Kaiju: Deadfall, page 3
“We’re closing with Girra.” He glanced at Mahall. “Advise Houston of the situation. Pray that it’s enough.”
All three stared at him in various stages of disbelief and panic, but no one said anything. Good crew, he thought. He knew instinctively that the new object wouldn’t collide with Girra. If they could just get close enough to it … He fired the starboard thrusters. The craft shuddered, as the tiny jets fought to move the enormous weight of Lunar One. He fired one brief burst of the nose thruster to reduce the ship’s velocity, hoping to add a few more seconds before the impact. He stared at the approaching object on radar. The image was hazy and indistinct. Whatever it’s made of, he mused, it’s stealth technology.
“Sixty seconds to impact,” Mahall announced.
“Everybody strap in,” he warned.
They had no time to suit up. If the ship’s hull was punctured in an area they couldn’t quickly reach with a repair patch, they would all die. Mahall closed her eyes and began muttering a quiet prayer. This time, Langston wasn’t annoyed by her beliefs. Say one for all of us. Crenshaw stared out the window looking as if she wanted to do anything, even throw rocks at the object if she had to, to vent her anger. Of the three, Ingersall surprised him. The young physician was making certain the exterior video camera was operating and transmitting to NASA mission control. His cool demeanor in the face of danger calmed Langston’s racing heart. He had done all he could do. Any mistakes he had made or decisions he should have made earlier were moot. Now, mathematics and physics controlled their fates.
“Five seconds.” Mahall’s voice was tense but betrayed no panic. Her training focused her attention to her job.
Girra loomed larger off their port side. From a distance of less than sixty meters, the object became an ebony mirror that ate light as if devouring space itself. For one split second, Langston thought the darkness would swallow up Lunar One as well. He had no time to ponder the object. The ship suddenly shuddered and slewed to starboard, as the object struck the starboard solar panel. The control panel lights flickered and died. Then, a second, harder contact almost ejected him from his seat. He clung to his seat harness with both hands. The ship bucked violently, as a loud shriek of tearing metal erupted from just aft of the service module. The low air pressure alarm began to wail, adding to the tension. As the ship tried to shake apart, Langston braced for the explosive decompression that would kill them. It didn’t come.
“Someone locate that leak and seal it,” he shouted. “Mahall, find me some power.”
The craft was spinning. He risked more fuel to correct their trajectory and stop the rotation. He didn’t mind spending fuel. They had fuel to spare now. He knew they were never going to reach Earth in a crippled ship.
4
Thursday, August 9 3:10 a.m. (CDT) Mission Control, Houston, TX –
“I’ve lost contact with Lunar One.”
The statement from the CAPCOM brought silence to the room. Every head turned toward capsule communicator’s desk. The CAPCOM for this mission was astronaut Tray Davis who had trained closely with the Lunar One crew. He would have piloted the craft if Commander Langston had been unable to make the trip. His demeanor was professional, but the pallor of his face betrayed his concern. A sense of dread gripped Gate and wouldn’t release him. Lack of sleep and fatigue enhanced the horror that scattered his thoughts. He knew every technician in the room was as stunned by the news as he was.
“Commander Langston fired the engine to avoid a second object, and then went silent,” Davis said.
“What second object?” Gate asked. “The images didn’t reveal a second object.”
His question went unanswered. Around the room, twenty men and women were concentrating on re-establishing communications with the crew of Lunar One.
The energy, environment, and consumables operations manager, EECOM, quickly confirmed CAPCOM’s analysis of the situation. “Lunar One indicated a rapid loss of atmosphere and a loss of power before they broke transmission.”
Gate glanced over at Director Caruthers for clarification. The worried director brushed his hand across his balding head and removed his headset before collapsing heavily into his seat. His upper lip trembled slightly. For the last forty hours, the NASA director had been living on coffee, donuts, and catnaps. “That does it,” Caruthers muttered quietly. “We’ve lost Lunar One.”
On the screen at the front of the room, the last video transmission was replaying, showing a barely visible object approaching the Orion spacecraft. The image of Girra Delta grew larger, as Lunar One fired its engines and moved toward it. Then, the image broke up into a jumble of pixels and disappeared. Gate’s first close-up look at Girra filled him with dismay. Its shape was too regular to be natural. His greatest fear was realized.
“Try to resume contact,” Caruthers called out into the silence of the room. “We need to know if anyone is alive and if we can bring them home.”
“They expended most of their fuel,” the flight dynamics officer reminded him. “They don’t have fuel enough remaining for an Earth insertion orbit.”
“What about fuel from the lander?” Caruthers asked.
“They have no way to pump it into the command capsule.”
Tray Davis spoke up. “They might be able to manage a stable lunar orbit. If they lost fuel and oxygen, Commander Langston would know they could never reach Earth. He would try for a lunar orbit and wait for rescue. I would.”
“What would that accomplish?”
“There’s a resupply ship at ISS. If we could refuel and launch a rescue mission, it could reach the moon in fifty-eight hours.”
Gate felt a surge of hope. The Space X resupply shuttle Pegasus had been docked at the International Space Station for three days, delivering cargo and transferring new crewmembers. If it could reach Lunar One in time, and if they hadn’t lost all their oxygen, they had a chance. He clung to that thought.
“If Lunar One has enough oxygen left to survive that long,” Caruthers replied.
Davis nodded. “Yes, sir, I realize that, but it is a chance. It’s their only chance.”
Caruthers paused. He didn’t want to be the first director since the Columbia disaster to lose a crew. “If they jettison the new Orbiter satellite, they could carry extra fuel and oxygen for the return journey.”
The payload officer rose from his seat and waved his hand to get the Director’s attention.
“This isn’t high school, Williams,” Caruthers said. “If you have something to contribute, speak up.”
Slightly embarrassed by the attention, Williams said, “Sir, that navigation satellite cost 1.5 billion dollars.”
“Damn the cost,” Caruthers snapped, making Williams jump. “We’re talking people here. Someone find me a better solution, but in the meantime, contact ISS and advise them to prep Pegasus for launch. Remind them that time is of the essence. The current crew will have to make bunk space for the replacement crew for a week or so until we can send up another bird.”
Gate listened with interest, trying to force his exhausted mind to focus on the rapid-fire conversation between Caruthers and the mission control crew. Finally, as the discussion became a rapid-fire volley of technical details concerning the rescue mission, he detached and pondered what he had just witnessed. Girra wasn’t natural. Of that, he was certain. He had yearned for definitive data on the objects. Now, he had it, but perhaps at the cost of four astronauts’ lives.
Gate sat at an empty desk entering the new data in his projections. Around him, men battled to re-establish communications with the stricken ship. Ideas for rescue sprouted and died, as worried men posed desperate solutions. Each proposal was dutifully picked apart and dismissed. Tempers flared, but no blows were struck. The technicians were tired, harried, and pressed for answers, but they were friends. They were a team.
They were still at it a half hour later when Gate finished his projections. The results were numbers of doom. He double-checked them to be certain. Finally, he could put it off no longer. He had to inform the director.
“I’ve run the new figures. They’re not good.”
Caruthers frowned. “What’s the damage?”
“From the new data, it is evident that the objects are less dense than we thought. They’re moving slower than we originally estimated as well. That could be from …”
Caruthers cut him off. He wasn’t interested in speculation. “Where will they hit?”
Gate scanned his screen. “Girra will impact at coordinates 400 45’13” N and 860 21’38” W.”
“Where do those coordinate place it?”
As he spoke, one of the technicians displayed a satellite image of the United States on one of the screens. Cursors appeared, moving across the image until they bracketed a large blob of light, a city.
“Logansport, Indiana,” the technician called out.
Caruthers cleared his throat. “And the other one?”
Gate checked his laptop. “Nusku will hit at 380 10’30” N by 1150 48’20” W.” He looked up at Caruthers, “That’s just north of Las Vegas, Nevada.”
Caruthers nodded and turned to the flight director. “You had better contact the FAA and advise them to redirect flights from O’Hare and Midway Airports in Chicago and McCarran in Vegas. Better yet, have them ground all flights for the next twelve hours.” His voice cracked slightly, as he asked, “How many people in Logansport?”
“Eighteen thousand,” the technician replied.
Caruthers’ face soured, as he turned back to face Gate. “My God, Gate, first San Francisco, and now Indiana and Nevada. We have no response to this. The damned meteor shield we’ve begged the government for over the past ten years is still just a piece of paper sitting on someone’s fucking desk.” He slammed his fist on the console. “Goddamn politics. I wish every one of those sons of bitches in Washington could see this thing hit the ground. Maybe then they’d get off their collective asses.”
He reached into his pocket, removed a nicotine patch, and slapped it on his right arm just above the one that was already in place. “Hell of a time to give up smoking,” he growled.
Gate checked the clock on the big wall. “We have less than four hours before Girra hits. Not enough time for an evacuation of Logansport.”
“Thank God, it isn’t hitting Chicago.”
“I don’t think those in the impact zone will take any consolation from that.”
“No, you’re right. God help them. We can’t.”
An idea had been forming in the back of Gate’s mind during the conversation. The Girra strike presented an opportunity to become a hands-on astronomer once more. “I need to go to Indiana. I want to be first on the scene to examine it.”
Caruthers stared at Gate as if he had lost his mind. “You’re a catastrophist, not a meteor man. You work with numbers.”
“I’m an astronomer first,” he countered. “I need to see this thing up close.”
Caruthers nodded. “I guess I understand. Your figures condemned an entire city to die, and you feel guilty. It’s just math, Gate. It’s not your fault, but I’ll have one of our jets get you as close as you think safe. By no stretch of the imagination are you to put yourself in harm’s way. I need you back here.”
Gate smiled. “I’m in no hurry to die. If these are friendly aliens, I want to be there to greet them.”
“Do you think this is a friendly visit?”
Gate shook his head slowly. “No, I think we’re at war.”
Girra
5
Thursday, August 9, 4:24 a.m. (PDT) Fort Belvoir, Washington –
General Theodore Frederick Simms stood hands clasped behind his back in front of a console whose readings he didn’t understand. The large projection screen overhead showed two lines – a red one representing the missile, and a blue one representing Girra. The trajectory data was displayed beside each of the blips, but the rapidly changing numbers meant nothing to him. As the head of the Missile Defense Agency, the thirty-five billion dollar agency charged with protecting the United States from a nuclear missile strike, he wasn’t required to know the jargon or the scientific principles behind the job. His job was to keep the country safe.
After Iran obtained their first nuclear weapon in 2016, his group had come to the forefront in Congressional funding. Fear opened purse strings, even for clandestine projects such as his. The Minuteman II missile presently winging its way toward Girra wasn’t ground based. It was stationed on a weather satellite, codenamed Janus, deployed two years earlier. Technically, neither the decommissioned missile nor the weather satellite existed. Janus contained not weather tracking instruments, but a single Minuteman II missile with a W56 1.2 megaton warhead. Part of the OMD, or Orbiting Midcourse Defense, Janus was designed to intercept incoming nuclear missiles. This time, it served a different purpose.
The first object that struck San Francisco had gone undetected until it was too late, and San Francisco paid the price. Now, Logansport, Indiana, was in the stellar crosshairs. He had a chance to make amends and to show his superiors just what OMD could do. Some of the scientists insisted that the nuclear yield was insufficient to destroy such a massive object as Girra. Their graphs and charts pointed out a list of numbers denoting mass, velocity, nuclear yield, and vectors. The numbers were meaningless to him, but he understood their belief in them. However, a few of them proposed a glancing blow that might deflect the object just enough to force it to miss the Earth. Simms was not a man to simply twiddle his thumbs and wait. He went with option number two. The missile would intercept Girra four thousand miles outside Earth’s atmosphere.
An unsettling odor of fear wafted about the room. Simms had smelled fear in Iraq. He knew the bitter taste it left on the tongue; the sour odor it imparted to a man’s sweat. His troops, this time scientists who had never touched a rifle or faced an enemy, were afraid. Frightened men made mistakes. He needed to rally them.
He cleared his throat loudly. Heads turned in his direction. “Men, we are the front line of defense for our great nation. You have trained long and hard. You are the best your country has to offer, or you would not be sitting at those desks. Our enemy is not the Russians, the North Koreans, the Chinese, or the Iranians. It is not ISIS or Boko Haram. It is an inert chunk of rock headed toward the nation’s heartland. In your capable hands rests the safety of our country. I have faith in you. Do your jobs and we will emerge victorious.”
They didn’t cheer or applaud his speech, but he could see in their eyes that he had dispelled their fear. They moved with more confidence, sat straighter in their seats. If they failed, it would not be from lack of trying.
“Impact in three minutes,” one of the technicians called out.
Simms nodded, clasping his hands tighter to stop their trembling. They trembled not from fear, but from excitement. He had every confidence they would get results.
The red dot representing the missile slowly approached the larger blue blob of Girra. He held his breath as the two dots merged. Nothing happened. The screen didn’t light up like a video game. There was no sound of an explosion. No TILT sign appeared. He waited impatiently for a report.
“We have detonation, Sir,” someone called out.
A few cheers erupted. Simms relaxed, placing his hands on the console in front of him, as the tension released from his body. After several seconds of silence, he demanded, “Well? Did we do it?”
One of the technicians lowered his head, refusing to look into the general’s eyes. “No change in Girra’s course, sir. It’s still headed for Earth.”
Simms slumped against the console. He had failed. His agency had failed. “Nothing?” he asked. His voice was plaintive, begging for some morsel of good news.
“No, sir. Zero deflection. It’s almost as if the energy was absorbed by the object.”
He sat down hard in his seat. After a few moments, he looked up. The blue dot on the screen continued toward Earth.
“Time to impact?” he asked.
“Fifty-four minutes, twenty-seven seconds.”
“Notify Washington,” he said. Under his breath, he whispered, “God help Indiana.”
Ignoring the looks of disdain in the technicians, he pulled out a silver cigarette case and stuck an Egyptian cigarette in his mouth. He had learned to enjoy them while stationed as a military liaison before the Arab Spring uprising. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. He had a feeling that where the Joint Chiefs would be sending him for his failure, he might not be smoking many more Egyptian cigarettes.
* * * *
Thursday, August 9 8:30 a.m. (EDT) Logansport, Indiana –
Kevin Andrews rolled the two-wheeler loaded with cases of Pepsi products from his delivery truck into the open rear door of the Logan’s Run Golf Course clubhouse. Twelve miles east of downtown Logansport, Indiana, the golf course was his first stop of the morning. He liked to begin his run at his farthest stop and worked his way back to the warehouse. He was eager to finish up and drop by McDonalds for a late breakfast of a sausage biscuit, hash browns, and a cup of hot coffee.
He enjoyed the clubhouse stop because of the fine looking middle-aged women in their short skirts usually putting on the green just outside the door. It allowed his voyeuristic tendencies full rein. He thought older women were hot, maybe because of his Aunt Agatha, who had allowed him to fondle her naked breasts when he was ten. Mature women knew more about sex than the twenty-somethings that he usually dated could dream of. Even at such an early hour, the putting green was crowded with women eager to beat the heat of the day.
Sid Meyers, the food and beverage manager at Logan’s Run, took his job seriously. He insisted on counting each case and inspecting it for damage before signing the delivery receipt. Kevin waited patiently, staring out the door at a blonde on her hands and knees lining up a shot.
