“True, Cheri,” Jacques said, as he gently touched the shortened strand of hair. He pinned Jim with a stare, his dark brown eyes flashing.
“Dat be too close, mon,” he said, the stress bringing out his Caribbean accent.
“Next tour, we'll use a helicopter to get to and from the airport,” Jim said. He reached for the cellular phone, inset over the bar. “Meantime, I'll have Lenny beef up security at JFK and for our arrival at Denver International.”
They nodded agreement.
Jacques and Denise Lachelle were inseparable as wine and song, her with delicate, almost dainty features and coffee colored skin, heavy on the cream, complimented by large doe eyes with long thick lashes. He was average height, though lean, with slightly darker, rougher skin from past acne. He had tightly coiled black hair, a sunny disposition backed with a dazzling smile, moved with a kick-boxer’s agility and played piano with zeal.
Like Jim, Jacques and Denise, preferred to spend most of their off time in the mountains of Colorado.
The limousine pulled up next to their private jet, a Gulfstream Twin. They boarded swiftly, and without incident. Ten minutes later they were homeward bound.
*
The White House Situation Room
“What do you mean nothing can prevent it?” The President was in emergency session with his Cabinet, the National Security Council and the Joint Chiefs, and he didn't like the answers he was getting. “We’re going to get creamed in less than sixty days unless we can.”
“Sir,” Eli Cohen from NASA darted into the room waving a sheet of paper which he laid in front of the President. “I think we can stop it.”
“How?” the President asked. Finally, something he could do something about.
“We have a new laser and if we can get it up into space quickly enough maybe we can burn the thing up before it hits our atmosphere.”
“Then do it.”
“Certainly Mr. President, but sir?”
“What now, Eli?”
Eli Cohen looked at Farley Moffat who cleared his throat and stepped into the breach.
“It's the Sunflower.”
The Sunflower? The reference escaped the President for a moment then he remembered the briefing, a fusion/solar-powered laser housed in a satellite, incredibly powerful, but, “Isn't that still in development?”
“It's all but ready for deployment, Mr. President. And as Eli and Carl already know, Hubble has found a crack in the asteroid.”
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” said Arthur McCrae, Secretary of State. “Launching that weapon is a violation of the SALT treaty. The Russians will scream bloody murder and the Chinese will be none to happy either.”
“Art.” The President's tone was calm, almost sad. His friend just didn't get it. “After the asteroid hits, there won’t be a Russia, or a United States, or maybe a single human being left on this planet. So I'll be more than happy to put up with their tantrums.”
He turned back to Moffat. “How soon can we launch, Farley?”
“As soon as the solar array is installed. Probably five days, less if the design engineer comes around.”
“What's his problem?”
“He owns the patent on the Sunflower solar array. That's where GTI got the name for the project, and he refuses to authorize final installation until he sees the design plans for the satellite. “Farley's eyes slid away, clueing the President that there was more to the story. Probably something he didn't want to know.
“I see,” said the President, and took a guess. “And does this engineer know he's working on a space-based weapons system?”
“Uh...no, sir. He thinks his array is powering a revolutionary communications satellite.”
President Powell rubbed his temples and sat back in his chair. Why was so much of government based on deceit? This wasn't why he got into politics. He sighed, resigned once again to a life of half-truths and evasions.
“Maybe a call from me will help. Next.”
“Mr. President?” Alexander Winthrop from Homeland Security said. “The cave sites in Arkansas, Missouri, Tennessee, Texas and New Mexico can be stocked to hold, at most, 200,000 people in the time we have to prepare. I’m sorry sir, we just can’t fit any more in and give them a reasonable chance to survive.”
President Hammond Powell's shoulders slumped for just a moment before he straightened his back, raised his head and looked around the table at the men and women gathered there. His team. People he'd known all his political life. He could feel their eyes on him. “You are all telling me how little we can do. I need to know what else we can do. Don’t we have any other options?”
Carl Borzowski nodded to Eli Cohen and said. “NASA has accelerated shipments to the International Space Station. Project Genesis, Sir. If we can finish it in time the human race can survive by riding out the event in space and re-colonizing Earth later.”
Seeing the scowl on the President’s face, Eli broke in. “It’s a worst-case scenario, Sir.”
Carl took over. “We’re exploring all options, from manned missions to undersea survival shelters as well as more caves.”
“It seems like we should be able to do more than hide in a hole,” the President said. There was so much he couldn’t do but there was at least one more thing he could take care of. He triggered his intercom and said, “Miss Markwright? I need to talk to an engineer. Doctor Cohen will give you his name.”
*
Colorado Mountains
The Freeholds
Michael Whitebear rolled his tiny ultralight back into an upright position as he swept over Farnum Peak. He grinned widely, reveling in his lack of fear. His short, dark brown hair and neatly trimmed beard ruffled in the breeze flowing through the open cockpit. Warm brown eyes, flecked with green and gold highlights, glowed as he soared down the valley of The Freeholds.
Sunlight glinted off solar collectors and photovoltaic arrays as he flew over the earth-bermed homes lining the hillsides. The reflection reminded him of the pink blush on his own skin, pale for being almost half Blackfoot, legacy of a white mother and farther back, of a French trapper.
Horses, cattle, goats and sheep grazed in meadows. Golden grain rippled in the breeze and the community garden was in full production. Children waved from giant inner tubes, floating down the Tarryall River that snaked along the valley floor. Michael smiled and waggled the small plane's wings in greeting.
A flash of light caught his eye and he saw a cameraman from the TV crew filming him. Since it was a National Geographic crew doing a documentary on the Freeholder’s homesteading lifestyle he resisted the temptation to buzz them. Last year they'd aired a special on those crazy Preppers in the Freeholds and they were back for an update. For two weeks now the TV people had been poking about, shooting new footage of the solar systems, the methane and hydrogen fuel cell generators, the low flow hydroelectric plant that powered the Freeholder's community center, the shelves stocked with canned, dehydrated and freeze-dried foods, asking questions about the “live with the land as well as on it” philosophy practiced in the Freeholds. The program would air in a couple of months but filming was wrapping up and he would be glad to see the National Geographic crew gone.
Leona Perry, principal of the Freehold’s charter school, wasn’t happy about having to suspend firearms safety training for the children during filming. Most of the world didn’t agree that the best way to protect children from firearm accidents was to teach them gun safety and respect when they were young enough for such lessons to make a lasting impression. But there was nothing to be gained by stirring up controversy.
Michael's stomach rose into his throat as the ultralight fell into a small air pocket--an instant of weightlessness in the sapphire blue sky, a heart-thumping reminder of mortality--until the plane leveled out and his inner ear adjusted.
He'd gone up in the Pegasus to help a neighboring rancher locate some strays in the vast Pike National Forest surrounding the valley. Since he could turn the engine off and soar
on thermals, like a hawk, the silent plane wouldn't spook the cattle. A smile flitted across his face. Or so he'd thought. Turned out exactly the opposite. Engine noise was a man-sound that cattle were used to, whereas the silent ultralight must have resembled a giant eagle looking for a fat calf. He'd quickly turned the engine back on to settle the spooked cattle down, then used the plane's radio to vector the rancher toward the missing steers.
Now the fun was over and he had to get back to work. Pity. He really loved flying, in spite of his secret fear of heights. But the air was getting too bumpy for a lightweight plane like the Pegasus.
He reduced the throttle setting and glided down toward the landing strip. Tall, emerald green grass dotted with sunshine yellow coneflowers and lavender lupine whispered against his landing gear and then brushed green stains along the undercarriage as he sat the plane down and rolled to a stop. He needed to mow the strip when he had time.
“Hey, Aaron,” he called to the small, wiry man walking to meet him.
Aaron Goldstein waved and said, “Ellen called down when she saw you clear Farnum Peak. She says GTI called about the solar satellite plans and wants you to get back with them soonest.”
Yeah, it was definitely time to get back to work.
“Oh, and the Cantrell's are due back today,” Aaron added.
A smile split Michael's face. “Great!”
He helped Aaron roll the Pegasus into the hangar, then jumped onto his Harley Sportster and spun gravel from the rear tire as he roared up the hill.
“Hello, sweetie,” Michael said as he swept his wife Ellen into his arms and gave her a kiss. “Did you miss me?”
He'd been gone for three whole hours.
Her long blonde hair tangled in one of his shirt buttons as she pushed herself away. She freed it with a practiced flip, her hazel eyes sparkling. “Terribly,” she said, pressing the back of one hand against her forehead in a mock swoon. “Much more of this neglect and I'll file for divorce.”
His business line rang and their infant son Steven woke from his nap with a wail. “You can have custody,” she kidded, starting up the stairs to quiet the baby.
Michael watched her hips sway delightfully as she climbed the stairs, then started for the phone. Life was good. He had a beautiful and talented wife, a great job, a gorgeous home in the heart of the Colorado Rockies--Steven's scream split his ears--and a loud son.
All smiles, he picked up the receiver on the fourth ring. “Freeholds Engineering.”
“Mister Whitebear?”
“Yes?”
“Please hold for the President of the United States.”
Right. Like he was born yesterday. Steven screamed again and Michael hung up. Nice try, Jim, he thought, rolling his eyes. The Cantrell’s weren't even back yet and already the practical jokes were starting.
The phone rang again and he was tempted to let it go, but it could be a paying customer. This time he picked up on the third ring.
“Mister Whitebear. I am Donna Markwright, Special Executive Assistant to the President of the United States, who I can assure you will be on the line shortly. Now, will you please hold?”
Jesus, maybe this wasn't joke. That woman didn’t sound like she had a sense of humor. Hell, she sounded like she wouldn't buy one if it was on sale at Macy’s. He decided to play along. “All right,” he said, uncertainly, “But if this is a prank--”
“Mister Whitebear!” Her outrage convinced him. “I can give you my number at the White House if you--”
“Okay, okay,” he interrupted. “I'll hold.” Not even Jim would go to such lengths.
“Thank you,” she said, with enough ice in her voice to make a good-sized
margarita. White House muzak filled his ears for less than twenty seconds.
“Mr. Whitebear?” That voice was unmistakable.
“Yes, Mr. President?” Michael could hardly believe this.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” Hammond Powell said.
Michael did all the listening.
Chapter 3: Zoo Keepers and Saints
The President placed the handset back on the phone and turned to Farley Moffat. “Get it done.”
He was speaking to Carl Borzowski before Moffat was out the door. “Carl, I want a booster on a launch pad the day after tomorrow. Eli will arrange it.” He nodded toward the NASA director.
Borzowski stood to go, then hesitated and said, “Mr. President? Shouldn't we notify the American people?”
Royce Bannister, Director of the FBI, spoke up. “Sir, I strongly suggest we hold off. Such an announcement could result in massive panic. Thousands of people could be hurt.”
Peter Capelli, Secretary of Defense, joined the fray. “And the markets would collapse, banks fail. We can't let that happen.”
Borzowski wasn't about to let that pass. “And millions of Americans live on the coast, Royce, Peter. Tidal waves. Think about it.”
Hammond Powell didn't need any more inside squabbling. “I'll take it under advisement, Carl, but for now let's concentrate on stopping this thing.” If his administration averted this disaster he would be a shoo-in for reelection, and if it didn't, he would be associated with the disaster and his own Party would dump him. But if he sounded a premature warning and people panicked...well, headline, “Chicken Little Powell Says Sky Is Falling.”
As Carl Borzowski strode down the corridor, past the Marine guards, he wondered if he should call Monica. They hadn't parted on the best of terms, but she was a damn good reporter, and the American people had a right to know.
*
The Freeholds
Michael Whitebear sat at his computer scanning the plans GTI had faxed to him less than thirty minutes after the President called. The plans were definitely for a communications satellite, but they were run-of-the-mill, not the revolutionary new concept that utilized his Sunflower array. Something smelled, but he'd given the go ahead to install Sunflower solely on the President's assurance that it was vital to national security. How the hell could he say no to that?
Ellen walked up behind him and kissed the back of his neck. “Time out,” she said.
“I really should finish this,” he protested, but it was a weak protest and she knew it.
“Jim Cantrell and the Lachelles just pulled in,” she teased.
That did it. He hadn't seen his friend Jim for months. “Won't he head straight for Jill?” Jim's wife had left the road trip almost five months ago when she discovered she was pregnant.
“Sure, but I've invited the two of them over for a late dinner.”
“Miracle worker.” Michael kissed her gently. “Wait ‘til I tell Jim the President...nah.” Jim, being a superstar musician, wouldn't be impressed by a call from the President. Then he had it. “Wait until I show him the Pegasus!” His eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas, and Ellen couldn't help but laugh.
Michael and Jim had been best friends since they were ten years old, and anytime they got together the two were irrepressible. The next few weeks would see more than a fair share of mischief and fun, or so she thought.
*
The Zoo
Randy Kellogg was a feeder. Actually, his job title at the Denver Zoo was animal dietary specialist, but as far as he was concerned that was just fancy bullshit for “feeder.” The important thing to Randy was his love for the animals. Others might think him a tad slow but his animals never judged. “His” animals was the way he mostly thought of them. He enjoyed weighing out the precise portions of meat for each cat, and occasionally, if Jack Fargo was off, the bears.
Feeding the bears was a special treat for Randy because of Sheila, the female grizzly who had given birth to triplets last spring. The cubs had official names, but to Randy they would always be Huey, Louie, and Dewey. Like their namesakes, they were equal parts restless curiosity and playful mischief.
Randy checked the schedule when he punched in, but he didn't have too. He had it memorized. He knew Jack was off today. Still, Randy checked the schedule eve
ry day. It was part of his routine.
Next he carefully read the menu to see which animals were being medicated, and if there had been any changes in their dosages. He saw that Hobbes, his favorite tiger, was to go to the dentist tomorrow and so was allowed only water tonight.
He heard low growls build to full fledged roars, as he pushed the wheeled cart full of food into the access area between cages.
“Calm down,” he told them. “I'm coming.”
“ROOOAAAARRR!”
Hobbes wasn't happy, and like any self-respecting Tiger with a toothache he was letting the world know.
*
Provo, Utah
Bob Young, newly elected Mayor of Provo, was not doing Mayor work. Instead he was down in his basement, up on a step-stool, helping his wife Betty inventory their preps, which is what many Preppers, called their stockpiled food, water, equipment, and supplies. Bob was medium height with a middle-age spread and wore his brown hair in a flat-top cut that had been out of style since roughly the decade he was born. He didn’t care. He got elected by virtue of strong integrity, decent morals, a sterling reputation, the Republican party and being a “Young, as in Brigham,” in Utah.
His wife, Betty, six years younger, was a woman of sharp features, sharper insights and pointed humor which she softened with bright smiles. She wore her hair “big” and claimed it matched her belly since she was pregnant with their third child.
“What’s up there?” She asked.
“I’ve got six cases of Thrive freeze dried sweet corn from Shelf Reliance and three cases each of Saratoga Farms peas and green beans from The Ready Store,” he called down to her. Each case held six number ten sized cans or around two hundred sixty individual servings. “Two cases of Augason Farms broccoli and a case and a half of Provident Pantry onions.” He saw some more off to the side and leaned over to get a better look.
The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact Page 3
