Steve stood a long time after it had vanished, his anger growing against the men-and women too, God damn them-who forced him to take military measures.
The Chattahoochee wasn't much more than a narrow stream, nor did it harbor, as he'd hoped, any patches of forest. But at one point it ran behind the Golden Apple Health Spa. The spa looked closed, and heavy shrubbery partially shielded it from the view of neighbors. A Little League field lay on the far side of the river. "Looks ideal," said Steve.
Tad nodded. There were no vehicles anywhere on the grounds, and no sign of life in the neighborhood, save for a black Labrador retriever barking at them from the porch of a frame house across the street.
"We ought to shoot him," said Tad. "I brought a silencer."
Steve looked at him reprovingly. "Dogs bark," he said. "Forget it."
The Golden Apple was a long brick building with a row of glass doors opening into a lobby. Its rear rose to two stories. A row of windows lined an Olympic-sized pool from which the water had been drained. An oval driveway circled the front.
The radio reported that another launch was only minutes away.
"I'd feel better if we could get the van out of sight," said Steve. "Neighborhoods like this, they remember strange vehicles. Somebody might even copy down the license number."
Tad surveyed the street. "I don't think anybody's even home."
Steve considered this. "Okay," he said. "Let's do it."
The radio announced that a second space plane was being towed out of the hangar toward the launch ramp.
"Timing's perfect, Colonel," said Tad. Steve nodded. He liked Wickett's enthusiasm.
He was saddened and disappointed that, in the hour when the Legion was taking the high ground, his brother had proved wanting. "We'll have to restrain him," he told Tad, glancing back over his shoulder. Jack sat propped against the wheel well, glaring at him. His feet were pressed against the launcher. "Secure him to the seat anchors."
Both sides of the spa's grounds were lined with enormous hedges that hadn't been trimmed in several weeks. Steve parked as close to the shrubbery as he could. Tad slipped out his side, went around to the back of the van, and opened up. Minot, North Dakota. 1:17 P.M. Central Daylight Time (2:17 P.M. EDT).
The army bus in which Marilyn and Larry had been riding pulled onto a football field saturated with other buses. They'd now been in the vehicle almost seven hours, and they were still in North Dakota.
The driver, a portly little man who was trying hard to remain cheerful, maneuvered into a line of parked vehicles in an open space beside a football stadium, and then got up and turned to face his passengers. "I'm sorry, folks," he said. "Our traffic control is telling us the road ahead just isn't moving very much. There're a couple of rest rooms here we can use, and the Red Cross is supposed to be in the area somewhere. We're going to take a forty-minute break. Take care of yourselves, do whatever you have to, and we'll meet back here at, uh, three."
"We're not gonna get out of here, are we?" demanded a big man with a thick curly beard and a childish pout.
"We'll be fine," said the driver. "The cops are trying to clear the traffic up ahead."
"The cops all took off." The bearded man turned to the woman behind him. "Wouldn't you?" he demanded.
Maybe they were too weary to be terrified. Marilyn stood up and tugged at Larry. Live or die, she wanted something to put in her belly. "You coming?" she asked.
Larry nodded, and they headed for the door. The bus emptied out.
The washrooms were located under the stands. There were long lines, and it was here that they finally separated from the last of the people from Louise's party.
The Red Cross wasn't visible. Marilyn hadn't eaten for hours. They wandered back to the bus to see if anyone had located food. Nobody had.
"I think I've had enough," Larry said. "Why don't we stay here until it's over."
"We're still inside the red zone," said Marilyn.
"We aren't going to get out of it on this thing," he said, looking at the bus.
She thought about it. By this time tomorrow, one way or the other, it would be over. And he was right: The bus was going nowhere. It reeked of sweat and bodies and she didn't think that she wanted to be on it when she died.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go have a look at the town."
The driver overheard and frowned. "You're not coming back?" he asked.
"No," said Larry.
"I can't be responsible," he warned them.
"Nobody's ever responsible," said a harsh voice in back. "That's what's wrong with this country."
TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 2:18 P.M.
"St. Louis. Transglobal correspondent Shannon Gardner was seriously injured and her cameraman was killed when he tried to come to her assistance this morning. During on-air coverage…" • • •
5.
SSTO Tokyo Passenger Cabin, Transatmospheric Terminal, Hartsfield Airport, Atlanta. 2:31 P.M.
Orly Carpenter sat across the aisle from Wes Feinberg. The physicist looked drawn. "First time into orbit?" Carpenter asked.
Feinberg managed a smile. He looked out at the tarmac, which was moving slowly past the windows, and back at Carpenter. "Yes," he admitted.
"Nothing to be afraid of, Doc."
"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "I'm not afraid of these things. Truth is, I have a touch of indigestion."
"Good. It's not much different from an ordinary airplane."
Feinberg nodded. His position required him to fly occasionally, and he knew the statistics, that he could fly around the world a hundred thousand times or so before he would become due for a crash. But he also remembered the story of the man who'd drowned in a stream that averaged only eight inches in depth. Numbers were funny, and he preferred being able to keep his feet on the ground.
The forward motion stopped. The spacecraft seemed to rise slightly and then settle back down again. "What was that?" asked Feinberg.
"We got loaded onto the launch ramp."
Carpenter was at the apex of a long and distinguished career. He'd been a fighter pilot, a test pilot, a trainer at the Navy's Top Gun school, and he'd become an astronaut at precisely the right moment to participate in the return to the Moon.
The week's events had shaken him, and he'd heard all the talk about closing NASA down, about cutting losses with Moonbase International and the LTA, about returning to the ground and rebuilding the cities and letting future generations worry about space. But he was by God not going to let that happen. What we had here was an object lesson in what could occur when defenses weren't in place. The next big comet could come down on North America. In fact, they had a big rock trying to do precisely that.
But with the new president in the thick of the action, Carpenter recognized a historic opportunity. And it wasn't simply a matter of selling him on Skybolt. The reality was that humans had to get off-world. They needed the resources the solar system could provide, and they now had the technology to make it happen. All that was necessary was will.
After they turned the Possum aside, Carpenter knew he could find a way to reach this president. And consequently touch the future. "We are going to make this happen, aren't we, Doc?" he asked.
Feinberg nodded. "If everybody gets there, if nobody burns too much fuel, if the pitons hold, yes. If everything goes according to schedule, we will most certainly make it happen."
The pilot's voice sounded over the intercom: "Buckle in, gentlemen. We are one minute to launch."
"Doc," said Carpenter, "sit back and enjoy the ride. You and I are going to make history tonight." Chattahoochee River. 2:34 P.M.