Act of God (18 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

TSIOLKOVSKY SPACE CENTER

KAZAKH REPUBLIC, U.S.S.R.

Tarkovsky lit his fiftieth cigarette of the day. He had spent most of the afternoon bullying the Project Engineer for the new road system which was necessary for transporting the heavy vehicles now coming in from the immense heavy-equipment plants at Minsk and the Likatschov works near Moscow. The Project Engineer tore at his thinning hair and gestured dramatically, scattering maps and blueprints all over his office. "Comrade Tarkovsky, you demand the impossible! It isn't the task that is daunting, it's the laborers I must work with! Where in the world did they find Goldi tribesmen?"

"Northern Siberia," Tarkovsky grunted.

"I never even heard of them before they arrived here. Not one of them can speak Russian. I have Kipchaks, Kalmucks, Uighurs, Polovtsi and God knows what else. None of them can understand us or each other. It's like feeding time at the United Nations out there, but without the translators. If it weren't for this moronic emphasis on secrecy, if we only had Russian workers instead of these Tartars, we'd be months ahead of schedule on the road construction, instead of more than a year behind!

"At least find me foremen who are bilingual and literate. We have to direct them with sign language!"

"You must make do with what you have," Tarkovsky went on relentlessly, "and you must catch up with the schedule. You realize," he grew uncharacteristically confidential, "that we're not just playing catch-up games with the West here. None of this is for prestige any more. With the man we now have in charge, it's like the old days of Stalin again. You're too young to remember; I was just a boy myself back then, but he had a very short way with anyone who failed him. This one is just like him." Like everybody else, Tarkovsky was reluctant to use Nekrasov's name, but everybody knew by this time who was really running the Project Peter the Great.

Gorshkov grew subdued. "I'll do my best, Comrade Tarkovsky."

Tarkovsky clapped him on the shoulder. "That's all I ask, Gorshkov. I know you can accomplish it." He went outside and got into his "staff car," an antiquated East German Barkas, a small military truck very much like the American Jeep of WWII, He wondered if the head of NASA had to oversee this kind of piddling detail.

As they drew up to the Administration building his driver said: "Visitors, Comrade Tarkovsky."

"Oh, no." Two men were getting out of a Lada in front of the building. It was Ryabkin, followed by one of the faceless KGB men, He wondered what Nekrasov's pet hound wanted this time. It had to be bad news. Tarkovsky hadn't seen Nekrasov himself in months, but Ryabkin or Baratynsky arrived, unannounced, on an almost weekly basis.

As Tarkovsky entered the building the girl behind the desk pointed at his office and mouthed, elaborately and silently, "K—G—B." Tarkovsky nodded curtly.

"Good afternoon, Comrade," Tarkovsky said as he opened the door. "What brings you to our facility this time? Care for some vodka?" Ryabkin was standing, instead of making himself at home, as usual. The faceless man was hanging up his coat and hat on the wall rack. Ryabkin looked decidedly uncomfortable and said nothing.

Then the faceless man turned around and said: "A little vodka sounds like a good idea." Dmitri Chekhov, General Secretary of the Communist Party and Premier of the Soviet Union was a small man, with a face as commonplace as his name. He smiled as he sat. "We do not get to see one another often enough, Comrade Tarkovsky." He took the glass Tarkovsky offered.

"It was not my doing that we have seen so little of each other of late, Comrade Chekhov." Tarkovsky said.

Chekhov glanced at Ryabkin. "So I have heard. Well, first let me congratulate you on the ongoing success of Project Peter the Great."

"Thank you, Comrade," Tarkovsky said, bursting to talk but not knowing how far he dared to go with Ryabkin present.

"Excellent vodka. Now, Pyotr, you must tell me all about your progress. Especially," he smiled, "I would like to hear about something called Project Ivan the Terrible."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

SPACE STATION
MIDWAY
, USSF

Sam was in the "shower" when the intercom paged him. Even in space, some things never change. The shower was a watertight closet which erupted with a short burst of needle-jet warm water when the door was shut. A suction pump removed the free-floating droplets for reprocessing, followed by a blast of hot air to dry the inhabitant. As baths go, it was Spartan in the extreme, but it was a luxury unknown to the inhabitants of earlier stations such as Skylab.

"Lt. Colonel Taggart, please report to General Penrod's office immediately," the speaker said again. "Acknowledge, please."

"Taggart here. I'll be there right away." He was cutting it close, but he wouldn't be getting a shower for several hundred million kilometers. From here on, it would be a sponge bath maybe once or twice a week. He pulled on his dark green coverall, newly chosen as the fatigue uniform for the Space Marines. The service was so new that it had no insignia yet. At its founding months before, Sam had found himself at loggerheads with the President and General Moore,

"Space Marines?"
Sam had said, incredulous. "Are you kidding? In the first place, the word 'marine' comes from the Latin word for ocean and there's no ocean up there. Second, and far more troublesome, the Marine Corps going to be mad as hell that you've taken their name. They've never had to explain what kind of marines they were before."

"Sorry, Sam," Moore had said. "The new Space Service is expanding and it's going to have big, long-range ships. Naval traditions have developed over the centuries and it's inevitable that they'll be transferred to a new, shipborne service. Space Marines it is."

Thus it was that Lt. Colonel Sam Taggart, Space Marines, pulled himself along the handholds towards the General's office. There he found the crews of
Bountyhunter
1 and 2 already assembled, with the exception of Ciano. Present were: For Ship 1, Col. Hoerter, chief pilot and captain; Major DaSilva, copilot; Lt. Col. Kita, engineer; Lt. Col Taggart, senior space marine; Col. Ciano, astrophysicist and Captain Flower, space marine and assistant engineer. For Ship 2: Col. McDonald, chief pilot and captain; Major Schaeffer, copilot; Lt. Col. ("Just don't call me Buck") Rogers, senior engineer; Captain Tammsalu, astrophysicist (and recently naturalized citizen); Lt. Col. Hansen, space marine and stand-by engineer and Major Schuster, space marine.

Colonel Ciano came floating in a few minutes after Sam. The little group clustered at one end of the room, leaving General Penrod to float at the other end. It occurred to the General that it had been some time since an American officer had been in this position; sending out his best officers on a desperate, long-range mission from which it was likely they would not return. They had no backup, no cover, no hope of rescue should there be a disaster. And disaster was exactly what they were facing.

Originally, they were to depart as soon as the Russians were beyond the point of recall so the Soviets could not arm themselves against possible interdiction by the Americans. There had been technical difficulties, hangups, delays, glitches: now they were to depart ten whole days after the Russians. The delay put the American expedition at a severe disadvantage since they must now expend more reaction mass than planned, making their water reserve rather precarious by the time they made rendezvous with the comet. There would be little or no room for navigational errors. Because of the necessary differences in trajectories caused by the delay, the ten-day advantage translated to at least two weeks of head start for the Russians. They hoped that the Soviet expedition would require at least three weeks to finish their tasks at the comet. That was the best educated guess anyone could make. The fact was, nobody knew how many icebergs the Russians planned to bring back, or how long it would take them. All this went through Penrod's mind before he began his pre-mission briefing. The crews already knew the odds.

"Friends, your ships are now fully commissioned for the first American interplanetary voyage. I wish the mission were less desperate. You're all aware of the risks of taking these untested ships on this hazardous journey; yet you all volunteered. On behalf of the Space Service, the President and the nation, I wish to thank you. There is one more hard fact to face: even if your mission succeeds, your deeds may remain unknown to the public at large, at least for a long, long time. When you return, there will probably be no bands, no ticker-tape parade, no reception on the White House lawn. Your only satisfaction will have to be in the knowledge that you just may have kept World War III from happening.

"Although this is a military mission, you are only to take hostile action to keep the Russians from dropping those icebergs on us. You will at all times remain alert for further instructions from the base. Your mission could be altered at any time if there are new developments on the international front."

He looked at them, going from one face to another. "At this time, I am required to ask you for the last time: If there is any one of you who wishes to withdraw from this mission, you may do so with complete honor. The circumstances have changed the odds against you considerably. There are two astronauts standing by for each of you who can take your places on an instant's notice." As he expected, nobody even blinked. "Very well. There's an old formula they used to give to sub commanders that seems to me to fit this situation: Ladies, gentlemen, godspeed and good hunting!"

In the big bay near the major airlock, Sam, Laine, Ugo and Fred floated in a four-pointed star, holding hands like skydivers. "You see, Sam," Ugo said, "this is what it's all about. This is why we're in space."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"You dumb jerk, because here I'm as tall as the rest of you!" He grinned at Fred, who for once was at eye level with him. "You see, in space nobody's tall or short, there's only relative length, and that don't matter."

"Ugo," Laine said, "I knew there had to be some great reason why you were so determined to push humanity into space."

There was a great deal they might have said, a great deal they wanted to say, but Sam and Laine absolutely refused to talk about their future plans until the mission was behind them. They had been silent about it for months. Ugo was keeping his own plans secret until the mission was over as well. Fred wasn't particularly reticent, but the fact was that just now, there was no reality for any of them except the mission. They said no more until the airlock hatch cycled open.

Ugo grinned tightly at the only real friends he had ever known. "Let's go get 'em," he said.

INTERPLANETARY SPACE

The initial excitement of being on the first American interplanetary ships soon gave way to day-to day routine. Just now, the only people aboard with exacting jobs were the pilots and copilots. They had to monitor the position and direction of the ship continuously, using the integrating inertial guidance systems and multi-directional star sensors. The data from these devices were digested by the onboard sixth generation computer which determined the ship's velocity vector. The pilot would then choose the optimum acceleration vector for that instant. Ugo tried to obtain authorization to use the immense capacity of the multi-million dollar computer for his pet astrophysical research. He wanted to relieve the tedium of the voyage. He was turned down as his astrophysical research was not essential to the mission. As a consolation prize, he was told he could use the computer for his analysis of the interplanetary and cometary environment, both of which were germane to the task at hand.

Although the mission was primarily military, they were to bring back samples from the comet for analysis. If time permitted, they were also to perform experiments to learn the structure of the comet. This was Ugo and Laine's department. Perhaps their most important responsibility was to perform an in-situ analysis of the cometary environment, as so little was known about the physical conditions close to the nucleus and on the surface. In this, the Russians had an immense head start.

The space marines had another task, one which would begin at the comet. They were to inspect the Russian craft and to verify whether they were in violation of the recently concluded Geneva accord banning all non-defensive weapons from space. The treaty provided for on-site inspections, although none of the signatories had ever anticipated such a site for an inspection. If the marines were unable to attain the first objective, they were to destroy the icebergs or incapacitate the Russian spaceships. This was a last-ditch option, as it could precipitate a war.

The American ships were assemblages of spheres and boxes, tubes and struts. They were ugly, functional and looked as if they had been designed by a committee, which was precisely the case.

"Y'know," Ciano said on the second day out, "if I was in charge of design on these things, I'd say to hell with functional logic. I'd design these things to look like real spaceships."

"They are real spaceships," said Kita. "What are they supposed to look like?"

"You mean make 'em to look like the covers from science fiction magazines back in the fifties?" Hoerter raised his eyebrows, a gesture which lost much of its significance as he was hanging upside-down in relation to Ugo.

"Naw, I was thinking more of those Art Deco ships from Alex Raymond's old Flash Gordon strip. Now those was ships that looked like spaceships. See, I'd fit a shaped neoquartz cowling over the whole ship, fake portholes and everything, with a spiky nose that has a blinking red light on its tip."

"He always like this?" DaSilva asked Sam.

"Since I've known him," Sam said. "He's been on his best behavior to get on this mission, though. Now you're seeing his true colors."

"I'm serious," Ugo insisted, gesturing wildly and sending himself into a spin, from which Kita retrieved him. "I mean, these ships work, but a buncha orange crates and pipes tied up with baling wire ain't calculated to inspire people with enthusiasm for the future of man in space!"

"Let's hope this expedition doesn't inspire anything," said Hoerter.

Ciano plowed right on. "And these uniforms!" He glared accusingly at his coverall. "This is what garage mechanics wear. Now I'd design real slick-looking uniforms with double fronts and rows of buttons and boots and the whole works."

"I used to have a uniform like that," Flower said reflectively. "Back in my high school marching band."

"It's all PR, man," Ciano insisted. "You want to whip up enthusiasm for space exploration, it's like anything else; you gotta have heroes and classy hardware and good-looking clothes." Ugo folded his arms across his chest and glowered, rotating slowly. "Those morons back at the base wouldn't even let me and Fred try The Experiment. That woulda put the U.S. space program back in the headlines!"

For weeks, the favorite topic of conversation in Midway had been The Experiment. At an open meeting of all personnel, Ugo had suggested that he and Fred have the honor of being the first couple to attempt freefall sex. There had always been rumors that astronauts had tried it, but the ever-present tv monitors made it unlikely. Somebody would have seen. It was rumored that Fred was game, but the chief scientist had come up with all manner of scientific and medical reasons why it shouldn't be permitted.

"Penrod told me," Sam said, "the real reason they wouldn't let you do it was they couldn't figure out where the President should pin the medal."

"I heard," Kita contributed, "that the Russians've already tried it. It was Bunchinsky and what's-her-name, Gribkova."

"What did they have to say about it" Sam asked.

Kita put in a broad Russian accent. "Yust another docking maneuver."

With such weighty matters they passed the days while closing the distance. They watched with awe as the comet grew closer. They would have to be very close before they would know whether the Soviet mission was still there. There was always the possibility the Soviets had not reached their destination at all. What should they do if they got there and there was no sign of the other expedition? Should they wait and see if anybody showed up, or should they fuel up as fast as possible and pursue an enemy that might not exist any more? Chances of catching up were minimal at best, and action would probably be best left to orbiting defenses. As the comet loomed ahead, filling more and more of their vision port, there was a general holding of breath and gnawing of fingernails, at least among those who were not nerveless career astronauts.

"They're here," reported McDonald from Ship 2. Through the heavy mist, the ships' radar systems identified two metallic objects on one hemisphere.

"We got em!" Ugo said, tensely.

"Not necessarily," Hoerter said. "That could be stuff they left behind. They might jettison a landing system, like we did on the early Moon shots."

"Man, don't say things like that." Ugo stared through the port with sweat standing out on his massive forehead. In the gravity-free environment, the sweat would not run down his face, but once in a while a drop would break loose, form a perfect sphere, and hang around his head for a moment like a minuscule moonlet before being sucked toward an air intake.

"Plan A is still in effect," Hoerter announced. "Ugo, pick us a spot to land." One of Ciano's duties was to find a suitable landing site. Ideally, it should be far enough from the Soviet base that they would not be detected, but near enough that a trek by the marines from the U.S. base to the Soviet site would be possible.

"Damn," Ugo said, "it all looks the same. Can't tell much about terrain features through that fog." Finally, he settled on a spot that looked at least as good as anywhere else. "Okay, Captain Ahab, there's your whale. Fire away."

"Commence landing sequence," Hoerter ordered.

Kita armed the pilot harpoon and fired it. Harpoon and trailing cable disappeared into the mist. "Anchor in contact." He studied his instruments for a few minutes. "It's solid."

"Continue landing sequence," Hoerter said. Da Silva began to reel the ship down the cable while Ship 2 fired its own pilot harpoon. They went down into the mist and soon they could see the surface, which seemed mercifully smooth.