Ivan's Hammer

By Thomas W. Baker

Alex loves Nika. Yet a few years out of college, his patience worn from her disses, he chooses to help her climb the corporate ladder just one final time. Together they discover an unworldly mystery, and as they dig in to solve it, accidents begin. Heeding the warnings from Alex's friend Toby, they barely escape an assassin's blade. Yet even the CIA is suspicious of their motives, so they must prove their innocence before starting the real research into the enigma. What they expose is an unbelievable, decades-old super weapon premeditated for a war long over, now hurtling down at 40,000 miles an hour from deep space. Protected now, the three friends battle bureaucratic powers to negate the nuclear option and instead construct the most effective counter-weapon, software. While the world contemplates it's end, they steer the killer asteroid clear, or so the three believe until a devious feint is uncovered and the real assassin surfaces. Now they struggle to stay alive and save their old enemy from the catastrophe he wants to inflict upon them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas W. Baker
• Release date: Jun 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458168856

Thomas W. Baker

Thomas W Baker as two novels published. He has a Masters in Electrical Engineering and spent over 20 years in a real job. When not writing, he spends his time researching everything coming soon.

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Ivan's Hammer

By Thomas W. Baker

Published by Thomas W. Baker at Smashwords.com.

Copyright © 2011 Thomas W. Baker

Discover other titles by Thomas W. Baker at Smashwords.com and authorthomaswbaker.blogspot.com

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Prologue: October 2009

Sagittarius... Corona Australis... there you are, you little bastard. Thought you could get away, huh? You’re not that fast.

She backed away from the eyepiece and flipped a lever shunting the light into the incredibly expensive digital imager at the focus of the Steward telescope at Arizona's Kitt Peak observatory. She pushed away and glided her chair to the control station ten feet away, dangling her legs and rotating a perfect 180. She glanced at the computer screen and nodded. Her hand reached up to the mouse, moved slightly, and clicked. The Steward telescope tracking motor kicked on, and she cocked her head to watch it pitch and yaw upward.

Pushing away from the desk again, she leaned back and stretched her arms and legs straight out, slowing the rotation, her red ponytail almost sweeping the floor.

Finally, after a month of tracking, I’ll have all the data I need to prove you’re a bad boy, Mr. 1979-XB.

She looked good tonight, even in that lab coat. He'd rip those glasses off first, then the lab coat, then... no, time for business. He stepped back, inhaled, and stabbed the door buzzer.

She crunched up and set her feet on the floor, then squinted at him through the observatory door’s thin window. She stood and approached the door, straightening her blouse and lab coat.

Who are you? she said.

Hello. Sara Blackwell?

Yes. She glanced both sides of him before meeting his eyes. What can I do for you?

I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm John Cullins from JPL. I just got into Tucson tonight and came here to Kitt Peak when I found you weren't at your apartment. George Johnson alerted me to your e-mail about a wayward asteroid.

Oh, I see. He never e-mailed me back, but sent you?

Kind of, he said, rubbing his arms. He mentioned it to me a few days ago and I talked to my boss, who agreed it needed more investigation. Wow, it's colder than I thought out here.

Oh, come on in. John you said?

John Cullins. Thanks. He followed her in. Step one, easy.

I work on the Deep Space Network, he said, as a communication specialist and happened to know George from a prior project. My current assignment is in limbo due to budget cuts so I'm hunting for work at the moment. He mentioned this anomaly over lunch one day and it sparked my interest, so I told him I'd look into it. I hope you don't mind the late hour.

Not at all. I come up here overnight once a week or so. I love the starlight on my eyes. Even a high definition can't match that. No twinkles. And the air is so fresh. It takes me back to when I first became interested in astronomy.

I can see why. Kitt Peak seems like a great place to work. I thought you might be here, and I have a flight back tomorrow afternoon. I just need an hour or so of your time.

Sure. I just started final scans of it. Have a seat there and we can talk.

He sat on the seat’s edge and stretched his back. Two hours of fetal position in the trunk of her car murdered his joints. He kept the relaxed and friendly face and waited while she tapped the keyboard.

Would you like a lab coat? she said. We have extras.

No, thanks. It's much warmer in here.

So how do you want to do this?

Can you show me what you have so far on this wayward rock? I'm guessing you've taken some additional snaps since two weeks ago. Oh, and my main work is communication but I graduated with an astronomy minor. I’m just rusty in the celestial math.

I did take some more snaps two nights ago. You know, building a good database for proof.

You think it's real, then? he said. The orbit change?

That’s what the data says. I was going to write the research report after tonight's run. I think it’s the last I need.

That should be a landmark paper. Could you walk me through the data you've already taken?

Sara swiveled the laptop and showed him all the images so far, all collected in a folder along with some spreadsheet files.

Why isn't this on your University of Arizona directory? I couldn’t find any of it.

Oh, I do some things on my own when there are gaps in the telescope schedules. I don't log those in the official projects. Got to be careful about funding.

I hope you’ve backed this up. I mean, a month's worth of work.

After tonight I will. I’ve never had a problem with this laptop.

Makes sense. What about your analysis?

Over the next half hour, Sergei, a.k.a. John Cullins, listened closely, glad that all the information remained right here in one place. She stumbled upon this asteroid, a little off course, then took more pictures a few weeks later for a better estimate. Slowly, due to his so-called rusty celestial mechanics, she ran through the calculations and new projections.

I'll run some final calculations from the data tonight, she said. We have a few different ways of triangulation and I wanted them to agree.

Well, who’s helping you with this? Does their data agree so far?

No one’s helping- she said.

Good.

Well, that’s not true-

Uh oh.

You know. I had to wait a month for a decent triangulation.

He relaxed his jaw, then said, I get it. Can I watch the images come in?

Sure, take a look.

Now it's a little too warm. He took his jacket off, walked behind her chair and looked over her shoulder. He smelled a hint of apples, no doubt a cheap conditioner on her research student's budget, and fought an urge for her he'd had since he arrived last week.

He slid the knife from his jacket and quickly regarded his own handiwork, the longhorn handle he'd carved on this mission waiting in a rental car as he followed her all week. A sunset over this same mountain with a cactus in the foreground, with a small, untouched space waiting for this job's finale, the moment of recognition on her face. With his powerful right hand, he reached around and grabbed her jaw, jerking it closed, and pulled her on her feet.

Do not move, Sergei said into her left ear while pressing the blade on her throat, carefully so as not to draw blood, hard enough for her to feel the cold, sharp steel. He held her jaw straight up so she couldn't scream let alone breathe and balance. He felt her try to swallow, then breathe fast and hard out her nose, trying to step back, catch her balance. Her hands shot up, grabbed his knife hand and pulled hard. Sergei stood rock-still.

You will calm down now. I won't hurt you if you listen and do. No sound, he said, and pressed the knife on her throat just a little harder. He could feel her quick and strong pulse through the blade, up the handle, and into his fingers. She trembled like all the others.

He slowly relaxed his right hand and lowered her jaw, ever so slowly, ready to snap her neck back quickly. Her breathing slowed. She would cooperate.

Remember, keep quiet or you die right here. He turned them to face the outside door. After they walked the fifteen feet, they stopped.

Turn off light. She managed to switch off the small red light on the second swipe.

Sergei quickly touched the right stem of his thick rimmed, black glasses. The switch activated the infrared sensor at the bridge, shining a large red blip on the right lens of any human size heat signature in view.

Open door. He slid the knife from her throat, moving his hand around her waist as he took a step to her right side. He switched his grip to ice-pick style, pushing the blade into her stomach, and then grabbed her right elbow.

She reached and opened the door until it stopped against Sergei's right shoe. He pushed her forward a step and stopped her there, peering around her head. On the short walkway and out to the access road, no red blips.

Walk normally, and remember, Sergei pressed the knife harder, no sound.

Okay, she said.

She opened the door and they exited side by side like lovers on a stroll in the slim moonlight. They walked out and turned left to the back of the building. They were already close.

They stopped on the west side of the observatory and she went stiff. He quickly put the knife to her throat, and forced her jaw up again to prevent a scream that would surely come. Her hands scrambled to his wrists and pulled very hard, but he bent back, easily lifting her slim figure off the ground.

You should have stopped, devushka, he said, grabbing her ponytail with his knife hand. Now I do it for you.

A loud hum blasted through her nose as he pulled her cheek to his lips and kissed.

He snapped it's neck with a Turkish twist. Instantly the body slumped and he helped it fall correctly to the large rock nearby, ensuring a forceful blow to the head, for the examiner's pleasure.

After sheathing the blade, he ducked under the right arm. He glanced back at the observatory's entrance one more time and listened before he lifted and carried the body another ten feet to the top of the large rock outcrop. He scanned the main road, twisting through the Quinlan Mountains on the Sonoran Desert a hundred feet below, then set it on its knees.

In the stillness, under the silver slivered moon, knowing it still heard and saw its coming fate, he said, Dasvidania, and tossed it forward. A few thuds, then silence.

He turned off his glasses, and took in a deep, cleansing sniff. Now he must erase his tracks and its files. And send the suicide letter.

Chapter 1: June 1985

The white-hot, brilliant star burst above the clouds billowing upward.

Anton Dyachenko winced and turned his eyes away to see the Secretary staring at the huge Zenit boosters with his thin lipped determination. Five seconds later, Anton covered his ears from screaming boosters throwing mass furiously behind the rocket. The Secretary gazed on, seeming to will the massive payload into orbit with his Yankee Clint Eastwood stare. His sixty years looked fifty with some natural black hair peeking out under mostly blue-gray and a thin face belying a stocky, short build underneath his long coat, always worn in public even in June.

When Anton could finally look at the rocket, only the star brilliance appeared five kilometers away and it climbed fast downrange of the Baikonur Space Complex in the desert steppes of the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic, 200 kilometers east of the Aral Sea.

You must be proud, the Secretary said, to be a great part of this historic mission, Chief. I trust the landing will go as smooth as this launch.

Anton turned to reply and noticed the Secretary, Dmitri Osipov, raise a half smoked cigar to this lips, try a puff, then chuckle. His gaze stayed with the rocket.

Here, Secretary. Allow me, he said, pulling a lighter out of his pocket and reaching low for the unlit cigar. His tall and lanky body towered above his boss. A gust of wind blew his wavy brown hair into his eyes but he did not blink. The Secretary puffed a few times and blew a scraggly O ring.

The landing, Chief?

We've not had any problems with the payload, Mr. Secretary. The landing will be perfect, of course.

The Secretary turned to Anton. We need perfect. I received bad news this morning.

Anton gulped. I've resolved every possible issue with our Digger. The machine will work just like our demonstration for the Politburo last month. Nothing can go wrong.

The Secretary puffed another ring. This is not a problem that can be solved with numbers, comrade. Our problem is politics, and the Glasnost lovers seem to spawn like rabbits every year. We won't get another chance. The funding will disappear if the first experiment does not produce treasures below the Moon's regolith.

Anton glanced up at the rocket's condensation trail, a jagged line now. If you will excuse me, sir, I must get to the tracking station. I will call you hourly until midnight.

Mmmhumm. The Secretary nodded. Take good care of our dream, Chief. It may be the last project with any chance of regaining leadership up there, saving the Union from...

Sir, he said, and spun and raced to the awaiting staff car 20 meters away, parked in front of the massive doors of the assembly building where workers mated the Zenit rocket and Digger payload over the last half year. Ignore the speed limit, driver, he said. Get me to command and control.

The driver stepped hard on the accelerator. Anton gazed back at site 45. the Secretary appeared quite smug, surrounded by his aides and reporters. He glanced at the car then turned on his practiced smile and launched into his signature animated speech. Anton imagined the optimistic story that would appear in the papers tomorrow, and that sparked renewed energy to endure the next two days of praying the delivery vehicle controllers delivered his machine to the moon in one piece.

Funding, he said. Perfect.

*****

Anton slept the minimum four hours, groomed the desired ten minutes, and spent the other time in mission control over the long two days before turnaround time. He made sure the other payload specialists got plenty of rest for tomorrow, their big day for landing. He too would resume a normal schedule, someday.

Twenty hours ahead of landing, an alarm sounded and Anton jumped from his chair. Everything showed green on his display - no issues with the Digger payload. He glanced at each of the five other Digger engineers at their stations. They all shrugged. He stood and immediately saw the troubled station where Leonid, mission control commander, furiously flipped switches.

The main engine fired ten seconds ago and it's still on. Try manual shut down again... wait, wait, now it's shut off! People, status!

Fuel at fifty six percent.

Vehicle speed now 11,445 kilometers per hour.

We're running a new trajectory estimate. Give us a minute.

A flurry of other reports pinged through the room.

Leonid looked left and said, Command station, did any manual commands issue to the spacecraft in the last hour?

Checking... No sir. The vehicle did not receive any traffic in the last hour.

Why did the main engines fire? Someone find out!

Sir, we have a new trajectory. Based on the new speed, the vehicle will reach the turn-around point in 20 minutes, then fly off into deep space.

Someone find out why the main engines fired! And figure out how to correct this problem!

Anton paced back and forth, watching specialists pop up left and right like prairie dogs. His ran both hands through his hair as he and the other payload specialists watched the other controllers scramble, checking readouts, pushing buttons, shouting numbers. He wanted to do something, anything but his duty to stay at the payload consoles.

Leonid conferred with two other controllers and then turned around to the command station. Have the spacecraft execute the turn-around, immediately.

Yes sir. Wait, I just received word about... patch in to my comm panel, sir.

He plugged his headset into a jack next to the specialist's. Start over, this is Leonid. He stared at the console and his eyes widened slowly. I want that tape here by... he looked at his watch, four. Understood?

Sir, main communications now lost! came a shout from across the room.

Shit! Get that link back now! What about telemetry? Leonid said.

Telemetry just went offline, sir. A few seconds ago a yaw thruster activated for a short burst, then we lost the signals.

Damn. Send an emergency reorient command now!

Command already sent, sir. Waiting for acquisition... Still waiting...

Leonid ran over to the command console. He waited a minute then punched resend. They all waited.

Keep sending the re-orient command every minute. Everyone else, gather and listen.

Anton forced himself into the half hour of discussion that followed. The delivery vehicle controllers reached consensus – the mission is doomed even if they reacquired communications and telemetry. Main fuel was depleted too much - they could slow down and put the vehicle in a decaying orbit, but not nearly enough to land the payload. If they couldn't get command functions back, the vehicle would continue out past the moon and be lost to deep space. Either way, the mission is lost. Perhaps they could re-establish communication before the vehicle traveled past the moon.

At five o'clock, Anton pushed harder. Someone had to do something. He ordered Leonid to keep sending more commands. Leonid acquiesced and finally sat down and leaned his head all the way back covering his face with his hands. His armpits dripped.

At six, Anton rechecked the vehicle position and trajectory estimates. He looked at everyone on his team and shook his head. Years of his most valuable work floated away, out of reach.

We can't do any more, Anton said. Get some dinner and rest, and we'll meet tomorrow morning in the cafeteria for debriefing. I'll take second shift and notify the Secretary myself. Go on.

After they left, shuffling their feet and hanging their heads, his face blushed as he thought about his next project, finding a saboteur.

*****

Anton squinted at the clock above the doorway and rubbed his eyes. Twenty four hours since disaster. The cramped office room reeked of his and the tape technician's sweat.

That one, Anton said, pointing to a line on the screen. sent around lunchtime.

The technician keyed down to the line, punched the print key, stood, and walked next door.

Anton looked at the screen. The lines looked almost identical after staring for hours in their green glow, row after row of numbers. He finally found the same line and arrowed to it. He hit enter and the screen slowly printed new text.

Two minutes later the technician had four pages and handed them over. They were the same as what Anton now read.

What does this mean, DLVR? Anton said.

Sir, that starts a message for the delivery vehicle. Like PYLD is a message for the payload.

I see. Can you decode the commands here?

Da. The technician examined the lines carefully for a full minute, then said, I believe this is the command you're looking for, sir. The first part is a sequence for the main engines to fire for 17 seconds. The second part is for a thruster - I'm not sure which one - to fire for one second. Then there's the third part that tells the communications to do something, but I don't know what that might be. I don't know the comm systems. The fourth part is a store and execute command for the previous three parts.

Did you find any other command sequence that looks suspicious?

Nyet.

Who sent this sequence?

The tape shows the main command console sent the sequence at 12:34, sir. The technician pointed at the line.

Anton thought for a moment, resting his chin on his right palm. No one sat at that console near 12:30. I saw from my own station in the back. How...

The technician yawned.

Anton straightened up and sighed. You're dismissed for the night.

The technician immediately stood and left, almost sprinting out the door.

Anton looked at printout, glanced at the console, and sat down, punching the keys, hard. If it's still there, I've got you, whoever you are.

A log file displayed with lines of text and numbers.

His mouth opened and he leaned forward, staring hard. He punched the keys to repeat the command, careful to list the correct file, hoping he had made a mistake.

The log file can't lie. His own communication specialist for the Digger. The best job on the project, the newest technology entrusted to his protege who would stay even through all the experiments over three years.

He picked up the pages again and slowly crumpled them into a tight ball. His jowls clenched tight and his lips parted slightly as he inhaled through gritted teeth for what seemed like forever. Nikolai!

*****

Having returned from a quick and very early breakfast at six, Anton hesitated before he picked up the phone next to the terminal displaying the hard evidence.

How could Nikolai do this to him, to them all? A fist slammed the small desk, almost knocking the heavy, black phone off the corner.

Perfect timing. Wait to almost the end so that funding disappeared. Make the delivery vehicle go out of control at the very point it would be lost for ever, only a day away from landing the Digger on the moon and beginning the Secretary's program to restore the Soviet's faith in their space programs and kick-start an economic boom with the rich minerals deep under the surface regolith.

The Digger still lived, right out there - he just needed to speak to it. If only they could get it back to the moon, the investment could be recouped. No, nothing could reach it now, not the biggest Soviet rockets or anything the Americans had either. If the reorient command couldn't stabilize the antennae, nothing would bring the machine back.

This traitor had ended all that with a small script that uploaded the catastrophic commands