There’s no margin for failure here! God, please help us make this happen,Chris thinks, his teeth clenched as the two icons converge in real time on the screen.
“Five, four, three…” the chief intones.
The predictor red dot is almost on top of the shroud’s icon now.
“Two, one…”
The dots merge and the computer-generated picture freezes.
“Now.”
“Now what? What happened?” Chris demands.
“Stand by, sir. Switching to real-time radar.”
The screen flashes black and then to a two-dimensional display of NORAD’s radar, which is tracking an exploding spray of objects that seem to be at an angle to the original track of the proton shroud.
“We got it,sir! Direct hit! Damn, that’s a beauty!”
“Direct hit?”
“All the debris is flying off at a twenty-degree angle.”
“Everything?”
“I’m looking, General. Yes, sir! We freakin’ did it! Everything!”
“Holy Moly.”
“Yes, sir! Woo-hoo!”
“I’ll second that, Chief. That was too close without a defibrillator standing by. And if you’re sure, tell the Sit Room while I call ASA.”
“They’ll make it, sir. No impact. Not even a bolt.”
Chapter 22
The sudden resumption of noises he doesn’t want to know about from his parents’ bedroom startles him for a second. But Alastair’s attention quickly returns to the screen and the alert he’s about to send to thirty-three of his e-mail friends, what were once called pen pals around Australia and the world. Especially Becky Nigel, the only girl he really likes, who keeps in touch despite her British father’s moving his family all the way back to the U.K.
Hey, mates! I’ve stumbled on a really cool, hardworking scam artist trying to wind me up. He sez he’s stranded in a private spaceship. LOL! The bloke’s creative, I’ll give him that. And other than the mushy stuff about his first love and all, thought you might want to have a look. It’s coming across as a continuous scroll so you have to record it yourself. I’m sending the first stuff I captured.
He includes the Web address and triggers the screen back over to the evolving message from Kip.
Sorry to break the narrative, but something really strange just happened up here. Of course, here I am apologizing to a hard drive. But hey, a human will read this someday, won’t you?
Yesterday I got all excited when something glimmered on the horizon and I started thinking about rescue craft. I won’t make that mistake again, but I swear I saw an explosion in the same direction a few minutes back… some sort of a burst of sparkles, of what looked like sparkles, as if metal was reflecting in the sun, which is behind me at the moment. Then it seemed to move to the left and disappear. Poor Bill would probably have known what it was… some space phenomenon all astronauts consider routine but gets an amateur like me all excited.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh yes. Growing up in my ideal family. At least I thought they were ideal, and I loved my folks, both of whom are gone now. Dad was an executive with a big mining company and an upright, reliable, serious, and dedicated father, who defined life as a series of challenges a man met with responsibility for those who depended on him. But I guess when he was programmed as a child, someone forgot to include the concept of fun and self.
The symbol for new e-mail pops up in the right-hand corner of his screen and Alastair opens a window to read it while still watching the evolving narrative.
To: Alastair
From: Becky
Message: Hey, blockhead! Guess what? There isa private spacecraft in trouble right now on orbit, and there are two men aboard, an astronaut named Bill and a passenger named Kip Dawson. Don’t you ever watch the telly? You’re too cynical, you know that? Ever consider this might be real?
Alastair triggers the reply button.
You’re kidding, right? This could be real?
He sends it back through cyberspace to Becky wondering what she’s doing on her computer at two in the afternoon in London, but before she can reply a host of other e-mails start snapping in from his friends, all apparently tuning in and reacting to the strange narrative.
If this is real,he thinks, the guy says no one can hear him on the radios. Do the space officials know about this?
He sits back, suddenly uncertain, as if he’s just witnessed a momentous adult event like a serious crime or terrible accident and he should be the one to alert the authorities.
He wonders how upset his dad would be if he tapped on their bedroom door now and asked for help.
No, not a good idea.
Maybe he can handle it himself, but he’s getting a really creepy feeling.
Dammit!
Diana is already coming through the door when Richard spots the bottle of tawny port he’s left on his desk. He’s not a teetotaler, but he abhors the idea of anyone thinking he needs to drink to get through even a day like this.
But she’s already spotted it and gone straight to the bottle, lifting it to examine the label.
“Good brand. Can I mooch some?”
“Be my guest. I was just, ah…”
Her hand is out, accompanying her shaking head.
“No explanation needed, Richard. Frankly, I’d worry about you if you weren’t drinking.” She pours an inch into a tumbler as she hands him his glass, then raises hers in a quick toast. “To NORAD and NASA and God knows who took care of that object.”
“I know.”
“So… who did?”
He’s shaking his head. “They won’t tell me, other than to say that the threat has been terminated and we would be best advised to never mention it.”
“Hookay. I’ll drink to that.”
“Still doesn’t get them back down.”
“No, but it sure solves the immediate problem.”
Richard looks at her, calculating whether to remind her that a few hours ago she’d found a positive side to a quick ending. No point, he concludes. It would sound like a slap, and she was only doing her best. Putting the best face on anything up to and including disaster is what she does.
His cell rings and Richard keys it on, a strange look crossing his face as he asks the caller to hold and raises his eyes to Diana.
“I hate to ask you…”
“But you need some privacy. No problem. I’ll be down the hall.”
She picks up the bottle of port and shoots him a questioning look.
“May I?”
“Please.”
“Good stuff,” she says on the way out.
Richard pulls the phone back to his ear. “Go ahead, Vasily.”
“Well, my friend, it has been a busy last few hours, no?”
A cascade of caution stops his response. Do the Russians know what the Air Force just did?
“Which, ah, nightmare of mine are you referring to?”
There is a chuckle on the other end. “That NASA has decided to get the shuttle ready to go up and do what you’ve retained us to do, Richard. I had a long talk with John Kent. I believe this would be STS193.”
“They’ll never make it in time. At least, I don’t think they will.”
“We don’t think so either, but you know what happens when NASA has a blowtorch to their ass. They usually move. In fact, in my humble experience, that’s the onlyway to get NASA to move fast.”
“But… you’re still going to try, right?”
“Of course. But things have changed. Now it has become a political matter and a matter of Russian honor.”