Sunglasses at Midnight - Book 1: The Mystery Factor

By Sam Whittaker

Life is hard enough for a three-man team of covert operatives stuck on Earth. But what happens when they have to stop a madman who takes over a powerful spaceborne weapon?

In the cold darkness of space above the Earth, a madman and his strike force have taken control of a powerful planetary defense weapon...and pointed it at the heart of the United Earth Islands Federation. He seeks revenge and promises to rain down destruction on the free nations of the world.

But a three-man team of highly dangerous operatives - of whom there is no official record - have been called upon for this most desperate mission: To rescue the world from this terrorist's schemes.

They must find a way to sneak aboard the space station and wrest control of this weapon from the death-grip of the enemy before he unleashes Hell upon the Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Whittaker
• Release date: Mar 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005727857

Sam Whittaker

Sam Whittaker lives with his family in Oregon. He has written more than 20 books. He writes in the Fantasy, Science Fiction, and Horror genres. His series include - Ghostly Elements, I Kill Cursed Creatures, Brotherhood of the Scythe, Rise of the Scythe, Chronicles of Dar'ryn, and Battle Cruiser Elite.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Space. The endless velvet curtain hangs in place with countless pinpricks of light decorating the merciless and cold vacuum. But this corner of space is not empty. The Earth’s moon plods slowly onward as it has for ages immemorial, making yet another lap on its eternal marathon.

And yet there is more.

A large ring-shaped space station hangs in high orbit above Earth. Its spinning motion makes it look as if it is a top rotating slowly on an invisible table.

Inside this space station is a middle-aged man, an Admiral of the United Earth Islands Federation. His name is Kessler. He stands at attention in the command center watching over his crew. A communications officer approaches him with a bit of routine news he already knows is coming. What he does not know, however, is that this mundane exercise will cost him his life. But not quite yet.

The communications officer stops a few feet away from the admiral and says, Sir, I have an incoming craft requesting boarding clearance. They say that they have new parts for the main Array.

Good, Kessler responds, they are right on time. Transmit coordinates for them to enter hanger bay twenty-one.

The communications officer turns and follows through with Kessler’s orders. Then the Admiral pivots to a uniformed officer. This is Lieutenant Harrison. He is in his early twenties, fairly bright for his age, and a fresh face aboard the station. There were a few more of those than he liked this last round. He couldn’t yet recall all their names. To Kessler, Harrison is just another officer doing his job.

Lieutenant Harrison, inform Dr. M that he is to inspect this new shipment with me. Have him meet me at hanger bay twenty-one.

Yes, sir, Harrison dutifully replies. He turns and strides hastily through the rear doors which slide apart for him. Admiral Kessler moves his attention back to the communications officer. He can’t remember the man’s name but the Admiral mustn’t be faulted for this. The officer, like Lieutenant Harrison, is also a new face on the present staff rotation which only started the day before.

Additionally, the Admiral has been awake for eighteen hours – eighteen long and tedious hours – which were consumed with a string of security protocol crises. Oddly, several automated security programs malfunctioned all at once. They were out for approximately five seconds and then they had come back on and continued running as if nothing had happened. There was no discernible reason for this and his technicians could only tell him it was some kind of hiccup in the system. It was not an answer he was satisfied to receive. He had lost hours of sleep over a damn hiccup.

He stands for a few moments staring at the communications officer until he decides the best way to remember the man’s name is by issuing an order.

The Admiral squeezes his eyes shut, rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and says, State your name for me again please.

Diez, sir, the communications officer replies in a strict and formal tone. He betrays no frustration at having been asked for this information, although it is the third time the Admiral has done this since meeting him.

Officer Diez, you have the Conn.

Yes, sir.

Admiral Kessler turns away and exits the room through the same door as Lieutenant Harrison, though he takes a different path afterward.

Minutes later, warning lights and sirens blare in hanger bay twenty-one. The Hanger bay doors open like a young bird’s mouth expecting a worm.

Instead, a boxy carbon-scored shuttle glides through the opening into the bay, lands, and lowers its boarding ramp as the bay doors behind it close. Security teams and maintenance crew members enter from within the station followed by Admiral Kessler and Doctor M.

Doctor M stands rigid and silent, waiting. He is older with salt and pepper hair and mustache, tall, and lean. His real name is Milkovich, but Kessler and others don’t favor the man’s eastern European name. In the last great war, that part of the world had been a source of enormous trouble. The memories were recent and bad enough that sour feelings often remained regarding anyone from that part of the world.

It meant little that Milkovich had defected and provided key intel that helped save a lot of heartache and lives. Some people are simply impossible to please, he knows, and so the old scientist bears the burden of the dark looks and whispered comments with a shrug. He knows he does good work and is pleased, regardless of the opinions of others.

Moments after the boarding ramp lowers, a loud report rings out and Kessler staggers back a half step. He feels something in his chest and looks down with great curiosity. He sees a dart with a red feather-tipped end jutting from his chest and wonders what it is. He looks up into the horrified face of Dr. M and acquires a sinking feeling. He pivots his attention back to the boarding ramp and stares in confusion at the armed men pouring out of the ship.

Kessler’s head begins to swim and his vision goes dark. He feels his legs give out before he can witness the man behind all this set foot on the docking bay of the Main Satellite Array – home of the spaceborne weapon defense system intended to keep the United Earth Islands Federation safe from space debris left adrift during the last war, or fresh missile attacks.

He collapses into unconsciousness before he can learn any of this.

CHAPTER 1

The Freedom 2 , a light jet craft with a minor passenger capacity, pierces through the sky like a bullet shot from a gun. As the craft zooms along the sound of the engines’ screaming remains at a minimum, dampened by stealth technology.

The clouds around the ship glide over the hull of the fast-moving craft which is concealed from the view of anyone who might be on the ground. Sleek and deadly twin thruster engines protrude on either side of the body like cylindrical blisters topped off with a thruster nozzle at the aft end. Blue flames burst from each engine. The ship looks old but sturdy, like a Timex watch it has taken a licking but kept on ticking.

Dean sits at the pilot’s station with the demeanor of a seasoned and experienced pilot. He knows what he is doing. He is the technological heart of their little group and therefore always feels comfortable around ships and their complicated controls and computers.

Trent sits to Dean’s right. Concern fills his face and his fingers tighten on the armrests of his seat, causing them to creak under the stress. A little grunt of discomfort escapes him. He would rather be Earth-side.

Dean favors him with a reproachful glance. Come on, you big baby; there’s nothing to be afraid of. He lifts his hands away from the control yoke and shows them to Trent, palms outward, grinning like a mischievous child. He adds, See? I can even do this without any hands.

Trent’s eyes go wide as he reaches for the co-pilot’s yoke, but then his fingers freeze centimeters away from the controls. He purses his lips and wrinkles his nose in frustration. Instead, he turns back to Dean and points toward the pilot’s control panel, and says, What do you think you are doing? Put your hands back on the controls.

Dean returns Trent’s admonishing glare with a long-suffering one of his own. He replies, If you’d just take a second to check, you’d know that for the last twenty minutes we’ve been on autopilot.

Trent’s disbelieving eyes shoot to the instrument panel before him and searches for confirmation of what his friend has told him. Autopilot...? he begins but then cuts himself off before he can finish the word as his eyes provide the reality of the situation. Why didn’t you tell me? he demands, more than a little perturbed.

Dean gives a noncommittal shrug. I knew that you’d figure it out sooner or later. Anyway, I was having fun watching you nearly wet yourself.

Trent can tell Dean is suppressing a chuckle, but he doesn’t allow this to cloud his mood. He is only moderately successful at this. Remind me to kill you when we get to Forgotten Hope city.

With a smirk, Dean responds, Yes sir, commander sir. Just remember, without me you’re going to have to walk everywhere. You know, you really should learn how to fly one of these days.

Trent opens his mouth but then closes it again. He starts over. Fine, you win this time; but let me know the next time you are going to do something like that again.

A signal light blinks on the control display. Trent reaches forward and toggles a switch, causing a screen display to come to life. The visage that appears on the little screen is that of a stout beefy man and the accompanying voice that comes through the communications system is snobbish. The Forgotten Hope City flight traffic director sounds as if he has been doing his job for one too many days and is ready to snap at any minute.

Inbound craft, this is Forgotten Hope control. Do you wish for access to a hanger bay? There’s something in the man’s voice that sounds like he’s daring them to respond in a manner he does not like.

Dean remains cordial and says, Yes, control. I was just about to contact you. We would prefer a secure hanger bay if that would be okay with you?

There is a noticeable pause on the traffic director’s end. He seems to be considering something and his eyes flick shiftily away for a moment. He says, Security is going to cost you. Transmitting credit amount now.

On the dash-mounted view screen numbers, credit amounts begin to scroll up.

Trent leans closer to the screen, reading the numbers. His eyebrows shoot up and he turns a disbelieving look to Dean. You’ve got to be kidding. That can’t be real. They want that much for a simple hanger bay?

Dean tries to wave him to silence but it is too late for that. The Forgotten Hope traffic director growls and interjects, Space here in the city is very limited and costly. Take it or leave it?

It’s Dean’s turn to look at Trent with a reprimand in his eyes. He then diverts his attention to the screen, pasting on a fake pleasant smile. We’ll take it. We also need access to the highway system.

The snobbish man sighs in exasperation and says, All our hanger bays have access to our highway system. What do you take us for? We’re a true metropolis, not some hamlet off the highway.

Very good, Dean says. His fingers nimbly dance across the controls, typing commands as if they’re part of his nature. I am transmitting the credits now. Oh yeah... keep the change.

Trent’s eye caught a detail of the transmission and he turned a questioning glare at Dean, arching an eyebrow. He places a hand over the microphone and says, That’s a lot of extra credits you sent him.

Dean snickers. You don’t seriously expect to get decent security with the credit amount that he transmitted, do you? That was just enough for them to open the doors.

Credits received, comes the traffic director’s voice once more, though this time a hint more satisfaction and acceptance in his tone. I am sending coordinates to your navigation computer now. Welcome to Forgotten Hope City. Enjoy your visit. Control out.

The Freedom 2 descends into a lane of flight traffic and decelerates. The craft enters Forgotten Hope City limits following the fresh navigational directions. Towering buildings line the endless streets. Personal transport tubes extend from all points of the buildings. Multiple levels of hard roads crisscross the sky between buildings.

In the open-air lanes scores of vehicles soar in orderly lines. Floating police platforms monitor the air and road traffic.

The hanger bay assigned to Freedom 2 is set on the side of an immense concrete and steel canyon hundreds of levels above ground.

Dean begins punching the Freedom 2’s landing sequence into the instrument panel then when landing gear extends and touches the hanger floor, he cycles her down and lowers the rear-boarding ramp. Small automated worker drones scurry around the hanger bay performing a variety of assigned jobs. The light from the open hanger bay shrinks as the door slide closed. While the natural light fades, the hanger bay’s ambient lighting systems take over.

IN THE LARGE OPEN CARGO compartment of the Freedom 2, Trent strolls over to a wall console and types in a quick command. In the next moment, the floor restraints holding a boxy wheeled ground vehicle in place release and disappear back into the floor of the cargo area, leaving the vehicle ready to drive away.

Dean, Trent, and the third member of their covert team