From the colonel's report, it appeared that Apollo's team had made it as far as the Mars Base airlock hatch and no further. So far, nothing they had tried had given them access to the compound.
"Why the hell would they make getting into the Base so damn difficult?" Ryan groused on the flight deck of the shuttle. "Were they afraid Martians were going to come calling?"
"Can we hack it?" asked Dayton.
"Can we what it?" asked Malus.
"Human slang, Mal. Can we interface electronically with the base's systems and open the airlocks remotely?"
"Oh, why did you not say so?" replied the IL. "The base's comm suite and transponders are still on-line, Commander. It should be simple to lock on and find a pathway into the base's computer system."
"Then let's do it, Mal."
"You intend to join me in this, Commander?" asked the IL, voice puzzled. "I thought I was to proceed independently . . ."
"Just an expression, Mal," sighed Dayton. He looked at Cassiopeia, shaking his head. She merely smiled back at him. It was like dealing with a five-year-old kid at times. "I mean 'proceed'."
"I see. How quaint. Proceeding, Commander," replied the IL. Plugging into the shuttle's comm-suite, he quickly connected with the Endeavour's mainframe. From there, he isolated every frequency being used by the base and searched every one. One that was recently busy transmitting data home, was currently idle, waiting on the time-lag between Mars and Earth. The carrier, however, was still active, and after a brief lapse . . . "I am in."
"Good lad . . . I mean 'cyborg'," Ryan nodded his approval.
"Colonel Apollo, can you give me a close-up scan of the airlock hatch and control panel, please?" asked Malus. Apollo complied and Malus went to work, searching for command pathways in the base's computer. After almost five microns of failures and dead-ends, he discovered the subroutine he was looking for. The control panel for the airlock lit up, the various lights going through a variety of blinking patterns, followed by a loud bleep.
"It's working," said Apollo over the comm, as the metal door slid open. "Thanks, Mal."
"My pleasure, Colonel," replied the IL.
xxxxx
Every time Roach passed through those two sets of twenty-five ton steel blast doors in "America's Fortress", he felt eerily like he was in a coffin rather than any kind of military base. That said, it could have something to do with the air getting a bit "stale" at Cheyenne Mountain complex from the Air Force sharing space with not only its military counterparts, but also with US Strategic Command, The Defence Intelligence Agency, the National Security Agency, the Missile Defence Agency, not to mention the National Intelligence Agency. All they were missing was a Starbucks. Yes, nuclear attacks were still a potential threat, but the six hundred plus people working at Cheyenne Mountain more often concerned themselves with natural disasters, cyberattacks, and terrorist organizations. Which is apparently why two men who had flown in on what looked to be an old Orbiter Space shuttle, supposedly destroyed decades ago —according to the file Jess Dayton had sent him on his sat-phone—were being incarcerated here.
He strode through the complex, letting the base commander lead him and Mason to where the men were kept, rifling through the reports. One could be crushed under all this paper! Then again, after spending most of the night in DC struggling through an agenda that he was sure the Director of National Intelligence had thrown together to delay this moment, he'd had about all he could take of "the system". About ten paces behind him and still restrained, WASA's Unity commander was in tow, but out of earshot. He'd waited all night and half of the day to see how the major would respond to these prisoners. "Can you give me the highlights, Colonel Bradshaw?"
"Of course, General," the base commander and commander of the Mission Support Group at Cheyenne replied. "I think you know the back story. They claim to have come to our solar system from another one several thousand light-years from here, through some kind of wormhole . . ."
"Twice, actually," Mason snorted. "Apparently, they'd have us believe that there's a veritable garden of wormholes in space. All part of their ruse . . ."
Bradshaw pushed onward, ignoring the tobacco-reeking suit. "First man: Caucasian, physical age approximately sixty, six feet tall, one hundred and sixty-five pounds, claiming to be Captain Richard "Dick" Dickins, US Navy. I'm not sure if you remember, but Dickins was one of the astronauts who went up with the Endeavour Space Shuttle back in July of 2010, when the International Space Station was subsequently destroyed by the World Islamic Front,which was, of course, linked to al Queda."
"Yes, I remember. He also was awarded a Congressional Medal of Honour for actions in Iraq. Hell of a service record."
"Yes, sir. Genetic testing and fingerprints confirm he's Dickins, but dental comparisons were useless. He's lost a number of teeth—possibly due to a fractured jaw at some point—which seem to have been replaced recently, and by a technology we cannot identify. Also, his physical age doesn't correlate with his chronological age."
"Is there an explanation for that?"
"He attributes it to 'clean living'—his words—and a particular root he ate for thirty years," Bradshaw replied. "Our genetic scientists suggest he could have been injected with Dickins' DNA to throw us off track."
"A lot more likely," Mason inserted with a snort. "These vermin are clever little . . ."
"Retinal scans?"
"None available, sir. Retinal scans weren't in general use before 2017, and then only for new recruits. Captain Dickins' patterns were never on file."
"Convenient," muttered Mason.
"The ship, is it the Endeavour?" Roach asked, wanting something conclusive to go on.
"Yes, General. It's been modified by technology that we can't as yet identify, but it's definitely the Endeavour." He watched as the general lifted a picture of the old Orbiter from the voluminous file. There were also pictures of some of the unidentified equipment the ship had been retrofitted with. "Serial numbers on many of the ship's original parts matched the records."
Roach glanced at Mason, raising an eyebrow. "So you think we have an impersonator piloting a bone-fide Enterprise-class Space Shuttle with unidentifiable tech? Is that right?"
"Read the entire report, Roach. They've had forty years to develop that technology just for this moment, to make us buy their entire 'threatened by aliens' fable. Makes you wonder where WASA's been hiding that old shuttle all this time," Mason inserted softly, lighting another cigarette as he looked at the picture of the recovered shuttle. "And if the rest of the crew is still being harboured somewhere else or if they were killed back in 2010."
"Why?"
"To try and eliminate the evidence that NASA had been penetrated by international terrorists that cold-bloodedly planned the destruction of the ISS."
"Have we checked with Dickins' surviving family?" Roach asked Bradshaw. "Surely they could tell us if it's him or not? Conclusively."
"Both parents and an older sister are deceased, sir," began Bradshaw. "Records indicate his wife and four children . . ."
"However, imposed anti-terrorism security levels prohibits such contact, General," interjected Mason. "Besides, this man could have been groomed for years to impersonate Captain Dickins. He could fool Dickins' own mother. This is terrorism at its highest level. We're finally tying WASA in to al Qaeda, proving beyond a doubt that they've evolved far beyond the goal of a global jihad." Mason blew out a cloud of smoke, his lip curled contemptuously. "Nobody outside Cheyenne know about these men and I aim to keep it that way."
"What about the President?"
Mason didn't answer.
"Go on, Colonel Bradshaw," Roach ordered, turning his back on the spook..
"As for the other man, his ethnicity appears similar to Polynesian, approximately five foot ten, one hundred and eighty pounds, late twenties, appears to speak no English, or any other language that we can identify. We've checked his DNA, fingerprints, dental impressions and retinal patterns against every database in the world. Nothing, sir." He waited a beat as the other leafed through the file. "He answers to 'Hummer'. Dickins can communicate with him in a very limited fashion, which appears to frustrate both prisoners."
Mason snorted. "If you make him scream for mercy long enough, I'm sure he'll eventually come up with a language we can understand."
Bradshaw stared at the intelligence man distastefully. "They could be telling the truth, Director Mason. I, for one, haven't ruled out that possibility. There aresome interesting differences in both Hummer's hemochemistry and skeletal structure," he paused as the Director of National Intelligence snorted once again, "but again Mason's scientists suggest that these things have been genetically altered to confuse us."
"Doesn't seem to take much to confuse us, Bradshaw," Roach smiled thinly over Mason's head at the colonel. "After all, we're only military. So, what's the likelihood that these men areactually telling the truth?"
"That's incredibly naïve, Roach, and not what I'd expect from our Chief of Staff," Mason sneered. For the first time he cast a glance back at the Unitycommander being escorted behind them.
"I'm a military man, Mason. Sometimes the least complicated answer is the right one," Roach told him, noting that Bradshaw nodded his agreement. "What do you think, Bradshaw? Do you believe Dickins?"
"That's hardly relevant," Mason protested, losing a little of his calm veneer.
"My gut says he's telling the truth," the base commander replied, sparing the spook a contemptuous look.
"Or he thinks he's telling the truth," Mason added. "The programming can . . ."
"Stow it, Mason!" Roach narrowed his eyes dangerously as they came to a stop in front of the anteroom set up in front of stockade. Security seemed to be tighter than usual, which wasn't surprising with National Intelligence being involved. The guards snapped to attention in front of the officers and he returned their salute. "I've had just about enough of your rhetoric, Director."
Mason smiled. "Remember your place, General."
"Remember yours, Mason. Your office still answers to President Gibson."
"Of course we do," Mason replied, leaving the other men with the impression that he didn't really believe it.
"What's all this?" Roach asked, indicating the anteroom and the additional security.
"Standard procedure, General," Bradshaw replied. "If there is any chance they've come here from another planet or solar system, then they need to be isolated in a controlled habitat."
"Standard procedure?" Roach asked.
"Decontamination, irradiation, complete medical analysis and quarantine," Mason replied with a twisted smile. "We don't need another pandemic on our hands. Last year almost five million people died from H5N1."
"Actually, today is the day the scientists took them off quarantine. They're clear. It's been six weeks since they've grown any unusual organisms on their weekly cultures," the base commander reported. He coded open the anteroom door, motioning inside. Within was a control station, a sanitation station and a window into the inner habitat. "General?"
"I'll catch up to you later, Mason," Roach told the Director of National Intelligence coldly, as the guards with the WASA major caught up to them. "I want to see them without the benefit of your . . . input."
"I think you're losing your objectivity, General Roach. That's not what we expect of the Air Force Chief of Staff. The President will be surprised to hear that," Mason returned.
"I'm not afraid of your influence, Mason," said the general, almost in a snarl.
"Insubordination . . ."
"Sticks and stones," Roach snorted, signalling for the guards to precede him through the door with the Unity commander. He stepped through behind Bradshaw, letting out a long breath when the reinforced door shut behind him. "Land sakes alive . . ."
"Yes, sir." Bradshaw let out an involuntary snort of agreement, while checking the readouts on the control station, making sure that the negative pressurization of the room was functional, before glancing at the detained man with faint interest.
Grae moved over to peer curiously through the window to the inner rooms. "Are they sick or something?"
"No, we're making sure that they don't make us sick," Bradshaw replied, opening the habitat door.
"Our sickness started long before those two showed up," the astronaut opined.
Roach frowned at the astronaut, before finally nodding. "Okay, Bradshaw. Let's see them."
"This . . . way," Bradshaw returned haltingly as he spotted the guards stepping through the sliding door to one of the habitats. Both men looked liked they'd been in a bar fight. They immediately snapped to attention. He frowned as they paced down the short corridor to the Plexiglas rooms. "What exactly . . .?" His words broke off when he looked inside.
"What the hell is going on here?" Roach demanded.
xxxxx
About all Dayton could do was wait impatiently on the shuttle, while Apollo's advance patrol entered the airlock of the Mars Base. "Why do I get the feeling that this isn't going to be the quick in and out mission that I first thought it would?" he asked Ryan.
"Don't worry. I'm sure Starbuck and Lu have things well in hand over Earth," Paddy replied flippantly.
Dayton winced.
"C'mon, what could go wrong?" Ryan asked, this time in earnest.
"We're talking about Starbuck here," Dayton reminded him. "Remember, there's a Cylon Base Ship out there."
"And so far our patrols haven't seen hide nor hair of it," Ryan returned.
"They're in, Commander," Jolly told them from the flight deck.
"Good." Dayton nodded.
"From now on, you will have complete access to all areas of the base, Colonel," Malus informed Apollo over the comm.
"How so?" asked Apollo.
"Access to almost every area of the base is controlled by biometric security protocols. Handprints, retinal scans, and voice index locks."
"A little overkill, wouldn't you say?" Ryan rolled his eyes.
"Apparently, one just doesn't know who will end up on their door step these days," the IL returned, before adding, "I have implanted your biometric data into the computer's memory banks, Colonel. You now have full access. Even the high security areas."
"Thanks, Mal," said Apollo. "I think you'd better do the same for all of us."
"Understood," replied the cybernaut, reconnecting himself to the system. "Done."
"What's the radiation reading, Malus?" asked Dayton.
"The radion levels inside the corridor are elevated, Commander. Dangerously so. The space suits will offer protection, of course, but I suggest minimizing exposure."
"Don't get too far ahead, Apollo," Dayton instructed him. "I wager the reception will be better if at least a couple of us are speaking the same language. We'll be down in five."
"Yes, Commander," said Apollo. "We'll make sure the area is secure."
"I thought this was a rescue mission, not an invasion," Ryan breathed.
"Easy, Paddy," Dayton told him. "They're up against the wall. The last thing they'll be expecting to see is a rescue team."
"Which makes them unpredictable . . ." Ryan slowly nodded.
"And potentially dangerous," added Dayton. "Stay alert down there, Apollo."
"Going in now, Commander," said Apollo.
xxxxx
Atmospheric entry was one of those inevitabilities that a Colonial Warrior didn't give much thought to, especially after his society had recorded thousands of yahrens of space travel. However, flying a shot-up Espridian bird put a new light on "same old, same old". Sweat ran off Starbuck in torrents from the heat and his tension as the Wraith shuddered under the stress. It made him wonder if her heat shield had been damaged or he was outside the proper entry window and she was going to break up. Ten to one the warning indicators would be going off like a klaxon, if he hadn't deactivated them along with the other damaged systems. If it wasn't for the fact that his life support systems had dropped to sixteen percent, he would have aborted and rendezvoused with the Endeavour instead.
Lord, I'll do anything you ask tomorrow, if you just get me through this today . . .
Then the vibration of the Wraith gradually disappeared and things began to cool off. According to his instruments, he was now well inside Earth's atmosphere. The drag on his ship was levelling off in what appeared to be dense cloud cover. A quick check of his scanner showed the Venture adjusting course to head for a major landmass . . . and about a dozen targets heading to intercept them.
"Lords of Kobol," he muttered as he matched vectors with Dayton's ship, while the interceptor craft drew nearer. This was Earth, and he, Starbuck, was actually about to land on the blue-green planet. What the whole Fleet had struggled to achieve, he would be the first Colonial to do. . . well, okay second, including Hummer. And remember how that turned out, Bucko.He shook the cynicism off, revelling in the moment for just a little bit longer. For a micron, he wished his father could be here to see and share the moment with him. Then it occurred to him that if he didn't get a message off to the Endeavour about all this, he'd be in some serious trouble. Let's see, if I reroute the circuit . . .
The approaching targets were now clearly identifiable as atmospheric craft of some kind, and their scanners were searching the air, not locking on a target yet. They hadn't picked them up, but obviously knew they were there. A quick check revealed that they were armed, just like the escort he'd spotted on his scanner when the Venture had launched . . . which was kind of unfriendly, in his un-Earthly opinion and rather vulnerable position. It just wasn't sitting well with him. Still, there had to be some reasonable explanation, he supposed. And if he asked, Jess might just give it to him.
"Uh, Dayton," he opened the line between them, falling back on how he usually addressed her father. "Is it routine to have an armed escort when you leave or re-enter your atmosphere?"
"Routine?" she asked.
"I'm scanning twelve single-pilot atmospheric craft cruising at 1500 kilometrons per centar just clearing the landmass we're heading towards, en route towards us. They're armed." He realized he'd lapsed into Colonial Standard once or twice again and shrugged it off. "They haven't scanned us yet. . ."
"PAK FA fighters!" Jess exclaimed. "Damn, General Surkov! He sold us out!"
"Come again?" Starbuck asked, abruptly checking his life support again. Fifteen percent and still dropping. Still no progress on getting off a short-burst transmission to the Endeavour. He had communications, but for some elusive reason . . . Damn!
"Starbuck, that weapon you used on the Cylons . . . can you use it on them?"
"I . . . uh, somehow don't think your father wanted our introduction to Earth to be me taking out a dozen of your fighters. In fact, I'm sure he said it would make abadfirst impression."
"Those are Russian Air Force fighters!"
"Jess, you've lost me, they're not really going that fast," Starbuck returned, checking his scanner once again.
"Oh for crying outloud . . .Russia! It's a country neighbouring Kazakhstan where our closest Space Centre is!" Jess explained. "They don't want us landing there!"
His readouts told the story. As much as his inclination was to toy with the fighters a bit—set off their proximity alerts while they scrambled to figure out whathe was and where he was, while the Venture hightailed it away—navigation was still sluggish, countermeasures were down by forty percent and his life support was way too low to play the hotshot. He grimaced. It was a real shame; fun like that was hard to come by these days . . .
"Look, umm . . .Jess . . . my bird was hit up there. My life support is failing . . . and if I fire at any Earth ships, my life won't be worth living when your father catches up with me." He paused as he picked up an incoming message on the Venture's frequency.
"Venture, this is Baikonur Control. Orlov here, Dayton." The man's voice was strained, the accent unusual. "We've been stormed by Spetsnaz Forces. Colonel General Surkov has sent a squadron of Sukhoi PAK FA's to escort you, and the unidentified ship they picked up on satellite with you, here. If you do not comply, he promises there will be consequences. Don't put your finger in his mouth, my friend."
"Oh, just peachy!" Jess growled.