The Tranquillity Alternative (9 page)

“Hmm.” Parnell looked thoughtful; he stared at Dooley over the lip of his raised coffee mug. “Well, that’s not entirely true. You’re the guy who believes we—or rather, your company—can replace people with robots, turn everything up there over to machines. That makes you something of a historic figure in your own right, doesn’t it?”

There was the slightest hint of accusation in Parnell’s voice, and Dooley couldn’t ignore the hard glint in the man’s eyes. He wondered how Parnell might react if he knew that the person he really intended to blame was now being subjected to slow torture less than thirty miles from here.

“Hey, dude, don’t blame me,” he replied. “At least we’re finding some use for that base, aren’t we? If my company hadn’t bought it, nobody would have—”

“Mr. Dooley?”

The interruption came from a voice across the room; some NASA minion had poked his head through the door. “Right here,” Dooley shouted back.

“Got a long-distance call from your sister Ruth,” the young man in the blue blazer responded. “Says she wants to speak to you before you go.”

He had been expecting this call. The real Paul Dooley had a sister in Austin, a fact that anyone in NASA’s Astronaut Office could easily ascertain from checking his file; what they didn’t know was that Ruth Weinberg wasn’t on speaking terms with her younger brother and wasn’t likely to call him even before he was about to board an orbital ferry.

“I’ll take it, thanks.” Dooley pushed back his chair and stood up. “Excuse me,” he said to Parnell, glad to escape from their conversation. Parnell waved him off as Dooley sauntered across the room to the door.

The NASA flack led him down the corridor to a small office, where he helpfully punched a button on the phone to give him a private extension. When the kid was gone, Dooley picked up the receiver. “Hello, Ruth?”

“Hi, Paul?” a female voice said. “It’s Ruthie.” A small, nervous laugh. “Did you remember to pack your toothbrush?”

“No, Ruth,” he replied, keeping his tone light. “I don’t need one … they have plenty on the Wheel.”

“But it might have germs …”

“I’m sure they’re wrapped in plastic.”

A small sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good. You can’t be too sure, and Mom always said you needed to have a clean toothbrush.”

Passwords traded and matched. If anyone was monitoring this call, they would only hear a conversation between a brother and his doting older sister. “How’s Bert doing?” he asked.

Bert Weinberg was Ruth’s husband, convalescing in a Houston hospital after a minor auto accident which had injured his back. Bert Weinberg despised Paul Dooley almost more than his sister did, but there was no reason why anyone at NASA should know this. “Bert’s doing okay,” the voice responded, “but the doctors don’t think he’s going to be leaving any time very soon.”

“I see …”

“But he says to give you his best wishes … oh, and he wants you to send him a photo of where you’re going.”

“Does he want me to write him at the hospital?”

“No,” the voice said. “You can send it here … and we’ll have a nice party when you get home.”

“Are your neighbors going to be there?”

A sigh. “I’m afraid so,” the voice said apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I had to invite them. They insisted on coming.”

“That’s okay …”

“But they’re not bringing their kids. I told them to leave the kids at home and you’d sign an autograph for them later.”

“Good.” Dooley smiled. “Okay, Ruthie. I’ll be there. Tell everyone I miss them.”

“We miss you, too, baby brother. I’ve got a big kiss for you.”

“Okay,” he replied. “Look, I gotta go now. Everything’s fine, don’t worry about a thing.”

“Okay … see you when you get back.”

“Bye, Ruthie,” he said. “See you later. Bye.”

Dooley hung up and took a moment to settle back in the desk chair and contemplate the conversation he’d just held with his masters.

First, he had informed them that he was safely in place and that he had not been detected. That was the primary message he needed to pass them.

Everything else was news from outside. There was now only one Paul Dooley. The other one was dead and the organization would dispose of his body in an appropriate manner. The fact that the new Dooley was now a living ghost didn’t bother him in the slightest; this had been anticipated from the moment the abduction took place. More importantly, though, he had been informed that the original Paul Dooley had told his kidnappers everything he needed to know in order to successfully complete the assignment. At a prearranged time, that information would be relayed to him.

And finally, his primary contact was in place.

Dooley wasn’t going to the Moon alone. The organization wasn’t taking any chances; there was a fail-safe option available, in the event that something got fucked up in the course of the next few days.

In short, everything was going according to plan.

Dooley rose from the chair and strode to the door. The helpful young man in the blue blazer was waiting just outside the office, eager to escort him back to the ready room. “Your sister?” he asked as they began to stride down the hallway.

“Oh yeah,” he replied, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit. “You know family … just can’t leave you alone.”

From
You Will Go to the Moon
by Mae and Ira Freeman (Beginner Books, 1959)

This is how you will go to the moon.

Here is the rocket that will take you up into space.

It is a tall, tall rocket.

It is as tall as ten houses.

The rocket has 3 parts.

You will go way, way up to Part I.

The rocket men will take you up.

They will take you up in a little car.

Come on in.

Come into this little room.

This is where you will sit.

You will sit here with the rocket men.

The men will show you what to do.

The men will show you where to sit.

Hook on that belt.

Hook it tight!

Get set to go!

2/16/95 • 0617 EST

“O
KAY, THAT LOOKS GOOD
… Commander, move a little bit to the left, please … look up at the rocket now, yeah, that’s good … no, don’t look at me, look at the rocket! … okay, that’s great, that’s terrific …”

And now here they were:
Conestoga
’s flight crew, fresh off the vans which had transported them from the O&C Building to the Atlas launch complex, reluctantly posing for a TV camera below the base of the mobile launch platform. Egrets and sea gulls circle the tall silver-blue shaft of the rocket, their harsh cries mocking them, and a handful of pad technicians in color-coded hard hats lean against the platform railing, barely able to hide their amusement.

Alex Bromleigh stood a few feet away, peering through the eyepiece of his Sony camcorder as he sought to orchestrate Parnell, Lewitt, and Ryer. Only Paul Dooley had been spared from the photo op; he stood nearby, nervously gazing at the broad round base of the ferry rocket, while Bromleigh called out directions.

“Next thing,” Lewitt murmured to Parnell, “he’ll want us in swimsuits.” He turned his head to spit on the tarmac. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Parnell nodded. It was a waste of precious time and everyone knew it, but it was one more photo-op which had been scheduled by the NASA Press Office for the benefit of the ATS documentary team. There would be more like this one over the next few days, though, and they would have to get used to it.

He gazed off at the nearby beach, where pale morning sunlight dappled the receding tide. A ZV-8P Airgeep cruised low over the sands; a NASA security officer leaned out of its open cockpit, using a metal detector to sweep the perimeter of the launch pad for bombs. No one had forgotten the time an anti-space fanatic had damaged this same pad with four pounds of Semtex he’d managed to hide on the beach the night before a launch. The Airgeep moved out of sight behind the rocket, its twin horizontal blades disturbing a flock of gulls, and Parnell stole a glance from behind his sunglasses at Berkley Rhodes.

The correspondent stood behind Bromleigh’s camera, checking her notes as she prepared for the interview she would soon be doing. With her perpetual smile and young Barbara Walters looks, it was tempting to write her off as just another TV bimbo, yet Parnell had slowly come to realize over the past few weeks that there was much more to Rhodes than met the eye. There has always been friction between the American space program and the press, going back before Chet Aldridge had dumped a pitcher of water in Walter Cronkite’s lap on live TV. One group was committed to keeping their lips buttoned, the other to blabbing everything; little had changed in the basic nature of that relationship even after the Space Force was phased out and NASA had taken its place.

To be fair, Parnell knew that not all reporters on the space beat were bottom-feeders looking for a hot scoop. He had encountered enough good journalists—Jack Wilford of the
Times
, Ike Asimov of the
Boston Globe
, even good ol’ Uncle Walter himself—to know that some were not there just to wait for the next
Challenger
disaster so they could thrust a microphone into the face of a stunned widow.

But Berkley Rhodes … Berkley Rhodes was another case entirely.

Parnell had been briefed on her background when she was assigned to the mission. Rhodes had been a middle-ranked Washington correspondent for ATS until a few years ago, schlepping her notebook and tape recorder from one Senate budget hearing to the next. She might have remained in obscurity, at best interviewing politicians for
First Edition
before the morning weather, were it not for a stroke of luck that turned her career around.

To this day, no one knew exactly why she had received a manila envelope stuffed with photocopies of classified documents, smuggled out of the Pentagon by a highly placed Air Force officer whose identity still remained a secret. It was understandable that Sy Hersh of the
Times
and Bob Woodward of the
Washington Post
, two of the top investigative reporters in the country, had received the same information … but why Rhodes instead of network power-hitters like Rather or Donaldson? There were persistent rumors that she might have slept with the mysterious Colonel X, but nothing had ever been proven. Maybe Colonel X had pulled her name out of a hat. Perhaps he liked the way she had tough-talked Jesse Helms during an interview three days before.

In the end, it was pointless to speculate on why Berkley Rhodes was one of the first reporters to break the Teal Falcon story, the scandal that had not only swept Bob Dole out of the White House, but also caused Tranquillity Base to be prematurely shut down and damaged NASA’s credibility. Whatever the reason, her reputation had skyrocketed just as quickly as the agency’s had plummeted, until it could now be safely argued that more people recognized her face than they did any of the
Conestoga
’s astronauts.

Which was the reason why, when she had asked—demanded, really—to cover NASA’s final mission to the Moon for a network documentary about the demise of the U.S. space program, the agency had all too willingly agreed.

“Gene … hey, Gene, stop looking that way! Look at the rocket, the rocket …”

Turning around to gaze up at
Constellation
once more, Parnell recalled his meeting with NASA’s Chief Administrator, a few months ago. It was a warm day in early autumn; from the window of his office in the NASA headquarters building they watched as protesters marched in circles in front of the National Air and Space Museum.
We’re on the ropes, Gene
, Dan Goldin had said, his hands clasped behind his back.
Tranquillity’s being sold to the Germans, and Congress is threatening to do the same with the Wheel. The deficit, the latest budget cutback
…
you know the story. Unless we can get the public back on our side, the program’s dead and gone by the end of the decade. That’s half the reason why we want you to go up. You’re the last of the old guard, you were out of the loop during the Desert Storm thing, and
…
look, I know it’s P.R. bullshit, but it’s all we’ve got going for us right now. What do you say, Commander?

Of course, he had said yes … although for reasons of his own.

T-minus thirty-five minutes and counting.
The stentorian voice of the Launch Control talker came over the pad’s loudspeakers, interrupting Parnell’s train of thought.
We are on hot countdown, observing maximum pad discipline.

The pad rats who had been watching the astronauts turned away from the railing, heading to their last-minute jobs. It took more than three thousand men and women to get an Atlas-C off the ground, and it didn’t help matters much when the passengers were loafing around instead of boarding the rocket. “Okay, let’s break this up,” Parnell said, clapping his hands for attention. “Ms. Rhodes, let’s get this done … we’re on a schedule here.”

Rhodes looked miffed; her cameraman had just spent five minutes grabbing stock-shots, and the best thing he had gotten was Lewitt spitting on the ground. She strode past Bromleigh to stand beside Parnell and fussed with her windblown hair for a moment before she signaled Bromleigh to resume filming.

“Captain Parnell,” she began, “this is your first trip back to the Moon in more than twenty years. How do you—?”

“It feels great,” he answered shortly.

She waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, she glanced at her notes. “You’re flying with a team who are much younger than you. How—?”

“It feels great.”

Again, Rhodes waited for details which were not forthcoming. Parnell could hear Lewitt, out of camera range, snickering under his breath. He didn’t look around, but from the corner of his eye he could see Cris Ryer staring off at the marshes surrounding the pad, apparently indifferent to everything going on behind her. Parnell was beginning to wonder if she should be on this mission at all; her problems were obviously getting the best of her. The bit with the key …

“So, Captain Parnell, which do you like better?” Rhodes asked,
sotto voce
. “Sexual intercourse with donkeys or horses?”