Chapter 7
Yuri
Sergeant Warren Duarte shook his head as he crouched beside the radio receiver in the “shed.” It had been Earl’s idea to tell him about self-styled President Booker’s message to the ISS, but as he watched the vet listen to the recording for the second time, Bobby wondered if they’d truly done the right thing.
“You know I could have the both of you thrown in jail for this, or worse? Jeez, you’ve even patched into the base feed.”
“Only the raw input from the antenna; we haven’t tried listening in to the secure frequencies,” Bobby said.
“I just can’t believe they’d be broadcasting in the clear,” Duarte said.
Earl shrugged. “Maybe they figure there’s no one worth worrying about listenin’ in. Or maybe they were desperate.”
“Or ground control didn’t have the equipment for a secure link,” Bobby added. “But the point is, what are we going to do about it?”
Duarte stood up and scratched his chin. “You picked anything else up?”
“Yeah. Thirty minutes ago.” Bobby leaned down and skipped the playback forward.
“This is Commander John Brady of the International Space Station broadcasting in the clear. We are being forcibly boarded by Chinese nationals. I repeat, we are being forcibly boarded by Chinese nationals. We have no choice other than to scuttle and abandon the station, taking a trajectory that will result in a landing in the Western United States. God bless America.”
Duarte’s mouth dropped open. “They’ve gone and done it, then. Wouldn’t have dared before…before the flood. And Booker’s on their side, that’s plain enough. Double-crossing son of a—”
“What are we gonna do, Warren?” Earl asked.
The sergeant turned to Bobby. “Is there any more?”
“Just some snippets of Russian. Low-powered transmitter so we probably wouldn’t be able to work it out even if we had a Russian speaker here. But I reckon they’re on their way down. There’s nowhere else to go after abandoning the station, after all.”
Earl gestured at the radio. “Do we send this up the line?”
“No choice,” Duarte said. “Whatever deal that snake in the grass in California has done with the Chinese, it’s not going to be good for us, you can be sure of that. Booker’s a typical politician, and he’s got his eyes on the big prize if I’m any judge.”
Tugging at Duarte’s arm, Earl whispered, “You ain’t gonna drop us in it, are you Warren? I mean, what we was doing was, technically, against regulations.”
“Technically? Huh. I’ll make something up, don’t worry. In the meantime, we need to put together a salvage team, just in case it comes down within reach. And I know exactly who’s going to head it up.”
#
Bobby rode shotgun as the Humvee drove straight across the desert, the sun rising above the mountains. It had still been dark when they’d spotted the fireball in the sky and begun tracking the descent of the capsule. It went out of view as it slowed and cooled, but they’d caught sight of it again and had a rough heading.
They’d gotten an almost instant response from the hierarchy in Denver, the orders coming direct from their commander in chief—the President of the United States. How the power was being shared out between Buchanan and Schultz, the leader of the Mountain States federation was not a matter Duarte cared much about. As far as he was concerned, they may have three claimants to the title of president, but only one who had the Constitutional authority. Booker in California and Schultz in Denver might use the title, but only Buchanan had the right to it. They were keeping the seat warm until the country was reunited again.
On the other hand, what Booker and Schultz lacked in legal authority, they made up for in practical power. Both had taken command of the regular forces and National Guard within their borders, leaving Buchanan largely toothless. She still had control of the country’s nuclear and long-range ballistic installations, but only the mad would declare war on their own people.
Duarte was at the wheel as the Humvee rattled and thumped its way across the stony desert. Bobby pulled his jacket around his shoulders and watched the mist from his breath disappear into the frigid half-light. He’d lived in the Southwest his whole life, but he’d spent time in Washington State and this felt a lot like the weather he’d experienced there. He wondered what it all signified. Had the sudden switch from being a planet with seventy percent ocean to one with only fifteen percent land surface caused the climate—already teetering on the edge of catastrophic change—to finally flip? Had it caused a new ice age? Or was something else going on?
How much colder would it get?
“Ragtown Alpha, Ragtown Alpha. This is Ragtown Central. This is Ragtown Central.”
Bobby picked up the handset and put it to his ear. “This is Ragtown Alpha receiving.”
“Orders from central command. Your primary mission is to secure the package contents.”
Bobby looked across at Duarte. Why merely repeat their orders?
“We calculate impact within one hundred miles of your current position.”
Again, this was nothing new.
“We believe hostiles may be incoming, possibly with air support.”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“You are to ensure that under no circumstances are hostiles to take possession of the package or its contents. Repeat. Under NO circumstances. You will secure them and escort them to Denver for debriefing. If that proves impossible, you will take all necessary actions to prevent this intelligence falling into enemy hands.”
Duarte’s eyebrows lifted as Bobby spoke into the handset. “Identity of hostiles?”
“Uncertain. Do you understand your orders, Alpha?”
Bobby signed off and looked first at Duarte, and then at the three men in uniform squeezed onto the back seat behind the legs of a fourth man looking through the roof hatch.
“They don’t want to say,” Duarte said, as he gripped the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the lightening terrain outside. “But I guess they think these ‘hostiles’ might be our own people.”
“Booker? Jeez, you don’t think he could be sending in Chinese troops?”
Duarte shook his head. “No. I can’t believe foreign troops would have landed without us getting intelligence. And I reckon whoever’s in command of the military in this federation he’s created would pretty soon rebel if they thought he’d become a patsy of Beijing or wherever the Chinese capital is these days. They might tolerate a Pacific alliance, but not Chinese boots on the ground.”
“So we’re going to be fighting Americans?”
Duarte shrugged. “I sure hope it doesn’t come to that. But we’ve got our orders, and they come from the only authority I recognize: POTUS. We’re going to do our duty, whatever it takes.”
“I see it, Warren!” a voice called through the open hatch.
Duarte immediately slammed on the brakes and, as soon as the vehicle came to a halt, jumped out. “Where, Carl?”
Bobby watched as the spotter pointed into the early morning sky. High in the sky he saw a white parachute with red circular stripes, with the much smaller capsule dangling beneath it.
“Something’s wrong,” he said. “It’s not hanging straight.”
“Jeez, it’s coming in hot,” Duarte called out. “How far away, do you think?”
Carl, the man in the roof, shrugged. “Twenty miles? Thirty by the time it comes down.”
It was an obvious guess, but within moments, they were all back inside the Humvee, rattling around as Warren went as fast as he dared.
By the time they lost sight of the capsule below the horizon, it was obviously more than twenty or thirty miles away. They had a good fix on its general direction, but they knew it would be easy to miss, so Carl remained out of the hatch, watching through his binoculars. He swapped with another soldier once Duarte gave in to his complaints of being frozen, and sat on the vacated seat blowing on his hands.
“Jeez, wh
at is goin’ on with the weather?”
“You’re just getting old, Carl. A couple of decades ago, you wouldn’t have noticed a little chill like that.”
As they drove on, they watched the sky for any sign that others would get there first, but saw nothing. They were still comfortably within Nevada and, therefore, probably some way from the nearest active Californian base. If they didn’t drive right past it, Bobby was confident they’d get to the capsule first. The question was whether they could get the astronauts out and away before trouble arrived.
It took an hour for them to reach the point they calculated the capsule to have come down, but they almost drove straight past it. Duarte had just taken the Humvee across I-15 when Bobby spotted it. “Look! A plume of smoke!”
It was off to their left, but as Bobby looked more closely, his heart sank. There was far too much black smoke for a soft and safe landing. It looked as though the capsule had gone up in a ball of flame.
Duarte brought the Humvee around, swinging left so the column of smoke was dead center in their windshield. It rose against a distant backdrop of mountains and, nearer, electricity towers. “Watch the fence!” Bobby called out, but Duarte had already pulled the Humvee right and was following the line of the chain link, looking for a gate.
By the time they found one, there could be no doubt that this was the capsule. Duarte put his foot down and smashed through the gate, driving the vehicle between rows of black solar panels, his eyes fixed on the growing pall of smoke just ahead of them.
“Jeez, this place is huge!” Carl said. He’d gone back up top again as soon as his hands had warmed up and was shouting instructions through the open hatch.
Bobby yelled, “There!” as Duarte rounded the final row of panels.
The white and red parachute lay across the lane, covering panels on either side. Bobby jumped out and, as the youngest of them, sprinted ahead to where the blackened capsule lay on its side, its half-attached heat shield obscuring the thrusters that would have broken its fall.
Dark, plasticky smoke billowed up from all around the capsule. The narrow end was pointing at him, so he grabbed at the airlock release wheel and pulled down with all his strength, feeling the residual heat through his fingers just as a cold wind tickled his face. He coughed as he breathed in the acrid smoke although, now that he was here, he could see that most of it was coming from the solar panels themselves. The capsule had hit them, and then barreled to one side, somehow igniting one or more before it came to rest.
Duarte appeared at Bobby’s shoulder and then a third pair of hands. Finally, the wheel began to move, squealing its first few inches before running free. The hatch gave way, and Bobby pushed it inside the capsule, then, after exchanging glances with Duarte, he stuck his head in.
He feared the worst as his eyes adjusted, his nose wrinkling in the all-too-human atmosphere. He knew he was at what had been the top of the capsule, the hatch the crew had gone through to get into place. So, from that orientation, they should have been seated at right angles to the ground, and he should have been looking at the tops of their heads. If all was well, they’d have been reaching up to be helped out.
But nothing moved inside. And only one of the three seats was occupied. His heart sank as he paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He half turned and said, “There’s only one.” Then he reached out to touch the shoulder of the occupant. “Hey, are you okay?”
Nothing. The man had his arms crossed over his chest and his helmet visor closed, and Bobby pulled himself farther inside until he was lying across the seat to the man’s right side, upside down in the Soyuz capsule. It smelled of oil, rubber, metal and man as Bobby rotated himself onto his knees so he could lift the visor. He held his breath, dreading to see the gray skin of a dead man, then pushed it up.
He searched in the dim light of the capsule for any sign of life and then, as he put his fingers inside to feel for a pulse…the man’s eyes flicked open.
Bobby let out an exclamation of surprise, reared up and banged his head on an instrument panel. Cursing, he looked back as Duarte called out to him. “Hold on, Wayne. Give me a minute.”
He leaned in close again. “My name’s Bobby Rodriguez,” he said. “We’re going to get you out.”
“Yuri Sharipov,” the man said. “Roscosmos. My hand, it is hurt.”
“Where are the others?”
Sharipov sighed. “Dead.” He was about to say something and then seemed to think better of it. “You are American, no?”
“Yes. You’ve landed in Nevada.”
A weak smile spread across Sharipov’s face. “Ah, Mikhail you are a genius. Thank you, my friend. But tell me, what are your orders?”
“We’re to return you ultimately to Denver.”
“Where Buchanan is?”
“Yes,” Bobby said, wondering where this was going.
Yuri seemed to make up his mind that trusting Bobby was his only option. “We must get to president. Real president. Buchanan. Have evidence. Chinese building base in Ant…Antarctica.”
“Let’s get you out first,” Bobby said, worried that the man would lose consciousness and be all the harder to move.
“Bring manual,” Sharipov murmured, gesturing heavily at a sheaf of what looked like laminated papers hanging from the instrument console.
Bobby grabbed it and then pushed from inside the capsule as the cosmonaut was grabbed from outside and maneuvered through the narrow opening.
Bobby heard Carl’s voice as he emerged into the frigid air. “Jeez, he’s Russian!”
“He can’t stand up!” Bobby called out. “He’s been in zero-g for months. And I reckon his hand’s broken.”
Duarte gestured to Carl and another soldier to keep the cosmonaut upright. “Now then, comrade, we’re going to sit you in the Humvee.”
“P’raps he don’t speak American.”
Duarte rolled his eyes. “Of course he does. Everyone has to speak English on the ISS.”
Sharipov grunted. “I speak English well enough. Thank you, I cannot stand.”
Between them, Carl, Bobby and Duarte half-dragged the cosmonaut to the Humvee and then sat him down on the back seat. He tried to lift his hands to his helmet, but abandoned the effort. “Please.”
Bobby was the first to work out what he meant, but it took time to twist the helmet off. Then he peeled off the comms cap and Sharipov sighed with relief.
“Thank you, my friends. Now, how do you say? Take me to your leader.”
Chapter 8
The Return
It had not been a pleasant journey, and Buzz strained for his first sight of the island. Quite apart from the general discomfort of having to travel in a military helicopter, he’d been forced to comfort Max, who hadn’t taken well to the experience.
The boy had been in a sullen mood since he’d learned that Ellie, Patrick and Jodi were heading to California and he was to be left in Buzz’s care.
Buzz had managed to distract him a little with a discussion about their approach to modeling the climate. They’d been given a pair of laptops—modern ones this time—and any other equipment they’d asked for, and that at least had gotten the boy a little excited. Soon enough, they would be back at the farm and Buzz hoped it would help anchor Max again, though he worried that it might bring his grief over Hank’s death back to the surface.
Well, one challenge at a time.
Ted Pope leaned through into the cockpit, and then made his way confidently to where Buzz sat, squeezed between crates of supplies. Some were for the island, others were being taken to other destinations.
“Twenty minutes,” Pope said, setting his volume to eleven so he could be heard above the staccato of the engines and rotors. He tapped his wrist as if to emphasize the point, then moved forward to his own seat and fastened his seatbelt.
At first, Buzz had felt resentful that Pope was coming. It felt as though Buchanan thought he needed a babysitter. As if she didn’t trust him. But of course, she didn’
t trust him. Not completely. He thought she was by now pretty certain that it had been Lundberg who’d triggered the explosion of the rocket, but she hadn’t gotten to the top of the political tree without having insurance in place. While Lundberg had returned to the center of her web, licking her wounds and weaving her plots, Buchanan had decided her best chance of understanding the climate emergency was to give Buzz all he needed to do his own research, safely out of reach of Lundberg. Ted Pope was the backstop. If SaPIEnT came after Buzz, then Pope was there to stand in the way. But he was also Buzz’s jailer and probation officer. And it was this that he resented so much.
But he couldn’t deny that Pope would be useful to have around. The farm would be safer with him there to organize its defense.
Twenty minutes. He felt jitters in his stomach as he thought about seeing Jo again, so he focused his mind on picturing what situation he’d find when he landed. He looked out the window to see the ocean beneath, but, on the little specks of land they flew over, the greens and browns were turning white.
Tom and the others had been planting when he’d left. Might they have gotten a harvest in before the weather changed? And what about next year? Unless he was very mistaken, the world was now locked into a new ice age; one that had descended in weeks rather than centuries. And, just like with the flood itself, he’d been involved. Just like with the flood, he’d been unable to stop disaster happening. The only difference was that this time he genuinely had done his best. But his best hadn’t been good enough.
He watched in silence as the aircraft traveled noisily over an unfamiliar landscape. He’d seen maps, of course, including the one Max had made, and he’d flown east to be taken to Buchanan’s Hazleton base, but nothing before had had the profound effect that traveling over the waters around his own island was having. This was the new reality. Ocean and snow.
And then he spotted the island itself. He saw where Kujira had tied up when it brought Jodi back to him. He remembered the overwhelming sense of relief he’d felt at the time, though on reflection he wondered whether it was more about getting at least one thing right; one plan that actually worked. She’d chosen to go with Reid and Fischer, though she hadn’t explained why. Well, he could tick her off his list of concerns. For now, he was focused on two things: working on the climate data to come up with a predictive model, and being home.
Ice: Deluge Book 4: (A Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Story) Page 6