by Allen Steele
The dream will continue. Men and women will still explore space. The frontier has been broken; like any human frontier that has ever existed, it will never be abandoned. Mankind has never turned its back on any place it has visited at least once. We have an innate urge to explore new worlds, no matter how far away they may be, or how hostile the environment. Like it or not, it’s part of our genetic makeup.
However, if anyone in America still wishes to visit the Moon within the next decade, they are advised to learn another language, and get a passport.
EIGHTEEN
2/19/95 • 1050 GMT
THE LAUNCH CENTER WAS located on Level 3A, a bowl-shaped room at the bottom of Unit A with fluorescent lights suspended from a low ceiling and its ladder placed between a pair of auxiliary control panels. Like the airlock on Level 1A, it was not made to hold nine people at once; getting everyone in there was a tight squeeze, made even tighter once Bromleigh began to set up his camera tripod in the back of the room.
The firing room was dominated by two identical consoles positioned fifteen feet apart, their swivel-mounted armchairs at right angles to one another. The consoles were lined with buttons and toggle switches surrounding a pair of computer screens, with six TV monitors arrayed above the consoles. On the wall between the two consoles was a small steel cabinet, sealed with two locks.
Once Parnell found the main fuse box and powered up the room, the consoles glowed like Christmas trees and the screens lit up with images relayed from TV cameras positioned in and around the crater. Like an ICBM bunker in Missouri, the firing room could be sealed off during a red alert, its only remaining contact a scrambled radio channel with Earth.
Once he was seated at the right-hand console, Parnell opened the secure KU-band channel to the Wheel. Main-Ops in turn relayed the transmission to Houston, where a group of SAC officers and inspectors from the International Atomic Energy Agency were waiting at Mission Control. When he achieved contact with the Von Braun Space Center, Gene unsealed the manila envelope Ray Harvey had given him at the Cape and read the authentication password typed across the first sheet of paper.
We copy, Teal Falcon, an anonymous voice replied from a quarter of a million miles away. Foxtrot Nebraska Romeo, one-zero-niner, affirmative. Can you give us status of the birds, please?
“Roger that, Mission.” Parnell reached across the board and pressed a set of six buttons.
The TV monitors flickered and fuzzed, then settled into fish-eye views from within the silos on the other side of the crater. The blunt noses of six Minuteman missiles protruded from the deep mooncrete pits in which they were nestled, held in place by vertical rows of metal flanges. Electrical cables led from the silo walls to the rockets; since the silo covers had not yet been raised, the missiles were illuminated by red fluorescent lights that cast dark shadows across their sleek fuselages.
Parnell’s eyes swept across the screens, his board, and the CRTs. Nothing seemed amiss. The missiles appeared to be the way he had last seen them; nothing had degraded during their long slumber. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad news.
“All missiles are intact and ready for launch,” he said. “Awaiting authorization to proceed to standby.”
We copy, Teal Falcon, the voice responded. IAEA concurs with your findings. You have SAC authorization to proceed to standby status. T-minus one hour, five minutes and counting, over.
“Roger that, Mission,” Parnell said. “We’re commencing final power-up and activation of launch control systems. Over.”
He took off the headset and placed it on the desk in front of him, then got up from the chair. “Mr. Dooley?” he said, looking over his shoulder. “It’s your turn.”
“About time,” Dooley murmured as he traded places with Parnell. “I was beginning to feel like a tourist.”
Parnell said nothing. He leaned over the back of the chair, studying Dooley as he placed his laptop computer on the desk and unfolded its screen. While Dooley pried open the back of the CPU and pulled a rolled cable out of his equipment case, Parnell glanced around, surreptitiously noting everyone’s position in the firing room.
Jay Lewitt was seated at the left-hand console, watching Dooley as he interfaced his Tandy/IBM to the master fire-control system through the right console’s serial port. Cris Ryer stood directly behind Lewitt, observing everything that was going on. In the back of the room, Alex Bromleigh had set up his camera and was fiddling with the lens; Berkley Rhodes was helping out by running a coaxial cable to the main communications panel on Lewitt’s board. According to their agreement with NASA, the ATS news team would not transmit live pictures until after the missiles were fired; before then, they could only record the launch procedure.
Markus Talsbach lingered near the ladder, his arms folded across his chest. Curiously, there was no sign of either Uwe Aachener or James Leamore.
“Mr. Talsbach?” Parnell asked, and the German astronaut looked up. “Where are your friends?”
“Eh?” Talsbach raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. “Ah! Oh, they have gone elsewhere, I think.”
“You think?” He was beginning to wonder if Talsbach was twice the idiot he seemed to be. “There’s not too many places they could have gone, Markus. Where did they go?”
“Oh! Ahh … James needed to find the …” He seemed to be searching for the correct word. “The levorotary, I believe. Uwe decided to go with him, in order to look at the rest of the base.” He frowned. “Is this wrong? Should I go in search of them?”
Parnell shook his head. “No … I just wish they had told me where they were headed, that’s all.”
In fact, he didn’t care to have anyone out of sight just now. The head was located in Unit B, on the other side of the bunker; that was a long way from the firing room. Parnell’s first impulse was to go looking for Leamore and Aachener, but when he glanced down at Dooley again, he saw that the hacker had already linked up with the main computer system.
“Okay, here we go.” Dooley rapidly typed a set of commands into his computer. As he did, the CRTs on his console and Lewitt’s simultaneously began to scroll long lists of program code. “Yeah, baby,” he whispered to himself as he eagerly watched the screen in front of him, his fingers periodically stabbing at the keys. “Go, mama, go …”
“What’s happening?” Parnell asked.
“I’m reintroducing my buddy to his long-lost brother.” Dooley blinked from behind his glasses as he looked up at Parnell. “I’m matching my half of the c-cube codes with the ones Teal Falcon has in memory. When they’ve finished shaking hands, we’ll be ready to go ahead with the rest of the sequence.”
“I see.” It was a simplistic explanation, but it matched what Parnell had been told during his briefings. Once the two sets of programs were matched and final authentication was received from Houston, he and Lewitt would be able to proceed with electrical check-out and the arming and targeting of the Minutemen.
So far, everything was going according to plan. In only an hour, the President would go on live network television, make his carefully scripted statement to the nation and the world, then push a button on the Oval Office desk. A few seconds later, Parnell and Lewitt would receive the green light from Houston. A final twist of a pair of keys, and the birds would leave their nests.
The only thing stopping him were a few suspicions cast by a couple of civilians, and who were they? A college kid on the Wheel and an ill woman somewhere in Arizona: All they had for proof were a couple of strange conversations on a private computer network and the coincidental murder of a pizza delivery boy.
Insane …
Sure, Joe Laughlin thought there was something amiss, but Joe could be wrong. Just as Parnell himself could be wrong by believing any one of them. Did he really want to end his career by screwing up to this magnitude?
“Okay!” Dooley’s shout interrupted his thoughts. “We’re in!” He looked up at Parnell. “All systems are nominal, Commander. It’s all yours.”
Parnel
l sucked in his breath as he stood erect. “Well done, Paul. My compliments.”
Lewitt dipped his head and pulled the key from around his neck. “Anytime you’re ready, Commander,” he said, jingling the key in his hand. “Let’s get it on the road.”
“Sure, Jay.” Parnell checked the digital chronometer between the two launch stations. The clock stood at 1110 Zulu.
Just enough time for him to take a reality check …
“I’m going topside for a sec,” he said to no one in particular as he stepped away from the chair. “Nature’s calling.”
Rhodes looked up from her work. “You’re going to worry about that now?”
“Jesus, I don’t believe it …” Dooley irritably rubbed his mouth. “You picked a fine time to take a whizz, man.”
Lewitt seemed equally baffled, but he gave his commander an amused grin. “Hell of a time for a pee-break.”
“We’re running ahead of schedule.” Parnell managed a sheepish shrug and grin as he headed for the hatch. Talsbach said nothing as he stepped aside. “Might as well take care of business. Excuse me …”
Then he began to climb up the ladder to Level 2A.
The logistics compartment was vacant. This shouldn’t have troubled Parnell, but it did.
He walked softly past the computers to the lateral hatch leading to Unit B. The hatch cover was still open; light glowed from the opposite end of the fifteen-foot connecting tunnel. When he bent over and listened carefully, though, he could hear no sound from the crew quarters on the other side of the bunker.
“Hello?” he called. “Anyone there?”
No one answered. Of course, that could mean nothing. The head was located on Level 1B, one deck up in the second sphere. They might not have heard him. For all he knew, Leamore and Aachener could be raiding the galley fridge.
His first impulse was to enter the tunnel and go investigate their prolonged absence. He bent low, raised his right foot and set it in the tunnel … then stopped himself. His first priority should be to return to the firing room, where he could keep a close eye on Dooley and Ryer.
He reminded himself that he had left the unsealed launch codes on the desk in front of the right-hand firing console. That was stupid; although the missiles couldn’t be armed or launched without the key which still hung around his neck, someone could nevertheless make use of the authenticators.
He couldn’t be in two places at once.
He hoped he was only being paranoid.
Parnell reluctantly turned away from the tunnel and went back to the ladder. Before he set foot on the first rung, though, he reached behind the adjacent mainframe and retrieved the Colt from its hiding place.
He chambered a round and flipped off the safety, then carefully slipped the pistol into the right pocket of his jumpsuit. It made a slight bulge and the handle stuck out a little; he would have to be careful to conceal it.
He took a deep breath, then climbed back down the ladder into the control room.
Dooley was still sitting at the right-hand console, slouched over the keyboard of his computer, which was still connected to the console. Parnell noted that Ryer had left Lewitt’s side; she was now standing above Dooley, intently watching what he was doing. She looked up as Parnell reentered the compartment, but Dooley either didn’t notice his return or ignored it.
Ryer started to step away from the chair, but Gene waved her off, mindful to use his left hand while keeping his right hand close to his pocket, hiding the butt of the gun. “Never mind,” he said, walking past her toward Lewitt’s seat. “I think I’ll run the left seat instead. Can you hand me the envelope, please?”
Cris blinked, but said nothing; she merely picked up the envelope—which had apparently gone undisturbed during his absence—and passed it to him.
Jay looked bewildered as Parnell approached his console, but he didn’t protest. “Any particular reason, Commander?” he asked as he surrendered his chair to Parnell.
“Kind of drafty over there, that’s all.” Gene pointed to an air duct above the right console. “I was getting chills sitting there. Hope you don’t mind switching, but …”
“Naw, that’s okay. I don’t think it matters much anyway.” And it didn’t; in terms of function, the consoles mirrored one another. However, Parnell wanted to be able to keep an eye on Dooley and Ryer without turning his head … and from the left console he would be able to get a clean shot at either or both of them, if push came to shove.
“Don’t forget this.” Parnell picked up Lewitt’s envelope and handed it to him as he slid past. As Lewitt took the envelope, Parnell leaned a little closer to him.
“Watch ’em,” he whispered.
Jay nodded very slightly, then strode over to the right console. Dooley had already vacated the chair; he pushed aside his laptop computer to make room for Lewitt, but he remained close to the console. It was a little crowded at that end of the room, but, Parnell noted, Ryer didn’t stray from the console, either.
The chronometer now stood at 1131 Zulu. Less than a half-hour remained before launch.
Sitting down, Parnell glanced over his shoulder toward the back of the control room. Bromleigh stood behind his camera, ready to begin filming the operation; Rhodes was next to him, absently fiddling with the lapel mike on her jumpsuit collar. Talsbach stood near the ladder, seemingly bored with the whole procedure.
Still no sign of either Leamore or Aachener. There was nothing Parnell could do about that now.
“Ready to go, Commander?” Jay asked.
“Yup. Let’s get to it.” Parnell clamped the headset around the back of his neck and adjusted the mike, then switched the comlink to the secure frequency he had used earlier. “Houston, this is Teal Falcon. All systems nominal. We’re ready to begin pre-launch sequence.”
The usual five-second delay, then the same anonymous voice he had heard before came on-line. Roger that, Teal Falcon. Stand by to receive authentication code, over.
Parnell picked up the manila envelope, opened it again, and pulled out a red letter-sized envelope printed with official threats regarding stiff prison sentences if opened without proper authorization. As Lewitt did the same, he tore off one end of the envelope and withdrew a short slip of paper. “Houston, we’re ready to receive authenticator,” he said.
Teal Falcon, this is Houston. The authenticator is …
Parnell stole a sidelong glance at Dooley. He was bent over his computer, resting his hands on the edge of the desk. His right hand wasn’t touching the keyboard, but it was uncomfortably close.
Rattrap, Parnell reminded himself. This is a rattrap …
Bravo … Zulu … Tango … six … three … seven … Alpha … Romeo … Nebraska. Do you copy? Over.
The authenticator matched the large red code-sign printed on Parnell’s slip: BZT 637 ARN. He held the paper up for Lewitt to read and Jay reciprocated. The codes were identical.
“We copy, Houston,” Parnell said. “Authentication received and confirmed by Lieutenant Lewitt and myself. Proceeding with pre-launch sequence. Over.”
He pulled off the headset and stood, then reached up to pull the long key chain from around his neck. Lewitt did the same; they leaned across their desks until they were both able to fit their keys into the locks of the steel cabinet between their consoles.
A quick twist of each key opened the locks; the lid swung down, revealing another pair of keys, these oversized and painted red.
“Do you concur with launch?” Parnell asked.
“Yes, sir,” Lewitt said formally. “I concur with launch.”
It was all part of the apocalyptic waltz of nuclear warfare. Neither man could launch the missiles on his own; both had to receive and match the authenticator codes, both had to open the cabinet and take the launch control keys; once inserted in the consoles, both keys had to be turned within five seconds of each other for the missiles to be fired. The two master consoles had been deliberately positioned far enough apart to guarantee that one man in
the bunker couldn’t go crazy and launch the missiles on his own.
Parnell sat down again. He flipped open a small zebra-striped panel on his console and inserted his key. The switch had three positions: OFF, STANDBY, and LAUNCH. He waited until Lewitt had done the same; then he said, “On my mark … three … two … one … mark.”
“Mark,” Lewitt said, and simultaneously twisted his key clockwise to STANDBY.
Orange lamps on their consoles switched to amber. The CRTs began to display line columns of type, showing the status of each missile in its silo. A red-bordered warning across the bottom of their screens told them that the Minutemen were ready to be armed.
Curtsy and bow. The danse macabre had begun.
“Go with pre-launch ignition,” Parnell says. His hands move quickly across his console, flicking toggle switches in succession.
“Roger that,” Lewitt says. “Commencing pre-launch ignition sequence.”
Vertical bars rise on their screens, telling them that the Minutemen’s solid rocket engines are being armed. “Primary electrical check,” Parnell says, flipping another set of switches.
“Roger on primary electrical.” Lewitt carefully watches another screen as the missiles are powered up. “All missiles on external power. Umbilical source nominal, internal batteries on storage mode, green for go.”
“Roger that. Standby for primary gyro check.”
Reviving the missiles doesn’t take very long; the last crew to visit Teal Falcon, three years ago, left the missiles in pre-launch status, just in case the CINC changed his mind about Baghdad’s fate. As he and Lewitt run through the checklist, though, Parnell watches Dooley out of the corner of his eye.
The younger man has stood behind Lewitt the entire time, never moving far from his laptop computer. Ryer, on the other hand, has silently moved to stand directly behind Parnell; he can see her reflection in the glass of the computer screen in front of him.
