SpaceCorp (35 page)

“Hi, Gordy!”

“Welcome home, sailor! Or did they impress you into their crew?”

She undid the U-bolt from the equipment sling around his waist and extracted the quick-disconnect clevis pin. “Nah, you guys are stuck with me for a while longer.”

The U-bolt slipped under the recessed D-ring and the clevis pin went through the holes in the end of the U-bolt. She could feel, not hear, as it snapped into the locked position. She twisted the safety latch into the locked position and said, “We’re good. Let’s get out of the hot sun!”

Gordon attached a cable runner to the hawser that would pull him back to the spoke attachment point at the inside of the
Einstein’s
ring. “Need a lift?”

Monica clipped her safety strap to Gordon’s harness and gave him a thumb’s up. Gordon squeezed the dead man’s throttle on the cable runner and they were headed back to the
Einstein
at a blistering half meter per second.

“Not to sound ungrateful, but can you get any more speed out of this rig? I’m… ah… worried it might rain.”

“What, you forgot your umbrella?” He goosed the throttle and they jerked forward bumping the velocity meter to two meters per second. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Heard you guys lost a man. Was that on your shuttle?”

“Yeah. The OOD was checking cable tension when he caught a singleton through the back of his helmet.”

“Ouch!”

She thought of Royce’s body still dangling from its tether on the starboard side of the shuttle. They wouldn’t attempt a recovery until the
Grouper
was safely inside the ring and no longer needed for maneuvering the hub & spokes. Protocol demanded the
Grouper
bag him and freeze him, without removing him from his suit, before returning him to the
Grouper’s
parent station for processing.
Processing
. Such an impersonal end. You processed supplies. Hell, you even processed garbage and excrement. People deserved something better than processing.

“Did you know him?”

“Yeah… I knew him.”

A week later…

Passenger terminal, Hangar Deck,
SSS Albert Einstein

Monica was seated on her personal duffle bag, back against the bulkhead, helmet on the floor as Captain Dinesh walked up. Monica smiled and struggled to her feet in the bulky space suit.

“Hey, girl,” Captain Dinesh said, “you didn’t think I was gonna let you get away without saying good-bye, did you?”

“Thanks for seeing me off, Captain.”

“We should be thanking you, hot shot! Without you, we might not be having this conversation.”

“Oh, I didn’t really do anything.”

“Aw shucks, twarn’t nuthin’!” Captain Dinesh mocked.

Monica wrinkled her brow.

“When I get time off,” Dinesh continued, “I have quite a collection of old American movies—lotsa westerns. That’s how the heroes talked… sort of. I’m not very good at it. Can’t seem to shake my Indian roots.”

“Hmm… doesn’t Bollywood do westerns?”

“Yes… sort of. They call them curry westerns.”

“Curry?”

“Yes, they’re always musicals.”

“Are they any good?”

“If you like musicals. But hey, you don’t want to sit here gabbing with me about movies.”

Monica smiled but didn’t answer.

“I already know your answer but I have to try anyway… is there any way I can talk you into staying on?”

Monica shook her head and smiled, blushing.

Captain Dinesh took Monica’s gloved hands in hers and drew her close to look intently into her eyes. “Okay, what’s the big secret? Just between us girls.”

At that moment the passenger steward began shooing everyone onto the shuttle.

“That’s me!” Monica said. She pulled her hands away from Captain Dinesh and grabbed her duffle and helmet. “Have a good mission!”

“But can’t run off like this. You have to tell me!”

“I’m getting married!” Monica yelled, then disappeared into the shuttle cabin.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
T
HREE

September 26
^th
, 2071

White House Oval Office

The view of the president’s desk was blocked by a half dozen monitors. The president sat cocked on the front edge of the desk, one leg extended to the floor for balance. In his right hand he held the remote controller which he used to activate the sound on the monitor of his choice—his attention span never lasted more than ten seconds on a single station. His left hand held a phone. SpaceCorp executive Hank Larsen was on the other end.

“Mr. Larsen, are you absolutely
sure
that missile was launched from Iran?” the president asked.

“Yes, Mr. President, it was first sighted rising from the Shahrud launch site.”

“Okay, then what happened?”

“Once the
Einstein
determined the missile was hostile and inbound for a top-attack, they jettisoned their hub and spokes allowing the warhead to pass through the ring without detonating.”

“And you’re telling me they planned that?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Why didn’t they use their laser cannon?”

“It was mounted on a pedestal that extended through the bottom of the hull—they had to make a design decision, top or bottom, and they figured the Iranians would go for a direct engagement, so they mounted it on the bottom. The Iranians must have gotten the word and went for the top side engagement.
Einstein’s
cannon couldn’t super elevate once the missile passed above their orbit altitude.”

“But you said they
did
fire at it.”

“Yes, Mr. President, but only after the warhead passed through the ring.”

“And then the warhead continued down to impact on a village in southern Iran.”

“That’s right, Mr. President.”

“For which they are claiming they never fired any missile and that we fired our laser on that village and killed all those people.”

“That’s what the news feeds are saying from our end, Mr. President.”

The president got up from his desk and walked with the phone to his ear as he gazed out the oval shaped window behind his desk.

“Oh yes, Mr. Larsen, that’s exactly what both sides of the press are saying—believe me, I watch’em all. They are all in complete agreement for the first time over a half a goddamned century. Have you folks released a statement?”

“Yes, Mr. President, we have stated the
Einstein
acted in self-defense and that we did not fire on that village. We even released gun-camera films.”

“But nobody has run your statement or your films?”

“Only to say SpaceCorp is denying any involvement in the attack on the village. They don’t say anything about the missile nor do they show any of our films.”

“Goddamned press! My office has released essentially the same statement, without your gun-camera footage, and all those lying bastards have said is that the White House is denying the Iranian allegations. Meanwhile, I’ve got half the goddamned Congress demanding to impeach my wrinkly ass!”

“Anything we can do to help, sir?”

“I’ll keep your offer in mind, Hank. Right now I got to figure out what’s going on with the left-wing press. It’s obvious the right-wing press is just following their SOP of anything goes wrong—blame the president, anything goes right—spin it wrong, then blame the president. But the left? This is a new wrinkle. Thank you, Mr. Larsen. I’ll be in touch.”

October 1
^st
, 2071

The House of Representatives, Washington D.C.

The Speaker of the House stood at the front of the House gazing out at the seated members of the House of Representatives. The chamber was unusually full—a tad over fifty percent of the members present.

“The chair recognizes Congressman Billie Shiloh from Tennessee.”

Congressman Shiloh rose from his chair and approached the podium. “Thank you, Mr. Speaker. I’ll be brief. The Constitution normally requires a full house vote in order to impeach the president. Gentlemen… and ladies, we have not seen a full house in decades and are not likely to see one any time soon. Meanwhile, we are faced with a rogue president who is long overdue for replacement, one who has refused all lawful attempts to engage in a presidential election, and now most egregiously, has brought down the good name and reputation of our nation by unilaterally attacking the peaceful and sovereign nation of Iran! I do not need to remind you of Iran’s war-making capabilities and what a terrible threat to our safety that represents! Therefore in this moment of desperation, I ask my colleagues from both sides of the aisle to vote in favor of the findings of the House Judicial Committee on the matter of President Roosevelt Jefferson Kafka being guilty of high crimes and misdemeanors sufficient to call for his forcible removal from office—a simple majority of those present to carry the day. Thank you, Mr. Speaker.”

The chamber was unusually quiet as Congressman Shiloh returned to his seat. The Speaker cleared his throat several times before speaking.

“Is there to be any debate from the floor on this grave proposition Congressman Shiloh has put before us?” He gazed about the room, his eyes settling on a rotund, gray-haired black woman seated about ten rows back and to his right. “The chair recognizes Congresswoman Anita Franklyn from District 12 of Maryland.”

The congresswoman cleared her throat before speaking. “Mr. Speaker and colleagues, our esteemed congressman from the great state of Tennessee has put before us a proposition reminiscent of Aesop’s fable of a family of mice deciding to place a bell round the neck of a cat that had been tormenting them. A wise old mouse commended their innovation but then asked who would put the bell on the cat? We now have a similar situation before us. There is a reason why President Kafka has served so long. Without his willingness to stay in office, the presidency would have gone vacant these past decades and we all know why that is. So I ask you, esteemed colleagues, if we impeach our president today, by what means shall we replace him tomorrow?”

“Mr. Speaker, Mr. Speaker!” a short paunchy man carrying his seersucker jacket over his forearm yelled from the second row. His sweat-soaked pits were plainly visible as he waved his arm to get the speaker’s attention.

“The chair recognizes Congressman Shiloh.”

“Thank you, Mr. Speaker. I would offer the following solution to my esteemed colleague from the great state of Maryland. Too long have we suffered the indignity of an unelected president! I propose that rather than continue this abysmal and cowardly practice, that we return to emplacing our elected officials the old fashioned way—with an election! Who’s with me on this? Stand up and give shout in support of your country!”

A few members—each a member of the Revived States’ Rights Democratic Party—stood up tentatively and began to clap slowly. Then a few more, nudged by their colleagues seated behind them, also stood and put their hands together for their new cause. Little by little each member present in the House stood up from their seats. Some did not clap, choosing to hold their hands clasped in front instead. After several minutes, the Speaker banged his gavel and asked the members to be seated.

“We appear to have a consensus. Let us proceed to a floor vote, simple majority of those present to carry the day.”

October 1
^st
, 2071

White House Oval Office

The president sat behind his desk with his chair turned to face out the window. Maccabee approached on cat feet as was his habit for the last twenty-four years.

“What is it, Maccabee?” Cat feet or no, the president always knew when he entered the room.

“Uh… sir, I—”

The president spun his chair to face his staffer. “I know. They think they’ve impeached me. I saw it on the House feed. Anything from the Senate yet?”

“They’re finishing up their deliberations, sir. My sources expect they will ratify the impeachment.”

“I don’t suppose anybody there had balls enough to question the legality of
what
they’re deliberating.”

“I’m afraid not, sir. I’ve summoned your legal counsel.”

“Why, Maccabee? What can
he
do now?”

“As you suggested, sir, what they’re doing is not legal. They needed a full house and they didn’t have one. We can challenge them, sir. Challenge them and win!”

“Oh, yes, my good Maccabee. We can challenge them but we won’t win. I always suspected it would come to this one day.”

“Come to what, sir?”

“Pitstick. He finally thinks he can overthrow the government. He’s wanted to secede all these years, but he’s always known I wouldn’t let him. Another Civil War… yes, way worse than the first one. I know my generals, Maccabee. He does not, not at the Federal level anyway. Oh, he may have one or two antebellum throwbacks from his National Guard, Maccabee.” The president strode close to Maccabee and looked him straight in the eye. “But I ask you, if those secessionist idiots are political enough to side with him, are they
military
enough to fight and win?”

“No, sir. No, sir, they would not be! Brilliant, sir! How shall we proceed?”

“First, we need to get the hell out of Washington while we still can. I cannot thwart a rebellion from a jail cell. Get the Cabinet over here—not all of them—you know the ones I mean. Arrange for immediate pickup by chopper. We’re moving, Maccabee. Pick us out an undisclosed location. Some place nice. Some place I can walk around outside a bit.”

One hour later

The White House South Lawn