“Sure, I’ll thank him. He helped us now. But I don’t know if I’ll shake hands with him. He basically told us to screw off before the Paris incident.”
“For once we agree on something.” They turned to see Lambert striding into the Executive Office Building waiting room with all the confidence of his billions of dollars. Trailing behind him were his assistant, Van Alston, and another large dark-suited man. “But you will still shake hands with me, won’t you?”
“Well, Calvin, I will say that although you are a son-of-a-bitch, at least you are open about it.” Gerald shook hands with his father. Lambert registered only a subtle surprise at Gerald’s new outspokenness.
“Thank you,” he said, with no hint of irony. He turned to Van Alston. “Tell them we’re all here and let’s get on with it.” Van Alston nodded and passed the information to the science advisor’s assistant, practically his clone, and the assistant disappeared into the science advisor’s office. While the large, dark-suited man stood in a corner facing the door, Lambert sat in one of the leather easy chairs and crossed his legs, ankle-on-knee. He looked up at Gerald. “So, my people say you’re a big deal now. Accepted by those scientists.”
“Yes, there was a colloquium today at the National Academy of Sciences. I was lead speaker.”
“I had somebody there. He said all the big-shot physicists claimed they believed you all along, eh?”
“Something like that. But in any case they’re all working on expanding the theory about these things. Doing some good science.”
“Whatever. But they’re with us?”
“Yes.”
The door to the science advisor’s office opened and the aide invited them in. They entered the large office, which included two wing chairs flanking a large fireplace and a large matching blue sofa directly across from the chairs.
The science advisor stepped forward from behind his walnut desk. He was a slightly plump middle-aged man with a fringe of white hair and a precise, confident way about him that marked one who had run a large aerospace corporation. He wore rimless glasses and a blue pinstripe suit with a maroon tie decorated with small, tasteful images of spacecraft.
“I’m Allen Randolph,” he said shaking hands all around. “I’m so pleased that you could come.”
Randolph and Lambert sat across from one another on the chairs and Dacey and Gerald took the sofa. Other various assistants, notebooks in hand, sat behind them around the room. They were brought coffee and made small talk about the trip and the colloquium. The science advisor took a few sips of his coffee, then set it aside and motioned to be given the blue folder, which he opened on his lap.
“Well, I see that there have been a considerable number of these … occurrences … in the month since the Paris disaster.” He flipped through pages of photocopied clippings. “There was this two-mile section of the Amazonian jungle in Bolivia that disappeared within ten minutes. The explosion in Antarctica. Our people on McMurdo Sound said they could feel the heat and read a newspaper by the light. And there’s that hole in the Bronx that’s still drawing quite a crowd. And there are dozens of astronomical sightings to date. Mostly basic thermonuclear events. Wormholes, I guess you call them?” He held up an iPad and scrolled through headlines, chuckling. “I see the media have named the different kinds. Big suckers, screamers, starholes—”
“We’ve been following all of that, Dr. Randolph,” said Gerald. “It’s all consonant with the theory. We’ve still got a lot of uncertainties. Like Neptune.”
“Yes, well I’m sure you’ll make progress,” Randolph smiled encouragingly. Gerald could tell he wanted to dismiss the Neptune business. His astronomer friends had no doubt declared that Gerald’s theory about antimatter remained just too far out, even given the wormholes’ existence. “Well, all these happenings just emphasize the need to understand what to do about all these things. There is a potential for more disaster.”
“No shit,” said Lambert, gesturing to his son. “That’s what Gerald’s been telling you for the last year.”
The science advisor’s cordial facade slipped for an instant. He knew Lambert as a heavy contributor to ultraconservative causes and a vocal opponent of the President’s energy policy. “Mr. Lambert, may I say that at some point you might learn something about scientific process. Things have to be proven; there have to be data. In any case, I hope the colloquium today gave us some ideas about how to head off those disasters.” The science advisor pointedly turned away from Lambert. “But I wanted your own assessment, Dr. Meier.”
“Well, clearly, holes into antimatter galaxies, like the one on Neptune, are the most potentially cataclysmic. I know most people still doubt their existence. True, they seem rare, but they’re real.” The science advisor’s stony expression signified his steadfast refusal to discuss the Neptune occurrence. So Gerald veered onto a track he knew would be acceptable. “Of course, now the most important thing is to catch an aperture that opens into a vacuum. That’s really the only kind we can hope to handle. Then we can analyze it and figure out what our options are.”
The science advisor closed the folder and leaned forward, smiling. “Ah, well, we’d like to help. We’d like to arrange for federal funds for you to do your work. We have the national labs at our disposal and we can help increase your technical capabilities.”
“Well, one reason for this meeting was about the facilities you’ve made possible,” said Gerald. “The planes and satellites. I wanted to thank you for all—”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Lambert. “About this federal funds thing. Now I’ve got your game. Look, when they were looking for money before, you were holed up somewhere incommunicado. Now that everybody believes them and you’ve had the thing blow up in your face, you’re suddenly ready to be his buddy, to clean his fish for him. You government types want to come in and then claim credit for catching one of these things. Hell, even ownership. Now, if you want to license Deus’s technology, maybe. The fee will be goddamned high.”
Randolph again assumed a poker face. He turned to Gerald. “You agree with that? What do you want?”
“I want to isolate a hole. The important thing is to figure them out, so we can prevent other …” He paused, his jaw tightening. The Paris disaster ate at his conscience. He recovered. “… sure, I’d like all the help I can get, and I think we can work something out. But Calvin did put up money when it wasn’t very popular to. He has controlling interest in the technology. It’s his call.”
“Yeah, you dance with them what brung ya,” said Lambert. “And I’m not going to let some damned government—”
“Just hold it, Calvin,” said Dacey. “I’ve sat here and watched you guys compare testosterone levels. Let’s get settled on what our priorities are. Catch one, figure it out, learn enough to close it. Right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Calvin, you can give up some of your precious technology rights, can’t you? And Dr. Randolph, you can write special rules that give the company commercial and patent rights to anything that comes of this, can’t you?”
Lambert and Randolph eyed each other warily, silent in their assent.
“Well, let’s try to work together and get as many resources on this as we can, shall we … gentlemen?” Her tone indicated she didn’t think either of the parties were, indeed gentlemen.
“I think we can work something out,” said Randolph finally, nodding to his assistant. “But I have to say one thing up front. You’ve had a chance already and it was a disaster. What’s to prevent it from happening again?”
“We’ve improved our methods.” Now Gerald was in his element and he warmed to the subject. “I announced at the colloquium that we can see precursors … faint light flashes, sort of a small aurora … a couple of days before what we call ‘breakthrough’ … when a hole opens up. So, now, we’ve got these capture vehicles and support vans sitting in Air Force cargo planes in each major city. They can take off in minutes and be anywhere within a day. And we’ve got DOD and NASA satell
ites programmed to detect the flashes real-time.”
“Tell them about the technical improvements,” prompted Dacey, noticing the faint outlines of a penned equation on one of Gerald’s palms as he gestured. He’d been making notes to himself again.
“We’ve made technical improvements, too. Each group has three carriers now, so one will be on the scene as a backup,” said Gerald. “And the magnetic capture system instantaneously changes the fields. We’ve also done some reengineering of the capture dishes to make them more structurally solid.”
“And we’ll have drivers inside who can take combat conditions,” said Lambert. “Ex-army tank drivers. Damned good nerves, fast reflexes. We’re givin’ ’em a hundred thousand a year, just to train. And I added a bounty of a hundred thousand for each man in the team that catches a hole.” He sat back with a satisfied grin. “I firmly believe in a capitalistic approach to these kinds of things.”
“Well, it’s been weeks,” said Randolph, a slight note of accusation entering his voice. “There have been events all over, including a couple in cities. But none that you’ve managed to get in ahead of.”
Gerald took a breath to reply, but an aide deferentially interrupted them, a cell phone in his hand. He gave it to Gerald, who took it and listened a moment. He smiled slightly, looking at Dacey, then the others, his dark eyes intense.
“A flash,” he said, his voice thick with tension. “They’ve seen a flash.”
“Alpha to Control. Target surfacing!” Gerald’s voice echoed in his own helmet’s headphones. He could also hear his own heavy breathing, as he crouched in the artillery carrier’s cramped passenger compartment. A deep gut-shaking rumble rose outside, penetrating even the carrier’s two inches of steel. The rumble rattled the twenty-two-ton vehicle like a toy, but the driver, Clark, sat imperviously in the driver’s seat, his gloved hands firmly gripping the controls, scanning the instruments and peering out the front slit. Clark, the squat, solid ex-army officer, only cared about fulfilling his mission, and Gerald was thankful for that. He scanned his own instruments that told him of the dish’s status. The electronics gave him a peculiar sense of security. He’d buried any fear under his excitement long ago. This was an encounter he’d never dreamed of. The paper theories about the wormholes were real, and one of them had roared to deafening life outside.
The magnetic capture display told him the dish was working, and the radar screen pinpointed the hole’s location. Peering over Clark’s shoulder through the slit, he could see the inward rush of debris marking the huge swirling disruption a thousand feet away. But a building partially blocked his view. Then the building disappeared.
“Bravo, look outside!” he shouted over the shriek of twisting metal. “Can you see it? It ate a building in front of me! That’s a steel warehouse! Still can’t see the thing clear, though. Lotta stuff flyin’!”
“… see it a little bit,” he heard Dacey say over the radio, above the thunderous noise.
“Alpha, you’re twenty yards too far south.” Mullins’ voice from the control van was thick with excitement. “And you’re too close. Avoid the crater it’s making! MOVE! NOW!”
“Okay, Andy, I see on the display,” shouted Gerald. Behind him, the five-hundred-horsepower diesel engine growled to life. Clark jammed the controls in reverse to back away. If they fell into the chasm the wormhole ripped in the earth, it would be all over. They had to catch it aboveground, or to attract it there. “In transit,” said Gerald.
“We got slammed by an incoming,” shouted Dacey. “Damned big chunk of steel! Rang our bell!” Gerald caught his breath. He was more afraid for Dacey than for himself. Somehow, he felt immune. He’d already trapped this hole into another universe in his web of equations. He knew this thing. He understood what it would do. But Dacey had only that incredible, brash self-confidence to protect her from utter panic. Fortunately, the driver of the other carrier, Herndon, was as rock-solid as Clark.
“Are you operational with that hit?” asked Mullins, who had joined Cooper to manage the capture. “You want vehicle Charlie to take over?”
“Negative, Control, my readouts look okay. Can you get a visual on me? From one of the helicopters?”
“Nobody can see zip, Bravo. We’ve gone totally to instruments. Dacey, can you see anything out the front slit?”
“I can see my capture dish. It’s got some flutter, but it looks okay.”
“Guys, I’m activating your capture dish fields. We’re on computer now. I can’t believe this luck … that the target surfaced. Watch your displays. Move like the computer tells you. And damned quick. And keep the hell away from that hole!”
“Okay,” said Clark. “On track.”
“Roger,” said Herndon. “Come to mama!” Herndon was clearly exultant at the greatest adventure since his tank-driving days.
“Good … good … good.” Mullins’ voice rose in pitch with each word. “Radar says the target’s right between you. It’s just floatin’ there maybe ten yards from each of you. Can you see it?”
“Hell, no!” Dacey spat.
Gerald smiled at the lilting sing-song way Dacey had answered. He knew it was something of a front. “Same here,” he replied, trying to exude the same bravado.
“Gerald, if it looks like it’s gonna come in and give you a kiss, just reverse out,” she said.
“Bravo here. First kiss I ever backed out of.”
Mullins’ voice came on the radio. “Everything’s stable. Fields are just real fine. Move forward.”
“Damn! I’m hittin’ turbulence! I can hardly breathe!” Dacey’s voice was tinged with fear.
“Put on your mask, Dacey.” Gerald felt the violent shaking, too, as if a giant fist had begun pounding the carrier. The atmosphere grew thin, as if the air was trying to escape the fury. He snapped on an oxygen mask. So did Clark.
“Am I stable? Am I stable?” It was Herndon’s voice in his headphone. “I feel like I’m skiddin’ forward! I’m blind out here!”
“Bravo, you’ve got it by the shorts!” Mullins answered. “Don’t give up now!”
“Really appreciate the cheering section, Control,” shouted Dacey.
“Forward ten yards. Both of you,” shouted Mullins.
A screaming wail rose, as the hole rose into the clear atmosphere, its maw sucking in only air. An ear-splitting whistle rose as the tortured air streamed into the hole.
“Son-of-a-bitch! My ears!” yelled Clark. “I see it! I see it! Jesus!” It was the first time Gerald had detected emotion in Clark’s voice. Out the front slit, Gerald saw a vague, round blackness floating ahead of the vehicle, chunks of concrete and earth leaping into it.
“Incoming!” shouted Herndon. “Shit! I—”
“Bravo, just keep going forward,” said Mullins. “Alpha, go three degrees left!” After a long moment, Mullins asked, “Are your dishes in position? Are the docking probes in position?”
“Affirmative,” said Clark. Gerald felt the vehicle suddenly lurch forward, sliding downhill into the crater the hole had excavated. “Whoa, mama!” exclaimed Clark. “I’m gonna need new tires!”
“Bravo, you copy?” asked Mullins.
Nothing but static.
“Bravo? Bravo!?” Now with more urgency.
Still no reply from Dacey or Herndon. Gerald peered intently out the slit. Through the tornado of swirling dust, he could barely see the other carrier. “I think Bravo’s antenna got sheared off. She can’t hear you. But she’s still in position.”
“Mag field’s still okay,” reported Mullins. “Move to close on target. Alpha! Do you hear? Move to close!”
“Roger, closing!” Gerald riveted his attention on the radar screen. He couldn’t tell! He just couldn’t tell what was happening! Clark jammed the carrier’s gear controls back and forth and jerked the steering lever, trying to keep the bucking vehicle lined up. He leaned forward and looked through the slit at the huge capture dish. It was vibrating, but solid. The blinding dust abated for an instant
and Gerald could see the other carrier, still sitting unmoving. Dear God, had they been killed? Suffocated? Killed by a piece of steel penetrating the armor? His heart pounded violently.
“Bravo’s not moving! Dacey doesn’t answer.” He tried to calm himself. He wouldn’t do her any good by panicking. “But we can compensate, I think.” In front of him, Clark nodded his helmeted head and slammed the controls, to make the carrier back away so he could start another approach.
They eased forward in the blinding dust, the deafening shriek. The heat became stifling in the small space. The other carrier still sat immobile.
The dishes met and the debris became a circular ring of inrushing dust around the edges. Gerald held his breath. What if a chunk of debris lodged between the spheres? A chunk of rock did catch for a moment. Then it was gone and the dishes slammed together. His instruments registered the closure. “CAPTURE DISH CONTACT!” he shouted, feeling his vocal cords nearly snap. “WE’VE GOT INITIAL SEALING! IT’S STILL LEAKING VACUUM! JESUS, WHAT A NOISE!”
“Engage your capture latches!” Mullins shouted. Gerald could barely make out the words over the scream and the growing static in the headphones.
“Roger. Okay.” Gerald flipped switches on a console and leaned forward to look out the slit. He could see nothing from his angle. He found himself holding his breath again and forced himself to inhale. If the latches didn’t engage, they were trapped with the ultimate deadly tiger by the tail. Abruptly, Clark gave a gloved thumbs-up sign. “ENGAGED!” shouted Gerald into the microphone.
“Bravo, you copy?” Mullins didn’t attempt to hide his alarm. “Alpha, what’s happening with Bravo?”
“Her latches aren’t engaged. Hasn’t moved.” The seal still had not been made and Gerald could still hear the high-pitched hiss of leakage.
“Shit, we’re gonna be stuck here with a half-assed capture,” said Clark, his low voice that of a soldier preparing to die.
“Can’t you signal?” asked Mullins. “Clark, can’t you signal?”
Wormholes Page 21