Back to the Moon (16 page)

“Won't work,” Carling said, pushing back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. “It's too fast. They'd never see it unless they happened to be looking out the right window at the right time. Even then it would be a blur.”

Vanderheld picked up on the idea. “Could we blow up the missile nearby, General? Just frighten them with it? That might be enough to get them down.”

Carling conferred with the colonel behind him again. A major leaned in, added his two cents' worth. “Possibly,” Carling said after a minute, “but the energy of the particles released from a detonation would be very high. Any one of them, even one the size of a paint chip, could do fatal damage to
Columbia.
”

The colonel furiously whispered into Carling's ear. He nodded. “Colonel Kistler has a suggestion, sir. About a modification we could make. Might work and might get their attention aboard with very little risk.”

“All right,” Vanderheld said coolly. “Let's hear it.”

Grant looked at Bonner. He just sat there. Why wasn't he coming to her defense? The rest of the room was stealing her thunder, pushing NASA into the background. Didn't he care about his own turf? Frustrated, she slowly sat down.

“Some sort of water balloon, sir,” Kistler was saying. “Water turns into ice crystals in space. Remember the fireflies John Glenn saw during his
Mercury
flight? Those things were water ice crystals floating alongside his capsule, reflecting in the sun.”

Carling pounded the arm of his chair. “The first time he saw Niagara, the second time Viagra!” he hooted, and the Air Force contingent behind him erupted in laughter. Grant seethed. It was almost as if they were laughing at her.

“Sorry, I couldn't resist that,” Carling said after the laughter died. He paused for more whispering in his ear. “We could modify a
Pegasus
rather than an AMLV to do the job. One of those could climb into orbit with
Columbia,
not just whip past on a vertical trajectory. These “fireflies' could be placed so they're visible, travel along for a while.”

Vanderheld turned to Bonner. “Frank, what would NASA think of that idea?”

When Bonner hesitated, Grant leapt to her feet. “Sir, I think my proposal for a rendezvous is the only way to go. But if you decide to make this demo, NASA should do an engineering analysis so we know its predicted effect on the shuttle. We have no idea what ice crystals might do to the tiles, for instance.”

Bonner glowered at her but the vice president smiled. “That's fair, Colonel Grant,” he said. “Please, by all means, make your analyses. General Carling, unless you hear something from me to the contrary, go ahead with your plan.” He turned, looked over his shoulder at Sykes. “Bernie, will the President approve my decision?”

Sykes tilted his head, his foxy eyes turning to slits. “I am certain he will, Mr. Vice President.”

“One more thing,” General Carling said. “I'd like permission to move a spy satellite close to
Columbia
so that we can keep a visual eye on what's going on. To do that I'll need the assistance of the Defense Intelligence Agency.”

The vice president looked over his shoulder. Again, Sykes nodded. “All right, General. I'll make certain you get all the cooperation from the DIA you need.”

It was all agreed and the conference was over. Sykes got up, walked over and shook Bonner's hand, leaned over and whispered something in his ear, and then he and the veep walked out together. Bonner stayed in his chair, his shoulders humped up. Grant thought she should go over to him, say something. “Sir...”

“You ever interrupt me in a meeting again, Olivia, I'll have your hide,” Bonner said although without any particular rancor.

Straightforward was the only way Grant could operate. “Sir, I think we ought to prep
Endeavour
for a rescue anyway. I have no confidence in this so-called demo.”

Bonner watched the others filing out. “Of course we're going to prep
Endeavour.”

“But the vice president didn't give us permission, sir.”

“He will, after the Air Force screws this up. Sometimes, when you see your opposition preparing to shoot themselves in the foot, Olivia, you just let them do it. I sincerely doubt the men who hijacked
Columbia
will be impressed by a mere demonstration.” Bonner glanced up at her. “Tell me, Colonel Grant, what is your opinion of Penny High Eagle?”

Grant was cautious. “I don't know her very well.”

“But you trained with her, didn't you?”

“A little. But mostly she did public relations stuff.”

“And you resented that?”

Grant shifted her stance, easing her weight back and forth on the balls of her feet like a boxer ready to deliver a punch. She didn't like being questioned as if she were some rooky astronaut candidate. “I think anyone going into space should attend all the training. High Eagle wasn't interested.”

“What would you be willing to do to get
Columbia
back?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Even if someone gets hurt?”

Grant steered around what she knew was a verbal trap, although for what purpose she had no idea. “I hope to design this mission so nobody gets hurt.”

Bonner probed. “What if
Columbia
is manned by fanatics, Olivia? They won't give in without a fight.”

“My tiger team's working on it now, trying to have a plan for every contingency.”

“I would like to see your plan, as soon as possible.”

“It'll be ready tomorrow morning. I've scheduled a briefing in your office at ten A.M.”

“I want you and your team to come in and tell me what you want to do by midnight.”

Grant stood her ground. “I told everybody tomorrow, and even that was pushing it. I can't change it now.”

Bonner raised his eyebrows. “You will change it, Olivia, and I will see you in my office at midnight. With your team. With your plan. End of discussion.”

Grant opened her mouth to argue. She was the commander of STS-128, her mission, her bird, her team. Then she closed it. She knew Frank Bonner was not above cutting her head off if it suited him. She turned on her heel and got out of the room while she could.

Bonner walked into the Camp David Administration Center to see Bernie Sykes as requested. Sykes waved him to a chair in his office. Bonner sat. “What can Johnson Space Center do for you today, Bernie?”

“Not for me, Frank,” Sykes replied. “For the President of the United States. I just work for him.”

Bonner was wary. “As do I.”

Sykes pushed his thin hands together as if he were praying, tapped the ends of his long fingers on his chin, regarded Bonner. Sykes was known for being crafty, the man who was more than willing to say no for a President who hated to say the word to anybody. “You know I envy you, Frank. Ever since I was a kid I've imagined what it would be like to work for NASA, be part of your great enterprise. I wish I could go to work in your Mission Control today rather than worry about the President's trip to Iraq. It must be a very satisfying thing for you, being in your position.”

Bonner nodded but was noncommittal. He didn't believe a word of it anyway. He was being buttered up but he wasn't certain why. “NASA has been my life,” he replied blandly.

“During all my years in Washington, and especially in this administration, I've tried to be NASA's champion,” Sykes said. “It hasn't been easy, considering Vanderheld's opposition.” Sykes shook his head. “That old man's really an ass when it comes to the space program. He just hates it.”

Bonner tried to think of what Sykes had done for either NASA or his center but couldn't come up with anything. “JSC is very appreciative of your help, Bernie,” he replied.

Sykes folded his arms, leaned forward. “But this shuttle hijack comes at a very bad time. The President leaves for Iraq this afternoon. And then there's WET, the vice president's baby. Vanderheld's an ass about space but he's right about WET. The country needs it.”

“I understand,” Bonner said, and waited. For all he knew, Sykes was setting a bureaucratic trap for him. Bonner wasn't going to walk into anything. He'd let Sykes do the talking.

“Your astronaut's plan to rendezvous with
Columbia.
Will it work?”

Ah, that was it.
Now Bonner thought he knew what Sykes was getting at, why he was there. “It will if we have time to prepare.” Bonner had learned over the years never to agree to anything without adding a qualifier.

“I want you to know I personally wanted to let NASA handle this thing from the beginning.”

“But you didn't oppose the Air Force in the meeting,” Bonner pointed out.

Sykes raised an eyebrow at the retort. “I saw no reason to oppose the veep head-to-head,” he said testily. “The President likes the old coot, and wants to give him something to do. Vanderheld
is
head of the Space Council, after all.” Sykes tapped the desktop as if waiting for Bonner to respond. When he didn't, he continued. “Frank, I want you to prepare
Endeavour
to get on up there and get the shuttle back. I've already talked to the President about this. He wants to give the Air Force their shot but he wants you to be ready if they fail.”

“Ollie Grant and a tiger team in Houston are mapping out the procedures for a rendezvous now,” Bonner replied, trying not to sound too eager.

“I should have known you'd be ahead of me,” Sykes said, smiling. No matter what facial expression Sykes took, it came out looking crafty, sneaky. Bonner recognized at that moment the sleaziness of the man, his willingness to flatter, to say anything to get what he wanted. “You know, I might have something to say on who is going to be the next NASA administrator,” Sykes went on. “If you're able to pull this off, Frank, I think your name will be at the top of the short list.”

Bonner sat up. This was unexpected. He was tempted to smile, but then he realized he was in the middle of a negotiation. How far could he push it? He decided to find out. “Bernie, I would love to be the NASA administrator. It's something I've wanted my entire professional career. But there's something I want even more.”

“Go ahead,” Sykes said cautiously.

“When I get her back, I want
Columbia
to stay on flight status. I need all my shuttles.”

Sykes showed no surprise at the idea. “I'll see what I can do. You have my word on that. Vanderheld might be circumvented, especially if WET passes and he's assigned to the energy council it mandates. That would probably take up all his time and focus. A good NASA administrator might be able to wheel and deal, especially with me on his side.”

Bonner stood, anxious to get going, to get the rendezvous plan moving even faster. “I'll let you know how we're doing,” he said.

Sykes stood as well, reached out to shake Bonner's hand. “Re member, if there's a reward for success, there are penalties for failure.”

Bonner nodded. “I fully understand.”

“Frank, get the President his shuttle back,” Sykes said.

“Yes, sir. I will,” Bonner replied, and headed out the door.

THE DODO

Defense Intelligence Agency, Fort Meade, Maryland

Dr. Clay Corbin, a dapper little man who always wore a black three-piece suit with a plaid vest—his one nod away from strict conformity—was in charge of the DIA satellite communications center and had it humming with excited activity. He was having the best time of his life. At the order of the President of the United States he was moving one of DIA's Keyhole sats to keep an eye on the hijacked shuttle
Columbia.
Corbin was justifiably proud of the Keyholes, giant spy satellites with optics that allowed them to see objects as small as a baseball from orbit. Their capabilities included the transmission back to earth of both still photographs and video. The Keyholes were also capable of quickly changing orbit and altitude with built-in maneuvering and guidance systems. Ground controllers only had to send up a command and the Keyholes would use star trackers to confirm their positions, compute the orbital delta solution, and within seconds begin their move. Since the Soviet Union had collapsed, two of the DIA's five Keyholes in orbit had been put into reserve, meaning they had essentially been powered off except for health and status communications every twenty-four hours. Corbin had chosen Keyhole 13, a reserve sat placed in orbit by the shuttle
Discovery,
to go after
Columbia.

Corbin had established communications between Fort Meade and Eglin Air Force Base. Eglin's powerful radar systems could track anything in orbit. Since the radar was in Florida, the decision had been made to rendezvous the Keyhole with
Columbia
as the shuttle passed over Mexico. That would guarantee a clear radar view.

“We're still maneuvering,” Corbin announced tersely on the secure land line to Eglin. “Keep me apprised, Colonel.”

On the other end of the line was Colonel Scott Albright, the commander of Eglin radar. He tended to shout, especially when he was excited. “Roger that, Dr. Corbin!” he brayed. “How you read me?”

Corbin winced. “Loud and clear, Eglin. Mostly loud.”

“We got a radar lock on the shuttle!” Albright kept yelling.
“Columbia
is coming over the horizon. She's got an almost perfect 558-mile-high circular orbit. And an operator just announced she thinks she's got the Keyhole. . . good clear transponder signal. . . we've got your Keyhole, Dr. Corbin! Wait a minute, got a report from one of my radar jocks.. . . We got a third object on the screen down here. Estimated intersection with
Columbia
in five minutes.”

Corbin gritted his teeth in pain as Albright nearly burst his eardrums when he yelled at the jock. “What's the object? Get a reading on it! I'm going to bring you up on the radar push, Dr. Corbin. Stand by!”