Saucer: Savage Planet

13

“Do we really need Adam Solo or a saucer computer?” Johnny Murkowsky asked Harrison Douglas. They were sitting in two First Class seats just behind the cockpit of the Boeing 747 taking them to Australia. Their private army was still sprawled out in the cheap seats aft snoring loudly. “We’re only three or four years from having drugs that alter the human genome; after all, that is all that Solo could tell us. We’re almost there without him.”

“Are you sure?” Dr. Harrison Douglas grumped. “Heck, how do your scientists even know they are on the right track?”

“They are! They are. We’re getting results.”

“On mice! Get real, Johnny. With the secrets from a saucer we could jump a couple of generations of research, leapfrog forty, fifty, maybe even a hundred years into the future. Skip the errors and blind alleys that lead nowhere. What would that be worth?”

When Murkowsky didn’t immediately answer, Douglas pressed. “In billions?”

Space Command saw the starship first. It was merely a blip on a radar used for keeping track of satellites. At first there was some confusion, since the blip didn’t coincide with any known satellite position, and when it quickly became apparent that the blip wasn’t in orbit, alarms sounded. Could it be an ICBM inbound from North Korea or Iran? No.

The duty officer called his superior, a general, who called his boss. The civilian spy in Space Command put in a satellite call to Johnny Murkowsky and got him at 36,000 feet over the coast of Australia.

“A starship, they think. Inbound. Maybe two days out at its present distance and velocity.”

Johnny Murkowsky’s eyebrows went up toward his receding hairline. Holy jumping cats!

“Keep me advised,” he told his spy.

“I am thinking of retiring next month,” the man said. “I’ll need a job that pays a couple hundred thousand a year. Maybe work half a day, three days a week.”

“You son of a … Keep me advised. You’re storing up acorns for the winter. You got a lot in the hollow tree already. Keep putting them in there and be happy with that.”

Murkowsky rang off, turned to Douglas and gave him the news.

Ten minutes after Johnny Murkowsky heard the news, the White House received a call from the four-star air force general in charge of Space Command. The call was patched through to P. J. O’Reilly, who was in a way relieved. That saucer hovering over the lawn had gotten billions of people all over the world in a real uproar, and now the suspense was about over.

They were coming!

He hurried off to tell the president.

The president took it well, O’Reilly thought. Then he changed his mind. The color drained from the president’s face. He began perspiring profusely. This wasn’t merely the Roswell saucer parked over the White House lawn, a sculpture with no visible means of support that couldn’t hurt anybody. This was it!

Aliens were coming to earth!

O’Reilly managed to suppress a smile at the president’s discomfiture.

“Should we do a press release?” O’Reilly asked, digging the needle in a little deeper.

The president made a gesture that could mean anything, O’Reilly knew. When His Royal Arrogance didn’t want to deal with something, he often waved vaguely at O’Reilly, a signal for him to handle it.

P. J. O’Reilly decided to take the gesture as an assignment. He was up to the tasks he saw before him. The Secret Service and Homeland Security were in crisis mode over the crowds. If they were told the aliens were two days away, perhaps the crowds would go home to eat, sleep and do an alcohol refill. Maybe we can get a breathing space, O’Reilly thought. He turned and trotted out of the room.

The president melted down into a panic attack. His gut tried to tie itself into a knot. He grabbed the Rolaids bottle and dumped some into his hand, how many he didn’t know, stuffed them into his mouth. Chewed them up and swallowed them, then chased them with some good bourbon whiskey from the bottom drawer of his desk.

This was it! He was going to have to meet the aliens! Stand straight and tall as the first human sacrifice on the altar of intergalactic peace. Maybe the aliens were green froglike creatures that speared their victims with long, sticky tongues and gobbled them down; or small blobs of odiferous bacterial slime that oozed along consuming everything in their path; or giant dung-eating beetles with mandibles that had won the evolutionary battles on some postatomic-war world …

The president felt his heart galloping. The leader of the free world had another drink and tried to light a cigarette; he had to forgo the cancer stick because his hand was shaking too badly to work the lighter. He wiped his forehead with a coat sleeve and sent for Petty Officer Hennessey.

Jim Bob Spicer, the famous evangelist, was running down. He didn’t have any more juice left in him, he thought, until an aide handed him the White House press release. The aliens were two days out. In two days — Oh, my God!

Two days!

Galvanized, Jim Bob straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his mop of gray hair and stepped in front of the cameras to preach.

“And behold, I looked and saw a Lamb standing before the elders, and on the Lamb were the wounds that had caused his death … As I watched, the Lamb broke the first seal and began to unroll the scroll … When the fourth seal was broken I beheld a pale horse, and its rider’s name was Death…”

In Lafayette Park a television network had set up a table with the White House behind it as a backdrop. Here the pretty people were interviewing scientists, politicians and dingbats, in whatever order they could be corralled. Life was the topic, not Death.

“With the medical knowledge we will gain from the aliens,” Senator Blohardt promised, “the people of earth will enter a new era, one remarkably free of the diseases that have plagued our species since the dawn of time. The aliens are crossing the vast reaches of interstellar space using technology we can only dream about. They couldn’t do it without good health. The secrets of long, healthy life will be their greatest gift to us.”

Several other politicians echoed that sentiment. They were talking to the White House, advising the president. They would make sure any necessary legislation sailed through the Congress. They wanted good health for their constituents, and they wanted the political credit for getting it for them.

After they got rid of the politicians for a while, the talking heads interviewed a scientist, a thoughtful one. “When you cross a scientific tipping point,” the scientist said, “a great many new technologies flow from that, almost automatically. Think about how the understanding and harnessing of electrical energy has revolutionized the lives of everyone on this planet. Even people living in mud huts in Africa have cell phones. The arrival of aliens will be an even bigger event.”

The arrival. The Arrival. Bigger.

Bigger than the World Series. Bigger than the Super Bowl. Bigger than the inauguration of a new president. Bigger than the end of a world war. Bigger than everything.

“It’ll be as big as the Second Coming,” one congresswoman from California said, quite seriously, to the tens of millions of people in the television audience, even though she was known for her oft-stated opinion that all religion was drivel. No one remarked on that incongruity.

The president, in his private family room in the White House, nibbled Rolaids while he waited for Petty Officer Hennessey, who was apparently stuck in the crowd outside. He flipped the channel back to Jim Bob Spicer. The famous evangelist was still going over the gory details of the Arrival with his audience. According to Spicer, it was going to be a real mess.

The president listened a bit longer, then turned off Spicer and poured himself another rather large tot of bourbon. He felt self-pity flooding through him again. Why me? Of all the billions of people on this round rock, why me?

Adam Solo dropped through the saucer’s hatch and walked over to Egg Cantrell. The sun was well up, the day was streaming on, and Rip and Charley were trying to get their clothes on before they got out of their sleeping bag.

The crack of a rifle split the morning, flat and loud. Solo spun and hit the ground.

Egg turned him over. Solo had been shot through the body. He was coughing blood. The entry hole was in his chest — apparently the bullet had missed his heart — and he had a large exit hole in his back. The back of his shirt was being quickly soaked with blood.

“Rip!”

The young man came running, just as a young Australian man, perhaps twenty years of age, came charging up with a rifle. An old Winchester Model 94, Rip noticed.

“I got him! Damn, I got him. A million dollars dead or alive, the Internet said. And I got him!”

The Aussie had his eyes on Solo, had his rifle pointed at him, ready to shoot him again. Rip let go with a roundhouse right to the chin that lifted the man off his feet and dropped him in the dirt, out cold. Rip grabbed the rifle and began pounding it against the nearest landing-gear leg. The stock splintered; Rip kept swinging, again and again; the barrel and magazine tube separated. He threw the rifle away and kicked the supine Aussie.

“Solo’s hit bad and bleeding,” Egg said. “Let’s get him in the saucer and get the hell out of here.”

Stuff a rag in the bullet hole to slow the bleeding.

Rip and Charley helped Egg lift Solo up through the saucer’s hatch.

An infuriated Rip kicked the unconscious Aussie again, then dragged him away from the saucer so he wouldn’t be crushed by the antigravity field. He left him lying about twenty-five feet away on his stomach. Just for good measure, he kicked him in the ribs as hard as he could, one more time.

Rip climbed aboard and closed the hatch. Charley Pine was in the pilot’s seat wearing the headband. Solo was lying on the seats at the rear of the compartment with Egg sitting beside him. Nothing could be done to help Solo while the saucer was under the G forces of acceleration, so Rip grabbed the back of the pilot’s seat with a death grip.

Charley lifted the saucer off the ground, snapped up the gear and lit the rocket engines. The roar from the rocket engines woke up everyone within twenty miles, even the drunks. The young man who had shot Solo had his eardrums shattered.

Inside the saucer Charley Pine asked the computers for full power. Gs pushed against them like the hand of God. As the saucer’s airspeed passed Mach 1, she pulled the nose of the ship up into the morning, away from the earth, toward the invisible stars.

When the saucer was in orbit and weightless, Rip, Charley and Uncle Egg gathered around Solo, trying to bandage his wound and assess how badly he was injured. Solo was conscious.

He was bleeding a bit from his mouth. “Lung, I think,” he whispered.

“You’ve been injured a lot worse than this plenty of times before,” Rip said, more to Charley and Egg than to Adam Solo. “Hang tough and fix yourself up.”

Solo closed his eyes. His face was lined, spare, his eyes deep within their sockets. The scar the polar bear had given him just a few days ago was a solid white line that led into his hair.

“This man needs a doctor,” Egg said flatly. “He’s bleeding internally.”

“He can fix himself,” Rip said confidently.

“Just how are we going to get him to a doctor?” Charley asked.

Solo opened his eyes again.

“I know a place,” he whispered, “in the Grand Canyon.” He coughed blood.

It’s been seven, perhaps eight hundred years since I was there, but there was usually water and it’s almost impregnable. No one can approach by land. Take the saucer to Lake Powell and refuel it. We will go to the place I know. Then you must send the saucer into orbit. Tell the computer to calculate an orbit that will allow the saucer to return to us with the minimum amount of maneuvering. That will probably be a polar orbit.

Rip glanced at Charley and Uncle Egg.

“Let’s do it,” Rip said. He motioned with his head, and Charley Pine climbed into the pilot’s seat.

The president was relieved to see Petty Officer Hennessey, who looked natty in his blue uniform with the bell-bottom trousers and a splash of color on his left sleeve. He even had a couple of ribbons on his jumper, decorations, but the president didn’t know one from another. Hennessey had his round, white sailor hat in his hands since he was indoors. Without his hat he couldn’t salute; it was a navy thing. Hennessey stood at attention, though. The president pointed to a chair and Hennessey dropped into it. He put his hat on his lap.

“These aliens,” the president began. “Space Command says a starship is approaching earth. Be here in two days.”

Hennessey’s expression didn’t change.

“What do you think?” the president prompted.

“I think it’s gonna be fun, Mr. President. Don’t sweat the program. After all, if these guys are smart enough to get here from there, they gotta have something on the ball. They’ll really appreciate a drink and a decent meal. Probably would like to get laid too, but I don’t think you oughta get into that.”

The president nodded. Damn good advice, he thought.

“Long voyages are pretty much all alike,” the sailor observed.

Why, yes, the president thought. I can see that.

“They’ll be just as curious about us as we are about them,” Hennessey continued. “If we use a little common sense everything will come out okay. These guys didn’t come all this way just to see how mad they can make us. When you go visit the cannibals you try not to end up in the stew pot.”

They talked a while longer. When Hennessey left, the president felt better. Yeah. A little common sense. Of course, the problem with common sense is that it is so uncommon. Hennessey was a rare repository of the stuff, the president thought.

The drug moguls’ Boeing was descending into Sydney when the call came from Johnny Murkowsky’s Space Command spy. The saucer had left Australia and was in orbit.

Douglas and Johnny Murk cussed vividly.

“We can’t just go chasing them around the world until the aliens arrive and they hop in some starship and go tootling off,” Douglas protested.

“Our strategy is wrong,” Johnny Murk mused. “Well, let’s land and refuel and head back for the States.”

“Man, I could use a bath, a decent meal and a good night’s sleep,” Douglas said, yawning.

“Enough already,” Johnny Murk shot back. “I would also desperately like to get laid. All right? Are we going to tough this out and get filthy rich, or are we going to watch television in some Aussie hotel as the aliens ascend into heaven to sit on the right hand of God?”

Douglas yawned again. “We haven’t been doing so well so far. Frankly, we’d have been better off staying at home. If you have a better strategy, I’d like to hear it.”

The plane’s wheels squeaked on the concrete. As it taxied Douglas and Murkowsky analyzed the situation yet again and plotted their course.

When the president was told about the saucer coming out of orbit — headed once again for the United States — his heart fluttered. The western United States, the aide said.

Well, at least it isn’t coming here, the president thought.

He recalled his conversation last night with his wife. She and a few friends were vacationing in the south of France. She told him in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t coming home until this whole mess was over and things returned to normal. She had bought several cases of wine that she was shipping home. She was thinking about getting a face-lift. The French plastic surgeons were excellent, she had heard, and very private; the press wouldn’t get wind of it. By the way, she needed some more money.

Normal? What was that?

He marched down to the situation room with Petty Officer Hennessey in tow to find out if the crowds on the streets were going to storm the White House. P. J. O’Reilly was very much in charge. He informed the president that after his announcement that the starship was days away, the crowd was dissipating, a few actually going to work, some going home, the rest filling up restaurants and bars eating or getting drunk, or both. Everyone looked at the monitors that showed video of the crowds on the streets.

“Fifteen senators and twelve congressmen and — women want to meet with you. They want a statement they can pass along to the press and their constituents.”

“Have someone write out something. But I want to read it first.”

“Yes, sir. A delegation of preachers also wants a few minutes of your time, Mr. President. They want some reassurance they can take back to their congregations.”

“Tell them to read their Bibles. Who am I to compete with Jesus and the prophets?”

“An excellent point,” O’Reilly said with just a detectable hint of sarcasm. “And a delegation of foreign ambassadors, about a dozen at last count, wants to meet with you, today if possible. As bad as things are here, they are beginning to spin out of control in foreign capitals.”

The president scowled. “If we can keep the people in the Washington area and out in Peoria calmed down, that will be a feat. What on earth could I possibly say that will oil the waters in Paris and Rome and Beijing?”

Petty Officer Hennessey cleared his throat. The president looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Perhaps, sir, you could say that you are actually looking forward to the aliens’ visit. That you plan to bring your granddaughter along. I’ll bet she’d get a real charge out of meeting the alien captain.”

The president’s first reaction was that his daughter would never, ever let her daughter within ten miles of an alien. Then again, maybe she could be finagled. His daughter was a nervous Nellie, but his granddaughter, Amanda, who just had her tenth birthday, certainly wasn’t. Heck, she had even ridden with him in a saucer flown by Charley Pine six weeks or so ago, when Charley and Rip were preparing to zip off to the moon to fight it out with the Frenchies and save the world. He would ask Amanda and let her handle her mother. Yeah.

“That,” he told Petty Officer Hennessey, “is a darn good idea. When we get back upstairs, I’ll call Amanda to see if she is up for the adventure.” He skewered O’Reilly with his eyes. “Wish we had some other folks around here doing some serious thinking.”

That comment merely bounced off O’Reilly. He had spent too many years with the president to let the old fart’s jibes bother him. “About the saucer just now reentering the atmosphere after launching from Australia … perhaps an announcement by the press secretary? He’s feeling a bit left out of the excitement.”

“No announcement. Tell that moron if he opens his mouth I’ll throttle him. Tell Space Command to keep the lid on too.”

People nowadays get too much information, the president told himself, and they don’t know what to do with it. He often found himself in precisely that situation.

Just for the heck of it, he flipped a television to CNBC, the business channel. Another rough day on Wall Street. Would the impending alien visit be good or bad for business? Apparently the day traders, speculators, mutual fund managers and mom-and-pop investors couldn’t decide, so the market was going up and down like a pump handle. The richest old crock in America, multibillionaire publicity hound Warren Buffett, gave a two-minute interview. He was buying on the dips, he said. “The world is not coming to an end. People will still need food, clothes, housing and wheels. Plus cell phones, liquor, diapers, pills and all the rest of it.”

The president glanced at Hennessey, who met his gaze and nodded. Yep, more common sense.

Reassured, the president began to feel better. His stomach stopped aching, at least for a moment.

“Mr. President,” P. J. O’Reilly said, in his take-charge persona, “I want to have the photographer take some shots of you at your desk in the Oval Office looking pensive and serious. Somber, but in charge. Thinking deep, complex thoughts, conscious of your moral responsibility for the fate of the world, which you are holding in your two mortal hands. Maybe we could get a couple of shots of you actually looking at your hands. I’ll release the photos immediately. The world will see that you are on the job, managing the alien crisis, like JFK during the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

The president’s eyes rolled back into his head. He fought to refocus on his chief of staff, who looked particularly loathsome today. Perhaps he could offer him to the aliens as a protein snack.

“Okay. Hennessey, come with me. O’Reilly, have someone bring us dinner.”