Moonfall Page 8

  “So am I. What’s this about getting in Sunday morning?”

  “They’re sending four planes to evacuate us. Two will leave Friday and two on Saturday. The last flight will get away just an hour or so before impact.”

  “You lied to the president. You said they hadn’t worked out a schedule yet.”

  “The schedule’s tentative. My question to you, Rick: Which of the planes should the vice president be on?”

  Rick sensed doors closing. “You can be a son of a bitch, Charlie.”

  Charlie held out his hands. “What choice do I have?”

  Rick shook his head. “None that I can see.”

  The president wasn’t in a very good situation either. Overnight, Moonbase had turned into a monumental political liability. And it would get worse in direct proportion to the size of the disaster. They would hope no one got killed, although it occurred to Rick, as it must have to the president, that a heroic VP going down would have a distinct upside. Or even, he thought with a chill, his media advisor. Valiant bureaucrat lost on Moon. But God forbid any innocents get hurt.

  Charlie pursed his lips thoughtfully. “How about you?” he asked. “Do you want an early flight?”

  Yes, Rick thought. By all means. “I’ll stay until Saturday,” he said. “But I don’t think I want to go out on the late flight.”

  “Nor do I. But I’m not sure I’m going to be able to avoid it.”

  “Charlie, the campaign’s not worth your life.” Rick was angry, but not sure at whom.

  “In the meantime, Rick, I’d like you to keep close. I’m going to be dealing with the press constantly over the next three days and I’ll need some ideas. You know, comments on the courage and coolness of the lunies under extreme stress. Of, uh, the American personnel, especially. Can we find a way to say that without offending anybody?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. And make sure we mention Evelyn Hampton. Get the names of some of the other women here, too. Brave women. Credit to their sex. Their ability to meet even this kind of emergency shows us, and so on.”

  “Charlie, that’s a trifle sexist.”

  The vice president laughed. “That’s why I need you, Rick. We’re going to salvage what we can. So we’ll want to point out that we still have the means to go on. Mustn’t quit. The Dream. Invoke the Challenger accident. And Rick—”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “For God’s sake, give me some poetry.”

  Georgetown, Washington, D.C 12:03 P.M.

  George Culver wasn’t particularly unhappy that the flight had been canceled. He took advantage of the unexpected day off to have lunch with friends at Hurst’s Turn of the Century on Wisconsin Avenue. Hurst’s had opened just after Christmas, 2000, and its murals incorporated scenes from those closing years of the Clinton era. Here was a gaudily outfitted band and there an antique Toyota Corolla. A bearded father and his son sat in a crowd, waving pennants for the old Washington Redskins. The grand opening itself had been captured in oil, with people dressed in the quaint fashions of the time, standing in line for the first day’s fare.

  Culver’s friends were also pilots. Mel Bancroft flew for Continental; Rich Albert was an air force colonel. Usually they talked about their profession, or about women, but tonight the topic was the incoming comet, and the heavy outbound traffic they’d seen on the highways around the capital. People were afraid that pieces of the moon might fall into the ocean and that Chesapeake Bay would spill over. Mel was not unsympathetic with those who’d chosen to head inland for the duration. He admitted he’d probably clear out too if he lived here. But he didn’t, and he had a flight in the morning. Saturday night, he’d be in Indianapolis. “So if a piece of the Moon really does fall into the ocean,” he said, “I plan to read about it in the paper.”

  Rich worked a desk job at the Pentagon. He didn’t like the assignment or the bureaucracy, but he was getting his ticket punched for a star. He looked older than he was, and George thought part of that might have been the result of the peacekeeping operations he’d been involved in. A lot of people got killed during the African missions, and Rich had been captured and held for four months by Tibaki rebels. It was an event he would not talk about, but he walked more slowly than he used to, and sometimes winced when he got in and out of cars. He sipped his drink and admitted that he’d put his wife and kids on a plane as soon as he heard. “Nothing to lose by going to Vermont to stay with her folks for a few days.”

  “What about you, Rich?” George asked.

  “I’m on duty over the weekend.” He was thickset, short, with a sand-colored mustache. Rich was a poker player and a golfer, and he was quite capable of being the meanest son of a bitch in the world. He was designed by nature to fight wars. “But if anything happens,” he grinned, “we’ll call in the choppers and get the hell out.”

  The waiter took their orders, chicken fingers for Mel, a tuna sandwich for Rich, a Caesar salad for George.

  “I saw a tidal wave once,” said Mel. “We were flying medical and food supplies into Ahmadabad. There’d been some sort of outbreak, and I was in Saudi Arabia between flights. They were scrounging pilots who were certified for the 328s. So we took one on, and we were coming in out of the Arabian Sea just as a wave went ashore. Most terrifying goddam thing I’ve ever seen. Apparently, there’d been warnings, but nobody had gotten them to the general population. I read later that fifteen thousand people drowned or disappeared.” Mel’s eyes turned bleak. “They were just standing around when the wave hit.”

  George had been fortunate. “I’ve led a quiet life,” he said. “Never seen anything like that. Never hope to.”

  The subject turned to the infant baseball season, and they were still arguing over predictions when lunch arrived. George took one bite of his salad and his cell phone beeped. He excused himself, slid the instrument out of his jacket pocket, and spoke into it. “Culver.”

  “George?”

  “Yes, this is Culver.”

  “We need you, George. Right away.”

  He recognized the voice. “Pete, is that you?” He could hear control tower sounds in the background.

  “It’s me.”

  “I’m in the middle of lunch. I’m supposed to be off today.”

  “Life and death, buddy. For real. Get down here. Pack for a couple of days.”

  “What? What’s going on?”

  “Tell you when you get here.”

  “Pete, where am I going?”

  Pause. Then: “The Moon.”

  NEWSNET. 12:30 P.M. UPDATE

  (Click for details.)

  BRENKOV CHECKMATES WIDE-EYE

  Russian Scores First Human Victory Ever Against MIT Program

  Psychology:

  INTELLIGENCE IS LEARNED BEHAVIOR

  Graham: The Role Of Genetics Has Been Vastly Exaggerated

  BRITAIN SENDS ASSISTANCE TO FLOOD-RAVAGED SUDAN

  NEW BATTERY SYSTEM FOR CARS ON HORIZON

  Thousand-Mile Charge To Be Available By ’27

  But New Units Are Expensive

  JASON RILEY DEAD IN FALL FROM PENTHOUSE APARTMENT

  Creator Of “Pat and Mary” May Have Been Pushed

  Cartoonist Had Received Threats From Angry Readers

  Accused Of Blasphemy, Racism, Anti-Elderly Attitudes

  COMET TO HIT MOON

  “It’s Only A Reprieve,” Says Michaelson

  Collision With Earth Would Have “Killed Us All”

  Moonbase To Be Evacuated

  SEXCOMS AT TOP OF RATINGS AGAIN

  Cop Shows Distant Second

  FREE LUNCH GANG ROUNDED UP IN FLORIDA

  Preyed On Handicapped

  4.

  Moonbase Spacepart. 12:33 P.M.

  They were just beginning to admit passengers onto the boarding ramp when Tony Casaway arrived. He had originally been scheduled to carry the vice presidential party on the Micro to L1. But the schedules were in chaos today. He understood that management was trying to move as many p
eople as possible to L1. The comet was coming, and people were excited, the way they got on roller coaster rides when they knew they were in for a deliciously scary time but one that ultimately would be safe.

  Tony wasn’t so sure. He’d caught a sense of worry when Bigfoot had brought him in to tell him about his shuffled assignments. Not desperation, by any means. But there had been a tightness in the air. He’d assigned it to the simple fact that Moonbase was going to get blitzed. But it might have been more than that.

  Tony Casaway was an old test pilot, which is the best kind. He was different from the other pilots, who’d come to the Moon for reasons he could never understand. They talked a lot about frontiers and going to Mars. Tony came because Gina had gone shopping one day at a supermarket and walked into a hail of gunfire when a couple of goons tried to knock the place over. She was buried in a green hillside outside her native Kansas City, and Tony had gotten as far from that hillside as he could.

  The Spaceport, like the rest of the facility, was submerged in the regolith. The hangers and pads were designed to accommodate a multitude of vehicles: the buses that connected Moonbase to L1, and a variety of space trucks and moon-hopping cargo carriers called lobbers that could haul equipment and products between the central complex and outlying factories and research posts.

  A group of evacuees were milling about in the passenger lounge while technicians ran preflight checks on the two vehicles—a bus and the Micro—that were scheduled to depart within the half hour for L1. Most were middle-aged movers and shakers, VIPs who’d come to Moonbase for the ceremony. These included an eminent historian, a world-famous sculptor, and two Hollywood types. Wolfgang Weller, the German foreign minister, and his three-person entourage were also here.

  Weller was tall and imposing, with cold gray eyes and an imperious manner. He looked annoyed, and Tony wondered whether the source of his irritation was the impending destruction of Moonbase or the fact that he was being herded about with the commoners. He looked like an easy man to dislike. Curious quality in a diplomat.

  Or maybe the trouble was in Tony’s mind. He didn’t like high-powered types. They always seemed to need special attention, and to expect people to fawn over them. He made it a point therefore to seem unaware of the rank of any such passenger.

  The passengers parted to let Tony through. He strode up the ramp and was greeted inside by Shen Ka-tai, the flight attendant. “Saber’s on board,” he told Tony.

  Tony nodded and passed into the snug passenger compartment. There were four seats on either side of the aisle, set in pairs. The nature of traffic between L1 and Moonbase dictated the need for a compact, fuel-efficient vehicle to transport small groups and occasionally single persons. That vehicle was the Micro. Two more microbuses were currently under construction and were to join the fleet within the month.

  His passengers were coming in behind him. Weller and three aides, and a family with two kids. Eight people in all. The manifest described the family as tourists and indicated their final destination as London. The two kids, a freckled girl about ten and her slightly younger brother, looked excited. The parents, however, were brusque and nervous. They issued sharp commands to their progeny to sit down, buckle in, and please don’t make so much noise. Tony reassured them, explaining that they’d be safely home when the comet arrived, a state of affairs that clearly disappointed the kids. The mother began a lecture about how this was not funny and they were lucky to be on their way.

  Tony climbed the ladder and slipped through the overhead hatch onto the flight deck.

  Saber was going through the preflight routine. “Hello, Tony,” she said, smiling at him over one shoulder. She was tall and lean, almost six feet, with a boyish build. She had black hair and luminous blue eyes, and despite her lack of dimensions, never seemed to want for male escorts. Her name was Alisa Rolnikaya, and she’d been born in Florence into Russian diplomat’s family. She’d been born in Florence into a Russian diplomat’s family. She’d learned to fly when she was fifteen, returned to her family’s home in St. Petersburg for her education, learned to fly jets, and spent several years with a NATO squadron whose pilots had been mostly Italian. There she’d acquired the code name “Saber,” which had followed her to the Moon. The name fit. Tony thought. There was an edge to her personality, and to her sense of humor. She’d been with the Lunar Transport Authority three months, and her assignment to the Micro was her first. So far she seemed competent enough.

  “Have you seen the comet pictures?” she asked.

  He nodded. He was already making retirements plans. Below, Shen was getting the passengers seated.

  “Switch to internal power,” said Saber.

  “Micro.” Moonbase Control on the circuit.

  “Go ahead, Control.”

  “You are unplugged and ready for departure in six minutes.”

  The Micro was a sphere set on top of a pair of landing treads. The flight deck was located inside a blister at the top of the sphere. At that moment Tony was looking out across the bay, where he could see the power and fuel umbilicals dropping away. The indicator lamps on his status board blinked yellow. Depressurization in the bay had begun.

  The pad clamps released.

  Tony listened to the sounds in the cabin below: footsteps, voices, luggage being placed in the overhead bins. Then the closing of hatches, inner and outer. The air pumps picked up a notch.

  Shen reported the passenger cabin ready for departure.

  Control again: “Micro, your turnaround time at L1 is going to be as quick as they can make it. Sleep when you can. It doesn’t look as if you’re going to have any down time until Friday.”

  “That’s what I hear. It’s going to get rank in the old Micro.”

  Saber smiled and shook her head. They both knew there’d be a quick break while the vehicle was being serviced after each flight. Not a lot of time, but enough to get scrubbed off and change into a fresh uniform.

  “It’s always been rank in the old Micro,” said a new voice, which Tony recognized as that of the operations supervisor, Bigfoot Caparatti.

  “Hello, Bigfoot,” he said.

  “See you when you get back, Tony,” said Caparatti. “Good flight.”

  The over head doors began to open.

  “Green board, Tony,” said Saber.

  “Countdown to ignition. On my mark. Ten…”

  The Micro mounted a single General Electric 7RV engine, capable of providing a steady one-g acceleration. At zero, Tony started it. It roared into life. The flight deck trembled and the Micro began to rise. Then they were out of the illuminated bay, ascending into the night.

  White House, Truman Room. 1:27 P.M.

  “Al, is everyone here?”

  The president had summoned his cabinet for a teleconference about the comet with two scientific experts.

  Kerr had been talking with the secretary of defense when Henry entered. He glanced around the table, did a quick count, and nodded. “Yes, Mr. President. Only one missing is Hopkins.”

  Armand Hopkins, the secretary of the interior, was on the West Coast. Henry took his seat, trying not to show that he was in pain. He hurt all the time now, but only Emily knew. And probably Al.

  Henry had been a vibrant, energetic head of state during the first two years. He still tried to maintain the pretense, but it was getting harder. The disease was sucking his life away. He’d have kept the story quiet if he could, but there’d been no way to do that. Still, as long as people didn’t see it happening, he could continue to function. He’d become almost a tragic figure, perceived as a kind of saint, a man confronting eternity, with no motive to do anything other than what was right for the nation. Everyone treated him with deference, more or less as though the entire nation were attending a bedside vigil. It was a situation unique in American history. Other presidents had received the country’s adulation in retrospect. Henry enjoyed it while in office. In the United States of 2024, it was not considered sporting or decent to attack the presiden
t. On the other hand, he was the ultimate lame duck.

  “Mr. President,” Kerr said, “unless you have a preliminary comment, we’re ready to go remote.”

  “Do it.”

  Split-screen images, a man and a woman, flickered onto a wall display. Henry had seen the man’s face before, but he couldn’t put a name to it.

  He had caught a second breath since his meeting with Juarez, and his basic philosophy, that everything turns out okay if people just don’t panic, had taken hold. One of the TV images, the man, wore a graveyard demeanor. We don’t want that dumb son of a bitch talking to the media, Henry thought. Who brought him in? But Henry thought his cabinet members and advisors also looked gloomy.

  “Before we go any farther,” said Henry, “let me caution everyone that we need to be careful what we say outside this room. The Moon story’s already out, but the public reaction is going to depend to a far degree on what comes out of this meeting.” That wasn’t so, of course. Henry knew that the media would be the ultimate influence and they would decide how to play the story. But he needed his people to do their part. And he particularly wanted to impress the outsiders that they should be careful what they say. “When we get out of here and talk for the record, let’s try to think about the impact our words will have. Things are going to be difficult enough over the next few days. We don’t want panic on our hands if we can avoid it.” He saw his secretary of state frame the word panic on his thin lips as if the thought had not occurred to him. Henry pushed back in his chair and removed a gold pen from an inside pocket. “Now, Al, why don’t you introduce our guests.”

  Kerr nodded. “Professor Alice Finizio from the Jet Propulsion Lab.” An African-American, she wore bifocals attached to her lapel by a silver chain. Her orange blazer seemed a bit loud to the president, who believe that the inner self, and not one’s clothing, should be the source of attention. She was a slim woman, with silver hair, probably close to seventy. She reminded him quite forcibly of his late grandmother. Kerr described her as an astronomer.