Storm Killer (4 page)

As project leader, it had been Adam Sand’s job to bring this project to fruition and he had finally accomplished it. He scanned the structure that was Storm Killer. It was flimsy by all Earth-side construction standards but unless it was hit by a solar storm of unforeseen size, it should perform its duties for many decades to come.

Adam glided toward the airlock a half a kilometer away at the center of the station’s northern pole. He could see the airlock navigation light blinking between yellow and green pointing the way to the airlock entrance. There was an identical airlock on the southern pole, but that one was over two kilometers away.

Using his Personnel Propulsion Unit, Adam slowly moved toward the blinking light of main airlock number two. He let the navigation computer automatically adjust the steering jets of the PPU to move him toward the airlock.

A PPU was a small open square box contraption with a ball on top. From the ball, small jet apertures extended in every direction. The box contained a small panel with several indicator lamps and a joystick that the user manipulated to control CO
₂
gas releases from the selected apertures.

The CO
₂
was stored under high pressure in a round tank inside the boxy frame of the PPU. The gas was replenished by extracting the waste from the crew’s breathing as well as other waste from various processes on the station. While the hydroponics section used living green plants to convert a portion of the CO
₂
back to breathable air, the vast majority of the gas was captured and used in the PPU devices.

Flipping the auto-nav off, Adam took manual control of the PPU. He reversed the PPU and slowed himself, stopping just short of the entrance. He pulled himself to the control box protruding from the side of the central core and punched the OPEN pad.

The airlock cycled out and stored the precious air supply in the interior chamber and then the outer door slid open with no sound or vibration.

He entered and touched the CLOSE pad. The two indicator lamps above the pad flipped in sequence from red to green as the computer program verified the inner door was still secure, and that the outer door had closed properly and was secure. Once the doors were verified, the system pumped air into the chamber. He removed his pressure helmet, pressed the open button for the inner door, and entered the interior of Storm Killer. The inner door opened into a small room.

This five-by-five meter room, known by Dumbbell’s inhabitants as ‘Reception’, had no furniture and bare metal walls except for one stenciled sign that provided instructions for the new arrival as to how and where to proceed.

Duct taped to the far wall was a handwritten sign saying simply, “Welcome Aboard Dumbbell.” One could take the welcome sign several ways: first was you were being welcomed aboard the station nicknamed Dumbbell, or second, you were a dumbbell for being here. Adam had thought it meant both when he had written and surreptitiously posted the sign late one night the first week after the station’s hull was completed.

A set of hand pulls led along the almost one-eighth of a kilometer long corridor into a receiving area that had a ramp leading toward a cylinder going “up” toward the exact center of the core. “Up” was a relative term based on the viewer’s current perception of what was “down”.

The entrance to the central axis, known as the “core”, was dramatic to new and old personnel alike. An arriving person jumping onto the core’s rotating floor would grab a handrail similar to an escalator’s.

Once they had regained their balance and looked over their heads, they saw a cylindrical area of almost one and a half kilometers in length and seven hundred meters from one side to another.

The immense space between the interior walls of the cylinder were divided with catwalks and various windowless box-shaped structures, fifty meters per side, hanging from suspension cables from a central stationary shaft that ran the length of the core. These were scattered in an apparent random pattern throughout the vast empty space of the cylinder.

These large, square, hanging boxlike structures were actually enclosed work areas. The designers of Storm Killer had noted that because it was a hollow cylinder, there was a tremendous volume of unused space between the “ground” and the core’s axis. Their solution to taking advantage of this unused space was these hanging box work areas, laboratories, and office spaces.

Various contractors from many nations had their offices and support services in these spaces. Some even lived in this shantytown of flying offices. In fact, certain of these spaces were considered the sovereign territory of specific nations like Japan, Great Britain, Mexico, Russia, and China. These spaces held the various nations’ consulate representatives and scientific missions. The entire area of hanging structures was known as Core City.

Set along the fixed places on the core’s rotating walls or more accurately, the floor, were more familiar looking structures resembling normal buildings and houses. They were scatter around the entire inner hull, but a large concentration was half a kilometer from the arbitrary “southern” pole. This was the working and living space for the prime contractor, the government officials who watchdog the contractors’ expenditures and quality levels, and the primary team of professionals and scientists who dreamed up this project.

This area also housed the control center for the entire structure. It was the only light green-colored structure in the core. This center handled the environmental, water and sewer systems, power generation, and the Storm Killer command and control functions.

The spot from which one observed this scene was slightly offset from the center of the stationary shaft.

There were eight such spots located at equal spaces around the core. From this spot four single-person elevators were installed that ran down to the “floor” of the core.

The “elevator” was nothing more than an open-air dual t-bar arrangement. The “down” end of the elevator had a t-bar with two straps into which the rider placed their feet. The “up” end of the elevator had a t-bar that the rider could grasp with hands or connect to with several bungee cords that dangled from it. Each elevator serviced a quadrant of the floor five hundred and fifty meters below.

After pushing the elevator ‘down’ button, the ride took eight minutes and the rider started feeling more and more weight as the elevator neared the rotating floor of the core.

When a rider reached the floor, he or she could take the light rail system. This was a set of electric passenger cars running every twenty minutes between the main business areas on the floor and elevators to the central hub’s poles’ airlocks. There were three similar rail systems servicing the other elevator terminuses located at each quadrant of the floor.

If a rider was a VIP, they could make use of the garage of electric golf cart conveyances housed at each elevator terminus.

Adam entered the garage and took the closest cart. He inserted his identification card into the cart’s ignition system, received the appropriate authorization and mashed his foot on the accelerator. The little cart leaped forward as he floored the vehicle to maximum acceleration. He drove to the command center building located about five minutes from the elevator terminus. He parked the cart in a space with a sign reading “Reserved for Project Manager.”

Adam entered the building and glanced at the empty chair behind the reception desk. Since this was a closed environment circling some two thousand kilometers above Earth, it didn’t seem to require huge security measures to ensure only authorized personnel go into restricted areas. After all, within a week of arrival all two hundred residents knew the new arrival by first name.

The only two locations in all of Storm Killer that had fingerprint and retinal scanning security access were the Command Center and the core’s environmental center. Everywhere else was open to any one who wished to walk in.

Adam entered the small white vestibule behind the reception desk. The vestibule held no furnishing other than a single white pedestal next to the closed security door opposite where he had just entered. The pedestal held an access card receiving slot, a keypad, a fingerprint scanner pad, an optical scanning device, and two banks of four indicator lamps. One bank was red and one bank was green. At the moment, all red indicators were lit.

Adam entered his access card in the receiving slot, typed in his six-digit password, and placed his right index finger on the scanner. As he performed each function, the corresponding red indicator switched to green.

A computer-generated female voice ordered, “Please perform retinal scan.” Adam placed his right eye socket against the small cup device mounted just above the card slot.

A low-powered laser beam scanned his retina from top to bottom and then left to right. The computer checked his retinal blood vessel pattern against his stored security file image, looking to compare at least one hundred reference points. Retinas were as unique as fingerprints; no two people had the same pattern of blood vessels. A few seconds passed, the last red lamp switched to green, and the same voice declared, “Access granted, Mr. Sands”.

Adam heard the security door’s locks release. He walked to the door and gave it a small push.

7

The slim middle-aged man in an Armani business suit walked briskly down Georgetown’s O Street. He was nearing the corner at Rock Creek Park where O Street turns into 26
^th
Street. This area was brimming with townhouses of many of the Washington, D.C. rich and famous.

He carried a thin attaché case of simple black leather with chrome locks and handle.

He read the uniform brass plaques house numbers as he walked down the street. Finally, he saw the one he sought. Turning onto the short sidewalk to the three granite steps leading to the front door, he hesitated long enough to straighten his tie and daub his sweaty brow with his handkerchief.

It was one of those miserable hot and humid late August days so well known by the area locals. The humidity and the temperature both hovered around ninety-nine. The combination left residents feeling like they were inside a steaming sauna. Even this man, with his Central America upbringing, found this time of the year in Washington oppressive.

Arriving at the front door, he rang the bell. A portly man wearing shorts, a polo shirt and socks with no shoes opened the door. His thinning gray hair adorned the top of his rotund face.

“Yes? Can I help you?” the man asked of the caller.

“Senor Doctor? I am from our mutual friends in Mexico,” the well-dressed caller stated in a very heavy Spanish accent. “May I enter?”

“Certainly, please come in,” the man, referred to as doctor by the caller, responded jovially as he eyed the attaché case swinging from his caller’s right hand.

“Come with me to the kitchen. I have coffee brewed and was just having my first cup of the day.”

The caller’s eyebrows rose slightly as it was now almost two o’clock in the afternoon.

The Doctor chuckled when he saw the other man’s quizzical expression. “Some of us, in our roles of senior advisors, have very long, late night meetings at the White House.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” replied the caller. His eyes met the Doctor’s. The Doctor thought.
If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then this man has no soul.

The Doctor asked, “What shall I call you?”

“My name is not important, but if you must call me something, call me Carlos.”

After receiving his coffee and joining the doctor at the kitchen table, Carlos placed the attaché case on the table and slid it across to him. “Here is the payment information as you requested. Two hundred and fifty million dollars deposited in three separate Cayman accounts. One account contains two hundred million dollars, as instructed. The other two accounts of equal shares of twenty-five million each, also as instructed.”

The Doctor opened the case and stared at the contents.

Carlos continued, “We have met our end of the bargain and now we expect you to meet your end.”

The doctor smiled as he glanced through the various account numbers, assigned password, and wire transfer confirmations. Everything appeared to be in order just as he had instructed his contact in Mexico.

Carlos stated, “Based on our independent, on-board intelligence, the station will go fully operational sometime tomorrow morning. We expect that status to change drastically for the amount of money we are paying you and your associates.”

The doctor nodded, “Yes, my daily update from the station indicates it’ll go live sometime in the next twelve hours and command will be turned over at that time. We’ll launch our plans at the moment of the turnover. Never fear, the station will fail to accomplish its mission in the most worldwide, spectacular, public-attention-grabbing manner possible.”

“You seem confident, doctor. Let us just hope you are right. I would hate to think of the consequences of failure on your part,” Carlos stated with no hint of emotion.