Allen Steele - V-S Day

“Dr. Goddard?” Henry asked. No answer; it was as if Blue Horizon’s scientific director hadn’t heard him. “Bob? Confirm launch readiness?”

Goddard blinked, then looked away from the screen. “Yes,” he said, his voice low as he gave Henry a slow nod. “Launch status confirmed. Proceed with final countdown.”

“Thank you.” Henry let out his breath, then bent to the microphone again. “ Lucky Linda , you are cleared for launch.”

“Wilco, Desert Bravo,” Skid said. “Lucky Linda standing by for final countdown .”

“Final countdown commences on my mark.” Picking up a stopwatch, Goddard regarded the wall clock for a couple of seconds, then snapped the watch. “Mark, sixty seconds.”

Henry pushed the mike button again. “X minus sixty seconds and counting.”

“Detach umbilical,” Harry Chung said. “Switch to internal power.”

Henry repeated the order for Rudy, and a couple of seconds later, the electrical cable extending from the launch tower to Lucky Linda fell away from the spacecraft.

“X minus thirty seconds and counting,” Henry said.

Robert Goddard returned to the periscope. Through its lenses, he could see Lucky Linda clearly. Its sleek white hull was washed by the desert sun, yet its base was shrouded by ghostly fumes rising from exhaust vents, making it seem as if it were floating on top of a cloud.

“X minus twenty seconds and counting.”

Goddard wiped his sweaty palms on the periscope handles. “Dear God,” he whispered, his voice unheard by anyone else in the room, “please help us.”

“X minus ten seconds… nine… eight… seven…”

JUNE 1, 2013

“Six… five… four… three… two… one… zero!”

The twelve-year-old boy pushed a toggle switch on the launch controller in the palm of his hand, and an instant later, a yellow-white jet of flame erupted from the model rocket poised fifteen feet away. A loud fizzing sound, and the rocket—eighteen inches tall, hand-built from plastic and cardboard—leaped upward from the beach.

Leaving behind a trail of brown smoke, the little rocket soared into the blue New Hampshire sky. The boy watched with anxious eyes as it arced out over a lake bordered by woodlands and summer cabins, all but oblivious to the applause of the adults gathered nearby. The only person whose opinion mattered to him was the old man standing beside him: his great-grandfather, who had encouraged him to take up model rocketry as a hobby.

“Nice launch, good trajectory.” The old man’s voice was low, unheard by anyone except the boy. He lifted a Panama from his white-haired head to shield his eyes against the sun. “Fifty feet… seventy-five… a hundred…” A quiet chuckle. “Hey, Carl, I think it might reach escape velocity.”

Carl didn’t smile. This was serious business. “C’mon, c’mon… where’s the parachute?”

“Wait for it. Wait…”

The rocket was a tiny white speck a little more than two hundred feet above the lake when its solid-fuel engine exhausted itself. Momentum kept the rocket going for a short distance after the smoke trail ended, but then it toppled over and began falling toward the lake. An inarticulate cry of dismay rose from deep within Carl’s throat.

“Oh, darn it,” the old man said. “Parachute didn’t deploy.” The other grown-ups made remorseful noises—“what a shame” and “gee, that’s terrible” and so forth—but no one had more regrets than he and his great-grandson. They said nothing to each other as the rocket plummeted into the lake about seventy yards offshore. Two men in a nearby canoe immediately began paddling toward it.

Carl gnawed his lower lip as he turned to the old man. Planting the hat back on his head, Henry Morse leaned heavily on his walking stick as he regarded Carl with sympathetic eyes. “Well… you had a good launch, and I think it went a bit higher this time.”

“Not much. I was hoping it’d get to three hundred feet, at least. And the parachute…”

“Yeah, not having the chute open is a real letdown.” Henry shook his head in commiseration. “I didn’t see the nose cone open, did you?” Carl shook his head. “So… any idea what went wrong?”

Carl hesitated. He hated admitting mistakes, particularly to his great-grandfather. “I dunno…” he began, then stopped himself; I don’t know wasn’t an excuse Grandpa Henry would accept. “I guess I didn’t pack the parachute right. And maybe I should have used a bigger engine, too.”

“I’d say that’s a good hypothesis.” Henry looked out at the lake. The canoe had reached the place where the rocket went down. The man in the bow reached over the side with a fishing net, thrust it into the water, then raised it over his head and shouted something they couldn’t quite hear. “Well, cheer up,” Morse said, pointing toward the canoe. “Looks like your recovery team is on the job.” He clapped a hand on his great-grandson’s shoulder. “Well, c’mon… let’s go back to the lodge, and I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Grandpa!” Unnoticed until now, a tall blond woman in her thirties had come up behind them. “He’s not old enough, and you know it!”

“Ellen, it’s a tradition,” Henry replied.

“Not for nine more years it isn’t!”

Her grandfather glared at her. “Rocketmen are exempt.”

“Not in my space program.” Yet she was forcing herself not to smile as she ruffled Carl’s hair. “All right, enough of that. Put your stuff away, then come over here and help me set the table for lunch.”

“Okay. Sure.” Carl closed the controller’s safety cover, then glanced at his great-grandfather. Later, Henry silently mouthed, giving him a conspiratorial wink. The boy grinned. It wouldn’t be the first time Grandpa Henry slipped him a can of Budweiser when no one was looking.

Near the beach, tucked in among the pines and red oaks, was an old hunting lodge. Two stories tall, sturdily constructed of native oak and pine, its brick chimneys, Victorian gables, and screened-in lake-view porch hinted that it had been built about a century ago. A couple of dozen people were gathered on the shaded lawn next to the house: mainly adults in their thirties, forties, and fifties, but also a handful of children and teenagers. Ice coolers lay open, packed with cans of soda and beer, and charcoal smoke drifted up from a barbecue pit, where burgers and wieners were being cooked on the grill. Four picnic tables had been pushed together to form a long, single bench, and a volleyball net had been set up near the floating dock in expectation of afternoon games later on. An American flag, raised at sunrise that morning, hung from a tall metal pole rising from the beach.

Along the narrow dirt road leading through the woods, a Toyota Celica approached the lodge. Passing a sign—PRIVATE PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING—the car slowed down as it reached the end of the road. A dozen or more other vehicles were parked close together behind the lodge; the driver carefully slid his Toyota between an SUV and a maple tree.

A young man in his midtwenties climbed out, casually dressed in chinos and a polo shirt. He reached into his car to retrieve a canvas shoulder bag from the passenger seat, then shut the door. Hearing the children, he started to head toward the beach.

“May I help you?”

The young man stopped to look around. An old black man—hair frosted white, face heavy with age—sat alone on a bench beneath a pine tree, a half-smoked cheroot dangling between the gnarled fingers of his right hand.

“That’s okay, thanks.” The visitor started to walk off. “I think I can find my way.”

“That’s not what I asked,” the old man said.