Moonwar Page 14

  Hansen let the point pass. More than one soldier had become a hero after the fact, he knew.

  “Tell me then,” Faure said, “what do you propose to do now?”

  “Our only alternatives,” he reported, “are to return to Earth with our mission unfulfilled, or to destroy Moonbase’s electrical power equipment, which will force them to surrender within a few hours.”

  Faure’s face, on the cockpit’s small screen, looked perfectly composed. Only the slightest tremble in his voice hinted at the seething rage boiling within him.

  “And if you destroy the electrical equipment,” Faure asked, with exaggerated patience, “what happens to the people of Moonbase?”

  Hansen said, “They will be forced to surrender.”

  Three seconds passed. Faure asked, “Why will they be forced to surrender?”

  “Because without electricity their air-recycling system will shut down and they will soon have no air to breathe.”

  Another three seconds. “And once they surrender, do you have air for them to breathe? Do you have space aboard your ship to carry two thousand men and women back to Earth?” Faure’s voice rose to a snarl. “Or do you propose to let them all die, choking to death while you watch?”

  Hansen stared back evenly at the secretary-general’s image. “I was merely stating what our options are, sir. I was not recommending a course of action.”

  While waiting for Faure’s response, Hansen glanced at Killifer, who seemed grimly amused. “Friggin’ politicians want to have their cake and eat it too,” Killifer whispered. “And when they can’t, they blame it on you.”

  “Attend to me, Lieutenant,” Faure snapped. “You were sent to Moonbase to take over its operation and remove its leaders from control. It now seems that you cannot accomplish that task.”

  “Not without destroying the base, sir,” Hansen replied. “And killing everyone in it.”

  Faure seemed to mull the situation over. “You say that Mrs. Brudnoy is willing to accompany you back to Earth?”

  “To negotiate directly with you, yes, sir.”

  The secretary-general toyed with his mustache. Then he asked, “And this news reporter, this Edie Elgin, she is still in Moonbase?”

  “Apparently she intends to stay there. She says she does not wish to return with us.”

  Hansen thought he might be mistaken, it was hard to tell on this small screen, but Faure’s face seemed to be getting quite red. As if he might explode into fury at any instant.

  But instead, the secretary-general said mildly, “Very well. Bring Mrs. Brudnoy back with you. Leave the news reporter. The mission is a failure, Lieutenant. A complete and utter failure.”

  Then he added, “Except, of course, for the martyrdom of Captain Munasinghe.”

  TOUCHDOWN PLUS 4 HOURS 48 MINUTES

  “At least we don’t have to pack anything,” Joanna said as she sat at her delicate curved writing desk of light walnut and booted up her personal computer.

  “Are you sure?” Lev Brudnoy asked, from the doorway to their bedroom.

  “Of course,” she answered, without even glancing up at him. “We’ll go to the house in Savannah. My god, I’ll be able to go shopping again!”

  Brudnoy ambled into the living room and sat on one of the little Sheraton sofas. “Are you sure we’ll get to Savannah?”

  Joanna looked up from her computer. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re being carried Earthside on a military transport. It will land at the Peacekeeper base in Corsica. Has it occurred to you that we might be held there, incommunicado?”

  “Incom—what makes you think Faure would do that?”

  Brudnoy shrugged. “It’s easier to negotiate with someone when you have him in prison.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Very.”

  “Lev, I’m not some nobody Faure can hide from public view. I’m Joanna Brudnoy! There’d be an uproar if he tried anything like that.”

  “Maybe. Maybe I’m just a worried old man. But,” Brudnoy ticked off on his fingers, “one: Faure has controlled the news media very effectively. Two: As far as everyone Earthside is concerned, you are at Moonbase. Faure isn’t telling anyone that you’re returning with the Peacekeepers. Three: You would make a very good hostage.”

  “I’m sending word to Savannah right now,” Joanna said. “The board of directors will know that I’m coming back with the Peacekeepers.”

  “Can you trust Rashid to inform the board?”

  Joanna stared at her husband for a long, silent moment. Then she nodded. “I don’t think he’d have the guts to keep this information from the board, but just in case, I’ll send the word to each individual board member.”

  “Good,” said Brudnoy.

  “And the news media, too.”

  Brudnoy gave her a sad smile. “Don’t expect a brass band when we arrive on Corsica. Or reporters, either.”

  “You really are a reporter for Global News,” Doug said, feeling foolish even as the words left his lips.

  “I really am,” said Edith Elgin, sitting in front of his desk.

  She was back in the coveralls that the Peacekeepers had given her: sky blue with white trim. The color showed off her thick blond hair very nicely, Doug thought. Her eyes were her best feature: big, lustrous, emerald-green eyes. Startling eyes. Eyes that made you want to believe whatever she told you. Long legs. She must be almost as tall as I am.

  Edith was studying Doug, too. She saw an earnest-looking six-footer in his mid-twenties (which she knew from checking his bio before coming to the Moon). Olive skin, nice smile, dark hair, gray-blue eyes. Broad shoulders. His coveralls were a couple of shades darker than her own.

  “I’m glad you decided to come into Moonbase,” Doug said, “although your presence here is a little awkward for us.”

  “Awkward?”

  He made a gesture with both hands. “You don’t have any clothes except what you’re wearing. And I’m not quite certain what to do with you, now that you’re here.”

  “Do with me? I want to interview you and the others here. I want to beam your story back to the news media on Earth.”

  “The media haven’t paid any attention to us,” Doug said. “They even ignored our declaration of independence.”

  “Declaration … ? You’ve declared independence?”

  “Five days ago, when Faure told us he was sending Peacekeepers here to take over the base.”

  “I didn’t hear a word about it!” Edith seemed genuinely shocked.

  “You see what I mean?” he said. “The media have smothered us.”

  “Well, they won’t now,” she said. “Not with Global News’ top personality on the scene.”

  Doug almost laughed. She seemed serious, and not at all embarrassed at describing herself that way.

  “There’s more to it, though,” he said, sobering at the thought.

  “More? What?”

  “Well …” He hesitated, then decided he might as well let her know. “You might be a spy.”

  “A spy?” Edith’s emerald eyes went wide. Then she burst into full-throated laughter.

  “You find that funny?” Doug asked, feeling a little disconcerted.

  “Man, I’ve never kept a secret in my life! Some spy.”

  Doug found himself grinning back at her. But he heard himself saying, “Look at it from my point of view. The Peacekeepers just happen to bring a news reporter along with them. Once it becomes obvious that they can’t muscle their way into Moonbase, this reporter talks her way into the base—”

  “By risking her neck,” Edith pointed out.

  “By depending on the good graces of the Moonbase people,” Doug countered.

  “And now this reporter is in your midst, and she’s going to stay with you while the Peacekeepers are leaving.”

  Doug nodded.

  “That doesn’t make me a spy.”

  “Probably not, but the thought has crossed my mind.”

  Edith stared at
him. He was pleasant and charming and very careful. He took his responsibilities seriously.

  “For one thing,” Edith said, “how would I get information back to Earth, if I’m a spy?”

  “In your news broadcasts.”

  “Really?”

  “In code, I guess.”

  She could feel her brows knitting. “Are you serious, or are you just pulling my leg?”

  “I’m serious,” Doug said, “although I’ve got to admit that the more I think about it, the less likely it all seems.”

  “Good. I’m not a spy.”

  “I hope not.”

  “In fact, I can do you some good. I can get your story out. The media can’t ignore me.”

  Doug nodded and decided that, whether she was a spy or not, she might be useful after all. And it’s going to be fun showing her around Moonbase, he thought.

  TOUCHDOWN PLUS 8 HOURS 3 MINUTES

  Georges Faure took Rashid’s call in his office atop the U.N. secretariat building because his comfortable, luxurious apartment was a wreck.

  The secretary-general had spent long, agonized hours speaking with the timid lieutenant who had taken command of the Moonbase mission. Faure had felt his blood pressure rising, his innards burning with rage and frustration as the Peacekeeper officer reluctantly admitted his failure to capture the base.

  Struggling to keep his temper under control, Faure had left his office and had his chauffeur drive him the three blocks through Manhattan’s noise and filth to his penthouse apartment on the East River. He gave the driver the rest of the evening off, smiled his usual condescending smile at the heavily-armed doorman, and went straight to the private elevator that rose directly to his penthouse apartment.

  Once safely inside, with the door locked and the phone’s answering machine on, Faure took off his pearl-gray homburg and flung it across the room. He stripped off his suit jacket and slammed it to the carpet, then stamped on it. He grabbed the vase by the doorway and smashed it against the wall. He went through the apartment like a one-man band of vandals, smashing, tearing, breaking everything he could lay his hands on.

  He spoke not a word, made no sound except for the gasping of his labored breath. Paintings came down from the walls and were torn to shreds. Chairs were overturned, kicked, pummelled. The coffee table was splintered, the bedclothes ripped.

  Only his clothes closets were spared his ravages. And the bathroom. When at last he was too weak to continue, sweating and gasping for breath, Faure tore off his sodden clothes, showered, then slowly dressed in an immaculate suit of dove gray. Dressing always soothed him. He found his homburg in the litter of the living room, picked it up, dusted it off, and set it carefully on his head. Feeling almost relaxed, he rode the elevator down to the lobby and asked the concierge to call another limo for him. He had a dinner engagement with six delegates from Latin America.

  “By the way,” he told the concierge, “please send a team of people to clean up my apartment. It has been wrecked.”

  And he left the astounded young man sitting at his little desk in the marble-floored lobby, open-mouthed.

  After dinner, he went to the Secretariat building instead of the apartment. He would sleep in the suite adjoining his office, and give the cleaning team the whole night to put his apartment back in order.

  A telephone message from Ibrahim al-Rashid, chairman of the board of Masterson Aerospace Corporation, awaited him. Faure toyed with the idea of waiting until the morning to return Rashid’s call. Then he decided not to; I will interrupt his evening, instead.

  Now he looked across his office at the image of Rashid’s somber, darkly bearded face on the flat screen wall display. It certainly looked as if Rashid were in a house or apartment, not an office. Faure smiled inwardly, pleased with himself.

  “I am sure that I don’t have to remind you,” Rashid was saying, “that Mrs. Brudnoy is not only a leading citizen of the United States, but a very important member of the board of directors of Masterson Aerospace Corporation.”

  “If you do not have to remind me,” Faure said testily, “then why are you reminding me?”

  “Believe me,” Rashid replied, “I don’t enjoy this any more than you do. But it is my duty to make certain you understand that Mrs. Brudnoy is be treated with every respect.”

  Faure felt his blood pressure rising again. He opened his right-hand desk drawer slightly and reached for the weighted silver balls that he kept there. They were supposed to help calm him. Fondling them in his hand, he felt no relief from the frustrated anger building inside him all over again.

  “I assure you, Monsieur Rashid, that Madame Brudnoy is not being brought back to Earth as a prisoner. She will be brought to New York to discuss the Moonbase situation with me, personally. She will be accorded every courtesy.”

  Rashid nodded once, barely. His eyes looked bleak. “My board of directors has instructed me to tell you that we expect Mrs. Brudnoy to have full freedom of movement and association. She will want to go to her home in Savannah, of course—”

  “Of course,” said Faure, trying to smile.

  “And she will not want to have Peacekeeper or United Nations personnel escorting her.”

  Faure did not reply.

  “Mrs. Brudnoy is quite capable of getting herself to New York for her meeting with you. She is in no way a prisoner or a hostage.”

  Studying Rashid’s face as the man spoke, Faure realized that the chairman of Masterson Corporation’s board was no more pleased with this situation than he was himself.

  “Monsieur Rashid,” Faure said, relaxing slightly as he jiggled the silver spheres in his right hand, “let us be candid with one another.”

  “By all means.”

  “Madame Brudnoy represents the illegal and immoral rebels of Moonbase who are defying international law. A Peacekeeper officer has been killed by them, you know.”

  “I was told he was killed in an accident he himself caused,” Rashid replied warily.

  “I am sure that is what you were told,” said Faure. “However, the inescapable fact is that he was killed because Moonbase is resisting international law.”

  Rashid nodded gravely.

  Faure resumed, “I am perfectly willing to treat Madame Brudnoy as an ambassador plenipotentiary, and accord her diplomatic immunity.”

  “Good,” said Rashid, tonelessly.

  “But technically, she is a criminal. Just as all the leaders of Moonbase are.”

  Rashid hesitated, passed a hand across his neatly-trimmed beard. Then he asked, “If that is your attitude, then to what avail are the negotiations going to be?”

  “None,” Faure said, feeling cheerful for the first time since Lieutenant Hansen had reported the failure of the Peacekeepers’ mission. “None whatsoever.”

  “I see,” said Rashid slowly. It seemed to Faure that he did not look displeased at all.

  TOUCHDOWN PLUS 12 HOURS 26 MINUTES

  In the old days, when he’d been just a teenager, Doug had liked to come out to the rocket port and watch the ships arriving or departing in the eerie silence of the Moon. He would climb up the narrow ladder to the observation bubble, a tiny dome of clear plastic, and get a worm’s eye view of landings and liftoffs.

  The old rocket port was a set of storage chambers now. The new port was not much bigger, and had been dug into the floor of Alphonsus more than a kilometer from the flank of Mt. Yeager, where the main plaza was going to be built.

  Doug drove the spring-wheeled crawler down the long tunnel to the port, his mother and Lev Brudnoy seated behind him, the reporter at his side.

  “Does the head of the base work as a taxi driver very often?” Edith asked, grinning at him.

  The tunnel was long and straight and bare. Strips of fluorescent lamps lined its unfinished rock ceiling, their light making everyone’s skin look sickly, almost green.

  “I’m not the head of the base anymore,” Doug answered lightly. “And around Moonbase, everybody pitches in and does what needs d
oing.”

  “I thought you were Moonbase’s director,” Edith said, her grin replaced by a puzzled frown.

  “I was, but I gave it up for the duration of this crisis.”

  “Then what’s your title? How do I identify you for your interview?”

  Doug lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Damned if I know. Titles don’t mean all that much around here.”

  “Call him the chief administrator of Moonbase,” Joanna said, leaning forward slightly in her seat.

  “Generalissimo,” Brudnoy joked.

  Edith was serious. “Chief administrator. That sounds good. And who’s the director of the base? Or is there one now?”

  “Jinny Anson,” Doug said. “You’ll want to interview her, too.”

  “And my wife’s title is ambassador plenipotentiary,” Brudnoy said, “while my own title is luggage handler.”

  Edith fingered the minicam in her lap. “I want to squeeze in an interview with you before you take off, Mrs. Brudnoy.”

  “It’ll have to be a quick one,” Doug said, glancing at his wristwatch. “Liftoff’s scheduled for twenty-six minutes from now.”

  With a laugh, Edith said, “Twenty-six minutes is. an eternity in video news, Doug.”

  She got down to business immediately and began questioning Joanna about what she hoped to accomplish in negotiations with Faure.

  “It’s very simple,” Joanna said. “I’m going to New York to get the U.N. to recognize Moonbase’s independence.”

  “And if they refuse to recognize it?” Edith prompted.

  Joanna shook her head. “We are independent. Physically, we are self-sustaining. All we’re asking is for the United Nations to recognize reality.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  For a heartbeat, Joanna did not reply. Then she said, “Then we’ll have to prove to Faure and the rest of the U.N. that we won’t be intimidated.”

  “Do you think the U.N. will send more Peacekeeper troops to try to take over Moonbase?”