Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

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?

"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.

Bolling was a graduate of Stanford, where he'd majored in history. He'd grown up around boats and joined the Coast Guard more or less as a lark, expecting to enjoy himself for a few years before settling down with a real job. He'd earned a commission at the academy and married a marine pilot. He'd liked the life, enjoyed the freedom, and now wondered that he could ever have thought seriously of working in an office.

His marriage hadn't lasted: too many irregular hours on both sides, no kids to bind the partners, and maybe too much money. They'd stayed in touch and managed to remain friends. Tonight, he knew she'd squired an automobile carrier out past the eastern markers and elected to stay with the ship. It was running coastwise, with stops in Philadelphia, Charleston, and Brunswick. But it would lie well offshore with the rest of the merchant fleet until the situation sorted itself out.

"I sent my family out of town," said Packard. "Soon as I heard."

Bolling knew several people who'd tried to do that but had been unable to book transport. And more than a few who'd started out by car, given up, and come home. "I don't think there's anything to it, Dan," he said. "But it never hurts to be safe."

He was glad his ex was out, too.

Funny how night skies give credence to fear. When he'd reported for duty this afternoon and they'd begun to lay out the operational plan, it had all seemed ridiculous. The sun had been bright, the weather warm, and everyone was laughing over a long jaunt out into the Atlantic. But it felt deadly serious now as Dilly and Reliant moved past empty piers.

One vessel, the Kira Maru, was inbound. Diligent overtook her as she approached Throgs Neck Bridge. The Merchant Marine Academy was off to port, just beyond Kings Point Road. Automobile traffic seemed normal. Maybe even a little heavy for a Saturday night.

Dilly was loaded with medical supplies just in case. And it carried a couple of tanks of fresh water. Someone in the chain of command was taking the comet seriously.

The skies were about as clear as they get over New York. Comet and Moon had risen almost simultaneously during the late afternoon. They were overhead now, entwined in the bridge, almost visibly drawing together while he watched. He drew his jacket around his shoulders. On the river at this time of year, nights were always cold.

His orders were crumpled in his jacket pocket.

That was strange phrasing, he thought, considering what they feared.

Now the dark sky gave way to the Whitestone Bridge.

"Look," said Packard, pointing ahead toward a small flotilla of yachts, a few points to starboard. There were maybe twenty boats in all. Bolling could hear music drifting across the water. And laughter. But they were keeping together, and they waved as the cutter passed. Some of the coasties waved back.