them as the band paused and then began another number. They observed the number of high ranking officers make the rounds of tables but carefully avoid theirs. Once or twice, some of the female escorts that were always on hand at these functions would glance their way, only to have the senior hostesses steer them elsewhere.

  "You know who stole the plans?" Bowden said after a while.

  "I've got a couple of ideas, yeah."

  "Who?" Blunt, always blunt.

  "Well, do you remember Halidan and Shea?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, they've got the skills and the know how. Also Jones and Blut and Mallos and Goramund."

  "Mallos and Goramund? They were burned in a fire, right?"

  "No, the building that they were in was burned, but no bodies were ever found."

  "Halidan and Shea? That seems like a long shot, I mean they folded up like a cheap table."

  "Less stable than you and me, that's for sure. They hate the Section even worse now. They never show up to the functions, and after the war, I never heard from either one. I get the occasional call from Jones, although I don't know how he manages it."

  "Jones? The ones in the, ah, " Boden pointed upwards.

  "That's the ones. Also the two that escaped, Keil and Jax. I don't know anything about them, but they were good enough to escape and stay that way."

  "But Jones and Blut? Every time I go see them, Jones can hardly even speak, and Blut stays hidden."

  "Yeah, but I wanna check 'em out anyway. They were in the program before we were and may have had contact with any of the others, maybe even Kiel and Jax."

  They both pondered how getting into the blueprint vaults could be done. The vaults were bomb proof, and Boden pointed out that he and Murphy would've just shot their way in, blew the vault to pieces and taken the part that they needed, to be opened elsewhere. The fact that the vault was in a highly secured facility surrounded by armed guards made little difference to him.

  Bowden and Murphy had taken down far tougher targets that that with less equipment and planning than they had now. However, the job had been stealthy, so the observation was not much help. Cameras were all over the place, with direct data feeds into the main building. In order to do the job, someone would have to handle that data traffic, either by turning it off, or altering it. An ultra animal would have to be far more advanced than either Murphy or Channelle to do the job alone.

  Even Channelle, who was most often considered the most successful merge ever, still needed her human partner to follow through with each mission. The animals, without the guidance, and reassuring presence of their masters (An ill-fitting word, but one used in the official briefs), often made mistakes, lost concentration, or just panicked. In turn, the "masters" were distracted to the point of fatal error. The animal and man, each working in tandem was extremely effective, but alone, the results were disastrous.

  "Let's blow this taco stand." Blain said after they had gone through the possibilities

  "My place. I got beer." Bowden grunted. They would need to iron over the details and this was no place to do it.

  "Let's go."

  Boden stood and angled his head towards the door. The four of them got up and exited, Kitka in Deckard's arms. Murphy led the way, the way he had always had.

  In more dangerous times, Murphy had led them through forests and minefields to little known chateaus, hidden bunkers, and remote forts. Kitka and Decker would infiltrate the structure, as Boden set up defensive devices and stood watch until the two slinked out and rejoined them. Then according to plan or not, the structure would be demolished, the survivors killed. It was the way they operated, then and now.