Michael Crichton - State Of Fear

"I don't get it," Evans said.

"They didn't either," Sanjong said. "They thought it might be some cult thing, and because the parks can't be used for religious purposes, they got on the phone and called some of the organizations. And they found in every case that the organization had received a special donation to fund the function on this particular weekend."

"Donation from whom?"

"Charitable organizations. In every case the situation was the same. They'd receive a letter saying Thank you for your recent request for funding. We are pleased to say we can support your get-together at such-and-such park on Monday, October eleventh. The check has already been sent in your name. Enjoy your gathering.' "

"But the groups never requested the booking?"

"No. So they'd call the charity, and someone would tell them it must have been a mixup, but since the checks were already sent out, they might as well go ahead and use the park that day. And a lot of the groups decided they would."

"And these charitable organizations were?"

"None you ever heard of. The Amy Rossiter Fund. The Fund for a New America. The Roger V. and Eleanor T. Malkin Foundation. The Joiner Memorial Foundation. All together, about a dozen charities."

"Real charities?"

Sanjong shrugged. "We assume not. But we're checking that now."

Evans said, "I still don't get it."

"Somebody wants those parks used this weekend."

"Yes, but why?"

Sanjong handed him a photograph. It was an aerial shot in false colors, and it showed a forest, the trees bright red against a dark blue ground. Sanjong tapped the center of the picture. There, in a clearing in the forest, Evans saw what looked like a spiderweb on the grounda series of concentric lines connecting fixed points. Like a spiderweb.

"And that is?"

"It's a rocket array. The launchers are the fixed points. The lines are the power cables to control the launch." His finger moved across the picture. "And you see, there's another array here. And a third one here. The three arrays form a triangle, approximately five miles on each side."

Evans could see it. Three separate spiderwebs, set in clearings in the forest.

"Three rocket arrays amp;"

"Yes. We know they have purchased five hundred solid-state rockets. The rockets themselves are quite small. Close analysis of the picture elements indicates that the launchers are four to six inches in diameter, which means the rockets are capable of going up about a thousand feet or so. Not more than that. Each array has about fifty rockets, wired together. Probably not set to fire at the same time. And you notice the launchers are placed quite far apart amp;"

"But for what purpose?" Evans said. "These things are out in the middle of nowhere. They shoot up a thousand feet, and then fall back down? Is that it? What's the point of that?"

"We don't know," Sanjong said. "But we have another clue. The picture you're holding in your hands was taken yesterday. But here is a picture from a flyby this morning." He handed Evans a second picture, showing the same terrain.

The spiderwebs were gone.

"What happened?" Evans said.

"They packed up and left. You see in the first picture, there are vans parked at the edge of the clearings. Apparently, they just put everything in the vans and moved."

"Because they were spotted?"

"It's unlikely they know they were spotted."

"Then what?"

"We think they had to move to a more favorable setting."

"More favorable for what?" Evans said. "What's going on?"

"It may be significant," Sanjong said, "that at the time they purchased the rockets, they also purchased a hundred and fifty kilometers of microfilament wire."

He was nodding to Evans, as if that was supposed to explain everything.

"A hundred and fifty kilometers amp;"

Sanjong flicked his eyes toward the helicopter pilot, and shook his head. "We can go into it in greater detail later on, Peter."

And then he looked out the window.

Evans stared out the opposite window. He saw mile after mile of eroded desert landscape, cliffs brown with streaks of orange and red. The helicopter rumbled northward. He could see the helicopter's shadow racing over the sand. Distorted, twisted, then recognizable again.

Rockets, he thought. Sanjong had given him this information as if he were supposed to figure it out on his own. Five hundred rockets. Groups of fifty launchers, set widely apart. One hundred and fifty kilometers of microfilament wire.

Perhaps that was supposed to mean something, but Peter Evans didn't have the faintest idea what it could possibly be. Groups of small rockets, for what?

Microfilament, for what?

In his head, it was easy enough to calculate that if this microfilament was attached to the rockets, each rocket would have about a third of a kilometer of wire. And a third of a kilometer was amp;roughly a thousand feet.

Which was how high Sanjong said the rockets could go, anyway.

So these rockets were flying a thousand feet into the air, dragging a microfilament wire behind them? What was the point of that? Or was the wire intended to be used to retrieve them, later on? But no, he thought, that couldn't be. The rockets would fall back into the forest, and any microfilament would snap.

And why were the rockets spaced widely apart? If they were only a few inches in diameter, couldn't they be packed closer together?

He seemed to recall that the military had rocket launchers where the rockets were so close together the fins almost touched. So why should these rockets be far apart?

A rocket flies up amp;dragging a thin wire amp;and it gets to a thousand feet amp;and amp; And what?

Perhaps, he thought, there was some instrumentation in the nose of each rocket. The wire was a way to transmit information back to the ground. But what instrumentation?

What was the point of all this?

He glanced back at Sanjong, who was now hunched over another photograph.

"What're you doing?"

"Trying to figure out where they've gone."

Evans frowned as he saw the picture in Sanjong's hand. It was a satellite weather map.

Sanjong was holding a weather map.

Did all this have to do with weather?

"Yes," Kenner said, leaning forward in the booth of the restaurant. They were in the back of a steakhouse in Flagstaff. The jukebox at the bar was playing old Elvis Presley: "Don't Be Cruel." Kenner and Sarah had showed up just a few minutes before. Sarah, Evans thought, looked drawn and worried. Not her usual cheerful self.

"We think this is all about the weather," Kenner was saying. "In fact, we're sure it is." He paused while a waitress brought salads, then continued. "There are two reasons to think so. First, ELF has bought a considerable amount of expensive technology that seems to have no use in common, except perhaps attempts to influence the weather. And second, the"

"Hold on, hold on," Evans said. "You said attempts to influence the weather?"

"Exactly."

"Influence how?"

"Control it," Sanjong said.

Evans leaned back in the booth. "This is crazy," he said. "I mean, you're telling me these guys think they can control the weather?"

"They can," Sarah said.

"But how?" Evans said. "How could they do it?"

"Most of the research is classified."

"Then how do they get it?"

"Good question," Kenner said. "And we'd like to know that answer. But the point is, we assume that these rocket arrays are designed to produce major storms, or to amplify the power of existing storms."

"By doing what?"

"They cause a change in the electric potentials of the infra-cumulus strata."

"I'm glad I asked," Evans said. "That's very clear."

"We don't really know the details," Kenner said, "although I'm sure we'll find out soon enough."