Shadow Watch

NINE

The Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center, a cluster of one hundred buildings located off Interstate 45 midway between downtown Houston and the Galveston Island beaches some twenty-five miles southward, is the primary administrative, testing, and astronaut training facility for NASA’s manned space exploration program. Its Mission Control Center (Building 30), a windowless, bunkerlike structure at the core of the 1,620-acre complex, has been the locus of ground support and monitoring operations for American space flights since the Gemini 4 launch in June 1965, and contains two Flight Control Rooms — or fickeres—manned round the clock by large teams of flight controllers for the duration of any given mission. For the thousands of scientific researchers, engineers, and management officials who have dedicated their lives to “the expansion of human knowledge of phenomena in the atmosphere and space”—the agency’s mandate as defined in its Eisenhower-era charter — the JSC is where that goal has been advanced through imagination, intelligence, audacity, ingenuity, and irrepressible perseverence. For the far smaller handful of candidates who apply and qualify for the astronaut program, it is something even beyond that, a kind of Oz where they are bestowed the magical ruby slippers that will transport them to their hearts’ most wished for destination… only not the familiar terrestrial landscapes of home, as was the case with Dorothy, but the beckoning, mysterious heavens.

“Just click your heels together three times and say there’s no place like Betelgeuse,” Annie Caulfield muttered dryly to herself, aware she was about to make one of the most crucial decisions of her life. Immersed in thought, she sat looking out her office window at the tram that was moving across the JSC’s landscaped grounds as it delivered personnel and visitors to its various installations. Then she rotated her swivel chair and began absently studying the three framed photos on her otherwise bare desk. By chance the first one her eye fell upon was of her parents, Edward and Maureen, an 8 x 10 taken five years ago at a party to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary.

Annie smiled a little. Their preferred travel itineraries aside, she’d had a thing or two in common with Dorothy in her formative years, being an only child whose beginnings had been in rural Kansas. Her father had operated a one-man air transport service, and their family had lived so close to the airfield where he’d hangared his rattletrap Cessna that Annie could observe his take-offs and landings from her second-floor bedroom window.

Perhaps that had been what eventually led to her interest in sky-watching, she didn’t know, but when she was coming up on her eighth birthday Annie had asked for and received an inexpensive 60mm Meade refraction telescope for her gift, along with a Carl Sagan Cosmosphere that she had used to locate the planets, constellations, and galaxies from her porch on countless spring and summer evenings, Dad helping her level and rotate the tube on its tripod until she was old enough to manage it by herself. Seven years later he’d helped her accomplish another of her goals in the same attentive, patient way and given her flying lessons. By the time she was eighteen Annie had earned her license and was making air runs for him during breaks from school.

It seemed a sure thing in hindsight that her obsessions with astronomy and flying would converge into a desire to become an astronaut, though her decision to start her career by joining the Air Force had come as a total surprise to her mother and father. It had also been a source of great anxiety to them given the potential risks of warfare, risks that seemed particularly high in an age of limited regional conflicts for which the military relied heavily, and often exclusively, upon airpower to achieve their precision objectives. But her proficiency in the cockpit during her years of active duty had convinced her she could cut it with NASA, and Annie had submitted her application to its Astronaut Selection Office long before her F-16 Fighting Falcon was reduced to burning scrap metal while on a surveillance mission over northern Bosnia.

After her rescue, she had been reassigned stateside by her C.O. in keeping with standard Air Force policy to shunt pilots who had been downed in combat away from the theater of operations, regardless of their eagerness or apparent fitness to get back in the air — the understandable concern being that they might have suffered some hidden trauma that would cause them to blink for a split second when they needed to act, or conversely, overreact to a perceived threat, not a good idea either way when you were roaring over enemy territory at speeds upwards of five hundred miles per hour. Whatever inclination she’d had to argue the matter had been offset by her concern for her parents, whose fears for her safety had been borne out by events. For nearly a week before NATO searchers picked up the signal from her emergency locator beacon, it had been thought likely she had perished in the crash of her plane, and she hadn’t wanted to put them through that kind of gut-wrenching ordeal again.

She had been elated after getting contacted for an initial NASA interview within weeks of her transfer, but then had come the long, tortuous screening process of reference checks, re-interviews, and physical examinations prior to her qualifying for finalist status, to be followed by another series of prelims, and then the nail-biting wait for a conclusive yea or nay.

When Annie was notified that her candidacy had been accepted, her excitement had been so intense she had felt as if she might soar beyond the bonds of gravity without benefit of a spacecraft, knowing full well that there was still no guarantee she would ultimately be sent into space. Before that would come two rigorous years of basic astronaut training during which her skills would be developed and subject to constant evaluation. But she had attained the high ground and was, as Tom Wolfe had put it in The Right Stuff, within sight of Olympus. Nothing would stop her from going the rest of the distance.

Driven by her lifelong ambition, and aided by an innate self-discipline and passion to excel that her parents had always reinforced, she’d applied herself to the challenges of training with a kind of fierce, single-minded dedication, come through at the top of her class — right up there with Jim Rowland — and been selected for formal mission training immediately upon graduation.

Annie and Jim had flown their first shuttle mission together in 1997, he as commander, she as pilot.

Now she rapped her fingers on her desk, her eyes leaving the photo of her parents on the left end of the row for the one on the far right, an official NASA group shot of the crew on the flight that had “put her on the bronco’s hump and broken her cherry,” to quote not a famous writer this time, but rather the ever tactful Colonel Rowland. Of the seven men and women on that shuttle, two had been Turnips besides Jim and herself — mission specialists Walter Pratt and Gail Klass. It had been the multitalented, multilingual Gail, a computer scientist and electrical engineer by trade, who had designed their unique crew patch and translated the motto she and Jim had concocted into Latin… to give it class and authenticity, she had explained.

Ah, Jimmy, how I wish you were here with some dumb wisecrack, preferably one built around an obscenity… as if you knew any other kind, Annie thought. Sorrow infiltrating her smile, she studied his face as it appeared in the starch official public-relations shot. Somehow his prankish sense of humor had managed to show through the stiffly formal pose their photographer had elicited from him.

She expelled a long, sighing breath and shifted her attention to the middle picture frame, having bypassed it a few seconds earlier, precisely because she had known it would make her struggle to keep her emotions under control unwinnable.

Behind the frame’s nonreflective glass panel was a montage she had painstakingly composed from photo clippings of Mark, her children, and herself, using dozens of snapshots taken over the years, the images overlapping like the recollections they stirred within Annie. She was no Gail Klass in the creativity department, and most of her choices had been of the typical doting-mother, loving-wife sort that would have drawn afflicted little smiles had they been shown to friends or coworkers, boring them to death like nothing else besides home videos of birthday parties and backyard barbecues. Here was Mark proudly displaying a flounder he’d hooked from a fishing pier on Sanibel Island; here Linda on a playground seesaw; here the kids on a Christmas morning three years ago, still in their pajamas, wading into the presents under the tree; here the entire family at Disney World photographed by a roving six-foot-tall Mickey Mouse. And in the center…

Annie stared at the picture, transported back in thought to the night it was taken.

She and Mark had toured the British Isles for their honeymoon, a trip that had lasted almost a full month and led them from London to Edinburgh to the coastline of South Wales, with stops in a dozen villages and twice as many old castles along the way. It was at a small pub and guest house in the Scottish Highlands, where they had envisaged getting a good night’s rest before heading on to the Orkneys, that they’d wound up tossing back far too much single-malt whisky and dancing to Celtic folk music with the riotous locals, kicking up sawdust until the caller had finally lost his voice around day-break. When they had left their room late the next afternoon after sleeping off murderous hangovers — and missing their ferry out of town — the innkeeper had handed them a sixty-second Polaroid some anonymous fellow reveler had taken of them doing their eightsome reel in tweed caps that they hadn’t recalled putting on, and had never made it back to their room with them.

The combination of their goofy, plastered expressions and the cockeyed angles of the caps on their heads had made them chuckle every time they pored through their photo album, but somehow it had done more than capture a delightful memory, a rare uninhibited moment for two people who had built their lives around ceaseless discipline and hard work; it had exemplified the easy consonance between them, a lightness and looseness that neither ever had been able to share with anyone else, and was so much the essence of their marital union that she had felt the picture naturally belonged at the center of her little cut-and-paste.

Annie began tapping the desktop more rapidly, her eyes clouding up. Eight years, that was all they’d had together. Eight years before the cancer took Mark from her, making him suffer a thousand monstrous indignities as it consumed him.

But she could not allow herself to dwell on that, not now, and instead turned her thoughts to the meeting she’d had with Charles Dorset just a half hour ago. No sooner had she arrived that morning than he had summoned her to his office and, virtually without preamble, asked whether she would be interested in directing the Orion probe. The prospect had caught her completely off guard, and she had sat before his desk in silence for several moments, as if there was something about his question she wasn’t quite getting.

“Mr. Dorset, there’s a long list of people I’d supposed might be appointed to the position, and I really hadn’t imagined myself being on it,” she had said at length.

“Why is that?” He had watched her over a steaming coffee mug in his hands. “What would make anyone more eligible than you?”

Annie had shaken her head, still at a bit of a loss. “Seniority. Technical expertise. I’m not sure I would know how to begin managing such a huge responsibility.”

His broad, florid face was very serious.

“I have always believed NASA’s greatest investment is in the men and women we send into space, not the technology that carries them there. The human element,” he said. “And you have proven yourself good enough to handle the training of our astronaut corps for the past three years.”

Annie paused a moment, then said, “I’m flattered by your confidence, but it frankly doesn’t eliminate my concerns. My background isn’t in technical science. Every one of Orion’s electronic and structural systems will have to be analyzed to find out what went wrong—”

“You’ve operated a shuttle and taught others to do so, which makes you intimately acquainted with its workings. But that’s almost beside the point. Of course no one is expecting you to do it all. I’m talking about leadership. You would have wide discretion in handpicking a team of professionals from both inside and outside the agency.”

She looked at him. “I’d expect a few ranking members of the organization to be very unhappy about being passed over for consideration.”

“Leave that to me,” he said with a dismissive sweep of his hand. “If their feelings get hurt, they can come in here and I’ll hand out Kleenex, scold them, compliment their hairdos or neckties, whatever it takes to settle them down. Ninety percent of what I do, day in and day out, is play conciliator between massive egos. I can butter a bun as well as any diplomat.”

A thought suddenly crossed Annie’s mind as she listened to him.

“I have to ask you right out,” she said. “Is this whole thing about trotting me out before the television cameras again? Using me as a figurehead?”

“Fair question,” he said. “And I won’t tell you the esteem with which you are held by the public hasn’t been taken into account. They need to believe in the findings of our task force, and truth from government is a hard sell. But the fact that you go down well with television viewers is only part of it.” He paused, his eyes meeting Annie’s. “I hope I’ve already made clear that the high regard for your ability and integrity extends into this office. And you also should know that Roger Gordian is pushing like hell for you.”

The revelation left her nonplussed again. “You’ve consulted with him?”

“We were on the telephone earlier this morning.” Dorset’s lips hinted at a smile. “And I can assure you, he left no room for confusion about his preference.”

Annie felt an unaccountable twitch of nervousness as that sank in.

“I don’t know what to say,” she told him. “There are other issues. The shuttle will have to be reconstructed piece by piece, and the Vehicle Assembly Building at Canaveral’s the only facility we have that’s large enough to hold it. I’d have to be in Florida to constantly oversee things, stay on top of the progress that’s being made. It would mean uprooting my family….”

“Housing won’t be a problem. We have excellent condominiums where you can sit on your balcony under a sun umbrella and watch the manatees and dolphins swim by.”

“It isn’t just that. The children are both in school—”

“Gordian’s offered to arrange for them to attend the best private school on the coast and pay their full tuition indefinitely. He will also take care of any day care and tutorial needs that may arise from the transition.”

“Sir—” She paused, overwhelmed. “I appreciate your offer. And Mr. Gordian’s generosity. But I need to think about this.”

“I understand.” He gulped down some coffee. “Take half an hour.”

She looked at him, speechless, wondering for a stunned moment if he might have been joking. The unchanged sobriety of his expression told her he wasn’t.

“I’d been hoping for somewhat more time,” she said. “A day or two—”

“And you ought to have at least that long. Unfortunately, though, the media leeches have turned up the rheostat. You know the atmosphere they’ve created. People expect everything from civil wars to natural disasters to be paced like hour dramas, their storylines concluded in time for the eleven o’clock news, and when reality conflicts with that expectation, sentiments can turn ugly. I promise that you won’t be pressured into rushing the investigation, but we need to demonstrate that we’re moving quickly to get the ball rolling. The Kazakhstan launch can’t be held up.”

Annie shook her head a little. “I’m not quite sure I see the connection. Apart from coordinating our schedules, the Russian mission was intentionally planned to be independent of Orion, and ought not be affected.”

“I know that, and you know that, but they’ve gotten cold feet before. Citing technical problems for every delay, when all it’s ever boiled down to is their unwillingness — or inability, I want to be fair — to pay for their own ticket to the show. As Gordian reminded me, they are quite capable of bumping their launch if they get jittery about the United States backing away from its financial commitments.”

Even before Dorset was finished talking, Annie had realized she couldn’t argue that with him on that count. He was right. Absolutely right.

She had nodded in agreement and risen from her seat.

“I’ll be in my office,” she had said.

“And get back to me in thirty?”

“In thirty,” she’d assured him.

And here she was, here she was, the clock ticking down, leaving her with less than five minutes to give him her answer.

Her fingers drummed the desk. Why was she having such trouble making a decision? Dorset’s offer should have been irresistible. The kids would love Florida, especially knowing they would return home to their regular gaggle of friends once the investigation was concluded. With Orlando and all its razzle-dazzle tourist attractions less than an hour’s drive away, she could arrange her schedule so that every weekend would be a visit to paradise for them. And for her it would mean the chance to make certain no effort was spared in determining what had made Orion go up in flames, why Jim Rowland had died in such a horrible way… and to see that no other astronaut was ever threatened by a similar malfunction.

Annie probed her mind for the basis of her hesitation. Could it be she was afraid of failing to discover the cause of the fire, and thus failing Jim as well? Or was there some other underlying reason she was holding back, a failure of a different sort that had kept her chained and manacled in a dungeon of self-reproach since the night Mark died. Maybe, just maybe, she was like a prisoner acclimated to captivity who shrinks from her cell door as it is opened in an offer of release, looking directly out into freedom, and feeling a sudden terror that she no longer knows how to live with it.

Unconsciously at first, then with growing awareness, she studied the picture of Mark and herself in Scotland again, two people exulting in the moment, and welcoming a future that was by its very definition uncertain. Studied the picture, and all at once knew what her response to Dorset would be.

What it had to be.

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the telephone and punched in Dorset’s extension.

His receptionist put her through to him immediately.

“Yes?” he said, taut anticipation in his voice.

“Sir, I’d like to thank you for your offer,” she said. “And also ask if I may have Roger Gordian’s phone number, so I can express my appreciation for his support. And personally inform him of my acceptance.”

An instant after reading Gordian’s number off the display of his pocket computer, Dorset congratulated Annie Caulfield on her decision, hung up the phone, then rose from behind his desk and went over to the coffee machine on its small stand across the office. This would be his fourth — or was it his fifth? — mug of the morning and he’d only gotten in a bit over an hour ago. But what the hell, who was counting — he had enough to occupy his mind without keeping a tally.

He lifted the pot from its warming plate, filled his mug almost to the brim, and took a drink of the strong black brew while still standing at the machine. He began to feel calmer right away. How was it he always needed to be sipping a beverage loaded with caffeine, a stimulant, to relax? Though one could, of course, ask the same thing about chain smokers, nicotine being another notorious hyper-upper. Perhaps it was simply an oral fixation, as with overeaters. After all, what inherent calmative properties might there be in a sausage pizza, a Subway sandwich, or a cheeseburger with a side of batter-fried onion rings?

Dorset sipped the coffee down to a level where he could carry it without spilling any on his hand, then returned to his desk and sat. The affirmative answer from Caulfield was excellent news, especially in light of her initial reluctance to take on the job. An understandable reluctance too. She’d been through a lot in the past year. Her husband’s cancer, and then her not making it to his bedside the night he’d passed on. That part of the tragedy — not being there at the end — had devastated her, and for a time afterward Dorset had privately braced for her resignation.

Yet she had rebounded somehow. The woman kicked ass, no two ways about it. Dorset presumed the demands of getting a crew trained and ready for the Orion mission must have helped keep her going. But now, to have lost Jim Rowland, who had been like a brother to her… ass-kicker or not, there was only so much weight a person could carry. She had every reason to want to distance herself from the investigation, never mind refuse its leadership responsibilities. Which was a major reason he hadn’t seriously considered her for the position until Roger Gordian’s phone call.

Dorset raised the steaming mug to his lips and drank. Annie’s acceptance had given him a lift, but he wondered why it hadn’t proven greater than it was. He had no reservations about her being able to tackle the job, and indeed, felt her talents could not be overestimated. Maybe, then, the flatness of his mood had to do with Gordian exercising his clout. Not that he’d been heavy-handed. On the contrary, if there was a gentle way to remind someone you were holding him by the balls, Gordian had the touch. But from the moment he had suggested that Annie Caulfield head the Orion task force, Gordian had made it crystal clear his wishes were to supersede any other considerations Dorset might have about making the appointment. And also that, barring an outright refusal from Annie, he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.

Yes, Dorset thought with a swallow of coffee, it was largely his resentment over Gordian’s intervention that had robbed some of the moment’s luster. But that wasn’t all of it. Not if he wanted to be honest with himself. There was also the troubling news about Brazil, and his deliberately having kept it from Annie when he ought to have done the opposite. The attack on the base might very well turn out to be unrelated to Orion. He was certainly hoping and praying it would — why assume the worst? But she’d had a right to know about it. To know what she was getting into prior to making her choice. Because once word of the incident leaked to the press, she would be barraged with a shitstorm of wild speculation, and any misstatement from her, however innocent, would be enough to raise suspicions of a cover-up from some of her questioners. Annie needed to be informed, to be prepared, and he would do it within the next hour… but he had withheld the information earlier so that she couldn’t factor it into her decision, wanting to stack the deck in favor of a positive response.

Wanting to make sure Roger Gordian was accommodated, Dorset thought with a mixture of irritation and guilt. And who’s going to butter my goddamned bun?

He sighed. Orion, Brazil, the Kazakhstan launch… he had the sense that events were moving too fast, getting too far ahead of him. It was as if he was Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton in an old silent comedy film, working the pump of a handcar while clownishly trying to catch up with a chugging, whistle-blowing locomotive. Funny. Hysterical even. If you happened to be in the audience, and not sweating it on the rails.

Now he reached for his mug again, and was amazed to discover that it was almost empty. Christ. What kind of abuse must he be heaping upon his stomach? His nervous system?

Dorset stared down at the remainder of his coffee and frowned. Really, he ought to reduce his consumption. Fifty-eight years old, heart palpitations, elevated triglycerides, a grab bag of other chronic health problems — you had to watch out. Get on a treadmill once in a while, take one of those stress-management courses, anything besides brewing pot after pot after pot. On the other hand, there were worse addictions. Italian roast couldn’t be more harmful than cigarettes, booze, or prescription sedatives. He’d even heard some people got hooked on nasal sprays — what kind of habit was that? What the hell, right?

Expelling another breath, he pushed his chair back from his desk and went to pour himself a fresh cup.