His lack of inner conviction was apparent to McGee. “Do you really care?”
“Yes I do, Professor,” Townsend huffed. “For your information, I happen to be a military man and I believe in following orders.”
Gwen wasn’t fooled. “Come on, Colonel, cut the crap.”
“Major, that remark was—” Townsend looked at the skeptical faces surrounding him and gave up the pretense. “All right, so I don’t give a damn what anybody on Earth thinks we should do. This is nuts. You people really want to try it?”
Incredibly, they all nodded in agreement.
He shook his head in wonder. “You’re all out of your minds. I don’t know what you’re doing here. You should have been fighter pilots. Major Llewellyn, in the morning, I want you to start rigging the rover for radar sounding. I’ll work on a report to explain our new course of action to Mission Control. And Dr. Sherman . . .”
“Yes?”
“Doctor, I want you to start compiling a psychological dossier on me proving insanity. I’ll need it for legal defense at my court-martial.”
“Don’t worry, Colonel,” Rebecca giggled. “If that’s your plea, I’m sure I can provide you with an ironclad defense.”
“A real sweetheart, isn’t she?” the commander muttered to the others.
CHAPTER 16
NEXT DAY, INSTEAD of resuming their digging routine, Gwen, Townsend, and McGee set about assembling a large Yagi antenna out of scrap aluminum stripped from the ERV and Hab lander stages. The antenna resembled an old-style TV rooftop antenna, but larger, designed to transmit “short-wave” radio signals that actually have a much longer wavelength than VHF television. Five meters long, the device was fitted crosswise across the rear of the rover and hooked to an oscilloscope that Gwen mounted on the right seat control panel.
Acting on the basis of a sense of humor unique to engineers, Gwen augmented the retro image of the gear by wiring in an audio oscillator that pinged every time a radio pulse was emitted, and sounded a slightly delayed answering ping if an echo signal was received. This gave the whole setup an operating feel similar to World War II submarine sonar.
Townsend looked at it and frowned. “Why is the audio necessary, Major, when all relevant data from the radar sounder is available in fully interpreted digitized form on the rover’s computer display?”
With a wink at McGee, Gwen insisted on the absolute necessity of maintaining a “direct channel analog backup” to the computerized data. The colonel walked away, shaking his head, but the oscilloscope and pinging system stayed in place. Stepping close, Gwen confided to the historian, “Besides, the pinger should make the radar rig a whole lot more fun.”
As the construction of the radar set proceeded, Rebecca and Luke spent hours scrutinizing maps, attempting to deduce from available surface geological evidence the most promising locations for underground aquifers. Unfortunately, no locations showed any obvious hints of subsurface water. So where to search?
The rover’s maximum speed during sounding would be ten miles per hour, and the sounding data could only be assumed relevant to a quarter mile in either direction from the ground track. This meant that in a ten-hour driving day, they could search fifty square miles. Since the rover’s maximum sortie range was 300 miles, a total of about 280,000 square miles was available to be surveyed.
Even at fifty square miles a day, it would take more than fifteen years to scan it all. If the stranded crew were to find water in time to make propellant for the next launch window, they had time to probe only about five percent of the territory available.
While there were no obvious targets, some regions of low-lying topography looked more promising than others. With this in mind, the two scientists drew up a plan for a systematic search of the best five percent their landing zone had to offer.
The search sorties began on July 28, with Townsend driving and Luke at the radar console. Unfortunately, they heard no return echoes that day—or any day in the ensuing three weeks, as various combinations of the crew took turns at radar sounding, tried their luck, and failed.
The radar sounding was not as hard work as digging, though, and as the weeks went by, the crew began to recover from the sheer physical exhaustion of their previous efforts. Nonetheless, as the searches continued to produce only negative results, hope began to fade, and a demoralization even more thorough than before began to settle upon the crew.
Then, early on the afternoon of August 12, with a bored Gwen Llewellyn at the wheel and a daydreaming McGee on radar, an echo was finally returned. The unexpected ping woke the historian out of his stupor. “We got something! We got something! Take a look.”
Before Gwen could react, both the amplitude and frequency of the return pulses increased dramatically. She stopped the rover and looked at the oscilloscope trace, then at McGee with wide eyes. “What do you have on digital?”
He punched through several screens of data. “It’s great! According to this, the source of the echo is less than a hundred meters down.”
The flight mechanic adjusted knobs, kicking in the frequency doubler to increase depth resolution. She stared at the data in amazement and, forcing herself to remain cool, picked up the microphone. “Beagle, this is rover, reporting from map coordinate Delta 62.2, Foxtrot 96.8. We may have found something. It’s a fast echo, just seventy meters down. If it’s water, it’s within range.”
There was a crackle of static and then Luke’s voice came over the receiver. “Send me the data file from your EM soundings so I can have a look.”
Gwen threw a switch, opening the radar log upload. “Sending.”
For almost a full minute, they heard nothing but static from the receiver. Then the geologist’s voice blared forth, loud and clear. “Hehaa! That’s water all right.”
Gwen reached out and joyously hugged McGee, taking him by surprise. Embarrassed, she pulled back and covered up by getting back to business, while the professor blinked rapidly. Gwen, is there something going on in your mind that I should know about?
“Water! We found it! Well, don’t just sit there staring like a silly old egghead, McGee—break out the drilling rig. We’ve got work to do.”
McGee regarded her for a significant moment, then unbuckled his seat belt. “Aye, aye.”
Moving quickly, they broke out the drilling rig, which consisted of sets of concentric tubing that could be extended by means of a rotating screw mechanism, a collapsible tripod to hold the upper end in place, an automole with a superhard drill bit to lead the descent, and an electric motor with a set of gears to turn the toothed exterior of the uppermost of the telescoping tubes. Then they ran a power line out to the motor from the auxiliary generator of the rover engine. The two set up the drill and started it running, then climbed back into the rover to pass the time.
Gwen put her feet up on the rover’s dashboard and started thumbing through one of McGee’s Edgar Rice Burroughs Mars novels, apparently subjecting the pulp adventure story to a systematic scan. McGee found this action curious, causing him to take out his electric notebook and enter a note in his private diary.
“It is strange,” McGee wrote while looking thoughtfully at Gwen, “the kind of people you meet if you go to Mars. On the surface, Gwen seems ultra-tough, the ultimate tomboy. A decorated combat veteran, never far from that Bowie knife of hers. Yet something about her is so quiet, soft, peaceful. She’s probably seen more of the rough side of the world than any other woman I’ve met, but somehow she still seems the most innocent. She’s very intelligent, yet until now I’ve never seen her open a book other than the Bible or a technical work. I wonder what practical value she sees in Burroughs’ novel. Surely she wouldn’t touch it otherwise. She’s certainly not my type; what a disaster she’d be at the faculty club! But, in her own way, she’s a real gem.”
The subject of his contemplation interrupted the historian’s reverie.
“Hey, Professor, it says here in your book that there are underground caverns on Mars filled with f
lowing rivers.”
He formed an embarrassed smile. “Gwen, that’s a great novel, but it’s just a work of fantasy.”
Gwen was adamant. “Well, he’s right about a lot of other things. Mars does have two moons.”
“But no towering cities.”
“Not yet, anyway. Right, McGee?” Gwen smiled. There was warmth in that smile.
McGee rushed to check some instruments. “Right. Looks like we’re making progress.”
The flight engineer returned to business. “Sixty-eight meters. Could hit the water any time now.”
The radio crackled. “Rover, this is Luke. We have you approaching the discontinuity within sixty seconds. Keep an eye on the drill-bit temperature. As soon as you hit water, it should drop dramatically.”
McGee checked the temperature readouts. “We’re reading 560° centigrade now. How far should it drop?”
“Close to zero. Any water this near the surface is going to be icy. That drill bit is in for one heck of a cold bath.”
“Sixty-nine meters,” Gwen announced.
McGee watched excitedly as the thermal data began to shift. “The temperature’s beginning to drop! 558. 555. 553.”
Gwen gave a new depth measurement: “Sixty-nine point five meters.”
“551. 549. 547. 546,” McGee rapidly called out.
“Seventy meters.”
“543. 542.”
“Seventy point five.”
Another burst of static came from the radio. “Luke here. I have you through the discontinuity now. The temperature should be dropping very fast.”
“It’s still going down,” McGee cried. “541. 540. 539—”
“It’s not dropping fast enough.” All the exhilaration left Luke’s voice. “Something’s wrong.”
“Seventy one meters,” Gwen announced coolly.
“538. 537. 537. 538. 538.” McGee watched the thermal data now with growing dismay. “It seems to be leveling off.”
“Bad news, children.” The geologist sounded as if he was offering condolences. “Looks like you’ve found a false positive.”
McGee felt hollow inside as all hope died. “You mean it’s a dry well?”
“More like a radar mirage.” Luke’s radio voice crackled with authority. “Probably never was anything but two regolith layers with different electrical conductivities.”
Gwen’s voice was as dry as the well. “Seventy-two meters.”
“You might as well stop the drill,” Luke advised. “You won’t find anything there.”
Gwen silenced the drill, then picked up the mike, dropping her professional cool. “Then why did you tell us to drill here, you know-it-all?”
“It looked good,” Luke said sheepishly. “But there’s no way to tell, for sure. When you get a radar return like that, you just have to drill and see for yourself.”
McGee sagged in frustration. “We’ve searched for two weeks, and all we found was this one mirage. The colonel was right. This isn’t going to work.”
“I never said it would be easy.” Luke sounded defensive. “I told you there’d be false positives. We just have to keep searching and keep drilling. Sooner or later, we’re bound to find it.”
The crackling static on the radio continued even after Luke disconnected at the other end.
Gwen slammed her fist down on the console. “Damnation!”
CHAPTER 17
NEAR JACKSON HOLE, Wyoming, there is a superlative golf course favored by the rich, powerful, and famous. On August 21, 2012, the weather was splendid, and had any reporters been allowed in, they would have seen celebrated personalities from Malibu, the Beltway, Central Park West, and Silicon Valley. It would not have surprised them to see a member of the President’s inner circle traveling about the golf course in the company of a well-dressed young man equipped with a stylish set of clubs.
Darrell Gibbs, liaison to JSC Mission Control, golfed with George Kowalski, Science and Security Advisor to the White House. Gibbs was an excellent golfer, and a wise one too. The game was close, but Kowalski was ahead.
The older man was clearly enjoying himself. “Darrell, you’re a very bright young man. You remind me a lot of myself at your age. I’m sure you’ll go far.”
Gibbs grinned; he certainly hoped so. “Thank you, sir.”
“Call me George.”
“Thank you, George. I must say that I’m grateful for the promotion to Senior SSA Staff.”
“It’s just the beginning for you. We need fresh young blood in policy-making positions in Washington.”
Policy making, Gibbs thought. Has a nice ring to it.
A golf cart approached, and Gibbs was dumbstruck to see its passenger: Senator Fairchild, the opposition’s candidate for President. In the cart with him sat a very overweight suit with a laptop, obviously one of the senator’s campaign flacks.
Fairchild leaned out of his cart to shake Kowalski’s hand. “Hello, George. Fancy meeting you here. How’s life as White House Science and Security Advisor treating you?”
Kowalski shrugged. “A bit frustrating . . .”
Fairchild nodded sympathetically. “I know how it must be, stuck in an advisory role when you should be making policy from a Cabinet position.”
“Indeed. So how goes the campaign?”
“Rather well,” Fairchild chuckled. “Your boss seems to have painted himself into a corner by putting all his political capital into this Mars adventure. His only chance appears to be for a miracle to happen that gets the crew home.”
Gibbs had watched this Olympian exchange in awe, but now that the conversation shifted to his own area of expertise, he seized his chance to join in. “I hardly think that’s likely,” he remarked.
The senator favored Gibbs with a pleased look. “George, you haven’t introduced me to your young friend here.”
Kowalski put a paternal hand on Gibbs’ shoulder. “This is Darrell Gibbs. He’s my Special Assistant at JSC Mission Control.”
Fairchild gave the younger man a wink and a firm handshake. “Oh, yes, Gibbs. George has been telling me a lot of fine things about you.”
The Special Assistant was stunned by the attention, and he responded with his best Ivy League smile. “You’ve got my vote, Senator.”
“Thanks, son, I’m depending on you. Come November, we’ll straighten this country out. Well, I’ve got to be off. Good meeting you two.”
Fairchild flashed the two of them a victory sign, then snapped his fingers and pointed ahead. The fat man in the suit set the golf cart in motion. As the two drove off, Gibbs observed that they carried no golf clubs.
Gibbs looked at his boss in open admiration and gratitude. The Old Man had just introduced him to the next President of the United States. They were onboard the winning team, and unlike most of the senior staff of the doomed Administration, they would not only survive the transition but rise with it.
Kowalski turned to his protégé. “So you see, Darrell, there is a great deal at stake in all this.”
Gibbs nodded in solemn agreement. “You can count on me, sir.”
While it was morning at Jackson Hole, it was evening on the Planitia. At the same time Gibbs and Kowalski were enjoying the superb lunch buffet offered by the golf club, the tired and hungry crew of the Beagle gathered in the Hab’s wardroom for a meager dinner. As they watched with a combination of anticipation and resignation, Rebecca emerged from the galley carrying a very small plate of greens with one piece of Spam on it. She divided it five ways.
Suppressing the indignant cries from his stomach, Townsend took advantage of the moment to consult with his geologist. “It’s been four weeks now, with nothing but three false positives to show. I think we need to move the search much deeper into Xanthe.”
Staring at the minute portion placed before him, Luke replied in a monotone, “Okay by me.”
McGee was more direct. “That’s not much food, Rebecca.”
His remark was spoken in irritation, not malice, but its obvious truth m
ade it sound like an indictment. Rebecca tried to defend herself with a shrug. “That’s our daily greenhouse output, plus one half meat ration. I’m afraid it doesn’t go very far cut five ways.”
Gwen glared at her, and Rebecca recoiled from the eye contact as if stunned. “Well, it doesn’t!”
Gwen took out her sheath knife, causing Rebecca to take two nervous steps backward. The flight engineer then used the knife to stab her morsel of Spam and pop it into her mouth. “Damn Yankee atheist bitch,” she muttered. Then, scowling at the doctor, she stalked out of the room.
McGee and Townsend exchanged worried glances. A new threat had emerged. Historian and officer both knew how much crew morale mattered. And it was disintegrating before their eyes.
CHAPTER 18
TWO MORE MONTHS went by, filled with ever deeper frustration as the search for ground water proved fruitless. Despite everything, the crew somehow managed to battle on, but more and more they seemed split into two groups: Gwen and Luke on one side, and Rebecca and McGee on the other. Rednecks versus eggheads.
Townsend tried to maintain cohesion among the crew, but his job was becoming increasingly impossible. In September, a dispute over whether the Hab audio should play Bach or Hank Williams almost came to blows. Unable to keep the crew working together, the mission commander chose to work them separately. With greater frequency, the rover sorties devolved upon the rednecks, while the others strove to keep things going back at the base.
On October 15, Luke and Gwen went out on yet another rover excursion, and as usual failed to produce any positive results. By the time they turned back toward home on their unproductive mission, Gwen was in a bad mood. “You can rack up another failure for your water-table theory, Dr. Luke. What’s your score now, zero for thirty-six?”
He winced. “Come on, Gwen, cut me some slack.”
As he continued to drive, Gwen turned away from him to stare out her window. “Sure. I don’t mind. Who cares?”
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