The Tranquillity Alternative

by Allen Steele

  “Shut up!” Ryer unzipped a breast pocket of her jumpsuit and pulled out a diskette. Parnell had just enough time to recognize it as the same 3.5-inch diskette he had briefly glimpsed aboard Conestoga, then she slapped it into the terminal’s floppy drive. She tapped several keys on the computer, waited a few seconds until a line of type appeared on the monitor, then yanked it back out of the computer.

  “Okay, let’s get out of here!” she snapped, turning around and running back to the ladder.

  Parnell didn’t ask what she had done; there wasn’t enough time. As Leamore covered them, he scurried up the ladder behind Ryer. He had just entered the top deck when he heard a shout from below, followed by a gunshot.

  “Leamore!” he shouted.

  A few moments passed, then Leamore clambered up the ladder, the Glock still gripped in his right hand. “That’ll hold ’em for a few more minutes,” he said as he slammed the second hatch shut, “but they’ll figure out things soon enough. Now suit up, both of you … I’ll hold down the fort.”

  “Will someone please explain what’s going on?” Ryer was already hauling her hardsuit out of the locker where she had stowed it.

  Out of breath, Leamore squatted on his haunches next to the hatch. “Certainly, ma’am,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. “I’m working for SIS, and your dimwit commander here just managed to botch an intelligence operation.”

  Parnell’s jaw dropped. “I—?”

  “Yes, you flaming idiot,” Leamore said, glowering at him. “You.”

  Talsbach was still holding onto the ladder, his gun gripped in his right hand as he pressed his ear against the closed hatch. “I cannot hear anything,” he said as he glanced down at Lewitt. “They’ve left the second deck, perhaps?”

  “Maybe,” Lewitt answered, “but don’t try going up again until we’re sure.” Just now, Lewitt had more important things on his mind. Talsbach had located the light switch Leamore had managed to throw; Lewitt was surveying the scene in the firing room. “Shit,” he breathed. “Things sure got fucked up in a hurry, didn’t they?”

  The compartment was a mess. The TV monitor that had been shot out by a stray bullet had strewn glass across the consoles. Notebook pages were scattered everywhere, top secret codes and procedures lying on the floor like so much trash. A chair was overturned; pulling it upright, Lewitt discovered the gun Parnell had managed to dislodge from his hands.

  Worst of all, though, were the two bodies in the far corner of the room. Berkley Rhodes was slumped in a sitting position against the wall, her legs sprawled out before her, her head draping blond hair over the wet red blotch in the middle of her chest. In his dying moments, Alex Bromleigh seemed to have curled protectively around the ruined camcorder on the floor; the bullet that had punctured his left lung had left him staring sightlessly at the firefight that had ended his career and his life.

  “Christ,” Lewitt whispered. He stared down at the gun in his numb hand, then carefully placed it on the desk. Although he couldn’t be certain, it was possible that it was he himself who had killed Rhodes and Bromleigh. “Sorry, guys,” he muttered, as much to himself as to the dead man and woman. “You were supposed to stay alive …”

  “Jay! Snap out of it!”

  Lewitt tore his eyes away from the bodies. Paul Dooley—Cecil Orvitz, actually, if one cared to use the name on his birth certificate—had resumed his seat in front of the left-hand firing console.

  “We’ve got T-minus three minutes and counting,” he said, as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing a ferry launch from the Cape. “Houston wants to know what’s going on up here.”

  Lewitt took a deep breath. “Did they hear anything?” he asked, trying to gather his wits.

  Dooley shook his head, and Lewitt turned to the console behind him and picked up the headset, just as he had been about to do before all hell broke loose. He held the headset to his ear and adjusted the mike, then pushed the vox button.

  “Mission, this is Teal Falcon,” he said. “Sorry for the delay, but we experienced a small difficulty in the master fire control system. Commander Parnell has gone up to the logistics deck to correct the problem. Over.”

  There was a brief pause, enough time for him to wonder whether they had bought the lie; then a voice came over the comlink. We copy, Teal Falcon. What’s the nature of the problem? Over.

  He shot a glance at Dooley; the hacker mouthed something, pointing at the CRT in front of him. “It’s just a software glitch,” he replied. “Nothing to be concerned about. We’ve corrected it and are proceeding with countdown as planned.”

  Dooley nodded, circling his thumb and index finger. Lewitt waited another few seconds before the voice of the Von Braun controller responded: We copy, Teal Falcon. Is Commander Parnell available?

  “No, Houston, not at this moment,” Lewitt said quickly. “He’s still on the upper deck, making sure that the glitch doesn’t reoccur.” He glanced at the chronometer. “We’re at T-minus two minutes, twenty seconds. All systems are go for launch, and we’re not requesting a hold. Repeat, we’re go for launch, no hold requested. Over.”

  He looked back at Dooley, expecting affirmation of his message. Dooley, however, was staring intently at his screen; as Lewitt watched, the hacker’s fingers raced across the keyboard, entering commands Lewitt couldn’t make out from across the room.

  Roger that, Teal Falcon. We confirm. You’re go for launch at T-minus two minutes, ten seconds and counting. Final launch authentication as follows …

  “Shit!”

  Dooley’s eyes were wide with amazement. Lewitt ignored the last set of code-numbers transmitted over the comlink; it wasn’t necessary for him to enter the authentication in order to launch the missiles. “What’s going on?” he said, cupping his hand over the mike.

  “I dunno!” Dooley was becoming frantic; he bent closer to the screen as he stabbed urgently at the keyboard, anxiously watching the display. “Everything’s freezing up … I can’t get anything to work!”

  “Nothing?” Lewitt glanced up at the remaining TV monitors. The silo covers had slid open, allowing pale earthlight to bathe the five Minutemen he could see on the remaining monitors; the missiles were poised for launch, but the work platforms were still in place within the silos and the umbilicals hadn’t detached. “What about the primary ignition system?”

  “I’m telling you, nothing works!” Dooley was almost pounding the keyboard in frustration. “Fucking computer is ignoring everything I send to it! I can’t—!”

  His head jerked up, mouth gaping as he stared at Lewitt. “Goddamn,” he whispered. “I’ll be goddamned …”

  “What?”

  “A fucking virus.” Dooley shook his head incredulously as his eyes moved back to the console. “I don’t know how they did it, but they’ve put a fucking virus in this thing. There’s no other explanation.” A weird grin appeared on his face. “I don’t … fuck, how did they … ?”

  Lewitt was about to say something when Mission Control came back on line. Teal Falcon, do you confirm final launch authentication?

  Lewitt quickly uncupped the mike. “Ah, we copy, Houston. We’re go for launch at …”

  The chronometer told him that seventy seconds remained until launch. “T-minus one minute, ten seconds,” he finished. “Standby, over.”

  He reached across the board and switched off the radio. “Fuck that,” he murmured, then looked back at Dooley. “Do you have time to reboot the program?”

  Dooley laughed out loud. “Are you kidding? This is a mainframe crash! I can’t get anything up and running without dumping everything and starting over from scratch … and that’s only if I can locate the virus and rub it out of the system.”

  “What about Uwe?” Talsbach was still standing on the ladder, apparently oblivious to everything that was going on behind him. “He could be injured, or …”

  “Fuck Uwe.” Lewitt ran a hand through his hair; it came back slick with sweat. Right now, the President would be wrapping
up his pithy speech from behind the Oval Office desk. It was Sunday, so he would be wearing a blue cardigan and a golf shirt. A picture of his wife and daughter would be visible on the table behind him, and on the antique desk would be the ceremonial button he would press that would supposedly send the Minutemen into solar oblivion. When Houston saw that the missiles didn’t leave their silos …

  “Okay,” he said softly, trying to get a grip. “Maybe the computer’s feeding you wrong info or something …”

  “Wrong info?” Dooley’s laugh was a nerve-racking bray. “Hey, dude, take a reality check! This isn’t a Nintendo game. This is—”

  “Shut up and grab that other key!” Lewitt controlled a sudden urge to twist the obnoxious little twit’s head off his shoulders. “Just do it!”

  Dooley seemed as if he were about to add another slacker-generation sarcasm; one look at Lewitt’s face, though, made him reconsider. Without a word, he grasped the metal key in the slot on his console.

  Lewitt grabbed his own key. “Okay,” he said quietly, peering at the flashing numbers on the chronometer. It was now T-minus twelve seconds and counting. “When I say ‘mark,’ turn it to the right. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Dooley said. “But I’m telling you, this isn’t going to—”

  “Just do as I say.” Lewitt’s heart was thudding against his chest as he watched the last few digits flash by. “Three … two … one … mark!”

  In the same instant, both men twisted their keys from STANDBY to LAUNCH.

  Nothing happened.

  On the TV monitors, the Minutemen remained dormant in their silos. No flash of engine ignition, no billowing exhaust fumes, no graceful rise of sleek missiles from their berths. The rockets were frozen in place.

  As Dooley let out his breath and sank back in his chair, Lewitt reached out to stab buttons which killed all telemetry to the Wheel and Earth. If there was any grim satisfaction to be had in the fact that the President of the United States had just pushed a button which was absolutely useless even as a formality, he didn’t feel it.

  “Okay.” Lewitt settled back in the chair and fitted the headset over his ears. “Time to go to the backup plan.”

  He turned a dial on the communications panel before him, readjusting it to a seldom-used S-band frequency. “Ghost Rider, this is Blue Falcon. Code red. I repeat, code red. Do you copy? Over.”

  Fortunately, the radio still worked. While he waited for a reply, Lewitt glanced over his shoulder at Talsbach, who was still hovering beneath the closed hatch. He jerked his head upward.

  “Get ’em,” he said.

  Transcript of television address by President Bill Clinton; February 19, 1995

  “My fellow Americans …

  “Twenty-six years ago, a previous Administration determined that, for reasons of national security, it was vital to protect American interests at home and abroad by placing weapons of mass destruction on the Moon. This plan was carried out in secret, without prior knowledge or approval of the American public or most of its elected officials. Although the existence of this small arsenal was eventually made known, to this day these weapons—six Minuteman II missiles, each containing a one-megaton nuclear warhead—have remained on the Moon.

  “A generation has passed since then, and the world has become a different place. I will not apologize for the actions taken by another President, or for the willingness of his successors to continue his policies, since they were done in the spirit of defending the United States. However, this Administration believes that it is no longer necessary, or desirable, for this country to maintain a nuclear deterrent in outer space at a time when we’re actively dismantling our land-based strategic nuclear arsenal.

  “Three years ago, President Dole signed the United Nations Space Treaty which outlawed the deployment of weapons of mass destruction in Earth orbit or on any heavenly body. In accordance with this international treaty, I am today issuing the final order for the destruction of all six missiles stored at the Teal Falcon installation at the Sea of Tranquillity on the Moon. This order will be carried out at twelve o’clock P.M. Greenwich meridian time, seven o’clock A.M. Eastern Standard Time, under the remote supervision of the International Atomic Energy Agency.

  “On the desk before me is a button which, once pressed, will signal our astronauts on the Moon to launch the missiles. Instead of heading for Earth, as they were designed to do, the missiles will be sent into the Sun, where they will be harmlessly consumed by its vast energy. This action is as symbolic as it is practical: just as the Sun gives us life, so it will aid in the destruction of our engines of death.

  “After the missiles are launched, the base where they were stored will be turned over to a private German corporation, which intends to eventually use it for the safe disposal of high-level nuclear waste from Earth. In this way, what was once a secret military site will be used to enhance the quality of the global environment.

  “As I said earlier, I will not apologize for the decisions made by my predecessors in the White House. However, as President of the United States, I beg forgiveness for the fear and anxiety which those actions may have caused the people of the world.

  “And now, I will press the button …”

  TWENTY

  2/19/95 • 1203 GMT

  “WHAT DOES SIS HAVE to do with all this?” Parnell demanded. “And why didn’t you tell me you’re spying for them?”

  They were taking turns holding the pistol while they climbed into their suits. Parnell was wearing everything except his helmet, and Ryer had half-completed her suit-up process. Leamore was just getting started; he barely looked up from the heavy boots he was struggling to pull on.

  “For starters,” he said, grunting as he shoved his left foot into the matching boot and attached its ring to the cuff, “I’m not a spy, but an agent. There’s a difference, you know …”

  “I don’t care if you’re a circus clown.” Parnell’s eyes never left the closed hatch leading up from the lower levels. If it budged so much as an inch, he’d fire a bullet down the ladder. He glanced at Ryer; her suit was sealed, and she was now shouldering her life-support pack. “When you get done,” he said to her, “help him.”

  Ryer nodded as Leamore heaved his right foot into the other boot. “What I really meant to say,” Leamore went on, “is that I’m not fully aware of all the details because I’m not a full-time operative. The fellows at Century House recruited me when they first learned about this entire business, because I had already been assigned to this mission, but they didn’t take me completely into their confidence.”

  He cast a quick grin at Parnell. “So you’re not talking to James Bond here. I’m just fortunate that I got the drop on Herr Aachener before he took me out instead.”

  “So tell us what you do know,” Parnell said. “Who are those guys working for?”

  Leamore fastened the right ankle ring, then stood up and hastily pulled the heavy suit up over his chest and shoulders. “Ever heard of a gent named Wolff-Dieter Rautmann?” he asked. Parnell shook his head. “Not many people have,” he went on. “He’s a freelance arms dealer working out of Germany, the same party who has been supplying secondhand Russian munitions to various Middle Eastern countries for several years. All perfectly legal, but SIS has suspected for a while now that he’s also been trading in nastier stuff—nuclear components, chemical and biological agents, and so forth and so on—to whoever will buy them.”

  “Can we skip the life history, please?”

  “Quite. At any rate, early last year Germany’s State Security Ministry raided a Baader-Meinhof safe house in Bonn and arrested a number of suspected terrorists. When they interrogated one of the prisoners, they learned about Markus and Uwe.”

  “Talsbach and Aachener are terrorists?” Ryer snapped shut the buckles of her backpack and began connecting its oxygen hoses to the chest valves. “I’ve heard about Baader-Meinhof. This is kind of a big operation for those guys, isn’t it?”

  Leamore no
dded. “Markus and Uwe were once with the Red Army Faction a long time ago, but this isn’t a Baader-Meinhof operation.” He shoved his right arm down a sleeve. “If they’ve got ideological reasons, it’s secondary to whatever they’re being paid. They were recruited for this job because they were about to enter astronaut training. Seems that these characters had decided to get straight jobs, even if they themselves weren’t quite straight. Like your man Lewitt intimated, money speaks louder than ideology, particularly when it comes to treason.”

  He paused to pull the suit the rest of the way on, then ducked his head to stick it through the collar ring. “Anyway,” he gasped when he came up for air, “the Germans tipped off SIS, and Century House investigated on its own. To make a long story short, its informants discovered that Rautmann went to the trouble of finding and recruiting these gents for the purpose of getting hold of your nukes here.”

  “For Baader-Meinhof?” Ryer asked, sounding slightly confused.

  “Them?” Leamore blew out his cheeks. “Not bloody likely. Nothing so small. This whole thing is being done at the behest of the People’s Democratic Government of North Korea.”

  “North Korea?” Surprised, Parnell looked away from the hatch. “What would it gain from firing missiles from … ?”

  “No, you idiot.” Leamore was becoming inpatient. “Not firing missiles … acquiring missiles. Or rather, the warhead from one of those Minutemen.”

  He paused in his labors at suiting up. “Look. Missiles they’ve got—they’ve already built their Nodong-1, in case you haven’t heard—but when the U.N. clamped down on their bomb factory last year, they had to look elsewhere. They knew that was coming, so a couple of years ago they hired our friend Herr Rautmann, who in turn set up this entire operation. SIS also learned that Cecil Orvitz—or rather, Paul Dooley, as you know him—was recruited by …”

  “Hold on.” Parnell was still trying to absorb all this; too much was being thrown at him too fast. “Wait a minute. They’re trying to hijack the missiles? How did they expect to …”