Moonfall (31 page)

Graboski was something of a crank. He didn’t much like civilians, junior officers, reporters, or White House employees. He was convinced the nation was in a steep moral decline and that only military discipline, practiced across the land by all
citizens and enforced by a tough national police force, would be sufficient to turn things around. He tolerated Henry Kolladner because he had to, but he was not reluctant to offer advice, usually in the guise of “cracking down” on some practice or other. For all that, Graboski was useful. He knew the equipment, its capabilities and its limitations. He never lost his head. He was brutally honest. And he had no private agenda that transcended his loyalty to the United States.

When Henry entered the area, Graboski was clustered with a couple of his lieutenants. He saw the president and came over. “Nothing’s changed, sir,” he said.

The clocks were counting down the last hour.

“Is the rescue effort on schedule?”

“Yes, Mr. President. The microbus made its SSTO rendezvous on the dime. They’re in the descent stage now, approaching Moonbase.” He went on to describe efforts on the West Coast to stock food and equipment in elevated areas.

Henry didn’t care much about details. He was thinking instead about the last nine months of his term, what he hoped to accomplish, a few old scores he wanted to settle, the kind of mark he hoped to leave on history. And he was trying to calculate how tonight’s events would influence all that. Whether, for example, the death of a heroic vice president would reflect well on him. Or put him into sharp contrast. After all, it might be said, the opening of Moonbase was a monumental event. The president should have been there. And how would
he
have behaved?

How indeed?

TRANSGLOBAL NEWS REPORT
. 10:05
P.M.

On board
Diligent
, USCGC 344, in the East River. 10:06
P.M.

Commander Peter Bolling listened to the rumble of his twin V16 diesel engines and watched the piers and wharves slip by. They were uniformly empty.

“It’s eerie,” said Dan Packard, his XO. The waterfront was lit up, like always. Here and there a solitary figure patrolled the docks, flashlight and clipboard in hand. Beyond, the tow
ers of Manhattan rose under clear skies, unchanged and unchangable, mocking
Diligent
and her orders. It
was
eerie. Even Bolling, who’d been working the harbor for twelve years, had never seen it so completely deserted.

The
Diligent
was an ancient 210-foot cutter, known affectionately to her crew as
Dilly
. She was based at Governor’s Island, had spent the earlier part of the evening directing outbound traffic into Long Island Sound. Now, in company with her sister vessel
Reliant
, she was moving south on the East River, one final patrol before clearing out through the Narrows into the Atlantic, where they would wait until higher authority was sure events in the sky would not create hazardous conditions in the cramped New York and New Jersey waterways.

Ships had been putting out to sea now for three days, taking no chances on getting caught near shore if high water developed.

Bolling was a graduate of Stanford, where he’d majored in history. He’d grown up around boats and joined the Coast Guard more or less as a lark, expecting to enjoy himself for a few years before settling down with a
real
job. He’d earned a commission at the academy and married a marine pilot. He’d liked the life, enjoyed the freedom, and now wondered that he could ever have thought seriously of working in an office.

His marriage hadn’t lasted: too many irregular hours on both sides, no kids to bind the partners, and maybe too much money. They’d stayed in touch and managed to remain friends. Tonight, he knew she’d squired an automobile carrier out past the eastern markers and elected to stay with the ship. It was running coastwise, with stops in Philadelphia, Charleston, and Brunswick. But it would lie well offshore with the rest of the merchant fleet until the situation sorted itself out.

“I sent my family out of town,” said Packard. “Soon as I heard.”

Bolling knew several people who’d tried to do that but had
been unable to book transport. And more than a few who’d started out by car, given up, and come home. “I don’t think there’s anything to it, Dan,” he said. “But it never hurts to be safe.”

He was glad his ex was out, too.

Funny how night skies give credence to fear. When he’d reported for duty this afternoon and they’d begun to lay out the operational plan, it had all seemed ridiculous. The sun had been bright, the weather warm, and everyone was laughing over a long jaunt out into the Atlantic. But it felt deadly serious now as
Dilly
and
Reliant
moved past empty piers.

One vessel, the
Kira Maru
, was inbound.
Diligent
overtook her as she approached Throgs Neck Bridge. The Merchant Marine Academy was off to port, just beyond Kings Point Road. Automobile traffic seemed normal. Maybe even a little heavy for a Saturday night.

Dilly
was loaded with medical supplies just in case. And it carried a couple of tanks of fresh water. Someone in the chain of command was taking the comet seriously.

The skies were about as clear as they get over New York. Comet and Moon had risen almost simultaneously during the late afternoon. They were overhead now, entwined in the bridge, almost visibly drawing together while he watched. He drew his jacket around his shoulders. On the river at this time of year, nights were always cold.

His orders were crumpled in his jacket pocket.

PRESERVE THE BOAT IN THE EVENT OF HEAVY WEATHER
.

That was strange phrasing, he thought, considering what they feared.

RENDER ASSISTANCE AS NECESSARY.
MAINTAIN RADIO CONTACT AT ALL TIMES
AFTER 2200 HOURS
.

REPORT PROMPTLY ANY UNUSUAL
HYDROLOGIC PHENOMENA
.

Now the dark sky gave way to the Whitestone Bridge.

“Look,” said Packard, pointing ahead toward a small flotilla of yachts, a few points to starboard. There were maybe twenty boats in all. Bolling could hear music drifting across the water. And laughter. But they were keeping together, and they waved as the cutter passed. Some of the coasties waved back.

The lead boat was a twin-engine white and maroon Mainship motor yacht with
Yankee Liz
painted on her bow. “Ramsey,” said Bolling to his radio operator, “Bring
Liz
up.”

Ramsey was not much more than a kid, just out of school. He spoke into his microphone, listened, nodded, looked at his skipper. Bolling gestured for the mike.

“
Yankee Liz
,” he said, “this is the Coast Guard. Where are you bound?”

He could see the boat’s captain on its bridge, hunched over the radio. He was a short, dumpy man, but it was too dark to make out other details. “Getting clear of the Sound tonight,” he said.

“Where are you headed?” asked Bolling again.

“Peekskill.”

“All of you? Are you traveling together?”

“Some are going to Croton-on-Hudson.”

“Nobody going to sea?”

“No, sir.”

“Very good, Captain. Thank you.”

Off to port, LaGuardia Airport was quiet. Bolling had seen it like that before, idled by a heavy storm or by a strike. The tower looked active, and he could see vehicles moving on the approach roads. But there were no lights in the sky.

They passed Rikers Island and Hell Gate.

Reliant
was out of sight now.

The city crouched on the river, insensate, timeless, invulnerable. Headlights moved along both banks, climbed the approaches, and crossed on the Triborough.

They continued down to the foot of Manhattan, making perhaps better time than Bolling would ordinarily have allowed, but he felt crowded by the narrow channels of the East River. Governors Island and the Statue of Liberty came into view. The harbor looked serene, traffic flowing in an endless stream around its perimeter. A ferry nosed past them.

He checked his schedule. The ferries were going to discontinue service at 2230 hours. “I’m surprised they didn’t decide to close the bridges until it’s over,” he said.

“I think that’d be a nightmare, Captain,” said Packard. “I don’t think you do that unless you really believe something’s coming.”

They’d been talking about it all day. Neither would admit to anything except skepticism. Another typical government hassle. But Bolling was nevertheless happy to get through the Narrows and out into the Atlantic.

8.

Micro. 10:07
P.M.

The landing lights at Alphonsus were bright and crisp, cheerful against the bleak landscape as Tony and Saber rode the beacon down. The Sun was below the eastern highlands, probably just a few hours from dawn. The crater looked different, unfamiliar, in the strange light.

As soon as the interview with Keith Morley had ended, Saber had gone down to the cargo deck to get into her p-suit. Tony was glad it was over. The prospect of speaking to millions of people had scared him more than the comet. Below, lights switched on and the roof doors began to roll back.

“Micro.” Bigfoot’s voice on the radio. “Tony, how are we doing?”

“On target.”

“Okay. Everybody here’s packed and ready to go.”

“Roger that.”

“But we’ve lost one.”

“Say again, Moonbase.”

“We lost one. Chandler’s not coming.”

“Roger.” Pause. “Why not?”

“Bad heart.” Bigfoot changed his tone. “As soon as you’re on the pad, we’ll proceed as planned. Is Saber in her gear?”

“She will be in a couple of minutes.”

“Okay. I’m going to have to close down now. I need time to get through the airlock.”

“Roger.”

“When I get into the bay, I’ll still be able to talk to you, but I won’t be able to see any of the instruments. So you’ll be on your own.”

“I know.” Manual descent into the terminal wasn’t routine, but Tony didn’t anticipate any problems.

“We’ll have a beacon to ride out.”

“Good. See you in a few minutes, Bigfoot.” He broke the connection and buzzed Saber. “On final approach.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”

Moonbase Spaceport. 10:08
P.M.

The Spaceport accommodated nine service bays. Two of these were designed for cargo carriers; four housed the lobbers and hoppers that were used for short- or long-range lunar transportation. The remaining three served the buses that connected Moonbase with L1. Each, of course, could be depressurized individually and opened to the void through a set of overhead doors.

While he talked to the Micro, Bigfoot had been sitting in
a p-suit. Now he pulled on his helmet, checked his systems, picked up a remote and shoved it into a pocket, and entered the Bay Four airlock. He’d already depressurized the bay, opened its overhead doors, and turned on its touchdown lights.

When the board went green he opened the hatch and stepped into the work area. He’d laid out the umbilicals earlier, lox and powdered aluminum for fuel, others carrying an electrical recharge, water, and air. He’d also put out several transparent plastic bags filled with sealant, patches, wrenches, peanut butter (who knew how long this trip might take?), and spare parts other than those the bus normally carried. He studied them briefly, trying to think if he’d forgotten anything. Nothing came to mind.

He activated his radio. “Tony, I’m in the bay.”

“Roger that. We’re at twelve hundred meters.”

He looked up. The tongue of flame from the main engine was moving against the stars. “I see you.”

“How’s the comet doing?”

“It’s doing fine. It’s inside a million kilometers,” said Bigfoot.

Right on time.

Routine procedure called for Moonbase personnel to track incoming vehicles and maintain a constant flow of data exchange until they were safely down. But had Bigfoot stayed inside to do that, it would have taken too long to get through the airlock. Still, there was no real risk here. The bay was built to accommodate the much larger 2665 bus, so there was plenty of room, probably an average of ten meters’ clearance on a side. Bigfoot wouldn’t have worried at all except that he had a pilot in a hurry.