“Has anyone found out what sort of impact this thing would have?” Dr. Schlochter asked. “Perhaps we are making mountains out of molehills. There are airplane accidents every day and they are forgotten the next.”
Bannerman had the figures scrawled on a piece of paper and his words filled the silence.
“The estimate sent through from GCCT at KY is that approximately twenty percent of the fuel was unused at the last engine shutdown. That, with the total weight of the vehicle, gives us a total impact mass weight of over a million pounds. Speed is important here. Going at sixty miles an hour that would make a big hole in the ground and nothing more. Houston reckons that, even allowing for reduced speed from atmosphere friction, that must have hit a velocity of over, twenty thousand feet per second. Or if you want it on a speedometer, that is just about eighteen thousand miles an hour. About half the explosive power of a tactical atomic bomb.”
“The Prime Minister, Mr. President,” Dragoni said. Ban-din picked up the phone by his elbow.
“Yes, I'm holding. Yes. Mr. Prime Minister, President Bandin here. I am shocked, as I am sure you are, at this terrible accident. All of us here are hoping, praying, that there has been no loss of life, minimal loss of life. Yes, I'm sorry. There has been what?… Yes, I understand. Good God, this is terrible. I have no words, no, none… Whatever aid, anything we can do… Of course I do understand. Though of course we are not responsible for this terrible tragedy we do feel responsible in that it is a joint project, although this rocket was Soviet, and we wished to do everything in our power in this hour of need. Yes, thank you, goodbye.”
Bandin put the receiver gently down and looked around at the silent men.
“That does it,” he finally said. “The goddamned rocket did hit that town, that (Tottenham place you were talking about. Took it out just like it had been aimed at. No exact figures yet of course but the PM says the first estimates are at least twenty-one thousand dead….”
“Those are just the people who were in the place,” Bandin continued. “There are roads hit, the motorway, accident reports still coming in. Fires too. He's called a national alert, mobilized troops, ambulances, fire departments, everything he can get.”
“We could offer the assistance of our armed forces stationed there to aid in the relief work,” Schlochter said.
“No,” Dillwater said with great firmness. “I would advise issuing orders for all American personnel to be restricted to their bases. The British have enough manpower to handle this themselves. Soviet rocket or no we're in this up to our necks. I don't think our people are going to be very popular over there for awhile.”
“I second that,” Bannerman said. “If you agree, Mr. President, I will issue an order to that effect right now.”
“Yes, you're probably right considering the circumstances.” Bannerman picked up his phone. “But what else can we do? There must be something.” Bandin looked around at the men in his cabinet but no answers were forthcoming. “What effect is this going to have upon the Prometheus Project?” he asked.
“It should not affect it in any way,” Dillwater answered. “We have backup boosters to replace the one destroyed. The project can go ahead. But there can be no question about not having a second disaster like this.”
“I should hope not. Maybe we can ride out this one, but two strikes and we're out. And I don't have to tell you how much is riding on this project. National prestige, one in the eye for the Arabs — and the next election. If Prometheus goes down the drain, and the public doesn't see any return for the money spent so far, you are going to see one of them from that party sitting in this chair next year. And what is happening with Prometheus? Have we forgotten all about them in this brouhaha?”
“No, Mr. President,” Dillwater said. “The engine is now being prepared for ignition and will soon be firing. You will be informed as soon as this happens. Final orbit will not be reached for at least forty-eight hours after that. Then the generator assembly will begin.”
“It better. Set up a call to Polyarni. I want to find out what the Kremlin thinks about this. This is one time when we have got to stick together.”
24
GET 12:06
The nuclear engine countdown was almost finished when word of the disaster reached Prometheus, relayed from Mission Control. Flax had not mentioned the fate of the core booster until all of the facts were in, until the complete extent of the catastrophe was known. Then he had talked to Nadya, telling her what had happened in exact detail. She had called Patrick and Ely back from the nuclear engine control compartment so she could speak to them in person at the same time. When Major Gagarin, the first man ever to fly in space, had been in a plane crash his voice had been like hers. His engine had failed but he had stayed with his plane and flown it into the ground in order to miss the school and the houses below. His voice was calm and emotionless up until the instant of the crash. Nadya had been trained the same way.
They did not want to believe it, they had to believe it, but it still seemed so impossible.
“It couldn't have happened,” Ely said. “It just couldn't.”
“It did,” Patrick said, his quiet words cutting through the shocked silence. “It happened. But there's nothing we can do about it. It is just a fact we are going to have to live with. I don't know who's to blame — if anyone is to blame. It won't be easy but we are just going to have to put it out of our minds while we get on with the work here. Nadya, stay with the radio and give us reports of any developments. Ely and I are going to start the engine.” His eyes went to the GET readout and the others looked as well. “12:42. We're running out of time. We've less than twelve hours to build up speed and get out of this rotten orbit. If we don't the same thing could happen to us. And we would make a far bigger hole when we hit.”
In silence he pushed into the tube and back to the engine compartment, with Ely right behind him.
“I'll contact Mission Control,” Nadya said, shoving off from the couch towards the opening to the flight cabin. Her eyes were red, from fatigue not from tears, and her motions were slow.
“You should take a rest,” Coretta said. “Speaking as your doctor.”
“I know, thank you, but not right now. There is too much to do right now. It is checklist time for the air scrubbers to be examined. The fuel cells as well.”
“Can I help?”
“No. This is a particular job that either I or Patrick must do.” Then she was gone.
“It is always that way,” Gregor said. “Nothing for us to do — just wait. You are a physician, you have your work, but I am only a fifth wheel. I do nothing.” His face had sunk back into Slavic melancholy.
“You get gloomy too quickly,” Coretta said, moving over to him. “This trip has not been one of joy unrelieved, admittedly, but it's not that bad. Enjoy being a passenger while it lasts. When we get into orbit you're the only person who counts, the one this whole trip is about. The pilots are just cab drivers, and I'm here to make sure you don't get sniffles. As I remember this thing is called the Prometheus Project and it's supposed to put some kind of solar generator in orbit. And, with the Colonel gone, it looks to me like you're the only one who can do that.”