The voice snarled at her. “He’s where?”
“Outside.”
“Outside the ship?”
“That is affirmative.”
“For God’s sake—who am I talking to?”
“The pilot.”
“What’s your name, pilot?”
“Rolnikaya.”
“Okay, Rolnikaya. I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You get the vice president back inside. Now. Tell him Mr. Kerr wants to talk with him.”
“At the moment he’s busy, Mr. Kerr. I’ll tell him when he comes in.” She broke the connection.
8.
Micro, outside the Cargo Deck. 3:42 A.M.
Charlie pushed past the hatch, slipped into the airlock, and collapsed. He was breathing hard, literally panting, fogging the bag. He released the paper clip again, cautiously, remembering the warning about nosebleed. The bandanna was drenched.
Saber was right: It felt like a sauna. That was odd. He’d always assumed space was cold.
There was a status display on the bulkhead, and it had power. He found the white presspad, took a deep breath, and pushed. To his delight, the inner hatch opened.
Lights were still on inside.
Bigfoot’s body, clothed in the p-suit, floated near the ladder, to which it was tethered. The suit looked broken and there were globules of blood drifting through the chamber. Charlie realized that every time Saber ran the engine, the body was slammed against the ladder.
He’d have liked to stop and secure it. But he felt extraordinarily weary. His bag wouldn’t clear up, so he was having trouble making out details around him. And he suspected some of the blood was inside the bag.
It was hard to concentrate. Something touched his arm and his hair stood upright.
Bigfoot’s helmet.
His hand closed on it and he had to think.
Hold on to it.
The locker. Where was the locker? He tried to remember. The part of his mind that remained clear seemed to be shrinking into a corner back in his head somewhere, somewhat like the effect that nitrous oxide produces in a dentist’s office. He tried to fight it off. It occurred to him that he could no longer see the outside warning lights. But Saber could use the intercom to speak directly to C deck.
Right?
But there was no air. No medium to carry the sound.
There were three lockers, she’d said. It was in the middle one. He pushed past tanks, cables, shelving. Feeling his way.
He turned a corner. Drifted off the deck. Found a handhold, the side of a storage bin, something, and pulled himself back. And in this tortuous manner, half-blinded, operating out of a state that was neither rational nor deluded, he found the storage cabinets.
He opened the middle one and felt the suit. And another helmet. Take both. Bigfoot’s might be damaged. Wouldn’t want to have to do this again. No sir. This was too much even for the vice president of the United States. He wrapped the helmets in the suit.
He got back to the airlock, pushed the presspad, and watched the inner hatch close. He settled in to wait, and a minute went by before he realized he didn’t need to bother because the outer hatch was already open, had been open.
Make sure you’ve still got the suit.
He did, and he felt for his ladder up the face of the moonbus. He didn’t need it really. He could just lean out and launch. (He giggled at the thought.) Grab the hatch as he went by. Nothing to it.
In fact, he wasn’t sure which way was up. The ladder went in both directions. Which way was the passenger cabin and which way the treads? He went back inside the airlock—better safe than sorry—found the control panel, wiped a smeary arm across his bag-helmet, and tried to read the markings. But he could see nothing.
Which way?
Then he remembered the airlock benches. They were for sitting, so they had to be near the floor. Down. He wanted to go the other way.
He found the benches, returned to the outer hatch, and checked the p-suit again. God help him if Saber had to start the engine. He seized a handhold and started up.
It had been a mistake not to count the handholds coming down. He thought there’d been eight or nine. Or maybe thirteen. (He chuckled again.) But he was counting now as he climbed, and at six he began feeling for the hatch to the passenger cabin airlock, although he knew it was too soon. At thirteen, he still hadn’t found it. He considered tearing the bag off so he could see.
Exhale.
What would happen if he missed it? Did the handgrips go completely around the bus? He visualized himself climbing forever, going round and round.
Take off the bag. Roll the dice and settle it.
Could he get inside before the vacuum killed him? Who knew? Certainly not Vice President Charles L. Haskell. He wondered what Sam would think if he could see him now.
And his fingers closed around the hatch.
TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 3:53 A.M.
“This is Keith Morley on board the vice president’s moonbus. Just minutes ago, Vice President Haskell successfully concluded an incredible rescue effort outside the ship….”
Micro Passenger Cabin, 4:07 A.M.
“Yes, Al, what is it?”
“Are you all right, Charlie?”
“I’m fine.” That was hardly true, but considering the condition he might have been in, he was doing damned well. “I understand things are not so good at your end.”
“Yes. Miami Beach, New Orleans, completely destroyed. Eastern seaboard hit from Maine to the Florida Keys. Not as hard. Not total. But it’s—” His voice broke and he began to sob softly. Al Kerr.
Evelyn was climbing down from the flight deck, where she’d been in radio contact with Saber. She nodded and elaborately removed her oxygen mask.
“They’re estimating tens of thousands of casualties,” Kerr continued in a voice only slightly less shaky. “But God knows what the count really is.”
Charlie’s eyes squeezed shut. He thought of his own father and cousins, living at the Cape.
“It’s a goddammed disaster, Charlie. I don’t think any of us had any idea—”
“Okay.” Charlie was trying to absorb what Kerr was telling him.
“Something else. I don’t know whether you’ve heard or not, but the other plane is missing. Maybe it’s just a radio failure. I know they lost contact with you for a couple of hours, too.”
“The other plane? The one Rick’s on?”
“That’s what they’re telling us. I don’t think they’re hopeful. I’m sorry.” There was a long pause. “Charlie, right now it looks as if there’ll be a million dead before this is over. The president would have talked to you himself, except that he’s buried right now. You understand.”
Buried.
“Charlie, you should be aware there’s some doubt here whether the country can survive this.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I can see where there might be.”
“Henry wants you to put the best possible face on things. Stay upbeat. I mean, you’re our point man on this. You’ve been there.”
“Al, you sound like Rick.”
“Yeah. I guess in the end we all end up sounding like Rick. Listen, what were you doing outside the ship? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“It’s a bus.”
“Whatever.”
“I was trying to get a hatch open.”
“Okay. Don’t do it any more, okay? Meantime, we’ll get out a press release. Haskell Takes Charge, right?”
“Let it go,” said Charlie.
“Charlie, I think the president will insist. Listen, we need all the PR we can get.”
Charlie didn’t particularly like the president. But he knew that Henry took the job seriously, and had to be suffering all the torments of hell now. He wasn’t a man to write off losses, to recognize that there were some situations in which you simply acted the best you could and hoped for the best. Charlie knew that Henry would be blaming himself. He could almost hear the president’s explanation: Charlie, we should have started
the evacuations right away. We were too worried about what we’d feed them away from their homes. We were worried about traffic jams, for God’s sake. So they’d guessed wrong and a lot of people had died.
But Charlie knew that if he’d been there, he’d have found no fault with the course of action. He’d have gone along, thinking they were doing the right thing.
For a few moments, the responsibility of the office touched him. He wondered now for the first time during his political career whether he really wanted to become president of the United States. Suddenly it was a dark and fearsome vision.
When he got home and things settled down, he’d rethink things. Maybe withdraw his candidacy. It wasn’t really that he was frightened of the office, but he needed to recognize his own limitations. The next president was going to be facing a wrecked nation. The simple truth was that they’d need someone better than Charlie Haskell. Charlie might have been okay for good times; but the United States had been plunged into a monumental disaster. The nation needed a Lincoln. Or a Teddy Roosevelt.
Where in hell were they going to find one?
Immediately after Kerr got off the phone, Saber reappeared at the airlock. She looked pleased with herself, and Charlie was happy for her. “You can’t beat duct tape,” she announced. And then she looked at Charlie, strapped down, his seat lowered. “You don’t look so good.” She wanted to give him something to help him sleep, but Charlie refused. Not tonight, of all nights. As if he could do something to help.
“How bad do I look?” he asked Evelyn after Saber had gone back to the flight deck.
“As if you’ve been in a fight. And lost.” She held up a mirror: His face was bruised and he had two black eyes.
“A lot of people dead tonight,” he said.
She nodded. “We heard.”
He hovered between exhaustion and horror.
And there was more bad news. Saber called Evelyn up to the flight deck. When she came back she said they’d received word that communication had never been restored with the early flight. It was presumed lost with a hundred and one passengers and three crew.
They were all thinking about it, running the names of friends and colleagues, trying to recall who had been scheduled on which flight.
One hundred four people. It was minuscule compared to the vast numbers who had died on the ground. But it personalized the losses. Rick and Sam and God knew who else and a million others.
It was the darkest night in human memory.
Manhattan. 4:01 A.M.
Larry stood by Marilyn’s side, peering out over the rooftops and down at the new sea. Manhattan had become a cluster of concrete islands. The city was dark. The shattered Moon had long since set. “Goddam government,” he said. “They told us there was nothing to worry about.”
Someone pointed a flashlight over the side of the roof. Its beam bobbed up and down in the water. There were bodies.
Marilyn turned away. She’d been unable to sleep, and had eventually rejoined the quiet group gathered around a battery-powered radio.
The terrace doors were open and the curtains moved in a soft breeze. Approximately thirty people were still present. A few, who had drunk too much early in the evening, were asleep. The others looked listless and frightened.
Marilyn had relatives in Boston and friends on the Outer Banks. She’d tried to call them, but got only busy signals and recordings (“The number you dialed is currently receiving maintenance….”) until about three. Now the phone was completely dead.
The rooms were lighted by candles. “I wonder what our place looks like,” she asked Larry. Their apartment was on the third floor, a high third floor, and should have been above water. But it was an effort to care. “We should try to get home,” she said.
“How do you suggest we do that, love?”
She was surprised at the sense of disconnectedness that had come over her. She almost didn’t care about anything. But she knew there were things to be said, pretenses to be made.
Louise was in the kitchen. There was no running water, of course. Louise had broken open a bottle of spring water and was pouring out a small portion for one of accountants. “Make it last, Bill,” she said.
“Is that the entire supply?” asked Marilyn.
Louise looked at the container. About a gallon remained. “This is it,” she said. “We need to start thinking how we’re going to manage if help doesn’t come.”
“Help’ll come,” said the accountant.
“I think,” said Marilyn, “Louise is right.”
Louise looked as if she hadn’t slept all night. She’s been worrying about how she’ll feed everybody, Marilyn realized.
Larry came in behind her. “Maybe we should start by figuring out how we’ll manage breakfast,” he said. “Is there a grocery in the neighborhood?”
Louise nodded. Her customary energy had evaporated. “One block over toward Broadway. Across the street. It’s called Barney’s. But I’d think it’s underwater at the moment.”
“Listen,” said the accountant, “the whole world knows we’re caught here. Let’s not go running off half-cocked. All we need to do is be patient.”
“No.” Marvin stepped into the candlelight. His voice sounded an octave deeper than usual. “I don’t think we should just wait here to see what happens to us.” He looked at Marilyn, and turned to Louise: “Is there anything in the building we can use for a raft?”
9.
White House, Oval Office. 4:07 A.M.
Nonessential personnel had been packed off and whisked away. Henry, who’d been on the phone with the Brazilian president, had watched them go with a sense of being on a sinking ship. The agents had refused to leave, and they now manned the front gate. All other entrances had been sealed. Save for the president, several of his top aides, the Secret Service, and the half-dozen officers staffing the situation room, the White House was empty. As a precaution, Kerr had brought in three Marine helicopters, which waited on the lawn, rotors slowly turning.
The president’s phone rang. “General Wilson on the line, sir,” said the army captain who’d replaced his secretary.
“Yes, Bob?” said the president.
“Mr. President, we’re retargeting the birds, as you requested. We’ll be ready to launch as soon as it passes.”
“Good.” Thank God. At least something was going right. “You have authorization to fire, Bob. But not until it’s on the way out.”
“Yes, sir. That’s exactly how we’ll handle it.”
“Don’t want any radioactive pieces falling on China.”
“No, sir.”
Others besides Feinberg had become aware of the threat offered by POSIM-38, and the story had seeped into the media. The Rocky Mountain News, in its electronic edition, noted that the object looked vaguely like a tombstone. Several editorial cartoons using the object had already turned up, including one that showed Henry contemplating his own gravesite, marked by a stone that resembled the Possum.
Well, they were right about that. Whatever happened now, Henry’s obituary had been written and published.
Lightning crackled on the roof. It was as bad a storm as any Henry could remember in all his years in the District. The experts thought it was another storm spawned by moonrock.
Kerr’s familiar rap sounded at the door.
“Come,” said the president.
The door opened cautiously and the chief of staff looked into the office. “Are you all right, Henry?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” Kerr was standing awkwardly. The way he did when there was a problem. “What’s wrong, Al?”
“More waves coming,” he said. “Three to four hours. West Coast this time.”
County Route 6, southwest of San Francisco. 1:19 A.M. Pacific Daylight Time (4:19 A.M. EDT).
The reports of the assorted disasters coming in from around the country, contrasted with the quiet wilderness in which the Kapchik family rested, lent the telecasts an air of unreality. It was as if they were watch
ing an end-of-the-world television drama, running simultaneously on all channels. The glimmering mist that had replaced the Moon had itself gone behind a bank of clouds. A gentle wind blew out of the west, and the night was cool and pleasant. The mountainside on which they’d camped had filled up with people who traded food, coffee, and alcohol, and generally clustered together with the kind of community spirit that only shared risk could bring. They watched the images with dismay and pity, and they did not speak of the curious secret joy they felt for having escaped the disaster that had overtaken so many. After a while Marisa turned the set off.
She’d given up trying to sleep, and sat propped against a tree, wearing an extra woolen shirt. Her eyes drifted shut. She could smell campfires and coffee. A lot of people were still awake, talking to one another in subdued voices. Jerry had crawled into a sleeping bag with the kids, and now snored softly. Cars and trucks continued to roll east.
There’d been reports of waves approaching California, but they didn’t specifically mention San Francisco. She thought of her home in Pacifica and prayed that it would still be there when they went back.
Abruptly the whispers turned to gasps. A fireball soared across the sky and exploded directly overhead. Fragments rained down. The hills brightened, and after a few moments she heard a crackle, like distant firecrackers. Then the world went dark again.
Jerry never stirred.
Somebody closed a car door.
Jerry wanted to go home tomorrow if nothing happened, but she thought caution was called for. In the morning, she would suggest they stay out one more night until they were sure.
The area in which the Kapchiks had parked was filled to capacity. Other vehicles lined the shoulder of the road. A police cruiser crouched in a patch of trees across the highway. It provided a sense of security, a kind of guarantee that the world would go on.
Marisa became aware of activity around her. The whispers turned to obscenities, and people leaned toward their TVs.
She pulled her earphones back over her head and switched on her own unit in time to hear an excited reporter describing an effort to evacuate Los Angeles. Hundreds of buses, organized by relief agencies and the military, were trying to get three million people to higher ground. Clouds of planes and helicopters were flying into private fields and small municipal airports to help. Three million.
Moonfall Page 34