by Scott Rhine
When he drew back involuntarily, she continued, “Easy, my husband died.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Amy said. “It was over six years ago. We were together for a year. He was a cop. I got my driving habits from him. One night he was issuing a speeding ticket when a drunk from the other lane swerved toward him. They head for the lights, just like moths. Brad knew that. I met the senator while I was lobbying for victims’ rights, and I’ve spent most of my time since crusading for one grand cause or another.” Echoes of happiness and tears mingled. “My only regret about my marriage is all the things we left undone. I don’t want to make that mistake again.”
He held her close for a while, admiring her, feeling her, breathing her in.
“So little time,” she mourned.
When he could no longer stand the suspense, PJ asked, “Why me?”
She shrugged with her bare shoulders. “If people knew exactly why they fell in love, it might spoil the whole effect. You scientists can’t put a chemical or a gene on everything.”
“Come on,” he begged. “I’m fishing for some compliment. My frail, male ego needs it.”
“All right, I suppose I knew when I held you in my lap in the ambulance. Something was different about you. Your vulnerability probably triggered my maternal instincts, too.”
“So you’re saying that my personality benefited from electroshock?”
“No, although I think it would help men in general.” She smiled but tried to hide it behind her hand.
“Don’t cover your smile; it’s beautiful. You should do it more often.”
She kissed him for the compliment. “I think I’ve smiled more in the past two days that I have the whole year.”
He kept trolling for an answer. “So if not the electroshock, what attracted you?”
She mused, managing to look sexy even in an army blanket. “You knew what was going to happen with the senator before I even suspected. I trusted the creep, but you took steps to make sure he wouldn’t get away with it. In the middle of all this, somehow you made me feel safer.”
Amy cursed the satellite, surprising him with her breadth of vocabulary. “Why would anybody build such a thing?”
A day ago, he would have given the trite and true “because he could.” Now, his mind wandered over all the horrors they had learned about since that fateful e-mail. PJ started out being mildly sarcastic about the Sandia accident, but by the time he said it out loud, he saw the answer. “So people could accelerate to relativistic velocities.”
Calmly, he stroked her hair and said, “After we get dressed, I need to talk with Wilkes about turning our bomb into an engine.”
****
Joe agreed reluctantly to take him to the room that Wilkes was using as an office. Computer print-outs were strewn all over the desk and floor. The chief scientist smelled of stale sweat.
“Wilkes, what is the Icarus field exactly?”
He shrugged. “Personally, I think it’s the proof of some fundamental principle of the universe. Only we don’t know what principle that is yet.” He seemed irritated by this admission and snapped, “Is there some point to this question or are you just trying to avoid spending time in your cell?”
PJ grinned. “Like I’d rather be arguing with you than spending time with Amy! The Apollo space program started with the V2 buzz bomb. We can do the same thing here. You said ice focused and channeled the Icarus effect. How much ice would it take, placed like a shaped charge, to vector the satellite away at escape velocity?”
Wilkes’ expression shifted from annoyance to surprise, and then quickly to one of deep concentration. Wilkes scribbled a few figures on a printout. He pulled out a pocket calculator and tapped for a moment. Then he checked his results at the computer terminal. Five minutes later, he said, “At the right angle, less than fifty kilograms.” The idea gained momentum. “The International Space Station has plenty of equipment sitting idle up there that we may be able to use. I have to tell Paulson immediately!”
Somewhere, a digital clock was counting down—sixty-one hours.
Unfortunately, Paulson was nowhere in the shelter. In fact, his office had been thoroughly cleaned out. PJ did manage to find a shower in the executive suite. He told Amy about it on the way through so she could clean up.
When Wilkes and PJ went to the elevator, things took a turn for the perverse. The reader blinked red when the scientist ran his card through the slot. After the third failure, he muttered some lame excuses and tried the door to the emergency stairs instead. It was locked as well. The familiar nervous quaver crept back into his voice as he shouted into the intercom. “This is Wilkes; we seem to be having a reader malfunction. I need to come up.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” a voice replied. “You’re not authorized to leave at this time.”
Wilkes swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a sewing machine needle. “I just need to talk to Director Paulson. I’m technical lead…”
“Dr. Paulson is not reachable right at this moment. Would you like to leave a message?” This could have been a machine for all the emotion in the voice. “His helicopter is passing through a heavily mountainous region. He’ll be out of contact until he reaches the shelter.”
“I guess you didn’t make the cut,” PJ said to the scientist.
“I’ll call Washington and clear this up.” Wilkes ran for the conference room. Picking up the phone, he stared at the silent handset in horror. “It’s… disconnected. Son of a b-b-bitch!” He slammed the receiver against the cradle.
“You know too much,” PJ said. “We all do. What Paulson can’t control, he buries.”
Wilkes collapsed, sobbing against the table. “We’re all going to die.”
PJ gave him a moment, uncertain how to put the pieces back together. “Everyone dies; it’s just a matter of how and when. I, for one, intend to go down fighting. Is there anything heavy we can use to batter down that door?”
Wilkes sniffed. “They’d only kill us. There are guards with guns upstairs with orders to shoot on sight.”
“Show some spine, Wilkes. When this is over, we’re going to be heroes! What about the computer lines?”
He shook his head. “They don’t use phone lines. It’s too remote. They use a radio modem or satellite link, I think.”
All the computers in the control room turned out to be dead. “Right. Where’s the transmitter? It can’t all be controlled from top-side, not if this is supposed to be a real shelter.” He took PJ to a small room that could have been a closet. There were numerous gray electrical boxes with a small, ancient terminal underneath. “Bingo!” said PJ.
Wilkes was still negative. “It’s all password-protected. I’m sure he took me off the access lists just like we did Nick. It galls me that the crazy b-b-bugger was right all along.”
The programmer pulled out the terminal, powered on the screen, and began his magic. “All a good engineer needs is enough of a discrepancy, enough of a loophole to make something work.” A few minutes later, he had the network in the control room reconnected. The video conference connection to the Brazilian commercial space center had never been severed. “We can’t open any new lines, but we still have the coded link to the US-controlled launch center.”
Amy met them in the hall, clothed but barefoot. “Do you guys know why the water shut off on my shower before I could wash my hair?”
Wilkes said, “If Paulson wants to dispose of us, the drinking water will be disabled, too.”
To Amy, PJ said, “Maybe you should help Wilkes with the bureaucrats while I see my guard Joe about the water.”
Sure enough, Joe found that all the water supply had been shut off. “The place is in mothball mode,” he explained. After tossing the place for provisions, the younger guard broke the news to the others in the conference room. The K-rations in the pantry were almost twenty years old, and none of them wanted to open a can to see if they were still good.
Wilkes talked to someo
ne in Brazil over the video link. He was holding up a magic marker sketch of some sort of harness attached to a triad of telescopes. There were three scientists and two people in blue dress uniform crowded into a small office to hear Wilkes sell the idea.
PJ whispered to his lady love, “Looks like we have a pitcher of water, a bag of chocolate kisses, and half a ham sandwich to last us the rest of our lives. Any idea how long that’s going to be?”
Amy whispered back, “The next launch window is in nine hours. The whole team will have to work through the night to scrape together everything they need, but it’s possible.”
“I thought he said they could be ready on a moment’s notice.”
She shrugged. “I guess with space launches, nine hours is a pretty small moment. Right now, we have to worry about the media. The change in schedule has made people curious.”
“No,” insisted the Asian man in uniform. “It has to be three rods. Three points define a plane. What happens when you’re even a fraction of a degree off with a cue stick in pool?”
“The resultant vector is uncertain, and you could end up sinking the eight ball,” said Wilkes.
“To get the angle of approach just right, each lens will focus on a different star. The Hubble algorithms and the Lucasfilm camera gear will enable the apparatus to keep the cameras, and therefore the ice rods, on course.”
His collaborators in Brazil weren’t entirely convinced. “We don’t have an official set of design specifications on this yet, let alone the time to test it right. We’ll have to coordinate with Kennedy. Maybe we should wait for Director Paulson to give his okay.”
“Absolutely not,” Wilkes shouted, showing backbone for once. “Paulson cannot be reached. I am the project lead and have full authority to run Project Phoenix until he reaches the command bunker. This is the fourth contingency plan, Colonel Quan, and our last. Do you have any better ideas?”
There was a long pause, during which the colonel looked around the room. “No, sir, Project Phoenix is a go. I have a few problems, though. This is need-to-know, gentlemen.” The people trapped in the bunker waited while he cleared the room at his end. “I know the whole truth about Icarus; I just found out this afternoon. Who else can I tell?”
“Just the team on the shuttle. The team building and programming the apparatus should be kept need-to-know.”
The colonel nodded. “Agreed. What do I tell the Russians?”
“They’re being invited to witness the experiment that could herald the beginning of the Interstellar age. When you stop at the International Space Station, tell them the telescope assemblies are to prove that the evidence has not been tampered with in any way. Their technical teams will share the same live-camera feed that JPL and Houston are getting. They should be more than willing to cooperate. They may try to demand an astronaut on board. If pressed to the wall, we have the son of one of their nuclear physicists already en route to your position. He’s an expert who just got clearance. The Russians know they can’t get anyone else to the Brazil site by launch, so they’ll take Crupkin. He can cross-check any computer models you do. He’s the one that built ours.”
PJ whistled softly. Goofy just got a big promotion.
“And CNN?”
Amy stepped in. “Beat them to the punch. Call a press conference, a huge media event for…how long will it take to get the equipment off the International Space Station and get into position?”
“Give me ten to twelve hours past launch for the International Space Station. Add another ten to get to the rogue satellite, maybe more,” the colonel guessed.
“Ouch,” she said.
“This isn’t a trip to the corner store,” said Quan.
Amy nodded. “I understand, but if this shot fails, we won’t get another.” She took a breath, resumed her public relations role. “After the equipment has been obtained from the International Space Station, announce that an experiment is about to be performed by an international team of scientists launched from neutral territory, which is the culmination of a five-year effort more monumental than the Manhattan Project. This experiment is to prove that Earth now has the technology to accelerate spacecraft to near-light speeds powered by an environmentally safe fuel source. They’ll all get press packets after the fact.”
She was in her element. After giving a number of details about which journalists should be primed with which questions and what should be carefully leaked to whom, Amy concluded with, “When they ask why the short notice, apologize and explain that you didn’t expect the prototype to successfully power up so soon. The original timetable called for another month till the demonstration.”
Everyone in the room appreciated her art, adding truth to the recipe like a baker adds yeast to make the loaf rise. This product would have just enough taste and substance that the public might buy it.
His part of the plan completed, Wilkes asked, “Now what?”
Joe, the closet philosopher, answered him like a soldier. “We wait.”
Giving that a moment to sink in, he continued, “The hardest times in history have been spent waiting in stark terror. I remember the Cuban Missile Crisis as a kid. You wait, stare at the ceiling, and promise God anything He wants if you get out of this alive. I did the same thing in the war, only I had a pack of smokes to keep me company. I figure one of these has to come along about every generation to teach us something.”
Wilkes seemed genuinely curious. “What are we supposed to learn from all this?”
“Next time, bring more matches and a deck of cards.”
Chapter 45 – Protect Your Quarterback
Shortly after Jez landed in Miami, she heard from Quan about the plan to propel the explosive satellite into space. “With any luck, by sunup Monday no one will ever know there was a problem.”
“This is great! What do you need from me?” Jez offered, relieved beyond words. Talos led her across the tarmac to a baby-blue office with furniture from the 1970s and white venetian blinds.
Quan didn’t hesitate. “We need Cape Kennedy and your ground stations to coordinate with us.”
“I’ve already told the observatories and even the Red Giant team to be at your disposal until further notice. NASA is Mr. Talos’s domain.” The air conditioning in the small office was a necessity, even at this late hour.
“We need politicians with clout to back this or it’s not going anywhere,” her man in Brazil insisted. “And most of the important ones have gone into hiding.”
She sat on the desk while Talos paced. “I’ll do my best. Maybe Benny can find some on the west coast or Dirt Bag can phone a sultan. These things take time. Anything I can do in the meantime?”
“How about someone to be our spokesperson for the cover story when we launch? We have a script outlined. Come to think of it, we need the press, too. No one’s at work this late on a Saturday night.”
“Text me the outline. Copy Buddy and Dirt Bag. I’ll get you one hell of a send-off. Quan, thank you, from all of us.”
At almost midnight eastern time, she called her husband. “Hey Babe, I just landed. How are you doing?”
“I spent the first half of the day catching Trina, and now Daniel won’t leave her…um… side. Dirt Bag has his undies in a bunch about Claudette, Crusader isn’t answering his phone, I have a Fed sitting in my living room watching pay-per-view, Tan is now paranoid about helping motorists at the side of the road, and I have a compulsion to tell everyone everything I’m thinking! How do you stand it?”
“It helps if you have someone you trust to talk to before anyone else. You’re my tell-first person; I miss you,” Jez said. And she did. His presence always had a calming effect on her. Steeling herself, she said, “I need to ask you for a huge favor.”
“How big?” Benny demanded.
“I’ll wear the femdroid costume for you,” she tempted. Talos raised an eyebrow. “I need you to call your mom. We’ve got to have as many big politicians as possible pulling for NASA to help us.”
&nb
sp; “To do what?” he asked.
“Read your e-mail,” she said, dodging the question.
“Is it more important than Claudette?” he asked.
She swallowed. “More important than anyone, even me.”
“That big, huh? The boss…” he started.
“I’m Quarterback. I’ll take care of him,” she promised.
“How many politicians?” he asked.
“As many as you can swing,” she said. “I love you, Mr. Hollis.”
“I love you, too, Mrs. Hollis,” he said before hanging up.
“Make kissy noises, and I’ll throw up,” Talos rumbled.
“Jealous,” Jez accused. She punched in her boss’s number.
“That phone is going to melt down if you use it any more,” said the fixer, shaking his head. “You’re going to get some kind of mutant brain cancer.”
“Not unless I go to Arkansas again,” she quipped. Jez was spared the need to explain when the billionaire answered. “We need you to make a press conference happen for us tomorrow.”
“Sunday?” said Fortune, accustomed to the lack of small talk.
“Read your e-mail about the international space experiment. Make the spokesperson non-media. I’d suggest Tom; he gives good face. Benny’s on another project.”
“Yes, he’s trying to finding Claudette because you sent her into the field,” Fortune accused. “She’s an innocent. How dare you…”
Jez broke in. “She volunteered. Sedna was carrying a grudge about Una. Now she’ll owe Starlet. It was the cleanest way.”
“You should have put that animal out of our misery when you had a chance,” Fortune railed.
“I don’t kill, and I don’t work for killers. My job tonight is keeping everyone alive. Everyone. Do you understand? Virus may even be listening, so think hard about who you threaten.”
Fortune paused. “I’m sorry. I…she…”
“You love her. We know. We’ll get her back. It’s after dark, and your son can find her with his eyes closed,” she said cryptically. “Tell him to open the safe in my office. The combination is his birthday. There’s a sealed plastic pouch in there for him with Claudette’s name on it.”