Worlds in Chaos (42 page)

“They’re here. The door’s open,” the Delta girl informed them.

Charlie released Sheila gently, and managed a smile. “All good things, you know. . . . It’s like Lan said yesterday, you do what you have to. Take care of her for us, John.”

“You guys take care too,” the Guard captain said.

The Delta girl opened the door, and immediately swirls of wind-driven dust spattered through. A boxy, single-engined craft, its airscrew still turning, was waiting in the shadow of the huge widebody loading from the regular jetway above. Colby wrapped his parka tightly about himself, held onto his hood, and ducked out into the swirling orange fog. Charlie followed, then Keene. “Good luck, whatever it is,” one of the cops called after them.

Acrid fumes stung Keene’s nose as he followed the two hunched figures across to the plane. It had a fixed tricycle undercarriage. Military camouflage markings showed dimly in the lights from the terminal building. A shadowy figure was holding the door open below the high wing. Colby and Charlie climbed in, and Keene followed, assisted by a strong pull from above. “Lieutenant Penalski, Marines,” the figure informed them as the door closed. There were empty seats in the forward part of the cabin. Farther back, more figures in combat dress sat outlined vaguely in the semidarkness. “Which of you is Dr. Keene?” the lieutenant asked as the Cessna revved its engine and began moving again.

“I am.”

“Can we bring you up front, next to the pilot? They didn’t tell us much about the mission. You’re going to have to start filling us in right now. But there is some good news. We can forget the plan for going in flapping like a lame duck. It won’t be necessary. Somebody must have gotten through from Washington finally. We got cleared for Vandenberg just before we left.”

“I warn you guys, it’s still gonna be a rough ride,” the pilot shouted above the engine noise. He flipped his mike switch. “MU87. Burbank, we’re ready for clearance, departing Burbank to Vandenberg, IFR, military priority.”

“MU87, Burbank. ATC clears MU87 as file, SID departure runway one six. After takeoff, contact SoCal Control on three-ninety-seven point nine, or if unable, contact SoCal on one-twenty-five point four. We’ve been having trouble with higher frequencies. Contact Vandenberg approach on tower frequency one twenty-four point nine five. If contact lost, proceed with pilot’s discretion flight procedures. Vandenberg and flight service stations are notified via ground lines and will be listening.”

“Roger, clearance.”

“You guys sure you want to do this? It’s bad along them hills out there.”

“Not a lot of choice here. Thanks again.”

“Normally, I’d say have a good one.”

The Cessna rolled forward a short distance and stopped while a dark, humpy shape, looking like a whale in the mists and the dark, passed across in front of them. Then the pilot got an okay from the tower to move out. Wind hit the tiny plane like a water wave as it emerged from the shadow of the terminal building, causing it to rock crazily. Keene hadn’t realized how much the wind had been rising. He had the feeling of being inside a kite that was likely to be snatched away at any moment. As they turned onto the taxiway, lights outside revealed at least three wrecked aircraft pushed off to the side. Two of them looked as if they had collided while maneuvering on the ground, their wings entangled.

“There’s worse moving in behind this,” the pilot told him, keeping his eyes on the shapes moving in the murk ahead. “Lotta boats in trouble out there. When it hits, everything’s gonna be shut down.”

“How long have we got?” Keene asked him.

“Hours . . . maybe.”

33

“Santa Barbara tower. Flight MU87 en route from Burbank to Vandenberg at three hundred feet south east, three miles. We’re going to fly right through your airspace just off the coast.” A burst of static punctuated with voice fragments filled the cabin. The pilot tried again.

“Roger MU87. We were looking for you. What the hell are you doing up in this stuff? Over.
”

“We just can’t resist a challenge.”

The cloud canopy above the Cessna was solid. Below, fingers of dark, coiling vapors blotted out and then revealed briefly the lights of the traffic on coast Highway 101 off to the right, beyond a line of breakers and beaches dimly discernible in the flickering of electrical light above the cloud. Sticky buildups on the wings, control surfaces, and windshield had made it impossible to clear the 3,000-foot hills inland, forcing the plane to head southwest along the Santa Clara Valley to Ventura, turning right to follow the coast from there. There had been several ominous
thunks
of hard objects hitting the structure, but nothing so far had penetrated the cabin.

“Okay. Watch out for three radio towers along the water’s edge, two just as you pass us, one farther up. Altitudes are three fifty feet, and the position lights are out. What are you planning up ahead?”

“Follow the highway on into Vandenberg.”

“I wouldn’t advise it. In about twenty miles, the highway turns right and climbs through some twenty-eight hundred foot hills. Try following the railroad bed along the coast, around Point Conception to Point Arguello, where there’s a navigation light. From there, you should be able to contact Vandenberg. That would put you about seven miles south,
in position for approach to runway one-six. The big launch complexes should stand out. We think they still have lights there.”

“Thanks, Santa Barbara. Wilco.”

“
Caution, traffic climbing out of Santa Barbara airport. Heavy to severe turbulence at all altitudes in this region. We’re getting pilot reports of intermittent meteor strikes. Set your Vandenberg security transponder settings. Over.”

“We’ve been dinged by a couple of those rocks too. No serious damage. But we’ll be glad to get this thing on the ground.”

“You must have some hot dates waiting up there.”

At least, something appeared to be going right. Not only was the stricken-aircraft ruse unnecessary, but they would no longer be faced with the task of having to convince Lacey from a cold start. Of course, there still remained the possibility that Lacey could be part of the plot and was simply allowing them to fly on into the parlor, but it seemed remote.

The dark mass of one of the drilling platforms off Point Conception loomed to the left. It was showing no lights or sign of life, and was being battered by heavy seas. The pilot was having to alternate left and right turns to try and gain some forward visibility.

“I see it!” Keene said suddenly, peering through the right-hand window and gesturing as the yellow smear of Point Arguello’s beacon emerged from the unfolding muddiness ahead.

“Vandenberg, MU87 is five south at three hundred feet en route Vandenberg, following railroad tracks.”

Incredibly, a voice answered.
“Roger, MU87. You’re expected. Barometer is twenty-nine point five-five and falling, visibility three hundred feet to occasionally zero, ceiling indefinite at around two hundred, gusting winds quartering from twenty-five to forty knots. If able, continue along tracks until you have visual. I don’t think you’re going to like this. Over.”

“Not many options here. What aids do we have?”

“ILS is out, and GPS is crazy. We’re having trouble with the VASI lights and runway lights. You should be able to see the launch complex towers; they’re still lighted. When they’re to your right, fly three-forty degrees for one minute, then start a right standard-rate turn to heading one-sixty-two. When you cross the railroad tracks, the runway is a half mile farther. Report abeam the launch complex. Over.”

“Roger that.”

The thought came to Keene out of nowhere that the spontaneous urge to help others just because they were also humans was what Sariena had been trying to explain all along. To the Kronians it was simply a natural expression of what being human meant. Why, here, did it always seem to have wait for a war or some kind of disaster? A pool of lights curdled together oozed through the darkness on Keene’s side of the plane; then another.

“Vandenberg, we’re abeam the complex, turning three-forty degrees.”

“Roger. We don’t have you yet. Turn your landing lights on.”

“Roger, lights. No joy on the runway. We should be on final.”

“Keep the complex on your right and watch for the tracks.”

“We just crossed the tracks. It splits, and both tracks go south on my left. Still no runway.”

“MU87, the tracks should be on your right—ON YOUR RIGHT! BANK LEFT, BANK LEFT!”

The left side of the world fell away, and the haze racing through the landing light beams streamed sideways as the pilot threw the plane into a turn that seemed to bring it head-on into a succession of buffeting humps in the air; then the pattern reversed itself as they quickly rolled level again. The end of a strip marked by a few dim lights slid into view in Keene’s window. “Runway to the right!” he shouted, pointing frantically. The plane banked in the opposite direction, held for a few agonizing seconds while the airscrew clawed and the overloaded control surfaces hauled it around, and then leveled out again just as the wheels thudded against solid ground. The center line was off to the left, but the Cessna had sufficient room and slowed to taxiing speed without mishap. Charlie Hu emitted an audible, shaky sigh somewhere in the shadows behind. Keene found that his palms were sweaty and he had been unconsciously rubbing them on his knees.

“Okay, we’re down. Still can’t see much, though. . . . Oh, wait a sec. We have headlights ahead.”

“That’s a follow-me truck. Follow it to parking and remain on this frequency. And welcome to Vandenberg.”

The truck led them off via a connecting ramp to a taxiway. A large military transport silhouetted in the gloom began rolling forward to takeoff position. As the Cessna moved on by, two more transports became visible, waiting behind. Everything that could move, it seemed, was being got out before the wind front moved in.

Colonel Lacey was a big man with wide, pale eyes set in a florid, fleshy face, lank ginger hair, and a matching toothbrush mustache. Or maybe his hair just appeared lank from his running his fingers through it countless times, as seemed to be his habit when considering a decision, through who-knew-how-many hours of the night and probably the day before. He looked haggard, with dark scores underneath the pale eyes and perspiration stains showing through the shirt of his crumpled uniform. Frequently, when a moment presented itself, he would close his eyes and draw in a long breath, as if to gain a few seconds of respite. He was also, Keene could tell—though doing a commendable job of containing it—very scared.

“Okay, I’ve listened, and I hear what you’re telling me, and the bottom line is: I don’t care,” he told Keene, Colby, and Charlie Hu as they came out from a glass-walled office space where they had gone to talk privately. Lacey had received the visitors up in the tower since he couldn’t spare time to be away. Lt. Penalski was with them also, having left a sergeant in charge of the other five Marines, who had been given coffee in a room on the floor below. The pilot, who they now knew to be Sergeant Erse, was with the Cessna, checking for damage and getting the aircraft fueled and cleaned. Sloane had gotten through to Lacey from Washington about two hours previously to advise that the mission would be arriving, but not trusting communications security he had not elaborated on what it was about. Around them, staff sifted reports and passed on orders, while harassed controllers tried to make sense of the fragmented information coming in and grappled with the chaotic traffic conditions. The Cessna had been one of a few landings that night. Inside the launch complex, a minimum work force was readying the few craft that could be sent up at short notice to provide additional hardware in orbit for contingencies. A large “Samson” military transport was being held back in one of the hangars to evacuate them and the tower crew after the launches were effected. Otherwise, everything was moving out.

Lacey gestured at the windows commanding views out over the field. Water was running down one of the glass panels on the far side of the floor, where a crew outside was sluicing off the encrustation of dust with a fire hose. “We have a permanent population of three and a half thousand people on this base. Ten thousand contractors’ employees live in the surrounding areas, most of them with families. I’ve got a couple of hours to do what good I can with the planes I’ve got. After that, they’re just junk. That’s my first responsibility, Doctor. I don’t care about who’s going out in a shuttle. If they’ve got somewhere to go, good luck to them.”