Skyfall

15

GET 02:19

Washington, D.C., on a muggy morning, at the height of the rush hour. The motorcycle escort was making heavy weather of shepherding the Cadillac at more than the snail's pace through the rest of the traffic. Once they were over the Chain Bridge from Maclean, Virginia, they picked up a larger escort of police cruisers that sirened their way down the wrong side of the parkway, frightening the hell out of the few drivers leaving the city.

General Bannerman slumped in the back seat of the Cadillac and hated the world. He had not been in bed more than an hour, and certainly was not asleep, when this shit of a captain had pounded on the door. The police escort probably had no idea of who was in the car or why they had been called out to this suburb so early in the morning. But the captain knew. He had got the address from Bannerman's adjutant — the only one who knew it — and had barreled out with the car and woken Bannerman and even seen the blonde head in bed with the general, before he had been told to go to hell and get out and wait. The escort had picked them up at the corner and that was that. Bannerman rubbed his massive jaw and felt the sore pot where he had cut himself shaving in a rush and wondered how much would leak out.

“You're not on my staff, are you, Captain?” he asked the driver.

“No, sir. G2 special liaison to the White House.”

Bannerman grunted, then yawned widely.

“There's some Benzedrine in the bar if you're tired, sir,” the captain said.

“What makes you think I'm tired?”

“You didn't leave the party until after four, sir.”

Well, well, so someone was keeping tabs on him. He had always suspected it, but put it down to the endemic Foggy Bottom paranoia. Taking out a crystal glass he filled it with water, then washed down a benny from a little green bottle. He started to put the glass away, hesitated, then poured two fingers of scotch into it instead.

“You know a good deal about my movements, Captain. Is that wise?”

“I don't know about wise, sir, but I have my orders. It's the Secret Service that monitors your movements, for your own protection of course, and I act as liaison.” He turned his head briefly to look back at the general and had the sense neither to smile nor wink, displaying only a fixed and very serious expression. “Your life is your own, General, but we must know where you are in order to protect you. But we are very discreet.”

“Let's hope to hell you are. Do you know what this meeting is about?”

“No, sir. I was just given your address and told to bring you to the White House as soon as possible.”

Bannerman nodded and watched the pillared buildings sweep by. He yawned again, then sipped the straight scotch. He was used to going without sleep, commanding an armored cavalry division had given him plenty of experience. At the age of sixty-one he looked ten years younger and had the stamina of a man ten years younger than that. Beryl had told him that no more than an hour ago, and she had reason to know. He smiled at the thought. So what the hell did Bandin want him for at this hour of the morning? Arabs again, probably, it was usually the Arabs. Since he had been appointed Joint Chief of Staff nearly all the meetings were about oil and Arabs.

The car stopped before the discreet rear entrance of the White House and Bannerman emerged. As the door opened the two guards there presented arms and he returned the salute. That little pimp Charley Dragoni was waiting inside, moving from one foot to the other like he had to pee, waving at the elevator.

“You're the last one, General Bannerman, they're all waiting.”

“Well good for them, Charley. What's this meeting about?”

“The elevator, General, if you please.”

Well up yours, Bannerman thought. Bandin's errand boy was getting kind of big for his breeches. As the elevator rose he speculated happily about different ways in which he might put the kibosh on Dragoni.

A Marine guard opened the big door and the general sucked in his gut and stamped forward, hitting his heels down hard enough to make the spurs on his cavalry boots jingle. He knew a lot of them hated it, which is why he did it. Bandin was at the head of the big mahogany table, Schlochter next to him and — surprisingly — the only other person was Simon Dillwater. Interesting. The Secretary of State, Dillwater who was the top man at NASA, and himself. What did they have in common? The answer was obvious.

“Trouble with Prometheus, Mr. President?” The best defense is a good attack.

“Christ sake, Bannerman, doesn't your radio work? What do you think we're doing here?”

Bannerman pulled out his chair and sat down slowly, coolly. “I worked late with my staff, then retired and slept soundly.” Not a twitch of expression, even from Dragoni, so maybe the captain had told the truth and the Secret Service did have close mouths.

“Tell him, Dillwater, and as simply as possible if you don't mind.”

“Of course, sir. Prometheus has serious difficulties. Primary staging was fine and the boosters separated and have landed as planned. But the core body will not fire nor will it separate completely.”

“Still attached?” Bannerman was cold attention on the instant.

“Partially,” Dillwater said.

“What's their altitude?”

“Approximately eighty-five miles at perigee.”

“That's a damn crappy orbit!”

“Your description is accurate.”

“What's being done?”

“We're still attempting to separate. Then Prometheus should be able to climb to her correct orbit on her atomic engine.”

“Well work fast. That orbit must be decaying. How long before it goes bust?”

“About thirty-three hours on our last estimate.”

Bannerman tapped his fingers on the table and thought quickly. “If that thing burns up it's going to put paid to a couple of billion dollars and maybe your whole project.”

“I was thinking more of the six people aboard,” Dillwater said coldly.

“Were you, Simon?” He paused. “You've got to get that thing into some kind of stable orbit as soon as you can.”

“You're damn right,” Bandin broke in. “Listen to some sense, Dillwater. We have got national prestige to think about. We have the entire Prometheus Project to keep in mind, and the damn Russkies and the UN who are on our side just this once, and the next election and a lot of goddamn things. We'll worry about the passengers if and when we have to. Right now we don't. Schlochter will tell you what Polyarni said while Dragoni gets an update report on the thing. Top priority must be to get that thing moving up up and away before it goes bust. Nothing else matters — and I mean nothing!”

Dragoni, who was seated discreetly at the small table by the door, reached for the telephone before him to get the report for the President. Before he could touch it, it buzzed softly. He picked it up, listened, then replaced the receiver. Then he rose quietly and stood beside Bandin until he was noticed.

“What is it? Anything new?”

“I did not call yet, Mr. President. I took a priority call from your press secretary who said that a big news story has broken in New York about Prometheus.”

“What the hell do they know in New York we don't know in Washington?”

“He did not say, sir. But NBC is having a special news break in about three minutes and he said it might be best to watch.”

“Call him back and find out what this nonsense is about.”

“It might be wise to turn the television on at the same time,” Bannerman said calmly. “We could learn just as much that way.”

“Yes, I suppose so. In my office then.”

They trooped through the connecting door and Bandin dropped into his chair behind the massive desk. One button slid aside the paneling, with a portrait of George Washington attached, to reveal the screen of a 72-inch projection TV. Another button turned it on and they watched fixedly while two bars of soap danced to a Chopin etude, then dived into a basin of water. This scene faded to be replaced by the life-sized image of Vance Cortwright. He did not have his familiar smile, known to millions, but his familiar frown, equally well known, which meant the news was very serious. He laid down a handful of papers and spoke solemnly, directly into the camera.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Many of you who stayed up last night to watch the spectacular launch of Prometheus will have retired with the comfortable knowledge that this largest of all space flights was off to a successful start. If you read the early editions of the morning papers you would have known this as well. Only if you have been listening to your radio, or watching television, would you know that a most recent development has altered that situation dramatically. There has been some difficulty in firing the core body, the final booster that will lift Prometheus into its higher orbit. The orbit they are in now is…” he consulted his papers, “… approximately eighty-six miles above the Earth and the ship and booster are making a complete orbit every eighty-eight minutes.”

His image vanished and was replaced by an animated drawing of Prometheus and the attached core body orbiting the Earth.

“Our hearts go out to these six brave astronauts who are, literally, trapped in orbit. Until means are found to fire the booster, Prometheus cannot rise up to its proper place in the sky, to the fixed position in space above the Earth where it is to begin this mighty project of supplying solar energy to a power-hungry world below. Not only can they not go higher, but they cannot return to the safety of the Earth in Prometheus, which was designed to remain forever in orbit. It does not have either the correct engines, the power or the fuel for this task. It is a prisoner in space, in orbit, and the six men and women aboard are prisoners as well. What their fate will be we cannot determine at this moment.”

Cortwright reappeared on the screen, and sitting next to him now was a small man in an ill-fitting suit, his long hair carefully combed into place by the make-up girl. This was obviously not its normal condition because, as he moved his head nervously, a long hank detached itself and hung in front of his eye. Cortwright nodded to him.

“With me in the studio now is Dr. Cooper, the Science Editor of the Gazette-Times. I have a copy of the morning edition of your paper here, Dr. Cooper, and the lead story is a very startling one, I might even say a very frightening one. If I might just read the headline. It is in very large type and says BOMB IN THE SKY.”

He held up the newspaper so the screaming red words, covering half the page, could be seen.

“That is strong language, Dr. Cooper, as is the story that follows. Do you think it is true?”

“Of course, it must be, facts…”

“Could you please tell us just what are the facts behind this extra edition of your newspaper?”

“It's obvious, there in the sky above us!” He waved his hand over his head, then dropped it, started to worry his finger, then dropped his hand guiltily back to his lap. “Prometheus is up there, passing over our heads about once every hour and a half. Not just the satellite itself, but the attached booster that won't fire. Prometheus at this moment weighs slightly in excess of four million pounds. We must guess at the weight of the booster, but since it must contain a great deal of fuel, in addition to its own mass, I would say that its weight must also be in the region of a million pounds. There are five million pounds up there, three thousand tons of metal and explosive fuel. If that should fall…”

“Hold on, please.” Cortwright raised his hand and Cooper stammered to a stop and instantly had a quick nibble on one nail. “If I remember correctly the space scientists have been telling us for years that it takes energy to change anything in space. It took a lot of energy to get Prometheus up there into orbit, and it will take a lot of energy to get it down as well. It will stay in orbit until it is pushed out.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Cooper vibrated in his chair with the intensity of his feelings. “That is for an orbit well outside of the Earth's atmosphere. But Prometheus has not reached that altitude yet, there are still traces of air at that height. Air that will slow her down, more and more. It is what is called a decaying orbit.”

“I would like to kill that hairy little son-of-a-bitch,” Bandin muttered.

“As you know, altitude is speed in a satellite. The faster it goes the higher it rises, like a stone on the end of a piece of string, swung in circles. The string is the bond of gravity, the speed is what maintains the orbit. As Prometheus slows it will drop lower, as it drops lower it will hit denser and denser air and will be slowed. Its speed will drop so much that it will lose its orbit and will fall back to Earth.”

“Where it will burn up by friction in the atmosphere, as have all the other satellites and boosters that have fallen back to Earth,” Cortwright said calmly.

“Why should it?” Cooper jumped to his feet so abruptly that his head vanished for an instant and the image jerked as the cameraman hurried to follow him. “Smaller boosters, yes, burn like meteorites. But meteorites have hit this Earth before, we can see them in museums. Meteor Crater in Arizona is where one enormous object penetrated our atmosphere and dug that immense pit in the landscape. In 1908 the Tanguska meteor in Russia wiped out an entire forest, killed…”

“But, Dr. Cooper, Prometheus is not as big as these.”

“Big enough! Big as a destroyer. Big enough to stay in one piece when falling back through the atmosphere. Do you realize what would happen if a steel destroyer, a battleship, with this mass came hurtling out of the sky and struck this city…”

“That seems far fetched.”

“Is it?” The camera moved again as Cooper rushed to a large globe of the Earth that stood behind him. “Look here, at the track of that bomb in the sky. It's over our heads right now, cutting across the United States, over New York, over the ocean, hurling along, getting lower and lower over London, Paris, Berlin, Moscow. Cutting a path through the sky like this. “ With a red marking pen he slashed a line that connected these cities. “A bomb with all the kinetic and explosive energy of the atomic bomb that blew up Hiroshima. If it should fall and strike one of these cities — what do you think would happen?”

There was silence in the Presidential office at these words, silence broken by the softly spoken words of General Banner-man.

“It's in the fan now, it really is.”