Combustion (6 page)

Alvy always worked on his own in the past, which meant he was a bit of a lonely guy, his excess weight, facial hair and actual hair, and his preoccupation with
Grand Theft Auto,
not doing him any favours socially (that is, with the ladies). He guessed that’s why Bunsen sought him out: his skill set and solitary lifestyle - there was nothing at home to distract him from the job at hand. Of course, he’s not working alone here, he’s part of the team and he enjoys the dynamic immensely. It reminds him of when he was young and his brother and father were alive. He’s sure they’d be proud of what he’s doing, would realise that the Swarm will one day change the world for the better.

He studies the stopwatch in Bunsen’s hand. Nineteen seconds, twenty, twenty-one. He glances at Jacob and they exchange a nervous smile. Jacob’s been invaluable in the lab, eager to help and quick to learn. The shared experience has brought them close. Alvy likes having a friend, even if he is actually a work colleague. If the Swarm is a success a good part of the credit will go to Jacob. Bunsen, on the other hand, hasn’t been around that much and didn’t even pretend to understand the science of what Alvy was doing. He made up for that by not only building and paying for a state-of-the-art lab but providing all the equipment Alvy needed to complete the task. And it had cost a fortune - well over nineteen million dollars so far. Alvy once asked Bunsen where all the money came from. ‘Reruns,’ Bunsen said, but never elaborated.

Alvy looks at the stopwatch again. Twenty-eight seconds, twenty-nine.

Christ, the tension is unbearable.

It’s like waiting for the world’s most important kettle to boil. His eyes move back to the Hyundai. ‘Come-on-come-on-come-on.’ He doesn’t bother saying it under his breath this time. He hopes it will happen but fears it won’t. Hope and fear. Don’t those two words just sum up life? You hope for the best but fear the worst.

The Hyundai’s exhaust turns a light purple colour.
Yes!
It’s something Alvy expected, a key design feature of the Swarm that had taken him three months to perfect. It’s thrilling to see.

Bunsen turns to him with a smile. ‘Excellent.’

Actually, it’s more than excellent. It’s
fuckin’ fantastic.
Alvy returns the smile and glances at the stopwatch. Forty-four seconds. He looks back at the exhaust. The purple exhaust is darker now, and growing darker by the second.

The exhaust turns black.

It happens, just like that. It’s extraordinary, shocks Alvy even though he’s expecting it, has been working towards it for the better part of three years. It’s terrible and beautiful and sickening and inspiring all in the same moment. All the tension he’s been feeling is instantly released.

~ * ~

Bunsen turns to him with a wide grin. ‘Congratulations. You just changed the world.’

Alvy has done exactly what was asked of him and he’s done it
two months
faster than he said he would. The guy is even smarter than Bunsen realised.

Bunsen puts an arm around him, pulls him close. ‘You did it. You did it!’ Not wanting Jacob to feel left out, Bunsen hooks an arm around the assistant and pulls him into the huddle too. ‘You guys - you made something out of
nothing.
Something important. Something vital.’

Bunsen takes in their shining faces. They look so happy. He wants to remember this moment forever, the moment the mission became a reality, before the machinery cranks to life and everything changes, before he must be cruel to be kind and set Kilroy in motion, to do the things Kilroy does so well.

~ * ~

Alvy looks at Bunsen. ‘What now?’

‘Make a batch. Three thousand litres of the Swarm, three litres of the counteragent.’

‘Jeez. Okay. That’s - a lot.’

‘I want to impress them.’

‘Of course.’

‘How long will it take?’

‘If we start now? Fourteen, fifteen hours.’

‘All right then. I’ll make some calls, set up the demonstration for tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Excellent.’

‘Call me as soon as it’s done.’

‘Will do.’ Alvy nods and Bunsen moves off, then stops and turns back to him.

‘I’m proud of you.’ A little positive reinforcement always goes a long way with Alvy.

Alvy grins. ‘Thanks, man.’

Bunsen nods and keeps walking.

~ * ~

5

Houston Oilers cap on.
Check.

Fifty-eight millimetre American Optical mirror-lensed aviator sunglasses on.
Check.

Beats by Dr Dre Pro headphones on.
Check.

Collar of navy blue Penguin polo shirt up.
Check.

Judd Bell is first down the boarding ramp towards the United Boeing 787, the aircraft that will take him to Los Angeles on this fine day. He doesn’t want to get caught in line with the other passengers so he moves fast and stays ahead of the pack, his cap, oversized sunnies, enormous headphones and raised collar doing their best to make him incognito.

So far so good.

He steps into the plane and hands the flight attendant his boarding pass. He managed to reserve the seat he wanted. Not that it was difficult. Row 56, seat A is, arguably, the worst seat on the aircraft and in no demand at all. ‘Row 56, seat A. Right to the back.’ Judd takes the boarding pass from the nice lady before she has a chance to look at his face and walks on.

He moves quickly down the aisle. Ah, good old 56A. What would he do without it? It’s the only way he can fly domestic any more. It’s the last row on the left at the rear of the plane, against the window. It’s far back enough so none of the passengers will have to pass him to get to their seats, and it’s far enough from the rear toilets so none of the passengers will have to queue nearby when they visit the bathroom. Sure, he’d prefer the larger seats in business class but he’s found, from experience, that if he sits at the front of the aircraft he’s much too visible.

Judd takes his seat, pulls his cap down as low as it will go, then settles back and stares out the window. The seat beside him is empty, and as the plane is only half full, it should stay that way.

It’s been almost a year so hopefully the attention has waned a little anyway. It’s the reason he doesn’t get out that much any more. Sure, he leaves his house and drives to work at Johnson Space Center every day, but everyone he comes in contact with knows him, and if they don’t they tend to be shy about approaching
Judd Bell,
saviour of shuttle
Atlantis
and the great state of Virginia. Interestingly, when he’s outside the work environment, the opposite is true. He’s mobbed, because he’s
Judd Bell,
saviour of shuttle
Atlantis
and the great state of Virginia. Over the last year he hasn’t been to a restaurant once. It was just easier to stay in than be mobbed and have to deal with -

‘Excuse me, mister, are you Judd Dell?’

Two minutes!
The tap on the shoulder comes exactly two minutes after he sits down. Judd turns from the window and sees a little girl, maybe seven years old, standing in the aisle opposite him, an expectant expression on her face.

‘No, I’m not.’

The little girl is crestfallen.
Crestfallen!
Man, he hates that expression. It breaks his heart. He can’t do it. He can’t lie to a child. He raises his sunglasses and whispers: ‘But I might be Judd
Bell.’’

Her face lights up. ‘That’s what I meant!’

‘Just don’t tell anyone.’

‘Okay! Well, my name is Holly and I just need to tell you that you saved my grandma who lives in Richmond, Virginia, and she’s really nice so thanks for that and also you’re very nice, too.’

‘Thank you, sweetheart, but it wasn’t just me, lots of people helped out that day —’

The little girl turns and runs up the aisle, shouts at the top of her voice: ‘Momma, it is him, it’s Judd Dell! It’s Judd Dell!’

Judd sighs, watches her go. ‘I thought we weren’t going to tell anyone.’

As one, the passengers turn and search - and find ‘Judd Dell’ in row 56, seat A. He forces a smile and they clap. The clapping then changes and becomes applause, then changes again and becomes -
good Lord
- cheering. They’re
cheering.
That’s a first. All Judd wants is for it to stop. He half rises out of his seat and tries to tamp it down. Unfortunately that just means the few people who aren’t already cheering because they don’t know what the hell is going on see him for the first time and join in.

~ * ~

Two hours into the flight the last of the wellwishers have returned to their seats. Twenty-seven different people visited him during that time, some from Virginia but most with friends and family there, and all of them credit Judd with saving either their lives or the lives of loved ones. Also amongst the wellwishers were some supporters of NASA who wanted Judd to know they thought the space program was in safe hands with him, and then there were a few people who just wanted an autograph and a momentary brush with fame.

When he’s finally able to sit back, he feels terrible.
Terrible.
The whole reason he booked row 56, seat A and wore the old cap and the silly headphones and the ridiculous sunglasses and turned up his collar like he was Rob Lowe in 1985 is not because he doesn’t want to be mobbed by wellwishers. He doesn’t mind that at all. He likes chatting with people and signing autographs and spruiking NASA, it’s an important part of the job. No, what he doesn’t like is the feeling that he’s fooling people. What’s the saying?
You can’t fool all of the people all of the time?
Well, it seems you can, and he’s been doing a pretty good job of it for almost a year.

Judd pulls out his iPad and lays it on the tiny tray table. He has two hours before they land at LAX and there’s plenty to do. He needs to read the
Atlantis
4 screenplay so he doesn’t sound like a complete moron when he talks to the studio execs and director about it. Then, time permitting, he should take a power nap, which is the same as a regular nap except with a cooler name.

He does neither of those things.

Instead he swipes open the iPad and watches a video he downloaded from YouTube six months ago, a video he has watched many, many times - a wobbly, hand-held, shot-on-an-iPhone-in-portrait-mode affair that lasts forty-six seconds.

He leans back in his seat and starts the video. It begins innocently enough, a young woman films two of her friends outside the Imax Theatre in Houston before an early evening show. The setting sun throws a warm, orange hue across the groups of people who mill about in the background and wait to enter. One of those groups is Judd, his partner Rhonda, his Aussie mate Corey and his blue heeler, Spike. It’s a couple of months after the
Atlantis
hijacking.

All is fine and dandy as the crowd displays the usual expectant buzz before a show - then a man shouts: ‘Everybody get down!’ The man is Judd. The crowd scatters as the camera phone whip pans to a tall blond guy holding a sawn-off shotgun.
Bang.
He fires the weapon and the camera phone films the sidewalk for a moment as the camerawoman takes shelter behind a nearby truck, then turns and aims the camera phone at a white car. On one side Rhonda, Corey and Judd are crouched as they take cover, on the other the gunman approaches the vehicle.
Bang.
He fires again, blows out the windshield. The tinkle of glass on bitumen is heard.

The camera phone wobbles and Judd pauses the video. Past the stunned and panicked faces of Rhonda and Corey he can see himself in profile and remember exactly what he was doing at that moment. Astronaut Judd Bell, hailed as the great American hero, who not only helped save the hijacked space shuttle
Atlantis
but prevented the detonation of a nuclear dirty bomb in Virginia, was trying - and failing - to come up with a plan to save his friends and himself.

Judd un-pauses the video. The man with the shotgun is the towering German Dirk Popanken, who the world thought was dead. He is not, and as the lone surviving member of the crew that hijacked
Atlantis
and attempted to detonate that dirty bomb, strides around the white car to where Judd is crouched to enact his revenge. Fortunately, because of the angle, Judd is unsighted by the camera phone at this point. Otherwise the whole world would have seen him cowering, without a plan of action.

The gunman raises his weapon and aims it directly at Judd’s unseen face. And that, you would think, is that: Judd’s life cut short with the pull of a trigger. Except something else happens to fill the last twelve seconds of the video, something that changes his fate.

Judd’s friend, ex-astronaut, launch director and fellow member of the
Atlantis
4, Severson Burke arrives. Usually it’s extremely difficult to stop a motivated gunman without serious firepower, but Severson manages to do it - with a Toyota Prius.

The vehicle, almost silent because it runs on electricity most of the time, strikes the oblivious gunman in the back of the legs at forty-five kilometres an hour. The weapon is knocked from his hands and he is launched ten metres across the sidewalk, straight into the glass doors of the Imax Theatre, bounces off and slumps to the sidewalk, broken and unconscious. Considering the speed of the action the camerawoman manages to capture it surprisingly well.

The camera phone then whips back to the Prius as Severson exits the vehicle to a round of applause. Judd had invited Severson to the movie but, as usual, he was running late. Severson humbly accepts the crowd’s applause, turns to Judd, who has found his feet, and says with a wry grin: ‘Sorry I’m late. Parking was a bitch.’