Robert Doherty - Project Aura

“How many ground stations can each satellite handle?”

“The MDR can handle at least two thousand, four hundred user terminals simultaneously.”

The colonel waited for another question; when none was forthcoming, he continued with his briefing. “We put the satellites together here, led by the MILSATCOM Joint Program Office, of which I am the executive officer.

Lockheed Missiles and Space Company is the primary contractor. TRW Space and Electronic Systems provides the low-data-rate payload, while Hughes Aircraft provides the medium-data-rate payload. The actual satellite”-Braddock turned to the mock-up-“is made up of components, which allows on-site upgrade.”

“What does that mean?”

“We can pull a piece, say the LDR main computer, and replace it when a better one is designed.”

“How do you do that when it’s in orbit?”

“A space shuttle mission. We’ve already upgraded the first two MILSTARs with the MDR, which they didn’t have in their original configuration. There have been six MILSTAR maintenance missions by the shuttle.”

“Six? You said only two needed the upgrade.”

For the first time Braddock seemed at a loss. “Well, sir, there have been other upgrades to the system.”

“Such as?”

“That’s classified.”

“I have the highest security clearance possible,” Eichen countered.

“Uh, yes, sir, I know you do. But, to be honest, I don’t know what the other four missions were. They were compartmentalized.”

“Then how do you know about them at all?”

“We have to provide access to a full-scale mock-up for EVA training any time a mission is planned. We’ve done that six times. Thus I assume there were six missions.”

Eichen leaned back in the chair and considered that. “So someone is modifying the MILSTARs and you don’t know who it is?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. That’s true. Of course, whatever agency it is, it has the proper clearances and authorizations.”

“How do you know that?” Eichen had run into this more times than he cared to remember.

“We wouldn’t have given access to the mock-up without proper clearance and authorization.”

The stock answer. Eichen was tempted to ask the colonel to reverse that logic, but he held back as he knew it would do no good. “How is the satellite launched?”

“Two methods. So far all have been via Titan IV with a wide-body Centaur upper stage. For the SC-MILSTAR, it will be via space shuttle release.”

“Why the difference?”

“SC-MILSTAR is going in a geosynchronous orbit over the north pole, while the others are basically above the equator. The next shuttle launch, Columbia , is going up from Vandenburg and is set for a polar orbit. It just makes sense to use the available platform rather than having a Titan moved from the Cape to Vandenburg.

“Once the system is fully operational, command and control of it will be given over to the U.S. Space Command at Falcon Air Force Base outside of Colorado Springs.”

“ Cheyenne Mountain,” Eichen said. He didn’t like the new name given to the massive underground complex. He remembered when it had simply been called NORAD, before that agency was a victim of the end of the Cold War.

“Yes, sir.”

Eichen stood. “Thank you very much, Colonel.” He headed for the door, then paused. “One last question.”

“Yes, sir?”

“When does the SC-MILSTAR go up?”

“In three days. MILSTAR will be operational worldwide in seventy-two hours.”

The ambush was laid out perfectly. L-shaped, with the heavy M-60 machine gun along the short leg, aimed down the dirt road where it curved to the right. The long leg was comprised of eight men with automatic weapons, each with aiming stakes carefully stuck in the jungle floor to delineate their fields of fire in the darkness. Across from them, on the far side of the road, antipersonnel mines lined the ditch where any survivors of the initial firing would most likely seek cover. Four large antitank mines had been carefully buried in the road, their remote detonator in the hands of the captain in charge of the team.

They’d flown in by chopper from the aircraft carrier Roosevelt the previous evening and set the kill zone up that night. According to the intelligence the CIA representative had given them, their target was due through just before dawn, which was less than an hour away.

They were members of the 10th Special Forces Group (Airborne) on loan to a shadowy organization under the umbrella of the CIA with the unassuming code name of Task Force Six. TF-6 had been formed in the mid-nineties to take the drug war from the streets of America to the sources, whether in South America or in the Far East. Twelve missions had been conducted over the intervening years, ranging from raids on labs to assassinations of key cartel or Triad members. All had been complete successes without the loss of a single man or the source of the action being compromised.

“Lucky thirteen,” Master Sergeant Garrison muttered.

“ ‘Tomorrow let us do and die,’” Captain Scott replied in the same low voice, eyes peering through night vision goggles, noting the distant glow that indicated headlights coming their way.

Garrison nodded, seeing the same thing and recognizing the quote. It was their routine just before action. “ ‘Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war.’” He keyed the FM radio. “Target ETA four minutes. Give me a check by the numbers.”

Each man reported in, their voices subdued and tinny in the small earpiece.

Garrison checked the action on his MP-5 one more time. “ ‘You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees, but you don’t get away from the guns.’ ”

Scott took his attention away from the coming lights. “That’s a good one. Twain?”

“Kipling. Read it last week. It was in…” He paused.

“What?” Scott was alert also, both men sensing something, even though the car was still two miles away.

Garrison rolled onto his back and looked up at the branches above, the night vision goggles revealing the scene in shades of green, even the night sky where it peaked through. There was a very dim red sphere high up, above the trees about eighty meters away to the south. Garrison had never seen the like. He knew the goggles would show a cigarette burning as a bright red glow, almost a searchlight, so whatever was there was extremely low level. Then it was gone, blinking out.

There it was! Fifty meters from where it had been. “What the hell-” Garrison muttered. The level in the goggles was so low, he wondered if it was a malfunction.

“The car’s stopped,” Scott reported.

Garrison twisted his head awkwardly. The glow from the headlights was stationary, a half mile short of the kill zone. “Something’s wrong. We need to pull back. Now.” He looked up. The unidentified glow was gone once more.

“Maybe someone had to take a leak,” Scott reasoned. “Let’s give it another minute.”

The glow hadn’t reappeared but Garrison’s apprehension was increasing with every passing second. Their orders were to take no chances, which was rather ludicrous given they were preparing for a combat operation, always a chancy thing in Garrison’s military experience. They wore sterile fatigues, no identification or dog tags, but it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out where they were from.

“I strongly recommend we pull back now, sir.”

The use of the official military courtesy startled Scott and gave him an idea how serious the team sergeant was. He keyed the radio. “All elements, pull back to the extraction rally point.”

The team was well trained; not a single word of protest or question was heard over the commo net as each man began to slide back from his carefully prepared position.