Randy White - Twelve Mile Limit

“But the U.S. intelligence agencies also have some very amazing birds up there. I’ve read about this, understand, I got no firsthand knowledge. Not that anything is such a great big secret anymore. Our military shoots off a rocket, the world’s watching. The Chinese, the Saudis, everyone, they know that if the rocket goes east or west, it’s probably an electronic eavesdropping satellite. If it goes north or south, it’s most likely a photoreconnaissance satellite, doing what they call a polar orbit or figure-eight orbit. The photorecon satellites, that’s what might interest you.”

No longer gazing at the octopi, concentrating on what Bernie was telling me-telling me with words, and without words-I said, “Exactly. Satellite photographs. How good are they?”

“Even back in the 1960s, when the CIA first starting launching them, even then, they were pretty good. CORONA Satellite Photography, that was the name of the operation. Keyhole photography we…” Bernie paused, catching himself. “Every satellite had a KH, keyhole, designation. Carried large spools of seventy-millimeter film into space, great big panoramic cameras. After photographs were taken, the satellites jettisoned the exposed film, which was then snared in midfall by military planes. Amazingly complicated, but it worked pretty good.”

I said, “But it’s better now.”

“Better? Remember the old rumor that NSA could read the number on a license plate from outer space. That was ten, fifteen years ago. Bunk! Three-meter resolution, that was about as good as it got. So the rumor was complete nonsense up until a few years back when we launched a couple of ultra-high-tech birds, KH-12s and now KH-13s. Absolutely fabulous resolution… which is what I’ve read, anyway. Pictures are so sharp, they can count the rivets on equipment coming out of Iraqi factories. They can pick out a human face in a sea of people. And the KH-13s, what they can do is still classified so, of course, how is someone like me supposed to know a thing or two about something like that? Spectacular reconnaissance, that would be my guess. With all the improvements in sensor development, maybe they can see through clouds. At night. In a heavy fog. I’m not saying it’s true, but in such a world, name one little thing that’s not possible.”

Yep, Bernie definitely had access to the satellites, and the satellites had the capability. That’s what he was telling me. I found his line, a human face in a sea of people, at once subtly evocative and also haunting. Was it really possible that he could pull up photos that might isolate Janet, Michael, and Grace after they were adrift?

I said, “Just for argument’s sake, let’s say I wormed my way into the right department, filled out all the forms, jumped through all the hoops, and managed to get official authorization to check the satellite data banks-”

“Marion, Marion! Forget it. Don’t waste your time. It could never happen. If this country allowed intelligence satellites to be used in even one missing person’s case, the floodgates would be opened. You know how many people go missing every year? Not to mention the breach of security. The whole system would be compromised. It would be disastrous. Even if you were a U.S. Senator, the governor of a state, it wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t release that information to you, or even admit they had it.”

“But let’s say I did manage to get access. What are the chances that one or more satellites flew over the area the night my friends were set adrift? That photographs were taken?”

Yeager’s voice changed slightly, had some emotion in there-additional reassurance. “The chances? A man so naturally lucky as you, what do you care about odds? I’ll put it this way. There is now in place a keyhole system called ‘Lacrosse’ that is part of the old Star Wars initiative. With the satellites they have, U.S. intelligence people are able to see all parts of Russia at the same time, twenty-four hours a day, no problem. We’ve got newer birds on station now. Could be, our people want to keep a close eye on Cuba. Or Panama, maybe. I wouldn’t be the tiniest bit surprised if that included the Gulf of Mexico, the Florida Keys, the whole kit ’n’ kaboodle. Isn’t that where you live, down there in the tropics? Coconuts and alligators, tourists wearing those horrible shirts. All that rain and humidity. Every summer we used to have to visit my aunt on Miami Beach. Whew! It’s yours, you can have it.” He was laughing now.

Yes, there would be photographs available, and Bernie could find them.

We talked for another fifteen minutes. We traded old stories, spoke of old friends. I mentioned the Islamic terrorists, and he went on a ten-minute tirade. “They have asked for a dirty war, and we are giving it to them!” he said more than once.

Yes, he was fixated on them, despised them.

Bernie was wrong when he said I have no appreciation for the electronic niceties of this century. I much appreciate the fact that I now have access to instant communications worldwide with people about whom I care deeply. Pick up a telephone, punch a few buttons, and we have an immediate conduit to those individuals who have made a mark upon our lives. Much of technology is a response to the loneliness of the human condition. Drums and signal fires, cell phones and Internet cafes-methods change, but our wistfulness, our rebellion against isolation, does not.

Finally, Bernie told me how well Eve’s son was doing. He was in high school now. Getting straight As and he’d almost aced his SATs on his first try. Sports, too. He was a superb point guard and played baseball as well. The proud uncle going on and on.

As we chatted, me standing in the lab, watching the octopi with cat-gold eyes watching me from their lighted tanks, I had an idea. Missing stone crabs were not nearly so compelling as three missing people, but the oddity of it still troubled me.

I said, “Hey Bernie, maybe you can give me some advice about another little problem I’m having. Someone or something is sneaking into my lab at night and stealing specimens. How hard would it be to rig a little night-vision camera in here and keep track of what happens when I’m away?”

“So, finally you ask for a favor that I can help you with! What I’m going to do is loan you a little digitized video camera. The night-vision lens is already attached, so what you’re going to do is mount it on the wall, plug in the converter, and walk away. Simple as falling off a whatever it is people say. A barrel? There’s a timer you could probably figure out on your own after futzing with it two or three hours, so it’s better if I program it here. How’s it with you I set it to come on at midnight, off at six? With enough memory to film nine, maybe ten, nights before you got to go to the menu and delete.”

“Perfect,” I said.

“Not a problem, old friend. You will be getting something from me in the next few days.”

I wasn’t certain if he meant the camera or satellite photographs.

The next night, Sunday, a cool, clear Pearl Harbor anniversary eve, Tomlinson came puttering up in his little rubber dinghy. I could hear him swearing fraternally at the ancient Japanese kicker that missed, coughed, sputtered, and threatened to stall. He’d had the thing for years, refused to get rid of it because, he said, it dependably sapped all the aggression right out of him each and every time he used it.

“The goddamn thing is an emotional laxative,” he explained. “A bad karma purge with a carburetor glitch that Jesus Christ himself plus the twelve disciples couldn’t solve if their holy asses depended on it. I still think it’s a bad diaphragm, by the way. Reminds me of my ex-wife, the ball-breaking dragon lady. Dealing with that rice-burning piece of crap is like meditation in reverse. It’s cheaper than therapy, plus I’m never in much of a hurry, so what do I care?”