The Tranquillity Alternative (36 page)

“North Korea?” Surprised, Parnell looked away from the hatch. “What would it gain from firing missiles from … ?”

“No, you idiot.” Leamore was becoming inpatient. “Not firing missiles … acquiring missiles. Or rather, the warhead from one of those Minutemen.”

He paused in his labors at suiting up. “Look. Missiles they’ve got—they’ve already built their Nodong-1, in case you haven’t heard—but when the U.N. clamped down on their bomb factory last year, they had to look elsewhere. They knew that was coming, so a couple of years ago they hired our friend Herr Rautmann, who in turn set up this entire operation. SIS also learned that Cecil Orvitz—or rather, Paul Dooley, as you know him—was recruited by …”

“Hold on.” Parnell was still trying to absorb all this; too much was being thrown at him too fast. “Wait a minute. They’re trying to hijack the missiles? How did they expect to …”

“Accomplish this feat?” Leamore shrugged within the suit’s cumbersome carapace. He fumbled with the seals until Ryer stepped over to assist him. “We’re not quite certain—or, at least, I’m not certain, although I’m positive that SIS knows more than I. Whatever their means, though, the objective is still the same.”

“Getting the nukes from our Minutemen,” Ryer said.

“Correct. Thank you, dear.” Leamore’s gaze turned back to Parnell. “Once Kim Jong acquires a ready-made warhead, he doesn’t have to worry about U.N. inspectors. He can resell it to whoever is willing to meet his price. Or put it on one of his own rockets, if he wants to make Seoul sweat bullets.”

Something was beginning to tug at the back of Parnell’s mind, but before he could voice his thoughts, Ryer cut in. “If SIS knew about all this and sent you, then why didn’t you come and tell us? It would have saved a lot of grief … stand up straight.”

Leamore stood straighter, sucking in his gut as Ryer pulled the airtight zipper partway up the back of his suit. “Because this was supposed to be an intelligence operation, that’s all. SIS knew that Dooley, Aachener, and Talsbach were involved. We also knew that Rhodes and Bromleigh were clean. Beyond that, we didn’t know who among the remaining crew members might have been recruited, if any.”

He looked over his shoulder at Ryer, then nodded toward Parnell. “For all we knew, you or Gene could have been part of the scheme, so I couldn’t afford to trust either of you. Sorry.”

Ryer and Parnell glanced at each other. Whatever quarrel they might have once had was now settled; all that mattered now was survival. “Don’t worry about it,” Parnell murmured. “I seem to have misplaced my trust as well.”

Ryer gave him a quick smile. Another thought occurred to him. “What is it about that disk, anyway?” he asked her.

“Some private revenge, that’s all,” Ryer said as she fought the rear zipper the rest of the way up Leamore’s back. “With any luck, it’ll stop the launch, maybe buy us some time.” When Gene opened his mouth to speak, she shook her head. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

Parnell looked at his wrist chronometer. He wasn’t willing to bet on luck. It was now 1212 Zulu. The missiles should have launched twelve minutes ago. They had no idea whether the Minutemen had cleared the silos; down here, within the lunar crust, no vibration could penetrate the isolation of the bunker.

Ryer hefted Leamore’s life-support pack and began to help him guide his arms through the shoulder straps. “You said this was supposed to be an intelligence operation. That means you weren’t supposed to stop them?”

“Not unless it became absolutely necessary,” Leamore replied. “All we wanted was evidence that two known Red Army operatives and an accomplice—Dooley, although you know better yourself by now—were involved in the theft. We intended to gain such evidence from the ATS camera footage. Once that was accomplished, everything would be disclosed to the cousins …”

“The CIA.”

“That’s right, along with the White House and the Pentagon … and as a result NATO would have been able to take the matter to the U.N. Security Council, which would have attempted to resolve the matter through diplomacy and so forth. Altogether, it was supposed to be a rather low-key, hush-hush sort of affair.”

Leamore picked up a gauntlet and pulled it over his left hand. “But apparently Aachener got wise to my role somehow. So far as I know, he was aware of my involvement even before we left the Wheel.”

He swore under his breath. “In any event, he tried to silence me when I went to the W.C., but I managed to get the gun away from him. After that I hid out in the crew’s quarters, waiting to see what would happen next.”

“But by then I had wised up—” Parnell began.

“And forced the issue, which leads to our current situation.” Leamore fastened the wrist link of his left glove. “I suppose I can’t rightly blame you, Commander,” he said as he picked up the right glove. “You had stumbled upon this bloody mess and tried to prevent it. But the whole sodding thing went to hell as soon as you pulled that gun and pointed it at the wrong fellow, and that’s why …”

He fumbled with the gauntlet. It dropped to the floor. “Oh, damn,” he murmured, and bent over to pick it up. Or at least he tried to; the bulky suit prevented him from doing so much as touch his knees.

“I’ll get it.” Parnell walked over to where the glove lay, his boots clunking heavily on the deck. He knelt to his right knee and retrieved the gauntlet.

He was about to hand it to Leamore when he heard the metallic rasp of hatch-cover hinges. Before he could turn around, a gun went off behind him.

Lewitt jerked at the sharp crack of a gunshot from somewhere above.

For an instant, he thought someone was firing into the control room; he grabbed the automatic from the desktop and swiveled around in his chair, staring at the open hatchway.

“Markus!” he shouted. “What’s going on up there?”

No response. He yanked off the headset and started to rise from the chair, but Orvitz looked up from the left console. “Sit down,” he said, almost too calmly. “Whatever it is, they’ll take care of it.”

Lewitt hesitated, then resumed his place at the right-hand firing console. Like it or not, Orvitz was right; this was why the Germans had been recruited, to act as backups in case something went wrong with the operation. Lewitt reluctantly put the pistol down, replaced his headset, and returned his attention to the console. Although the computers were still inoperative, Teal Falcon’s radar system remained functional. A small blip had entered the scope; as he watched, it closed steadily on the bull’s-eye at the center of the screen.

He reactivated the radio. “Ghost Rider, this is Blue Falcon. We have you on primary approach. Do you copy? Over.”

There was a short pause, then a Russian-accented voice came over the headset.
We understand, Blue Falcon. Ghost Rider is at one hundred fifty kilometers, downrange fifteen kilometers. Landing estimated in ten minutes. Has the perimeter been secured? Over.

Lewitt glanced at Orvitz, who was listening through his headset. Orvitz nodded his head. “Roger that, Ghost Rider,” Lewitt replied. “Be advised that we’re still encountering some resistance within the base, but it will be taken care of by the time you arrive. Over.”

There was a long pause. After a few moments, the voice returned.
We understand, Blue Falcon. We are continuing with approach and landing. Over.

Lewitt grimaced. Of course Ghost Rider would land; its crew had no other options.

The original plan had called for TF-6 to be launched into an elliptical cislunar orbit, where it would have been intercepted by Ghost Rider. Two Russian former cosmonauts would then have gone EVA; using special tools, and consulting schematic diagrams of the Minuteman’s payload package which had been smuggled out of the West, they would have opened the missile’s faring and removed the warhead.

All this would have been accomplished without anyone on Earth or the Moon being the wiser; controllers at Von Braun and the Wheel would have believed that TF-6 was on a solar trajectory along with the five other missiles, thanks to false transponder coordinates which Orvitz’s program was supposed to relay to the Deep Space Tracking Network.

Ghost Rider would have returned to Earth while
Conestoga
was still at Tranquillity Base. Orvitz, Aachener, and Talsbach, and Lewitt himself, would have flown home aboard
Conestoga
. By the time anyone figured out what had happened to TF-6—if ever—he would be catching a jet to Argentina, where Lisa and their child were already waiting for him.

Lewitt sagged back in the chair, rubbing his eyes. A carefully developed plan, two years in the making, now straight down the toilet. First, Orvitz’s cover had been blown because he couldn’t handle some stupid gimp girlfriend Dooley had in Arizona. Then Uwe had gotten suspicious about Leamore and attempted to kill him. And even after everything had fucked up, but just when it seemed as if he could get the situation under control, this shit with a dime-store virus program …

“Jesus,” he mumbled. “Talk about chaos theory …”

“What’s that?” Orvitz asked.

Lewitt shook his head. “Never mind.”

By now, everyone from Texas to the White House must be in a panic, trying to find out why the Minutemen hadn’t launched or why they had lost contact with Teal Falcon. There was no point in trying to make up excuses; Mission Control would only want to speak with Parnell, or have Rhodes and Bromleigh transmit a TV picture from the bunker.

But they still had their backup plan.

All was not yet lost. The second plan didn’t rely on subterfuge so much as brute force, but it was only a different means to the same end. Even if TF-6 was grounded, its silo doors were open, the missile itself still accessible from the surface. It meant doing the same job the hard way, but Ghost Rider’s crew would still get their warheads, one way or another….

Another gunshot from above. Lewitt glanced again at the hatch. What the hell was going on up there?

The first round had taken off the top of Leamore’s head, but Parnell didn’t realize he had been killed before he whipped around and got off a single, clumsy shot at the half-open hatch.

The bullet ricocheted off the inside of the hatch cover. Parnell caught the briefest glimpse of Talsbach’s face before the hatch dropped shut again.

Goddamn! The son of a bitch had been listening the entire time … and, like an idiot, Parnell had moved away from the hatch just long enough for Talsbach to poke his head through.

“Is everyone all right?” Parnell yelled. He didn’t dare take his eyes from the hatch; the Glock was cradled in both hands, aimed at the hatch in case Talsbach tried again.

“Leamore’s down!”

Ryer was crouched near the wall, staring at the body sprawled across the deck at her feet. Dark red blood was pooling around Leamore’s skull. “Oh, shit,” she whispered. “He’s dead, Gene….”

Parnell stole a quick glance over his shoulder. Leamore had been lucky once, but not twice … and the way things stood, luck was beginning to run out for both him and Ryer.

But maybe not. They were both fully suited except for their helmets, and the airlock was just behind them. All they had to do was put on their helmets, pressurize their suits, enter the airlock, and …

And what? Cycle-out would take at least thirty minutes. In the meantime, they would be trapped inside the airlock chamber. Its hatch was airtight, but not bulletproof; someone could still fire through it.

Talsbach didn’t even have to do that. The control panel outside the airlock could stop the depressurization cycle. If Talsbach shut off the airlock while they were inside, then he and Ryer would be cornered. The proverbial fish in a barrel had better odds of survival.

Unless …

“Cris!” he whispered.

She didn’t respond; glancing toward her, he saw that she was staring at Leamore.

“Ryer, snap out of it!”

She blinked and slowly raised her head. She was on the verge of panic, but hadn’t lost it yet.

“Put your helmet on!” he whispered. “Put on your helmet and get in the airlock!”

She blinked a few more times and shook her head; she, too, had realized that they could be trapped in the airlock. “But they can …”

“Shut up and do it! I’ll cover you!”

Ryer nodded dully. She rose from the wall, looked around stupidly until she spotted her helmet several feet away. Parnell didn’t mind the noise her boots made against the floor as she walked over to pick it up.

In fact, he was counting on Talsbach having his ear pressed against the hatch.

He waited until she had put on her helmet and sealed her suit. Then, when she opened the airlock hatch, he made his move. Carefully placing the gun on the floor so that he could grab it in an instant, he reached out for his own helmet.

Despite his caution, there were a couple of minutes when he couldn’t pick up the pistol; his hands were busy, sealing his helmet ring and activating the suit’s electrical and life-support systems. He left the radio off—too much chance someone in the control room might be monitoring this frequency—and he didn’t allow his eyes to waver from the floor hatch until he was finished.

He retrieved the gun and straightened up, ignoring the cramp in his knees as he moved across the suit-up room to the airlock. For no real reason, he recalled a rock song his son used to play on the stereo; he whispered the refrain under his breath.

“Gimme three steps … gimme three steps … gimme three steps towards the door …” When he entered the airlock, he raised his left hand and jerked it down several times, palmdown, clawing his fingers as much as the heavy gloves would allow.

Ryer understood. She knelt on all fours and pushed her fingers through the open gridwork of the airlock floor. Maybe she realized what he was going to do; there wasn’t enough time to ask.

The airlock’s internal control panel was near the hatch. Parnell placed the gun on the floor beneath the panel, where he could still reach it, then slammed the hatch shut as hard as he could and wrenched the lock-lever downward. If Talsbach or Aachener was listening from Level 2A, they would undoubtedly hear the noise.

If so, only a few seconds remained. He bent to one knee and grabbed a piece of the gridwork floor with his left hand; with his right hand, he flipped open the control panel. His heart was thudding as he sought for the candy-striped toggle switch at the bottom of the panel.