Whatever Gods May Be (13 page)

Oddly enough, though, the marriage had been a happy one.  Both professionals understood the rigors and demands of one anothers careers.  Neither of them was so selfish as to suggest sacrificing time away from work they both loved, in order to be together more often.  Besides, they considered the vacation periods they did have to be all the sweeter by the long absences and separations.

Regardless, their lifestyles couldn't change; both were too committed to professions that gobbled their hours away and cared nothing for a mythical full-time marriage concept.  They were too intelligent to argue about the unfairness of it all, yet they were too in love not to compromise and wait for something better to come along.

That 'something better' had been the Challenger II-Space Lab link-up.  And for the past ten months, John and Cathy Phillips had been the happiest couple in - and above the world.  All indications continued to point to an even happier future.

It had taken only a week to shatter the dream.  After her own examination, Cathy deduced that there would be complications in the delivery.  She anticipated a caesarian procedure, and this of course warranted an immediate return to Earth.

While such news was disappointing to both NASA and Cathy, John alone was secretly relieved.  He had acquiesced to Cathy's original coercion to remain in orbit to have the baby with definite reluctance, though the official view presented by NASA stated that John had fairly insisted on the decision.  Though her present condition worried him considerably, he was pleased that Cathy would have proper medical attention on Earth -- the likes of which he or the Space Lab could not have come close to adequately providing.

A press release on the Phillips' premature return to Earth had been schedule two days ago.  The official statement, however, was never made.

In conjunction with John and Cathy's personal dilemma, a world had decided to go to war.  Overnight, the astronauts were forgotten.  Russia and the United States were the new flavor now, the new superstars that had the undivided attention of three billion pairs of anxious and panicked eyes.  What these two parties were about to give birth together, was far more engrossing - and ultimately more devastating - than anything the two astronauts could offer in competition.

Since war had officially been declared, the Shuttle was regarded by Russia as enemy property, possibly armed and definitely hostile.  It had not been fired upon as yet, for the same reason that not one missile had thus far been launched: mutual fear.  The two nations were for the time being content to froth and snarl at one another -- but each as hesitant to commit to an attack that would be irreversible and final.

Nevertheless, the Shuttle was barely tolerated by the Soviets, and in their last official communicae through the Security Counsel, they promised to destroy the spacecraft if it dared attempt a landing.  The Americans had promised swift and total retaliation against the Soviets if such a threat were to be carried out (though this was the pat response by both nations in addressing half a dozen other issues that had led up to the actual declaration of war).  But not to take chances, the President of the United States had ordered the shuttle to remain aloft.  Last ditch efforts towards reconciliation by stalwart statesmen from both superpowers were still taking place.  The President felt that the delicate balance which had for two days kept his country and Russia from launching their nuclear death need not be tipped by valiant, bluff-calling.

So Challenger II remained in space.  In addition to her previous prognosis, Cathy relayed to Jchn and NASA that her delivery would be premature.  Her frequent and painful contractions in a period of one week seemed to confirm this estimate.  NASA received this further disheartening news with sympathy, but added that it was helpless to do anything about it.  Challenger II was under no circumstances to land.

Meanwhile, Earth below them died slowly.  The crisis showed no signs of diminishing.  Then, two days after what had been termed as the "atomic Sitskrieg", the last hopes of a technical cease-fire coming about were dashed with the joint severing of all diplomatic relations.  The last desperate talks had failed and the diplomats went home.  Within the hour, the President of the United States withdrew from Washington and the Russian President vacated the Kremlin.

Panic reigned over Earth, as thousands died frantically trying to escape from their cities before a single bomb was dropped.  Ironically, though both Russia and the United States continued to stew in fearful indecision, and had refrained from conflict in the eight hours since their mutual declaration of war, casualties were mounting worldwide as a result of scrambled mayhem and terror.

The world cried in fear and looked to the heavens for salvation.  Far too anxious to locate a higher source to save it, Earth no longer had the time or inclination to wonder about the status of a lone shuttle or its very pregnant crew.

Distracted by domestic turmoil, Earth was also largely unaware of yet another possible threat to its survival aside from war.  Robbed of due notice, the ALC-117 object had materialized with spooky coincidence, as Mankind prepared itself for one last, final atrocity.  Amidst a backdrop of multiple catastrophe, the few who knew about ALC-117 could only speculate impotently among themselves as to which disaster - be it nuclear war or the ALC-117 impact - would ultimately be more devastating to the planet Earth.

Far above, John and Cathy Phillips floated around the world in uneasy tranquility.  Beneath them,a hell was about to be born from the atomic fires of Mankind's psychosis.  Above, and slightly to the right, a conceivably more frightening menace was approaching from the icy unknown of space.

Trapped in a kind of orbital purgatory, the Phillips watched and wondered and waited for the climactic events to transpire that would decide the destiny of Mankind for a million years to come.  And though this was all they could really do, the Phillips found some solace in once last endeavor.

They prayed.

TWELVE

Lieutenant Randolph P. Smithers had not touched a cigarette for over three months.  Needless to say, he was exceptionally proud of himself, though he knew that full credit belonged to a delicious red-headed girl named Janet - his present fiance and soon-to-be wife after the first of the year.  Replacing the worn photo up against the control panel, Smithers glanced at his associate Lieutenant Coleman.  Now that's rough, he thought to himself grimly.  Coleman had two kids, with another on the way; the night before Christmas was a lousy time for a full fledged father to be assigned graveyard duty to a Minuteman silo base.

Hell, Smithers admonished himself gruffly, it was a crummy time for anyone to be caught away from home.

Smithers wouldn't allow himself to dwell on the far more ominous vibrations that made this night conceivably more dreadful than any others he had known.  For a little while at least, he would wallow in the mundane and petty, pretending to gripe about an ill-spent duty during the holidays; it was, after all, considerably easier than contemplating the mounting horror of what was transpiring in the outside world - and what contribution he might quite likely make to it in only a few hours.

Smithers could feel the cigarette pack rub against his chest.  It was certainly tempting.  Fingering the cigarettes, he shook his head.  Nah, he'd wait; it would be one less New Year's resolution to make, he thought to himself reasonably.  Another glance at Janet rebolstered his willpower.  Leaning back into his chair with clear unease, but with just a trace of self-respect for his new found courage, Lieutenant Smithers prepared himself for what he could imagine was going to be one lousy night.

"Tis the season to be jolly," he hummed tonelessly, scattering his glance across the familiar boards in front of him.

Coleman made a rather repulsive sound from his chair a few feet away from Smithers.  Usually, the big black officer was congenial and talkative, and would throw a big grin towards Smithers whenever he heard the man even attempt to murder a tune.  Tonight, though, Coleman only snorted and stared ahead at his table of buttons, as if somehow, if he tried hard enough, he could will them, and all they represented, to go away forever.

Typical of the aggressive individuals attracted to missile duty, Randolph Smithers was one of 1,200 SAC officers assigned to the Minuteman/Peacekeeping combat crews.  A relatively new creature to the art of modern warfare, Smithers and others like him had met and exceeded some of the highest performance standards ever created for duties involving nuclear weapons.  Every man and women belonging to the elite launch contingents had undergone specialized training which would allow them placement in the hundreds of underground control centers smattered across the United States.  They represented one of many backbones of American nuclear defense with a clearly defined mission objective: "Be prepared 24 hours a day to launch, upon receipt of order initiated by the National Command Authority, assigned missiles against designated targets." Responsible for 24 hour alert readiness, officers like Smithers would not fail to implement their command directive should a wartime emergency develop.

Usually, silo duty was damned boring; the hours were long and empty, and you actually looked forward to something happening, short of the unspeakable horror of a real crisis.  Last week, Smithers had rescued a hapless roadrunner from one of the air ducts leading from the surface to the main silos.  It had taken all of fifteen minutes, but this seemingly inconsequential departure from routine had made lively subject matter for days to come.

For all the seemingly endless tedium the job promised, each officer like Smithers was supremely grateful by the end of his shift that the boring routine that was commonplace had been gloriously uninterrupted.  Though the job objectives were clear and necessary, another day that was passed in which the unthinkable had been unfulfilled, was one that was silently blessed in the prayers of missile officers wherever they could be found.

Unfortunately, tonight Smithers' duty was no longer dull.  Not terribly entertaining to begin with, silo duty on rare occasions could at least be relaxing.  You could think a lot down here away from the screaming frenzy of humanity above.  A man like Smithers had a lot to think about these days; marriage, a house, maybe even buying a dog.  All such pleasant and simple distractions were crushed tonight by the realization that before a new day began, he might very well perform a duty which he secretly believed could never take place - and which would shatter not only his own future, but that of a world as well.  Though Smithers himself was having an absolutely rotten Christmas Eve, his farthest wishes were those of making everyone else’s night-before just as lousy.

Staring at his panel, and especially the blank communicator screen which would deliver the last, horrible orders from either Washington or the Strategic Air Command center in Nebraska, Smithers made a hasty mental synopsis of his entire life.  He was twenty-eight years old, good-looking, and healthy, with a career under his belt that assured almost guaranteed success and security.  He had always strived to be a good man, barring his uniquely situated position as a kind of mindless executioner, which he could not help but view himself as on some days when he stared too long at the horrible missiles he and his associate held sole dominion over.  He had been a man all his life who looked forward to the future.  He had planned his days accordingly, laying a groundwork that would assure his tomorrows to be secure and fruitful.  Tonight threatened to mar everything he had so meticulously provided for, and though a guy like Smithers was accused to be one of the coolest on the planet, he could sense a distinct heat of fury burning within him.

It wasn't fair, he kept repeating to himself, as he absently perused all of the gauges and screens before him.  It just wasn't fair!

He was fidgety now and he needed to talk.  "Coleman?" he said.

"Yo."

"I'm thinking of buying a dog."

No reply.

"Got any suggestions as to what kind?" Smithers persisted.

Coleman's eyes were glassy.  He was a thousand miles away and looked about as receptive to conversation as a corpse.  Smithers stared at him and waited for an answer.  After a few seconds, he decided that Coleman simply wasn't in the mood for talk.  Then:

"Stay away from Dobermans," the big man answered tonelessly.  "Mean bastards."

Smithers laughed, maybe a little too hard.  "Yeah, that's what I heard.  Nasty sonsofbitches, those dogs.  Wouldn't have one if you gave it to me."

"Shepards are good.  If I were you, that's what I'd get." Coleman finished quietly in a tone of voice that suggested firmly that he wished Smithers would shut up.

Smithers caught the hint.

"Yeah, good idea.  Can't beat a good Shepard.  Good guard animal.  That's what I need," Smithers gabbed nervously, "Thanks."

He stared at the clocks on the wall behind him, each one depicting different time zones across the country.  It was close to midnight, Nevada time, where he was now stationed.  Notwithstanding the fact that Christmas was only a few minutes away, Smithers forced himself to realize that the significant time change brought another more sobering fact into mind.  For now, from a tactical standpoint at least, an attack on the United States would be most imminent within the next hour.  Even though all forces were on full alert, the psychological advantage in launching a first strike in these predawn hours by the enemy against his country was significant.