In the final sixty seconds, the atmosphere turned even more serious—one by one the controllers finished their tasks and lifted their eyes to see the show. All final checks were complete. There would be no further communication until lift-off, coming up in less than thirty seconds.
The rumble-burn of the rockets filled the mountain. A disembodied voice counted down the final moments, and with a blinding flash the fuel tanks expended a blast of energy that shook the mountain itself. In a slow, majestic rise, Space Force One began its journey.
* * *
When the chief of staff interrupted the president in the middle of celebrating, he knew it had to be important. With all activity in the mountain centered around the control center, the fact that the meeting had to take place in private was doubly surprising. Learning that it was Director Zellweiger made somewhat more sense, though why she insisted on continuing the subterfuge—now of all times—was beyond him. Old habits dying hard, he supposed.
“You’re looking well, Mr. President,” Director Zee said. It wasn’t small talk. More of a clinical observation. “Much better than last I saw you, at any rate.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true. And you…look just the same.”
Zee nodded matter of factly, taking it neither as insult nor compliment. She walked to the visitor’s side and, uninvited, helped herself to a chair. Webster didn’t like it.
“Mr. President, your planned mission is doomed to fail,” she said, eliminating any need for further pleasantries.
“Well, then, I suppose I should cancel it.”
“That’s one option,” she replied, negating his sarcasm.
“I take it to mean you’re here to offer another?”
Zee took a deep breath, drawing things out. Anyone else, and Webster might’ve thought it was nerves, but he knew better. Theatrics.
“It…depends.”
“On?”
“On what you have to offer me, of course.” She put finger and thumb to her chin, gazing across the desk with an appraising eye.
He was tempted to remind her who was boss, but held back.
“First explain to me why this mission, which my best military minds tell me is a good bet, is doomed.”
“I could. But I’ll bet Dr. Eckert’s already told you. And I’ll bet you didn’t want to hear it, either. But, since none of your people endorsed his conclusions, you felt free to ignore the truth.”
“Which is?”
“You’re out of time.”
Webster didn’t need any further elaboration. It was true, Eckert had already claimed—insisted, really—that there wasn’t enough time to get to the focal point before the anomaly ripped the planet apart. And Webster didn’t want to admit that he’d put that uncomfortable theory out of his mind. But here was Zee, telling him there was hope?
“So how do you propose to fix that problem, if it’s true?”
“Firstly, it is true. Let’s not jerk ourselves around here. Secondly, this is the part where we negotiate.”
“Without my knowing how or even if you can help?”
“Given that you have no other choice, yes. On the assumption that I am being truthful, of course.”
“And if you’re not?”
“Then you can always have me killed later. You’re certainly powerful enough, and I’m at your mercy here. It is, after all, your mountain. You’re the king. So really, what have you got to lose?”
Webster turned it over in his mind a few minutes before deciding to bite. “What do you want?”
“What I want, Mr. President, is for us to come out on top of this war. Same as you.”
48.
The vehicle cleared the atmosphere with no significant trouble. As the base-wide all-clear sounded, support personnel scrambled into position, ready to assist ground control in whatever capacity was required. Space Force One was about to execute the steps laid out by Dean Eckert to prevent a repeat of the Vtoroy Shans disaster, and could use all the help she could get.
‘Skipping her along the underside now,’ came the voice of the pilot, ‘following Dean’s trajectory calcs to the millionth decimal up here. Good so far. Barrier test in two minutes…’
On the big screen, the image of the spacecraft, glowing with superheated gases, caused every shoulder in the room to tense. But so far at least, everything was going according to plan. In order to slip the barrier, they had to skip the craft along the lower stratosphere, building momentum slowly, something learned from the mistakes of the Soviet crew.
‘External shielding’s taking a beating, but Dean’s reinforcement tech is working well…holding up so far. Barrier test in one minute…’
The first pass would serve as a practice run, skirting the gravimetric barrier in order to test the shielding and refine their calculations. This would cost them in terms of fuel and time, burning both in the process of circling back, but Dean was adamant—unable to fully factor in the exterior stresses as they reacted to gravimetrics in a vacuum, he needed to get close enough to do a field test first. No one knew exactly what would happen, but they were about to find out.
In order to execute the practice maneuver, they would begin a slingshot into the barrier, then reverse thrust, gathering data on speed and resistance on approach. A first in the field of orbital mechanics, and as unpredictable as any experimental maneuver ever attempted. An enormous risk, to say the least, but Space Force One was the strongest, most resilient spacecraft ever assembled.
There was a final warning from the flight deck for all hands to brace. Then the nose dipped precipitously, and the vehicle plunged earthward. When they rose back up for another run, Shane would punch it, using their built up energy to pierce the barrier and launch them into a polar orbit. With luck.
* * *
The ride turned eerily quiet as they reached orbit, the earsplitting roar of liftoff replaced by a floaty echo of servos and monitor blips. The ship gave a jolt, the Earthside hull began to glow red on the external monitors. Strapped in low and unable to see outside, there was no way to know where they were, aside from the minor turbulence of approach that would soon turn violent. Dean Eckert concentrated on keeping his eyes shut and his stomach calm. Trying to ignore the shaking and lurching, he ran through a mental checklist—‘Things to do when I get home’. This was something he’d started just before Jo and Shane rescued him, when all had seemed lost, and putting together a bucket list was more of a futile gesture than anything. When he’d survived that, the process of elaborating on it had become a way to sooth his shattered spirits, and the list grew from there. It had been with him all through his experiences with the military, then into the mountain, and now— inexplicably surreal though it was—into space.
Golf at Pebble Beach. That was a new one. He wasn’t really much for sports, never mind golf, but he was a Tiger Woods fan, and that course had always looked so picturesque. Of all the places and activities, that was one that had stuck with him. Parachuting. Nope. After this experience, that was an easy one to cross off. A month on a tranquil island, sprawled under a coconut tree. That fit far better, an easy replacement for jumping out of a plane.
* * *
“Ground. SFO.” The voice of the pilot sounded clear and strong, prompting a few muted cheers from ground control. “TALO seven zero zero. Mark. Approaching inner perimeter for second attempt. On my go, gravimetric barrier threshold in three. Mark.”
TALO, or Time After Lift Off, was the timing method used to synchronize the actions between ground and vehicle. At TALO eleven they would hit maximum orbital shear, the exact point where the Vtoroy Shans had exploded. If they made it through that, the ride should smooth out. Theoretically. Past the barrier, communications would turn spotty, then nonexistent for several days until they were lined up and positioned for deployment. And they were in for similar difficulties on the way home as well, If they got that far.
“We’re getting some chop up here,” Shane reported. “Nothing we can’t handle, though. Barrier in two. Mark.”
Copy SFO. Standing by.
The ‘chop’ their pilot had spoken of was more like a megathrust earthquake, another event that Jo Osborne would’ve preferred to relegate to memory. She’d been just six when the big one hit, rousting her from a nap and frightening the daylights out of her and her entire family. No major damage, but the memory of the world tearing itself apart was imprinted forever. All throughout her aviation training, in particular extra-orbital exercises like this one that were so violent, such turbulence triggered flashbacks, turning her back into that scared little girl.
She had half a mind to call the flight deck and order up some smoother air, but she knew they were preoccupied with keeping the ship together, and wouldn’t appreciate the sarcasm. She took her mind off it by lifting her head—a great deal of effort against the G’s they were pulling—and looking around at her shipmates. Dean Eckert gave her a weak smile, then closed his eyes. Next to him Ruka Saito managed a gloved ‘thumbs up’ under heavy resistance. She craned her neck, trying to get a look at the people down in the deployment module, but it was too rough. Under threat of severe whiplash, she gave up looking around and took her cue from Eckert, closing her eyes and taking some deep breaths.
* * *
“Ground, SFO, coming in hot and ready to slice!” Shane was shouting now, making himself heard over the rattle of their overstressed spaceframe. “Barrier in one, repositioning for minimal impact!”
Copy SFO. Reposition looks good. Steady at it.
“Copy! Maintaining attitude, maximum thrust. Apogee in ten, nine, eight…”
The systems specialist, Ed Evans, was a veteran space jockey. He had more missions under his belt than anyone outside the command crew. Not one to buckle under, this was no exception. He was, however, curious to see how everyone around him was handling the excitement. He turned on the in-seat monitors, intending to engage his crewmates in some casual chatter to get their minds off the situation. When he heard their muffled comments, however, he decided to leave them alone.
He wasn’t hearing prayers. Not exactly. But the men and women around him were all speaking, softly, to themselves, in several different languages. Larisa Denisova’s sultry slavic was unmistakable on the right, as were the choppy Japanese invectives being uttered by Ruka Saito one deck below. Arvind Kashani, another non-American though it was unclear if English was or wasn’t his first language, was speaking too quietly to be heard beyond a feathery whisper. And although he strained to catch some of that adorable Canadian English with the French undertones from their resident mathematician, Andrea Price had nothing to say at all. Feeling intrusive, Evans closed the channel. Then he said his own few words of self-inspiration, wondering if anyone was listening in on him.
* * *
On the flight deck, commander and pilot were far too occupied for idle chatter, each cross-checking the other and making sure all their ducks were in a row. In a few seconds, they’d find out if that was the case.
“Commander, I’ve got a red light on the starboard plate,” Douglas reported, pointing at the offending hardware.
“I see it,” Mansfield called back, “rotate eight degrees to compensate.”
“Roger. Executing now.”
The ship banked slightly, held steady, and began to shake a slight bit less.
“Punchthrough in five seconds!”
There was no need for a response. The seconds ticked down, at the zero mark on their monitors the vehicle gave one final slam of protest as it breached the gravimetric barrier, and an instant later the flight turned smooth as glass.
The pair remained fully alert for a good ten seconds longer, hardly daring to breath. Shane’s hand was still on the master controls, relaxed as always, but ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. The ship performed beautifully now, rotating smoothly into their orbital holding pattern. Only then did they exhale, as if on cue. They’d done it.
The commander switched on the shipwide. “Flight to crew,” he said, allowing a mildly optimistic tone into his delivery, “we’re through it. Stay strapped in, no roaming about the cabin just yet, but it looks good for now.”
The crew acknowledged one by one, following protocol, relief in all their voices.
“Doctor Eckert?”
Dean was silent for a moment or two, either from shock or simple disorientation. Mansfield let it go. “Yes?” he finally replied, “Eckert here.”
“Doctor, sorry to say that piece of paper you wanted to use probably wouldn’t have cut it.”
Mansfield wasn’t sure if Dean would even recall the reference. His ‘punch through it like paper’ comment back in the mountain had stuck in the commander’s mind for some reason, but perhaps he was the only one. At any rate, their pre-flight discussions seemed like a million years ago.
But Dean seemed to get it. He neglected to laugh, though he did appreciate the levity. “No, I guess not. Cardboard, maybe.”
Mansfield chuckled and switched off the shipwide, prompting Douglas to turn on ship to shore. “Ground. SFO. Objective achieved.”
The commander could hear not only the responses from the ground, but an increasingly delayed echo that reminded him of a lousy Skype connection. As they streamed away from Earth, the delay would intensify, but even now he could even through the reverb that his transmission was starting to break up. Oddly enough, ground control still came through loud and clear, but that wouldn’t be the case for much longer.
Copy Space Force One. Great work up there! Cleared to full throttle the rest of the way. We’ll keep in touch as long as we can.
“Roger that, ground. We’ve…t some difficulti…missing pieces up here fo…”
Partial copy SFO. You’re breaking up a bit here too, but the numbers look good. Just a few days of spinning and you’ll be in line to punch it. Boss says to tell you to check your mail. One last packet of data just transmitted. Letters from home. Give you something to occupy your time.
“…anks ground. Partial co…letters received. Will transmit until impossi…”
Fits and spurts aside, that would be the last intelligible transmission they’d manage for a long while. The Space Force One crew was on their own.
49.
President Webster and his chief of staff were tucked away in the executive office for the better part of nine hours, emerging only to use the facilities or refill their coffee cups. Whether hatching plans or debating tactics, or simply going over options, nobody could say. The tension every time they popped out, however, was thick enough to cut with a knife. The two leaders shared nothing, but their grim, determined expressions told a good part of the story.
Behind those closed doors, a speculative planning session was going on. Dean Eckert’s new findings, known only to a select few, demanded a new approach to the war. Until this latest development, it had been assumed that things would continue on as before. But if Dean was right, things could change quickly. Geopolitical realities might shift markedly in the space of just a few days, or hours even, and whoever was ready for that would come out on top.
Harvey Roberts believed the shift in power, once Space Force One did its job, would only fall to them if the Soviets were dealt with ahead of time.
“We need to hit them hard, now,” Roberts said, “send in the troops and lock the place down. There’s no other way to tip world sentiment back in our favor. The Soviets poisoned the well, now’s the time to force them to drink.”
“Open another front? With all we’ve got going on?” Webster said, a repetitive sentiment he kept coming back to. “What happens when the thin line snaps, man!”
“We’ve got the people behind us, Randall. That’s two hundred million.”
Dark Alignment Page 31
