Moonfall

by Jack McDevitt

  “Meanwhile, Canadian authorities ore bracing for an avalanche row morning. Border stations are already overwhelmed. Sources dose to the government are continuing to deny persistent rumors that the Canadians will suspend inspections for the duration of the emergency.”

  Percival Lowell Flight Deck. 4:27 P.M.

  “You heard, Mr. President?” Feinberg sounded shrill.

  “I heard. We’ll just have to make do with six.”

  “If you’ll forgive me, sir, physics is not politics. You can’t make things happen by trying harder.”

  Charlie was seated up front with Rachel Quinn. Outside, the Possum’s terrain rolled slowly past. “Wes, we’re not going to give up.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether you give up or not. It won’t work without a seventh ship. But, I should point out, you’re sitting in one.”

  That fact hadn’t escaped Charlie. Like Feinberg, he was beginning to wonder if the Percival Lowell could substitute for the damaged space plane. But the Lowell was dwarfed by the giant SSTOs. He covered the mike and glanced at Rachel. “Will this thing put out the kind of horsepower the space planes do?”

  “We don’t call it horsepower, Mr. President,” she said. “But no, it won’t. It doesn’t need that much thrust.”

  “It’s close enough,” said Feinberg, when Charlie repeated her comment.

  “Okay,” said Charlie, “Why don’t you hang on a minute and let me put you on the speaker so the pilot can get into this conversation.”

  He flipped a switch and Feinberg’s voice filled the cabin: “You need to find a way to anchor the Lowell to the Possum. Actually, the Lowell makes a more effective engine anyway than the SSTOs, because you won’t run out of fuel in twenty minutes. If we had a handful of ships like yours, we wouldn’t have a problem.”

  Rachel made a slicing motion across her throat. Charlie nodded. “Give us a chance to talk about it, Wes. We’ll get back to you.” He cut the connection and turned to the pilot. “What?” he said.

  “You remember the damaged SSTO? They’re sending it over with some equipment to try to lash it down. I don’t think they’ve left Skyport yet. Why don’t we suggest they send extra gear for us?”

  “Do it,” said Charlie.

  She put in the request and then turned back to him. “There’s a downside, you know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There won’t be any easy way to unanchor us. My understanding is that the pitons they’re putting on the SSTOs can be jettisoned. If things get hairy, they push a button and they’re gone. In case, say, the rock goes down.”

  “You’re saying—”

  “In our case, we’ll just get fastened to the rock. If Plan A doesn’t work, there’ll be no way to get Lowell clear.”

  Skyport Flight Terminal. 4:36 P.M.

  The maintenance people had patched the holes, cleaned and lubricated the engines, and replaced Arlington’s broken antennas. There’d been some talk about removing fail and wings to cut down on drag, but apparently they’d decided it was just too big a job. The external damage, a shattered tail assembly, assorted dents and chips, and a bent undercarriage had been left alone. All that could be taken care of later. If necessary.

  With flight engineer Curt Greenberg and copilot Mary Casey in tow, George met with Belle Cassidy and a couple of her people in operations to discuss the mission profile. They went over flight data and were shown their assigned place on the Possum. While they talked, George watched one of the SSTOs arrive from Atlanta and glide gently into its bay.

  Belle introduced Jonathan Porter, an engineer, who would help anchor the plane. Porter was a dark-haired, middle-aged man of remarkably passive appearance. He looked uncomfortable in Belle’s presence, and smiled too much. His voice was reedy. This, George thought, was the kid they always picked last when they were choosing up sides. Not the man he’d have wanted on board during an emergency. But Belle didn’t seem to have any qualms.

  “We’re lucky Jonathan didn’t leave with the rest,” she said smoothly. “We’ve given you plenty of cable and spikes. Jonathan will see that you’re securely bolted down. When that’s done, he’s going to do the same thing for Lowell.”

  “Lowell?”

  “Yep. I guess we’re throwing everything we’ve got into this little tug of war.”

  Skyport Flight Terminal. 9:45 P.M.

  Everything went like clockwork. Five planes arrived from Hartsfield, the last three only slightly delayed by the terrorist incident. They refueled and got a final inspection while they waited for their window to open.

  Although all were owned by the Lunar Transport Authority, they were based around the world. SSTO 702 was from Atlanta, 703 from Berlin, 704 from London, 705 from Tokyo, 708 from Moscow.

  The journalists at Skyport, most of whom had been on the Moon for the opening ceremonies, had a field day. The networks were filled with interviews of crewmembers, all of whom seemed calm and confident. Feinberg predicted success. “The numbers are there,” he said. “Barring another crazed act by terrorists, we should see the Sun rise tomorrow on a happy Kansas.”

  FRANK CRANDALL’S ALL-NIGHTER. 10:53 P.M.

  “I’ll tell you, Frank, I’m with the woman who said the whole thing’s just a con game to free up money for the aerospace people. That’s all it is. That rock isn’t coming down tonight, never was gonna come down. But Haskell will claim credit and a lot of taxpayer money go to Lockheed and the LTA. Mark my words.”

  TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 11:43 P.M.

  With Bruce Kendrick.

  “The entire world appears to be kneeling in prayer tonight….”

  Skyport Flight Terminal. Midnight.

  The last of the SSTOs, 708 from Moscow, broke away from Skyport with measured speed. Almost everyone on the station was standing along the flight terminal’s Apollo Deck, which had the best view of the launch. For a long time after Moscow’s lights vanished into the night, almost no one moved.

  CHAPTER TEN

  BELLWETHER

  Tuesday, April 16

  1.

  Percival Lowell Flight Deck. 12:03 A.M.

  “Arlington’s here, Mr. President.” Rachel pointed to the scope over the heads-up display, where three blips had appeared. The objects were approaching from the rear, after having completed a long, looping orbit to allow them to match the Possum’s trajectory. Dead ahead, Earth looked very big and very vulnerable.

  Thank God. Charlie felt the weight shift on his shoulders. It was too easy to visualize this thing ripping through the planet’s pink skies, blasting the lush brown soil of Kansas into the upper atmosphere, melting the underlying bedrock.

  “Arlington’s damaged,” she continued. “It got hammered coming back from the Moon.”

  “I hope it holds together.”

  “I don’t think there’re any fears about that.”

  “Who are the others?”

  “Ferries, Mr. President. The Alexei Kordeshev and the Christopher Talley.”

  Charlie raised his coffee in silent salute. They had been crew members on the Ranger.

  Rachel was getting another transmission. She touched her earphones, nodded, and switched on the speaker.

  “This is Arlington,” said the radio.

  “Good to see you, Arlington.”

  “Roger that. It’s a big son of a bitch, isn’t it?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Okay, I guess we’re a little pressed for time. We’ve got the engineer and the equipment. We’re going to set down and get locked in. You’ll follow us, right?”

  “Arlington, we’ll be right behind you.”

  “Why are we going down with them?” asked Charlie.

  “They need to use the laser drill. After they’re set, we’ll pick up some of their gear and their engineer and go tie down on our site.” She flipped a switch on the PA. “Lee, are you ready?”

  “Roger.”

  They watched Arlington make its approach. Feinberg had assigned it a site in the Plai
n. Its pilot moved in and turned control over to the navigational computers, which matched course and speed with the Possum, then duplicated rotation and tumble.

  It touched down in the zero-g equivalent of a landing.

  Lowell descended nearby, and Rachel told Cochran he was clear to go.

  Arlington’s airlock opened and two figures in p-suits emerged. One climbed down the ladder. The other, their engineer, began pushing out a series of large drums that had to be hauled to the surface by tether. The drums were followed by loops of heavy cable and spikes about two meters long. Cochran, assisted by Saber and Evelyn, moved the drill outside.

  Cochran and the engineer examined the ground, conferred, and selected their sites. They used the drill to cut four sets of holes in the ground. Then they inserted the spikes, which telescoped out to twelve meters, into the rock.

  “What’s in the drums?” asked Charlie.

  “Polycrete.” Polycrete was a concrete derivative that had been used extensively in lunar construction.

  While the teams worked, Charlie took a call from the British prime minister. The PM was preparing a public statement and wanted to know whether there was any good news he could pass on. Charlie switched off the speaker, but the subject of the conversation had to be obvious to Rachel, who watched him sympathetically. She’s thinking she wouldn’t have my job on a bet. “Nothing yet, Phil,” he said. “But you can say the operation’s on schedule and we’re cautiously optimistic.” He thought about it. “No, make it just plain optimistic.”

  “Yes,” the PM said. “My thought entirely.”

  Kerr called moments later. There were more problems, mostly having to do with banks.

  “Not now,” Charlie said. “I don’t have time to deal with banks.”

  “I think you better make time, Mr. President.” Kerr’s resort to formality irritated Charlie. “You don’t want to save the planet, and then have to deal with a depression.”

  The problem was the loss of the financial centers along both seaboards, primarily in Los Angeles and New York. Mechanisms had to be put in place to keep the monetary system functioning through the crisis. Would the president agree to a few short-term measures? Would he support a new National Recovery Act? (“We should do so,” Kerr advised.) There was a draft copy of one floating through the Senate, said the chief of staff, with provisions that were unworkable. “We need to put together our own version.”

  Disaster funds had been appropriated by the House and approved by the Senate in a late-night session. It would be a good idea to provide the presidential signature forthwith, Kerr said. Everybody in the country who still had access to a TV or a computer was watching it. “We need to do what we can to encourage the belief that there will be a tomorrow.”

  “Fax me a copy,” said Charlie. “Along with your reaction, and Bert’s in Commerce. And anybody else’s you think I should see. If I like it, I’ll sign it and get it right back to you.”

  Other calls came in, and by the time he got off the phone, more than two hours had passed. By that time four large cables, one forward, one aft, two amidships, restrained the space plane.

  The Earth rose and set twice during that time, at widely divergent points on the horizon. It was growing rapidly larger.

  He heard hatches open and shut.

  “Clear,” came Cochran’s voice. “We’ve got our passenger.”

  Rachel nodded. “The engineer from Arlington is on board,” she told Charlie. Then: “Lifting off.”

  The surface dropped away, and the rock began to spin again.

  “Tokyo and Berlin are on approach, Mr. President,” she said. “The cavalry’s starting to arrive. And there’s another ferry. Your Professor Feinberg’s on it.”

  Good. The sense that he was alone in all this began to ebb. Charlie looked at the blinking lights on the display and asked which one.

  Rachel tapped the screen with an index finger. “The Mabry” she said. “And it looks like time to tie down our own bronco.” She withdrew the Lowell to about a kilometer and then took it around to the Back Country, gliding low over the melted terrain until her sensors told her she’d arrived. They settled toward a plateau.

  Ferry Antonia Mabry. 2:27 A.M.

  Sitting in the passenger cabin, which was serving as Mission Control, Feinberg seemed to have forgotten his queasiness. He stared out at the rock. “It would be a much easier problem were it not tumbling,” he said. “Our first objective will be to impose a degree of stability.”

  Carpenter knew the plan, but he understood that Feinberg was speaking for his own benefit, reviewing the operation to reassure himself he’d overlooked nothing.

  The procedure would be too complicated to handle by voice command and manual control on the individual flight decks. Instead, the Mabry would serve as a command center, accepting readout data from the seven onboard navigational computers and returning firing instructions directly to the engines.

  Because of the need to align the Possum’s flight path with its long axis, the ships had to be placed to allow lateral thrust well beyond that provided by attitude clusters. This meant that, while all seven vehicles would face more or less in the same direction, which is to say pointed forward, they would be sited not quite in parallel.

  Feinberg talked at length with Rachel Quinn in Lowell, to ensure the systems were in sync. Then he repeated the process with George Culver in Arlington. He’d already gone through the setup routine in detail at Skyport with the other pilots.

  “The one thing that worries me,” he said at last, looking across at Carpenter, “is fuel expenditure. We have none whatever to spare.” He shook his head. “If we get through this, the president might be advised to think seriously about assembling a fleet of nuclear-powered vessels. The research is done. We know how to do it. Now it would be just a matter of building the ships.”

  “The president’s out here,” said Carpenter. “You can tell him yourself.”

  “I already have,” he said. “I hope he’s getting the message.”

  The pilot’s voice came over the PA: “Mr. Carpenter?”

  “Go ahead, Rita.” To Feinberg, Rita seemed too young and too relaxed to be piloting a spacecraft.

  “The other spacecraft have all checked in. The Russian plane is last in line. They’re giving us an ETA of four A.M.”

  Carpenter acknowledged.

  Feinberg looked out at the Possum. His expression seemed to reflect a degree of melancholy. But he said nothing.

  Percival Lowell Flight Deck. 2:29 A.M.

  “For you, Mr. President. From the Mabry.” Rachel relayed the call and Charlie felt the tingle of his handset.

  “This is Orly Carpenter, sir.” Charlie knew Carpenter, had spoken with him before on occasion.

  “Hello, Orly,” he said. “Nice to have you and Wesley with us.” The problem throughout had been that this situation was essentially nonpolitical, Charlie had been in charge, and Charlie had no idea what he was doing. He hoped that Carpenter did.

  “Good to be here, Mr. President. We’re going to be running things from the Mabry. I thought you might want to join us. You’ll have a better view of the overall operation from here.”

  The Lowell had just arrived at its own assigned site, and Jonathan Porter and the rest of the anchor team were preparing to go outside. Charlie glanced through the window at the softened mounds rising around the ship. The Sun was on the horizon, and they cast long shadows.

  “Okay,” he said. “How do you pick me up?”

  “We can take you right out through the airlock.”

  “When?”

  “Twenty minutes. We’re on our way.”

  Charlie noted a strange expression, a flicker of contempt, on Rachel’s features. And then it was gone.

  “Orly?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “I assume I’ll be safer with you too, won’t I?”

  Carpenter hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “You will.”

  He nodded. “I’ll stay where
I am,” he said.

  “Not a good idea, sir.”

  “Thanks anyhow. I’ll stay put.”

  Carpenter’s tone changed, acquired a hint of irritation.“Mr. President, I really wish you’d reconsider. I have my orders…”

  “Forget them,” said Charlie.

  Rachel glanced at him quizzically.

  “Anything I can do from up there,” he said, “I can do from here.”

  2.

  On the Possum. 2:34 A.M.

  George Culver’s instincts had been right about Jonathan Porter: He had always been the last kid picked, he had been put in right field, and he did bat ninth. Everything in his life had been like that. There was something in his manner that inevitably induced low expectations, that generated surprise when he performed well. Whatever it was, it had followed him into adulthood.

  Jonathan was single, but not by choice. He seemed to be invisible to women. His acute intelligence did not lend itself to a sharp wit, and he had almost no sense of humor. He bored people, knew it, and so had never overcome his childhood shyness. But he had the respect of those in his immediate chain of command, and that was the reason they’d kept him at Skyport when they sent everyone else home. If something happened, he was the best they had, and they knew it.

  Now he was being called on to use his skills to do for more than seal off puncture wounds around the station. He had suddenly become an integral part of the most significant engineering operation of all time. It was heady stuff. Jonathan was delighted to have the opportunity, and it was all he could do to keep himself from leaping off the melted surface of the Possum.

  He’d inspected the images of the terrain before they came out, looked at the results of the sampling studies, and concluded the task would not be unreasonably difficult. He’d been satisfied with the composition1 of the-rock into which he’d anchored Arlington. But here, standing at the site chosen for Lowell, he was not so sure. The texture was almost spongy. It had melted during the impact, had turned to lava and possibly plasma, and then cooled. A bare hand would still have found it warm.