Moonfall

4.

Along the Chattahoochee River, west of Rico, Georgia. 2:11 P.M.

Steve Gallagher had pulled over to the side of the road to watch the launch. He liked space hardware as much as he liked military hardware. There was something in the cold, gray, utilitarian vehicles moving between Earth and Moon that stirred the depths of his soul in a way that no woman, no cause, ever could. And among the LTA's assorted buses, trucks, and ferries, nothing made his blood race like the Single Stage To Orbit space plane, the rocket-powered vessel with its sleek wings folding back while it raced into a moonrise. It genuinely hurt him to contemplate destroying one of them. He hoped that the free men and women of the future would appreciate the sacrifice he was making in their name.

The radio was saying launch was imminent. Tad opened his door, got out, and turned toward the east. "Should come right up over those trees," he said.

The trees were about fifty yards away, lining one side of a schoolyard. There were kids running around a circular track, others simply chasing one another, skipping rope, playing games. The colonel could see movement in the classrooms. "You'd think they'd bring everybody out here to watch," he said. "The government claims it's saving the world, and they don't even care enough to inspire the kids to watch." He'd always understood that the people who worked for the government weren't individually vindictive. It was the institution that corrupted them, the institution that was mindless and overbearing. He'd seen enough TV interviews to know that the feds really believed the propaganda they put out, really believed they were on the side of the angels. But sometimes that faith in human nature was shaken, and he wondered whether they were not individually malignant and knew exactly what they were doing. How else did you explain the fact that they claimed the spacecraft of Operation Rainbow were going to save the world and then failed to rally the kids to watch the effort?

Maybe everyone knew it was a facade. They knew, but they went along because they saw no other course. It was like Orwell, except that Big Brother had turned out to be a lot more subtle, a lot more insidious, than anyone had expected.

"There it is," said Tad.

The space plane sailed out over the trees, riding twin contrails, ascending sharply toward a bank of glistening white clouds. Then they heard the sound of its passing, a distant rumble, like the sea breaking on a remote shore, its volume descending and then rising again. A few of the kids turned to watch.

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."