There were those in the UN Security Council - and, indeed, in SHADO itself - who believed the Interceptor pilots had it easy. After all, the sceptics argued, there were often days or even weeks between one UFO attack and the next, sometimes even months, and in the intervening time those flyboys had, quite simply, no other duties - save perhaps simulation runs, regular exercise and routine Interceptor maintenance.
But the pilots, and the Commander - and, most particularly, Lieutenant Colonel Gay Bradley - didn't care what the sceptics thought, because they knew the truth.
No-one but a combat pilot could truly understand what it was, what it meant, to be a combat pilot. It was in fact the most physically and mentally demanding duty one could imagine; in a way, it was perhaps even more demanding a job than that of the Commander himself. So many different skills were required:
Every pilot must master constant real-time multitasking.
Detailed three-dimensional spatial awareness is required at all times during an engagement of oneself, one's fellow pilots, the UFOs they were engaging, and any craft or target they were tasked with protecting or destroying.
Strategic and tactical acuity must be honed to the ultimate.
Physical endurance is stretched to the max - and often beyond. Pilots respond to the constant stress of acceleration and deceleration, as even the Inertia Control Device can only do so much to reduce G-forces. The mental stress is even worse; every pilot must pay constant unrelenting attention to every little detail, knowing her life and the lives of her fellows - and, should they fail, perhaps the lives of everyone on Earth - may depend on it.
A pilot must possess the ability to visualise the entire battlefield in three dimensions with every battle element constantly in motion, a task beyond the capabilities of even the most sophisticated AI - and there had been attempts, to be sure, by well-meaning people seeking to eliminate human error and save pilots' lives. Usually the tests were run purely in simulation, but one had been conducted as a live exercise, an L-77 flown by AI against a human pilot.
The current standard for such was the answer to the question: Can this AI beat Captain Mark Bradley in single combat?
To date, the answer had been the same every time: a resounding No. This was even more true of his daughter, though in her case the answer was more Hell, no!
So that was the truth: the Interceptor pilots did not have the easiest job in SHADO.
Theirs was the hardest job.
Oh, it might seem that they lived lives of entitlement, but they were in fact entitled to do so - even the long periods of apparent inactivity between engagements were nowhere near as relaxing as might be assumed by outsiders, i.e. non-pilots...for the simple reason that no-one, not even the Commander, could ever predict when the Aliens would strike next, or how, and thus pilots were required to be ready for battle at all times. Hence waiting for an alert was almost as stressful, in fact, as actually conducting a combat engagement, and the transition time from readiness to combat - 'Bed To Battle', as the pilots put it - was now down to less than 110 seconds.
More than almost anyone else in SHADO, those pilots earned their high salaries.
Moonbase, Interceptor Pilots' Ready Room
An off-duty Harmony stretched and got herself a coffee (or at least Moonbase's nearest equivalent). Sabrina Rogers and Ingrid Svensdöttir, her closest friend, were having a meal. As per usual, both were prepared to abandon it immediately if there was an alert. Ingrid smiled and said in her brusque, almost mannish tones, "How was the Trilobite?"
"Slow, as usual," Harmony griped. "They should stick boosters onto the thing. Or maybe figure out some way the Interceptor can travel in atmosphere - it'd only be a few minutes at the L-79's usual speeds."
"We've got the L-80 now," Sabrina put in. "It's a bit faster, so it'll better suit a speed freak like you," she kidded Harmony. She frowned. "Still can't quite go beyond SOL 4.5, though."
"Mmm," Harmony mused. "Odd thing, the numbers say it should be able to go faster - as fast as a UFO, maybe."
Ingrid grinned. "SOL 8 and above? You wish, you maniac."
Harmony gave her a fond smile. When she first came to Moonbase (and abruptly stopped sneezing, to everyone's surprise), Ingrid had taken SHADO's youngest-ever cadet under her wing. She quickly found Harmony to be as keen and dedicated as anyone could wish for, and an amazingly quick learner. Harmony was always coming up with incremental improvements to the Interceptors; one of these, while it hadn't worked, had led Phyllis Anderson to the formulation of a refinement to the FTL theory - the design for the L-80 followed from that.
Ingrid had quite a collection of SF novels, notably the Honor Harrington series - despite the mass penalty, which she'd gladly paid, they were all in paperback and not on a Kindle or similar. Ingrid, like her mother, was old-fashioned, a reactionary. But Harmony was equally at ease with physical books; she was working through On Basilisk Station, which Ingrid had happily lent her. She liked the detailed descriptions of the tech, and as the rebel she was, she especially loved Petty Officer Harkness. He was definitely A Character.
Ingrid, in her turn, had liked S.M. Sterling's Terminator trilogy, as well as Imperial Earth, Ringworld, Cities In Flight and even the obscure Mutant 59: The Plastic Eater. Harmony quipped, "I'd love to meet Anne Kramer, she sounds a sexy bitch. Loved her white knickers and no bra."
"It could happen," Ingrid noted. "They're always looking for ways to dispose of waste plastic, and I read there's at least one species of fungus or something that can eat it. So why not a bacterium? And if you bring mutation into it, anything goes."
"I think Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis did another novel, too, an original one," Harmony mused.
"Yes - Brainrack," Ingrid recalled. "People in cities started developing colour blindness, and getting more and more stupid - it turned out a chemical in petrol was at fault. Again, it could happen - maybe it is happening, but more subtly. That's what's scary about the novels, they're plausible."
"Won't affect me," Harmony grinned, "I live on Moonbase! No pollution up here!"
Ingrid looked mock-sternly at her. "Some of us like Earth, despite the smog and the heavier gravity. The Swiss Alps are most beautiful."
"You're biased," Harmony teased, "'cause you were born there."
"So are you," Ingrid riposted, "as you were born on Moonbase. The Moon is too bleak for my taste."
"It might be bleak, but I prefer Mare Tranquillitatis," Harmony returned, but conceded, "To each their own."
They hugged. As best friends, they agreed to disagree.
"I like Barbados myself," Sabrina joked. All three laughed.
Until they received official written orders on their tablets: Report to Colonel Bradley's office for weapons training on the new L-80 Interceptor.
Harmony grinned. The more missiles, the better!
Moonbase, Colonel Bradley's office
Gay looked at Alpha Flight sternly. "These are brand-new weapons, so I do not expect any showing off - especially from you, Pilot Bradley," she added. "The purpose of this flight is to test their capabilities. In theory the L-80 can be pushed to slightly more than SOL 4.9 - but in practice I do not expect you to exceed SOL 4.5, is that clear?"
"Roger, Colonel," Sabrina nodded.
"Copy that," Ingrid agreed.
Harmony was frowning, and didn't reply at first. Gay prompted, "Pilot Bradley?"
Still frowning, Harmony asked, "Mum, are - oh, sorry," she hastily added, "I mean ‛Colonel', sir - are you sure we should limit ourselves? I mean, the UFOs can do SOL 8 and above, so any advantage we can gain we should, don't you think?"
Gay looked at her, expecting to see mischief for which Harmony could be chastised, but she was actually looking serious for once. No, Gay decided, it was a serious question and should be answered seriously. Once again she carefully hid her pride in her youngest daughter. God forbid she should indulge Harmony in her reckless tendencies.
Her mother sighed. "That is a good point, I admit. One day soon, I hope, we'll find out why the drive is currently limited to a safe maximum of SOL 4.5, but until we do, those are our orders. I grant you that test flights are risky by their very nature, but we are looking to minimise those risks as much as we can. So for the moment, SOL 4.5 is to be considered a hard limit. That, Pilot, is a direct order. Understood?"
Harmony nodded soberly. As always, she knew when to quit the kidding. "Yes, sir."
Gay smiled fondly. "Thank you, Harmony. Actually, by now the techs should have finished making a special modification to your Interceptor. The newest weapon from Westinghouse-General Dynamics: the Hardbeam-4 Laser Lance. For the moment it's being installed just on the Command Interceptors flown by Flight Leaders, though there are plans in work to upgrade all our L-80s. The prototype is mounted on your tail fin." Now she grinned. "I think you'll like it."
For the record, Harmony loved it. She blasted hell out of her targets with it, and pronounced it to be efficient and deadly, as a weapon should be. The L-80 was fast, manoeuvrable and far tougher than the earlier models had been, capable of tighter turns and greater acceleration. True, it still wasn't as fast as a UFO, but they were getting there. Like the L-79, it could carry several missiles - and, Gay had heard, there was a newer and even deadlier weapon on the horizon, based on new particle accelerator discoveries.
And if the Aliens were about to invade as she and the Commander feared, God knew the Interceptor pilots could use every advantage R & D could give them.
She smiled at the thought of what even now was happening back on Earth. Penelope will love the new HW-17. She's so good at her job...even though every time she's up here she is, I'm sure, fucking the Maintenance Chief!
SHADO HQ, R & D (Weapons Division)
Her orders had been quite specific: Report to R & D (Weapons Division) immediately to test and assess prototype weapon. So as per orders, she made her way to R & D.
When Penelope Terry, leader of the Commander's Protection Detail, entered the room, it was empty of staff except for the Commander, a friendly-looking woman she recognised as Professor Phyllis Anderson, R & D's Director...
...and, on a table, the meanest-looking heavy rifle (or was it a bazooka? Damn thing was big enough) she'd ever seen.
It even gleamed in a manner she might have described as somehow...threatening.
Ridiculous, she immediately chastised herself, a weapon couldn't gleam in a "threatening" way...
...could it?
Penelope looked again, and decided that, somehow...yes, it could. It did.
She could immediately identify the metal as a titanium alloy from its distinct silver-white lustre, which meant it fired either high-velocity, high-calibre ammo or a seriously powerful energy beam, and therefore had to withstand extremes of mechanical and/or thermal stress (she later learned it was mainly titanium and chromium, with a small admixture of iridium and tungsten for added thermal stress resistance).
Everything about the weapon stated baldly: Do Not Mess With Me.
Its barrel had a wide calibre and there was a heavy, high-capacity battery pack slotted into the stock where an ammo clip would normally be. Not a projectile weapon, then, she deduced, definitely some sort of beam weapon. There was an odd smell, a combination of ozone and some metal or other. But the metal smelled familiar...
Then she placed it. Her grandfather was a jeweller, specialising in heavy, ornate gold necklaces and bracelets, and as a child she'd often watched him at work.
The scent of pure gold was unmistakable.
Kelly acknowledged her keen scrutiny of the weapon with a merry grin. "If you hadn't already guessed, Penelope, this is the newest toy from Westinghouse-General Dynamics: the HW-17 Heavy Assault Ion Beamer."
Penelope returned the grin. "Looks like a Star Wars prop, sir."
He laughed. "Not the first time I've heard that today!" He sobered and turned to Professor Anderson. "Phyllis?"
"This," she began, picking up the weapon, "is - well, it's bloody heavy, for a start," she ruefully quipped, "but essentially it uses a very powerful electromagnetic field to generate a tightly collimated beam of highly charged, heavy ions -"
"Gold ions?" Penelope interjected shrewdly.
Phyllis looked at her in surprise. "That's right. How'd you know that?" she asked curiously.
Penelope shrugged. "My grandad works with gold a lot, he's a jeweller. I grew up knowing the scent of gold."
"Hmm. Well, anyway: gold is relatively easy to ionise in vapour form and the resulting ions are very heavy, so they pack quite a wallop. Objects hit by the beam from this thing tend to come apart rather rapidly and thoroughly...which of course is the whole idea," she grinned. "The level of ionisation, and therefore of the beam's power, is controlled from this dial here," she indicated it, "beam diameter from this one - it's tunable from a needle beam you can use for cutting or welding, to a broad beam you can use to blast a foot-wide hole in titanium armour plate."
Penelope whistled, impressed. "What's its range? Accuracy?" she inquired with professional interest.
"Depends on the power and beam collimation," Phyllis answered. "The default setting gives you a beam about three centimetres wide and an effective range of three hundred metres. Minimum width, you could probably get more like 800. Max power, maybe 600. As for accuracy," she grinned again, "well, it's a beam weapon and its muzzle velocity is about Mach 8, so to the limit of its range it's a line-of-sight weapon. Flat trajectory."
Penelope smiled grimly and took the weapon. "I'm liking it already." She gave it a rapid professional once-over, looking for and finding the most important feature of any firearm: the safety. It proved to be firm but not stiff, well-designed; a safety catch should be easy to engage and disengage without being so loose as to disengage if you happen to drop the weapon. "Fire rate?"
Phyllis sighed. "Well, if it's fired more than ten times or so in a minute it tends to get bloody hot, I'm afraid; they're still working on a way to increase heat dissipation. The same if you hold the trigger for more than ten seconds at a time."
"It's designed for close-quarters combat," Kelly put in, "an infantry weapon. Useful for covering fire, too."
"A bit like that M134 MiniGun Blaine was toting in Predator," Penelope remarked, hefting it to get a feel for the weight distribution. It was very well-balanced, she noted; the weight of the barrel nicely countered that of the battery. Despite its heft, it was quite easy to handle; the grip, she was fascinated to note, was made of memory plastic which moulded itself to her hand for a perfect fit. The whole thing looked very durable, heavily engineered out of a light but strong titanium alloy, the sort of thing a Terminator might wield. Hmm, it does remind me of their 'phased plasma rifle in a 40-watt range', she quipped to herself. Hell, it is, in a way.
"The battery's good for a hundred shots on default setting," Phyllis continued, "though of course that will vary depending on how powerful your shots are. Best to carry a spare just in case, and there's a portable charger which fits into a backpack. If the charge indicator drops below 10% it'll still fire, but I'd recommend changing the battery or recharging anyway. Ammo will last for five hundred shots irrespective of power - it's a ball of pure gold microdust which feeds into here," she pointed out the aperture a little more than a centimetre in diameter.
"Will there be training in maintenance?"
"Well, no," Phyllis admitted, "it's mostly self-maintaining and it would require specialised knowledge anyway. It's not like a standard projectile weapon which you dismantle and assemble over and over again; in fact I'd strongly recommend against trying to do that. Leave any malfunctions to the specialist weapons staff. Not likely there'll be any, though; Westinghouse-General Dynamics really know what they're doing. They build stuff which is both reliable and durable."
Penelope was a keen fan of John Scalzi's Old Man's War series of novels, and this rather reminded her of the standard-issue rifle for the Colonial Defence Forces which the recruits were exhorted not to mess with, the MP-35 ('You will not do this [frequently assemble and disassemble] with your MP-35'); she said so, and Kelly nodded. "Exactly right, though of course it's not quite up to that standard just yet. Science fact catching up with science fiction again," he joked.
"Recoil?" Penelope remembered to ask; the one time she forgot that, she'd been training to fire an undamped anti-tank rifle and nearly dislocated her shoulder because she hadn't fully anticipated its enormous kick. It was a painful and debilitating lesson she'd never forgotten.
Of course, she had been only eighteen at the time.
"There is some degree of dampening," Phyllis allowed, "but not as much at this stage as we'd like; again, they're working on it. It has a slight tendency to kick up and a little bit left, so you'll need to allow for that."
"Brace down and right; easy," Penelope shrugged. She'd never much liked recoilless firearms anyway; she was more comfortable with a gun which felt alive in her hands when fired.
All in all, she decided, it appeared to be a very good weapon - not much use for sniper work, but then they had the RBS-12 needlebeamer for that. She'd once taken out a collaborator at 7.6 kilometres, the beam slicing into his neck. Through her scope she'd seen his last facial expression was more of surprise than anything else.
She was now looking forward to a relaxing afternoon at the training grounds in Wales...because it was immediately obvious that this was not the sort of weapon to be test-fired on an indoor range.
Some people relax by listening to music. Others, by reading. Others, by making love.
Penelope, by blasting hell out of targets on a firing range with, as they say in the trade, a Big Fucking Gun.
SHADO Training Grounds, North Wales (Classified Location)
Later that afternoon
It was every bit as relaxing - and fun - as she'd anticipated. The weapon possessed phenomenal accuracy even at extreme range, and was lively and responsive without excessive bucking in the hand. She'd half expected the grip to get a little sweaty, but it didn't; the designers had thought of that, formulating the plastic with minute pores to absorb excess skin moisture - which was utilised by the coolant system. True, it did get rather hot with prolonged use, but she soon discovered a good pair of insulated combat gloves easily dealt with that.
Every target she fired on - i.e. every target, because she didn't miss once - was blasted apart with almost terrifying efficiency irrespective of range and regardless of what it was made of. Wood, plastic, metal, rock, they all went to pieces just the same. It was easily the most devastating weapon she'd ever fired, and potentially the most effective one. In her expert opinion (ten years in 3 Commando Brigade as a Heavy Weapons Sergeant, prior to her SHADO recruitment on her 31st birthday) it could easily serve as a tank- or even bunker-buster.
Or an anti-UFO weapon...
She blew away the last target, which abruptly ceased to exist with a THOOM which was deafening even from 278 metres away (according to the telescopic sight rangefinder), engaged the safety, shouldered the weapon and turned to face the Commander, who was grinning behind her.
"What d'you reckon?" he challenged her. He'd asked Penelope specifically to test the weapon owing to her extensive, varied experience with heavy weaponry in her pre-SHADO life; she was one of his most experienced operatives in that regard and thus ideally suited to test a new weapon.
Penelope returned the grin. "I love it. Kicks ass. It should be declared standard SHADO issue immediately, sir."
His grin broadened; that was exactly what he and Westinghouse-General Dynamics had hoped to hear. W-GD's R & D branch had worked hard on it with helpful input from Phyllis, though it'd taken fully seventeen iterations to get the desired effect...and the earliest models had had a distressing tendency to tear themselves apart - usually in explosive fashion. It wasn't until version 8 that anyone dared to actually hold the damn thing and fire it.
That version had exploded, but luckily the researcher had gotten just enough warning to fling the weapon away and duck. After more intense, furious R & D research, version 9 only overheated instead of exploding. The focus of research then shifted onto that problem.
The hardest aspect of development was the focusing and collimation of the ion beam, but a new type of rare earth electromagnet solved that, in conjunction with Phyllis' realisation that a higher ionic charge increased the magnetic field's hold on those same ions; this also greatly increased the muzzle velocity. Of course, producing a higher ionic charge required more power, which in turn necessitated a higher-capacity battery pack, and so on.
"I'd say it's the most kick-ass weapon I've ever fired, Commander," she enthused, "I bet I could blow away a Challenger 2 with this in one shot, two at most." But then a thought occurred to her, and Penelope sobered. "Commander...a weapon like this could very fairly be called an out-and-out honest-to-God blaster, couldn't it? It's something straight out of Star Wars, or Buck Rogers. Or The Terminator."
"It could be so construed, yes," Kelly acknowledged.
"But," she uneasily continued, "conventional weapons are perfectly adequate in our line of work, sir. An accurate shot from a P226 will kill an Alien just as easily as a human being." Which, as Kelly was all too well aware, she knew from experience...in both contexts.
Major Penelope Terry was one of the few SHADO operatives to share the dubious distinction of having killed human beings in the line of duty as well as Aliens. She wasn't proud of that; nor was anyone else in that category. SHADO operatives were sworn to protect humans no matter who they were or what they had done, not kill them.
Unless, of course, they were willingly collaborating with the Aliens, as it was proven Graham Fisk and Ann Prince had been, in the first year of Penelope's SHADO career. Given that the Aliens had tasked the pair with assassinating Alec - and also, if possible, McAllister - it was all they'd deserved...which, as she later confessed in her post-mission debriefing, hadn't made it any easier however necessary it might have been.
Prince had pleaded for mercy at first...giving her time to try to fling a knife. But Penelope, pragmatic as always, had simply taken the knife blow in her shoulder as she dodged - and fired, blowing Prince's head off. "You're better dead, traitor bitch," Penelope had rasped in agony. The medics had been only sympathetic, and Commander McAllister had commended her even though she'd killed two beings who were at least theoretically human...as well as six Aliens. Certainly no-one was grieving overly much for them.
"Hit an aircraft or a UFO with a missile from a Skyfighter or a Mobile," she went on, bringing his attention back to the here and now, "and either one'll go down in flames, no problem. But this...this is overkill, sir."
Kelly didn't deny it. "True," he answered.
"So there's a question I feel I must ask, Commander." She paused, then inquired quietly: "Why do we need this?"
Kelly sighed mentally. He'd fully expected it; Major Terry was too perceptive to have missed the implications of such a devastating piece of what was, essentially, handheld artillery. But strictly speaking she wasn't high enough in the chain of command to be appraised of the answer.
But then again, what was the point of his having authority if he didn't exercise it?
"The answer to that question, Major, requires me to exercise Commander's Discretion. You are under orders not to discuss what you're about to hear with anyone below the rank of Lieutenant Colonel...because anyone at or above that rank in SHADO is already aware of it. Understood?"
She nodded. "Yes, Commander." There wasn't much secrecy in SHADO itself, but on rare occasions it was necessary. This was one of them...to avoid possible panic if nothing else. Penelope would reveal nothing to anyone, even under torture...and in that event her post-hypnotic conditioning would kick in and kill her instantly and painlessly.
He explained his concerns regarding a probable Alien invasion, and that this and other weapons were being developed with said concerns in mind. "If they manage to put boots on the ground, we have no way of knowing or even guessing the size of the invading force, so I'm assuming the worst, namely that they'll send an army.
"But we also have no way, none whatsoever, of knowing what they might be holding in reserve - ground troops, ground vehicles, mobile artillery...we just don't know. Yet we can't rely on knowing that their natural resources are scarce or depleted, can we?"
"No, sir," she readily responded, thinking in military terms as he knew she would, "because for all we know they might've built up artillery and the like before their resources ran out. That might even be why they ran out, for all we know."
"Exactly right," he applauded her. "So we have to expect nothing, so as to be ready for anything. Thus they might have ground forces, vehicles, artillery etc. To repel those, our troops will doubtless need heavy weapons - ideally ones with which the Aliens are unfamiliar and for which they will therefore be unprepared. Hence," he indicated, "the HW-17."
Penelope nodded slowly. "I understand perfectly, sir. You're thinking ahead, as you always do," she added respectfully. She gave him a savage grin and flourished the Ion Beamer. "Let 'em come!"
SHADO HQ
The next day, they did.
"How many?" Kelly tensely asked Ford.
"Early readings from SID suggest fifty, sir...and more are arriving." He frowned. "But the odd thing is that once they arrive...they seem to stop, sir. They seem to be...waiting."
"For what?"
"Unknown at present, sir."
What could they be waiting for? For the UFOs to show up in these numbers was worrying to say the least. SHADO could cope with this many...but only just. A show of strength? No, that made no tactical sense.
Waiting for SHADO to call them? Unlikely. They'd never shown any willingness to communicate - quite the opposite, as a crew of brave Russians had once shown. They'd gone into space with the express intent of communicating with the Aliens, and had been found splashed all over the interior of their capsule, all usable organs removed prior to their apparent dismemberment. They had no evidence that the Aliens even could receive a radio transmission.
A Utronic transmission?
Kelly considered Ed's words in a conversation they'd had. If it would bring peace...it was worth a try.
"Hail them, Keith."
Ford stared at him. "Sir, I'm not even sure if I can."
"I know. Try anyway."
Ford keyed commands into his keyboard to reorient a transmitter dish and intoned, "Attention UFOs, this is SHADO Control. Are you receiving?"
There was no response.
"Try through SID this time," Kelly suggested.
"SID, this is SHADO Control. Relay our broadcast to the UFOs. If you receive a reply, transmit directly to HQ."
Please pass your code so that your instructions can be complied with.
Ford did so.
Thank you. Your code is correct. Now transmitting to Alien fleet.
But there was still no reply.
Kelly asked, "Alec, what do you make of it?"
Alec frowned. "The last time they gathered together like that, they tried to invade."
With his Commander's intuition, this filled in a piece for Kelly. "Not this time. No, they're showing that they could invade...if they want to. But if they were going to do that, they already would have." He looked thoughtful. "No, there's another factor." He made his decision. "All stations hold for the moment. Do nothing to change the situation. But put all Skydivers and Mobiles on standby alert. Moonbase, too."
"Aye, sir," Ford nodded. "SHADO Control to all stations: stand by."
An hour later, nothing had changed. Kelly looked lost in thought, but Alec did not disturb him. He'd seen these contemplative moods before from Kelly, and he knew Kelly was waiting for something.
But what?
Another hour passed, and nothing continued to happen. Abruptly Kelly's head snapped up. "Kelly?" Alec ventured.
"We're due a visitor," Kelly told him thoughtfully.
Alec started at that. "Are you turning into another Croxley on me?" he demanded, only half-kidding.
"Not turning, no," Kelly murmured. Alec's jaw dropped. "In my office, Alec - there's a lot to tell you. It's time." His voice rose. "Ford - keep tracking. Advise me immediately if those things so much as twitch."
"Yes, sir," Keith acknowledged.
SHADO HQ, Commander's Office
"First, you're gonna need a drink," Kelly told Alec, "second, an apology."
"Why, what have I done?" Alec wondered, misunderstanding.
"No, no - I have to apologise to you. I've had you following the wrong man."
"Oh," Alec said, bemused, poured and sipped. "Well, even you have to make mistakes sometimes."
"It wasn't a mistake, Alec," Kelly informed him quietly. "I misled you, and I'm sorry I had to do that. But as I knew from the start, Holtzmann is not the spy."
"You - you mean you knew?!" Alec gasped, unbelieving. "You've deliberately had me following the wrong man - for eight years?! Kelly, what the hell -?!"
"Alec, the spy isn't a spy - he's something else entirely! Let me explain before you blow up at me: you recall I mentioned there was something strange about his brainwave alterations, that they seemed too subtle to be for subversion?" Alec nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "Well, I did some checking, and the brain regions altered have nothing to do with the will at all...rather, the alterations were in that region of the brain believed to be responsible for telepathy and similar phenomena."
Alec grasped the implications immediately. "They're turning him into another Croxley, you think?"
"No," Kelly answered thoughtfully, "not exactly. The alterations do seem to increase telepathic sensitivity, but he already had the ability, to a degree. No, my best guess is that he's becoming, or has become, a two-way telepathic radio."
"He already had -? Wait," Alec interrupted himself, his mind's eye calling up the roster of IAC committee members and their dossiers.
One name leaped out at him. He remembered the notations in the man's dossier:
Possible psi and/or telepathic ability noted from early childhood.
Crossref: SHADO/Alien/Agents/Croxley [CLASSIFIED SECRET]
Crossref: Lunar Archive SHADO/Long-Term Strategic/Project Nostradamus [CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET - COMMANDER/EXEC'S EYES ONLY]
Recommendations: none at present. Subject appears benign. Suggest periodic retesting at random intervals.
Crossref: Lunar Archive SHADO/Long-Term Strategic/Project Hope [CLASSIFIED MAXIMUM SECURITY - COMMANDER'S EYES ONLY]
"Nyquist - Andrew Nyquist! It's him, isn't it?"
"You see now why I kept you on as Exec," Kelly praised, "you're as sharp as ever. He should be arriving shortly; when he does, he'll be escorted to my office, under armed guard. However, the guards are more for his protection than ours. If he's coming here for the reasons I think he is...then, Alec, this could all be over soon! After forty-two freakin' years, it might finally be over!"
"A peace envoy," Alec breathed incredulously as he grasped Kelly's reasoning. "You think he's a peace envoy!"
"I hope he is," Kelly replied. "It's only a hope...one Ed and I wondered about when he retired."
"Commander," the intercom sounded abruptly, "you have a -"
"Have Nyquist escorted to my office under armed guard, Lieutenant," Kelly interrupted with a satisfied air.
He's right, dammit, Alec reflected with wry astonishment. I do need a drink.
Lieutenant Keith Ford had long since gotten used to Commander Straker surprising him. Now, it seemed, Commander McAllister was taking up where Straker left off. How did he know that?! But he recovered smoothly with the ease of long practice and answered crisply, "Right away, Commander," managing to keep the bemusement out of his voice, and closed the channel. He opened another and requested, "Send Mr. Nyquist down, Miss Ealand."
"Yes, sir."
"SHADO Control to Security: I want two armed guards at the elevator. They are to escort IAC Delegate Andrew Nyquist to the Commander's Office."
"Copy that, Lieutenant."
Keith returned to his task of tracking the UFOs, and briefly reflected on why he was still a lieutenant after all these years. Many would've seen his career as having stagnated, but the fact was that he was where he belonged. No-one had ever done his job as well as he had, and if he were promoted he'd almost certainly be rotated to a different post.
He didn't want to go.
He was happy where he was...and a firm subscriber to the Peter Principle. No other post had ever suited him so well, he knew. Personnel had finally accepted this one exception to the rule that SHADO operatives below the rank of Exec be rotated periodically to avoid stagnation and boredom, as well as to teach them new skills in the event they were needed to fill in for others. But Keith already had all the skills he needed, and he had served in other posts on a temporary basis - and was of course entirely willing to do so again.
His role in Project Discovery had not been forgotten by SHADO's top brass; he'd served well on Moonbase. He had numerous commendations - including one for valour under fire, after an Alien agent managed to break into the Control Room and attempted to assassinate Straker eighteen years ago. It was Keith who'd tackled the woman, dodging her shots somehow and subduing her despite her insane strength. The proudest moment of Keith's life was hearing his shaky "Thank you, Keith. Well done".
Besides, he was receiving way more than a lieutenant's pay. His career might not have advanced, but his salary and furlough entitlement certainly had. He had no reason to complain.
Not that he ever would. The job came first.
"You'll need the explanation, of course. I'd like you to log onto the Moonbase server and access Project Nostradamus first, then Hope. You'll have to use my access codes; yours won't work, not for those files," Kelly informed Alec now.
"Project Nostradamus, did you say?" Alec queried. "I've never heard of it," though now that he thought about it, the name did ring a faint bell, as did Project Hope. Then he recalled the security notations in Nyquist's dossier. He snorted. "It sounds like Ed didn't tell me everything. And while we're on that subject," he added angrily, "why didn't you trust me?!"
Kelly sighed in exasperation. "I didn't need telepathy to know you were going to ask that! I did trust you - I trusted you to do your job, which you did! You went after Holtzmann in exactly the way the regs say the Exec should, as I knew you would even though I'd ordered you not to!
"But there's too much at stake for me to worry about your professional pride, Alec! If I'd directed you towards Nyquist, you'd have gone after him full throttle, and the Aliens contacting him might have been scared off!" His voice rose involuntarily. "I couldn't risk that; I had to know what the hell they were doing!"
"Then why -"
"I needed time to figure it out - the whole thing was too damn weird to make immediate sense and I had too little to go on, as per bloody usual with those bastard Aliens!" Kelly cursed vociferously. "I'm only sorry it took me this bloody long! I never wanted to make you waste your time for eight years, dammit! But I HAD to!"
Kelly paused, lowered his voice again. "It wasn't that I don't trust you, Alec. I do," he told the older man sincerely, "I always have. God knows if I couldn't trust my own Exec, my friend, then we might as well just give up and let those bastards take Earth. But to be blunt, you've never been all that good at interpreting what they're up to, which is the primary reason Ed didn't pick you to succeed him...and why he did pick me. Read the Nostradamus file and you'll see."
Alec did. It made fascinating and, moreover, enlightening reading. A number of decisions Ed had made and actions he'd taken before his retirement now made a lot more sense.
Ed had, Alec quickly saw, dug into the whole telepathy and psychic thing with a vengeance following the Croxley affair. He'd concluded that 99.99% of the reported cases fell into four unsurprising categories:
Fakers;
Delusional wannabes who only believed they were psychic;
Genuine mistakes of interpretation;
Coincidence.
99.99%, however, wasn't 100%. There was a fifth, extremely small category: possibly genuine.
Wherever he looked, there was always the occasional case which seemed to be the real thing. He'd taken the risk of sampling randomly from this group, deliberately giving the test subjects the impression that this was a 'Men Who Stare At Goats' kind of project, the kind the CIA was still fond of. This had the advantage that even if they blabbed, it was unlikely anyone would believe them or take it seriously.
None of them ever met him in person, an elementary precaution; it also served to make the project double-blind, as he had no idea which subject was being tested at any given time. In every case tested there was clear evidence that something was going on in their brains, and that it was Alien-related...but in only two cases was any direct Alien involvement suspected.
Too often, ESP researchers ask the wrong operational question in designing their experiments - not 'is this a real phenomenon?' but 'how can I prove/disprove it?' Nor is this fallacy confined to ESP research - too often researchers and/or their backers tend to nurture vested interests, and so lose the proper scientific objectivity. Worse, they often want to prove/disprove statements such as 'meat is bad for you', and do not even possess said objectivity in the first place.
But Ed Straker, a true scientist, knew better. His questions were:
Does this effect really exist or not?
If it does, what precisely does it mean, and what causes it?
What connection - if any - is there with the Aliens?
The conclusion Ed reached after literally years of diligent research was that the Aliens were somehow rubbing off on Mankind; telepathy and related phenomena were apparently contagious, so to speak. The number of instances of genuine ESP was very slowly but very definitely rising; he and Dr. Jackson had hypothesised a kind of resonance with the Aliens' minds which, by some process not yet understood, moulded human brain tissue and synapses in such a way as to increase telepathic sensitivity and/or susceptibility.
Direct contact wasn't necessary; it appeared mere proximity to the Aliens was sufficient - in fact there seemed to be a slight upsurge in ESP-related incidents every time one or more UFOs made it past the Interceptors. It was suggested that the LIFEX effect, the 'Moonbase hunch', was perhaps a related phenomenon - certainly Moonbase personnel encountered Aliens far more frequently than anyone else, even if the latter were millions of miles away at the time.
One case involved a psychotherapist, Miranda Warner, who'd had amazing success with patients formerly considered to be beyond treatment and was making a fortune; Ed discovered that the reason for her success (though even she didn't realise it) was that she'd been unknowingly reading her patients' minds and emotions, enabling her to divine - and hence address - the root causes of their afflictions. Thus she could administer much more precisely-targeted, and therefore much more effective, treatments and therapy. She herself believed she was simply talking to her patients, helping them open up to her.
Investigations had shown she'd once had an incredibly near miss re the Aliens; while at Yale University she attended a party, and that night her roommate, Alicia Parks, disappeared - the Aliens missed Miranda herself by less than five minutes. SHADO techs masquerading as CSI scanned their room under the pretext of gathering forensic evidence (though in fact they did, and passed it to the NYPD CSI team out of professional courtesy and compassion for Alicia's family), and discovered traces of an hypnotic field similar to the one utilised to contact/control Sarah Bosanquet.
There was no sign of violence and nothing untoward on campus CCTV recordings...the poor girl simply walked off the campus into the Aliens' clutches in the grip of a trance, as did a number of other students. Three years later Alicia's heart, liver and left kidney were identified in an Alien's corpse. It was this near miss which had caused the blooming of Miranda's telepathy, which reached full flower by the time she graduated.
Ed had decided to recruit Miranda into SHADO, believing she could contribute a great deal with her powers, but when she was told the truth, she was utterly horrified at the violation of patient confidentiality and privacy her talent implied - despite the enormous good she'd done with it, and despite the fact that she'd never used it for any purpose other than helping her patients - and committed suicide.
The note she left, a video recording, stated that as an ethical medical professional she had no other choice; such a violation, however unintentional, was completely unacceptable and unforgivable. The ends could never justify the means.
"I'd wondered how I knew Senator Ian Vance was screwing his stepdaughter, or how I knew Mike Brady was cooking his firm's books," she'd sobbed. "But I can't even tell anyone, because their first question would be 'how do you know?' I...I can't live with it," she'd brokenly murmured, "I don't believe I deserve to. Mom, if you're watching this, I...I'm sorry. But you should know you're wrong about Dad; he wasn't having an affair with his secretary - that dirty little slut was making it up! She was screwing him, but for money! So...please, please make up with him, will you? Please? For me?"
(Author's Note: yes, this is what happened with Dr. Alison McEwan in X-Men: Rebirth, though Alison didn't commit suicide. But in fact, as per my piecemeal writing style, this bit was written years ago. As usual, readers are exhorted to deal already! 😋)
SHADO was forced to rearrange things so as to make Miranda's suicide appear to be an accident, to maintain operational security - since Miranda was a highly successful therapist, happy in her work, there was no reason for her to commit suicide as far as anyone else knew; Ed couldn't take the risk that the police might realise that and dig deeper.
The recording was, of course, confiscated by SHADO.
But Ed couldn't let the last part go, as it struck too close to home re Mary's suspicions, so out of compassion and his sense of justice he saw to it that Mrs. Holly Warner was discreetly told the truth, and proof thereof was provided; in direct, relieved response she halted divorce proceedings and reconciled with her husband Jim...plus the duplicitous secretary got what she deserved: dismissal, a slander lawsuit - and a royal thrashing from Holly.
He nearly scrapped the entire project, blaming himself bitterly for Miranda's death, but Kate gently persuaded him to continue with it, "or her death will be for nothing, Ed." He finally agreed and resumed his work, finishing it later that same year.
It enabled him to identify in himself the reasons for his success in divining Alien strategy, by presenting his own file to Jackson for analysis without telling him whose file it was in order to maintain double-blind impartiality...it turned out he'd been affected by the resonance phenomenon himself.
Somehow he wasn't all that surprised.
When he decided to retire, a combination of the Nostradamus research and his own intuition had led him to select and start grooming Kelly as his replacement; he, too, had been touched by them, as a result of an incident during his training in which a live fire exercise turned into the real thing...and cost him his lover, Katniss Dobson.
"So that's it," Alec murmured, much as Kelly had on the beach eight years ago. "I'd always wondered...okay, I get it. But where does Nyquist come into this?"
"That's in Project Hope, Alec, which I'll tell you more about, as I said, when Nyquist arrives - in, oh, about...now."
Sure enough:
"Commander McAllister," the voice of Security Exec Philippa deLorean sounded over the intercom, "IAC Delegate Nyquist to see you, under armed guard as ordered, sir."
"How did you do that?" Alec wondered. "ESP?"
"Knowing the exact time it takes to walk from the main elevator to this office," Kelly grinned impishly. "Don't put everything down to spooky stuff, Alec." Alec laughed at that. "Send him in," Kelly ordered deLorean; the doors slid open. "Wait outside, please."
"Sir -" Philippa hesitated.
"You're here for his protection, Exec, not ours," Kelly explained. "Sorry, I should've said. Wait outside, both of you. That's an order."
Philippa saluted smartly, even though it wasn't SHADO protocol, and she and her male colleague (who, while impressively built himself, looked nowhere near as imposing as the big Czech-Italian blonde) stepped back to allow the doors to close.
"I bring greetings, Commander," the little man said mildly.
He seemed so unimposing, so...ordinary, the last person one would have expected to make history.
Not that he would; nor would anyone in SHADO. It had been decreed long ago that the general public would never know what SHADO had done, or even that it had existed at all...though 'never' had been tentatively defined as 'a minimum of 1,000 years...possibly'. Even if SHADO succeeded in its goal of protecting Earth, none of them would be lauded as the heroes they were.
And no-one in SHADO questioned that. They were too selfless to question it; had they not been, they'd never have been recruited in the first place. SHADO's recruitment and weeding-out policy was strict to the point of brutality for a reason.
Nonetheless a thinly-built man only a shade over five feet in height, rather resembling a grey-haired mouse, would hardly have been thought of as an ambassador extraordinary and, indeed, plenipotentiary, but such he was.