Shadow Watch

hyperspectral high-resolution imaging satellites, nor to the relaying and data-processing equipment used to establish a real-time downlink to receiving stations in each locale — these only being machines, as Rollie Thibodeau readily pointed out to Megan Breen from behind a notebook computer on his hospital tray.

To the people involved in this synchronized monitoring operation, on the other hand, the whole process of coordination was a howling, troublesome bitch.

As Rollie was also free and quick to note.

Tom Ricci rubbed his eyes. Had it really been less than seventy-two hours since he’d left Maine, its deepwater urchin beds, and the reclusive life he had cultivated for over two years behind? Something like that, he guessed. So much mental and physical distance had been covered between then and now, it was hard to keep track. There had been the flight to San Jose, his meeting with Roger Gordian, the formal offer from Gordian to join UpLink in what had to his surprise become a position — its official title being Global Field Supervisor, Security Operations — that he would hold jointly with a guy named Rollie Thibodeau, who, if memory served, was the other candidate for the job mentioned to him by the high-and-mighty Megan Breen back in Stonington. There had been his acceptance of the offer despite reservations about working in partnership with Thibodeau, someone he’d never met, someone very much liked and preferred by Breen, a woman toward whom Ricci had taken an automatic dislike, which impression had seemed in his eyes to be a two-way street filled with bumps, potholes, and inevitable collisions. Only Ricci’s fidelity to the commitment he’d given Pete Nimec had overcome his second thoughts about agreeing to the modified proposition in Gordian’s office.

All of which had preceded his express shipment to Kazakhstan, a severe, inhospitable place populated with equally severe, inhospitable Russian military and scientific personnel whose antagonism toward him was more than a little reminiscent of his old friend Cobbs. They were indignant about his having taken command of site protection at their Baikonur Cosmodrome prior to the space launch. They had bristled at his front-line deployment of Sword patrol units and defensive systems. They viewed his assistance as gross interference, and had let him know it at every possible turn.

He wondered how much worse his reception would have been if they’d known this was, more or less, his first day on the job.

Fatigued and out of joint, his biological clock in jagged contention with the time displayed on his wristwatch, Ricci sat at an onboard vehicle computer in the trailer that was his mobile command center and logged onto UpLink’s secure intranet server via cellular modem, waiting for pictures from space that his instincts told him were about to reveal complications that would make every problem he’d encountered since his arrival in Central Asia — if not since his farewell urchin run with Dex — seem piddling by comparison.

Soon after the transmission began, those instincts proved themselves to be right on the money.

* * *

“This ground station’s part of our Geographic Information Service division,” Nimec was explaining to Annie. “Our clients include real estate developers, urban planners, map and atlas publishers, companies involved in oil, natural gas, and mineral resource exploration… a whole range of businesses that can benefit from high-res topographic imaging data. Essentially, though, the profits we earn from those contracts go toward defraying expenses the GIS piles up doing gratis work to satisfy Gord’s altruistic drives.”

They were alone in the first of several rows of theater-style seats climbing toward the rear of what could have been mistaken for a small movie screening room, but for the technical staffers at horseshoe-shaped computer workstations to their left and right. A large flat-screen display covered most of the wall in front of them.

“Spy-eye time as a charitable donation,” she said. “That’s a new one to me.”

Nimec looked at her.

“You remember that child abduction in Yellowstone about six months ago? The little girl, Maureen Block, got snatched out of her parents’ camper? The guy who did it was some survivalist nutcase, held her in a lean-to made of timber and leaves. She was found by park rangers after sweeps from Hawkeye-I penetrated his camouflage, captured infrared images of the girl and her kidnapper while they were in the shelter.”

Annie put her hand up to her forehead.

“I think,” she said, “I’ve just embarrassed myself.”

“No reason you should feel that way,” Nimec said. “Our involvement was never disclosed. We’ve worked with local police departments, the FBI, NSA, you name it. This isn’t quite classified information, but it is for the most part held confidential by the various agencies.”

“At whose preference?”

“Everybody’s,” Nimec said. “It’s pretty well known how competitive law-enforcement organizations can be. They like taking their pats on the back for closing cases, and we’re glad to let them. It tends to eliminate any inclination they might have to see us as sticking our nose in where it doesn’t belong and reject our assistance. It also has the fringe benefit of keeping the bad guys off guard.” He paused, quietly watching the techs key up for the satellite feed. “There’s a whole range of other situations we help out with, besides. The birds can detect toxic chemical concentrations in soil runoff, plot out the extent of oil spills, pinpoint the specific types of mineral depletion in agricultural areas to give farmers a heads-up on potential crop failure… it goes on and on.”

She looked impressed. “If I may ask, just what are your satellites’ capabilities?”

“Confidentially?”

She nodded, and gave him a faint smile. “If not quite classified.”

“Hawkeye can zoom in on objects less than five centimeters across and scan on over three hundred spectral bands, which matches anything the spooks at the National Reconnaissance Office have at their disposal. Same goes for the speed and accuracy of our analysis — and we hope to have moving real-time pictures within a couple of years. Also, the telemetry images we’re about to see here are going out over our corporate intranet to be viewed by members of our security team on three continents and examined by photo interpreters in San Jose.” He gestured toward the headsets jacked into the armrests of his seats. “These provide an audio link for anyone who’s got a request for the analysts, or wants a particular area enlarged, enhanced, or identified. You may want to listen in.”

Annie got a quick flash of herself playing host to Roger Gordian and Megan Breen in the LCC firing room at Canaveral what seemed an eternity ago, pointing to the lightweight phones on her console.

“When the event timer starts again you’ll want to put them on and eavesdrop on the dialogue between the cockpit and ground operators. ”

A chill ran down her spine.

Nimec noticed her far-off look. “Anything wrong?”

“No,” she said. “Just kind of dazzled by the scope of this operation.”

Nimec knew she was lying, but dropped it, although he couldn’t dismiss his peculiar interest in what was on her mind.

Then, from one of the techies, a wave.

“Get ready,” he said. “Show’s about to start.”

* * *

Some 2,500 miles northwest as the crow flies, Roger Gordian was in a room identical to the one in which Pete Nimec and Annie Caulfield were seated, watching, as they were, the first satellite images stream down from Hawkeye-I above Brazil. Filling the row to either side of him was the group of satellite recon specialists Nimec had mentioned to Annie, most former employees of the NRS and its PHOTINT section, the National Photographic Interpretation Center.

Over the previous twenty-four hours, Hawkeye-I had made a series of low-resolution passes over an area describing a radius of about three hundred klicks around the ISS installation in Matto Grosso do Sul, its field of reconnaissance determined by the results of a computerized vector analysis seeking those areas of highest probability from which the raid of April 17th might have been staged. Entered into these calculations were wind conditions on the night of the attack, approximations of the HAHO team’s point of descent into the compound, estimates of their maximum range of travel, flight controller logs from known airfields, likely sites for concealed airfields, intelligence about regional criminal and political extremist enclaves, and a galaxy of other data deemed pertinent by Sword’s electronic surveillance experts.

After reviewing the computer analysis and initial flyby imagery, the photo interpreters had systematically