by Edward Es
Two of them rudely grab the Doctor’s arms and launch him out of his chair as everyone stares. The absurdity of the action manifests in a vacuous silence. Bud looks around the room, helpless, and finally realizes Tom is present on the monitor, watching in disgust. “Well, I guess you really got me now,” Tom’s image reviles. Everyone else in the room is confused until they finally find the monitor. “Let the Doctor go.”
Bud searches for any kind of comeback. “Yeah, right!” Still searching, he dribbles, “You got to be kidding.” As Bud squints at the screen, he begins to make out Tom’s surroundings. The reality of what’s there crumples his face.
Tom leans forward. “There’s nothing he can do now. Get your hands off him.”
Bud rocks nervously, gnashing as he looks at the uncomfortable sight of his men restraining an old man in a purple cardigan. He motions with his gun, forgetting he’s holding it. When he realizes, he slides it back in its shoulder holster. “Let him go.”
As Kirshner is released, he rearranges his clothing and glares at his captors, who all look away. Bud then goes nose-to-nose with him. “Listen here, Rocket Man. I don’t buy that crap for a second. If you want to make things a little easier on yourself, you just... take the key out the ignition, or whatever freakin’ thing you have to do to put an end to this adventure of yours.”
Kirshner relishes a pause. “He has the master program. I can ‘pull the plug’ for you here, but then you’d just miss the fun of watching.”
Bud turns toward the monitor and stares. As much as he hates to, he’s beginning to believe them. He looks at the floor, biting his lip, then around the room, finding only more helplessness, none of which he needs to add to his own. He pulls out the walkie-talkie. “Unit Three, Unit Three, this is Watchdog, over.”
Three cars angle in front of the compound gate, agents wandering around in disarray. Two of them attend a compatriot who’s holding his hand, his hair standing on end. One of the men leans into a car and pulls out a microphone. “Unit Three, go ahead.”
Bud’s voice screeches across the radio. “What the hell’s going on out there?”
“Well, sir, were at the entrance, but there’s a real solid gate here and it’s got about a million volts runnin’ through it. Not to mention somebody inside’s fired a warning round over our heads. Over.”
Butch sits crouched against the blockhouse wall, shotgun over his shoulder. He scoots, low to the ground, back into the blockhouse.
Bud explodes into the walkie-talkie. “Well, crash the gate then! Good God! Do I have to spell everything out for you?”
After another pause, the agent’s voice wavers back, “No sir, I don’t think these men are ready for that. Not without rubber suits. Perhaps if we get some bigger equipment out here.”
Bud builds up a charge and unleashes into the handset. “You’ll get some bigger equipment out there all right! ME!” He walks up to the monitor and puts his face in it.
Inside the capsule, Bud’s face takes up the entire screen. “You listen to me, Tommy Boy. You ain’t goin’ nowhere! If I have to personally climb up there and yank your ass out!” he yells, fogging the screen with his blast.
As his words echo off the cement walls and everyone in the control room flinches from the sheer volume, Tom looks back calmly. Without saying a word, he taps the touchpad and the screen goes black. Bud stares at the blank screen with equal blankness, then looks down, followed by a slow scan around the room full of eyes darting everywhere. They are not surprised, but cringe nevertheless at, “GodDAMNIT!” He points his finger at the Doctor’s nose. “Keep him away from this shit. He touches one button and everybody gets lunch with me in HELL!” He turns the finger toward his men. “Sanderson, Albright, you come with me.” Bud vaults up the steps three at a time, leaving behind a wake of shattered nerves, and welcomed silence. One agent rolls up a chair and motions to Kirshner.
“Have a seat, Doctor.”
Tom watches displays on the left screen as Zion sniffs the air, unable to make sense of his surroundings. Strange smells, even to a cat: electrical wire, metallic grease, and rubber. Tom reaches up to the console and unhooks his headset, a molded earpiece with a two-inch clear mic tube, and clips the wireless transmitter to his belt. After inserting the earpiece, he pushes the switch on the transmitter.
“Hey Butch, you with me?”
Butch sits in the blockhouse watching his own screens, still twitching. “Ten four. We’ve got company outside the gate. One got a lifetime battery charge compliments of Utah Water and Power, and the other one’ll be combin’ buckshot out of his doo for a while.
“Try to stay off the trigger, Butch. It’ll only be harder on you later.”
“The harder the better, compadre.”
“I’m showing twenty-five minutes left in the sequence. We may have to abbreviate. Better get the boys out of there.”
“Whatever you say.” Butch picks up his radio. “Blockhead to River Rats, Blockhead to River Rats. Scramble! Repeat, scramble!”
Mr. Bullard sits on a rock, daydreaming, and responds sarcastically into his radio, “Yeah. Right.”
“This is no drill. SCRAMBLE!” Butch’s tone gets his attention and Bullard gets up looking downriver.
Isabel sits in her dressing room, brushing her hair, the motion matching her mood; distant, preoccupied, melancholy. She stops, some unwelcome thought passing through, then continues.
Bud roars down the compound access road like a maniac gone wild, cohorts, Sid included, hanging onto anything in undisguised terror. Traveling far too fast for the condition of the road, the car fishtails and crashes in and out of pothole after pothole. Though Bud curses out loud, they can’t hear.
Tom races through checklists, inputting information as fast as the computer will respond. He looks up at one of his monitors and sees the Doctor sitting in his chair, fidgeting, guarded by his captors. Tom brings up his image on the screen in the control room again. The Doctor notices, but the others don’t for a moment until they see the look on his face. They snap around to the screen, drawing their weapons, and Tom ducks in jest.
“Whoa! Watch where you point those things.”
“Knock it off, Holmes. You better get your laughs now,” one sneers as they replace their weapons.
Tom ignores him. “Doc. Guess I can’t count on much help from you.”
“No, son. Looks like you’re on your own. You know, I have a nice little tritip defrosted. I could make your favorite German potatoes. I’m sure the authorities would permit us dinner this evening.”
“Nice try, but save me the leftovers. Listen, you ran the valve this morning. Everything go OK?”
An agent scrambles, running over and putting his hand over the camera. “Hold on here! You’re not getting any help from this guy.”
Kirshner responds through his hand. “Yes, I did. A little temperamental, but it finally worked.”
The agent reels, “Jeeesus, you two! Don’t do that!”
The squad at the compound gate see Bud’s car approaching with its roostertail of dust. They crouch behind their vehicles as he skids sideways to a halt, inches from the Bronco blocking the gate. Bud exits his car all too calmly and walks over to them. “What’s the matter, boys? This naughty car in your way?” Expected silence. “Well, Uncle Bud will make it all better.”
Bud gets back in the car and in a storm of spinning wheels and spraying gravel, positions in front of the blockade vehicle. He smashes into the front, pushing it over the embankment into the river, then repositions directly in front of the gate, sticking his head out the window. “And this mean old fence? Did it make an ouchy on you?”
He punches the car into reverse, shoots out fifty yards, idles for a moment, then revs the engine and crunches it into gear. As the unmarked vehicle, turned tank, roars by, Sid’s face is a frightened blur. The car crashes through the gate in an explosion of sp
arks, bringing with it and on top of it sections of fence until it comes to a stop well inside the compound as Butch runs for the blockhouse in the distance. Bud gets out, dusty and triumphant. He gestures with both hands, ushering them inside. “Entre vous.”
They scurry in, guns drawn, crouching to avoid nonexistent gunfire. Bud, standing straight up, kicks one in the behind, then boldly walks toward the blockhouse. Overhead hovers Feather 2.
Butch runs into the blockhouse and heaves the steel door shut. He secures two latches, places a bar across, and leans his back against it. Pounding from the outside jars him off and he runs over to his bank of monitors, out of breath. He shouts into a microphone: “Mayday! Mayday! The Buzzard has landed!”
Tom switches cameras and gets a view of the blockhouse and its intruders. Then he switches to Butch’s camera, seeing his sweat drenched face in full screen. “Oh boy. Looks like you’re in a world of poop,” Tom says.
“Looks like you’re in the same world, buddy,” Butch responds, power-chewing his tobacco.
“Not for long, my friend.” Tom pauses. “Not for long.” He opens a red guarded switch and, savoring the moment, pushes it.
Suddenly a warning siren pierces the air, jolting Bud and his men. They look around, as if the source of the siren would explain it.
The River Rats who had taken the alert so lightly jump to their feet.
On the plateau above the compound, two men who were in an underground bunker emerge, looking up at the hovering chopper and trying to wave it off.
The audience has taken their seats in the ship’s concert hall, a three-deck, glittering wonder at sea. The last few moments of rustling gowns and clearing of throats give way to expectant silence. Poised nobly on a platform sits a full-grand Bosendorfer, lid raised. A peaceful scene of Angels Landing is projected against a screen behind and as the house lights dim, the Landing comes alive.
Inside the Earth Channel studios, a phone rings and the technical director distractedly answers as he watches a nature program. At the bottom of the screen sits the screen bug: Earth Channel.
“Hello?” He realizes who he’s speaking with and sits erect. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I’ll get him. He’s right here.” He motions wildly to John Brandt, the program director standing across the booth, who gestures back, what? The TD covers the phone. “You know, the guy who signs the paycheck of the guy who signs your paycheck?”
Mr. Brandt walks over and snatches the phone from him. “Tom. What can I do for you?” The TD mocks with his lips, Tom? Brandt ignores him. “Yes, I remember our discussion. It seemed a bit far fetched.” He pauses. “You mean, now? Full network feed?” His demeanor changes. “Yes sir, Mr. Holmes. Whatever you say.”
He hangs up slowly, staring straight ahead, and says in monotone, “There’s a feed on class A line two forty.” He writes the number on a Post-It and hands it to him. “Patch it in, bring it up network, and leave until you hear from me.”
“Network? But we’re in the middle of—” One look from his superior carries the same weight as did the telephone conversation. The TD carries out the order.
Francine stands at the kitchen counter dunking a Chamomile bag in a rainbow mug. Behind her, the TV is on the Earth Channel, a wildlife scene suddenly replaced by a view looking down from the capsule to the ground, red light flashing off the rock walls. Francine turns and notices the screen, idle observation replaced by a distant concern. Whatever this scene is, her heart says, it’s not far removed from her.
Back in the control room the main monitor shows the same view. The agents hadn’t noticed a display light on a panel alternating red and green. As the Doctor stares, the agents turn to it, not knowing what they’re seeing.
“What the heck is that?” one asks the Doctor.
Bud looks up at the chopper, its loud and great churning sadly ironic to him as it hovers there, uselss. Sid walks up and they look over in the direction from where the long shadow originates. Sid has to shout over the siren. “Well, Bud, whad’ya think? Should we take a look? We’ve come this far.”
Bud tufts at the ground with his shoe. “Yeah, well, I get the feeling we’ve about run out of options, except to look.” He walks slowly in that direction and motions toward the blockhouse behind his back, as if only half of him speaks. “Get him out of there.” The men look at each other. After all, it’s only a concrete blockhouse with a steel door.
Sanderson yells, “What about this horn?”
Bud pays no attention and keeps walking. He comes around the bend and finally is face to... face with it. Albright and two others, already there gaping, look at him, then back. He slowly lifts his head, Noah 1 towering above. “God Almighty.”
Bud looks down and shakes his head as Sid and a few more agents run around the corner, stopped cold by the sight. The elevator door opens and Tim shoots out, wide-eyed, as surprised at the encounter as they. After a moment of frozen staring, Tim takes off running. They’re too dazed to realize they should have detained him.
Tom has the view looking down and sees the men at the bottom, looking up.
In the control room, the agents stare at the screen and realize they’re looking at their boss, looking up at them. “JEEsus. It’s Bud,” says one.
He looks at the Doctor, at the screen, then at the other agent who says, lips barely moving, “He wasn’t kidding after all. It’s really there.” He looks back at the Doctor. “You gotta do something.”
Kirshner raises his hands in a display of helplessness.
Isabel enters to respectfully constrained applause, smiles courteously, and stands by the piano. The applause gives way to appropriate silence. Though she doesn’t see, the view of Angels Landing is replaced by the one looking down from the capsule. The audience looks at it, unsure, some pointing, some whispering.
Tom, seated in the launch position and strapped in, plants Zion on his stomach. The cat looks up, confused as Tom pushes his transmit button. “Attention all aircraft, remain clear of coordinates North 37-09-31, West 113-02-17. Repeat, remain clear of coordinates North 37-09-31, West 113-02-17.”
In the cockpit of an F-16, a military pilot looks puzzled. He calls the controller. “Center, Neon 1. Did you copy that transmission?”
“Roger, we heard that. The coordinates are inside your corridor. Not sure what to make of it.”
The pilot hesitates, then switches frequency to his military tower. “Tower, Neon 1, did you copy that?”
The Nellis Air Force Base control tower is quiet as controllers look at each other. “Roger, Neon 1, we heard it. You want to take a look? We’ll scramble two more for you.”
“Affirmative. I think I will. See what the duty officer says.” The pilot rolls his fighter toward the target area, entering coordinates into his guidance system.
Tom looks at Bud’s frozen presence on his screen, in marked contrast to the jittery troops around him. He enters a command into the computer, hesitates, and pushes one last key, putting his hands over Zion and clenching his teeth.
Suddenly the siren stops, the silence proving more frightening than the ear-splitting sound it replaced, and, taking heed from this and Tim’s rapid departure, the agents run off leaving Bud and Sid alone. Sid lays a hand on Bud’s shoulder, pats it sympathetically, and walks away around the bend as Bud shakes his fist at the capsule.
Bullard jumps out of his skin as a flood gate opens, diverting river water into a huge grating. On this cue, he stumbles and slips over rocks to a notch in the ravine wall.
A cascade of water gushes from under the launch pad and down a cement chute back toward the river. Bud begins walking backward and as he does so sees sparks and flame falling from the main stage and booster nozzles. At this cue, he runs for his life.
Isabel, now seated at the piano, begins Chopin’s Nocturne in B-Major. The launch unfolds on the screen behind her and the audience stares in varying states of confusion. Sp
uttering flames turn to cones of pure thrust as orange and white steam explodes and billows from the chute, filling the gorge. Isabel continues her piece.
Bud runs into the clearing, falls to the ground, and covers his head as the compound fills with steam, dust, thunder, and rocks falling from the compound walls. The blockhouse door opens and Butch emerges, fists raised in the air. “YEAH, Baby!” He’s forced back in by the intensity of the launch, Tim following.
Tom grips his armrest as the capsule shakes violently. Zion’s ears are flat against his head.
Above on the plateau, the two men stoop in reflex as the ground shakes beneath their feet. Suddenly charges explode along the gorge, and they run for their bunker.
The chopper pilots watch in wonder as the exploding charges release an acre of camouflage net, allowing it to drop away from one edge of the gorge, exposing the Titan and its blasting fire beneath. One look at each other, and the chopper tilts and flies off horizontally.
Further away on the plateau, a doe looks up as smoke rises from the gorge in the distance behind her. Although she doesn’t see, she runs.
Kirshner jumps from his chair when he sees the launch sequence begin. He runs over to a computer and brings up data screens. One agent starts after him, but the other holds his partner back, shaking his head.
The hydraulic launch arms fold back, releasing the Titan to inch off the pad, more and more enveloped in a rotating storm of red smoke and fire, colored further with sandstone blasted off the ravine walls.
Francine watches the Earth Channel as the view from the top of the vehicle shows upward movement. She stops sipping on her tea as the implication sinks in.
Rockville’s only appliance store has a few TVs for sale in the window, all displaying the Earth Channel feed. Several locals have stopped to watch, and behind them in the distance white smoke shoots up from the horizon.
Back on the plateau the men peer through the slot in the bunker, their jaws dropping in unison when they see the tip of the capsule emerge from the edge of the gorge. As the rocket materializes foot by foot, they clasp hands in congratulations.