Back to the Moon (51 page)

Jack watched the mach meter and the vertical velocity indicator. On the screens above his head was the position of the flaps. Everything was on the money. Dubrinski was flying
Columbia
with consummate professionalism.
No, by damn,
Jack thought:
with genius!

That was when everything went to hell. The first tile gave way on the starboard wing, stressed past all design limits by the wild reentry. When it tore away, it took four more tiles with it. A millisecond later two more chunks also ripped from
Columbia
's belly.

Dubrinski felt the turbulence in his seat a fraction of a second before it came through the stick. He struggled with it,
Columbia
almost pitching into a tumble. He managed to level her but she was shaking as if she were his grandfather's sleigh crunching over remelted ice while the big horse pulling it tossed its maned head.

Jack deduced the problem when he heard a big chunk let go beneath him. “We're losing tiles! Can you hold her?”

“I think so!” Dubrinski said between gritted teeth.

Jack turned to Penny and Virgil. “You're going to have to activate the pole! Go!”

The two stared at him. “Go!” Jack screamed at them again.

A sudden turbulence bowled them over just as they unbuckled their belts. Virgil went howling into the bulkhead, striking his head. He sat down, moaning, blood streaming down his face and soaking the collar of his coveralls.

“Jack.” Penny gasped. “I think we're going to need help.”

Dubrinski clapped Jack's shoulder. “Go, Jack. I have
Columbia.
Help them!”

Jack unstrapped, crawled to the side hatch jettison handle, and slammed it down. Four shaped charges blew the hinges, and three thruster packs drove the hatch into the windstream. A blast of frigid air filled the flight deck, a snowstorm of ice crystals exploding from the humidity in the cabin air. Jack fought the blast and tore open the aluminum cover to get at the egress pole. The pole—a curved, spring-loaded, telescoping steel cylinder weighing 240 pounds—was needed to get crew members safely past the leading edge of
Columbia
's port wing. He struggled with the pole, pushed it through the hatch, and ratcheted it into its bracket.

Penny grabbed him. “Medaris, I can't do this!”

“What the hell are you saying, High Eagle?”

Her eyes were wild. She stepped back from the blast of air,
Columbia
's gyrations throwing her off-balance. “I can't go out that door. I'm afraid of heights!”

Her illogic floored him.
“But you've walked on the moon!”

“This is a hell of a lot scarier than that! I'm going to ride
Columbia
down!”

“The hell you are!” Jack advanced on her, grabbing the straps on her parachute pack and dragging her to the hatch.

“I see something, Jack!” Dubrinski called out. “An island!”

Jack snapped the lanyard attach ring on her pack to the snap hook on the pole. “Did you hear that, Penny? We've got a place to go.”

“You mean to land?” she asked hopefully.

“In a manner of speaking.” He slapped the top of her helmet, threw her out of the hatch, then helped Virgil to his feet, hooked him onto the pole, latched Paco's box to his belt, and shoved him out behind her.

There had been three parachutes left. Dubrinski had refused to wear one, reasoning that the pilot would be the last to need it. Grant, still unconscious, was strapped to the deck. Her only chance of survival was with Dubrinski. “Go, go!” he called to Jack. “I'll try a water landing. They need your help!”

“See you on earth, Colonel!” Jack saluted. He dragged the bag of moon dirt to the door, clipped it to his belt, clicked his parachute ring to the pole, and, picking up and holding the bag to his chest as tightly as he could, flung himself into the blue-gray hurricane outside.

ON A CRYSTAL-BLUE SEA

The Linda Joyce

Gladstone Powery looked through the salt-smeared window of his shrimper
Linda Joyce
as the familiar scrub of his home island slid past. He had come in from the open sea after a month of working the banks to the north and had managed a decent haul, enough at least to pay off his men, clean his boat and make repairs, and perhaps break even. His crew, most of them teenagers, sat up on the bow, smoking and eagerly watching the coast and laughing with the excitement of coming home after being at sea for so long.

He had heard a strange thunder only minutes before, a pealing double clap. The sky was clear except for the low fog that always stood off the coast in the morning so Powery had dismissed the sound. Odd things were always happening at sea. Then he heard an excited call and saw one of his boys pointing off the starboard bow. He eased up on the throttle and peered into the morning mist. There were three orange objects bobbing on the light swell out there. Flotsam of some sort, maybe something that he could use, Powery thought. He'd take a look. He hoped it wasn't the marijuana or cocaine bundles that often drifted in to shore, brought from who knew where by the currents. When he found those, Powery either sank them or drove right past. To attempt to turn them in to authorities was to invite suspicion and probably a search of his boat. He carried no contraband but who needed the government delaying him and his catch? The
Linda Joyce
eased through the smooth ocean. “Gladstone, there be somebody wavin',” one of his boys called.

Powery told his boys to go fetch his rifle and then idled in beside the first life raft. Two other rafts were attached to it by bright yellow lines. A man with a scar along his jaw was in the first raft, holding a duffel bag close to him as if it contained precious gems or gold. A woman was in the second raft, a beautiful woman. She had long black hair and she was throwing kisses at the boys on the bow. A big bear of a man struggled in the third raft. He had a white box with him from which seemed to come meowing sounds. “Help them, boys!” Powery called, and cut his engines and raced on deck.

The woman was brought up first. She carried some kind of a helmet in her hand. Powery saw that a symbol was sewn on her coverall over her left breast. He knew that symbol. “NASA?” he asked in wonder. “You be a space woman?”

The woman grinned. “Captain, the High Eagle has landed again!”

The man with the scar climbed on board the shrimper carrying the duffel bag. One of his boys tried to help him with it but it was so heavy, he almost dropped it on the deck. “Careful,” the man said. “It weighs thirty kilos.”

The big man was also clutching the box. The boys pulled it up. The letters
F-L-E-A
were inscribed on its side.

“Captain, where are we?” the man with the scar asked Powery.

Powery wondered if he was dreaming. “Well, mon,” he said, “you be on the planet Eart'.”

“Yes,” the man said patiently, “but where, exactly?”

Powery turned toward shore, gesturing dramatically. “I don't reckon it be no secret. Where else you see such fine clear blue water? Why, mon, this be Grand Cayman.”

Penny and Jack hugged. “We made it,” she said, nuzzling his cheek.

“Jack?”

It was Virgil. He had taken the rifle away from the crewman. He held it on Jack and Penny. “Captain, how deep is the water here?”

Powery frowned at the big man. “We're over the Cayman Trench, mon. Couple miles, mebbe more.”

Jack separated from Penny. She took a step away. Virgil kept the rifle leveled on Jack's chest. “Jack, pick up the bag. Throw it overboard. Don't move, Penny,” he warned.

“Virgil—” Jack began.

“They got to me, Jack, a long time ago. Said they'd kill my family if I didn't do what they said.”

“Who, Virgil?” Penny asked quietly. “Who got to you?”

“The January Group, the same people who paid Perlman to build his fusion plant.”

Penny squinted at him. “That doesn't make sense. If they paid for the plant, why would they want to stop us?”

“I'll tell you why, Penny,” Jack said, his eyes locked on the unwavering barrel of the rifle. “They want the technology, just not now. They want to keep things on an even keel, let oil be the energy choice of the world. They own most of it, one way or the other, so why not? But when the oil runs out, they'll be ready with fusion. Nothing will change. They'll still have a lock on energy. It will be a nice, preplanned transition, maybe in a few decades.”

Virgil blinked, nodded sorrowfully. “They've known everything right from the beginning. I disabled the security system that night they smashed
Prometheus.
They weren't supposed to hurt you but what could I do, Jack? They went away after that. I thought they'd leave me alone. Then when they found out what you were doing with this mission, they called me and said for me to help out. I think they were having an argument between themselves. They told me to call from the pad, get my last instructions. Use the pistol, they said. Stop the launch. But Hoppy surprised me, took the gun away from me. I couldn't hurt him or you, Jack.”

“So what's changed, Virgil?” Jack asked softly.

“I promised them if they would leave my family alone, I'd make sure the dirt didn't get back. After we got into orbit, you kept pushing and I couldn't figure out how to stop you without killing you and Penny. Then Sally promised on the SAREX to call Lori and Dawn every day, to let me know how they were doing. I also got her to tell Lori to be careful, to hire some guards to protect herself and Dawn. She did but nobody tried anything anyway. I guess January figured I was their ace in the hole. They're right. I got to get rid of this stuff or me and my family will be running for the rest of our lives.”

Jack tensed. “You won't kill me, Virgil. Not after seeing me safe all the way to the moon and back.”

“Don't try it,” Virgil warned. “Nobody's more important to me than Lori and Dawn.” He nodded toward the deck. “Jack, pick up the bag. Pitch it overboard. I'm desperate. Do it, now!”

Jack looked toward shore, then out to sea. He sighed, picked the bag up, walked to the boat rail. He stopped. “This is wrong, Virgil. We can figure out a way to look after your girls.”

“I can't take any chances.” Virgil cut his eyes to the sea. “Throw it, Jack. Get rid of it.”

Jack looked toward shore and then down into the gloom of the Cayman Trench. Sighing, he took several practice swings and then, with a mighty heave, threw the bag off the starboard side as hard as he could. It hit the ocean, then went under, a few bubbles all that was left of the treasure that had come back from the moon.

Columbia

Dubrinski looked toward the distant speck of land. After the Americans had left, he had managed to trim
Columbia
enough to maintain level flight. He dared not try to control her further.

The speck grew into a dark hump. It was an island, the white rim of surf defining its coast. Dubrinski could make out a few roads cut into red soil and patches of lighter colors indicating clearings, perhaps small farms.
Columbia
flew on, her airspeed dropping and her altitude decreasing surprisingly slowly. The air must be very humid, Dubrinski thought, to keep supplying the heavy craft with so much lift. He hadn't seen air like that since he had been stationed in Cuba. The ridgeline of the mountains he was soaring past almost looked familiar. He looked again. He could have sworn...

A tone sounded in the cockpit.
Columbia
was stalling. Dubrinski pushed the stick forward and her nose dipped. He still thought he recognized something familiar about those hills.
Can it be... ?
Dubrinski questioned himself.
Have I already crashed and this is some sort of cosmic joke by God? And to think I have just started to believe in Him!

Dubrinski could see a town... no, it was a city! A mountainous cove slipped past and there it was, a huge city stretching into the distance. The big harbor was below, filled with anchored boats of every size and color.

Dubrinski recognized the harbor. He had flown over it dozens of times. Eagerly, he let
Columbia
bring herself in, flashing over the startled heads of sailors on the fishing boats.
Columbia
entered the ground effect thirty feet off the sea and then settled in. The Big Dog engine performed its final function, its weight pulling the spacecraft down by her tail so it hit the water first. Huge domes of water formed on both sides of the tail for an instant and then shattered into a wave of spray as
Columbia
collapsed on her belly. She slithered along, her wake a giant V. Then she stopped.

Dubrinski unbelted himself and Grant and dragged her to the side hatch. The shuttle was settling fast, so he did not hesitate. Holding Grant, he jumped into the water and then crawled up on the wing, pulling her to safety. A gray patrol boat appeared and circled the spacecraft. A big boil of steam suddenly erupted from the port OMS pod and the boat raced away and then came back, as if its driver was too curious to let fear keep him away. The Russian was laughing, cheering, jumping up and down. The boat settled in beside him, the boys on the flying bridge behind the machine guns pushing back their olive drab hats and looking at him as if he were a space alien. There were women on board the patrol boat, and children too. Dubrinski swam to the boat, pulling Grant along. The children, too excited to stay still, jumped in the water beside him, laughing and chattering, and supporting Grant's head.

Dubrinski looked up at the uniformed man standing in shock on the bow. “Cuba,
si?”
he asked.

“Cuba.
Si!
” the man confirmed.

STAR CITY

In the Air Between Moscow and the Yuri Gagarin Training Center

Puckett rode the bench between Livia and Boris in the little
Hind
helicopter. Painted olive drab with the big red star of the dead old Soviet Union on its sides, it had swooped into the courtyard of the
Tsup
in Kaliningrad to carry Puckett to Star City, the gated and fenced complex east of Moscow where the cosmonauts lived and trained. When the
Soyuz-Y
carrying Grant and Dubrinski had stopped transmitting, it had been assumed that the mission had failed, perhaps proved deadly to the crew aboard. It was time to get out of Dodge, or in this case the
Tsup,
and Bonner's new best Russian friends graciously saw to it. They thought Star City was the best place for him to go since they had recently purchased it, lock, stock, and neutral buoyancy simulator.