by David Palmer
"You see, the Murray Fracture Zone is not the target. It never has been. The warhead is less powerful than McDivott was given to think; but even so, if it exploded there, the resultant quakes would reduce much of the Earth's crust to rubble. That would be too sweeping a remedy even for us—though it would have been a satisfying revenge, had that really been our intention. No; we would not destroy the Earth's surface; we need it for ourselves.
"The bomb is targeted to impact about 25 miles due west of Point Arguello. The crust is thicker there. The explosion will generate earthquakes, massive ones; but it won't ruin the planet, not permanently anyway—at least not our part. We'll ride it out; our shelters are constructed of the new alloy—yards thick.
"However, Vandenberg lies inside the fireball, within the radius of total destruction. McDivott's group will still be there, to the last man. They will be eliminated at a single stroke; they literally will never know what hit them.
"There never has been a cancellation signal, by the way; only a retargeting signal, in case it might have been necessary to shift impact to, say 25 miles out in the Gulf Stream, just off Kennedy. That was false information, deliberately leaked to confuse the issue. The bomb cannot be stopped other than by physically boarding and disarming it. Preventing that from happening was my mission. It was not difficult.
"Now, I am sure that you must hate me at this moment more than you have ever hated anyone in your life, and I don't blame you. But I want you to know that meeting you has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. I wish that you were human. Even though you are not, I salute you."
And, so help me, actually did salute.
But Kyril wrong: Didn't hate him. Didn't hate anybody—didn't have time for peripheral distractions. (Maybe would hate him later.) But for now, had job to do: suddenly expanded, desperately important job—this changed everything . . . !
Disarming bomb no longer adequate solution. Still necessary, yes—vitally! But Khraniteli would just try again, using different approach; probably succeed next time around—hominems didn't even know threat existed; would get no warning!
Simply had to warn my people!—that was mission's primary goal now! Disarming bomb, then dying nobly, exercise in futility unless got word back in process.
Had no choice. Simply must. And would.
Somehow.
But Kyril between me and next step—whatever might prove to be. Had to do something about that. First. Immediately.
Debate over options took only seconds; limited, as practical matter, to single course of action. Hoped acting skills up to challenge.
Responded to Kyril's explanation, salute, with total flood: surely most abjectly pitiable performance since Bambi calling for Mother in forest fire. Covered face in hands (peeked between fingers, gauging effect), curled into fetal position. Sobbed as if world coming to end—which, unless managed to do something about it, pretty well summed things up!
(Now, awfully fond of Kyril—before—and Russian well aware of feelings. Likewise, as top-level Khranitel operative, held probably justifiably high opinion of own physical prowess. Unlikely to fear assault from 11-year-old. Plus was awfully fond of me, too. Finally, was very well educated; certain to have read same child-psychology theories I did: knew abusee usually turns to abuser for comfort once attack over. [Irrational? I'll say. Own approach would be to wait until adult asleep, take baseball bat—stop; getting sidetracked.] Point is that dependent child normally turns to nearest adult of whom is fond for comfort regardless what atrocities said adult may have just committed.)
Looked up through tears, held out arms, wailed, "Oh, Kyril . . . !"
He bought it: Expression softened; propelled himself across cabin, catching me gently in passing.
Redoubled weeping, threw arms around neck, buried face in shoulder. He sighed unhappily, put arms around me, held close, patted clumsily on back, murmured soothing noises. Didn't notice legs closing around waist until too late. If at all.
Snuffled, bubbled, then wiped eyes with right hand; which brought forearm across beneath Russian's chin, left still around neck.
Whispered hysterical-strength tap trigger, closed trap in single motion: Legs tightened about torso, ankles locked. Left hand seized back of head, left side; right hand closed on chin, right side of face; both in unbreakable grip. Kyril barely had time to register surprise before I
. . . TWISTED!
Don't know how might have made out against Russian in fair fight—particularly in free-fall. As top Khranitel agent, probably one of very best. But will never know: Hysterical strength rotated head beyond vertebrae's yield limit in briefest fraction of second. If live to be 100, will never forget that noise.
Body convulsed momentarily; subsided gradually to consistency of Jell-O. Maintained grip until, pressing ear to chest, heard heart sounds slow, stop. Then released, shrugged free of corpse's embrace, pushed off for wall. Landed, took firm grip on handhold; watched as body drifted across cabin in slow-motion sprawling tumble.
Realized, then, at least part of solicitude impelling Kyril to strap Harris into command chair was elementary tidiness: Would be in way constantly otherwise under weightless conditions. Jumped across cabin, grabbed body by belt, propelled toward copilot's chair, secured with harness.
Then looked purposefully around at surroundings. Over which now held undisputed sway.
Would have been easy to let emotions go: Had just killed someone of whom had become very, very fond. Had watched him kill someone else of whom had become very, very fond. Was more alone than anyone in human history—nearest human at least 22,300 miles away. And own lifespan now measured in hours . . . .
Yes, would have been very easy to let go. But couldn't afford luxury. Bomb departing from orbit less than half day hence; must be disarmed first. Much work remained undone in preparation—plus still didn't know how was going to get message back to earth . . . .
Well, logical first step in solving any problem is inventory of available assets: Familiarity with gear confined to that intrinsic to own once-limited responsibilities; surely Harris, Kyril brought along equipment relating to their jobs. Spent solid hour scouring Hale's entire pressurized demesnes; confident would turn up something to solve, or suggest solution to, communications dilemma.
But didn't.
Boys brought even fewer personal articles than self (my toothbrush no less likely to figure in solution than theirs). Mission equipment limited to three adult-size EMUs, four MMUs (one spare of each), single toolbox, two plug-in briefcase terminals. None of which triggered spontaneous inspiration.
Returned to cockpit, growing more worried by moment. Debated briefly returning after disarming bomb, attempting OMS retroburn to drop Hale from geosynchronous orbit. Perhaps could jury-rig heliograph-type device from shiny interior panel, flash warning to hominems as passed over California (pretty good at Morse; only member of scout troop to qualify for merit badge). Pretty sure could get RCS, OMS running (tried to memorize Harris's duties as thoroughly as own during endless simulator run-throughs).
But gave that up moment saw fuel gauges: Could drop from geosynchronous orbit with remaining fuel, but not far; be lucky to achieve even shallow parabola. Plus initial progress very slow; Hale would be ghost ship by time got around to far side of globe: Life-support due to run out barely 18 hours hence; even without boys' added consumption, no chance still alive by then to send signal.
Worrying in earnest now. Unless managed to get word back, Khraniteli surely successful in wiping hominems off face of Earth, sooner or later.
But how . . . ? Here I sat (okay, floated), stranded in orbit—in fuel-depleted ship stripped of exterior insulation, aerodynamic controls, landing gear—everything necessary to get down. All of which immaterial: Even were everything in 100-percent flightworthy condition, most unlikely that 15–plus hours in ultralight qualified me to power up, accomplish solo reentry, landing—in single most complicated vehicle ever assembled by H. sapiens . . . !
But always h
ave had this tendency to keep beating head against wall when situation hopeless—even more so when obviously hopeless. Just not the giving-up kind. Mind kept dodging, weaving, bobbing, looking for solution. Didn't discard any idea without scrutinizing thoroughly first. Not even silliest conjecture dismissed out of hand; retained long enough to see how looked in conjunction with all the rest.
Got so bad, even started wondering whether bomb's computer, lasers, would hold still for slow, close approach by Hale on RCS thrusters. Certainly enough fuel in bomb for reentry, after all. If somehow could transfer fuel from bomb to Hale, maybe could extend retroburn long enough to put me over California before life-support ran out. Knew would get only one shot at signaling, of course; be days before Hale returned to perigee again.
Hominems better be looking!
Only, how does one go about transferring monomethyl hydrazine and nitrogen tetroxide in quantity from one vehicle to another in vacuum? Without proper high-pressure equipment . . . .
Doesn't, of course. Scratch another idea.
Scratch Hale, really: "All the King's horses and all the King's men" couldn't prepare shuttle for reentry without full resources of Space Transportation System crew, facilities. Simply no way lightened, stripped—gutted—ship could survive plunge into atmosphere as result of anything I could do.
Pity bomb carrier not designed for cargo, I thought wryly. Could just—
Blinding flash. Soundless concussion. Universe bucked, rocked, shuddered.
Of course!
(Suddenly felt very stupid.)
The bomb . . . ! Mounted in vehicle eminently capable of reentry; already programmed, equipped—scheduled, in fact—to do just that, commencing in less than six hours. So what if not designed for cargo; ample structural dead space around warhead; same dead space through which would be crawling when entered to disarm.
No reason couldn't leave message in there . . . !
Except that missile presently targeted for impact some 25 miles offshore; to deliver message would be necessary to reprogram computer's ballistics software (disarming warhead first).
Well . . . during one of those rare quiet moments during otherwise hectic week at Vandenberg, noticed yellowish paperback titled IFR Supplement of the United States. Contained longitude, latitude, time zones, etc., plus other pertinent data, for almost every airport on North American continent. Thumbed through; spotted couple familiar names. One was Vandenberg; remember it well—together with coordinates: 34 degrees 44 minutes north longitude, 120 degrees 35 minutes west latitude. Not launch facility, of course; nearby Air Force base.
Further, despite fact that mission profile (assuming everything went as scheduled) called for straightforward ballistics software wipe, reloading with AAs' bomb-disposal program, did avail self of opportunity to scroll through Russians' software during programming portion of training. Distinctly recall seeing submenu titled Ballistika, inside which was fill-in-blanks subsubmenu headed Koordinaty Prizemleniya, with words Dolgota, Shirina, followed by two strings of numbers.
Now, according to my crash-course, bush-league knowledge of Russian, Ballistika translates loosely into "ballistics"; Koordinaty Prizemleniya into "coordinates of touchdown"; Dolgota, Shirina, into "longitude," "latitude." If subsequent numbers really longitude, latitude, retargeting probably involves no more than straightforward substitution. Probably.
AAs surely still there; could hardly miss descent—so few objects arrive these days on huge multiple parachutes. AAs would swarm over bomb like ants at picnic; first hurrying to ascertain warhead disarmed; then scientists gleaning data guaranteed to keep them happy, busy for next ten years. Somebody would find message taped to detonator-chamber bulkhead. Bound to.
Longer deliberated question, better idea sounded: Surely offered best odds on getting warning delivered.
(AAs probably not thrilled to have all that plutonium on hand, but would cope—and scientists would go quietly mad studying breakthroughs, etc., embodied in reentry package structure, warhead itself. Plus knowledge gained would stand them in good stead during upcoming war against Khraniteli—of whose existence, intentions, now would be warned.)
Turned thoughts to safeguarding message. No idea how well Khraniteli protected computer, warhead, detonator, from reentry heat, but probably get pretty warm in there (forget taping to bulkhead). Well, surely easier to keep paper below mythic 451-degree flash point than to protect human, with far lower performance envelope. Could wrap message in EMU—maybe two EMUs, with PLSS thermostats turned down all the way. Three extra EMUs on hand now that Harris, Kyril had no need. Plus own spare—
Oh . . . ! Realization came as almost physical shock.
(Stupidity getting to be habit.)
For solid week had been psyching self up to die. Had accepted necessity, inevitability.
But maybe didn't have to. . . .
Could ride down in bomb!
Have no clear memory of next few minutes. Suspect intensity of relief exceeded capacity for rational appreciation. Vaguely remember bounding around cabin, ricocheting off walls, ceiling, floor; shrieking, crying, laughing like mad thing. Next event of which have firm recollection is crouching on Kyril's lap, gripping flight suit lapels, shaking him violently (albeit ineffectually, in zero gee), screaming into dead face, "We'll beat you yet, you cold-blooded, censored son of a bowdlerized, unprintably expurgated deletion! We'll wipe you out to the last man, woman, and grub! We'll . . ."
(Had come long way from Candy Smith-Foster of yore—firmly resolved never to kill again.)
Didn't so much regain control as run down. Spewed rage, hate, frustration at uncaring corpse until gone, leaving me limp, trembling, teary-eyed.
At which point coherent, thoughts again intruded. Unpleasant coherent thoughts. Whole string of unpleasant coherent thoughts which totaled even less pleasant sum: Chances for living through reentry slim to nonexistent. At best.
Odds steeper for own person than those facing message: For instance, had no idea what sort of gee forces might encounter en route. Missile's cargo included computer, detonator mechanism, warhead, etc.; all potentially delicate, sensitive. But vehicle powered for ten gees—at what point did Khranitel engineers draw line, say, "Anything above this level is excessive stress"? Unanswerable question, of course. But likely well beyond what own designer considered acceptable.
In addition, original plans called for water landing. Own destination dry land. Unyielding dry land. Probably quite a bump.
However, above concern nowhere near as scary as reentry‑heat question: Prospect of slowly burning to death not something can just shrug off.
Have seen it done.
(And will never forget: Two days after tenth birthday was riding in car with Daddy, returning from Oshkosh after TV show on which Daddy appeared as guest physician. Observed car accident on lonely stretch of highway around midnight: Drunk in Corvette wandered off road, bashed tree. Old Corvette; equipped with competition gas tank-36 gallons. Ruptured on impact, flooding interior with flaming contents. Victim staggered out, blazing from head to foot. Daddy doused with own car's extinguisher. But victim already 80-percent third-degree case. Daddy ordered me to stay in car, call for help on CB. Did not want me to see burn damage close-up. But soon realized needed more hands; had to involve me. Will never forget that man: Charred, cracked skin. Cooked meat bleeding through raw, inches-wide, exploded deep blisters. Dangling flesh. Incinerated tissue. Scorched bones showing through barbecued muscles. High, thin, nonstop screaming. The smell.)
Now, if descent profile anything like NASA's, dive from atmospheric interface at 400,000 feet to slowing below mach two at 60-, 70,000 feet takes about 15 minutes. Heat build-up inside vehicle progressive, implacable: Grows steadily hotter, hotter, hotter still, until imperceptible threshold crossed; discomfort suddenly becomes agony; blisters form, crisp, pop; tissues roast, char; own superheated greasy cooking smoke inside EMU sears lungs.
Quarter hour under those conditions could be very long time indeed .
. . .
No. Decision whether to risk burning to death not casually made.
Horsefeathers!—chopped off self-flagellation impatiently; issue never in doubt for second: While chance remained, no matter how slim, would go for it. Am constitutionally incapable of giving up.
Well, now that foolishness over, done with, were steps could take to improve chances; preparations above, beyond those necessary for originally planned bomb-disarming, -disposal EVA. And time to get to work regardless; just five hours to bomb's scheduled deorbit burn.
Fell to, assembled gear in airlock: all three adult-size EMUs, both of mine; all four MMUs, both terminals, toolbox, etc. Strung everything together with wire (plenty available from communications panel); would tie into snug bundle once outside.
Retrieved binoculars from Harris's dead hand; employed to scan darkness beyond cockpit windows. Bomb not easy visual target; but presently made out tiny, indistinct, deeper black spot against jet sky. Hale's longitudinal axis still lined up on it.
Okay, knew bomb ahead of us in same orbit. Using shuttle, Earth, bomb as references, was oriented as to orbital plane, direction. Knew which way had to go—critical, because at first would be unable to resolve destination with naked eye, and binoculars useless while wearing helmet (though intended to take outside, have look-see; maybe helpful after all [try never to burn bridges unnecessarily, prematurely]).
Donning EMU took good half hour (mine more trouble than most, due to endless array of tiny bolts, washers, wing nuts holding waist sealing ring halves together), but finally checklist complete: suit airtight; PLSS operational, secured by straps to back, life-support lines neatly coiled at waist.
(Folded sleeping-station blanket into makeshift, multi-layered cushion; taped to inside of helmet at rear. Hoped would distribute pressure of head's contact against Lexan bubble during anticipated heavy gees. Pad's bulk left barely room for nose in front. Looked forward to accumulating many greasy nose prints before day over.)
Herded gear into airlock; closed, sealed inner door. Dumped air, opened outer hatch, exited gingerly, moving one handhold at a time, drawing equipment behind me with wire attached to utility belt.