Skyfall

38

GET 25:57

“Gregor, I need your help in here,” Patrick called out.

“One moment, I will be there.”

Nadya was on the far couch, the one that had been Colonel Kuznekov's, possibly asleep; with her eyes bandaged it was not easy to tell. Gregor was helping Coretta to put Ely's body into a sleeping bag. She went about it so calmly that he was ashamed of his emotions as he felt the cold skin, the limp arms. He had never touched a corpse before and it was doubly horrible here in space. It was too soon for rigor mortis to have set in, he had always thought it happened almost instantly after death, but the corpse was still difficult to handle, to force into the tight confines of the bag.

“This is not working,” Coretta said. “Pull it off. Hold him while I fix the bag.” She rolled it back on itself then, like putting on a stocking, rolled it neatly down over the body.

“What should we do with…?” Gregor asked.

“Nothing, I imagine,” Coretta said slowly. “No burial, no service either I guess. Let's just strap him to the bunk.”

“Here on this one,” Nadya said, sitting up. “Someone guide me, if you please.”

Gregor was glad to leave the compartment, to answer Patrick's call.

“Turn on the teleprinter, will you,” Patrick said, his blind eyes looking into darkness, pointing where he knew the machine was. “Just throw the switch to on, then the other switch to transmit. Type 'ready to receive' and turn the switch back to receive.”

“Easy enough.” Gregor did this and as soon as he had switched to receive, the machine began to chatter rapidly. The first thing it typed was HOOPSNAKE OPERATION DESCRIPTION.

“What is this?” Gregor asked.

“Get the others in here, I want to tell them top.”

In a calm, unemotional voice, Patrick explained what Dill-water had told him, what the program was that was coming out line by line from the teleprinter. Gregor accepted the news stoically, with Slavic resignation. Coretta was not quite sure what it meant.

“Engine self-destruction program?”

Patrick nodded. “It would be simpler to say make-the-engine-a-bomb program. They want us to rig the thing to blow ourselves up to prevent greater loss of lives on Earth.”

“That's nice,” Coretta said, not hiding the bitterness in her voice. “They get us up here, strand us up here, shoot a bomb at us, then expect us, out of gratitude, to commit atomic suicide. Why don't they just shoot off another bomb? Maybe the American aim will be better than the Soviet.”

“They must have their reasons,” Patrick said. “Probably because there could be no guarantee of the complete destruction needed to eliminate us and our atomic fuel. What do you think, Gregor?”

“I? Nothing. If we die a few minutes earlier or later we are just as dead. You are the Commander, the decision is yours.”

“No, we all have to vote on this Nadya?”

“Follow the instructions, blow us all up, get it over with.”

There was more pain than resignation in her voice; Patrick knew how she felt, shared the same emotions. The ache in his eyes was only dulled by the drugs, the pain of their failure was even stronger. “Your vote, Coretta?” he asked.

“Me? Does it matter what I think? You are going to be real Gung Ho and logical about it in the end and put the safety of the world ahead of a few minutes more of our happy lives. So go on and do it and don't bother me.” Her voice was rising, she was beginning to shout, and she realized suddenly that she was losing control. The trained physician, cool and abstract, getting hysterical while the two blind pilots remained calm and stoical in the face of this final adversity. She took a shuddering breath and tried to imitate their control. “Sorry to blow my cool.”

“You have every reason,” Patrick told her.

“I guess I do, but so do the rest of you, with even more reason, and I don't see you enjoying any self-pity. I'll try to be logical. If we are going to die in any case in minutes, hours, whatever the latest estimate is….”

“The solar output hasn't varied, the beginning of the storm is not the size anticipated.”

“With our luck it's going to get bigger, sooner, and if it doesn't we still have only seventeen hours left, so the hell with it. Rig the bomb and have someone press the button.”

“Do you really believe what you're saying?” Patrick asked.

“Hell yes, but why the cross-examination?”

“Simply because neither Nadya nor I can help. The physical preparations will have to be done by you and Gregor.”

“That is logical,” Gregor said.

Coretta was shocked at first, then she smiled wryly. “Well, well, it-comes to that. The good Dr. Coretta Samuel, saver of lives, ends her days building an atomic bomb. Why not, Commander. They'll be singing folk songs about me in the ghettos before you know it.”

“Then we are in agreement,” said Gregor. “It will be done.”

“Agreed,” Nadija said.

“I'll tell them.” Patrick switched on the radio. “Prometheus calling Mission Control. Can you patch us through to Mr. Dillwater…”

“NO!” Flax's answering shout was so loud that the wall speaker rattled with it. “I am connecting you to the President of the United States, to Dillwater as well, and the entire cabinet who are meeting at this time.”

“Flax, what is it?” Patrick asked, but the crackle of static was his only answer.

“He sounded angry,” Coretta said. “What can it possibly be?”

“Mr. President, Mission Control insists on speaking to you as well as the entire cabinet.”

“Why? What is it?”

“I'm not sure, sir. He sounded very disturbed. He informed me that the Prometheus crew had reached a decision on HOOPSNAKE but he wanted to speak first, Mr. Flax that is.”

“What the devil is the matter with the man? He can't order me around like that…” Bandin was getting angry and Dillwater made some attempt to soothe him.

“I don't think it's like that, sir. The man is tired, we all are, I am sure it's a matter of some import….”

“Put him on, get it over with.” Dillwater nodded and spoke into his phone. Flax's voice blasted from the loudspeaker.

“This is Mission Control. I have Prometheus on this open circuit, am I through to the White House?” Dillwater spoke quickly, before the angry President could.

“Yes, you are, we are all listening.”

“Good. You as well, Prometheus?”

“Roger.”

“Then I want you all to listen to General Bannerman's answer to a question I have for him. General, is it true that you informed us some hours ago that the resupply shuttle for USAF Research Satellite would not be ready to fly for some time?”

“That is correct.”

“No, it is not correct. It is a lie. The truth is that the shuttle is now on the pad at the Cape, on the line and ready to take off as soon as it is fueled. Isn't that true?”

“It is not.” Bannerman's face was expressionless, conveyed nothing. In contrast to Dillwater and the other cabinet members who were stunned, shocked by the question. Flax continued to speak.

“You are lying. The two pilots, Cooke and Decosta, are in the ready room there right now, at the Cape. Why don't I pick up the phone and call them? “

There was dead silence in the Cabinet room. General Bannerman did not move or answer. They sat like that for seconds until Patrick's voice, from Prometheus, sounded through the room.

“We heard that question here — but we have not heard the answer.”

“I'm sorry,” Bannerman finally said. “The USAF shuttle is classified, top secret, and we cannot discuss it….”

“But we must!” Dillwater was shaking with anger as he jumped to his feet. “I cannot believe this. If the shuttle is on the line it could have been launched already, could have taken the crew from Prometheus….”

“Break the connection,” Bandin said.

“But, Mr. President, we must know, they must know in Prometheus, it is an unforgivable crime if it is true….”

“Break off, that's an order,” Bandin snarled.

Dillwater hesitated, staring at the President, his eyes widening with sudden knowledge. “I'll call you back in a few minutes,” he said to the phone.

“You can't…” Flax's voice was cut off and Dillwater spoke to the President.

“You knew, didn't you? All the time, those crewmen have been fighting to save that ship, have died, been blinded, all that time you knew that they could have been taken off by the shuttle. And you agreed to have them commit suicide with HOOPSNAKE. You did this knowing that the shuttle…”

“Shut up and sit down, Dillwater. You don't talk to the President of the United States that way.”

“Oh yes I can when the President has done as repugnant an act as you have….”

“Dillwater, you're out of your depth and getting into deep trouble,” Bannerman said. He stood and faced Dillwater, eye to eye. “We'll hear no more of this.”

“We will hear all about it, General,” Dillwater said firmly, not wavering an inch. “This is, I hope, still a free country. You cannot have me shot for speaking. You tell me the entire truth now or I am walking out of here and straight to the press and air every bit of your squalid lying to the world.”

“You are talking treason, Dillwater.” Bannerman's hand slapped at his belt where his pearl-handled automatic pistol usually hung.

“Am I? Then you shall have to arrest me and kill me because I shall go on speaking it until this filthy mess is exposed. And you will have to shoot everyone in Mission Control as well since they heard everything we heard.”

“He's right, Mr. President,” Dr. Schlocter said calmly. “The cat appears to be out of the bag and it will not get back inside. We must take some concerted action here, very quickly, before rumors spread from Mission Control. If the shuttle is on the line it should be manned and a rescue mission should be launched. It may still not be too late.”

“Negative!” Bannerman snapped, whirling on his new adversary. “The shuttle is loaded, its payload is classified and cannot be touched. If word of it leaks out there will be a lot bigger trouble than Prometheus to answer for.”

“What is the payload?” Schlocter asked.

“You've seen the memo. The CIA package, PEEKABOO.”

Schlocter went white, slumped back in his chair. “Yes,” he said. “That cannot come out, something must be done….”

“I want an outside line,” Dillwater said into his telephone. “Operator, I want to place a conference call to the Washington news desks of the television networks. That is correct, CBS, NBC and ABC. Please call me back when the call goes through.” He hung up and faced Bannerman, still speaking softly. “You have about one minute to tell me what this PEEKABOO business is.”

“You're-through, Dillwater,” Bandin shouted. “Out on your ass.”

“I have resigned, Mr. President, from this position in NASA and from any other in your administration. As soon as this present affair is concluded.”

“You are jeopardizing this entire nation, goddamn it, and I could have you shot. PEEKABOO is a very sophisticated twenty-ton package that this country will be mighty glad it has in the case of any emergency.”

“Exactly what does it do?” Dillwater asked.

“In time of emergency, for defense only, this bird carries just about the biggest laser ever made, completely computer controlled to defend itself, take out any missile homing in on it.”

“And why should missiles be homing in on it?” Dillwater said.

“Because PEEKABOO will be hung in orbit zeroed in on Moscow. That laser is powered by a nuclear generator and is probably the closest thing to a death ray that we will ever have. When it is fired it punches straight down through the atmosphere and burns whatever target it is aimed at. Very precisely. It has a map of Moscow and it is very accurate. It can take out the Kremlin without touching a cobblestone in Red Square right next to it, zap the Army barracks without touching the Gum department store adjoining it.”

“I see,” Dillwater said, very quietly.

“Well I don't,” Grodzinski broke in.

Dillwater answered him. “It is a secret violation of our agreement with the Soviets not to militarize space. A weapon that will be placed in synchronous orbit covering Moscow. Once again what we have agreed publicly we evade in secret. The CIA keep their stock of poisons despite orders to destroy them, the FBI keeps lists of radicals and says they have been shredded. And General Bannerman and his military associates build a bomb that threatens the peace of the world.” He turned his head. “And you knew about it all the time, did you not, Mr. President?”

“Of course I did — because I put the safety of my nation first. If you liberals had your way there would be a red flag over this building right now.”

“Mr. President, gentlemen, the present contents of the shuttle do not matter,” Schlocter said, using his skills as an international peacemaker closer to home for a change. “The payload can be removed, stored away, forgotten. The shuttle must be prepared at once for a rescue attempt. Nothing else is possible. Too many people now know of its state of readiness. You have no choice, sir, but to issue orders to that effect.”

“Yon don't have to, Mr. President,” Bannerman said, wheeling about to face Bandin. “This thing can be kept quiet, the leaks can be plugged. PEEKABOO cannot be jeopardized. The project has gone too far. Once it is in orbit we're safe, the Soviets won't dare to try anything.”

Bandin was wringing his hands together, looking for an easy way out of this dilemma that did not exist.

“Mission Control and Prometheus are on the line,” Dill-water said, his hand over the mouthpiece. “And I have the networks waiting on another line. What should I tell them?”

Bandin hammered his fist on the table in a mixture of frustration and rage. “Tell the TV people to hold for a new break. Tell the Cape to get the goddamned bomb out of the bird and under wraps at once. Tell Prometheus that we didn't want to tell them for sure until we knew we could have the shuttle ready, that people have been working night and day,on it and it looks like now there is a chance. And not one word of what has been said in this room ever gets out of this room.”

He dropped back, exhausted. Rubber Bandin had snapped through one last time.