SKYEYES

by Edward Es

“Do you know who it is?”

  “It’s the President.”

  “Yes, dear, I’ll take it.” He picks up the phone. “This is Werner. How are you?”

  Heavy snow drifts across the White House lawn. Stamp holds the cellphone with one hand to his ear and with the other chips one-armed at orange golf balls toward an invisible target. Kelly lopes after each and brings it back. Nearby, Secret Service stand guard, despite their freezing disbelief.

  “Oh, I’m fine, considering. Sure wish I was back in the canyon, though. It’s a bit much out here.”

  “I understand. What can I do for you?”

  “How are we doing so far? Since our friend decided to go against our advice.”

  “Actually, everything is nominal. We have a translunar correction coming up in a couple of hours. But that is fairly routine. If any of this can be routine.”

  “Terry tells me it’s not quite so nominal. Never really understood that word. Is it a cross between normal and, what, terminal?”

  Kirshner smiles. “It means things are within parameters. Yes, we had a small... anomaly, but it’s fixable.” Sam freezes and darts the Doctor a look of one betrayed by silence. Kirshner pretends not to notice.

  “Roger that. Well, keep me informed, will you?”

  “Mr. President, somehow I think you are already informed.”

  “Even so, I prefer to hear from you directly, if you don’t mind.”

  “I understand.”

  “Goodbye, Werner, and God be with you, and with Tom.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Stamp closes the phone, throws it to a waiting aide and, exercising his authority, takes a full swing, driving a ball up into the falling snow and out of sight. He looks proudly at the aides, who dutifully confirm his pride. In the distance, the crash of the ball hitting something sends a Secret Service agent into the snow drift, Kelly close behind.

  Sam starts to open his mouth, but the Doctor waves a finger back and forth as he sips his Grand Marnier.

  At the Driftwood lounge, the same group has gathered, this time the mood more restrained. Noelle and Scott are at the back, the only ones standing as a disapproving silence hangs after Nauman’s last words.

  “Now, let me get this straight. We got the piece from the bakery, thanks to Warren’s crew. Jerry shot stock footage. And you got... nothing all day? Noelle, you were supposed to be the lead story. What happened?”

  “Like I said, I was doing... research. I’m working on the... Honestly, Jeff, I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

  “You hit a dead end?”

  “No. Not at all. There’s just a few things to sort out. Some unexpected things.”

  “Can you share them with us?”

  “No.”

  Jeff holds his face in his hands. Slowly his eyes emerge. “Do we have an ETA on this unexpected... thing?”

  Noelle hesitates. “No.”

  “Do you have any idea the heat I’m going to take from the Tower over the coverage tonight?”

  “I’m sorry.” Noelle turns away and leaves, Scott following.

  Jeff is dumbstruck. “OK, people. Warren, you’re taking the lead tomorrow. Meeting at 6:00 A.M. sharp. Steve, give me a briefing on your story line.”

  Out in the parking lot Scott is once more trying to keep up, his frustration outmatched only by hers. “Noelle! Noelle! Wait up!” She stops, shivering in the night air. The wind circles around them and high cirrus blanket the sky as the last moments of fading dusk portend a change in the weather.

  “Scotty, please. Don’t start on me.”

  “Hey.” He turns her toward him, grabbing both shoulders. “It’s me, Scott. Remember? What can we do for you right now? What do you want?”

  “Right now? I could use a stiff one.” He raises an eyebrow and she belts him on the arm. “A drink, you moron!”

  At least he got a smile out of her. He points to the van. “Get in.”

  Inside Wiley’s there’s a buzzing crowd of locals, Noelle and Scott’s entrance causing only a momentary lull. The residents of Springdale are getting used to celebrities in their midst, and a few hello nods break the ice as everyone goes about their business. Scott leads her to the bar.

  “Hey, folks. What can I get you?” Wiley asks with a smile.

  “The lady here said she wants a stiff one.” Before either can even think of cracking a smile, she flashes them both a dangerous don’t-you-dare look. “Any suggestions?”

  Wiley leans forward and half whispers, “I tell you what. I’ve got some tequila, or at least that’s what they say it’s like. Made by a local Indian tribe around these parts. ‘Big medicine’.”

  Noelle looks at Scott and declares, “Go for it.”

  Wiley lifts a one-sided smile as he sets two shot glasses on the bar and pours from a bottle with a stark label, nothing on it but something resembling a petroglyph. Scott and Noelle pick up the glasses, look at each other in fear, and down them simultaneously. Scott, after a beat, cocks his head to one side as his eyes roll back in his head. Noelle bends straight over at the waist and, while in that position, stomps her leg twice, hard, on the floor. She comes up for air, glassy eyed, not noticing the bar got real quiet. They look at each other, then around at the crowd which bursts out in applause. She manages an autonomic outburst, “My GOD!”

  A voice comes from behind. “Rocket fuel!” Noelle turns around to see Sid, shaking his head. “I know how you feel. That was me last night.”

  Noelle wipes her mouth with her sleeve. “Why, Mr. Secret Agent Man. I’m surprised.”

  He looks at her, then at Scott. “Come on, let me buy you guys another round. The second one’s easier. Trust me.”

  Noelle stands, almost nose to nose with Sid. “What the hell. Why not?” Sid leads them toward his table and drags a chair over while waving Wiley down for another round. Wiley walks over and puts down three shot glasses, three glasses of ice water, and a bottle of Big Medicine. Sid fills the shots, clinks glasses, and pours his down his throat. Though he’s tamed the body reaction, they can see the rocket fuel light off in his face. He slams the glass down. “Cheers!”

  The other two brace themselves and try again. This time Noelle does the head cock, and Scott just shudders top to bottom. “I recommend you stop at three,” advises Sid.

  Scott gets his focus back. “I think I’ll take your advice.”

  “So, Agent Knowles,” Noelle says with an adorable pre-slur.

  “Sid, please. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” He offers his hand. “I’m Sid.”

  Noelle takes his hand. “Noelle.”

  Scott follows. “Scott Johnson. My pleasure.”

  Scott looks at Noelle, and she purposely doesn’t look back. Instead she turns to Sid. “So, mixing a little pleasure with business, Sid? I didn’t think you guys did this.”

  “Actually, I’m trying to find that place that isn’t business or pleasure.

  “And is there such a place?”

  “I’ll let you know if I find it.”

  “Please do, ‘cause neither one’s working for me.”

  “Bad day?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Just a ‘big medicine’ day. Very big.”

  Sid pours three more shots, puts the cork back in the bottle, and pounds it down. They toast again, bravely shoot them back, and set the glasses upside down on the table, each closing their eyes as they lean back in their chairs. Noelle opens an eye to half-mast and sneaks a look at Sid.

  Kirshner pages through screens on the monitor, stopping on the flight path annunciator when his phone rings. “Hello,” he snips, punching the speaker phone on.

  “Werner,” Dr. Cole says. “Are you OK?”

  “My apologies, Terry. I’m worried about this procedure.”

  “Did you come up with anything?”
/>   “Unfortunately not. I spoke with Cardona and he said the tolerances were a little close on the valve bushing. He thinks the temperature may have tightened it up a little. We pulled it from him before he was able to run the proving cycles.”

  “Well, it did open, after all. That’s a good sign. There’s no working that valve a few times to free it up?”

  Kirshner pauses. “I’m afraid this is a design flaw on my part. We elected... I elected not to install dedicated shut-off valves on the fuel tanks. We went ahead with this integrated shut-off, flow-control for simplicity. So much for simplicity.”

  “I see. So you can’t cycle it without lighting off the fuel.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I know you’re coming up on this burn, so I’ll let you go. I just wanted to wish you my best. And by the way, we re-ran the numbers and came up with the same values for your correction. If everything goes right, you should be dead on.”

  “Thank you again, Terry. Goodbye.” Kirshner hangs up and returns to the path page. Directly ahead of the capsule’s image there’s a red flashing circle, in the corner an annunciation: Translunar Correction, with a clock counting down in green from four minutes. He picks up the phone and tries again to reach the capsule, slamming the handset down in frustration. “Damnit, Thomas. Answer.” Just then the phone buzzes and he turns on the speaker. “Well, it’s about time.”

  Tom’s voice has a slight response delay. “Sorry, Werner. Just stepped outside.”

  “Very funny. Now can we please coordinate this burn?”

  “Of course. Should be routine though, right?”

  “I certainly hope so. It’s just that confounded valve.”

  “What are you worried about? It opened, didn’t it?”

  “I worry. It’s my nature. Now just unlock the override for my computer. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Tom has mastered, or at least managed, the business of floating inverted. He pulls up menus on his monitor and releases the override, allowing the control room access to capsule systems. “Just to confirm. I show a one minute, twenty-four second burn with a delta correction of .051 xy by .994 yz.”

  “Confirmed. Minus two minutes, forty-five seconds, counting. Mark. I show fuel remaining at two hundred five kilos, estimated burn of forty-seven kilos. That’s awfully close. I wish you hadn’t done this with the fuel you had.”

  “Wishing backwards doesn’t work too well, Doc.”

  “You knew you launched short of service module fuel. You should never have risked this foolish trip around the Moon.”

  “Hey, so far so good. Now stop bellyaching. It’s bad enough I can’t do a parking orbit because of fuel, but we’ve got enough for the transearth burns and some left over. OK, Mom?”

  “It’s too close for me. I don’t like it.”

  “There’s that positive attitude!”

  Kirshner has nothing to say, watching the clock ticking down through one minute. He lights a shaky cigarette as he pages through screens of system and engine parameters.

  From outside, the capsule appears stationary as approaching ever closer is a blinding half-moon, craters and geology clearly visible. Attitude jets ignite on one side, then stop. Another set of jets do the same and extinguish. After a few seconds the main engine ignites in a barely visible shock cone.

  Tom is strapped in his seat with Zion on his lap, watching his monitor. “Light off.”

  Kirshner watches the engine page. “Roger, I confirm. All parameters nominal… normal.”

  “Valve’s full open. I told you not to worry. It’s bad for your complexion.”

  Kirshner frets under his breath, his sense of humor on hold. “Come on. Come on.” The flight path screen shows the projected path arcing, tracing a more symmetrical loop around the Moon.

  Inside the Johnson Space Center a flight follower watches a screen, not as sophisticated visually, displaying only rolling data. He motions to someone near him. “Hey, look here. There’s a change in velocity and a little in path, too. Here comes the correction.”

  “Think there’s a problem?”

  “No, he said he’d call us if there was anything unusual. Do you think we should tell Cole?”

  “I guess not. Not if there‘s nothing unusual. Let’s see how it pans out.”

  Kirshner stands, squints at the screen as if it were threatening him, and watches the burn timer count down from 45 seconds. Pacing, he takes in nearly a whole cigarette in one drag and coughs it violently back out.

  Tom has the same annunciator, counting through 15 seconds, down through 5 seconds, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0...

  Outside the capsule, the engine still burns.

  Kirshner stares at the screen, eyes still watering, and suddenly a red “ERROR” box flashes next to the clock, its numbers now red and counting up from zero. He presses the transmit switch. “Tom? What’s going on up there?”

  Tom likewise stares at the screen in disbelief. “Hell. It didn’t shut down. It didn’t shut down!”

  Kirshner’s voice shouts through space. “For God’s sake, go to manual! Shut it down!”

  “Manual. Roger.” Tom stumbles through menus, getting confused. “Wait, here it is, manual systems.” He bogs down through more menus. “Hydraulics. Life support. Engine. Here it is. I got it.” He punches the enter key and waits. “Oh boy. It didn’t help. It’s still burning.”

  Kirshner drops the cigarette from his mouth, already gaping open. “Let’s not panic. I tell you what, you locate the emergency override switch on the rear accessory panel while I try manual down here.” He scrolls through pages on his computer, more deftly than Tom, and enters his shut down command. “Mary, Mother of God. Tom! Did you locate the switch?”

  Tom, having left Zion suspended in midair, is upside down, feeling along a panel by the pressure lock. He shouts toward the speaker phone, “Yeah, here it is. I found it.” He pushes the toggle switch but can tell it did no good. “No joy, Doctor. It didn’t shut down.” The transmission delays aggravate already frayed nerves.

  Kirshner covers his face, then grabs a manual, rapidly flipping pages. “All right, Thomas, listen to me. Find the circuit breaker for the valve. It’s on the P42 panel, and the position is...” straining to see the numbers, “Damnit!” He finds his glasses in his pocket and half puts them on. “It’s position L13. L13. Did you copy?”

  Tom voice is faint, distant, as small as the speaker from which it vibrates. “L13. Roger.”

  “Right, L13. You reset it, and if that doesn’t work, try it a few times to shock it. That valve is fail-safe closed. Maybe we can shock it loose. Meanwhile, I’m going to look at the damage down here. Got it?”

  Tom’s voice is even smaller, compressed. “Got it.”

  The Doctor takes a moment to collect his thoughts. He switches to the flight path page, the projected path now arcing into the lunar surface. Kirshner’s lips barely move, as if he were afraid Tom could read them. “Oh no. We’ve got to change trajectory. Otherwise, oh my God, no.” He feverishly enters numbers into the computer.

  Tom has located the circuit breaker panel and, using a flashlight, searches for the breaker, running his hands along each row. Zion floats by and meows, struggling to maneuver as the acceleration parks him into the window. Finally Tom finds the breaker and, closing his eyes, pulls it. Nothing. He rests his head on the panel, then tries again, and again, and one more time, this time leaving it out. Fear crystallizes on his face.

  As Kirshner pounds away on the keyboard, Tom’s weary voice asks, “Doc?”

  Absorbed in concentration, he barely answers. “Yes? What is it?”

  “It didn’t work.”

  Kirshner stops. After an agonizing pause, he says, “I see.” He hits the enter key. “Well, I’ve worked out some numbers. Take a look at the flight path.”

  Tom, moving in slow motion as
the weight of the situation bears down, brings up the page. He sees he’s on a collision course with the Moon. “Looks like this flight’s going to... end a little early.”

  Kirshner stares at the burn time, now up to six minutes and thirty-four seconds. “Listen to me, that’s not going to happen. I think it’s fairly certain we can’t stop that damned engine, so it’s just going to run out of fuel. But the trajectory can be altered so as to avoid impact with the lunar surface.”

  There’s a gravid silence. “Yeah? And then what? Out toward... Mars?”

  “Well, at least then there’s time.”

  “Time for what? Maybe the first alternative is the best. It’s closer to why… never mind. I think we should just leave it.”

  “No way. You forced me to go this far with you, and I’m not going to let you just crash into the godforsaken Moon. Besides, I already programmed it in, and you can’t stop it.”

  The capsule’s attitude jets ignite. Tom can tell what happened. “Kirshner, this is my flight! You give it back to me!”

  This time Kirshner’s voice is distant, but not small. “Not any more it isn’t, son. I don’t think it’s in your hands anymore.” Tom watches the screen as the projected path moves toward the edge of the Moon.

  At the Space Center, the flight follower watches his monitor, this time his eyes open wide. “Hey, George?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You better call Cole down here.”

  “He’s home asleep, for chrissake.”

  He continues to stare, parameters rolling green across his face. “Yeah, well, get him down here.”

  Kirshner watches the projected path approach the edge of the Moon, then jump along the edge and arc outward around the Moon to the left edge of the screen, into space. He looks down in a pitiful combination of anguish and relief.

  Tom, cradling Zion in his arms, sees the same thing and shakes his head. The vibration in the capsule stops. “Shut down.”

  Kirshner lays his forehead on the desk.

  The Earth is a blue-white globe in the distance as the capsule approaches and disappears past.

  The Pulpit