by Edward Es
“Did you know about this?”
“I knew something about it. I was told to open this envelope when I got a call from the Channel. We have special communication gear on board. I wasn’t sure why until now.” He walks over to the doorway. “Mr. Greer, would you come in here please?” A young man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a suit enters. “This is Rick Greer. He’s part of this... whatever it is. He’s from the station.”
“Miss Flore. Very pleased to meet you,” he says, shaking her hand. “I saw your performance at the Forum in Rome. Consider me a true fan. It’s an honor.”
Isabel careens through the compliment. “What ‘communication gear’ is he talking about? And what does the station have to do with this?” she asks as if it were his fault.
“Basically, it’s the satellite network. They’re using it for communication and telemetry.”
Isabel glances at Nonna, who shrugs her shoulders. “Do you mean... you can talk to him?”
“We have the capability, yes. But the authorities are all over the launch site. Mr. Holmes is maintaining silence, except with the control room. It’s basically up to him who he talks to.”
Isabel looks to Nonna, who sighs, “He’s a pip, our Tommy. A real pip.”
Bud has given the Doctor a nicotine break, forcing him upstairs. Kirshner walks a tight circle on the warehouse floor, talking to himself in Polish. Naturally, he wants to be in the control room and Bud knows it. “OK, Doc, it’s time to give me the ‘big picture’ about this... ‘mission’ you’re all so proud of.” Kirshner doesn’t even answer. Getting no cooperation, Bud walks up to the back door, opens it, and breathes in some crisp Utah air. “I suppose we can add obstruction of justice to the courtroom menu.” Sid enters from the other side of the floor where the receiving door has been partly opened. He runs across and up to Bud, out of breath. “We’ve got a lot of press out here.”
“I told you, there’s nothing to say yet.”
Sid whispers, “Washington called. They want you to make a statement, to take the edge off. They said to give out as little as possible, but—”
“I THINK I know how to handle these situations.” Bud speaks to his men, but stares at the Doctor as he walks by. “You keep him right here.”
Kirshner smashes his cigarette out. “Now see here. I don’t see why I can’t—”
Bud stops and walks back up to the Doctor, so close that Kirshner leans back. “He got himself up there. He can damn well get along by himself until I say so.” Bud walks away, leaving Kirshner leaning.
Gathered at the warehouse entrance gate are press vehicles, cameras, and law enforcement keeping them at bay. Bud’s car pulls up to the gate and he exits, swaggering defiantly toward them. Several reporters recognize him, one turning to his cameraman. “Oh great. That’s Meyerkamp. He’s a real hardnose. Here goes nothing, literally.”
When Bud arrives, microphones are stuck in his face, clearly irritating him, but nobody asks a question right away. Bud recognizes Noelle Crane and acknowledges her. She’s a Midwestern, homespun beauty, formerly Miss Nebraska, and her emerald green eyes, sitting keenly in a charming sea of freckles, contrast her radiant auburn hair.
“Miss Crane. Go ahead.”
“Noelle Crane, ABN. Agent Meyerkamp, we have no real information. Can you make a statement?”
“I’m not authorized at this point to give out any details. I can say there is no immediate threat to national security. We’re still trying to put the pieces together.”
“Come on now, everybody knows something took off out of here. What, or who was it? We all know this property belongs to Thomas Holmes.”
Bud hesitates. “Some sort of vehicle was launched from here. That’s correct. It was not a government operation, and Mr. Holmes was involved.”
Another reporter noses in. “Well, is there somebody in that vehicle? What about the feed on the Earth Channel?”
“Yes. He, Mr. Holmes, is up there. And he appears to be all right.” The reporters turn away and run to their cars or pull out cellphones. Bud yells at their backs. “And by the way, this was a highly illegal and dangerous stunt! A lot of people could have gotten hurt!” He kicks the dirt.
Mr. Brandt sits at his desk unbending and rebending a paper clip when the phone rings. His secretary answers at her desk just outside. She yells through the doorway, “It’s for you, Mr. Brandt. Mr. Holmes.”
“Mr. Holmes? Holy...” He lifts the handset carefully. “Hello?”
Tom leans back in his seat. “Hello, John. Can you hear me OK?”
“Yes, I hear you fine. Sounds like you’re right next door.”
“Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
Brandt looks at his associates who have gathered at the door. “No. No, not at all. I’m, what can I say, surprised to hear from you. Like this, at least.”
“We can thank Rick Greer in telecom for that. I’m sorry I kept you out of the loop on this. Tight security, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, sir. No problem. I’ve spoken with Rick and he explained. He showed me the, uh, plan you gave him. I’m afraid, though, we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop with the FCC.”
“We anticipated that, and Rogers in legal will assist you in that area.”
“Very well. I’m pleased to hear it.” After a pause, he continues. “By the way, sir, I just wanted to say that, well, we’re all very relieved down here that you’re... safe.”
“You mean, alive?”
“I guess that’s the gist of it. Best of luck, from all of us. And please, come back.” Brandt realizes he’s wandering.
“Do me a favor. Make sure the concert comes off as planned. It means a lot to me.”
“Number one priority, Mr. Holmes. You can count on us.”
“Thank you, John. You take care.”
Before Brandt can answer, the connection ends. As soon as he puts the phone down, the onlookers spontaneously burst out in applause.
Tom stares out the window when he notices Zion clawing the air. Tom locates the relief tube and with some experimentation, places it behind Zion and scratches his palm.
Marine One waits on the White House lawn, blades churning. Secret Service stand readied, watching while one of theirs chases the First Dog, a lumbering sheepdog named Kelly. President Stamp trots across the lawn and on the way steps in a First Pile. He stops, tries to scrape it off, then continues, limping on the affected foot. The pilot watches in disgust as he tries to scrape it off on a step of the helicopter. Finally, the President enters and Kelly clambers aboard with a push from behind. The helicopter pilot dons his oxygen mask, eyes watering, not wanting to offend either the President or Kelly, who sits innocently on his regular seat.
Bud sits at a desk in the warehouse office with his feet up, Sid in a chair across the room reading a newspaper, when agents burst through the door, ushering in a handcuffed Sam, chewing bubblegum. “Hello, counselor. Have a seat,” Bud says with a superior flair.
After blowing a world-class bubble, popping it, and sucking it back, Sam says, “If it isn’t Elmer Fed. ‘Be vewy vewy quiet. I’m hunting Jazbos.’” He gets a good laugh out of an agent who quiets after a sharp look from Bud. Sam holds up his cuffed wrists. “Are these necessary? They aren’t my size.”
“Not really, I suppose. But I like the looks of them. Makes me feel like... I’m in control. I kind of need that right now.”
Bud considers, then motions for the men to remove the handcuffs. Sam rubs his wrists and pulls up a chair. “Let’s get this over with nice and tidy. You ask me a question, I’ll plead the Fifth, and we won’t waste a lot of time.”
Bud stares straight ahead. “Oh, well, if I were you, which fortunately I’m not, I wouldn’t worry too much about time. You’re going to have plenty of that on your hands. To waste, I mean.”
“I hate to rain on your lynch party
, Boss, but, trust me, our defenses were all printed out ahead of time. And they’re every bit as well planned as the rest of this operation.”
Bud ineffectively tries to hide the fact he suspected this. “That might very well be. But getting there, to the courtroom… you see, for now I’m in charge of you getting there. And I don’t intend to make it very easy for you. Any of you.”
“Why are you taking this so personally? You have some anger issues you’d like to share?”
Bud pulls a quarter out of his pocket, flips it once and almost tosses it at Sam, but replaces it instead. “Never mind the dime-store analysis, Brown. You’re a lawyer, not a shrink. I’ll ask the questions, you either answer or not.” He pauses. “Come to think of it, I get the feeling I’m barkin’ up the wrong suspect. The best thing I can do is keep you away from the others. This Fifth Amendment stuff is kind of like a virus. I don’t want you spreadin’ it around.”
Bud motions to Sid. “Get ahold of the Rockville authorities. We need a place to put people.”
“There are no Rockville authorities,” Sid responds.
“Well, where’s the nearest government facility?”
“There’s the Town Hall in Springdale. Or St. George.”
“St. George is too far. All right, take him, them, to Springdale for now, and tell the people there to hold on until I sort this out. We’ll set up shop in Springdale,” he says, grasping for any sense of order.
Sam smiles as he’s led out of the room and Bud stares back out the window, watching them walk Sam across the empty floor. The fight is starting to go out of him, but he regroups and follows.
Tom is in the process of changing clothes, having trouble with the simple task of pulling on a pair of sweatpants. Attempts to insert a leg cause him to propel away, pranging his head on the corner of the console as he rotates. He anchors himself by holding the seat back and pulls his way into the seat where he sees Zion fast asleep in his newly fashioned retainer of netting and straps, upside down, tail floating peacefully in space. Tom sits at the console and surfs TV channels, stopping at a special report prompt, underneath which scrolls: The Last Frontier: Civilians in Space. Connie Chung appears.
“Good afternoon, from ABN. As the incredible story of a private citizen in space unfolds, we’ve learned that indeed, Marshall Thomas Holmes, a U.S. citizen known to most Americans, has successfully launched himself into Earth orbit, much to the amazement and apparent indignation of authorities. We join Lance Renfro from our Las Vegas affiliate. Lance?” Tom looks out the window, disturbed. Though he fully expected this, he’s uncomfortable watching it.
Lance Renfro speaks into the camera. “Yes, Connie. I’m standing outside the bakery owned by Holmes, which apparently is some kind of control center for this operation. Activity is increasing here and statements by those in charge are sparse to say the least.”
“Has anything been said about the international reaction to this unauthorized launch? After all, a rocket shooting up into space has got to cause some concern when no one knows why it’s there.”
“Yes, of course. Although the people in charge here haven’t been willing to comment, our sources in Washington confirm that there were some tense moments on the ‘hot line’, so to speak, but that everyone concerned is satisfied there’s no immediate threat. Even though we’re not clear on the reason for this... operation, no one seems to think it means any harm to anyone.”
“And what about the potential danger to those underneath the launch path? Has there been any comment by anyone about that aspect of this operation? Weren’t there pieces of that rocket falling out of the sky? I understand most of the launch occurred over land, unlike the NASA launches that go out over water.
“Well, Connie, there have been absolutely no comments by anyone associated with this mission. We do know that a Dr. Werner Kirshner was the brains behind the whole operation. Our sources in the FAA and the military say that they have in fact located the spent first stage booster in a remote part of the California desert within a restricted military area. The impression by those who seem to know about these things is that the launch path was deliberately set up to be over areas were there was no, or at almost no possibility of things falling on people. The comment has been made, however, that this is true only because the launch seems to have gone off as planned. It might have been a whole different story if something went wrong. Connie?”
“I see. That’s very good information, Lance. We’re all relieved that no one was hurt as a result of this daring act by Mr. Holmes, including himself.”
A convoy of helicopters appears from nowhere, causing Renfro to stoop. Their wake kicks up a dust cloud. “Whoa! Like I said, things are getting busy here real fast!”
“I can see that. We’ll be back with you soon, Lance. Thank you.” She turns to the camera. “Next, we have a report from Noelle Crane who’s been covering the local issues in Springdale, the small town nearest these events where Mr. Holmes has close ties. Noelle, can you hear me? We seem to be having trouble with communications. Noelle?”
Noelle’s crew stands in front of the Noah House and catches sight of their reporter exiting the front, cajoling Melody along, pushed by a guarded Roberta. Howard trails behind trying to lend support, as uncomfortable as any local with all the commotion. Noelle has sincerely but shrewdly found these willing characters for her piece. She straightens Melody’s hair and whispers words of encouragement as the camera crew tactfully tries to find a way to bring the camera down to Melody’s level while keeping Noelle, who kneels beside her, in frame. Roberta is worried but knows better than to try to stop Melody when she’s determined. “Are you sure you want to do this? Are you OK?” Roberta asks.
“Yes, I really want to,” Melody assures her.
Noelle realizes the crew is motioning that network is waiting as an assistant hands her a mic. “Hello, Connie?”
“Yes, Noelle. We’ve had some problems getting through.”
“Good afternoon. In the midst of all this confusion, I’ve come across a remarkable young lady who knows something about Mr. Holmes and insists on telling us. I’d like to introduce Miss Melody Baxter. Melody is one of the special children here at the Noah House, a children’s hospice built by Thomas Holmes in tribute to the son he lost. Melody, what is it you’d like us to know?”
Tom sobers as he hears this, turns toward the screen, and comes across Melody’s face.
“Thank you, Miss Crane. I just wanted everybody to know that Mr. Holmes is one of the best people in the world, and if it wasn’t for him, all of us here at the House wouldn’t have such a wonderful life. We all love him very much, and I’m not sure why he went up in space, but I think it’s because he’s still real sad about his little boy. No one must think bad about him, and we all want him to come back safe.”
Noelle stares at Melody as an unfamiliar current runs through her. She gropes for words. “I understand you’re the only child left here right now. Can you tell me where all the other children are?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes was very nice and he gave them all a special trip on one of his big boats.”
“And why aren’t you there with them?”
“Well, I wanted to go, but the doctor said it would be better if I stayed here. Because of my condition.” Melody strains to look up at Noelle and their eyes meet. Noelle is flushed and her eyes fill, overcome by a troubling mixture of pity and admiration for this afflicted girl, rising forth from part of her held prisoner.
Noelle looks into the camera and as she attempts to speak, the same convoy of helicopters roars over, giving her a moment to collect her emotions. After they pass, Noelle looks back into the camera.
“Whatever the motivation behind this operation by Thomas Holmes, as you can see there are those here in Springdale who care very much about him, as he does about them. And I think we can all join with Melody in hoping that he’s able to return here, to this sp
ecial place, safe and sound.” Noelle drops the mic down to her side. A phone rings inside the House and a woman sticks her head out the door and calls to Howard.
Connie sits quietly for a moment, then speaks to her monitor. “Thank you, Noelle, and thank you too, Melody. I’m sure we all feel the same.” She turns back to camera. “We’ll return after a short break.” When the camera light goes out, Connie grabs a tissue, gets up, and rushes off the set as the crew watches.
Inside Noah House, Howard picks up the phone. “Hello?... Yes, hello Mr. Holmes. How are you?” He suddenly remembers the situation. “Oh, my stars. Mr. Holmes! Is that really you?… Yes, I’m OK, I guess… Oh, you did? No kidding, you watch TV way up there?” Howard straightens up. “Yes sir, she’s quite a brave girl. We just couldn’t stop her. She wanted to tell everybody about you… I understand. I’ll talk to Mr. Brown right away, and you can be sure we’ll stay real close to Melody… Yes, I’ll tell her… Thank you, and a good day to you, too, sir.”
Howard hangs up slowly. “My stars.” He hurries out the door.
Tom leans toward the window and looks up at the Earth moving above him. As he turns his gaze to the other window he’s struck by the vision of the Moon against the blackness of space. He clicks through a few screens to the path projector page, showing computer models of the Earth and Moon and his current orbital path. Flowing from the Earth to the Moon is another projected path, yellow in color, tracing around the back side of the Moon, then back to Earth in a figure eight.
Springdale’s Town Hall, seat of government for the town of two hundred-plus inhabitants, isn’t much larger than a doublewide mobile home and sits next to the town baseball field. Any man-made structure looks small when this far into Zion Canyon, but when Bud roars into the gravel parking lot and gets out of his car, he’s disappointed that his “command post” looks more like a one-room schoolhouse. Sid is there to greet him as he walks toward the entrance, the exhaustion showing on both of them. Bud wipes the sweat from his forehead. “This is it?”