“I have rested and I am fit. And you can trust me.”
“I always have.” On impulse he reached out and took the big Russian's hand. “This has been no joyride until now so maybe it will have to get better. Whatever happens working with you, Nadya and the Colonel, it's been worthwhile. Hands across the sea, hey? A little cooperation in this mixed-up world.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I'm going on too much, just tired.”
“No, I understand, tovarich. It has been the same for me as well.”
“Right, then. Your pressure suit's in that locker there. Coretta, can you help him into it? Or should I?”
“No, it's all right,” she looked at Ely. “There's nothing to be done for him at the moment, I'll help him.”
“Okay. Suit up and join us, Gregor. I'm afraid we're going to have to lock you in again, Coretta. You'll be on your own.”
“That's fine. I'm the only one who can take care of Ely in any case. Now fix those damn-engines and get us out of here.” She smiled as she said it, softening her words.
“Will do.”
He kicked off into the flight cabin and pulled himself down into his couch. “Mission Control,” he said into his microphone.
“Come in, Prometheus.”
“Flax. You know what's happened to Ely. It doesn't look good.”
“I know, Patrick.”
“Listen, even if we do manage to kick into the higher orbit, it's not going to help him. He has to get back to Earth, to a hospital. When's the soonest a shuttle can rendezvous?”
“Two weeks on the resupply.”
“What about the Air Force?”
“I'm looking into that now. I'll let you know as soon as I have a report.”
“Can you impress upon them how urgent it is.”
“I think they know, Patrick. I think everyone knows…”
“Out.” Patrick disconnected and looked over at Nadya on the next couch. She looked exhausted. “Can anyone possibly know?” he asked.
“I think they do. I'm sure everyone is doing everything possible. There's just so little they can do. We will just have to do it ourselves, won't we?”
“How right you are.” He smiled, crookedly and tiredly, but still smiled. “We do it ourselves. As consolation we have the fact that it certainly can't get any worse.”
Searing light, incredibly bright, a quick stab of burning light outside where only the blackness of space had been a millisecond before.
Light that was pain. Nadya screamed, over and over, pressing her hands to her tortured eyes, screamed without stopping at the endless agony.
In the crew compartment the light came from behind, through the half-closed hatch, like the beam of an intensely bright searchlight swept suddenly across the opening. Coretta was bent over, closing a fastening on Gregor's boot and she straightened up, blinking, shocked.
“What was that…” she said and the screaming cut off her words.
They moved together towards the hatch, but he was clumsy in the massive pressure suit and she reached the opening first, pushed through. Darkness and night outside, the stars as always, and Nadya still screaming and clutching her eyes. Patrick was pulling himself blindly towards her couch, his eyes closed and streaming with tears, his face drawn with pain. His breath came in great gasps and Coretta knew that he should be screaming too. She pushed off towards them and as she did something white and obscene swam into view outside.
It was a disc of ghostly pale light below them, changing and moving, slipping away behind them even as she watched. There was no way to judge its size or distance against the emptiness of space. But it was large. And streamers of fire arched overhead. She could make no sense of it all.
“Boshemoi…”
Gregor was beside her, breathing the words in a prayer, transfixed just as she was.
“What is it… what is happening?” she asked.
“It's the atmosphere, stimulated air glow emission, the streams of light, like the Northern Lights. It could only be caused by, but it cannot be, an atomic explosion in space. We are moving away from it now.”
“But how… I mean here… what?”
“What?” Patrick roared the words, roaring with pain and anger, holding the sobbing Nadya. “A bomb, that's what it was. A missile with an atomic warhead!
“Someone has just tried to blow us out of space!”
33
GET 23:27
Simon Dillwater clutched the sheaf of papers tightly and stared at the large photograph of the sun. Then he riffled the sheets of computations before looking up.
“I assume that you have checked all of your figures most thoroughly, Professor Weisman?” he said.
Weisman nodded. “A thing like this, you don't like to make mistakes. I ran them through the computer many times. Backwards and forwards, up and down. There's no mistake.”
“Might I ask if you have any idea why our people did not come up with this?”
“Why should they? It's a small field, a new one. There aren't that many solar astronomers in any case. And those interested in the interaction with the upper atmosphere, who really know their business, a handful. Not even a handful. In fact just two. Me and Moish.”
“Moish?”
“I just call him that, to myself, we have never met. But we correspond all the time. Academician Moshkin.”
“A Russian?”
“Of course.”
“Yes, of course.” Dillwater stood up, his tall lean form overshadowing that of the little professor. “I must thank you for what you have done, for making the effort to contact us quickly. My thanks to your associates as well.” He nodded, bowed slightly, in the direction of Margaret Tribe and the undersecretary. “I'll bring these facts to the attention of the President at once. He will want to know. Where can I contact you, Professor Weisman?”
“Philadelphia…”
“Not at this time of night,” Dr. Tribe said, firmly. “The professor will be staying at my house. I'll leave the address at the desk.”
“Thank you, thank you very much….”
His words trailed off, interrupted by the distant slam of a door. A slam? Doors weren't slammed in the White House! And running feet. The corridor outside hammered to their sound and a moment later an Army officer with a briefcase, flanked by two MPs, ran by.
“Please excuse me,” Simon Dillwater said composedly, and turned and left. Inwardly he was not composed at all. Something important was happening. He must return to the cabinet meeting at once. He fought back the desire to run and instead walked at a firm and regular pace. There seemed to be a buzz of activity on all sides, something unexpected here after eleven at night. There were extra guards outside the entrance to the executive offices; the captain in command stepped forward and raised his hand.
“Could I see your identification, sir.”
“What — but you just let me out of this door some minutes ago.”
“I'm sorry, sir. Identification if you please.”
Good gracious — his hand was actually resting on his gun butt. Dillwater dug out his identification card, which should have been on his jacket pocket, and handed it over. The officer consulted a list and nodded.
“That's fine, Mr. Dillwater.” He raised his hand as Dill-water started to step forward. “Just one more formality, if you please. Would you tell me your wife's mother's first name.”
“What, why on earth should I?”
“You won't get in unless you do. ASCM. Accelerated Security Check Measures. I've just taken this book from the safe.”
“But… why?”
“I'm afraid I don't know, sir. Just following orders. The name…?”
“Maria.”
“That's correct. Please go in.”
More guards at each door and in the corridors in between until Dillwater finally entered the conference room. He stood, dazed, unbelieving. When he had left short minutes ago the atmosphere had been subdued, everyone too tired to talk, going over the latest reports from Mission Control.
Now it was near to bedlam, Bandin was standing and shouting — and Bannerman was shouting back.
“… I want them up there and the frigging button pressed and everyone scrambled on the alert….”
“Mr. President, you have just got no goddamn business to do that. It might be the very wrong thing. The Hot Line, get on the Hot Line to Polyarni and find out what he knows. Tell him that all we know is that it's not one of ours. Tell him that loud and clear or the missiles could start flying soon.”
“The alert…”
“The Interception Alert has gone. That's all internal and no one on the outside will get their balls into an uproar. But that is all we must do until you talk to Polyarni.”
The President was still upset, too tired to make his mind up. In the brief silence the Secretary of State spoke.
“The General is correct, Mr. President. Everything that should be done at this moment has been done. You must talk with Polyarni, tell him what we know. That our satellites and tracking stations have recorded an atomic explosion in space over the Soviet Union. And it was not one of ours. Period.”
Dillwater sat down heavily, trying to get the facts into perspective. What could this mean, an atomic explosion? The answer came quickly. His through line to Mission Control rang and he answered it automatically. Flax was on the other end and, as he spoke, Dillwater felt his body grow numb, cold. What he heard was impossible — yet he knew it had to be true. He made notes on his pad and, finally, spoke.
“Thank you. Flax. I will tell them, yes, that's right.”
He hung up the phone and rose slowly to his feet. “Mr. President,” he said, but his voice was ignored, unheard. He spoke again, slightly louder, but still no one gave heed. Anger gripped him, he shook uncontrollably and his face grew red.
“SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
They shut. Shocked, by this cry of rage from a man who never raised his voice above a polite conversational level. The whole room was silent for a moment and Bandin was the first to recover. But even as he opened his mouth to speak, Dill-water spoke first.
“Mission Control reports that the atomic explosion was directed at Prometheus. Someone tried to blow it up.”
“Who… why..?” The President spoke for them all.
“That is not known yet. Mission Control reports that apparently the missile, bomb, whatever it was, did not hit. But there have been injuries. As soon as there are more details they will call back. . ” The phone at his elbow buzzed and he answered it, nodded. “Mr. Dragoni, will you please patch this call through to the speaker. It is a report from Prometheus.”
“Mission Control calling Prometheus. Go ahead.”
“This is Prometheus, Gregor Salnikov here, it is unbelievable, that this could have happened…” His voice died away to a mumble.
“Please come in, Prometheus, the President and his cabinet are listening. What was it that happened?”
“An explosion. An atomic explosion in space. I have no way of estimating how close it was. Dr. Samuel and I were in the crew compartment, we were only aware of the blast. But the pilots, they were facing out, they saw it. There is pain, they are blinded. . I must go, the doctor is calling me.” The voice switched off.
“Mission Control,” Dillwater said. “How close was the explosion to Prometheus?”
“Unknown as yet. We have attempted to activate TV cameras at stations two and three and they do not respond. If they are burned out the blast was below and behind the spacecraft. Cabin radiation count confirms this.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was only slight elevation of background radiation count in the cabin at the moment of explosion. This could only have occurred if the base of the ship was pointed at the explosion. The bulk of the engine, the biological shield and the hydrogen tank would have stopped the radiation. “
“Thank God for that. But what about the pilots' eyes. Is there blindness…?”
“We cannot tell yet. Reports will follow. Out. “
There was a buzz of comment after the call. And confusion. The facts were there — but what did they mean?
“Who would lob a bomb at Prometheus?” Bandin asked, as confused as all the rest. Except for Dillwater. He was staring at the speckled photograph of the sun. When he spoke it was so softly that they had to strain to hear.
“I know who did it. And I know why.” He glanced up from the photograph. “Mr. President, is this room security shielded?”
“Of course.”
“Then I must tell you what it was undoubtedly a Soviet missile that was fired at Prometheus.”
“Can you verify that?” Bannerman asked, icy cold.
“No, General, you will have to do that. I can only tell you my reasons. Prometheus is now entering its sixteenth orbit. In approximately eighty minutes it will be over Stalingrad. A few minutes ago, at the time of the explosion, it was passing over the wasteland of Siberia. There are Soviet atomic missile sites there. This was the last opportunity to take out Prometheus before it completed its final orbit and fell on Moscow.”
“What are you saying, Dillwater?” The President was livid. “There are twenty hours yet before that thing is due to fall. And on the US, not on Russia.”
“No, Mr. President. I have just received new information that alters this. Information that I am sure the Soviet authorities have as well.” He held up the photo of the sun. “There is a very good chance that this is the last orbit and that they will crash and burn in about an hour.”
“But — what changed?”
“The sun, Mr. President. If there should be a solar flare now, a Sunspot, the sudden burst of radiation will strike the upper atmosphere and cause it to expand. Prometheus is just brushing the fringes of atmosphere as it is. If this were to rise it would cause the satellite to impact the atmosphere and crash.”
“That picture of the sun has something to do with it?” Bannerman asked.
“It does, General. It was taken a little over two weeks ago. You see this series of black spots? These are solar flares about to be carried around to the back of the sun by its rotation. They will be reappearing on the other limb of the sun at any time now. They are the beginning of a solar storm. If they progress as normal they will have developed into giant flares while out of sight on the far side of the sun. When rotation brings them to this side of the sun again their immense radiation will be flowing out. Eight and a half minutes later it will impact the top of the atmosphere….”
“And Prometheus will run into a solid wall of air,” Banner-man said.
“That is correct. The Soviets must have learned this and made an attempt to destroy the ship before it could impact in Russia.”
“The dirty bastards!”
“You were discussing doing the same thing yourself, General, if I remember correctly.” Dillwater did not need to speak sharply for the impact of his words to strike home. Banner-man's neck reddened but he did not speak.
“You're sure the Russians knew about this?” the President asked.
“Almost certain, sir. Why else would they have fired the missile?”
“Charley, get the Hot Line working. I want to talk to Polyarni. His story had better be good.”