Personal Entry – Stephen Hayward.

Day 167 of Training.

I have been shortlisted for the Inter-Stellar Shuttle missions that are taking place this year. I have no idea how this happened, but I am pleased. Well… Pleased would be an understatement, I’ve been waiting for this for my whole life. There are three more missions planned for this year and now that I have been selected as a candidate, I might yet get to explore the galaxy! Or at least, the small part of it we’re in right now.

People have congratulated me as if I’ve already been told which ship I’ve been chosen for, but that’s talking too soon as far as I’m concerned. However, given that I have flown two shuttle missions already around Earth, and the Commander of the ISS Wolf 630 never had any previous experience in space, I am at least in with a fighting chance.

“Hey man, you still in here doin’ your diary?”

Stephen was surprised to hear a voice in the doorway to his cramped quarters. He turned to take a look. John Malakhi, his friend and fellow candidate for the missions, was stood in the doorway. His expression held a glint of humour as he stood casually against the door frame.

Stephen was known to most as someone who meticulously updated his personal recordings for the mission. “Hey John,” he replied, switching off his personal recorder before he stretched in his chair. He was cramped along his left side; he must have been there for some time. “You ever wonder how you can get all stiff after just a few minutes?”

“A few minutes?! Stevie, you’ve been here for over an hour!”

Stephen smiled. “So how was training?”

“Man, it was borin’! Maybe you should exchange classes with me?”

Stephen laughed – their classes were identical. “Seen any of the ships yet?”

“Nah,” John replied, leaving the door frame and jumping up onto his bunk. “You?”

“They showed us some reference photos of the next ship that’s due to leave. Looks impressive,” Stephen told John, looking through his desk drawers for the photos he managed to acquire from a fellow student. “The Tau Ceti, I think it’s called.”

The vessel in question was the fifth in a series of ships that had been built in orbit of Earth. Stephen was hoping he would be assigned to it since he was also willing to bet that if any planet was populated, it would be in orbit of the Tau Ceti primary. The ISS Fomalhaut was being assembled and would be ready for launch in December. Stephen's reflection of these facts was interrupted when John spoke again.

“I’ll bet you’ll be on that ship,” he commented. “They need a pilot and I bet they haven’t placed one yet!”

Stephen shrugged. As much as he’d hoped to be aboard the Tau Ceti, he would probably have to settle for entry to one of the final launches midway through next year. There were far more qualified and experienced pilots in the programme.

“Seriously, I bet you’re selected!” John persisted. “Come on, let’s go get a drink, I’m parched. And you’ve been in here for hours!”

Stephen supposed he could use a drink, and he definitely needed a stretch! He put away his recorder and left with John.

NASA Mission Control, Houston, Texas.

Day 167 of Training.

Robert Hayward, Navy Captain attached to the USS Excelsior, strode smartly into the control room at Houston, and approached the Mission Director. He had much to do and very quickly; there was no time to waste.

“Director Zaneki,” he announced, shocking the old man into jumping. “Captain Robert Hayward. Is there somewhere we could talk privately?”

The director was of very thin build, with balding hair but otherwise smooth features, wearing a shirt and tie that belonged in the last century. His reputation however, preceded him. “My office is back there,” he gestured to a small office behind the control room. They both approached and entered the room, Robert closing the door behind him. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

“I’ll get straight to the point, Director,” Robert began immediately, seeing no other alternative. “There are some developments in the middle east that are threatening to escalate into an international conflict.”

Zaneki gawked at the Captain. While this was a concerning development, he failed to understand why this was relevant to the current space project he presided over. “Beg your pardon, Captain?”

“We could be looking at an international conflict, Director Zaneki. Don't you pay attention to any of the scuttlebutt you hear?"

"Of course not!" Zaneki scoffed. "You should know better than that."

A civilian Director telling a military officer what to think? Robert was slightly amused, but he continued regardless. "This didn't come from me, but we've been informed of the discovery of weapons coming from US soil that have ended up in the hands of Syrian dissidents, the channels used unknown to us." Robert took a breath before continuing. "Our latest air-strikes against them have been repelled by anti-aircraft units that we developed for use on naval warships! We’ve also found out that the dissident factions have somehow acquired nuclear weap-”

“Those god-forsaken fools will get us all killed!” the Director exclaimed, then silenced himself immediately. Robert cursed his indiscretion silently. “What’s likely to happen now?”

“President has gone to Def-Con Three,” Robert continued, moving to assist Zaneki when his legs appeared to buckle under his slight mass. He sat the old man down in a chair. “He has also ordered all of our current projects within NASA to be put on hold.”

Zaneki nodded understanding. Robert waited, knowing that he was about to surprise him further, before he continued. “This means that we’ll all be out of jobs now, right?” The Director asked facetiously.

“No, Director. This project was funded privately, and anonymously. The Administration has no authority over its' execution, and can only shut it down by executive order... Which we haven't seen.”

Zaneki glanced up at the Captain, who continued.

“I have been informed by the Admiral of the Fleet," Robert went on. "That we are to secretly continue with the project. All outside contact will be severed save for one off-base visit for the ISS crews of the next three missions.”

Zaneki continued to glare at the Captain. “Why are we continuing this project?”

“Because one of the conditions of the projects' funding was that the project was not to be terminated by any one country, for any reason.”

“Captain, how did you come to have this information?”

While the Director did not mean to sound accusatory, the glare that Robert gave him suggested he might have sounded hostile. “I've been tasked with informing you of your continuing status as director of the project by the President of the United Nations and the Director of the FBI.”

Zaneki glanced at the control room, the large displays visualising the shuttle Aldrin standing on the Maglev takeoff platform. “Do you have children, Captain?”

Robert glanced quickly at Zaneki. His son Stephen was a part of the ISS programme and was nominated for a potential mission from one of the next three. “Yes Director, a son. Why?”

“Is he on the training programme?”

The glare that Robert gave the Director in that moment was murderous, and several moments passed before he spoke. “Are you implying that I am doing this for my own benefit? If you wish for proof, let me show you,” he then took his briefcase and laid it on the table, opening it to extract the official documents from the Admiral of the Fleet. “Here, take a look.”

Zaneki took the documents, but glared at the Captain. “I was not questioning your integrity, Captain,” he retorted before opening the documents. He read through them, noting that the President was not to be contacted regarding this situation except by certain named personnel, namely the Admiral of the Fleet and Captain Robert Hayward. He placed the documents back on the table. “Your son is tabled for one of the ISS missions.”

“To the best of my knowledge, yes,” Robert replied. “Why?”

“What should I do with him? Should I send him up?”

Robert was momentarily taken aback by the question, but he recovered quickly. This was no time for personal considerations, and he was confident that Stephen would get a place on any of the missions without his intervention. “Do whatever your evaluation of him permits, Director.”

Zaneki paused briefly. “Understood.”

“I must go. There are several other installations I must visit before I can return to Phoenix. I’ll be in contact again, Director.”

With that, Robert saw himself out.

Zaneki looked at the doorway for a few moments after the Captain had left. He had taken a part in Stephen Hayward’s training himself, and knew the young man to be competent in his field of expertise, so he would have been placed anyway. All he had to do was make an alteration to the crew schedule. Pincking up his office phone, he immediately dialled an extension, and the image of his assistant flashed up on the display.

“Sheila, get me Mission Personnel Allocation, would you please?” he asked, and waited as the assistant did so. The image changed to his allocation officer for the programme. “Jeff, Bob here, I want you to authorise a reallocation of personnel for me.”

“Sure Bob, go ahead,” was the reply.

“Ok Jeff… Re-allocate Colin Ackansa from the ISS Tau Ceti to the ISS Ross 248. They haven’t been assigned a pilot yet.”

A moment passed as Jeff tapped away at his keyboard. “Ok Bob. Who’s taking his place?”

“Look up the ISS Training facility, Yellow Team. We’re looking for a Stephen Hayward. I’ve verified his piloting and navigation skills myself, and I want him on that ship.”

“Well…” Jeff appeared to hesitate. “I could do that Bob, but he’ll only have another two weeks before his trip!”

“I know Jeff, and this is irregular I understand that, but he can make the adaptation quickly and I want him on that shuttle.”

Jeff hesitated one more moment and then quickly tapped his terminal. “I’ve done it for you, Bob.”

Simultaneously, a transfer file appeared on Zaneki’s computer system, confirming the transfer of both personnel. “Thanks Jeff. And just to let you know, you’ve passed the evaluation for the position on Locksley Platform. Well done!” He managed to put the right amount of enthusiasm into his tone.

“That’s great Bob, real great! Thanks for the news!” Jeff’s delight was genuine.

“Anyway Jeff, got other things to take care of. See you before you lift.”

With that, the connection was closed. Zaneki sat back, exhaling with relief that he had managed that particular feat. He had never had to keep secrets from his staff nor ask anything unusual of them. But Captain Hayward was giving them a way off of Earth, and a warning of what would happen to them if they didn’t leave. It was only fair that Zaneki arranged for his son to take the primary pilot position on the next ship out. Jeff was also a good man and he was safer off-world.

It was a pity that he couldn’t do the same for everyone.

USS Dallas, approaching international waters from within the Persian Gulf.

17:14 Hours, September 14th.

Captain Foster was in fear for his crew, his sub, and his life, for the first time in his naval career. This mission was supposed to be a simple drop-off and retrieval of a navy seal and a CIA investigator. Now it had become a fully-fledged hostile attack, and the odds were stacked against his crew.

“Time to international border?” Foster asked his helms officer.

“Time to border, six minutes twelve, sir!”

This was the roughest part of the trip, so far. There were twenty US subs waiting just beyond the border crossing, along with six Russian Alpha Class subs. They could not cross the border without causing an international incident, since the Russians would not allow a breach of international law, and the sub was American. Until they reached the border, the Dallas was on its’ own, chased by four Syrian owned Typhoon class subs. And they were catching up fast!

“What’s the cargo status?” the Captain asked his Executive Officer.

“Ready for launch,” was the reply. “Torpedo Control checked in just now sir,” the XO added.

“Understood,” the Captain replied, operating his intercom. “Radio Room, Bridge. Seal the transmission carrier and prep for uplink once the carrier’s ready. Transmit immediately the telemetry’s available. DO NOT desert your post!” he closed the connection.

“SIR!” the radar officer roared. “CONTACT! BEARING ONE SEVEN EIGHT, DEPTH PLUS TWELVE, FORTY-FIVE KNOTS! IMPACT IN TWENTY SECONDS!”

“Helm, hard to starboard, reverse thrust!”

“Hard to starboard, reverse thrust aye sir!”

The Captain grabbed the stabiliser bar above his seat, as the sub veered to starboard and began to pull back. As the sub passed the 45 degree mark, he roared “COUNTERMEASURES! AHEAD FLANK! MAINTAIN TURN!”

“Countermeasures aye sir!” Weapons reported.

“Ahead flank aye sir!” Helm reported.

The Dallas creaked under the strain of pushing through tonnes of seawater as the vessel changed direction and moved through another path. The manoeuvre was enough to send the torpedo spinning in another direction, missing the sub.

“Resume course,” the Captain told the helmsman. “Flank speed.”

This was rough enough as it was. The Dallas was being pursued by four of the Typhoon subs, and they were much faster than she. The outcome was already a foregone conclusion, the Captain had realised. So long as they got this information out, it would have been worth it.

The agent who carried out the operation was killed while trying to get out of Baghdad, and the SEAL who fought his way to the pick-up point in the gulf, died later in sickbay from his wounds. This information was all that was left of them both. And very shortly would be…

“Shit,” the Captain heard the radar operator gasp. “CONTACT! READING EIGHT SIGNALS, TWELVE SECONDS TO FIRST IMPACT!”

The Captain almost tore off the com from its’ bracket on the wall, he pulled it so forcefully. “Radio room, Bridge. Send the signal, immediately!” he flicked a switch. “Torpedo control, Bridge. Load the torpedo and fire, immediately!” He then discarded the com device, leaving it to dangle on the floor.

A few seconds later, he heard the whoosh as the torpedo left the bay. “Bridge, Radio room. Transmission complete sir.”

“Five seconds to impact,” the radar operator called, himself now resigned to their fate. As he counted the remaining seconds down, the Captain re-seated himself, and closed his eyes, praying that his kids would not follow him so soon.

And then the torpedoes detonated against the side of the Dallas, buckling the hull and tearing fissures into it. The sub sank quickly, and many of the crew died not from asphyxiation or drowning, but from the pressures of the increasingly dense ocean, as the hull ended up crushing them.

Within moments, the Syrian Typhoon subs were counter-attacked by the American subs crossing the border to retaliate against the loss of their sub. The battle was fierce, but several of the American subs survived, collected the pod and the information, and proceeded home.

The consequences of their discovery and this incident would be severe for the entire planet.

Hilton National Hotel, Washington DC.

13:14 Hours, September 17th.

Having to arrest anyone was not an easy task for an FBI agent, especially when the individual in question knew the law system. Having to arrest a high profile political official for high treason was absolutely impossible to carry out without proof, or a confession of sorts.

So when the head of the CIA informed the FBI of their developments in the middle-east, Special Agent Henry Jefferies was ordered to carry out the arrest. Taking Agent J David Carter with him, he was to meet with a senator by the name of McClusky in the lobby of the Hilton National, the hotel frequented by the senator on his regular political and business meetings. Agent Carter pressed the record button on his memo recorder (Agent Jefferies had already received authorisation from the justice department and his FBI Head to admit this as evidence when the case came to trial) and waited for the arrival of the senator.

The arrival was on time, as usual. They had been watching for days since the initial reports of the theft of official government documents were made available to the FBI, and have established that the man was a strict time-keeper, so this was a relatively easy part of their assignment.

“Good evening, you are?” the senator asked.

“Special Agent Jefferies, this is Agent Carter. We’re with the FBI,” Jefferies replied. “Shall we?”

“Of course,” the senator replied, pointing the direction of the dining hall. They all sat down, and the senator motioned for a waiter to approach. He made an order for drinks, gesturing for the two agents to order.

“No thank you, senator, we’re fine,” Jefferies replied. The waiter left. “Shall we get started?”

“Certainly. What can I do for you?” the senator asked politely.

“We’ve been informed of a development in the Middle East,” Jefferies began. This was not an unusual discussion, since the Middle East would’ve been an issue circulated to all political figures in the US. “We believe that some classified research documents, reported missing from a research installation in Alaska, have been uncovered in a Syrian research facility we recently discovered.”

“Interesting development. Anything discovered to point the direction of our perpetrators?” the Senator asked.

"I'll get to that in good time," Jefferies said coolly. He was not going to do this the Senator’s way. “Further investigation has revealed a means of tracing the path of the missing documents to their source in Iraq.”

“So you’ve found someone connected with this?” the senator asked. He was one very cool customer, Jefferies thought with slight irritation, though he kept his features smooth. “Who?”

“Well," he paused briefly, as he sat forward. "We have also discovered that several calls were made to a series of cell phones in Saudi Arabia…” he paused for effect. “From your office..”

“Very interesting,” the senator replied smoothly. This was getting tedious, thought Jefferies. “Very interesting indeed!”

“In fact, senator, we made an arrest earlier today,” Jefferies replied coldly, trying to keep any trace of irritation out of his voice.

“Understood,” the senator replied. “Any information as to who?”

Why would a senator in DC want to know so much about the people being arrested for an overseas crime, unless he could possibly be implicated by them and wanted them silenced? Even ignoring the fact that there are processes in place for dealing with this kind of information request, and even ignoring the fact that the vast majority of political leaders, governors, senators and house committee members had little interest in overseas politics, much less the sticky details of espionage, asking about this kind of activity was highly irregular. Besides, Jefferies had been collecting evidence against the senator for some time now, but he was one for completeness and wanted to tie up any loose ends if he could.

“So far, the identity of the perpetrator is being kept confidential, and will remain so while we conduct our investigation.”

“Well of course, Agent,” the senator replied coolly. “But with all due respect, what does this have to do with me?”

“Well, the phone calls were made from your office, senator,” Jefferies reminded the man.

“That doesn’t mean that I made those calls, surely you know this as well as I do,” McClusky said, as if it should be obvious.

“Then maybe you can tell me the answer to a mystery,” Jefferies replied, taking out his phone, already prepared with a duplicate of a recording they had taken the day before. He pressed the Playback option on its' display.

“…So as I understand it, the documents have been delivered to the client?” The voice, although the audio was thin and empty-sounding, was clearly that of the senator.

“They have,” a woman’s voice replied. “They will make the arrangements tomorrow morning,” she added.

“Understood. Remember, if you are detected…”

“You do not exist,” she immediately replied. “And I also still have my Anthr-”

“Understood, good day to you.”

Jefferies stopped the playback. “Does the voice belong to you, senator?”

McClusky glanced around. “That voice could belong to any number of people. I’m pretty sure I have a voice that is easily duplicated by someone who would want to discredit me.”

“From your office, using your private line, during hours where witnesses say they saw you enter and leave the office?”

“Circumstantial evidence.”

“It would be, if we did not have recorded footage of you leaving the office immediately after this recording.”

“You can’t possibly have that,” the senator replied coldly. “I never had any such devices installed.”

“We fitted them.”

There was a silence for a time. “Well it matters not,” the senator replied. “After all, you have no basis for charges to be brought against me if you have used illegal tactics in gathering this evidence. Does the word entrapment mean anything to you?” the senator replied cockily, grinning smugly. “I will not suffer any dent in my reputation if the charges brought against me are the result of some form of entrapment.”

Jefferies did not concern himself with how little the senator understood about that particular law. He took another phone out of his pocket, tapping the stop option on the screen, and putting it back.

“The President of the United States authorised wire taps on your phone lines and a CCTV link to your private office some time ago, and since we already have sufficient evidence against you, we have no need to try to force you into incriminating yourself or offering up a confession. Thank you Mr McClusky,” Jefferies turned to Carter, who nodded. “Senator Timothy Garth McClusky, you are now under arrest for treason. You have-”

“You can’t arrest me,” McClusky exclaimed, laughing shakily.

So much for political backbone, thought Jefferies. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“You CAN’T arrest me!”

“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney,” Jefferies continued, though he doubted very much this would be the case. “One will be appointed for you.”

“I’ll have your career for this-”

“Do you understand these rights?” Jefferies asked calmly, and repeated his question when the now ex-senator glared at him.

“Yes I do,” McClusky seethed.

“Then let’s go,” Jefferies said, motioning for Carter to assist in cuffing the ex-senator and leading him out to the waiting squad car to be led to the local precinct for processing.

Several questions bothered Jefferies though.

Why would a senator, who by all accounts that Jefferies could determine, was a tenth generation US Citizen, betray his country like this?

How much did he get paid for this?

Where in the world would such a large amount of cash come from? Jefferies surmised it would have to be a large sum of cash, given the fact that few would be swayed to committing such a risky criminal action, even if they were offered millions of dollars.

This would be sure to lead to disastrous consequences in the long run, thought Jeffries.