by Ben Bova
The hotel room had emptied out considerably. The noise level had dropped to a few quiet conversations. There was ample room for Jake’s pacing now. He saw Earl Reynolds quietly leaving, with the slinky brunette on his arm.
Senator Tomlinson came in from the bedroom, in his shirtsleeves, without Amy. As he headed for the bar, he passed Jake and said, “I’ve done interviews with CNN and Fox News. I’m ready for some scotch.”
The hotel-provided bartender had long since gone home, so Tomlinson stepped behind the bar and yanked out the nearly empty bottle of Chivas Regal.
Jake, who hadn’t had a drink since his first Jack Daniel’s, grinned wearily. “I’ll join you, Frank.”
He looked across the room to Tami, slumped tiredly on the sofa, who shook her head negatively.
Lovett looked up from his graph.
“We did all right,” he said, to no one in particular.
But Tomlinson said, “Better than we expected.”
“I think the Manstein problem is finished,” Lovett said, with a tight smile. “We should thank Amy—”
“Amy’s asleep,” said the senator. “She was exhausted.”
Lovett nodded, then tapped his graph with the pencil in his hand. “Frank, you scored big with the young voters, ages eighteen to thirty. They were the margin of your bump over the predictions.”
“They’re the ones who want to see us reinvigorate our space efforts,” Tomlinson said.
Jake piped up, “They want to go to the Moon.”
“I think we ought to lean on the space button a little harder in New Hampshire,” Lovett said. “Capture the youth vote with it.”
Tomlinson broke into a tired grin. “The children’s crusade.”
Jake countered, “The wave of the future.”
The Wave of the Future
Compared to Iowa, Washington felt balmy, even though the DC area had been hit by a snowfall the night after the Tomlinson entourage landed at Reagan National.
Jake and Tami had awakened to their radio announcing, “… more than two inches of snow have blanketed the metropolitan area, with accumulations of up to four inches in the Maryland suburbs.”
Two inches of snow in the city. Laughable in Iowa. Back in Montana, two inches would barely count as a snowstorm. But here in the nation’s capital, a two-inch sprinkling was enough to snarl traffic and close schools, Jake knew.
He kissed Tami on the cheek and got out of bed. Peering through the window, he saw that Connecticut Avenue was already clogged with cars and buses. Nobody was shoveling off the sidewalks, though. The sky was clear, and an afternoon’s sunshine would melt most of the snow away.
It was well past ten a.m. by the time Jake at last parked his convertible in the Hart building’s underground garage. Traffic had been a mess, as he’d expected. The senator’s office was barely half-occupied. As he made his way past the mostly empty desks, Jake thought that a good many of the office staff wouldn’t even bother trying to get to work today.
But Kevin O’Donnell was there. He’d left a terse phone message for Jake: “Come to my office as soon as you get in.” Brusque. Like a commanding general giving orders to one of the rank and file. Kevin wasted neither words nor time. Then Jake grinned inwardly. Kevin had to leave the message himself; his administrative assistant was probably still at home, taking a snow day off.
Jake quickly scrolled through his other messages. None of them were urgent, so he got up from his desk and headed for O’Donnell’s office. The place was starting to wake up. Still fewer than half the staff had come in, but at least Jake smelled coffee brewing.
He tapped once on O’Donnell’s door, then stuck his head in. “You rubbed the lamp, O master?”
Sitting behind his desk looking crankier than usual, O’Donnell blinked at Jake’s little joke, then said, “Come on in. Close the door.”
“What’s up?” Jake asked as he sat in one of the padded chairs in front of the desk.
“Hackman wants to talk.”
“Governor Hackman?”
O’Donnell nodded. The expression on his lean, narrow face was equal parts irritation and suspicion.
But Jake felt suddenly buoyed, excited. “You think he’s going to throw in the towel?”
“No. At least, not yet.”
“Then why—”
“He’s sniffing around for a deal. I’ll bet he’s already set up a meeting with Sebastian.”
“Does Pat Lovett know about this?”
“I talked with him half an hour ago. He’s stuck in a traffic jam on the other side of the Teddy Roosevelt bridge.”
“So why’d you call me?” Jake asked.
His sour expression easing not by a millimeter, O’Donnell said, “We want you to meet with Hackman’s people.”
“We? You mean you and Pat?”
“And the senator. I talked with him at some length this morning. He’s staying home today, doing a couple of media interviews on Skype.”
“But why me? Why not Pat? Or you?”
Shaking his head, O’Donnell answered, “We’re too visible. Hackman wants everything kept ultra-quiet. You can sneak out to South Carolina and nobody would notice you.”
Thanks a lot, Jake groused silently. Aloud, he asked, “And what am I supposed to do?”
“Listen to what Hackman’s people have to say. He won’t meet with you himself, but a couple of his top aides will.”
“And?”
“Find out what the hell they want,” O’Donnell snapped, irritated. “If the governor is willing to drop out of the race, he’s probably thinking of throwing his support to either Sebastian or us. Find out what he wants in return.”
Jake got a mental impression of a Renaissance-era schemer, complete with long black cloak and a hidden dagger. Machiavelli, he thought. Is that what Kevin thinks of me?
“Kev, I’m just the senator’s science advisor. I don’t think—”
“It doesn’t matter what you think! You don’t even have to think! Just listen to what they have to say, don’t make any commitments, and bring the information back to us.”
Jake groused, “You could get a Western Union delivery boy to do that.”
O’Donnell raised his eyes to the ceiling and muttered something too low for Jake to hear.
Running a hand through his thinning hair, he focused his dark eyes on Jake. “Listen to me. We need somebody we can trust for this meeting. Somebody who’s got a couple of ounces of brains. Hackman’s people will expect to see somebody who’s pretty damned close to the senator. You’re the guy Frank named for the job. Capisce?”
Despite his exasperation, Jake grinned at the harried staff chief. “I understand.”
“You’ll do it?”
“Sure. Where and when?”
“Hackman’ll be campaigning in South Carolina next week. We’ll set up the meeting for Charleston or maybe Myrtle Beach. Someplace where the governor isn’t, so there’s less chance of some media snoop seeing you.”
With a wry grin, Jake confessed, “Kevin, I’m not well-enough known for the media snoops to recognize me.”
“Exactly why we picked you for this assignment.” And for the first time O’Donnell broke into a tight smile.
* * *
Jake left O’Donnell’s office and made his way back to his own. To his pleased surprise, his administrative assistant had arrived at her desk, smiling up at him. Her fur-trimmed coat was thrown over one of the visitors’ chairs and her boots looked wet, sloshy.
“Mr. Piazza called to remind you of the launch at eleven thirty, our time.”
“Thanks, Nancy,” Jake said as he pushed through the door to his private office. Glancing at his wristwatch, he saw that it was a few minutes past eleven.
“Nancy,” he called through the half-open door, “remind me a couple of minutes before eleven thirty, will you, please?”
“Certainly, Dr. Ross.”
Jake remembered that this was the first mission of Astra Corporation’s new upgraded rocket b
ooster, Astra Super. The bird had performed flawlessly through three test flights and today was carrying four astronauts—one of them a Russian—to the International Space Station.
Still thinking of the meeting in South Carolina that O’Donnell was setting up, Jake dug into his morning schedule. The Senate’s subcommittee on science was due to hold another hearing on climate change, and Jake had to get the senator prepped for it.
At precisely 11:28 Nancy buzzed to remind Jake of the launch.
He thanked her and flicked on the big wall-screen TV, already tuned to the space news channel.
Standing in the brilliant New Mexico sunshine, the Astra Corporation launching rocket stood straight and tall, with four solid rocket boosters strapped to its base and a swept-winged crew module at its tip. Jake turned his attention back to the coming subcommittee hearing until he heard:
“… five … four … three…”
As he looked up at the TV screen the umbilical cord feeding liquid oxygen into the launcher’s first-stage tankage dropped away. Billows of steam rose all around the launch stand, obscuring the rocket vehicle’s lower section.
The announcer said, “… two … one … liftoff! We have liftoff!”
The rocket rose straight and true into the turquoise New Mexico sky.
And blew up.
Accident?
Jake felt it like a blow to his solar plexus.
A fiery ball of red and orange blossomed around the launch stand, streaked with oily black swirls. A flash of something too swift to follow zoomed up and out of the TV picture. Jake could see the launcher’s slim body toppling into the fireball, secondary explosions bursting like deadly fireworks.
“It blew up!” shouted the stunned announcer.
Four people, Jake thought. A Russian and three Americans. One of the Americans was a woman.
“Astra Super has exploded,” the announcer was recovering his wits, “at T plus six seconds. The crew module’s escape system apparently worked…”
The screen switched to a slow-motion view of the explosion. Jake saw the swept-winged crew module streak off into the air, away from the explosion, hurtling high and away with the four astronauts inside it.
A new voice came through, deeper, calmer, tense but unruffled. “The crew module’s emergency escape system has apparently functioned as designed.”
A different camera view showed the crew module’s blunt cylinder of dull metal separating from the swept-winged upper stage of the launcher. It arced higher into the clear blue sky, propelled by a pair of blazing jets at its rear.
“Escape module separation on schedule,” the voice stated, cool and composed. “Parachute deployment should take place … now.”
Four little parachutes popped out of the escape pod’s nose. Jake knew they were drogue chutes, not big enough to bring the module down safely. They yanked out a quartet of huge chutes, striped in gaudy red, white, and blue, which unfolded and blossomed out like protecting angels. The escape pod swung back and forth beneath them like a dark little pendulum.
“Main chutes deployed,” said the flat, calm voice. Jake presumed it was the launch director speaking. “No word from the crew.”
The crew members had been slammed with eight gees when the escape pod blasted free of the doomed rocket launcher, Jake knew. They were probably unconscious from the tremendous acceleration. Or dead.
“We’re okay!” a different voice shouted. “Banged up a bit from the gee force. Bet we all have black eyes tomorrow.”
The launch director’s voice suddenly became animated. “You had us worried down here, pal.”
“Escape system works as designed. No troubles.”
“Thank god.”
Thank the engineers who designed the escape system, Jake added silently. And thank Nick Piazza for insisting that the pod be built into the crew module.
The TV cameras followed the escape pod’s graceful descent to the desert floor. It hit the dusty ground, bounced once, then came down for good, leaning over on one side. The huge parachutes spread over it like brightly colored protective draperies.
A small armada of vans and ambulances were rushing toward it, throwing up billows of dust across the desert.
Jake sat riveted in his desk chair as the emergency crew got to the escape pod, pried open its hatch, and carefully, tenderly, lovingly helped the four battered astronauts into the waiting ambulances.
They’re all able to walk, Jake saw. The emergency team was helping them, holding their arms, boosting them into the ambulances. But they were all alive, even if battered.
More than three miles away the wreckage of the Astra Super’s lower stages still burned at the launchpad.
* * *
As the ambulances hurried toward the small hospital built into the Spaceport America facility, Jake broke free of the spell that had kept him watching the TV scene and grabbed his desktop telephone to call Senator Tomlinson.
The senator himself answered on the second ring.
“Did you see it?” Jake asked Tomlinson’s image in his phone screen.
“I sure did,” the senator replied. “Nearly had a goddamn heart attack when the bird blew up.”
“You’ve got to get to the Senate and call for an investigation.”
Tomlinson shook his head. “Jake, the Senate’s closed today. The snow.”
“Then get Reynolds to set up media interviews for you. This accident has to be investigated and you’ve got to lead the call for it. Don’t make it look like it’s being forced on us.”
“Have you checked this out with Pat? Or Kevin?”
“Not yet. Time is of the essence. You want to lead this parade, not follow it. Call Reynolds. Now! I’ll talk it over with Kevin—and Pat, when he shows up.”
Looking thoughtful, Tomlinson replied, “Maybe you’re right. I’ll tell Earl to set up some interviews.”
“I’ll ask Kevin to get a police escort for you, so you can get to the office right away.”
Ruefully, the senator said, “Guess I’d better get dressed.”
Only then did Jake realize that Senator Tomlinson was still in his pajamas. Deep blue with sprinkles of stars.
* * *
Nicholas Piazza was grim-faced.
In the image on Jake’s office wall-screen TV, the head of Astra Corporation no longer looked like a cheerful teenager. His lean, bony face was set in a belligerent scowl. Jake thought he looked like a kid who was itching for an opportunity to punch someone. Hard.
“We can’t rule out sabotage,” he said to Jake.
Christ, Jake thought. The metal of his rocket’s wreckage hasn’t even cooled yet and he wants to hang the explosion on a saboteur.
“Nick,” he said to the wall screen, “isn’t it too early to tell if somebody deliberately—”
Piazza tapped his chest. “I know it was sabotage. In here. I know it. That bird was inspected time and again. We had four people on board! Do you think we’d just let the damned launch go off without checking and rechecking everything?”
“No, I guess not,” Jake backpedaled. “But sabotage? Who in hell would want to blow up your rocket?”
“Terrorists, that’s who! The bastards who dragged us into this damned war in Latin America!”
Oh my god, Jake said to himself. Nick’s gone off the deep end. Then he thought, It’s just the shock of the explosion. He’ll calm down in a little while.
But Piazza growled, “I’ve called the FBI. They’re sending a team here to investigate.”
Charleston, South Carolina
Jake stood on the windswept balcony of his hotel room and stared across the water of the bay toward Fort Sumter. At this distance there wasn’t much to see, the fort was all the way out at the entrance to the bay, while this rundown hotel was on the city’s waterfront, miles distant.
Wishing he had a pair of binoculars, Jake muttered to himself, “That’s where the Civil War began. That’s where they started killing each other.”
It was a chilly day
, even though the sky was clear and sunshine made the waters of the bay sparkle. Nowhere near as cold as New Hampshire, Jake told himself. Or Iowa. But he shivered in his suede sports jacket nonetheless.
He heard the phone ring inside his room. Hackman’s people, Jake thought. They had picked this hotel; it was out-of-the-way enough so that the chance of Jake being spotted by a news reporter was minimal. As if a reporter would recognize me, he grumbled to himself as he ducked back into the room and slid the balcony door shut.
He picked up the phone on its third ring.
“Dr. Ross?” A woman’s voice.
“Yes,” Jake replied, unconsciously nodding. With all the secrecy about this meeting, Jake was surprised that Hackman’s people hadn’t insisted on code names.
“We’re about five minutes away from your hotel. Could you please wait for us down in the lobby?”
“Sure. See you in five.”
The line clicked dead.
The hotel lobby looked seedy. You’d think they’d keep a hotel right on the waterfront in better shape, Jake said to himself. Then he realized that this was an independent operation: no Marriott or Hyatt or other national chain with deep pockets. This was a mom-and-pop establishment, a family business struggling to stay alive.
A dark sedan pulled up at the entrance and Jake started for the door. Then he saw that a short, squat, red-haired woman got out of the car. She didn’t look like a political operative in Jake’s eyes, more like a chambermaid coming in to start her working shift.
But she pushed through the lobby’s glass door, spotted Jake, and walked straight to him.
“Dr. Ross? This way, please.”
Jake followed her outside and ducked into the car’s rear seat. The woman sat up front, beside the driver.
As the car pulled out onto the street Jake asked, “Where are we going?”
“Downtown Marriott,” the woman replied.
Jake grunted. They stay at the Marriott. Me they put in a dump, like a witness against the Mafia.
Within a few minutes they swung into the Marriott’s parking lot and pulled up in front of a big black Cadillac. The woman pointed. “They’re waiting for you in the Caddy.”
