Orbit

Chapter 17

Cadet Jerrod Dawson has never been summoned to the commandant’s office before, let alone in the middle of the evening and immediately on return from a field trip. He’s already reported, saluted, and waited for an explanation from a major and a lieutenant colonel in the room when one of the academy chaplains comes through the door, raising his level of alarm.

“Sir, may I ask what this is about?” Jerrod can feel his stomach contracting in fear. He’s purposely avoided watching or reading any news reports during the day, not wanting to even seem to be endorsing his father’s self-indulgent flight. But now…

“Is something wrong?”

“Sit down, please, Mr. Dawson,” the colonel directs, and Jerrod sinks into the nearest chair, his eyes darting among each of them.

“Is this about my dad?”

The glances among the three confirm that much, and the colonel finally finishes fidgeting long enough to speak.

“Cadet, you are aware your father was participating in a civilian spaceflight today, correct?”

“Yes, sir. Please tell me. Has something happened?”

“We don’t know if he’s all right or not, but we got a call from your mother…”

“My mother’s dead, sir. That would be my stepmother.”

“Right. Well, let me tell you in as much detail as we have it what we know.”

It’s late evening in the Beltway, past 11 P.M., and the black tie reception and dinner, attended at the last minute by the head of NASA, is winding down. The guests are taking their leave, winding beneath the amazing displays of space and aeronautics, past the suspended Spirit of St. Louis, Burt Rutan’s SpaceShipOne, the Wright Flyer, and the Mercury Project capsule. The men look sharp in their tuxedoes, their wives and girlfriends mostly stunning in their expensive evening gowns—some featuring necklines which plunge giddily.

Geoff Shear is uninterested in both the pomp and purpose, though he’s made nice and uttered the appropriate comments—especially to those who’ve fawned over his presence. His purpose for being there is waiting just ahead in a semi-private alcove.

She turns, elegant but appropriately conservative, her last-minute invite a puzzling request to the museum since her apparent mid-level position with the Agency would hardly put her in the same league as the mainstream crowd.

“Dorothy?”

“Mr. Administrator.”

“Thanks for responding at the last minute. Anybody, ah, keeping track of you?”

She’s smiling, considering her answer as she glances back toward the thinning crowd. “There is one young Senate staffer who keeps trying to strike up a conversation and get lucky, but otherwise, no.”

Geoff smiles and follows her glance, seeing no one in particular.

“Sorry to spoil the possibilities of the evening.”

“It was yours to begin with, considering the source of the invitation. What can I do for you, sir?”

He motions her into a side room where the displays of the evolving history of rocketry are arranged in the form of an open maze. He turns, his wineglass still tightly gripped and only half drained.

“Dorothy, I have a mission for you. I’ve been ordered by the President to do everything NASA can to mount a rescue launch for ASA’s apparently stranded spacecraft. You know this?”

“More or less.”

“Okay. A presidential order is an order, but NASA cannot afford suddenly to throw caution to the wind. I need you to go to Reagan at seven in the morning and get down to the Cape. Should you ever be asked by some damned congressional committee, then these are my formal orders: You’re there to coordinate and ensure safety for the Agency. You were asked to go down there by your supervisor.”

“Understood.”

“But…”

She’s reaching out to him, her index finger actually touching his lips, the level of familiarity and the knowing smile a bit disturbing.

“I think I understand. I know how you think, and how you feel about these private efforts. This launch attempt must not take place if there is too much risk, and I might just discover that there’s far too much risk… the type the boys down South just didn’t see at first.”

He’s nodding, admiringly. “I’m glad you see it that way. As you well know, I can’t trust anyone at the Cape.”

“There’s one thing I want.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve enjoyed being your fix-it agent, so to speak, especially after eight years in covert ops for the Company. At least no one’s been shooting at me here. But I’m ready now to come in out of the cold, as the old reference goes. That desk you promised me?”

“You really want to fly a desk?”

“Can we make this my last assignment?”

“Why not. Although I’ll need your help recruiting someone new. The one thing I learned early on in this town, Dorothy—if you don’t have your own eyes and ears, an administrator can never know what’s really happening in the trenches. You’ve done that well.”

“Deal, then? Last assignment?”

“Deal.”

“You want reports back from me?”

“No. We need plausible deniability at all turns. We may have said hello here at this party, but that’s it. In fact, amazingly, there will be no record of your having ever been here tonight.”

“I figured. In that case, I should evaporate,” she says, placing her empty wineglass on a nearby ledge and leaving without another word.