The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact Page 9

  Commander Clark Kent blushed as red as his hair. “Blame my parents. Should have been indicted for child abuse. You’d think I’d have gotten used to it by now--but enough of that. Introductions are in order. I’d like you to meet Mission Specialists Christine Jorgensen and Mia Torno, Lei-Ying Chin, and Suzy Yakamoto, USA, Italy, China and Japan respectively.”

  “Delighted,” Ludmilla said.

  “Everyone else is busy right now, I’m afraid,” Commander Kent said. “We’re getting ready for the high altitude boost.”

  Another Russian drifted in and Ludmilla said, “Allow me to introduce my husband, Colonel General Pavel Andreivich Yurimentov.”

  A sudden silence descended.

  *

  The White House

  Donna Markwright fingered the intercom and said, “Eli Cohen on line one, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you, Miss Markwright.”

  He picked up, said, “Hello, Eli,” and listened with growing surprise.

  “They did what?”

  He listened while Eli Cohen repeated himself then hung up.

  “Jesus Christ. The world’s about to end and the double-damned Russians are still playing political chess.”

  “What happened?” Farley Moffat asked.

  “The Russians violated the ISS crew staffing agreement by sending up a married couple and by promoting their cosmonaut to Colonel General so he outranks our mission commander.”

  Farley tried to hold it in but he smiled.

  “You find this amusing?”

  “Well...yes sir. I guess it seems a bit high school.”

  “You know, Farley, I think you’ve been working too hard because you haven’t thought this through. Having a married couple on board disturbs the group dynamic our psychologists carefully set up. Those people are going to be stuck up there together for months, maybe years, possibly for the rest of their lives. They may be the only hope we have for preserving the human race. They were screened as closely as humanly possible in the time we had and those shit heel Russians just put a joker in the deck and we have no idea how he’ll get along with the others. Then they promoted him to set up a potential division in the command structure. Isn’t that a scream?”

  “No sir, Mr. President,” Farley admitted. “Sorry, sir. But you realize we can fix the command problem by promoting Captain Anderson to five star General. Then, even if they promote their guy to Field Marshall he won’t outrank her.”

  “Okay, I’ll follow along for now, but why Alice Anderson? Why not, Captain Dupree? He’s senior if I recall.”

  “Yes Sir, he is. But Anderson is senior among the females and when the Aurora space plane crews join up there will be nineteen women and seven men on board. Politically, I’d say putting a woman in command would be wise.”

  Now the President grinned. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.” Changing subjects he added, “What about their supplies?”

  “The Russians, French and Chinese are shooting supply modules up into lunar orbit as fast as they can build boosters.” Farley grimaced. “It galls me to depend on them. We should never have shut down our own Space Shuttles.”

  “Well, Sir,” Farley drawled, “I guess it’s a good thing we got them up and running again.”

  *

  The ISS

  “Prepare for boost,” Captain Henri Dupree said.

  Alice Anderson, who’d just received news of her promotion, keyed her mike and asked, “Is everything and everyone strapped down?”

  One by one the crew acknowledged all systems go, all lights green. She nodded to the pilot.

  “Boosting,” Captain Dupree said, a slight sheen of sweat beading on his blue-black face. The retrorockets fired and the ISS began her climb from her standard 240 mile high orbit to a higher, safer 2000 mile path.

  “I wish we didn’t have to do this,” Commander Kent said. “It strains some very delicate systems.”

  “Whining won’t help,” Christine Jorgensen said. “If the asteroid hits, it will eject debris into low orbit and knock us out. Guess I don’t have to remind you we are in low orbit.”

  “I recognize the necessity, Christine,” Clark Kent said, sounding very British. “I was merely regretting it.”

  “Now, children,” Ludmilla Gargarin said. “Mommy doesn’t like it when you fight.”

  That brought chuckles from the rest of the crew.

  “Look on the bright side,” Alice Anderson said, pulling her free floating brunette hair into a pony tail and confining it with a red scrunchie. “The best seats in the house just got better.” And it’s true, she thought. From higher up we can see more. But deep down inside she realized they were also that much farther from home.

  *

  USS Seawolf

  The USS Seawolf slid out of her berth in Bremerton, Washington and through the Juan de Fuca Straight into the vast waters of the Pacific. Her mission was unique in her history. For, in addition to carrying her normal complement of 117 crew and 15 officers, she held 50 civilian women. Berthing arrangements were uncomfortable at best, but with her reactor refueled and her stores fully provisioned the Seawolf could remain submerged for a minimum of six months. She was but one of thirty such subs called to service to preserve humanity.

  Others were being recommissioned daily, but only Seawolf and her two sister ships were going to Aqua Nova, which its inhabitants usually called Deep City.

  Chapter 11: Last Chance

  Farley Moffat's grin almost split his face in two. Bringing good news to the President for a change was a distinct pleasure. Leaning across the President's desk in the Oval Office, he finished his story. “So, this FBI flunky meets a small time mobster and makes the swap. The hood leaves two million dollars richer, and we have the stabilizer back. Best money we ever spent.”

  “How soon can it be at the launch site?” Hammond Powell wasn't ready to relax and smile just yet.

  “It's already there, and it looks none the worse for--” He was interrupted by Donna Markwright on the intercom.

  “Mr. President? General Mabry on line one.”

  “Roland?” The President said as he picked up. “I hope this is good news.” Being responsible for saving the world was aging him.

  “It is, Sir,” the General replied. “The booster is ready. We can have it on the pad and on line six hours after Sunflower Two arrives.”

  “Fine. Have you heard from the Garcias?”

  “No, Sir; but Mr. Borzowski would know more about that.”

  “Thank you, Roland. Keep me informed.” As the President hung up he turned back to his Chief of Staff. “Farley, before we wrap this up, there's a couple of things I want to tell you. First of all, you've done a damn fine job on this. If you hadn't followed your instincts and put the word out to everyone on both sides of the law, we would never have recovered the stabilizer in time. Second, if we destroy that asteroid, I want to know the name of this mobster as well as how the hell he came to have the device. Heads are going to roll all over the place, Farley, and I intend to reserve a special place in Hell for the SOB who murdered those soldiers and stole that stabilizer.”

  As Farley left the room the President keyed the intercom. “Miss Markwright? Get me Carl Borzowski.” He sat back, knowing he'd done all he could and wanting, needing, to do more. That damn rock was getting closer every second. If the bird didn't fly in two days it would be too late.

  *

  “They'll be done tomorrow, Mr. President,” Carl said with more assurance than he felt. The Garcias had told him they built the prototype to launch specifications. All they had to do was double check the unit and ready it for shipment.

  The world had one last chance.

  *

  Provo

  Bob Young ground his teeth and glared as FEMA and Homeland officials inventoried the stores at the Provo LDS warehouse, then loaded them onto pallets, shrink wrapped them and added insult to injury by using the LDS forklift to load the pallets into trucks.

  “I can’t believ
e the Feds can simply show up and requisition everything in sight,” he said to his brother Adam.

  “You ever read the National Defense Authorization Act?” Adam asked. “They can do whatever they please.”

  “No, I haven’t read it. Neither did those idiots in Congress who passed it. But this isn’t right. It can’t be legal.”

  “Your attorneys checked their warrants?” Adam asked.

  “Yes!” Bob snapped. “I’m not arguing about the warrants. I’m disputing the legality of the whole stinking enterprise.”

  “Hey little brother, I’m not your enemy,” Adam said, holding up his hands to ward off further abuse.

  “Well, excuse me if it’s a bit hard to tell right now since it’s your men helping them loot the place.”

  Colonel Adam Young took a breath. “So, better if I refuse direct orders and get court-martialed?”

  Bob’s shoulders slumped. “No...I didn’t mean...no. I just hate standing here helpless while my own government steals from my church. I mean, once it’s gone, what will we do in an emergency?”

  “You know where all these trucks are going from all over Utah?” Adam asked, then answered his own question. “To warehouses at the Dugway Proving Grounds, where it’s being guarded by my men before going to some huge FEMA relocation camp they’re setting up in Montana.”

  “So?” Bob was still angry and when ticked off he didn’t think straight.

  “So, just because they took it, doesn’t mean they can keep it. You ever hear of the Boston Tea Party?”

  Chapter 12: The Dugway Tea Party

  Corporal Otha Gladson was enjoying some R & R, his arm in a cast and his Bronze Star out of sight in the pants pocket of his civvies. He stared out over the rooftops, his mind on the first three days he’d spent at home on the family farm in Illinois before the attention showered on him as a result of his newfound celebrity status smothered him into flight.

  He wasn’t any blasted celebrity. The boys in his squad were dead and he was just plain lucky. He’d always wanted to see New York City and he figured after surviving that fall he owed himself the chance.

  Now, standing on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, looking out over the skyscrapers toward the Upper Bay, he was glad he had come, even if he did feel sort of touristy and out of place.

  The elevator door opened and among the group of fresh arrivals was a totally stunning black woman. She was tall. God, was she tall. And almost painfully slender. But the way she walked set his pulse pounding. Her bright yellow and orange print dress would have looked garish on someone less majestic. It was loosely draped and flowed with her every motion as she moved to the railing, head held high, like a Queen, ignoring the admiring stares she drew.

  He caught her in profile, long, narrow head, thin, arched eyebrows over huge brown eyes, finely chiseled nose, and full lips surrounding a mouth slightly too wide for her face. She was striking.

  Nefertiri, he thought, and wasn't aware he'd spoken aloud until she favored him with an amused glance. His ears heated with blush and he tried to tear his eyes away, but they were welded to her form.

  Finally, she could ignore him no longer, turning to him and speaking in a low, husky voice, and a thoroughly charming upper-class British accent. “Sir, are we by chance acquainted? You look somewhat familiar.”

  His picture had been in the papers and on television, and for once he was thankful. “My name is Otha Gladson,” he said. “And I am--” he was going to say, “honored to meet you,” but she interrupted him.

  “The soldier who survived the massacre by leaping off a bridge into raging whitewater.” She beamed a smile that made his day. “I knew I had seen you somewhere. What a pleasure to meet a warrior of such courage.” She offered him her hand and he brushed it with his lips, surprising himself with gallantry.

  “And you are?” He asked, looking up at her; though at six feet four he didn’t have to raise his eyes too far.

  “Dikeme M’buto, from Zululand,” she replied.

  They passed the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening talking, teasing the attraction between them into full-blown chemistry. He learned she was studying ballet and modern dance at Julliard, and she learned that in addition to being an ace diesel mechanic and driver, he was studying trigonometry to become a surveyor. Before he dropped her at her apartment they made plans to meet again at ‘their’ place.

  *

  Temple of the Dark Lord

  Sergeant Nick Dobbs and his partner Officer Wilson (Will) Robbins, Denver Police, rolled to a stop in front of the old wood framed building. A solitary streetlight revealed fresh paint, heavy shutters, and a video surveillance camera. The siding was curiously devoid of graffiti considering the neighborhood, though perhaps that was due to the camera or the crimson-splashed banner hanging over the door which identified this particular place as the ‘Temple of the Dark Lord,’ for any who cared. Then again, Nick thought, it could be the pair of mean-looking guards book-ending the entry.

  A well-lit, glass-cased bulletin board out by the street declared the topic of this evening’s sermon to be, “God is Black.”

  Dobbs was white and Robbins black, a salt and pepper team recently assigned to liaison duty with the FBI and ATF. Intense pressure was coming down from on high to crack the ‘Convoy Massacre’ case, and just a few days before a bunch of black perps who came off second best in a gunfight with Denver's finest were found to be using guns from the ‘Massacre’ shipment.

  Those same perps were known to be followers of one Leroy Parsons, AKA Mustapha Muhammad, the pastor of this church. Probable cause for an arrest warrant for Parsons and a search warrant for the church, and, in Nick Dobb’s opinion, lots of backup. But since members of both a religious and racial minority were involved Denver’s politicos preferred a low-key approach. No lights, no sirens, no overwhelming police presence, just Dobbs and Robbins.

  “Yippie-ki-yay, partner,” Nick drawled as he climbed out of the car and adjusted his holster. “Let's round’em up.”

  “You know, Nick, if you’d cut out that cowboy shit we wouldn’t get stuck with--”

  “Me?” Nick cut in. “You’re the one the brass thinks is a heretic--listening to conservative talk shows. Where is your sense of political correctness, partner?”

  “Hiding along with your common sense. We both need our heads examined,” Robbins replied.

  The two started up the walk, still arguing in their good-natured way, seemingly oblivious while their eyes scanned for snipers or other trouble. One of the men on guard knocked on the door of the church and said something to a person inside. The knock, Nick noticed, was one long, two short, one long.

  Nick flashed his badge at the nearest guard and asked, “Leroy Parsons?”

  “No one by that honky name here,” the man spat.

  “Oookay,” Nick said with more patience than he felt. “Let’s try this again. Mustapha Muhammad?”

  “No one by that name either,” the man sneered.

  “How about you?” Nick asked the other guard, who just shrugged.

  “See man,” Will Robbins said. “I told you, you was approaching this situation all wrong. You can’t expect these men to just cooperate with The Man, you got to reason with them.”

  He turned to face the guards. “Now, gentlemen, we are looking for Mr. Mustapha Muhammad.” He started for the door.

  “It be Mustapha bin Muhammad, Oreo,” the talkative guard said, putting a hand on Will’s chest and shoving him back.

  “The ‘bin’ mean ‘son of,’” the other guard explained.

  “There,” Will said to Nick in a told-you-so voice. “You see? Things are getting better already. We now know both our bookends can talk, and one of them was raised to be polite.”

  In a lightning move Will drew his nightstick and cracked the pushy guard between the eyes, knocking the man flat. Then he shoved the stick across the ‘polite’ guard’s throat, pinning the man against the wall. Nick smiled as he reached for
his cuffs.

  “That other asshole assaulted me and interfered while I was attempting to perform my sworn duty.” Will said, indicating the fallen man, who Nick had just handcuffed. “In addition he was rude and abusive and pissed me off.”

  Will’s nightstick was pressed so hard against the guard’s neck that the man was standing on tip toes to avoid choking. Will’s eyes bored in like a linebacker stuffing the run on fourth and one. “Now, you aren’t as stupid as he was, so tell me where I can find this Mustapha bin Bitch we’re looking for.” The man’s gaze flicked to the door and darted away.

  “That’s better,” Will said, spinning the man around and cuffing him.

  Nick stepped up to the door and knocked, one long, two short, one long, then showed his badge to the angry eyeball and narrow sliver of face that showed when the door cracked open.

  “Police,” he said. “Open up. We have a warrant to search these premises.”

  The door opened and Nick and Will found themselves looking down the barrels of a dozen M16’s. Instantly the two cops were surrounded, disarmed and escorted inside.

  “Welcome to the Temple of the Dark Lord,” a powerful voice resonated from up front by the altar.

  “Mustapha bin Muhammad,” Nick said. “You are under arrest for possession of stolen--” Nick fell as Shark clubbed him with a gunstock. There were sounds of a struggle and then gunfire as Nick plunged into a deep, black tunnel.

  Across the street in a narrow, dark alley, a wino spoke urgently into his bottle. “Shots fired, shots fired! Officers need assistance.”

  Two minutes later SWAT teams surrounded the church and a hostage negotiator had been called in. The standoff had begun. Will Robbins body was tossed out the front door as proof Mustapha wasn’t bluffing when he said he’d kill the ‘other pig’ if the cops tried anything.

  *

  The Freeholds