"Phil, I've got the report from the Beagle." Tex Logan was the last of the Apollo-era veterans still working in Mission Control. "The premature landing was caused by a failure of the tether pyro release systems. Major Llewellyn was forced to perform an emergency EVA, which upset the flight plan."
Mason looked at the old geezer in astonishment. "Complete tether release pyro failure? Are you sure?"
"Sure as taxes."
"But that couldn't have happened." That release system was triple redundant, Mason knew, with a ten-to-one over-design on the firing power.
"Nope." Tex's voice became grim and conspiratorial. "Not by itself, anyhow. Think about it."
Mason stared at the laconic old-timer, his lined face stern with unspoken implications. Sabotage? The thought was terrifying. Then again, Tex Logan was always coming up with bizarre conspiracy theories.
The two were joined by Darrell Gibbs, the nattily clad Special Assistant to the White House Science and Security Advisor. "So, gentlemen, what do we have?" the thirty-something politico inquired.
Mason turned to face the younger man. "Well, Darrell, Tex here thinks that we may be dealing with a case of sabotage."
Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Gotta be," Tex insisted. "Either here in Houston, onboard Beagle, or somewhere at the Cape."
Gibbs smiled. Like most others in Mission Control, he was also acquainted with the older man's many conspiracy theories. "Tex, be reasonable. Who could possibly want to wreck humanity's first mission to Mars?"
"Now let me see," Tex replied, sliding into his drawl. "There's the Libyans, the Iranians, the Iraqis, the North Koreans, the Russians, the Chinese, the Europeans, the Japanese, the Mafia, the Colombian drug lords." He took a breath. "The crew's enemies, JSC's enemies, NASA's enemies, the Administration's enemies, the Trilateral Commission, the Bilderbergers—"
"Don't forget the UN one-worlders," Gibbs interjected.
"For sure. Then there's the Amber Room group, MI-5, the JACKAL, and—"
"The second shooter on the grassy knoll." Mason rolled his eyes and chuckled.
"There was a second shooter on the grassy knoll," Tex replied stiffly.
Gibbs put a friendly hand on Tex's shoulder. "Come on, old boy, lighten up. We've just successfully landed on Mars, for crying out loud."
The Chief of Mission Operations looked around and brushed a fleck of lint from his suit. NASA personnel from neighboring buildings were pouring into Mission Control. Champagne was flowing, and people were cheering, hugging, dancing on their desks like it was VE Day in Times Square. He'd never seen anything like it, and then it finally started to dawn on him. They'd done it! By God, they'd actually done it! This was the moment he'd worked for all his professional life. Tex was off his rocker. This was a time for celebration!
Mason grabbed a champagne bottle from Rollins, took a swig, and poured the rest on his head. "Yippee!"
With amusement, Gibbs watched the transformation of the normally straight-laced administrator.
But Tex had yet to join in the celebratory spirit. "Here you go, old man—have a beer! They landed safe. That's all that matters."
The Texan accepted a cool Coors from Gibbs and took a sip, but he still didn't look won over. "Yep. But they're still a long way from home."
CHAPTER 3
OPHIR PLANUM
OCT. 26, 2011 15:20 CST
16:43 MARS LOCAL TIME (MLT)
MCGEE PEERED OUT the Hab Module's dusty window at the spectacular Martian landscape. His abused arm throbbed, the ache of the sprain only slightly moderated by the anti-inflammatory and cold pack Rebecca Sherman had administered shortly after landing. But the awe he felt dulled the pain.
This moment was grand beyond measure, a historian's dream, the first landing on a planet that could someday be home to a new branch of human civilization. The pen of an epic poet like Homer or Milton, or a great historian like Herodotus or Thucydides, should be here to record the experience for future generations. Unfortunately, such men were not available. Instead, Kevin McGee was the inadequate man of letters on the mission, who would provide humanity with an account in workmanlike but ordinary prose. Still, he had to try.
He turned on his minicorder. Time to be brilliant, poetic... "Today is October 26, 2011. Our ship, the Beagle, after a voyage of ten months from Earth and passing Venus has at last landed on the red planet. Looking out the window now, I see a cratered plain illuminated by the late afternoon Sun, backed by spectacular cliffs unlike any I've ever seen on Earth.
"Mars from space was a stupendous sight. It looked a little like the Moon, with most of its surface 3.8 billion years old, dating back to the violent era in solar system history when planets and moons were cratered by the impact of meteorites. But this is not the Moon—it's much bigger.
"Mars is a world like Earth, but bleached of the sweet blues and green of home. You can sense the violence of the place, its complicated terrain having been shaped by impacts, volcanoes, wind, water, and ice. As we approached, I could see the giant shield volcanoes along the crest of the Tharsis bulge, as well as runoff channels and ancient dry riverbeds that emptied into what looked like the basin of a long-gone sea in the northern hemisphere."
McGee stopped, discouraged by the mundane quality of his prose. He needed to say something deep. Suddenly he was struck by a new idea. "Mars had rivers and seas while Earth's oceans were still boiling. Within our solar system, Life's first opportunity to blossom would have been here, during an era when fast and furious meteors were bombarding its surface. All those craters—were they left behind as chunks of the living Mars were driven into space? Did the bombardment rip away the planet's life-cradling atmosphere too? Mars, was that the price that you paid to send your spawn aloft, perhaps to seed the Earth? If so, then... Father, we have returned." He smiled, satisfied at last.
"Very poetic, Kevin."
Startled, McGee looked up to see Rebecca Sherman, the Beagle's doctor and chief mission scientist. She leaned over him and stared out at the same view, pressing close. McGee tensed in spite of himself. Tall and classically beautiful, Rebecca was sexually and intellectually intimidating even at a distance; at this range she was devastating.
"So... you liked it?"
"Well, I would say that it's both good and original."
For a moment, he was gratified by the remark; then Rebecca's condescending smile reminded him of the crushing subtext. But unfortunately, the part that is good is not original and the part that is original is not good—Samuel Johnson.
"Though the insight isn't new, I did like your metaphorical grasp of the Copernican principle suggesting the universal nature of life. Of course, that's what we've got to prove. But, if my colleagues on NASA's Mars Science Working Group shared half your intuition on that score—" She paused and looked out the window for a moment, then turned back to grin at him. "Then at least I would be dealing with a bunch of half-wits."
McGee chuckled along with her, only to be stopped by her raised finger. "But please, Kevin, can't you get the point across without bringing in such dreary medieval metaphors? Mars as martyr? You can do better than that." She turned to gaze out the window again. Stung, McGee pretended to do likewise, thinking of the beautiful doctor more than of the scenery.