On the other hand, if this really turned out to be the end of the world, as some people were saying, what difference would it make? White House, Oval Office. 10:04 P.M.
The Moon wasn't visible from his windows. Henry had set up a hot line for the state governors, had resisted nationalizing the Guard (which would only serve to encourage those elements in the nation that were given to panic), had talked with the heads of state of two dozen nations, had authorized full U.S. commitment to a UN Response Team, and had gone on national television with a fireside chat, FDR-style.
He was especially good in that format. Al Kerr had told him once that he oozed sincerity. He understood that people were upset, he'd explained. They were experiencing something quite disturbing. But Americans were not among those who would give way to hand-wringing and fear-mongering. (In fact, the media, he thought, had done quite a good job at keeping a lid on things.)
Should any effects of the distant collision (he emphasized distant) be felt in the U.S.A., he assured the nation that the government was ready to act with all the power at its disposal. The military had been deployed to lend assistance in the unlikely event it might be needed. Federal agencies were standing by. And he himself would spend the evening in the White House. He was planning to watch a good movie, and expected not to be disturbed.
He added, almost as an afterthought, that Vice President Haskell was still at Moonbase. He was proud of the vice president, and the five brave Americans who had remained with him. (He'd gotten carried away here. Morley was a New Zealander; Hampton was from Senegal; the chaplain was British; and, of course, one of the two pilots of the Micro, had they been mentioned, was Russian. But let it go. The nation needed pumping up.) A rescue effort was under way even as he spoke, and he was optimistic that everyone would be brought away safely.
Al shook his hand when he was done. It had been a masterful performance. The president had spoken from his living quarters on the second floor of the West Wing. The book-lined walls, the sputtering fire (a virtual effect, actually, because the evening was unseasonably warm), the family portraits, had all lent a sense of security and tranquillity to the proceedings.
There was, of course, no movie planned for the evening.
After the broadcast, Henry had returned to the Oval Office, taken a call from UN Secretary General Elie Kopacca on an unrelated matter, and then headed down to the situation room. In the holotank, a virtual comet closed in on Mare Muscoviense. Displays portrayed the comet from a dozen different points of view. On the far side of a glass partition, a dozen operators manned computers and phones. There were uniforms everywhere. He saw Mercedes Juarez deep in conversation with the liaison from the Federal Emergency Management Agency.
The situation room was essentially a military operation, usually a relatively blase place run for the convenience of the commander-in-chief. When a crisis was in full swing, however, it could become the nation's nerve center. The officer responsible for it was Rear Admiral Jay Graboski.
Graboski was something of a crank. He didn't much like civilians, junior officers, reporters, or White House employees. He was convinced the nation was in a steep moral decline and that only military discipline, practiced across the land by all citizens and enforced by a tough national police force, would be sufficient to turn things around. He tolerated Henry Kolladner because he had to, but he was not reluctant to offer advice, usually in the guise of "cracking down" on some practice or other. For all that, Graboski was useful. He knew the equipment, its capabilities and its limitations. He never lost his head. He was brutally honest. And he had no private agenda that transcended his loyalty to the United States.
When Henry entered the area, Graboski was clustered with a couple of his lieutenants. He saw the president and came over. "Nothing's changed, sir," he said.
The clocks were counting down the last hour.
"Is the rescue effort on schedule?"
"Yes, Mr. President. The microbus made its SSTO rendezvous on the dime. They're in the descent stage now, approaching Moonbase." He went on to describe efforts on the West Coast to stock food and equipment in elevated areas.
Henry didn't care much about details. He was thinking instead about the last nine months of his term, what he hoped to accomplish, a few old scores he wanted to settle, the kind of mark he hoped to leave on history. And he was trying to calculate how tonight's events would influence all that. Whether, for example, the death of a heroic vice president would reflect well on him. Or put him into sharp contrast. After all, it might be said, the opening of Moonbase was a monumental event. The president should have been there. And how would he have behaved?
How indeed?
TRANSGLOBAL NEWS REPORT. 10:05 P.M.
"This is Keith Morley reporting live from Moonbase. I'm talking by remote with Tony Casaway, the pilot of the microbus that will make an attempt to pull us out of here in, uh, about twenty minutes. And with him is his copilot, Alisa Rolnikaya. Tony, where are you now?"
"Hello, Keith. We're close enough to see the lights. We'll be there in a few minutes."
"Good. I don't need to tell you that we're waiting anxiously. I wonder if you'd care to give us your assessment of the situation? How do things look from your perspective?"
"You want the truth?"
"Sure."
"I don't want to upset you, Keith, but they look scary. The comet is virtually on top of us. I'm showing you now the view from the cockpit."
"I see it. It looks lower in the sky than it did earlier."
"Just before it comes down, it'll drop behind the horizon. Or at least it would if you were sitting on top of the ringwall mountains. I don't mind telling you, I'll be happy to pick you folks up and be gone."
"I don't mind telling you, we share your feeling, Tony." (Chuckles.) "How about you, Saber? I should mention that Alisa is Russian, and she goes by her old NATO code name, Saber. You both volunteered to do this. Having any second thoughts?"
"I probably shouldn't admit this in front of the whole world, Keith, but I'm scared to death."
"Well, Saber, I want you to know we appreciate your coming after us."
"Keith?"
"Yes, Tony."
"How do you feel?"
"Same as Saber. We'll be standing by the launchpad with our lunches packed." On board Diligent, USCGC 344, in the East River. 10:06 P.M.
Commander Peter Bolling listened to the rumble of his twin V16 diesel engines and watched the piers and wharves slip by. They were uniformly empty.
"It's eerie," said Dan Packard, his XO. The waterfront was lit up, like always. Here and there a solitary figure patrolled the docks, flashlight and clipboard in hand. Beyond, the towers of Manhattan rose under clear skies, unchanged and unchangeable, mocking Diligent and her orders. It was eerie. Even Bolling, who'd been working the harbor for twelve years, had never seen it so completely deserted.
The Diligent was an ancient 210-foot cutter, known affectionately to her crew as Dilly. She was based at Governor's Island, had spent the earlier part of the evening directing outbound traffic into Long Island Sound. Now, in company with her sister vessel Reliant, she was moving south on the East River, one final patrol before clearing out through the Narrows into the Atlantic, where they would wait until higher authority was sure events in the sky would not create hazardous conditions in the cramped New York and New Jersey waterways.
Ships had been putting out to sea now for three days, taking no chances on getting caught near shore if high water developed.