"You heard, Mr. President?" Feinberg sounded shrill.
"I heard. We'll just have to make do with six."
"If you'll forgive me, sir, physics is not politics. You can't make things happen by trying harder."
Charlie was seated up front with Rachel Quinn. Outside, the Possum's terrain rolled slowly past. "Wes, we're not going to give up."
"It doesn't matter whether you give up or not. It won't work without a seventh ship. But, I should point out, you're sitting in one."
That fact hadn't escaped Charlie. Like Feinberg, he was beginning to wonder if the Percival Lowell could substitute for the damaged space plane. But the Lowell was dwarfed by the giant SSTOs. He covered the mike and glanced at Rachel. "Will this thing put out the kind of horsepower the space planes do?"
"We don't call it horsepower, Mr. President," she said. "But no, it won't. It doesn't need that much thrust."
"It's close enough," said Feinberg, when Charlie repeated her comment.
"Okay," said Charlie. "Why don't you hang on a minute and let me put you on the speaker so the pilot can get into this conversation."
He flipped a switch and Feinberg's voice filled the cabin: "You need to find a way to anchor the Lowell to the Possum. Actually, the Lowell makes a more effective engine anyway than the SSTOs, because you won't run out of fuel in twenty minutes. If we had a handful of ships like yours, we wouldn't have a problem."
Rachel made a slicing motion across her throat. Charlie nodded. "Give us a chance to talk about it, Wes. We'll get back to you." He cut the connection and turned to the pilot. "What?" he said.
"You remember the damaged SSTO? They're sending it over with some equipment to try to lash it down. I don't think they've left Skyport yet. Why don't we suggest they send extra gear for us?"
"Do it," said Charlie.
She put in the request and then turned back to him. "There's a downside, you know."
"What's that?"
"There won't be any easy way to unanchor us. My understanding is that the pitons they're putting on the SSTOs can be jettisoned. If things get hairy, they push a button and they're gone. In case, say, the rock goes down."
"You're saying-"
"In our case, we'll just get fastened to the rock. If Plan A doesn't work, there'll be no way to get Lowell clear." Skyport Flight Terminal. 4:36 P.M.
The maintenance people had patched the holes, cleaned and lubricated the engines, and replaced Arlington's broken antennas. There'd been some talk about removing tail and wings to cut down on drag, but apparently they'd decided it was just too big a job. The external damage, a shattered tail assembly, assorted dents and chips, and a bent undercarriage had been left alone. All that could be taken care of later. If necessary.
With flight engineer Curt Greenberg and copilot Mary Casey in tow, George met with Belle Cassidy and a couple of her people in operations to discuss the mission profile. They went over flight data and were shown their assigned place on the Possum. While they talked, George watched one of the SSTOs arrive from Atlanta and glide gently into its bay.
Belle introduced Jonathan Porter, an engineer, who would help anchor the plane. Porter was a dark-haired, middle-aged man of remarkably passive appearance. He looked uncomfortable in Belle's presence, and smiled too much. His voice was reedy. This, George thought, was the kid they always picked last when they were choosing up sides. Not the man he'd have wanted on board during an emergency. But Belle didn't seem to have any qualms.
"We're lucky Jonathan didn't leave with the rest," she said smoothly. "We've given you plenty of cable and spikes. Jonathan will see that you're securely bolted down. When that's done, he's going to do the same thing for Lowell."
"Lowell?"
"Yep. I guess we're throwing everything we've got into this little tug of war." Skyport Flight Terminal. 9:45 P.M.
Everything went like clockwork. Five planes arrived from Hartsfield, the last three only slightly delayed by the terrorist incident. They refueled and got a final inspection while they waited for their window to open.
Although all were owned by the Lunar Transport Authority, they were based around the world. SSTO 702 was from Atlanta, 703 from Berlin, 704 from London, 705 from Tokyo, 708 from Moscow.
The journalists at Skyport, most of whom had been on the Moon for the opening ceremonies, had a field day. The networks were filled with interviews of crewmembers, all of whom seemed calm and confident. Feinberg predicted success. "The numbers are there," he said. "Barring another crazed act by terrorists, we should see the Sun rise tomorrow on a happy Kansas."
FRANK CRANDALL'S ALL-NIGHTER. 10:53 P.M.
"I'll tell you, Frank, I'm with the woman who said the whole thing's just a con game to free up money for the aerospace people. That's all it is. That rock isn't coming down tonight, never was gonna come down. But Haskell will claim credit and a lot of taxpayer money'll go to Lockheed and the LTA. Mark my words."
With Bruce Kendrick.
"The entire world appears to be kneeling in prayer tonight____________________
"
Skyport Flight Terminal. Midnight.
The last of the SSTOs, 708 from Moscow, broke away from Skyport with measured speed. Almost everyone on the station was standing along the flight terminal's Apollo Deck, which had the best view of the launch. For a long time after Moscow's lights vanished into the night, almost no one moved.
CHAPTER TEN
Tuesday, April 16
1.
Percival Lowell Flight Deck. 12:03 A.M.
"Arlington's here, Mr. President." Rachel pointed to the scope over the heads-up display, where three blips had appeared. The objects were approaching from the rear, after having completed a long, looping orbit to allow them to match the Possum's trajectory. Dead ahead, Earth looked very big and very vulnerable.
Thank God. Charlie felt the weight shift on his shoulders. It was too easy to visualize this thing ripping through the planet's pink skies, blasting the lush brown soil of Kansas into the upper atmosphere, melting the underlying bedrock.
"Arlington's damaged," she continued. "It got hammered coming back from the Moon."
"I hope it holds together."
"I don't think there're any fears about that."
"Who are the others?"
"Ferries, Mr. President. The Alexei Kordeshev and the Christopher Talley."
Charlie raised his coffee in silent salute. They had been crew members on the Ranger.
Rachel was getting another transmission. She touched her earphones, nodded, and switched on the speaker.
"This is Arlington," said the radio.
"Good to see you, Arlington."
"Roger that. It's a big son of a bitch, isn't it?"
"Yes it is."
"Okay, I guess we're a little pressed for time. We've got the engineer and the equipment. We're going to set down and get locked in. You'll follow us, right?"
"Arlington, we'll be right behind you."
"Why are we going down with them?" asked Charlie.
"They need to use the laser drill. After they're set, we'll pick up some of their gear and their engineer and go tie down on our site." She flipped a switch on the PA. "Lee, are you ready?"
"Roger."
They watched Arlington make its approach. Feinberg had assigned it a site in the Plain. Its pilot moved in and turned control over to the navigational computers, which matched course and speed with the Possum, then duplicated rotation and tumble.
It touched down in the zero-g equivalent of a landing.
Lowell descended nearby, and Rachel told Cochran he was clear to go.