Second Horseman Out of Eden m-7

by George C. Chesbro

  He did, pulling me to my feet and supporting me with one arm as we walked toward the ramp that was extended from the center of the SST's fuselage. I glanced at his watch; it was 9:00.

  "The phones. .?"

  "Still out."

  "Did they manage to plow. .?"

  "No. But we're going anyway."

  With Garth supporting me by the back of my shirt, I managed to walk up the ramp and into the plane. Garth steered me left, through a thick steel door that Nigel Fickley was holding open for us, into a spacious cockpit that was in semidarkness except for the light cast by a glittering array of instrumentation that seemed to be all around me. Jack Holloway was strapped into the pilot's seat, and he gave a thumbs-up sign to me as we entered.

  "Strap yourselves in, gentlemen," Holloway said in his clipped tones. "And please allow me to apologize in advance for what may be a slightly bumpy takeoff.''

  Garth and I sat down in two seats at the rear of the cockpit, on either side of the steel door, and strapped ourselves in. Nigel Fickley eased his lanky frame down into the copilot's seat, buckled himself in.

  Holloway tilted his head back. "Ready, gentlemen?"

  "Hit it, Captain," Garth replied evenly.

  Holloway signaled to someone below him, and a few moments later the huge hangar door opened-onto a nightmare. In the glare carved out of the darkness by the plane's lights I could see that the snow-removing equipment had been removed-but it was almost as if nothing had changed; snow was everywhere, and I knew that in the darkness beyond the light there were huge drifts. Also, undoubtedly, there were trucks, perhaps even stalled planes-dozens of snowbound, buried obstacles that could kill us.

  Holloway pushed the wide handle of the throttle forward, and I could feel as well as hear the power surging through the plane. But we didn't move.

  "Release the brakes on my mark, Lieutenant, and raise the landing gear on my second mark."

  "Yes, sir," Fickley said easily. "Luck."

  "Luck."

  Holloway eased the throttle even further forward, and the roar of the engines grew in volume; the plane began to vibrate as tens of thousands of horsepower howled in a kind of mechanical dismay and outrage, demanding that their awesome power be unleashed.

  "Mark!"

  "Aye!"

  The screaming, gargantuan silver bullet that was the Concorde shot out of the mouth of the hangar into the maelstrom of night, wind, and snow.

  "Mark!"

  "Aye!"

  For the first few seconds, before the landing gear came up into the belly of the plane, there was tremendous drag on the plane as the wheels ground through the snow. The muscles in Holloway's forearms bunched and stood out as he pulled back on a control. Then the wheels were up and the SST became an improbable ballistic sled catapulting us out across unknown territory.

  Suddenly I suffered another dizzy spell; my vision blurred, and the cockpit began to spin. I screwed my eyes shut, opened them again just as the plane began to sideslip, its tail yawing over to the left. Holloway, his hands virtually flying from one control to another, struggled for control. I felt as if

  I were hurtling down a roller coaster, and I was afraid I would vomit. The plane yawed sharply in the opposite direction, shuddered, then finally straightened out and shot forward with even greater speed; but now I was certain it was heading in a different direction, toward-whatever. Dark, terrifying black shapes that I was certain were planes or trucks or hangars flashed by, and great waves of snow splashed like water against the windows as we sliced through huge snow drifts. Again the plane yawed from side to side, again Holloway managed to correct.

  Again, everything began to spin-but this time I was certain it was the plane itself, and not my head. We were out of control. The last thought in my head before everything exploded in brilliant flashes of red, black, and green was that this time Garth's nose had been wrong. We were about to die, only a couple of hours ahead of millions of other people.

  15

  "Hey, Mongo. Wake up."

  Somebody, undoubtedly Garth, had unbuckled my seat belt, and I sat upright. My brother pushed me back into the seat, handed me a plastic cup filled with something that was redolent with the delicious aroma of, of all things, fresh coffee.

  "What-?! Garth, what-?!"

  "It's all right. Just sit back, relax, and think of me as your happy steward. I was a bit worried about you; your face was the color of those pills when you passed out. I do believe you're looking better now."

  "I feel better," I said, sipping at the steaming coffee. It hit my stomach, spreading a warm, tingling glow throughout my body. The coffee was very sweet. "You look terrible."

  "Now I'm ready for one of those pills. You got the bottle?"

  I dug the bottle out of my pocket, handed it to him. He shook out one of the amphetamines, swallowed it with his coffee. When he proffered the bottle back to me, I shook my head. I'd had enough of the greenies, and would now settle for whatever energy I could get out of the sugar in the coffee. For however long we had left.

  "What time is it?"

  "Ten thirty."

  "Could you get through to Lippitt or Shannon?"

  "Yes. You passed out on us, so you missed the takeoff. Once we got off the ground, our good captain here took us right out over the ocean, and up. We cleared the storm in minutes. It was quite a ride."

  "I'm just as happy I slept through it, because I certainly didn't care for the first part. But you did get through?"

  Garth smiled. "I said I did. To both of them."

  "And?"

  "They're working on it."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "Lippitt brought up a good point, Mongo. We may have a problem."

  I pushed Garth's hand aside, sat up on the edge of my seat. "What would that be?"

  "First, he pointed out that the signal could be sent out manually-before midnight, Eastern Time-if the people inside that biosphere get wind that somebody's trying to interfere with their plans."

  "You said Thompson and the other two ex-jocks told you they didn't know where the transmitter was."

  "Other people will. Vicky Brown's father is a caretaker; he knows. A lot of people could know. We have to assume that every single person in there is as loony as the creeps we've run into, and just as dedicated to their Armageddon fantasy. Lippitt argues-and I agree with him-that somebody in there might just traipse off and trip off the transmitter prematurely if an Army battalion comes knocking at their door."

  "Oh, Christ, you mean they're just going to go ahead and bomb the place with everybody in it?"

  "No-not yet. He also pointed out that there's no guarantee that the initial bomb run would destroy everyone, or the transmitter. Assuming the transmitter can be manually operated, and somebody gets to it, that's the ball game. Ten acres is a lot of area; if the first bombs don't destroy the transmitter, the shocks might trip it."

  I licked my lips, swallowed hard. "What about. . something nuclear?"

  Garth shook his head. "I didn't even ask, and Lippitt didn't bring it up. If that's an option, he'll be talking it over with Shannon. Eden may be too close to Boise."

  "So it's up to us."

  "Right. Lippitt is counting on us to get in there, find the transmitter, and shut it down. It means we have a chance to save the girl."

  I thought about it, shook my head. "Shit, Garth. That's too much responsibility. What if we can't find the transmitter?"

  "The bombers start their run at five minutes to midnight, Eastern Time. If we're not out of there by then, we've celebrated our last New Year's Eve."

  "What did you tell him?"

  Again, Garth smiled. "I told him we'd take care of it, naturally, and that he should have somebody bring along a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of Scotch."

  "That's cute, brother," I said tersely as I grabbed his wrist and twisted it around in order to glance at his watch. It was 10:40. "How long before we get to Idaho?"

  "The captain tells me we're th
ere-have been for the last ten minutes. That's why I woke you up. It seems we're sort of circling around the borders of the state. This is an SST, remember? They're trying to find the place, which isn't the easiest thing to do from this high in the sky, at night."

  "Come here, Mongo-if I may call you Mongo," Jack

  Holloway called over his shoulder. "I have something to show you."

  "You can call me anything you want, Captain," I said, rising and walking to the front of the cockpit, where I squeezed the shoulders of Holloway and Nigel Fickley. "Damn, you guys are good. Thank you both."

  Holloway made a self-deprecating gesture with his right hand, then indicated a small scope that the copilot and navigator was hunched over. "Show them, Nigel."

  "That's a satellite tracking beacon," the lanky copilot said, placing his finger on the green, flickering screen directly over a thin pencil line of light that was just barely discernible among a cluster of specks and lines of light. "It's possible that we're wrong, but the captain and I think that's a reference beam from the biosphere to the satellite. There are a number of military installations in this general area, but their reference beams have a particular 'signature' that isn't evident here."

  "You get all that from that screen you're looking at?" I asked the navigator, making no effort to mask the awe-and a touch of disbelief-I felt.

  "That, and certain other instrumentation. Anyway, the signal is emanating from a site a few miles outside of Boise. We've checked, and there are no broadcast stations, military installations, or commercial ventures that might use satellite facilities. That, and the fact that the satellite the beam is locked onto belongs to a private company, lead us to believe that the signal may be coming from the biosphere you say is down there."

  "Who owns the satellite?" I asked tightly.

  "Blaisdel Industries," Garth said quietly from behind me. "We checked it out with the F.C.C."

  "Jesus Christ. That's the one."

  "Let us hope so," Jack Holloway said dryly, "because that's the signal we're homing in on, and we're almost out of fuel. We're way below safety regulations, really."

  "When are we going down?"

  "Now," Holloway said, and banked to the left as he eased up on the throttle. The horizon line on the screen directly in front of him began to rise slightly. "You have a decision to make. With that signal to home in on, we can virtually land on top of the facility. But we need considerable runway space-''

  "Are you going to be able to bring this down in the desert?"

  "You're assuming that's desert down there, and that there are no trees or rock outcroppings to run into. That's impossible to tell at this point. In any case, we'll just have to do our best. But you must tell us how close you want to be taxied in. I understood from the conversation Garth had with your friends in Washington that there's concern over our presence being noted."

  "How much noise does this plane make when it's taxiing, Captain?"

  "There'll be a high-pitched whine, but there are steps we can take to minimize it. Depending on the terrain, we may be able to coast a quarter mile or so with the power off; it will require timing, and good visibility on the ground."

  I felt a large, familiar hand on my shoulder, and then Garth leaned over me to speak to Holloway. "I realize it's dangerous, Captain, but I think it would be best to try to land some distance away, then slowly taxi in as close as you can without any lights. Mongo and I just don't have the time or energy to jog too far on the ground."

  "You've got it," Holloway replied evenly as he banked the plane even more and began a steeper descent. "Buckle up, then lean forward as far as you can and brace yourselves."

  "How long, Captain?" Garth asked.

  "About a minute-and I have no idea how rough it's going to be."

  As Garth and I sat down and buckled our seat belts, I glanced out the windows and saw nothing but darkness. "Where the hell is it? They must have lights in the place."

  "There's still a thin layer of cloud cover below us," Nigel

  Fickley replied over his shoulder. "When we pass through the clouds, it will be about a hundred miles to the west-your right."

  "We'll go subsonic in a few moments so as not to warn them with a sonic boom," Jack Holloway said. "About. . now."

  There was no indication inside the cockpit that we had slowed below the speed of sound, but a few seconds later we emerged from the clouds and, far in the distance, I could see a cluster of lights that I assumed was Boise. Slightly closer, appearing just off the plane's wingtip, a faint, greenish-yellow blob stood out from the blackness of the desert. The blob vanished beneath the body of the plane as Holloway banked and made another sharp turn, then came back once again. Now the blob was clearly visible-much larger-through the front windshield. I was astonished at how far we had traveled in only seconds, and how close we were to the ground; even from where I was sitting, I could see that the guidelines on the horizon indicator were only a fraction of an inch apart.

  "Brace!" Holloway barked.

  The landing gear touched ground; we bounced slightly, landed again, and the plane began to vibrate. Just before Holloway cut off the power and the lights I could see apparently open desert, its seeming flatness belied by the clatter of the Concorde as we rolled over it. The greenish-yellow light kept coming closer, and gradually became a mammoth dome that reminded me of nothing so much as a huge fluorescent light bulb. Finally the plane shuddered, and came to a stop. As far as I was concerned, Jack Holloway and Nigel Fickley were magicians; I estimated that we were no more than three or four hundred yards from the sickly green plastic hemisphere that was Eden.

  "Christ," Fickley murmured, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm, "I wouldn't have thought it possible to do that; we take off in a blizzard, than land virtually blind on an unknown surface. I can't believe we're not dead."

  Jack Holloway slowly unclenched his fingers from the controls, sucked in a deep breath as he leaned back in his seat, slowly exhaled. "Well, I think this is as close as I can get you," he announced in his clipped accent. "Sorry I couldn't get you to the door."

  "This is as good as the door," Garth said as we both took out the guns Frank Palorino had given us, checked the magazines and chambers. I noted that he had found the time to tape his sprained left wrist, and it didn't seem to be bothering him.

  "I'm going with you," Holloway said, and started to get out of his seat.

  "No," Garth said softly but firmly as he laid a hand on the pilot's shoulder. "There's nothing either you or Nigel can do that Mongo and I can't handle. It will take both of you to get this thing off the ground if the bombs do start falling. Also, we need you here to establish communications with those fighter-bombers if and when they have to come in."

  "Frederickson, I can't let the two of you go in there by yourselves. It just isn't done!"

  "The captain's correct," Nigel Fickley said, and started to unbuckle his seat belt. "We're both-"

  Something in Garth's face-or perhaps the memory of how Garth had arranged for Malachy McCloskey to miss the trip-caused the slender copilot abruptly to stop speaking and slowly sink back into his seat.

  "The fewer of us there are in there," Garth said in the same firm voice, "the fewer people there are for those lunatics to spot. The two of you stay here, get back up in the air if we're not back by, say, five minutes to midnight. Make it ten; leave at ten minutes to the hour, and provide a tracking beacon for the bombers. Mongo and I have done this kind of thing before, and you'd only be in the way. Captain, can you find us a crowbar, or something else that we can cut or smash with?"

  "Just a minute," Fickley said as he rose from his seat and hurried out of the cabin. He was back in a few moments with a small but heavy fire extinguisher. "Will this do for smashing?"

  "It will have to," Garth said, taking the fire extinguisher. "Jack, let us out of here."

  The captain flicked two switches on the console to his left. I heard a door open behind me, and then a whomp as an emergency esca
pe chute was deployed and inflated. I glanced at Garth's watch as we hurried back to the exit: it was 11:03. As I jumped onto the air bag and slid to the ground behind my brother, I found that my head and vision were clear; the cold night air in my face was invigorating. I no longer felt feverish, and now, at least for the time being, my legs felt strong.

  Perhaps, I thought as I hit the ground and, with Garth beside me, came up running toward the massive, glowing structure, my heightened sense of concentration and newfound energy might somehow be connected to the fact that Garth and I could have less than an hour left in our lives.

  The assault on Eden had begun. Santa Claus and helper were coming to town.

  16

  In moments we had reached the base of Eden, which was a wall of concrete five feet high. We crouched in the darkness, just below the eerie green, chemically or solar-cell produced light that seeped out of the translucent plastic dome that covered the vast expanse of the biosphere.

  "How are you holding up?" Garth asked.

  "Okay. You?"

  "Okay. Decision time."

  "I know. If this thing was built to the same scale and design as the model I saw, we should be just outside the desert region. The living quarters will be in the first arm, which is a good way up. Where do we go in?"

  "What do you say, Mongo?"

  I thought about it, said: "It's too risky to try to break right into the living quarters. Hell, we could end up falling in through Tanker Thompson's window and into his lap, which is grief we don't need. Besides, I doubt that the transmitter is anywhere in the living quarters section, or Thompson would have known where it was. If the transmitter is someplace else, then it doesn't make any difference where we break in and start looking, because one place is as good as another. I say we go in here, and check out the terrain as we make our way toward the living quarters."

  "Agreed," Garth said, and swung the fire extinguisher full force at the plastic material that rose from the concrete wall.

  The steel cylinder struck the plastic and rebounded like a tumbler on a trampoline, almost pulling Garth off his feet.