“It’s eerie,” said Dan Packard, his XO. The waterfront was lit up, like always. Here and there a solitary figure patrolled the docks, flashlight and clipboard in hand. Beyond, the towers of Manhattan rose under clear skies, unchanged and unchangable, mocking Diligent and her orders. It was eerie. Even Bolling, who’d been working the harbor for twelve years, had never seen it so completely deserted.
The Diligent was an ancient 210-foot cutter, known affectionately to her crew as Dilly. She was based at Governor’s Island, had spent the earlier part of the evening directing outbound traffic into Long Island Sound. Now, in company with her sister vessel Reliant, she was moving south on the East River, one final patrol before clearing out through the Narrows into the Atlantic, where they would wait until higher authority was sure events in the sky would not create hazardous conditions in the cramped New York and New Jersey waterways.
Ships had been putting out to sea now for three days, taking no chances on getting caught near shore if high water developed.
Bolling was a graduate of Stanford, where he’d majored in history. He’d grown up around boats and joined the Coast Guard more or less as a lark, expecting to enjoy himself for a few years before settling down with a real job. He’d earned a commission at the academy and married a marine pilot. He’d liked the life, enjoyed the freedom, and now wondered that he could ever have thought seriously of working in an office.
His marriage hadn’t lasted: too many irregular hours on both sides, no kids to bind the partners, and maybe too much money. They’d stayed in touch and managed to remain friends. Tonight, he knew she’d squired an automobile carrier out past the eastern markers and elected to stay with the ship. It was running coastwise, with stops in Philadelphia, Charleston, and Brunswick. But it would lie well offshore with the rest of the merchant fleet until the situation sorted itself out.
“I sent my family out of town,” said Packard. “Soon as I heard.”
Bolling knew several people who’d tried to do that but had been unable to book transport. And more than a few who’d started out by car, given up, and come home. “I don’t think there’s anything to it, Dan,” he said. “But it never hurts to be safe.”
He was glad his ex was out, too.
Funny how night skies give credence to fear. When he’d reported for duty this afternoon and they’d begun to lay out the operational plan, it had all seemed ridiculous. The sun had been bright, the weather warm, and everyone was laughing over a long jaunt out into the Atlantic. But it felt deadly serious now as Dilly and Reliant moved past empty piers.
One vessel, the Kira Maru, was inbound. Diligent overtook her as she approached Throgs Neck Bridge. The Merchant Marine Academy was off to port, just beyond Kings Point Road. Automobile traffic seemed normal. Maybe even a little heavy for a Saturday night.
Dilly was loaded with medical supplies just in case. And it carried a couple of tanks of fresh water. Someone in the chain of command was taking the comet seriously.
The skies were about as clear as they get over New York. Comet and Moon had risen almost simultaneously during the late afternoon. They were overhead now, entwined in the bridge, almost visibly drawing together while he watched. He drew his jacket around his shoulders. On the river at this time of year, nights were always cold.
His orders were crumpled in his jacket pocket.
PRESERVE THE BOAT IN THE EVENT OF HEAVY WEATHER.
That was strange phrasing, he thought, considering what they feared.
RENDER ASSISTANCE AS NECESSARY.
MAINTAIN RADIO CONTACT AT ALL TIMES
AFTER 2200 HOURS.
REPORT PROMPTLY ANY UNUSUAL
HYDROLOGIC PHENOMENA.
Now the dark sky gave way to the Whitestone Bridge.
“Look,” said Packard, pointing ahead toward a small flotilla of yachts, a few points to starboard. There were maybe twenty boats in all. Bolling could hear music drifting across the water. And laughter. But they were keeping together, and they waved as the cutter passed. Some of the coasties waved back.
The lead boat was a twin-engine white and maroon Mainship motor yacht with Yankee Liz painted on her bow. “Ramsey,” said Bolling to his radio operator, “Bring Liz up.”
Ramsey was not much more than a kid, just out of school. He spoke into his microphone, listened, nodded, looked at his skipper. Bolling gestured for the mike.
“Yankee Liz,” he said, “this is the Coast Guard. Where are you bound?”
He could see the boat’s captain on its bridge, hunched over the radio. He was a short, dumpy man, but it was too dark to make out other details. “Getting clear of the Sound tonight,” he said.
“Where are you headed?” asked Bolling again.
“Peekskill.”
“All of you? Are you traveling together?”
“Some are going to Croton-on-Hudson.”
“Nobody going to sea?”
“No, sir.”
“Very good, Captain. Thank you.”
Off to port, LaGuardia Airport was quiet. Bolling had seen it like that before, idled by a heavy storm or by a strike. The tower looked active, and he could see vehicles moving on the approach roads. But there were no lights in the sky.
They passed Rikers Island and Hell Gate.
Reliant was out of sight now.
The city crouched on the river, insensate, timeless, invulnerable. Headlights moved along both banks, climbed the approaches, and crossed on the Triborough.
They continued down to the foot of Manhattan, making perhaps better time than Bolling would ordinarily have allowed, but he felt crowded by the narrow channels of the East River. Governors Island and the Statue of Liberty came into view. The harbor looked serene, traffic flowing in an endless stream around its perimeter. A ferry nosed past them.
He checked his schedule. The ferries were going to discontinue service at 2230 hours. “I’m surprised they didn’t decide to close the bridges until it’s over,” he said.
“I think that’d be a nightmare, Captain,” said Packard. “I don’t think you do that unless you really believe something’s coming.”
They’d been talking about it all day. Neither would admit to anything except skepticism. Another typical government hassle. But Bolling was nevertheless happy to get through the Narrows and out into the Atlantic.
8.
Micro. 10:07 P.M.
The landing lights at Alphonsus were bright and crisp, cheerful against the bleak landscape as Tony and Saber rode the beacon down. The Sun was below the eastern highlands, probably just a few hours from dawn. The crater looked different, unfamiliar, in the strange light.
As soon as the interview with Keith Morley had ended, Saber had gone down to the cargo deck to get into her p-suit. Tony was glad it was over. The prospect of speaking to millions of people had scared him more than the comet. Below, lights switched on and the roof doors began to roll back.
“Micro.” Bigfoot’s voice on the radio. “Tony, how are we doing?”
“On target.”
“Okay. Everybody here’s packed and ready to go.”
“Roger that.”
“But we’ve lost one.”
“Say again, Moonbase.”
“We lost one. Chandler’s not coming.”
“Roger.” Pause. “Why not?”
“Bad heart.” Bigfoot changed his tone. “As soon as you’re on the pad, we’ll proceed as planned. Is Saber in her gear?”
“She will be in a couple of minutes.”
“Okay. I’m going to have to close down now. I need time to get through the airlock.”
“Roger.”
“When I get into the bay, I’ll still be able to talk to you, but I won’t be able to see any of the instruments. So you’ll be on your own.”
“I know.” Manual descent into the terminal wasn’t routine, but Tony didn’t anticipate any problems.
“We’ll have a beacon to ride out.”
“Good. See you in a few minutes, Bigfoot.” H
e broke the connection and buzzed Saber. “On final approach.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Moonbase Spaceport. 10:08 P.M.
The Spaceport accommodated nine service bays. Two of these were designed for cargo carriers; four housed the lobbers and hoppers that were used for short- or long-range lunar transportation. The remaining three served the buses that connected Moonbase with L1. Each, of course, could be depressurized individually and opened to the void through a set of overhead doors.
While he talked to the Micro, Bigfoot had been sitting in a p-suit. Now he pulled on his helmet, checked his systems, picked up a remote and shoved it into a pocket, and entered the Bay Four airlock. He’d already depressurized the bay, opened its overhead doors, and turned on its touchdown lights.
When the board went green he opened the hatch and stepped into the work area. He’d laid out the umbilicals earlier, lox and powdered aluminum for fuel, others carrying an electrical recharge, water, and air. He’d also put out several transparent plastic bags filled with sealant, patches, wrenches, peanut butter (who knew how long this trip might take?), and spare parts other than those the bus normally carried. He studied them briefly, trying to think if he’d forgotten anything. Nothing came to mind.
He activated his radio. “Tony, I’m in the bay.”
“Roger that. We’re at twelve hundred meters.”
He looked up. The tongue of flame from the main engine was moving against the stars. “I see you.”
“How’s the comet doing?”
“It’s doing fine. It’s inside a million kilometers,” said Bigfoot.
Right on time.
Routine procedure called for Moonbase personnel to track incoming vehicles and maintain a constant flow of data exchange until they were safely down. But had Bigfoot stayed inside to do that, it would have taken too long to get through the airlock. Still, there was no real risk here. The bay was built to accommodate the much larger 2665 bus, so there was plenty of room, probably an average of ten meters’ clearance on a side. Bigfoot wouldn’t have worried at all except that he had a pilot in a hurry.
He released the stops on the umbilicals and laid them out close to the pad, setting each so he could activate the flow at the nozzle. When he was satisfied he could do no more, he recalled that Keith Morley had given him the microcam to set up inside the bay. He looked around, found a table, extended the instrument’s legs as he’d been shown, and pointed it toward the pad. (He’d warned Morley that he might not have time to recover it, but Morley said that he didn’t want it recovered, that he wanted shots of the Micro pulling in and leaving.) Then he climbed behind a heat shield and tapped into the public address system.
“This is Caparatti,” he said. “Are you folks at the door?”
Evelyn responded. “We’re ready to go, Bigfoot.” She still didn’t sound so good, he thought.
“Okay. We’ll be opening up in about five minutes. Keith, you’re all set and ready to go.”
“Thanks, Bigfoot,” said the newsman. “My director’s asked if you can move it a little bit left. Just a few degrees.”
Bigfoot complied, changing the angle until Morley said it was okay.
The rim of Earth was visible through the overhead doors.
Tony’s voice on the radio: “How do I look, Bigfoot?”
Dammit, he didn’t like trying to eyeball the Micro in from here. “Drifting east a couple of points,” he said. “As best I can tell.”
“Roger.”
Bigfoot watched him compensate. “That’s good. Keep coming.” Safety regulations prohibited personnel from entering this area during landing or launch operations. The chance of getting caught in the backwash was high. The heat shield behind which he hid was designed to protect equipment.
One hundred meters.
A clock on the control room wall showed ten thirteen.
The bay brightened in the glow of the rocket engines. He heard the two pilots talking to each other, switched to another channel, and listened to Keith Morley reporting to his global audience. Damned if he didn’t sound as if he were enjoying every minute.
Bigfoot had known people like that during his brief tenure with the Packers, guys who seemed absolutely fearless, who thrived on risk.
Forty meters.
“A little tight at the rear, Tony. Take it forward a touch. That’s it. Not too much.” Even through the suit he felt the heat from the motors.
Thruster clusters adjusted their angle and fired. The Micro centered itself. “That’s good. Bring it in.”
A gout of flame arrowed through the overhead doors.
“Passengers, ready up,” he said. “The bird is almost down.”
Treads and main engine nozzle cleared the roof and the fire licked the launchpad. Now the undercarriage, and finally the sphere itself bellied in. Its weight settled onto the treads, compressing them.
Clouds of steam formed and began to dissipate.
Through the lighted windows he could see movement on the flight deck. The Micro cut power and Bigfoot came out from behind the shield. He pointed the remote at a sensor on the far wall and squeezed. The pad rotated the vehicle until its main airlock lined up with a marker on the deck. Then he pushed a different button. A Fleming tube, considerably shorter than the ones used at L1, unfolded from the Bay Four gate, and like a caterpillar trundled across the bay and connected with the airlock.
Meantime, the ship’s cargo hatch opened and Saber, in a p-suit, popped out. Bigfoot laid the remote on the deck. “Refuel first,” he said.
“Okay.” Saber moved quickly out to help with the umbilicals, while he got the latches up for the fuel receivers. With no wasted motions, they connected both lines and hit the switches.
Now, while Bigfoot went after the other umbilicals, Saber retrieved the remote and checked the readings. She had a green light, which meant a good connection. She aimed the instrument again at the sensor and opened the door that would permit the passengers to enter the Fleming tube. On his radio, Bigfoot heard Morley’s broadcast as they scrambled into the passageway: “Bruce, as you can see, the door’s open at last and we’re moving down the ramp.”
Saber connected the electrical line while Bigfoot got the others. They hit the switches, and electricity, oxygen, and water began to flow. Next they threw the plastic bags into the airlock. When that was done, Bigfoot returned to the umbilicals. Flow was steady and normal. His gaze drifted to the clock—twenty after—and back to the gauges, where numbers flicked past.
At ten twenty-three, oxygen and water topped off and Saber disconnected the lines and threw them clear. They couldn’t do much about recharging, of course, in the short time they had. Usually the operation needed close to an hour and a quarter. But they’d take what they could get.
The critical area was fuel. Tanks were now about forty percent full.
Tony reported the passengers were through the ship’s airlock and filing into the cabin.
Saber spoke to Caparatti on the radio: “Bigfoot, when we’re done, we’ll go in through the cargo hatch. I want to try to get to the flight deck if I can. You seal the hatch behind us.”
“Okay,” he said.
Morley was still doing his broadcast, using the low-key voice that was supposed to suggest great drama: “You’re watching Bigfoot Caparatti on your screen now. And yes, if you’re a football fan, that’s the same Bigfoot who once played for the Green Bay Packers.”
Once is exactly correct, you dumb son of a bitch. Did you really have to bring that up?
Saber was watching the recharge. “How we doing?” Bigfoot asked.
“Okay. We’ll have enough to power the systems. How’s the fuel?”
“About halfway.”
Tony came back on: “Everybody’s in and the hatch is secure. You can disconnect the tube.”
Saber aimed the remote. The walkway came loose and began to retract.
Bigfoot’s entire world narrowed down to the two fuel counters and the clock. H
e let the numbers slip out of focus. Saber’s eyes were dark pinpoints behind her visor.
The narrow patch of black sky visible through the entry doors had acquired a haze. He found himself torn between terror and an inclination to dismiss the entire affair as hysteria. Earlier, when he’d made the decision to stay, he’d gotten patched through to his mother, who’d cried and prayed on the phone; and an old friend with whom he’d played college football, who’d told him he was a damned fool but that he was proud to have known Bigfoot. It was said in the past tense.
“Can we get moving?” asked Tony.
“Almost done,” said Bigfoot.
At ten twenty-six, the liquid oxygen tank reached full and the pump shut off. Bigfoot disconnected, and threw the umbilical aside. Saber decided she had enough power, and broke her line loose and dropped it.
“Get inside,” Bigfoot said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Why don’t we call it a tankful and clear out?”
Yeah. What the hell.
She started for the cargo hatch while Bigfoot shut down, jerked the umbilical out of the fuel receptacle, capped it, and closed and secured the latch. He lobbed the line as far as he could, which in lunar gravity was a substantial distance. Then he was right behind Saber, dashing for the open hatch while she told Tony that refueling was complete. They’d cut it a little short in the interests of time, she said, but he shouldn’t start the engine yet. She was scrambling into the cargo deck airlock and simultaneously extending a hand to Bigfoot. “We’re inside,” she told Tony. “Go!” Bigfoot stabbed at the control panel and the outer hatch swung shut. Oxygen poured into the chamber. The engine lit and the bus trembled.
The inner hatch opened. Saber popped through and dashed across the hold, removing her helmet as she went. She was quite agile in low-g footwork and she left Bigfoot far behind.
She swung up the ladder and erupted into the passenger cabin, still carrying her helmet. The Micro began to rise.
Bigfoot meantime had closed and sealed the airlock. Then he tried to follow Saber into the passenger cabin, but the bus was moving quickly now and his weight was increasing. He struggled halfway up the ladder, realized he couldn’t make it, and concluded his sole mission was to close the hatch between decks. He caught a last glimpse of Saber moving monkey-style up toward the cockpit as he pulled the hatch shut and secured it. Then he retreated back down the ladder.
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