Back to the Moon (18 page)

“Go, POD.”

“We show all the experiments on board with downlink still inactive except for three. We got green lights for FLEA, CELL, and SAREX.”

Sam searched his memory. He rarely cared what kind of experiments were on board. They were Huntsville's problem. FLEA was an experiment that included a cat and had something to do with vestibular research—how zero g affected balance or some nonsense like that. CELL was. . . wasn't that Dr. High Eagle's experiment? SAREX was one he knew about, a shortwave radio that had flown on a lot of missions. Still, who the hell cared about any of them at a time like this? “Okay, POD,” he said, mildly irritated at the interruption. “Thanks for the update.”

“Something else too. I've been listening to the playback of yesterday's launch. I think I recognize the voice of one of them. . . the hijackers.”

Now Sam was interested. After the POD had told him his suspicions, he cursed himself inwardly.
Hell, he knew that voice too!
“CAPCOM, this is Flight Director, my loop.”

“Go, Flight.” It was Jay Guidon. A rookie astronaut, known more for his computational skills than his ability to communicate.

“Jay, I'm going to play CAPCOM and see if I can raise
Columbia
,” Sam said.

“Roger, Flight,” Guidon replied dutifully.

“What are you doing, Sam?” Crowder asked.

“Relax, Jim, I'll take the heat,” Sam said, and took a deep breath.

“
Columbia,
Houston. This is Sam Tate.” He waited, hearing only a hiss of static in his earpiece. “Come on, Jack. Answer me, boy!”

THE CONTRACT

FBI Office, the Old Post Office Building, Tallahassee, Florida

Cecil stared at the hard-faced FBI agents across the table. He ran a hand through his disheveled red hair. Because of his hair and the sprinkle of freckles he still had across his nose, his grade school buddies had nicknamed him Howdy Doody.
Howdy Doody versus the FBI,
Cecil thought, nearly giddy because of his lack of sleep. He chuckled inadvertently, much to the consternation of the agents who, he was certain, saw nothing funny about his situation. Through most of the night they had harangued him, then put him up at a nearby cheap hotel only to drag him out at the crack of dawn to question him some more. He'd caught a glimpse of the morning papers in front of the hotel.
SPACE SHUTTLE COLUMBIA HIJACKED
was one of the headlines. The television news shows were all about the shuttle too, even though none of the reporters had any details to report. NASA, the Air Force, the administration, nobody in the government was talking. Cecil was certain that other FBI agents were descending on Cedar Key to search for any MEC employees still around and to rip through the plant at the airport for clues. He was also certain they would find nothing.

“You wrote this contract?” the lead agent, a gray-bearded black man, asked or, rather, accused.

“I did, Agent. . . ?”

“Fisk. Why did you do it, Velocci?”

“Why? Because it was my job.”

Fisk slapped his hand on the table, causing Cecil to jump. “You think that's going to keep you from going to prison? That you wrote this—this travesty because it was your job? Was it your job to help perpetrate one of the crimes of the century?”

Cecil composed himself. “Crime? I don't know of any crime.”

“Read it, Burrows.”

George Burrows was the FBI attorney. He read from a sheet of paper he'd been caressing on the table.
Crossing a state line to commit a felony, kidnapping, skyjacking—

“Skyjacking? That law applies only to aircraft,” Cecil interrupted.

“The shuttle is an aircraft,” Burrows replied.

“I heard it was a spaceship.”

“As long as it's in the atmosphere for part of its flight, it's an aircraft,” Fisk growled. “Go on, Burrows.”

“Unauthorized use of government property—”

“MEC has a contract to use government property.”

“You're going to piss me off, Velocci!” Fisk yelled.

“Dangerous entrapment—” Burrows struggled on.

“What?”

“The astronauts in the elevator.”

“Oh. I heard it got stuck.”

“Shut up, Velocci.”

“Conspiracy to defraud the government—”

“What do you mean by that?”

“This damn contract! It's a fraud!” Fisk threw the contract at Cecil, its pages coming unstapled. Cecil ducked and the pages went flying, wafting to the floor one by one.

Burrows kept going. “Destruction of government property—”

“Oh, come on!” Cecil felt his confidence increase. The agents, for all their browbeating tactics, still hadn't said anything that made him worry about the contract not holding up. “You can't prove any of those charges,” he said. “So stop trying to scare me with them.”

“I'm going to tell you one more time to shut up! Go on, Burrows.”

“I'm finished, sir.”

Fisk glared at Burrows. “He's finished, Velocci. Well, what do you have to say to that?”

Cecil sat back, folding his hands on his stomach. “Not guilty.”

Fisk huffed, got up, walked around the table, and stuck his face into Velocci's. “This is no goddamned court of law. What do you mean NOT GUILTY?”

Cecil reached out, very slowly, very dramatically, and pointed at the contract pages on the floor. “MEC has a legal contract with the government.”

“Let me get this straight. You think that crummy little paper makes you not guilty on which charges?”

“On all charges.” Cecil got up, picked up each sheet, sat down, and restacked them. He looked around the room. “Am I under arrest?”

Fisk stalked back to his chair and sat down. “There's one charge we haven't written down, not yet. You need to know about it, think about it very carefully. Did you know Dr. High Eagle is a Native American, Mr. Velocci?”

Cecil felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Now
he was scared. “Yes, of course, but what—?”

“Your clients have detained against her will a minority citizen of these United States, Mr. Velocci. That, by definition, is a hate crime, a federal offense. Any lawyer who defends anyone accused of a hate crime becomes very unpopular, subject perhaps to being accused of committing a hate crime himself.”

It took a lot to anger Cecil but Fisk was nearly there. “Are you threatening me, Agent Fisk?” he growled.

Fisk shrugged. “Yes, Mr. Velocci, I am. You need to think this through. You're out of your league.”

“Are my clients officially charged with anything?” Cecil asked coldly.

“Not at this time. But I want all their names.”

“I will provide you with a list of all MEC employees. Am I free to go?”

“Not at this time. You're due on a plane to Washington in one hour.”

“For what purpose?”

Fisk grimaced, or it might have been a grin. It was hard for Cecil to tell. “You'll find that out when you get there, Mr. Island-in-the-sun attorney. It ain't gonna be fun, I can tell you that!”

Cecil pointed. “I'll want a copy of that,” he said, indicating the list of charges. “I'll need them to start the preparation of the defense of my clients should they in fact be charged with anything.”

Fisk nodded agreement and Burrows excused himself and scurried off toward the copier. Cecil sat comfortably in his chair, ignoring Fisk's sullen stare. It was dangerous but strangely exciting to tweak the nose of the federal government. Burrows returned with the copies and Cecil was escorted out. As he went, FBI staffers came into the hall to get a look at him. Cecil straightened as he walked by. He could almost feel his stature growing as he was hurried toward the waiting limousine.

EXTRAVEHICULAR ACTIVITY (1)

Columbia

Jack had managed six hours of desperately needed sleep in the cockpit after which his mind seemed sharper than it had ever been, as if all his synapses were suddenly open, keen in the face of danger. When he found both Penny and Virgil still sleeping, he'd taken a big risk going out into the cargo bay alone to send off Cassidy. Single EVAs were potentially dangerous things—if he'd gotten tangled in his tether out there, or the backpack had had any kind of a problem, he'd have been on his own in the harsh vacuum. Still, there was simply no way to keep Cassidy's body aboard, even in the cargo bay, considering the likely effects of vacuum and solar radiation on an exposed human cadaver, and Jack had seen no reason to delay. He had come to the conclusion that the remainder of this flight would include many such risks. All the margins he and his MEC team had carefully inserted into the mission profile were gone with the loss of Cassidy. Virgil had signed on for the worst, and would take the complications in stride, he reasoned, and as for High Eagle—well, High Eagle would just have to get used to it. Jack found, for some unfathomable reason, that he liked to tantalize her with bits and pieces of information while holding other things back. He couldn't quite put his finger on why—but decided he didn't have time to think about it, in any case.

Some numbers crunching on the computer screen caught his eye. He was looking at radar data. “That's strange,” he said aloud. He called down through the hatch. “Virgil? Need you.”

Virgil appeared from below. “What's going on, boss?”

“I put the system in the co-op mode so it would trigger the transponder in the engine package. Now I've got another transponder signal. If it's not our package...”

“Company?”

“So it would seem.”

Virgil put his hand to his headset. “He's still calling. Jack, why don't you just say hello to him? What could it hurt?”

Jack sighed, nodded. “All right, all right. Let's see what the old cowboy wants.”

SMC

Sam jerked upright in his chair. He'd been droning calls to
Columbia
for ten minutes. “This is
Columbia.
Make it quick.” The voice was brusque but he recognized it all the same.
Jack Medaris.

“This is Sam Tate,” Sam said. “Would you go to air-to-ground three?” Air-to-ground 3 was the encrypted voice channel from the shuttle.

A moment passed while Sam held his breath. Would Medaris do it? He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard him come back on the secured push. “Go ahead, Houston.”

Sam keyed his mike. “Jack, cut the crap. This is Sam. What the hell do you think you're doing?”

There was a momentary crackle of static. Then Sam heard the click of Medaris's mike. “Hello, Sam. I guess it won't hurt to be informal on the chatter channel. How's Geraldine?”

“Dammit, Jack. She's fine. She's missed you. We all have. I was glad to hear you were back in the space business with your sling pump. But, Jack, listen, this is wrong what you're doing—”

“I don't know what you mean, Sam,” Jack interrupted. “I'm involved in a commercial enterprise that has been approved by the Depart ment of Transportation. It's all in our contract. Our lawyer is probably working with authorities now to straighten things out if there's a problem.”

Sam wasn't buying it. “Listen, old son, I don't know why you've done this. . . hell, boy. . . come on back. The quicker you get off the shuttle, the less trouble you're going to be in. As slick as you pulled this off, there might even be a few old boys around who'll call you a hero. What happened to Hoppy?”

A long pause and then: “An accident at launch. But he was with us, Sam. You would be, too, if you knew everything.”

Sam rubbed his face, pinched his nose. “What—what have you done with him?”

“He got what he would have loved, Sam—the first burial in space. I gave him the requisite tumble so he'll reenter in a few weeks. I know Hoppy wouldn't want to pose a hazard to spacecraft. Please give my regrets to his family. Tell his son that his father was a great pilot.”

On console some of the controllers crossed themselves. An American had died in space. Sam tried to contain his rising anger but he gave in to it. “Damn you, Jack! You were once part of this agency! We trusted you!”

“I have a contract,” Jack replied placidly. “This is nothing against NASA.”

Sam pounded his fist on his table. “Nothing against NASA? You're killing this agency single-handed! The media's dragging out every problem we've ever had. Do you think Congress is going to give a tinker's damn about us after this stunt? They'll shut us down! And you've caused Hoppy's death.” He tried to haul himself back but failed. “And it's not the first death you've caused either!” He regretted his words nearly as soon as he said them.

There was a long silence. “I'm well aware of that, Sam,” Jack finally replied in a subdued voice. Then, more spiritedly, he said, “They've been looking for an excuse to shut NASA down for years. I didn't cause that.”

Sam gripped his console table, fought for the right words, tried to bring himself back from the edge. “Look, Jack. . . I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. But it's over. I don't know what you and Hoppy were trying to do but it can't be done, not now. There's a satellite with a very big eye moving into your neighborhood. Whatever you're doing, you're going to be seen. They got your number, son. Come on back and we'll sort things out.”

“Is it a Keyhole or a Big Bird?”

Sam cursed his big mouth. Medaris was no rookie. He knew everything there was to know about a shuttle. He'd probably already seen a blip on his radar but hadn't known what it was. The shuttle was maneuverable. Jack could give the spy sat a merry chase if he wanted to. “Even if I knew I couldn't tell you,” Sam said. “But this thing is just the start of it. They're coming after you with blood in their eyes, Jack. Let us bring you in. We'll glide you down at Edwards. Big runways there. It'll be easy.”

“Sorry, Sam,” Jack responded. “But thanks for your concern.”