A fire engine screeched to a halt in front of the burning Public Information building, but before the firefighters could act, the mob pulled them out of the cab and beat them senseless. Then, grabbing the firemen's axes, enraged Redpeace adherents chopped through the hoses, and charged off to assault another fire truck that had just pulled up. Nearby, men in leather jackets systematically smashed in the windows of cars marked NASA—Government Use Only.
Televangelist Stone brushed from his shoulder a charred fragment of CADprint without taking his eyes off the camera. He raised his rich voice. "The safety of our entire world must come before that of a handful of overpaid daredevils. They knew the risks when they set forth, but let the lure of fame and fortune lead them on. Well, now it's time for them to pay the piper. The wages of sin are death. The astronauts must never, never come home."
The sermon continued until it was interrupted by the arrival of a helicopter, which hovered overhead, dropped down cables, and released a swarm of camouflaged SWAT team security guards carrying automatic weapons. Hitting the ground running, the team deployed quickly to secure a perimeter under sporadic fire. That done, waves of additional helicopters carrying reinforcements rapidly swelled the numbers of the forces of order.
But they were too late to save Mission Control from the mob. Using a steel desk from the lobby as a battering ram, the rioters knocked down the locked doors, then brushed aside the makeshift force of security guards and NASA personnel who tried to stop them near the entrance. Seconds later, the nerve center of the American space program was in chaos. Glass shattered as a volley of stones hurled by several of the invaders crashed through the main viewscreen.
Phil Mason, head of Mission Control, clung to his post like a captain on a sinking ship. Ducking the glass fragments, he picked up his microphone. "Mason to Security! They've broken in! We need help fast!"
As the mob smashed their way inside, most of the Mission Control operators picked up chairs or fire extinguishers to try to mount a defense. As they did, Darrell Gibbs—Special Assistant to the White House Science and Security Advisor—ran to the far side of the room and pounded in numbers on his special cell phone.
Craig Holloway, Mission Control's cheek-pierced ecogoth, also dodged the intruders. Running from one console to the next, he typed on one station after another, ignoring the plight of the diminutive Alicia Castillo, who struggled desperately with a very large attacker.
Al Rollins tried to keep his post, but was hurled to the ground by a member of the mob. Rollins scrambled free, only to find another madman about to chop him with a fire ax.
Then a SWAT team entered the room. There was a hail of gunfire, and the ax-wielder was cut down.
"Everybody freeze!" the SWAT officer shouted. "All non-NASA personnel are under arrest."
As the protesters were rounded up and led out, Rollins surveyed the damage. Mission Control was a shambles. Finding himself at Craig Holloway's desk, he noticed with annoyance a copy of a book called Enthalpy sticking out of the ecogoth's briefcase.
Rollins limped over to his own station and sat down. Monitoring the readouts, he typed a few keystrokes, and threw a switch.
MISSION CONTROL, NASA, JSC
JAN. 29, 2012 09:30 CST
By the next morning Mission Control was still a mess, but had begun to function again. Al Rollins, his face bruised, sat at his console running status checks. He motioned Mason over. "Chief, I think we have a serious problem here." Rollins showed Mason his indicator readings.
The Mission Control chief looked at the data in horror. "That can't be. Have you checked the secondary readouts?"
"There's no doubt about it. The propellant tanks in the ERV Retriever at Mars Base One are empty. Telemetry from the onboard vehicle health-maintenance recorder indicates that the Retriever's computer ordered the propellant vent valves opened at 0219 GMT last night. By 0240 the tanks were empty."
Mason forced himself to be calm. "0219 GMT. That would be 8:19 PM here, just a few minutes after the fight. No wonder no one caught the malfunction. Well, at least the crew still has the backup ERV Homeward Bound, in Valles Marineris. Quick, check its tanks."
Rollins typed furiously and a new page of data appeared upon his console screen. He looked up, stunned. "Empty. I don't get it. An identical malfunction happened at the exact same time."
By this time a crowd of Mission Control operators had gathered around Rollins's console, listening in and peering at the data readouts.
"Chief, they're stranded!" Rollins finally cried in dismay.
"Dead is more likely," interjected Tex Logan.
Alicia Castillo looked at the others with astonishment. "Why? Why can't we just send out another ERV?"
"Laws of celestial mechanics," Craig Holloway answered. "The next launch window to Mars would get a new ERV there after next year's return launch window to Earth closes."
"And the next return launch window after that?" Alicia pressed.
"Not for another two years. The crew's consumables will run out long before."
Alicia drummed her fingers nervously, then banged her fist down on Rollins's console. "Well, then, we could send out another Hab filled with supplies."
Tex Logan regarded the diminutive Hispanic woman with sympathy. "We could, if Congress would come up with a two-billion-dollar add-on to the program to fund it. With public opinion running the way it is, there's not much chance of that happening."
Rollins interrupted. "Chief, we've got telemetry coming in from Beagle."
"Put it on your screen."
Townsend's image appeared on Rollins's TV monitor. "This is Colonel Townsend. Last night a signal was received here from the DSN that caused the ERV Retriever to completely vent its tanks. I demand an immediate explanation." The screen went blank.
"Now that is one pissed-off fella," Logan drawled.
Rollins faced Mason anxiously. "He's nuts. We didn't uplink any commands last night."
Alicia sat down at her station and began to check the log. She typed several sets of commands and then froze, staring at her screen. "No, he's right. DSN records show a data transmission out of Goldstone at 6:03 P.M. Pacific Standard Time last night."
Mason felt faint. "What? Authorized from where?"
"According to Goldstone records, it was authorized from here. By you."
Hostile eyes turned on the Mission Control Chief of Operations. "Wait a second! You don't think that I—wait, 6:03 Pacific, that's eight o'clock here. About the time of the riot. I wasn't the only person here at that time who knew the DSN command authorization. There was Rollins and Holloway and..."
"That's all," Tex Logan concluded.
"Hey, I didn't do it," Rollins said. "I couldn't have. I had my hands full fighting a maniac with an ax."
Alicia Castillo turned and faced the remaining suspect. "But Craig stayed out of the fight." Her voice was cold.
"No I didn't," Holloway protested. "I..."
Cold went to hot. "Yes you did, you coward!" Alicia exploded. "I saw you! I was being strangled on this desk, and you were sitting there, not four feet away. You didn't lift a finger to help me. You were too busy typing something."
"OK, I released the evening news data update and E-mail bin. That's all. I thought it important for the crew to get it before the mob shut us down."
Alicia persisted, "Then why all the typing? You could have sent that with a couple of keystrokes."
"I was safeguarding the controls." Holloway started backing away. "In the middle of that melee, if someone bumped them accidentally, it could've..."