by Bobby Akart
Bear lit a cigar, his third of the day. “Is that illegal? I mean, finders keepers, right?”
Gunner shrugged. The sweet aroma of the cigar was tempting him, but his stomach was screaming don’t even think about it.
Cam replied, “I’m sure there is something buried in the military code about ill-gotten gains or some such. I don’t know, but I do know we can’t continue like this. I make sixty K a year, forty-eight after taxes. That’s totally ridiculous considering what it costs to live.”
Bear turned to Gunner. “I don’t want to speak out of turn, but you’re close to Ghost. He’s been pulled out of the service to work on these special projects like Russia. Do you think he’s on the O-6 military pay grade at a hundred thou a year? Or does he get paid under the table or something?”
“I really don’t know, and if I asked him, he’d probably tongue-lash me,” replied Gunner. He paused to think for a moment. “Listen, guys, I get it and I apologize for never considering what you guys deal with financially. I promise you I’ll find the right person to address this with and see what I can do. In the meantime, you two are welcome to bunk with me until, you know, we can figure something out.”
Bear started laughing, drawing a nasty look from Cam. “Nah, man. I appreciate the offer, but my girlfriend sent me a bunch of texts a little while ago. She really misses me, and all this asteroid talk got her to thinking. She wants me to come back.”
Cam threw her head back and started laughing. “That so figures. She’s looking for TEOTWAWKI sex.”
“Huh?” asked Bear.
“You know, TEOTWAWKI—the end of the world as we know it.”
“Nah, man. She really does miss me.” Bear fumbled around beneath his chair in search of his phone. “Do you wanna see the text messages? She even sent me pictures.”
Cam squirmed. “Oh God, no. Get away from me!”
She shot up out of the chair and Bear pretended to chase her around the deck with his phone. Gunner stretched his legs out and stared at the sky, wondering what the asteroid would look like as it crashed into Earth.
PART FOUR
ASTROMETRY
Identification Number: 2029 IM86
Right Ascension: 18 hours 44 minutes 01.1 seconds
Declination: -27 degrees 33 minutes 14 seconds
Greatest Elongation: 65.3 degrees
Nominal Distance from Earth: 0.49 Astronomical Units
Relative Velocity: 28,309 meters per second
Chapter 49
Thursday, April 12
NASA Mission Control
Johnson Space Center
Houston, Texas
Before a rocket can take off, NASA’s Launch Control works its way through an extensive checklist. In coordination with the space agency’s private contractors—including Lockheed Martin, United Space Alliance, and SpaceX—engineers, launch system coordinators, and flight crew managers work in concert to ensure a successful, safe launch.
The director of Flight Control One in the Mission Control Center, Mark Foster, nervously paced the floor as his team methodically went through the countdown process. Less than twenty-four hours ago, the order came directly from the president to ready the mission for launch.
The countdown clock began immediately at T minus forty-three hours and counting. In NASA lexicon, the term L time refers to the amount of actual time that has elapsed, used in a continuous countdown that cannot be modified. T time, or T minus a stated time, on the other hand, can be stopped and started regardless of a scheduled launch time.
Once the Falcon 9 rocket lifted off into space, Launch Control at the Kennedy Space Center turned the mission over to Foster’s team at the Johnson Space Center. Many of the tasks ordinarily assigned to subordinates, from the traditional call to stations to conducting preliminary assessments, were handled by Foster personally. There had never been a more important space mission in history, and Foster intended to micromanage every aspect for so long as he could keep his eyes open.
T minus twenty-seven hours and holding.
The robotic, computer-produced voice came across the communications system of both Mission Control and the launch facility at Cape Canaveral. This was the first of several built-in holds designed to halt the countdown process while the launchpad was cleared of nonessential personnel and the orbiter was loaded with cryogenic reactants into the fuel cells.
With the prelaunch process on a programmed hold of four hours during this procedure, Foster left FCR-1 and sought out Colonel Maxwell Robinson, the longtime liaison between the Pentagon and Mission Control. He found Colonel Robinson in his assigned office, which was only used during significant launch events.
“Max,” began Foster, who’d been on a first-name basis since the two of them had colluded to cover up the events surrounding the ISS blackout of years before. The two of them had become co-conspirators, focused on self-preservation and protecting their careers. “I don’t like this at all. Does the president not realize—?”
Colonel Robinson shut down his inquiry by motioning for Foster to join him in the office and urging him to close the door. “Stow it, Foster. We follow orders regardless of their absurdity. Honestly, I don’t know what the big deal is, anyway. You guys said you’re ready; what’s another week?”
“It just feels rushed, and from what I’ve heard, it’s simply because the Russians beat us to the punch. Let them have the glory, who cares?”
“Our president does, that’s who,” replied the colonel brusquely. “Do your duty, just like we’ve done before. It’ll be all right. Now, how’s the countdown coming?”
“On schedule, and without a hitch.”
“See?”
Foster belabored his point. “This stuff is preliminary. The perilous aspects come—”
Colonel Maxwell interrupted him. “Look at it this way, Foster. If the launch had remained set for next Friday, there would’ve been no margin for error regarding weather delays or mechanical issues, etcetera. This way, a few hours, or even a day, doesn’t necessarily alter the overall objective of this mission, which is to divert the asteroid. If you ran into difficulties next Friday, we might miss our window of opportunity to accomplish the president’s goals.”
Foster looked toward the ceiling and closed his eyes. He was exhausted and really needed to get some sleep. The team at Cape Canaveral was more than capable of handling the tasks that ordinarily fell under their purview anyway. The real action began at nine hours prior to launch.
“Sure, you’re right,” said Foster. “There is one more thing that’s been bugging me, and maybe because I wasn’t consulted on the decision.”
“What?”
“Why didn’t we take advantage of the lunar outpost? We built that monstrosity for a reason, namely as a stopping-off point for deep-space exploration. It would’ve made more sense to make the interim stop and then relaunch the starship orbiter to intercept the asteroid.”
Colonel Maxwell rolled his eyes. He asked condescendingly, “And how long does that process take?”
“Twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”
“Guess what happens during that time frame? The Russians land on IM86, hop around a few times for the camera, and stake their claim to the greatest opportunity to understand the origins of our universe we’ve ever had, not to mention the mining aspect.”
“But, Max, do you understand how much fuel is required to—”
“Listen, this is not about conserving resources. This is about shutting down the Russians as they try to lay claim to superiority in space. If the Europeans and Japanese lose confidence in our abilities, they’ll jump ship and NASA gets dismantled. Do you understand?”
Foster shook his head in disgust. He’d been threatened with this before. The answer was always push-push-push, the risks be damned. Without saying another word, he hoisted his weary body out of the chair and headed for the friendlier confines of his office, where he planned on taking a nap.
He didn’t even bother to mention his bigger concer
n, the Pentagon’s plan B, which had been a late-hour addition to the mission’s payload.
Chapter 50
Thursday, April 12
The Oval Office
The White House
Washington, DC
President Watson couldn’t stop pacing the floor. He’d hardly slept the night before as he considered the ramifications of moving up the launch. He chastised himself for placing his desire to be the champion of the so-called space race above being concerned with preparing the nation for mission failure. Failure is not an option. Besides, how do you prepare a nation for extinction? But, based upon the Pentagon’s assurances, there was always a plan B.
“Mr. President?” announced his chief of staff as she entered the room. “Am I interrupting?”
“No, Maggie. Please come in. To be honest, I’m not really in the mood to be alone with my thoughts at the moment. The second-guessing and self-rebuke is getting old. Perhaps you can do it for me?”
The two of them shared a laugh. President Watson had never met former naval commander Maggie Fielding before interviewing her after his election of last November. She was a Washington outsider who was well respected throughout the military and known for her organizational skills.
The president had a finely tuned political machine already, honed in the trenches of a brutal primary and presidential campaign process. Politically minded thinkers were abundant in the West Wing, but it took a military veteran to herd them together into a cohesive fighting force. Because, make no mistake, there was a never-ending political war being fought in Washington, one that was far more dangerous than any threat from Moscow or Beijing.
“No, sir. I won’t join your pity party, especially since you have no cause to entertain one. Your decision is rock solid, based upon the best advice from the team at NASA, and with multiple interests taken into consideration. At this point, sir, you have to rely upon people to do their jobs.”
The president, who would turn seventy this summer, was known for being a hands-on administrator. From his first congressional campaign forty years ago, through his days as a governor, to becoming the leader of the free world, President Watson had become a politically astute leader known to micromanage every aspect of government he controlled. To his credit, he quickly learned that the job of President of the United States was too large for his normal modus operandi, which made his first hire, Maggie Fleming, all the more critical.
“Maggie, when I entered the Oval Office for the first time following my inauguration, I faced challenges that had been building up for decades. We are a nation divided, and I felt it was my duty to bring Americans together. I knew I would not always make perfect decisions or say all the right words, but I vowed to stay true to my principles.”
“Mr. President, you do realize that you’ve only been on the job for eighty-some days, right? You’ve got three and a half years left to implement your policies, and with your current popularity, you might as well figure on two terms.”
The president chuckled. “I like your optimism. Would you mind talking to those mopes down the hall who stress over the political ramifications of everything I say and do?”
“No, thanks,” she replied. “They hate me because I always have to tell them no!”
The president took a sip of coffee and reviewed some notes on his desk. “Are the Russians ever gonna have the balls to respond to our inquiries? And where is the United Nations in all of this? They’d be screaming bloody murder if we launched a rocket into space under similar circumstances and then quit returning phone calls. Are they that afraid of Putin?”
The president was agitated, and all of the things on his mind began to pour out at once.
“They are, but we’re not, sir. Our intelligence team came out of Far East Russia with confirmation of their intentions. I trust in the judgment of our people at NASA. They are confident that, for one, the Russians don’t have the technological capability of landing on IM86—safely anyhow. And, secondly, we can overtake their head start with tomorrow’s launch. We’ll just have to be patient while this plays out.”
President Watson picked up an outline of the launch sequence provided to him by the acting NASA administrator. He glanced at his watch and read some more.
“Assuming we’re still on time, they’re in the middle of a T minus nineteen hours hold. According to this summary, they’ve begun final preparations of the spacecraft’s three main engines and other apparently mundane tasks.” He set the paper down and looked over his glasses as he asked, “I take it they’ll contact you directly if there’s a delay or hiccup?”
“Yes, sir. In fact, I wanted to address this with you. As you know, liftoff is scheduled for seven in the morning. As is customary, launches from the Cape take place in the early morning hours to avoid the high-level winds that tend to whip up along Florida’s Atlantic coast as the day wears on. We can tap into the agency’s closed-circuit live feeds rather than watch it on one of the news networks.”
“That sounds good,” interjected the president. “I don’t want to hear the talking heads’ news commentary anyway. Have them make a staffer available to explain what’s happening.”
“Yes, sir. Would you prefer to watch in the Situation Room, or shall I set up multiple monitors in here?”
“How about the Roosevelt Room? I’d like my wife to be with me, as well as the communications team and probably the press secretary.”
“Anybody else?” asked Fielding.
The president rolled his eyes. “I suppose we should have the political folks and the speechwriter. I’ll need to have them prepare a statement in advance for my review, to be delivered from the Rose Garden if weather permits.”
His chief of staff began making notes and then sent a text to her aides. After she was finished, she took a deep breath and exhaled.
“What is it, Maggie?” he asked.
“Sir, we’re receiving reports, um, more like feedback from our governors that people are restless. Don’t get me wrong, I believe you’ve done everything in your power to exude confidence in this crisis, and our messaging has been spot-on. It’s just that …” Her voice trailed off.
“There’s still a modicum of doubt in our approach,” the president said, finishing her thought for her.
“Yes, sir. It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the nonstop media coverage that has stoked people’s fears. The drama on the news is scaring the crap out of people.”
The president leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “High drama results in high viewership. High viewership results in higher ad buys. Can you think of any higher drama than an extinction-level event?”
“No, sir. Unfortunately, we can only do so much through our communications team to assuage their concerns. A successful launch tomorrow will go a long way toward calming down the public.” Again, Fielding’s voice trailed off.
“I sense there’s a caveat to your statement,” said the president.
“Yes, sir. If the mission is unsuccessful, or even marginally so, then we have to be prepared to deal with society’s reaction.”
The president knew what Fielding was alluding to. During the campaign, the president had run a campaign based upon unity—bringing the American people back together as one nation, not two separate politically charged groups. He’d said many times during the campaign that the country was one bad news story away from societal collapse. The arrival of IM86 was certainly a bad news story.
“I think I know where you’re headed with this, Maggie.”
“Good. Sir, the media is distracted. Congress is in Easter recess. I think it would be prudent to have the White House legal team begin drafting executive orders for your signature, you know, in case they’re necessary.”
“Do you think I should sign them now, in the midst of the countdown? Won’t that show a lack of confidence in our own decision?”
“No, sir. Not now, but after, just in case it doesn’t work.”
The president rose from his c
hair and paced the room. The Great Seal of the President sewn into the carpet on the floor of the Oval Office might not withstand a four-year Watson presidency. He began to reel off a list of directives that he wanted carried out.
“Bring our troops home, quietly, Maggie. I want to circle the wagons in case the Russians or Chinese decide to take advantage of this crisis to attack us. I was disturbed by the intelligence report in this morning’s Daily Briefing regarding Russian submarine activity. They’re off our coastlines more than normal.”
“Sir, the intel didn’t indicate they were positioning themselves in any type of attack formation. Vice Admiral Lewis of the 2nd Fleet reported two Typhoon-class nuclear-powered ballistic-missile submarines had been lurking along the continental shelf near Bermuda, but that’s not out of the ordinary.”
The president grimaced. “I don’t like the timing. They screw with us all the time, constantly testing the fences with their nuclear bombers in the Pacific Northwest. Now’s not the time to play games.”
“Yes, sir, I agree.”
The president continued. “Have the legal team prepare the continuity-of-government orders, including a martial law declaration. Naturally, some of these things won’t be required initially, but I’d prefer to have them on our desk and ready. Make arrangements to evacuate my wife to Cheyenne Mountain. I’d suggest, no, I’m ordering you to do the same for your husband.”
“He’ll be fine,” Fielding responded.
“You did hear me say order, right, Maggie?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” she replied with a smile. “Sir, I have an additional suggestion that might seem odd on its face, but it can help you accomplish your purpose without unduly raising alarms in the media and the public.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Currently, the Homeland Security Advisory has designated the terror threat level at yellow, or elevated. They’ve always maintained that we’re at a significant risk of terrorist attacks. On several occasions, as you know, the level has been raised to orange—a high risk of terrorist attacks.”