Ocean of Storms

by Christopher Mari

  The lieutenant colonel continued his way up through the Tai-Ping to the command module, where he would activate the controls to send the Copernicus into the depths of space. He didn’t know whether the ship would ultimately be captured by the sun’s gravity or continue to hurtle through the cosmos for all time. He thought about Yuen Bai and wondered where he was now. He shook off such thoughts and slid himself into the pilot’s seat.

  “Are we all set, Benevisto?” he asked over the mike.

  “All set,” came Benny’s voice through his headset. “Should I tell everyone to strap in, in case we have a little bump?”

  “Better do that. We’ll be going for trans-Earth injection soon enough.”

  In a few minutes, Benny and Yeoh were strapped in next to Wilson in the command module. Just behind them sat the three scientists. All kept their eyes on the viewport before them, now filled with their last sight of the Copernicus.

  “Ready?” asked Wilson. “In three . . . two . . . detach.”

  With a muffled thump, the Copernicus broke free of her moorings and began her lazy orbit into the void. Watching her tumble end over end as she drifted from sight, the crew was surprised at the sadness they felt looking at what was now ostensibly another piece of space junk littering the solar system.

  As the Copernicus sailed on toward destiny, framed by the stars, Wilson whispered a line from James Flecker: “‘I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep.’”

  A half hour later, Wilson fired the Tai-Ping’s engines to break free of the Moon’s gravity. Excepting the possibility of a midcourse correction to adjust their trajectory, the crew had little to do but kill time for the next three days before they made their final approach to Earth. Wilson decided that he would break the crew up into two rotations. Benny, Donovan, and Zell volunteered to take the first shift. Wilson gratefully strapped himself into his bunk and went to sleep. Yeoh and Soong soon joined him, too exhausted from their experiences to be all that bothered by again sleeping in a weightless environment.

  Zell heated water in the ship’s oven to make instant coffee. After passing lidded mugs out to the others, he climbed into one of the seats of the command module and watched the bright-blue Earth grow larger through their viewport. For hours the men talked of what they had uncovered on the Moon and what it might mean to humanity once the truth was known. Both Donovan and Zell expressed some concern about whether the Chinese and American governments would give the whole truth to the public, but Benny was surprisingly optimistic about the situation.

  “The way I see it is like this,” Benny muttered as he sucked hot coffee through his straw. “They need to keep things kinda quiet for now. Otherwise they’d have a helluva bigger panic than the one they had on their hands after the pulse.”

  “So you think they’ll just let us talk, once they find a way to break it to the public?” Donovan asked.

  “Sure. But what’re you worrying about, Donovan? You’ll get a sweet book deal out of this, guaranteed.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Zell muttered as he glanced out the viewport at Earth.

  “But that’s not what’s bothering me,” Benny explained, leaning in almost conspiratorially. “What’s bugging me is the mission itself. Has anyone else noticed that this moon shot has had more than your average run of bad luck? First there was Syd’s accident; then the Tai-Ping nearly explodes in lunar orbit; then we barely got the Copernicus on the Moon before she broke down.”

  Donovan leaned forward. “So how are we talking here? Hypothetically?”

  Benny answered with a shrug of his lean shoulders. “I dunno, Donovan. How’re we talking?”

  “What are you suggesting?” Zell asked. “That this mission was sabotaged?”

  “Like I said, I dunno.” Benny grimaced. “But it doesn’t seem like it was a mission that was supposed to succeed, now does it?”

  “You’ve got the mind of a conspiracy theorist, Commander.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Donovan said. “Why would NASA spend billions of dollars and waste so much time, energy, and manpower on a mission they wanted to fail?”

  “All right, call me a crackpot,” Benny replied. “But did you ever think about the fact that there’s a lotta people who might not want information about that ship to get out? People like Cal Walker, who made a buttload of cash in genetic engineering and pharmaceutical companies?”

  “Walker worked for a pharmaceutical company?” Donovan asked.

  “A bunch of them since he left NASA in the seventies,” Benny answered. “The most recent one is an outfit called TGI. He was on its board of directors before John Dieckman called him in as a consultant on Phoenix. At least that’s the watercooler gossip.”

  Zell’s grin retreated from his face as he glanced at Donovan. “I think he’s got us there, Alan.”

  “Wait a sec. This makes no sense.” Donovan shook his head. “There’s no way he—or anyone else for that matter—could’ve known what we would find up there.”

  Benny smirked. “Unless he already knew it was there.”

  “But how?” Zell demanded. “The damn thing’s been up there two million years or so. Walker’s not quite that old. There’s no way for him to have known.”

  “That’s what Bruce and I are trying to figure out,” said Benny. “I laid my theory on him earlier, and he’s curious. We’re planning on going over the Astraeus files, as well as snooping around in Walker’s files as soon as we get back to Earth. If there’s a connection, we might find one there.”

  “I’m not sure, Benny,” Donovan mused. “This is an awfully big stretch. As much as I’d like to pin Walker’s hide to my wall for a whole host of reasons, it just doesn’t seem likely that he would know about a ship that’s obviously been abandoned for eons.”

  “One more question. If Walker was trying to keep us from getting there,” Zell asked, “why not just scrub the mission altogether? That plan seems far easier than plotting out a series of sabotage efforts.”

  Benny slurped coffee and smiled. “You want my whole conspiracy theory? Okay. Here it is. He didn’t have the authority. The mandate for Phoenix came down from the President. Walker’s hands were tied. The best he could do was try and keep us from getting down to the surface. If the mission failed, they could simply chalk it up to human and mechanical error. Then, excusing presidential decree, Walker could use his connections to tie up plans for another mission for years.”

  Zell leaned in. “You’re making an awfully serious accusation, Commander. And one that’s based on purely circumstantial evidence. Just because Walker’s doing consulting for NASA and happened to be on the board of a genetic-engineering company and we happened to find a ship from the future, which happened to warn of genetic engineering—”

  “I know, I know,” Benny said. “But considering all the lives that’ve been lost, don’t you think we ought to check it out?”

  One look at Zell told Donovan that his former mentor was convinced. “Okay, but let’s keep it quiet. Let us know what you find.”

  “Will do, boss,” chimed Benny as he headed out of the cabin for a refill.

  Donovan looked at Zell. “The dig of a lifetime, huh? Just what the hell have you gotten me into?”

  July 3

  Johnson Space Center

  Houston, Texas

  8:12 p.m.

  Cal Walker stood at the window of the office NASA had furnished for him. The sun was setting over the Texas landscape. He always enjoyed this time of day. His mother had called it the gloaming. Truthfully, he had never known what that meant. He had always thought it was an unnameable time of day, a nebulous time when the Earth hung in the balance between light and shadow. A time when secrets could be illuminated, or just as easily hidden.

  Walker eased himself into his black-leather office chair and glanced at the Phoenix blueprints scattered across his desk. Despite all the considerable efforts they had made, Phoenix was back on its way to Earth.

  If ever there was an aptly named
mission, Walker mused, Phoenix is it.

  The phone rang as he was ruminating. He hastily picked it up, irritated at being interrupted. “Yes?”

  “We have a situation,” said the voice on the other end.

  “I’m aware of it,” Walker replied.

  “They weren’t supposed to see it. You said if I did everything you asked, they—”

  Walker glanced at his nails and noted that he hadn’t had time for a manicure. “Then obviously you didn’t do everything I asked. The team was more resourceful than you had anticipated.”

  “How much do they know?” asked the voice.

  “Only pieces of the whole,” said Walker. “But enough to cause some . . . consternation.”

  “Can they trace any of it back to us?”

  “I doubt it,” said Walker. “But we have a crew of very stubborn people up there. They might dig until they find something.”

  “We have to do something. Too much is at stake.”

  “Too dangerous,” countered Walker. “Taking any of these people out could draw undue attention. Better to let me handle this through more diplomatic channels. You wouldn’t want to jeopardize everything we’re working toward by acting too hastily.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that, Walker.” The line was silent for a moment. “Okay, we’ll do it your way. But I won’t let anything threaten the project.”

  “I know you won’t,” Walker replied, twirling the phone cord around. “You are in something of a bind now, aren’t you? The project is his only hope.”

  The line went dead. Walker shook his head in disgust. Emotion clouded the minds of too many men. He turned his eyes back to the window, but the sun had set, and the world was covered in darkness.

  General McKenna knew better than to let the likes of someone like Cal Walker push his buttons. In his more than forty years of military service, he had seen too many smooth operators like Walker manipulate the emotions of soldiers like himself, twist them to make the kind of gambles they would have never taken under any other circumstances. But this was a far different situation.

  McKenna pulled himself out of his desk chair and wandered over to his liquor cabinet, a half-smoked cigar still gripped in his right hand. He uncorked a bottle of scotch and poured himself a stiff three fingers’ worth in a square crystal glass. The amber liquid went down smoothly. He paced across the room, cigar in one hand, glass in the other. He glanced at the far wall, now in shadow since the sun had set. The photos lining that wall told his life’s story. There he was as a young chopper pilot in Vietnam. And there he was in his dress uniform in his wedding photo, his young wife radiant, her eyes eager with anticipation for a wonderful new life together. And there he was a few years later in a studio portrait, himself, Ingrid, and their three sons: Jim Junior, Frank, and Danny. Just boys then, barely out of diapers. But strong already. He could see that in their eyes. Even then they were strong and smart and brave and full of potential.

  McKenna brushed past the rest of the pictures, of himself receiving various promotions, of himself with congressmen and generals, presidents and kings. He went to the last photo in the line, one of Danny in his Notre Dame football uniform. The photo was taken on a crisp fall day, the sky high and bright blue above his son’s head, the wind ruffling his thick, wavy brown hair. He took the photo off the wall and sat back in his chair.

  McKenna puffed on his cigar and took another swallow of scotch. He looked at Danny’s photo and recalled how he had met the current president of the United States right around the time his youngest son had been born. Thirty-five years. The President had a daughter right around Danny’s age. McKenna remembered how they used to joke of setting them up when they got older. It was hard for McKenna to think of either the President or Danny without realizing that his friendship with the President had grown as his son had grown. They were connected in his mind, an interlocking set of events in the same chapter of his life.

  McKenna sighed and chugged down the rest of his scotch. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked his bottom right-hand desk drawer. Inside was his father’s service sidearm from the Second World War, an army-issue .45-caliber M1911. McKenna slid the clip into the pistol, chambered a cartridge, and laid it on his desk. He smoked his cigar and looked at the gun on his burgundy blotter. Simple enough. No one was home. Ingrid was out visiting Frank and his family in Baltimore. She would be home late in the afternoon on Sunday.

  It was strange to think that his life had come down to making a simple choice. He could continue to betray the woman who had given him both friendship and his elevated status in Washington, or he could condemn his son to a continued life of torment, or he could finish it all here and now. If he chose the final option, he would leave no note, no hint of scandal. Just a family wondering why.

  McKenna picked up the gun. The light from his desk lamp shone dimly on its barrel. It was heavier than his own Beretta. But it was his father’s gun. It only made sense to use the gun of the man who had given him life in the first place. A complicated situation became a perfect circle.

  He stubbed his cigar out in his ashtray.

  McKenna gently placed the gun under his chin. As he did, he spotted the most recent family portrait on his desk, one taken in his backyard at a Fourth of July barbecue, his wife at his side. Around them were Jim Junior and his family, Frank and his family, and Danny in his wheelchair. He could never look at his son in that chair without recalling the night he got that call from a friend of Danny’s—a girlfriend maybe? His son had been in a car accident. A drunk driver. He remembered that girl’s voice, her every word, as if he were hearing it now for the first time. He had never heard that voice again. He had never heard any of the voices of any of Danny’s so-called friends again, not a single one of them in the last fifteen years. A star quarterback had a whole host of friends. A star quarterback got the most beautiful girls. He had NFL potential. He could have a wife and children and a full life. A cripple had his memories and nights of unfulfilled dreams.

  McKenna eased the gun from his chin and unloaded it. He ran a hand up to his nose, wondering if he had a nosebleed. The fingers returned to his sight wet, not bloodied. Almost as if in a dream, he realized he had been crying.

  He picked up Danny’s football photo. He would get his boy’s life back even if he had to betray the President of the United States to do it.

  July 5

  The Tai-Ping

  Approaching Earth Orbit

  1:20 a.m., Pacific Time

  Aboard the Tai-Ping, preparations were being made for reentry, which was coming up in less than an hour. In keeping with the unusual element that had pervaded the entire mission, the splashdown was going to happen in the dead of night on the West Coast, a first for any manned lunar mission. “We’re gonna give them one hell of a show!” Wilson had said when he heard the news. And indeed he was right. All over the world, people were already gathering in crowds to watch the Tai-Ping make her fiery return to Earth.

  “For the love of Christ, Bruce,” Benny groaned for what felt to him like the twentieth time, “will you please turn that down?”

  Bruce was working through the reentry procedure NASA had sent them. Given the stress the ship had endured, the return to Earth had to be meticulously plotted out. Already there was uncertainty about whether the heat shield would hold and how well the drogue chutes would deploy after spending so long in the cold of space. Bruce always worked better when he had some music playing. Today’s choice was a personal favorite, Jethro Tull’s Heavy Horses.

  “This is a classic!” protested Yeoh, enjoying getting Benny’s goat yet again.

  “The ’70 Rebel Machine,” Benny said. “That’s a classic. This—this is something else.”

  “It helps me concentrate.”

  “Well, that you’d better do,” Benny replied. “I don’t want to end up deep-fried.”

  “The shield will hold,” Yeoh insisted.

  “Even if it does,” Benny continued, “there’s no guarant
eeing that those drogues won’t be three Icees when they open.”

  “Good old American optimism,” Yeoh chided. “It’s a miracle you made it out of the twentieth century.”

  “All right, you two, that’s enough,” Wilson said, gliding into the cockpit. “We’ve got work to do. How’s that reentry procedure coming?”

  “I think we’ve got it pretty well mapped out, Colonel,” said Yeoh.

  “Good job. We’re coming up on Earth, and I want to have everything laser tight. Benny?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Take your seat.”

  Benny noticed Wilson was gesturing to the command chair. He looked at him and shook his head. “Sir, I may have brought the Copernicus down, but this is your show.”

  “She’s yours to fly,” Wilson said, but Benny heard what was behind his words.

  Benny smiled. “Shut up and take us home, boss.”

  Wilson grinned like a kid, a look that almost surprised Benny, then slid into the pilot’s chair as gently as he could with his splint. He got on the VOX. “Attention, archeology team, we’re about to make our final preparations for reentry, so you’d better pack up and strap in.”

  “Jeez,” said Zell, hastily gathering up his materials. “You’d think we’d get more notice.” He looked over at Soong and saw that she was already seated in her chair.

  “He did tell us to start preparations fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Just make sure you’ve got your copy of the Astraeus files,” Donovan said as he floated into his seat.

  Soong’s face went white with concern as she patted down her space suit for the flash drive. After several seconds of watching Donovan’s face flush with frustration, she pulled the drive from a compartment in the arm of her chair and laughed. “I’m sure Commander Benevisto has his copy.”

  Donovan shook his head and smirked. “Whoever said you had no sense of humor was dead wrong, Soong. A bad one, yes. But no humor? Definitely not.”

  On Earth all eyes had turned skyward. Even the news that the crisis in Taiwan had been averted and the American fleet was steaming home seemed almost trivial compared with the event that was about to transpire in the heavens. Traffic had ground to a halt in all the major cities, and the streets were flooded with people. Even though the landing was at night, schools had closed for the day and businesses had ended work early. People had spent most of the last twenty-four hours watching the news coverage of the Taiwan situation, alternating with bulletins about the reentry. The landing was scheduled to happen at 2:15 a.m., Pacific time, so America would be getting the best show. Elsewhere in the world it was dusk or still daylight, but it promised to be no less enthralling. NASA had targeted the Pacific as the landing zone, which meant that California was particularly frenzied. Many people had left both Los Angeles and San Francisco, heading north to escape the light pollution. Fittingly one of the largest gatherings was in Modesto, the hometown and final resting place of Hunter Donovan.