Back to the Moon (4 page)

Jack stepped off the stoop and was surprised to find a big recreational vehicle facing him. He glanced toward the perimeter fence. Virgil had left the gate open, as was common when someone else was following close behind. The RV's lights went on, blinding him. “Hey, mister,” an unfamiliar voice called out. “You got any idea where we are?” A man walked out of the glaring light. He was short and stout, had a walruslike mustache, and was wearing a bright yellow shirt and creased tan slacks. He was holding a sheet of paper.

Jack shielded his eyes with his hands. “This is a restricted area,” he said. “You need to leave.”

The man waved back at the RV. Jack could see several shadowy figures standing alongside it. “Sorry, mister. We saw the gate open and the lights. We're fishermen and we're lost. You got any idea how to get to Stevenson's Fish Camp? I got a map here.”

The man appeared innocent but the road was clearly marked as leading to the old airport. If they had ignored the signs, they had to be not only lost but stupid too. “Never heard of the place,” Jack said. “If you'll go back through the gate, turn left, that'll take you into town. You can ask there.”

“Why don't you just look at the map, mister? I think we're way off here.”

The man approached. Jack thought about going back inside, but that would have required entering the code. “Look, fellows, this is a restricted industrial plant. Go into town, ask there.”

“You know, you're not an accommodating fellow, Mr. Medaris,” the man said, smiling. “I've decided to Milli Vanilli your ass.”

“What?”
He knows my name.
Jack was startled by the sound of heavy boots pounding on the asphalt. He didn't have time to react. Someone big, dressed in black, came out of the lights, tackled him, knocked him down, and fell on top of him. Jack landed on his back, his head hitting the concrete stoop. Everything dimmed. He struggled for consciousness. He grabbed the man, pulled at his arm, felt something give way. It was a patch on his shoulder, a piece of black Velcro. There was a flash of gold letters, just for an instant.
Puckett Security Services.
Then he felt himself being rolled over, his hands jerked behind him. Something hot dripped down his neck. Handcuffs clicked shut on his wrists.

“Cut the wires, all of 'em,” somebody said.

Jack was blearily aware of men running past him, battering at the door. He heard it tear from its hinges. There was no alarm. The man in the yellow shirt knelt beside him. “Milli Vanilli means I pretended to kick your ass while somebody more qualified did the work.” He laughed and then abruptly turned deadly serious. “Take him inside.”

Jack was ruthlessly jerked by his wrists, pushed into the hangar, through the doors, all hanging from their hinges. Two men, dressed in black fatigues, clustered at the clean-room door. The yellow-shirted man walked in front of Jack. “The lander in there?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. That's a clean room. We use it to inspect our pumps.”

Using a flashlight, the man peered inside,
Prometheus
glittering in the spot of his light like a giant tin man. “Doesn't look like a pump to me, Mr. Medaris.”

Jack tore loose from his captor, ran for the door. He had to get help. He was quickly caught, thrown to the floor. His shoulder felt as if it had been dislocated. Jack groaned, kept struggling. “Get him out of here,” the man said harshly.

Jack was jerked to his feet again. It felt as if a spear had been stuck in his shoulder and twisted. He couldn't help but cry out, although it shamed him to show weakness in front of these men. He looked over his shoulder, saw men in black fatigues batter down the clean-room door, go inside. Other men followed, carrying sledgehammers and cutting torches. Despite the pain Jack struggled to stop them. He was savagely driven to his knees, then dragged across the concrete, through the halls, out the door, thrown down onto the asphalt in front of the RV, its headlights now dimmed.

Nearly mad with impotent outrage, his head in a puddle of his own blood, Jack listened to the sound of smashing sledgehammers, glass breaking, the hiss of torches, more doors being battered down. The man in the yellow shirt stepped up, knelt down beside him. “Well, thank you, Mr. Medaris. It's been real. By the way, you ought to be more careful with the combustibles in your plant. I'm afraid it's caught on fire.”

Jack struggled to raise his head, saw the flames licking out of the broken windows, an orange glow deep within. “Why?” he cried.

“Don't you know, Mr. Medaris?” the man said softly, his small dark eyes twinkling mischievously. “We did this for the benefit of all mankind.”

Jack felt the heat of the flames against his skin. He turned away from it, trying not to think of the time when another fire had engulfed him and all that he loved. He involuntarily groaned, let his face down into his blood. He felt someone taking off the cuffs. He was roughly dragged to his feet. Blood still streamed down his neck. His shoulder felt as if it had been torn to shreds. His wrists were raw and bleeding. The men got back into the RV and drove away, left him standing alone. It turned away from Cedar Key, toward the main highway.

The hangar was an inferno by the time the volunteer fire department arrived ten minutes later. Trooper Buck was with them. Soon afterward the engineers of MEC, Doc Perlman, and the company lawyer, Cecil Velocci, arrived as well. They found Jack sitting in the parking lot, quietly watching the futile efforts of the firemen. When they reached down to help him, he pushed their hands away, then finally stood up under his own power. He growled at anyone who approached not to touch him. He held his shoulder, gritted his teeth against the pain, ignored the steady drip of blood puddling at his feet. The others were certain he'd gone insane.

The glow from the garish flames made the scar on his face and neck look as if it were on fire too. His eyes glittered as the flames reached solvents stored in a back room. The hangar burst apart, buckets of solvent flying into the sky, trailing long torrents of hot liquid fire. Jack said nothing, didn't move at all when everyone else fell back from the resulting volcano. He was thinking.

After the fire had died down, Jack turned to the throng. “Isaac, a word,” he said quietly.

Perlman approached him, his eyes wide. “What happened?”

“Men came to destroy
Prometheus.
They knew all about it.”

“How did they get in?”

Jack grimaced. “The gate was open.”

Perlman was quiet for a moment. He might have been looking at Jack's dripping blood, scarlet in the glare of the burning hangar. “Jack, I'll have to tell my investors the circumstances. They may come after you, want their money back.”

“They'll get their dirt,” Jack growled.

“How?”

Jack's lip was split. He spat blood while the likely scenario played out across his mind. The company had insurance, but he could see the insurer accusing him of arson. A jury, hearing of his background, might conclude he was guilty. In any case, it would be tied up in court for years before he saw a dime. “Buck,” he said quietly. The policeman came to him. “You ever hear of Puckett Security Services?”

Buck was six and a half feet tall in his cowboy boots, a formidable man and a secure presence on the little island. “Nope,” he said. “That who did this?”

“Do you still have contacts with the FBI?” Jack asked.

“Sure. You want me to check it out for you?”

“Yes.”

Buck leaned into Jack, his big broad face lit by the guttering flames. “I will on one condition. Let the paramedics take a look at you.”

Jack relented, walked toward the ambulance. The people opened a lane for him. He kept his head down, not from pain or shame. He was still thinking. A fresh ocean breeze fanned the embers in the hangar and a torrent of flame suddenly roared alive.

Jack turned to watch the blaze and then saw the bloody crescent of the moon floating through the smoke.
Luna.
The face the moon showed the earth was pocked and scourged, but like many plain women she had a body that could still fill men with lust. Another sea breeze blew the smoke away and the crescent turned from scarlet to gold. Isaac Perlman coveted the golden dust that layered the moon, sifted into her cracked rock, coated her craters, seeped into her pores. He had revealed to Jack the moon's secret treasure: helium-3, blown through space for billions of years by the solar wind, laid down on Luna's airless surface. Perhaps, Jack realized, helium-3 was a threat to someone who might do anything to keep it off the earth. The moon also held another treasure.
Kate.
She waited for him at Frau Mauro. Jack's eyes slowly began to fill with determination.

“What are we going to do, boss?” Virgil asked, holding the door of the ambulance open.

“I'm still working on that, Virg,” Jack said quietly as he climbed in. He sat on a bench, looked at the faces of his people, his happy and faithful few.

THE LAUNCH

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

—Lord Byron
, “She Walks in Beauty”

LAUNCH MINUS 0 DAYS, 25 HOURS, 7 MINUTES, 42 SECONDS, AND COUNTING . . .

ABANDONED IN PLACE

Launch Complex 34, Canaveral Air Station, Cape Canaveral, Florida

“You are an arrogant bastard, Jack Medaris!” Isaac Perlman shouted at his back.

“Go back to Montana, Doc,” Jack said as he trudged past the ancient, salt-streaked blockhouse.

Perlman struggled to keep up. “Are you so angry that you would kill yourself and others to get revenge, Jack, is that it?” He gasped as his cane sank into the loose sand and he almost lost his balance. “You would destroy your company, put all your employees out of a job? What kind of madness is this? I want no part of it!”

“Who called you?” Jack calmly questioned the little physicist. “Let me guess. Sally Littleton.”

Perlman puffed up beside him. “No, but don't ask further. I won't tell you.”

That got Jack's attention. He whirled around. “The January Group? How could they possibly know about this?”

Perlman's face was streaming sweat. He leaned on his cane, took out a red bandana from his hip pocket, and mopped his brow. “I told them you were still going to get me my dirt but I didn't know how. They have vast resources, Jack. They investigated. I don't know. Maybe somebody told them. Then they told me.”

“Did they tell you to stop me?”

“Oh, no! I think they're quite excited by the prospect! But they don't care about you, Jack. I do. Why didn't you just build another
Prometheus
?”

Jack studied the diminutive physicist. “In less than six months? Not enough time. We had to come up with another plan.”

Perlman leaned on his cane, looked around. “Where is this place?”

Jack started back down the path. “The end of the world, Doc,” he said over his shoulder as he walked into the battered refuse of Launch Complex 34, all that remained of the site where men had begun the engineering process that had led to the
Apollo
moon landings. Here, the first three
Apollo
astronauts had burned to death in their capsule while running a simple communications and power check. Jack, as much as anyone who worked in the aerospace industry, knew the engineering required for spaceflight was never simple, always fraught with hidden dangers, small things that added up quickly to deadly things. That's what had killed the men of
Apollo 1.
“This ought to be a treasured site in American folklore, Doc,” Jack said wistfully after he had told him what had happened at LC 34. “Instead... well, look at the signs.”

The weathered signs posted at various locations around the battered pad read
ABANDON IN PLACE
. NASA had saved money by simply walking away from the old facilities rather than tearing them down. But the signs had a larger meaning too—an unintended, ironic truth. “Doc?”

“What is it, Jack?” Perlman sighed.

“The first time I ever came here, Kate brought me. We were down to supervise a shuttle main-engine test firing and she dragged me here as if it were a holy shrine. You know what she did? See what that sign posted on the blockhouse says? She did that.” Jack gazed at the sign with a sad smile, gratified that someone, perhaps a Cape worker, had refreshed Kate's message: ABANDON
ED AND BETRAYED
IN PLACE.

“Betrayed, Jack?”

“That's what Kate thought.”

Jack remembered the way Kate had looked that day. Even though she had a tomboy figure, and a face best described as vaguely elfin—she hated being called cute but she surely was—he had always thought of her as the most beautiful woman he'd ever known. He had simply adored her, had known from the moment he met her that she belonged to him, and he to her. He savored the memory of how she'd stood on her sneakered tiptoes that day to reach the sign with her paintbrush, how she tilted her head, and the way the sun turned her cropped hair into golden straw. He could almost smell her. She never wore perfume but always smelled so clean, of white soap, as if she'd just stepped from a shower of rainwater. Involuntarily, his hand went to the horrible red scar that ran along his jawline and down his neck. When he realized what he was doing, he dropped his hand away. It made him ashamed. She had suffered so much more. He wondered if his unborn child had felt the fire, too, and then, with a shudder, drove their memory out of his mind. It did no good to think of them. Not now.

Perlman noticed the movement to the scar. “Do you hate NASA so much then, Jack,” he asked quietly, “for what it did to you?”