Blue Hope: (Book 2) (Red Hope) Page 7

  “Whatcha drinking, darlin’?” she asked.

  “I’ll have a Coke,” he said too quickly. “Wait, make that a beer. I just got fired and I want to celebrate.”

  “Just got fired?” she said with a chuckle. “Well, that is something special, now, ain’t it? Honey, this one’s on me.”

  CHAPTER 12

  January of 1967 turned out to be an eventful month for America. Ronald Reagan became governor of California. The Doors released their debut album. And three weeks later, tragedy struck America’s space program, killing three beloved astronauts during a launchpad test for the new Apollo program.

  On the same day as the launchpad tragedy, the United States, the United Kingdom, and the Soviet Union entered into an international agreement called the Outer Space Treaty. It outlawed the placement of nuclear weapons in space. Today, nobody remembers or cares about the treaty, but that’s what America was worried about in 1967.

  Some five decades later when the Mars mission was being rammed through Congress, President Daggett Jennings grabbed thirty billion dollars from the Department of Defense to fund the rushed mission. And he completely violated the Outer Space Treaty.

  In return for giving up some of their budget, the Air Force asked for a favor. They wanted a top-secret container box to be added on the outside of the module they would attach permanently to the International Space Station for Mars mission support. The president and the Air Force, always looking for a political edge, suggested that they put modified B-61 nuclear bombs in the box, converted to become guided rockets. It was a good theory and would only be revealed in a dire political standoff between America and some foe. It was the ultimate Ace up our political sleeve that would probably never be used.

  But then it was used.

  All of these facts came to light eight weeks after the truncated nuclear war, dubbed by the media as “World War 2.5”. Much to the chagrin of anybody who understood Roman numerals, it was often written as “WWII.V”.

  Somebody was going to answer for this worldwide disaster. Congress decided they should take the upper hand and start throwing blame around. A large concert hall in Reston, Virginia, just west of Washington D.C., had been commandeered as the impromptu Capitol Hill building replacement. Sitting at the big oak desk in front of key senators was the freshly former head of NASA, Chris Tankovitch.

  He was ready for his close-up.

  “Mr. Tankovitch, it is my understanding that you played a key role in the foolishly quick development of the Mars space craft, the so called,” the Senator looked down at his paperwork and read slowly, “Big Turtle and Little Turtle as well as the Storage Wart? Is that true?”

  “Yes, senator,” Chris answered dryly.

  Chris knew the mission was too quick and dangerous and he’d likely be thrown under the bus if anything happened. Today he was firmly wedged under the bus tires. These senators were going to back the bus up and run over him again.

  “Can you explain to me why we placed nuclear missiles on a Space Station co-developed by our Russian friends?”

  Chris looked down to gather his thoughts. Be careful, he thought to himself, they want you to hang yourself.

  “Well, that’s a good question. Let me explain some misconceptions. We sent two spacecraft to Mars. The first was the main science and living quarters – we called it the Big Turtle.”

  “Yes, we know all about that,” the senator admonished.

  “Now, you asked me a question and I will be complete,” Chris shot back. “The second spacecraft was for taking the astronauts from the International Space Station, or ISS, all the way to Mars and back. Okay? We couldn’t launch those two vehicles up to the ISS fully loaded. It was too much weight. So ahead of time, we sent up what y’all are calling the Storage Wart.”

  “Yes, again, I think we’ve already established this fact.”

  “That so-called Storage Wart was a large module that was permanently attached to the end of the International Space Station. Think of it as the extra freezer that you all have in your garage. Using several supply flights, we packed it with food and water and batteries — you name it. Once the Turtles were in Earth orbit, we transferred all of those items from the Storage Wart to the Turtles and then sent the astronauts on their merry way to Mars. The Storage Wart was a vital part of this mission.”

  Chris paused and drank some water. His hand shook from nerves. He could hear and see the senators mumbling to each other.

  “Nobody is questioning how vital the Storage Wart was to the mission—,” the senator said with fake concern.

  Chris cut him off to answer. “What you need to know is that a short time before the Storage Wart was to be launched up to the ISS atop a Whittenberg Space Launch System rocket, the president notified me that the Air Force was adding an additional storage container to the outside of it. I personally was not aware of the contents of that container. He said it contained some type of military hardware which I assumed was a radar or surveillance equipment.”

  “And that was not the case?”

  “No sir,” Chris answered.

  The senators’ shock looked real. Almost.

  “Mr. Tankovitch, did the president know what was inside that container?”

  Chris paused to think.

  About his retirement.

  About his job.

  About his life.

  “I doubt that President Jennings knew what was inside the container,” Chris said with utmost care.

  The senators looked at each other, covering the microphones to talk privately with their neighbors. They spun back around.

  The lead senator uncovered his microphone.

  “Mr. Tankovitch, can you tell us what was in that storage box?”

  Chris turned to see the other senators staring at him with laser beam focus. Many of them were personally involved in these clandestine design contract changes, but none would own up to it now.

  They’re making sure I hang alone, Chris thought.

  “Well, the box contained eight modified nuclear missiles. Through an unfortunate hardware failure of some kind, they launched prematurely.”

  “Hardware failure?” the senator asked incredulously.

  “Look, designing the Mars space craft in less than a year required some shortcuts, okay? After reviewing the error logs and talking with the surviving ISS crew, we believe that there was probably some wire chaffing on the missile launch hardware. Probably some electrical shorts that ultimately triggered the launch mechanisms on the missile ejectors. They were all pushed out of the box and their hardwired targeting systems were engaged. They all headed to targets in Russia.”

  “But don’t nuclear missiles have safety locks to prevent accidental detonations?” the senator asked with maximum smug.

  “Normally, yes,” Chris confirmed. “These were sent up with some of those safeties disabled.”

  A mumbling roar came from the senators.

  “And why would you ever do that?”

  Chris looked offended.

  “Well, I did not do that, Senator. I suspect that the Air Force did that to prepare for a ‘last-man-standing scenario’. That’s to prepare for the situation where launch communications from ground-based facilities are cut off and an astronaut would have to give the final launch command.”

  “That seems, well, just stupid if you ask me.”

  “Well that wasn’t up to me,” Chris answered quickly. “And perhaps, given the situation, it wasn’t so stupid.”

  Chris looked down at the desk to avoid the stares.

  “Mr. Tankovitch, when the Russians launched retaliatory missiles, they devastated sixteen of our cities, Washington DC, New York and Houston being the worst hit. Their CommKno…” the Senator quickly halted himself, realizing that the name CommKnock was top-secret. “Their missiles took out every communications and power grid on this continent. My office hasn’t had air conditioning for eight weeks!”

  “That is a tragedy… no human should be without AC,” Chris
said while the visitors in the audience laughed.

  “Your little hardware glitch caused the death of over fifty thousand American lives!” the senator yelled, pounding his fist on the table.

  Chris looked up from the table and calmly added, “And one hundred thousand Russian souls. Our retaliatory missiles caused the same devastation to Russia and most of Asia. I haven’t forgotten any of that.”

  “What did you say?” the angered senator asked.

  “In the end, a hundred thousand Russians died as well as fifty thousand Americans. Cancer rates have also spiked, which can only be due to the fallout. President Jennings was able to call the Russian president in time to let him know it was a mistake. But not before hundreds of their missiles had landed and thousands of bomblets had taken out our main communication hubs and most of our power plants.”

  “Thank you for that history lesson,” the senator quipped as the room full of elected officials laughed.

  “My pleasure, Senator,” the recently fired NASA director answered.

  “I do have one more question for you, Mr. Tankovitch. It’s come to our attention that we may not have sent our very best astronauts to Mars. Why is that?”

  Chris rolled his eyes in contempt.

  “I assure you that the astronauts we sent were qualified and went through a vetting process,” Chris explained. “What you are referring to is the fact that the first two teams we offered the mission decided against it. They had safety concerns.”

  “Because of the atomic bombs on the outside of the International Space Station?”

  Chris sighed.

  “No, didn’t we already establish that nobody outside of the Air Force knew about the missiles?” Chris asked sarcastically. “Their safety concerns had to do with the fact that the spacecraft were being built so quickly. I assure you that the spacecraft themselves were safe. However, the astronauts had to make a personal safety decision.”

  “Fair enough. Can you tell us the status of our ‘C-Team’ crew on Mars?”

  “No, sir, I cannot. As I’m sure you know, we still have not re-established communication with them. If all went well, though, they should be on their way home right now.”

  The senators leaned toward each other and whispered for a good long minute.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tankovitch. I pass control to the senator from Oklahoma. He will be the last one speaking with you today.”

  “Hello, Mr. Tankovitch. Thank you for coming up here. Um, my understanding is that you are no longer the NASA administrator?” the senator asked , just to dig it in publicly.

  “That is correct, as of yesterday. The president felt that NASA would be better served right now with some fresh talent.”

  The Senator looked down over his glasses to read his paperwork.

  “Yes, well we appreciate all that you did, sending us to Mars in less than a year,” the Senator said. “I see your replacement is Mr. Howard Kelty? Have you worked with him before ?”

  Chris leaned into the microphone.

  “No comment.”

  Hours later, during his walk of shame out of the auditorium, Chris’s phone dinged to indicate a text message. It was from the president: “Good job today Chris. You followed orders well. I’m still president and you’ve still got your retirement fund. Go back to Fort Worth.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Whenever disaster strikes around the world, America is one of the first nations to offer up people and other resources to help. It sends canine search teams to earthquake stricken nations. It sends medical ships to the shores of areas hit by plagues. But when a disaster strikes America, it becomes fiercely independent from the world, effectively giving the middle finger to any nation that wants to send help to the former colonies. Like a toddler, America wants to fix itself despite the worlds offer of assistance. That may not be the right thing to do, but that’s what America does.

  In the case of World War II.V (sic), all of that went out the window. Every nation was laid flat regarding electricity and communication resources. In just the US alone, nearly two dozen downtown city centers were devastated by the few missiles that were traditional nukes and not the more humane CommKnock warheads. For expediency, the states called out the National Guard and those city centers were being covered by layers of fill dirt and rubble to keep down the radioactive dust and debris. Unfortunately, it was too late for most people. Within just weeks of the attack, doctors started reporting skyrocketing cases of patients with complicated bronchial problems — ultimately proven to be lung cancer.

  In the Midwest, a hastily assembled conference of oncologists put their handwritten data together to show that lung cancer cases were up 2,600% in just the first four weeks following the attack.

  The living conditions were improving thanks to the recovery efforts, but the prognosis was falling. With many hospital resource chains still in shambles, a black market developed for the existing chemo stockpiles.

  For those outside of city centers, life was strange, but without the devastation. Electricity came from generators. Cell networks were off and on as regional networks were being repaired.

  Construction workers were being sucked away to the suburbs to cover the downtowns with thick layers of dirt. A risky job that paid well, in cash. Certainly, there were more effective ways of handling the radioactive debris that had settled down, but “any port in a storm” was the current mantra.

  The real test of recovery willpower hadn’t arrived yet. Television was still out, but it was only days away. With a presidential election coming, politicians thought that would be just the thing to make people feel normal again. While downtowns were being covered with a layer of dirt icing, thousands of electrical workers were getting the power grid to a more reliable state and trying to get TV turned back on.

  Houston seemed to be the city with the most damage. There were rumors that two missiles had actually hit the downtown area, but that had yet to be proven true. The Federal Emergency Management Administration had freed up the money and manpower to start the recovery planning. They estimated it would be two years before people could safely return to anywhere within a five-mile radius of downtown.

  For the core of the downtown area, engineers felt that a thick layer of dirt wouldn’t be enough for Houston. Instead, thick layers of concrete, rock debris and old asphalt were being considered. However, the area was still highly toxic with radioactivity and anybody visiting the area had to wear special suits. Even then, they would only visit for just an hour a day. After a month of those daily exposures, they couldn’t come back. Ever.

  Now back to the people helping people issue. The same chain of events follows every natural (and unnatural) disaster. Everybody offers help. Massive help. More help than a community can absorb. Mountains of donated teddy bears show up. Storage facilities bulge with bottled water and cans of food that nobody particularly likes. Old clothes with small, but unacceptable holes and tears come rolling in by the truckload. But then the help wanes. Even before recovery is complete, interest fizzles in fits and bursts. Eventually it isn’t on the radio broadcasts every single night. In the end, the victims are left wondering what they’re going to do with forty-five tons of canned beets and a thousand gallons of Red Bull.

  The power came back on fulltime in most American cities just before the presidential election – all cities were electrified again after just two more weeks. It took a gargantuan effort by the utility crews. As more and more regions came back online, those utility crews hooked up their trailers and hauled themselves to regions that needed help. It was truly a sight to see this particular sector of society come together to get it done.

  President Daggett Jennings and his running mate, the likable Beatrice Bexar, did minimal campaigning, mostly via bus. They put out only radio advertising. The opposition candidate, Mike Riley, did almost no campaigning – running against a wartime recovery president has been historically pointless. Mud-slinging politics ceased as it would only look like he was attacking a sitting president
while the man was working hard to recover the nation. In fact, the re-election of President Jennings was almost inevitable. At this point, he could have snorted cocaine while touring a daycare center and still won the election. Americans loved the guy.

  Two days before the election, TV came back on like a clap of thunder. Prior to that moment, people walked around their neighborhoods at night talking and socializing with the folks in their front lawns. And like the flip of a switch, every living room window in America regained that flittering blue glow. The people disappeared from their yards. The relationships with their neighbors fizzled. They threw out their fifty pounds of canned beets and ten gallons of Red Bull. The best of life returned and so did the worst.

  CHAPTER 14

  Alston family home

  Fort Worth, Texas

  (Mid-November)

  “Don’t be a wimp, General. Just get me some nukes on the Space Station,” a crackly voice on the television said.

  Rewind.

  “Don’t be a wimp, General. Just get me some nukes on the Space Station,” the voice repeated.

  Connie leaned back into the couch, one hand holding the remote control and the other covering her mouth in disgust.

  “Mommy, what does he mean?”

  “Quiet, Cody!” she said automatically. “They’re explaining it.”

  The TV screen showed a news reporter holding his earpiece tightly to his ear, receiving an update of some sort.

  He looked up into the camera.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a look of shock. “This is an incredible breaking news story. We’ve just learned that a whistleblower at the top of the US Air Force has released a secretly recorded message of a conversation he had with the president. Apparently, almost a year ago.”

  The reporter paused to hear more information. “Okay, we’re just getting this in. The tape you just heard is that of the president demanding that the Air Force break the Outer Space Treaty of 1967 and put nuclear weapons on the International Space Station. We’re switching to a remote reporter who wants to introduce us to somebody.”