Skyfall

39

GET 26:19

“We are sorry to interrupt this program, ladies and gentlemen, but dramatic new developments have just been reported about the fate of Prometheus.” The reporter clutched the single sheet of paper, fresh from the teletype, and looked briefly into the eye of the TV camera. He knew he was breaking into every one of the network programs across the country, being picked up by radio and sent overseas by short wave. He looked appropriately serious as he spoke.

“It appears that a rescue attempt is now being launched from the Kennedy Space Flight Center. This is the home of the Space Shuttle, the workaday rocket that ferries men and experiments up to Spacelab. No announcement was made earlier, President Bandin reports, because of the possibility that the Shuttle would not be ready in time. But now, with scant hours left in the life of the brave astronauts trapped in that decaying orbit round the Earth, a rescue mission is being launched. There may still be time to reach them before the end. We will bring you up-to-the-minute reports as they develop, and hope to hear from the astronauts themselves if this is possible.”

“No, not now, of course not, Minford,” Flax said, shouting into the phone. “Sure I know how important your PR is and how we have to keep the public image and improve it, particularly after you-know-what in England. But you still can't put Prometheus onto a public broadcast. Those people up there are bushed and they're sick, and they have their own goddamned problems that make yours look like a missed period. And I've got a call for them, out.” He flipped switches quickly before he spoke. “Mission Control here, come in, Prometheus.”

“Flax, the Space Shuttle rescue attempt, is it going ahead?”

“That is a large and positive A-OK, Patrick. I've just been trying to get through to verify the time they need to get on line, but if they say they can do it we have a window for them.”

“When?”

“In just about four hours' time. Your track will bring you across the US then and an East Coast launch will be favorable for your orbit. Match-up will be forty minutes later. I'll give you a more exact ETA as soon as our program people have been through to theirs.”

“And the only reason this announcement was not made earlier was because they were not sure that the Space Shuttle could be readied in time?”

“That's what the official announcement said, Patrick.”

“That's just pure crap, Flax, and you know it.”

“I do. And I agree.”

“The Space Shuttle has a turn-around time of about a week. I'm sure they can shave hours here and there, but they know exactly how long it takes almost to the minute. If they knew this thing was coming on line now why weren't we informed?”

“I don't know the whole story — and we may never know.”

“Let's try. Ask around, Flax, you have the connections. I would like a few answers, if and when we get back.”

“So would I…”

“Out.”

Patrick broke the connection with an angry slap at the switch.

“What was all that about?” Coretta asked.

“I don't know, and I'm afraid to guess,” Patrick said, his hands touching the bandages over his eyes, lightly. He hated the blindness, the handicap it put upon him now. “Something very strange is happening or Flax wouldn't have patched us through to the White House that way. He was forcing someone's hand over something. But we can worry about that some other time. We have more pressing problems.” He touched the bandages again. “Doctor, don't you think we can loosen these, maybe take them off for a quick look? You don't know until you try.”

“We know, Patrick,” Coretta said, working to keep her voice calm and professional. “Whatever the final result is, that shock you and Nadya had to your eyes will render you sightless for a day at least. You gain nothing by removing the bandages — and may even cause more damage. I'm sorry I can't be more specific. But that's the straight of it.”

“It could be permanent then?” Nadya asked quietly.

“Perhaps, though I doubt it strongly. There is a very good chance that the blindness is only a temporary thing.” She spoke flatly and emphatically because she was lying; she had no idea of the extent of the damage. But morale building was more important than truth at this moment.

“All right,” Patrick said. “We'll put that aside for the moment. Gregor, did the entire HOOPSNAKE program come through on the printer?”

“It did. I have cut it into sheets and put them into a binder as you directed,” Gregor said.

“Get it, will you?”

“Why?” Coretta asked, surprised. “If a rescue ship is on the way we surely can forget about blowing Prometheus up.”

“The basic situation has not changed,” Nadya said. She lay, strapped in her couch next to Patrick on his. Just as blind, just as calm.

“That's the truth of it,” Patrick agreed. “There are still too many bugger factors in the equation. Our orbit may hold out the hours needed for rescue. Or end any minute now. The observatory is sending a running report on solar activity. Minor flares, no excess radiation. But the sun is still rotating and we've no idea of what's coming next. One big flare and that's the end.”

“It's terrible!” Coretta cried out.

“It is only the truth,” Gregor said, going to her and holding her. The two pilots could not see them, and even if they could — it would not matter. There were only a few vital things that mattered any more.

“Gregor's right,” Patrick nodded into his private darkness. “We have to proceed as though the Shuttle will never arrive. If it does get here in time, well then well and good. But if it doesn't then all our reasons for going ahead with HOOP-SNAKE still hold. It will take some time, so I suggest you start at once.”

“How long?” Coretta asked.

“Considering the fact that neither of you has had EVA experience it could be three or four hours.”

“What do we have to do? I still have no real idea of the whole thing.”

“The program is explained here in great detail,” Gregor said, holding up the sheaf of printout.

“For you maybe, baby, but that stuff is worse than Greek to me.”

“I better take the time to explain,” Patrick said. “You should grasp the principles before you proceed. Are you acquainted with the operating principle of the nuclear engine?”

“Just the theory,” Coretta said. “Hydrogen is used as a nuclear moderator as well as fuel. Those quartz tubes, some of them were broken, are what they call the light bulb. The uranium isotope in granular form is mixed with neon gas in the tubes, that's where the reaction takes place. This heats the tubes up, how hot…?”

“Three thousand degrees.”

“A little on the warm side. Outside the light bulbs is a hydrogen atmosphere which gets hotter, meaning it gets bigger, meaning it gets pressurized in the chamber and goes squirting out the hole in the back and we get pushed along and that is that. Right?”

“Perfectly right, nice and simple. The whole process is much more complex and detailed but that doesn't matter a damn right now, since all you and Gregor have to do is bugger it up and turn it into a bomb.”

“How do we do that?”

“In four stages. First you will have to space walk and make an access to the pressure chamber. This will mean cutting into one of the cones. It will be hard, but it can be done. One of you will have to use the Astronaut Maneuvering Unit, the AMU, in order to reach the area. Then, Gregor, what comes next? My memory is shot.”

It wasn't memory, it was pain. The drugs were wearing off and his eyes ached so much it was difficult to think. Gregor had read the program to him once, he remembered it clearly.

Patrick just had difficulty talking. He would need another shot soon, but had to put it off as long as possible. He was too groggy afterwards. Gregor flipped the pages and touched a line with one long finger.

“Entrance must be made and the quartz tubing broken away to enlarge the chamber. Although very resistant to heat the material of the light bulbs is most frangible. When this has been done a four-meter section of U-235 storage tubing is removed and rolled upon itself until its diameter is approximately forty centimeters in diameter…”

“You lost me with that one, Gregor.”

“It's plastic tubing,” Patrick explained. “It is the container for the uranium fuel. You can't store the stuff in a tank or it goes critical and goes bang. So it's in this plastic tubing that's wrapped around the base of the ship. A section of the tubing, with the fuel, has to be cut off and rolled up into a compact mass.”

“Just a minute,” Coretta said. “If I recall my atomic medicine crash course that can be dangerous. Won't it blow up?”

“Not yet. There will be greater activity, but it won't go critical.”

“Whoever is doing the rolling is going to be mighty sick.”

“Whoever is doing that is going to be dead,” Patrick said grimly. “A lethal dose in minutes. But it won't really matter.”

“I guess it won't,” Coretta said, trying to match his calm. “It will take hours for even that kind of dose to kill someone. But the whole ship will blow up well before that.”

“That is correct,” Gregor said, turning to the last page. “When the fuel is ready the flow of hydrogen must be turned on from the controls here. Then the mass of fuel is thrown forcefully into the pressure chamber. That is all.”

“All?” She was puzzled. “What happens next?”

“The hydrogen in the chamber acts as a moderator, slowing down the radiation that has been escaping up to this point. The mass of U-235 goes critical…”

“And goes bang. An atomic explosion. I get the picture. So when do we get started?”

“Now,” Patrick said. “Someone please tell me the GET time.”

The Payload Changeout Room was just being locked into place against the Orbiter when the Launch Controller, Gordon Vaught, climbed onto the spidery steel framework. He was a big, solid man, with muscles and tendons furrowing and cording his bare arms. Born and raised in Dothan, Alabama, just a few hundred miles from Cape Canaveral, he was used to the damp tropical climate, was scarcely aware of it. He pushed through the airlock into the cooled and sterilized atmosphere of the Room. The clamps were being thrown that sealed the entire structure tight against the body of the Orbiter. Colonel Kober was supervising the operation. Kober was a short, nasty type who was always in uniform, always fresh-pressed and spotlessly clean. Vaught knew that he had a good mind, had an engineering degree as well as his military rank, yet he still disliked him immensely. The feeling was mutual. They worked together because they had to, but that didn't mean they had to enjoy it.

“You preparing to remove your payload, Colonel?” Vaught asked.

“We are, Mr. Vaught.”

“How long before you get it out and we can seal the doors?”

“We will do it as fast as possible, if that is what you were asking.”

“I wasn't. I was sort of interested in a figure. Minutes, hours, days, you know the sort of thing.”

Kober flashed the big civilian a cold look of loathing, brushing back his toothbrush moustache with his knuckle as he spoke. “An estimate, of course. Taking into mind past performance. Disconnect the utility bridges, attach supplementary power, unbolt, unship; move to the pallets, close up — it will be a good two-hour job.”

“We don't have two hours to wait. I'm starting fuel now.” Vaught turned away but Kober's harsh words stopped him in his tracks.

“You cannot do that and I absolutely forbid you to. Civilian control on this project is lax enough as it is, but I will not permit criminally dangerous procedures that might endanger this project or my personnel. Do you understand, Vaught?”

“Do you understand, Colonel, that my first name is Mister as far as you are concerned. I want to hear you use it. As to your forbidding me to do anything, why you got as much

chance as a hound dog winning an elephant farting contest. The fueling starts now.”

“You cannot. It is forbidden. I'll contact…”

His voice shut off sharply as Vaught closed the airlock door. My oh my, the man did rile easy. It really was a pleasure to get the toe of the boot into him. Vaught pulled the CB radio from the holster on his belt and thumbed it on.

“Station two. Are the feed lines connected yet?”

“Last one going on now, Cordon.”

“Good. Make sure your men on top are watching the bleed valves and start pumping. I want that fuel in there just as fast as you can get it.”

“Right.”

Vaught put away the radio, then leaned on the hot metal of the railing and looked at the bird. The square bulk of the Payload Changeout Room was locked against it, covering most of it, with just the nose cones of the three big boosters rising above it. The Orbiter was well hidden. The tiered form of the servicing tower stood beside it, now a scene of organized bustle. Underground fuel lines would bring the liquid oxygen and hydrogen, liquid only when kept at hundreds of degrees below zero. Fueling must have begun because a white plume of vaporized gas puffed out of a relief valve high above. Begun. Now it would be at least three hours before the tanks were filled. Three hours until the tanks had to be filled because that was the time of the only window they could use, the few minutes when the Space Shuttle had to be launched to hurl itself into space on an accurate course, to rise up and arrive at the same moment in space and time as Prometheus which would be hurtling up from behind. One chance at a meet, and only one. Well he would do his part, get the bird fueled and counted down and ready to fly when they needed. If the military payload was removed in time. Observation satellite they said, big hush deal with MPs with sidearms around all the time. Something more than a usual observation satellite the rumors said. He didn't know or care. All he wanted was it out of the way in time.

Fueling was going well so he had time to go in and bug Kober and make sure the thing was plucked out and taken away. He liked riling Kober, even though it was so easy to do. He had been in the Army himself when he was young, been made a corporal before getting out. Anyone above the rank of

Sergeant Major was instantly suspect. Chicken-shit chicken colonels were the best bait of all. He smiled and turned back towards the door.

The solar observatory was on Capri, the isle in the Bay of Naples, Italy. Monte Solaro rose up behind it where the terraced slopes, silver with olive trees, ran down through the village of Anacapri to terminate in high limestone cliffs above the blue sea. Three-quarters of the way down was the solid-walled building that housed the Solar Observatory of the University of Freiburg. It was not the best site for an observatory of this kind, the sea haze meant that seeing could not begin until late in the morning and ended well before sunset in the afternoon. But Capri is every German's idea of heaven, so heart had led head for just once and the observatory had been built here. The short day left more time for wine and peaches. A tour of duty on Capri was not considered by the astronomers, or their wives, to be much of a sacrifice.

A mirror on top of the building rotated and tilted automatically to follow the sun, reflecting its image down a chimney-like tube to the telescope room below. Here the magnified image passed through a specially designed filter that screened out all except the wavelength of hydrogen. Thus purified, modified and enlarged, the sun was captured on film by a Leica camera. Every two minutes during the day it took a picture, then advanced the film automatically to be ready for the next shot. When the camera was not operating the image could be projected onto a white screen. A burning, angry disc a yard in diameter, pocked with solar activity, rimmed with tendrils of flame.

Dr. Bruzik was studying the image now, puffing complacently on a well-stained Meerschaum pipe. Astronomy is a very placid occupation, demanding more patience than energy, and he had practiced this science for a number of years. His wife, Jutta, came into the room.

“It is that man in Texas again, on the phone. He is very angry because the Naples operator cut us off for almost fifteen minutes.”

“If one were always to be angry at the Italian telephone system, one would die of apoplexy before reaching puberty. Was there any message?”

“Just as always. What is the state of the sun?”

“You can reassure him that there was no change while we were out of contact. Activity normal… Gott In Himmel!”

Bruzik gasped, forgetting that he held the stem of the pipe between his teeth, a very favorite pipe indeed. It fell and broke on the floor — and he was not aware of it at all.

Because, hypnotized, he was watching a solar flare growing on the sun's disc. A tongue of fire that leapt up higher and higher, arched out into space. He was watching millions of tons of burning gas being ejected from the sun's surface, the explosive power of a gigantic solar storm.

What he knew also existed, what was not visible here, was the gigantic activity beneath the sun's surface, the incredibly powerful magnetic fields that twisted and churned. And sent out radiation. Radiation that, when it struck the atmosphere of Earth minutes later, could cause the Northern Lights, ruin radio reception, jam telegraph cables.

And so excite the upper atmosphere that it would rise up and strike Prometheus from its orbit. Change the relatively empty space at this altitude with its few molecules of air, to a thin atmosphere that would be like a rock wall to the satellite traveling at five miles a second.

“Keep the telephone connection,” Bruzik called out. “I want to speak with them in a few moments. Try and make that cretin of an operator understand that the line must be kept open at all costs.

“It looks as though a period of intense solar activity is beginning. Just as Professor Weisman said it would.”