by Allen Steele
“Accomplish this feat?” Leamore shrugged within the suit’s cumbersome carapace. He fumbled with the seals until Ryer stepped over to assist him. “We’re not quite certain—or, at least, I’m not certain, although I’m positive that SIS knows more than I. Whatever their means, though, the objective is still the same.”
“Getting the nukes from our Minutemen,” Ryer said.
“Correct. Thank you, dear.” Leamore’s gaze turned back to Parnell. “Once Kim Jong acquires a ready-made warhead, he doesn’t have to worry about U.N. inspectors. He can resell it to whoever is willing to meet his price. Or put it on one of his own rockets, if he wants to make Seoul sweat bullets.”
Something was beginning to tug at the back of Parnell’s mind, but before he could voice his thoughts, Ryer cut in. “If SIS knew about all this and sent you, then why didn’t you come and tell us? It would have saved a lot of grief … stand up straight.”
Leamore stood straighter, sucking in his gut as Ryer pulled the airtight zipper partway up the back of his suit. “Because this was supposed to be an intelligence operation, that’s all. SIS knew that Dooley, Aachener, and Talsbach were involved. We also knew that Rhodes and Bromleigh were clean. Beyond that, we didn’t know who among the remaining crew members might have been recruited, if any.”
He looked over his shoulder at Ryer, then nodded toward Parnell. “For all we knew, you or Gene could have been part of the scheme, so I couldn’t afford to trust either of you. Sorry.”
Ryer and Parnell glanced at each other. Whatever quarrel they might have once had was now settled; all that mattered now was survival. “Don’t worry about it,” Parnell murmured. “I seem to have misplaced my trust as well.”
Ryer gave him a quick smile. Another thought occurred to him. “What is it about that disk, anyway?” he asked her.
“Some private revenge, that’s all,” Ryer said as she fought the rear zipper the rest of the way up Leamore’s back. “With any luck, it’ll stop the launch, maybe buy us some time.” When Gene opened his mouth to speak, she shook her head. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
Parnell looked at his wrist chronometer. He wasn’t willing to bet on luck. It was now 1212 Zulu. The missiles should have launched twelve minutes ago. They had no idea whether the Minutemen had cleared the silos; down here, within the lunar crust, no vibration could penetrate the isolation of the bunker.
Ryer hefted Leamore’s life-support pack and began to help him guide his arms through the shoulder straps. “You said this was supposed to be an intelligence operation. That means you weren’t supposed to stop them?”
“Not unless it became absolutely necessary,” Leamore replied. “All we wanted was evidence that two known Red Army operatives and an accomplice—Dooley, although you know better yourself by now—were involved in the theft. We intended to gain such evidence from the ATS camera footage. Once that was accomplished, everything would be disclosed to the cousins …”
“The CIA.”
“That’s right, along with the White House and the Pentagon … and as a result NATO would have been able to take the matter to the U.N. Security Council, which would have attempted to resolve the matter through diplomacy and so forth. Altogether, it was supposed to be a rather low-key, hush-hush sort of affair.”
Leamore picked up a gauntlet and pulled it over his left hand. “But apparently Aachener got wise to my role somehow. So far as I know, he was aware of my involvement even before we left the Wheel.”
He swore under his breath. “In any event, he tried to silence me when I went to the W.C., but I managed to get the gun away from him. After that I hid out in the crew’s quarters, waiting to see what would happen next.”
“But by then I had wised up—” Parnell began.
“And forced the issue, which leads to our current situation.” Leamore fastened the wrist link of his left glove. “I suppose I can’t rightly blame you, Commander,” he said as he picked up the right glove. “You had stumbled upon this bloody mess and tried to prevent it. But the whole sodding thing went to hell as soon as you pulled that gun and pointed it at the wrong fellow, and that’s why …”
He fumbled with the gauntlet. It dropped to the floor. “Oh, damn,” he murmured, and bent over to pick it up. Or at least he tried to; the bulky suit prevented him from doing so much as touch his knees.
“I’ll get it.” Parnell walked over to where the glove lay, his boots clunking heavily on the deck. He knelt to his right knee and retrieved the gauntlet.
He was about to hand it to Leamore when he heard the metallic rasp of hatch-cover hinges. Before he could turn around, a gun went off behind him.
Lewitt jerked at the sharp crack of a gunshot from somewhere above.
For an instant, he thought someone was firing into the control room; he grabbed the automatic from the desktop and swiveled around in his chair, staring at the open hatchway.
“Markus!” he shouted. “What’s going on up there?”
No response. He yanked off the headset and started to rise from the chair, but Orvitz looked up from the left console. “Sit down,” he said, almost too calmly. “Whatever it is, they’ll take care of it.”
Lewitt hesitated, then resumed his place at the right-hand firing console. Like it or not, Orvitz was right; this was why the Germans had been recruited, to act as backups in case something went wrong with the operation. Lewitt reluctantly put the pistol down, replaced his headset, and returned his attention to the console. Although the computers were still inoperative, Teal Falcon’s radar system remained functional. A small blip had entered the scope; as he watched, it closed steadily on the bull’s-eye at the center of the screen.
He reactivated the radio. “Ghost Rider, this is Blue Falcon. We have you on primary approach. Do you copy? Over.”
There was a short pause, then a Russian-accented voice came over the headset. We understand, Blue Falcon. Ghost Rider is at one hundred fifty kilometers, downrange fifteen kilometers. Landing estimated in ten minutes. Has the perimeter been secured? Over.
Lewitt glanced at Orvitz, who was listening through his headset. Orvitz nodded his head. “Roger that, Ghost Rider,” Lewitt replied. “Be advised that we’re still encountering some resistance within the base, but it will be taken care of by the time you arrive. Over.”
There was a long pause. After a few moments, the voice returned. We understand, Blue Falcon. We are continuing with approach and landing. Over.
Lewitt grimaced. Of course Ghost Rider would land; its crew had no other options.
The original plan had called for TF-6 to be launched into an elliptical cislunar orbit, where it would have been intercepted by Ghost Rider. Two Russian former cosmonauts would then have gone EVA; using special tools, and consulting schematic diagrams of the Minuteman’s payload package which had been smuggled out of the West, they would have opened the missile’s faring and removed the warhead.
All this would have been accomplished without anyone on Earth or the Moon being the wiser; controllers at Von Braun and the Wheel would have believed that TF-6 was on a solar trajectory along with the five other missiles, thanks to false transponder coordinates which Orvitz’s program was supposed to relay to the Deep Space Tracking Network.
Ghost Rider would have returned to Earth while Conestoga was still at Tranquillity Base. Orvitz, Aachener, and Talsbach, and Lewitt himself, would have flown home aboard Conestoga. By the time anyone figured out what had happened to TF-6—if ever—he would be catching a jet to Argentina, where Lisa and their child were already waiting for him.
Lewitt sagged back in the chair, rubbing his eyes. A carefully developed plan, two years in the making, now straight down the toilet. First, Orvitz’s cover had been blown because he couldn’t handle some stupid gimp girlfriend Dooley had in Arizona. Then Uwe had gotten suspicious about Leamore and attempted to kill him. And even after everything had fucked up, but just when it seemed as if he could get the situation under control, this shit with a dime-store virus
program …
“Jesus,” he mumbled. “Talk about chaos theory …”
“What’s that?” Orvitz asked.
Lewitt shook his head. “Never mind.”
By now, everyone from Texas to the White House must be in a panic, trying to find out why the Minutemen hadn’t launched or why they had lost contact with Teal Falcon. There was no point in trying to make up excuses; Mission Control would only want to speak with Parnell, or have Rhodes and Bromleigh transmit a TV picture from the bunker.
But they still had their backup plan.
All was not yet lost. The second plan didn’t rely on subterfuge so much as brute force, but it was only a different means to the same end. Even if TF-6 was grounded, its silo doors were open, the missile itself still accessible from the surface. It meant doing the same job the hard way, but Ghost Rider’s crew would still get their warheads, one way or another….
Another gunshot from above. Lewitt glanced again at the hatch. What the hell was going on up there?
The first round had taken off the top of Leamore’s head, but Parnell didn’t realize he had been killed before he whipped around and got off a single, clumsy shot at the half-open hatch.
The bullet ricocheted off the inside of the hatch cover. Parnell caught the briefest glimpse of Talsbach’s face before the hatch dropped shut again.
Goddamn! The son of a bitch had been listening the entire time … and, like an idiot, Parnell had moved away from the hatch just long enough for Talsbach to poke his head through.
“Is everyone all right?” Parnell yelled. He didn’t dare take his eyes from the hatch; the Glock was cradled in both hands, aimed at the hatch in case Talsbach tried again.
“Leamore’s down!”
Ryer was crouched near the wall, staring at the body sprawled across the deck at her feet. Dark red blood was pooling around Leamore’s skull. “Oh, shit,” she whispered. “He’s dead, Gene….”
Parnell stole a quick glance over his shoulder. Leamore had been lucky once, but not twice … and the way things stood, luck was beginning to run out for both him and Ryer.
But maybe not. They were both fully suited except for their helmets, and the airlock was just behind them. All they had to do was put on their helmets, pressurize their suits, enter the airlock, and …
And what? Cycle-out would take at least thirty minutes. In the meantime, they would be trapped inside the airlock chamber. Its hatch was airtight, but not bulletproof; someone could still fire through it.
Talsbach didn’t even have to do that. The control panel outside the airlock could stop the depressurization cycle. If Talsbach shut off the airlock while they were inside, then he and Ryer would be cornered. The proverbial fish in a barrel had better odds of survival.
Unless …
“Cris!” he whispered.
She didn’t respond; glancing toward her, he saw that she was staring at Leamore.
“Ryer, snap out of it!”
She blinked and slowly raised her head. She was on the verge of panic, but hadn’t lost it yet.
“Put your helmet on!” he whispered. “Put on your helmet and get in the airlock!”
She blinked a few more times and shook her head; she, too, had realized that they could be trapped in the airlock. “But they can …”
“Shut up and do it! I’ll cover you!”
Ryer nodded dully. She rose from the wall, looked around stupidly until she spotted her helmet several feet away. Parnell didn’t mind the noise her boots made against the floor as she walked over to pick it up.
In fact, he was counting on Talsbach having his ear pressed against the hatch.
He waited until she had put on her helmet and sealed her suit. Then, when she opened the airlock hatch, he made his move. Carefully placing the gun on the floor so that he could grab it in an instant, he reached out for his own helmet.
Despite his caution, there were a couple of minutes when he couldn’t pick up the pistol; his hands were busy, sealing his helmet ring and activating the suit’s electrical and life-support systems. He left the radio off—too much chance someone in the control room might be monitoring this frequency—and he didn’t allow his eyes to waver from the floor hatch until he was finished.
He retrieved the gun and straightened up, ignoring the cramp in his knees as he moved across the suit-up room to the airlock. For no real reason, he recalled a rock song his son used to play on the stereo; he whispered the refrain under his breath.
“Gimme three steps … gimme three steps … gimme three steps towards the door …” When he entered the airlock, he raised his left hand and jerked it down several times, palmdown, clawing his fingers as much as the heavy gloves would allow.
Ryer understood. She knelt on all fours and pushed her fingers through the open gridwork of the airlock floor. Maybe she realized what he was going to do; there wasn’t enough time to ask.
The airlock’s internal control panel was near the hatch. Parnell placed the gun on the floor beneath the panel, where he could still reach it, then slammed the hatch shut as hard as he could and wrenched the lock-lever downward. If Talsbach or Aachener was listening from Level 2A, they would undoubtedly hear the noise.
If so, only a few seconds remained. He bent to one knee and grabbed a piece of the gridwork floor with his left hand; with his right hand, he flipped open the control panel. His heart was thudding as he sought for the candy-striped toggle switch at the bottom of the panel.
Glancing up at the hatch, he saw the lock-lever moving upward. They had been heard moving into the airlock, all right.
The airlock door started to open. He remembered his kids’ faces, then flipped the emergency switch marked VOID.
Pyros in the ceiling hatch above their heads detonated, blowing the hatch cover off its hinges, and a miniature hurricane erupted inside the airlock as its atmosphere exploded through the manhole-size opening.
Even through his helmet, the roar was deafening; it was as if a freight train were running through the chamber. The tendons in his left hand screamed as he clung to the gridwork. His legs began to lift from the floor, and he managed to haul his right arm downward and grasp the gridwork with his right hand.
His helmet faceplate clouded, but before it completely frosted over he caught a brief glimpse of an unsuited human form flailing helplessly as it was sucked into the chamber.
He heard a scream, thinned by the escaping pressure—then Markus Talsbach was propelled through the ceiling hatch like a tree branch caught in the vortex of a tornado.
Then Parnell could see nothing as his faceplate whited over.
The noise gradually subsided; his legs sank back to the floor. Nothing remained except the soundless din of hard vacuum.
When his faceplate cleared, its moisture evaporated, he saw the airlock hatch gaping open. The ready-room beyond was wrecked; he didn’t want to see what had become of James Leamore’s corpse. The gun that he had laid at his feet was missing. He hoped he didn’t need it any longer, but didn’t expect that he would.
Parnell took a long, ragged breath, then pulled his fingers out of the floor. Turning around on his knees, he saw that Ryer was still with him. She fought her way unsteadily to her feet; her back arched slightly as she gazed up at the open ceiling hatch. When she looked back down at him again, Parnell pointed to his helmet and raised one finger. He waited until she had switched on her suit radio.
“You okay?” he asked.
Yeah, I’m okay. She gazed up again at the hatch. You killed him.
Parnell didn’t want to think about what he had just done. He reminded himself that he might live to see his family again; that was all that mattered right now.
“Yeah, I killed him.” He took another breath, then hauled himself to his feet. “We’re not out of this yet. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
From The Associated Press (Le Matrix on-line news service); February 19, 1995, 7:30 A.M. EST
HOUSTON—Radio contact has been lost with the multinationa
l expedition to the Moon, say spokesmen at NASA’s Von Braun Manned Space Flight Center.
Contact with the former USSF installation, code-named Teal Falcon, was lost at 6:59 A.M. Eastern time, just prior to the beginning of President Clinton’s nationally televised address to the nation regarding the final disposal of the missiles.
The President delivered his speech as scheduled, which culminated with his pushing a ceremonial button that was to signal the simultaneous launch of the Minuteman rockets toward the Sun. However, NASA has been unable to confirm whether or not the lunar-based ICBM’s were fired from their underground silos.
Mission controllers are unable to determine why or how communications abruptly ceased at the moment when six Minuteman II rockets were scheduled to be launched from a missile site near the lunar base.
Although a two-person ATS TV network news team accompanied the American-German expedition to the Teal Falcon bunker, no television images have yet been received. ATS correspondent Berkley Rhodes, who is credited with exposing the Dole Administration’s contingency plan to use the lunar missiles during the Desert Storm war, was scheduled to transmit a live report following the launch.
NASA officials say that countdown for the missile launch proceeded according to plan until the final radio message received from Teal Falcon, when NASA astronaut Jay Lewitt reported that mission commander Eugene Parnell had left the firing room to solve unspecified problems with the installation’s computer system. Contact with the expedition ceased immediately after that transmission.
NASA spokesman David Fitzhugh would not speculate on what may have caused the silence. “We’re watching the situation very closely,” he said.
TWENTY-ONE
2/19/95 • 1232 GMT
REACHING THE SURFACE TOOK longer than expected. Although neither Parnell nor Ryer had noticed it at the time, each had suffered bruises and pulled muscles in the control room fight and during the airlock blowout. Climbing the sixty-foot ladder up the entrance shaft was a painful ordeal, and by the time they reached the outer dome they had to pause to catch their breath.
