Rollins walked slowly over to Holloway's desk and pulled a copy of Enthalpy from the ecogoth's briefcase. "Interesting reading, Craig. That Stetson guy is pretty thought provoking, isn't he?"
Now the predatory eyes turned to the ecogoth, who looked more and more like a cornered rat. "You guys want to scapegoat me! You're going to blame me for your own screw ups. Fine, go ahead and say I did it. Tell the world that I saved the Earth. Send me to prison if you like, I don't care. You technofreaks think you're so smart with all your gadgets, but you never think of the consequences of what you're doing. Doesn't it mean anything to you that if those astronauts come home, it could mean death to every living thing on this planet? Don't you even care?"
Mason exchanged a knowing look with Gibbs, then motioned to two security guards by the door. "Get this piece of garbage out of here."
As the guards handcuffed Holloway and led him out, Gibbs turned to Logan. "Well, Tex, there's your man."
Logan appeared thoughtful, as if he was not quite convinced. "Seems that way."
Mason picked up his phone. "This is Phil Mason in Mission Control. Get me Administrator Ryan."
WHITE HOUSE MEETING ROOM
FEB. 4, 2012 13:00 CST
Several hours later, a glum group consisting of the President and the First Lady, NASA Administrator Ryan, Surgeon General Wong, political strategist Wilson, Media Chief Wexler, Science and Security Advisor Kowalski, and General Winters met again in the Adams Room to consider the Administration's options.
"Mr. President," the political strategist began, "the situation has deteriorated considerably. The examining board's decision has provoked massive public opposition, regardless of the scientific considerations. Our mail right now is running three to one against mounting any kind of rescue effort. It's even worse on the Hill and among the European allies."
"That's because the public is still being stoked by the media in an anti-NASA direction," Media Chief Wexler interjected. "But let me tell you something, I was a journalist once, and I know how these people react. They don't care about rational arguments. They're like cannibals. Right now they're demanding that you abandon the astronauts, but the instant you do it they will turn on you and rip you to shreds for betraying America's heroes."
The President looked from his policy strategist to his press secretary and shook his head. "I know. I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. If I maroon the crew, everyone in the country will call me a Judas, but if I try to bring them home, I'll alienate the allies, and I'll have to use so much muscle to get the congressional votes needed to fund a rescue that the Party will split, and we'll be doomed this November anyway. There's just no way out. We're ruined."
The First Lady almost offered her distraught husband a handkerchief, but refrained for appearance' sake. "Let's think about this, dear," she chided. "I'm sure this problem has a simple solution, and we can find it if we just focus and use a little elementary logic."
The great man turned his red eyes on his wife. "I've learned by now that your thinking cap is always on, Margaret. What do you think our answer might be?"
The First Lady bridged her fingers thoughtfully. Her eyes became hard and calculating. "The press will annihilate us unless we at least put out the call to rescue the crew. So we formally request a rescue mission. But we know we'll lose all our friends in Congress if we force them to go along... so we don't force them. And if we don't pressure Congress to vote our way, they won't, and at the end of the day, a rescue expedition will never be funded, thus satisfying the Europeans. You see, everyone will be happy."
"Except for..." Wexler's interruption was cut short by the policy strategist. "That's great. That'll work like a charm," Wilson shouted.
The President felt as if he were floating on air. He squeezed the First Lady's hand. "Honey, I don't know what I would do without you."
NASA Administrator Tom Ryan was not pleased. "Mr. President, these are human lives we're talking about here. Brave men and women, five of America's finest. We sent them there, and we can't just abandon them."
"Now, Tom, no one's being abandoned." The President was calm, authoritative, back in control. "Our position is that a rescue expedition should be funded. If Congress votes us the funds, we'll do it. Admittedly, the chances of that happening are remote, but we have to be practical. If I use the power of this office to lean on Congress, we'll lose the upcoming election, and next spring when time comes to launch, the political opposition will be right here in the White House, and the mission will be canceled anyway. But if we stay cool and all play the parts we need to play in order to win this fall, then next year, when all this fuss has calmed down, I will bring in the House and Senate leaders and do a little hard bargaining. We'll get the funds next year. Just be patient."
"But if we don't push for funds this year," Ryan persisted, "we won't be able to launch the resupply flight in 2013 or early 2014, and the next window isn't until two years later. The crew will starve by then."
"Not necessarily, Tom." Kowalski spoke in the tones of sweet reason. "The Beagle is carrying a demonstration greenhouse unit. If the crew makes good use of it, they could grow enough food to last until..."
Ryan was flustered. "The greenhouse is just a small experimental unit! It's doubtful that it could produce enough food to sustain one person, let alone five."
The President was not impressed. Ryan clearly needed to stop emoting and get with the program. "Well, if necessary, it will just have to do. This discussion is closed. It's a difficult situation, and I know that we all have very strong feelings about it, but our game plan is set and I expect all of you to be team players. Is that understood?"
There was a moment of silence. Wexler and Ryan shared glances, searching each other's face for some useful support, but found none. "Yes, Mr. President," they both said, in chorus with the rest.
The First Lady was radiant. "I'm sure everything will work out just fine."
CHAPTER 13
OPHIR PLANUM
FEB. 6, 2012 11:20 MLT
THE DEMORALIZED CREW gathered in the galley of the Beagle, doing a great deal of nothing. Gwen looked up from her third re-reading of the transcript of the President's statement and the accompanying encouraging remarks from Mission Control.
"They're lying to us, they're all lying to us." She gritted her teeth in frustration. "They're going to let us die and not even look us in the eyes when they give the death sentence."
Luke ignored her, choosing instead to zonk out to the music of Hank Williams crooning about melting someone's cold, cold heart, until Rebecca abruptly slapped off the audio. In its place, the chords of a Bach toccata filled the cabin.
The Texan geologist looked up in irritation. "Can't a man give his soul a little peace without that organ-grinder nonsense?"
"Organ grinder! This happens to be a work of musical genius by Johann Sebastian Bach, you ignorant redneck."
Gwen snapped at the doctor, "None of this would have happened if not for you and your damned germs."
Rebecca was taken aback, but only for a moment. "My damn germs? I thought it was your God who created life, or didn't you read Genesis at North Carolina Christian Tech?"
"Shut up, all of you. You're squabbling like a bunch of snot-nosed school kids." With all the authority he could muster, Townsend switched the audio to a John Philip Sousa march. "Patriotic music, that's the spirit we need now."