Rebecca approached again, clipboard in hand. McGee ventured an inquiry. "Looks like they're getting ready to go EVA."
"Perform an EVA," she corrected.
"Whatever." He looked her straight in the face and summoned a demanding tone. "When? I've got a right to know."
For a moment, she dropped her condescending smile. "Yeah, well, I guess you do. Not till tomorrow morning. Townsend wants a full system checkout before we go outside. Which reminds me, I've got to get a full set of readouts on the status of the life-support system. Keep that ice pack on. Be back in a bit."
Feeling like a fifth wheel, McGee watched her exchange a few words with Townsend and then disappear into the lab. He switched his attention to the control section. There they were, Colonel Andrew Townsend, USAF, and Army Major Guenevere Llewellyn, the pair who would make the mission's life-or-death decisions, no input from the affected parties necessary. Military thinking. How charming.
Still, if the recent crisis was any test, the crew could not be in better hands. He stared at Townsend. The former fighter jock sat in the pilot's chair, wearing an old bomber jacket, half open, and a suitably decrepit military peaked hat. He looked like he'd just walked off the set of Twelve O'Clock High. McGee laughed to himself. "The target for today is Hamburg. Gentlemen, start your engines." Well, it looks like you managed to get some real flying in, Ace.
Next, McGee regarded the flight engineer, who was arguing with Townsend in hushed but animated tones. Suddenly, she shook her head so forcefully that her two red braids, which protruded from her Braves cap, flew like wings over her shoulders. In her own freckle-faced way, Red Wing—was it the flying braids or the big knife she kept in her boot that had earned her such an Army nickname?—was kind of cute. Not a goddess like Rebecca, but... cute. Definitely good enough to pass.
At thirty, Gwen was also the youngest person on the crew, and there was yet a touch of the girl about her. McGee would have bet his last dollar she was still a virgin. Unfortunately, the only things she seemed interested in were machinery, baseball, and the King James Bible. Sure, she was of humble origins, a coal-miner's daughter whose daddy had died of black lung. Nothing wrong with all that, he reminded himself, but it was too bad she had to wear it on her sleeve.
Townsend, Gwen, and Rebecca were an ill-assorted trio, but individually they were all superb at what they did; the basis for their selection on the mission had been obvious. And while rather cool toward McGee, they were at least civil.
But Luke Johnson was another matter. The geologist seemed to hold some kind of grudge against McGee. As astronauts went, Luke was only average, but behind-the-scenes Texas political pull had played a role in getting him chosen for the mission. While the other crew members might not know that, McGee, as a political insider, did. And Luke must know that he did. That had to be it.
McGee's thoughts about Luke were pleasantly interrupted by the return of Rebecca.
"Okay, Kevin," she said brightly. "Life support systems are secure. Now let's have a real look at that arm."
Dr. Rebecca Sherman was glad to be free of further responsibility in the post-landing ship systems checkout. As a doctor, her proper place was with the injured. Despite his bumps and bruises, Luke wasn't too bad off and would do fine with ice and a local anesthetic. He still had thirty teeth left.
McGee was another story, though. She leaned over her patient, probing around his arm and shoulder. As she worked, she noticed an oddly satisfied expression on his face. I'll bet this really sends you, Kevin. Whatever turns you on.
She stepped back. "Well, Kevin, you're a lucky boy. Lots of contusions and sprains, but no broken bones or dislocations."
"The luck of the Irish, to have my wounds place me in your arms."
Rebecca shook her head without comment. The writer wasn't a bad sort... in fact, he was not unlike the kind of men she dated back home. Funny, intelligent, and sensitive—for a man, anyway—and he clearly respected her for her mind. So what if he wasn't a trained scientist? Most of the so-called scientists she knew weren't really scientists either. They were just members of a profession that "did science," churning out meaningless papers in an endless pursuit of the next grant. Or they were research technicians with advanced degrees, like that jerk Luke Johnson, who'd been inserted on this mission by a bunch of idiots at NASA HQ.
Kato was like that too, although Rebecca would have preferred the chemist's company to the Texan's; the fact that Kevin McGee had replaced Kato on the mission was really no great loss for science, though it hadn't been fair. Kato had trained for six years, only to be replaced by McGee at the last minute.
Actually, it made sense to have a man of letters on the mission. And McGee's literate bent and poetic imagination made him much more interesting to talk to than the other members of the crew. The problem was, the writer was obviously infatuated with her, and if she gave him the slightest encouragement he'd fall madly in love with her. Rebecca couldn't have that. She'd worked almost twenty years to make this mission happen, and there was far too much at stake to let anything interfere.
Maybe later, when it was all over and they were back on Earth, but not now.
She held an ice pack to his shoulder where the sprains were worst. "How does that feel?"
"Much better, thanks."
Rebecca noticed Gwen advancing toward them from across the cabin. Back during training, she'd been overjoyed when she heard about Gwen's assignment to her team; otherwise the rest of the crew would have been all male, and she didn't relish spending a total of two and half years in a locker room. While Gwen's career wasn't a path she would have chosen for herself, any woman who could make major in the U.S. Army and win a Silver Star in combat was clearly a plus. Rebecca had been sure they'd hit it off like sisters.
Unfortunately, that hadn't happened. Gwen might be a feminist of a sort, but it was strictly the Annie Oakley sort. Despite having overcome the disadvantages of poverty and gender discrimination to make herself a place in a man's world, Gwen was resolutely against any progressive reforms that would have made it easier for other women to do likewise. Beyond that, Gwen was a diehard conservative, a militarist and religious fanatic who seemed opposed to everything that Rebecca believed in. The more the two women had talked, the clearer it became that the major resented not only Rebecca's liberal views, but her modern life-style, her privileged childhood, her freedom from organized religion, her good looks, her education—everything.
Rebecca wished the two women were friends. It was too bad that Gwen hated her guts.
"You did real good today, Professor," Gwen said to McGee. "I didn't think you had it in you." She gave him a little salute and slapped him on the shoulder, causing him to grimace; then she strode off.
McGee looked sheepish, and Rebecca suppressed a giggle. "So, Kevin, looks like you really scored with Red Wing today."
"Yeah." McGee rubbed his shoulder. "Ouch."
Their attention was suddenly drawn to Townsend, who stood and stretched in his bomber jacket and peaked hat, the apparent lord of all he surveyed. Something about the colonel's macho appearance made Rebecca laugh. She nudged Kevin. "Can you believe that guy? ‘The Beagle has landed.' Now, really!"
OCT. 26, 2011 15:50 CST
LAFAYETTE PARK, WASHINGTON DC
On all four corners around the White House, a huge celebratory demonstration filled the streets and sidewalks. People waved flags and held up newspapers with quarter-page banner headlines.
Behind the stone and wrought-iron fences of the White House grounds, a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties strode arm in arm with a stylishly dressed blond woman in her early forties. Eight secret service agents flanked them as they approached the gate, smiling.