Moonstruck. Part 28

Objects that thankfully could not always be identified bobbed in the darkened sea. Many were corpses, already bloating from decomposition. It was hard to imagine anyone surviving the disaster. With the houses buried, she couldn't begin to guess what the population had been. Hundreds, surely. And they'd pa.s.sed a dozen such tragedies already. "This is horrible," she said. "You know I have emergency funds to release. What else can the US do?"

Astley paused for a staticky announcement from the marine radio before answering. "What the Costa Ricans urgently need is emergency supplies and logistical support. They're getting some from the EU and j.a.pan. I doubt they'll take such visible aid from us."

The hull slammed into another wave trough. Darlene staggered. "Another government still officially

enraged at us? Have we made no progress?""We're still the murderers who drove away the Galactics, and with them the secret of free fusion power." He throttled back briefly, for reasons she was too landlubberly to understand. "They'll take our money, of course, if we give it privately."

The worst thing was, this immense, slow-moving tropical depression wasn't an isolated event. This year's El Nino phenomenon was the worst in years. As America's goodwill amba.s.sador, she'd been traveling from catastrophe to catastrophe for weeks. Drought and uncontrollable forest fires in the western Pacific, storms in the eastern. How had her country fallen so low in the world's esteem that accepting American disaster relief was an embarra.s.sment? And knowing what she did about the aliens . . . the rage against the US was so unjust.

The Krulirim! Her watch confirmed a belated, jet-lagged recollection of the date. Today was Kyle's big launch. Guiltily, she wondered how the end of Clear Skies was going.

* * * NASA practice for the shuttle was to separate the orbiter from its external tank when the pairing reached ninety-seven percent of orbital velocity. In a fuel-wasting maneuver, the manned orbiter aimed its tank, just before that decoupling, for a dramatic splashdown in the Indian Ocean. The logic was to safely dispose of the tank rather than have them acc.u.mulate in orbit.

This was an Air Force mission, and the start of a new practice. The now nearly empty tank stayed with the orbiter all the way into a circular orbit at an alt.i.tude of 150 miles. "Target on visual," drawled Major Tara "Windy" McNeilly, the Endeavor's laconic pilot. Closed-circuit TV gave the ground team a pilot-eye view of the dartlike fuel carrier being overtaken by the orbiter. The waiting tanker-basically an unmanned and stripped orbiter replete with fuel-had been launched from Slick Six weeks earlier. It had been parked in a higher orbit until needed, then lowered in preparation for Endeavor's launch. "Ten klicks." In simpler times, the first manned launch from Vandenberg and the first shuttle to carry its ET into orbit would have been enough experimentation for one flight. For today's mission, the novelty had just begun. Minute by minute, hour by hour, tension built. The s.p.a.cewalk to attach radio-controlled att.i.tude jets to Endeavor's about-to-be-jettisoned external tank. (Built-in thrusters would have required extensive ET modifications and unmanned shuttle test flights-time Kyle was reluctant to spend.) Remotely piloting the tanker to Endeavor's now-separated ET. Docking, refueling, and undocking-and repeating that dangerous maneuver until it was routine. Rendezvousing again with the partially refilled ET (no human s.p.a.cecraft could carry a full ET's worth of liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen into orbit). Mating Endeavor with its refueled ET . . . remembering throughout how the botched docking of a much smaller resupply capsule had almost killed everyone aboard the late, lamented Russian Mir. "Piece of cake," said McNeilly as she completed the final docking. She unbuckled and floated free in the small cabin, making microgravity bows. Colonel Craig "Tricky" Carlisle, her restrained mission commander, waited until the disconnect valves in both orbiter and ET reopened before flashing thumbs-up. A middeck camera showed four more beaming faces.

The expressions in mission control were equally happy. Kyle found an unused mike, then shot a questioning look at the capsule communicator, who nodded her go-ahead. "I suggest you folks get some sleep. Your next stop is going to be really interesting."

* * * Two astronauts floated free, the orbiter having backed off to a distance that made tethers impractical. Puffs of compressed gas from the backmounted MMUs, manned maneuvering units, nudged them closer and closer to their quarry. The black, vaguely insectile masersat absorbed most of the illumination from their helmet-mounted lights.

"It's as we expected," said Major Anson "Big Al" Buckley. "The wings are covered in a repeating

pattern, a grid of squares connected by fine lines. It sure looks like a solar-cell array."

"Agreed." Major Juanita Gonzalez, a woman of few words, was cursed with the unavoidable astronaut- corps nickname of "Speedy."

Thousands of miles away, Kyle overcame the urge to scream with impatience. Solar cells weren't today's issue. "Can you fold the wings?" CAPCOM relayed the question. The masersats could not have exited the cargo-bay airlocks of the Consensus unless the struts folded-nor could one fit aboard Endeavorwith its wings extended.

"Negative on that. No visible hinges, b.u.t.tons, switches, or cranks." On the telephoto view broadcast from the Endeavor, only a tiny gap appeared between Buckley and the satellite. From the camera's frame of reference, the astronaut was floating on his head.

"I'm stumped," admitted Gonzalez. "I'm clueless how the twenty-seven-toed b.u.g.g.e.rs fold the wings."

The s.p.a.cewalkers tried a few tentative pushes and shoves, to no avail; the wings did not budge. "Okay, propose we go to Plan B."

CAPCOM looked to Kyle and Ryan Bauer for approval. Kyle triple-checked the IR view of the screen.

Just solar heating, as far as he could tell. He nodded. "Roger that, Speedy."On Endeavor's video, the astronauts were seen to deploy small, shiny tools: cordless power saws. Gloves and bodies conveyed a trace of electric-motor whine into the s.p.a.cesuits, to be picked up by helmet mikes. Plan C, if needed, involved small shaped charges. "Here's luck for a change," said Big Al. "These spars cut like b.u.t.ter."

Not entirely good luck . . . Kyle had hoped to use a spar stub as a grappling point for the orbiter's robot arm. The stumps sounded too soft for that purpose, which took them to Plan B-and-a-half. Gonzalez jetted slowly around the alien artifact, trailing double-insulated braided steel cable. The astronauts snugged the loop loosely about the masersat's waistlike indentation with a st.u.r.dy metal ratcheting clamp.

Strong brackets with heavy-duty k.n.o.bbed posts were secured under the cable, and the clamp ratcheted

until the cable was taut. The s.p.a.cewalkers jetted back to the waiting shuttle, each with an alien solar panel in hand.

"All set," said the mission commander finally. It meant the s.p.a.cewalkers were back aboard and the

wings stowed in the cargo bay. It meant Evelyn Tanaka, the only civilian aboard but NASA's unchallenged master at operating the shuttle's robotic arm, was ready to reach out and make history. It meant "Windy" McNeilly was set for another close encounter. The orange-insulated cable and chromed brackets made the waiting satellite far more visible than on initial approach. "Houston, six votes here for loading up this bad boy and doing a boogie on down."

All eyes were on Kyle. "Lots of ayes here, too, Commander."

Forty minutes later, with the long-sought satellite securely locked into a cargo-bay cradle, Kyle allowed himself to truly believe this was going to work.

Darlene clung to the railing, the gale streaming the remains of her breakfast away from the boat. Foul taste in her mouth aside, she felt better. That was not the same as feeling well.

Several emba.s.sy marines had accompanied the amba.s.sador; one left the cabin to check on her. She

couldn't recall his name. "Can I get you some water, ma'am?"

Sky, sea, and mud-covered land . . . everything was gray. Something caught her eye. Not far behind them, a pier stuck out to sea. The jetty, like the village that had once owned it, was mostly buried in

mud, but the last twenty feet or so were uncovered. Huddling on the end of the pier was . . . something.

"Do we have binoculars?"

"Yes, ma'am." He returned quickly with a pair. "Here."

The binoc view only amplified the apparent motion of the boat. Ignoring her nausea, she swept the

gla.s.ses along the sh.o.r.e. There! A child of uncertain age was trapped on the end of the pier, clinging desperately to a piling around which her arms scarcely reached. Between crashing waves, the girl waved frantically. Her mouth gaped, but Darlene could hear nothing over the roar of the sea. She handed back the gla.s.ses. "Sergeant. Watch that jetty." She half ran, half slid into the cabin, to see if the amba.s.sador could, somehow, rescue the child.

The cursing that erupted behind her made plain, before the boat had scarcely begin to turn, that the storm had claimed one more victim.

CHAPTER 34.

Only Kyle's feet were outside the shadow of the beach umbrella, and that exposure was by choice. He was planted in a beach chair, toes digging into damp sand whose moisture was sporadically replenished by swirls of mild Caribbean waters. An unopened novel rested on his lap.

Reading was the last thing he felt like.

Darlene's chair and his shared the umbrella. Beneath the wide-brimmed straw hat that covered her face she murmured in her sleep. She was the reason he was here. She badly needed a vacation, and the only

way to get her on one was to go himself. Globe-trotting hadn't worn her out, it was her itinerary: disaster after catastrophe after cataclysm. He tried to share her worries, her sadness, but talking wasn't enough.

What was the world coming to when lolling on the beach with a beautiful woman was a duty instead of a

delight? Sipping a pina colada, he tried to get interested in his book. What part of his frustration, he wondered, came from knowing he may as well be here as at the lab? Specialists needed the first crack at the recovered masersat. He'd only have been in their way.

Maybe he did belong on the beach: Project Clear Skies was over. (But not Project Swelk, his inner conniver reb.u.t.ted. Kyle had yet to dare articulating the unsuspected step three.) Aside from Dar's murmuring, all that could be heard were seagulls and lapping waves. They had a long stretch of St. Croix sh.o.r.eline to themselves. Not many Americans could afford vacations these days, while former friends took their tourist euros, yen, and rubles elsewhere.

The utterances m.u.f.fled by Dar's hat became whimpers. Her limbs twitched. d.a.m.n it! Kyle was neither mind reader nor gambler, but he'd have bet big bucks she was reliving that moment off Costa Rica. The one tragedy that, unfolding before her eyes, personified the many deaths for which she'd tried to extend America's often-rejected concern. That poor girl! How long had she been trapped at the dock's end, only to drown with rescue within sight?

And poor Dar, watching helplessly as it happened.With a flash of deja vu, the azure sky once more blossomed with remembered flames. Of the many deaths for which the Krulirim were responsible, none obsessed him like the five men and women on the Atlantis. He could no more have saved them than the doomed submariners or silo crews. The difference was he'd experienced the shuttle tragedy at first hand, and that it was of a scale he could viscerally understand. He understood Dar's grief, all right. The next time she cried out, he had an urge to join. He threw his book in frustration.

"Drink, mister?"

Kyle turned. The crockery on the boy's tray glistened with condensation. Cherry stems, c.o.c.ktail

umbrellas, and plastic straws peered over the rims. "A colada. Bill it to room 412."

"Two, please." Dar sat up and removed her hat. "I woke myself up." She shouted herself awake many nights.

"No, I disturbed you, hailing this young fellow." The lad kept from his face any reaction to the white lie

as Kyle accepted two br.i.m.m.i.n.g drinks.

She waited for the boy to continue his rounds. "Not unless your voice rose an octave and you were whimpering."

"You've got to lighten up on yourself." He handed her a beverage. "No, really."

"Physicist, heal thyself."

Touche. He drew a long sip through his straw. "We are a sorry pair, aren't we?"

"Speaking of being sorry . . . I apologize in advance if this offends you." Holding her mock-coconut

vessel at arm's length, she exchanged grimaces with its ceramic face. "We finally have the"-she glanced around furtively, although no one on the beach was in earshot-"item. It will be studied. Maybe it's time to apply that same focused attention to climate issues. Global warming. El Nino. Improved weather forecasting."

"The same focused attention" meant, Change what you're doing. Kyle, tackle a problem that's certain.She knew he knew. He leaned over and kissed her. "I really love you."That didn't mean yes.

* * * "UN SecGen demands custody of stolen Galactic guardiansat." Kyle ripped the clipping with its screaming headline from a corkboard. He hurled it, wadded and torn, into a trash can. What would the UN do with the artifact if they had it? He pictured it behind gla.s.s in a museum.

Before letting that happen, he'd swipe it again.

"Like a patient etherized upon a table." If Hammond Matthews had noticed his colleague's fit of pique, he gave no sign. It was Friday, and Matt wore scientist casual: jeans, T-shirt, white socks and sandals.The outbuilding devoted to the study of the captured masersat was uncharacteristically empty. It's amazing, thought Kyle, what fifty bucks of pizza can accomplish. He would join the mini-thanks after his private viewing.

The "patient" spanned a line of lab benches. It was twenty-some feet long, and the canvas tarp draped over it revealed only gentle curves and the hint of a waist. "Try not to disturb it."

"We're doing our best."

The metaphor Kyle truly favored was too discouraging to express, a comparison that had first come to him as the charred, twisted wreck of the starship was trucked to Franklin Ridge.

The aliens had fusion power, an interstellar drive, and artificial gravity. How far ahead of human