Master Alarm
9 February 1987 – 0300 Hours
United States Naval Observatory
Washington, DC
38° 55' 18" N 77° 4' 1” W
It was an ungodly hour because it somehow felt indecent to discuss this in the daytime. Daylight was for the work of government. The work they were expected to do. And whatever their intentions, conspiracies were best worked out after nightfall.
Don Regan’s phone call had shaken him. Every Vice President since Adams had wondered about this possibility, but none of them would have ever wanted to deal with the current situation. Rubbing his tired eyes, George H. W. Bush remembered how that call had started, and he tried for the thousandth time to wake himself from this nightmare.
He looked around at the table. More than a dozen faces in varying levels of anguish. For a moment he longed to be back in that Avenger, smoking, out of control, and headed for the water.
“Folks,” he sighed and put both palms on the end of the table, “About forty years ago, I was in the air over Chimi Jima. Things went bad. As in holes in my wings, engine on fire kind of bad. Me and eight friends of mine got scattered in the Pacific Ocean. I managed to get picked up by some very nice fellas from the USS Finback. My friends, they weren’t so lucky. You know what happened?”
He paused for a second, letting the faces come back to him as they did every day. He rubbed his forehead.
“The Japanese found them, killed them, and then ate them. Eight men. Eight good men. And I’ve had four decades to ask God why I made it home and they didn’t.”
The thought brought his audience even lower.
“If this is His answer, then so be it.” He took a beat. He needed one. “We’ve all spoken with the President. Each of us has our reservations, but we’ve each come to the same conclusion. There’s no coercion here. No one is forcing anyone to go along with this. I swear this is the last thing I ever wanted to do when I took this job. But we cannot go on as we have. There is too much at stake.”
“Linda, will you please read back what we have for everyone?”
9 February 1987
Skydock Space Station
Orbital Inclination: 29°
Altitude: 250 mi
“Skydock, Houston,” came the whispered voice over the radio.
Jake yawned, “Houston, Skydock.” He unzipped his sleeping bag and pushed off from the bulkhead, floating away from the wall.
He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. “Houston, it’s four a.m. What could you possibly want?”
“Sorry, Jake. This’ll be quick and we’ll let you get back to bed.”
“Ugh. You’re driving me crazy, Houston. What do you want?”
“Go to panel three. We’ve got an electrical issue, but it should be an easy fix.”
“Fine. I’m here.”
“We need you to throw switch four on row five. That’s going to activate the power transfer to Constellation’s batteries.”
“Oookay. What’s going on?”
“
Constellation’s B battery isn’t getting recharged from the on-board panels. We’re not sure if it’s a problem with the panel or the connections. Fortunately, she’s coming home today so we’ll be able to diagnose it once she’s back in the stable at Kennedy. In the meantime, we wanted to try a couple of things before we give up the ghost on the recharge.”
Jake yawned, “Just let me know what you need me to do.”
“Throw the switch and wait a minute,” CAPCOM said.
“Roger, copy,” Jake said and hit the switch.
He heard a low humming sound. It took a moment for him to remember it as the pump for the filtration system.
Nothing seemed to happen. He yawned.
“Houston, how long you want me to wait?” he asked.
“Skydock, Houston. Hit that switch one more time. This isn’t working. We’ll have to fix it back on the ground, over,” said CAPCOM.
“Okay, can I go back to bed now?” Jake asked, flipping the switch back.
“Affirmative, Skydock. Sorry for the trouble.”
“Night, night, Houston,” Jake said.
Twenty yards away, buried in the circuitry of
Constellation’s backup battery system, the protective coating of a load wire began to melt.
9 February 1987 – 0830 Hours
U.S. Capitol Building
Washington, DC
38°53′23″N 77°00′32″W
There was a layer of dust on the shelves that seemed excessive in this otherwise meticulously clean building. The Vice President’s Room was more of a ceremonial space. Since the first inauguration, George Bush had worked either from his residence at the Naval Observatory, or from an office inside the West Wing. Only a few staffers tended to this office and they had other duties to keep them busy.
He cleared the dust off a shelf and took another sip of coffee. He’d been awake for more than a day. He’d have to be awake for the rest of this one. Sixty-two was not an age where a man pulled all-nighters.
Windsor knots were more trouble than they were worth. He straightened his tie. He’d sat in briefings about CIA operations dozens of times and this still felt like the most underhanded thing he’d done in his life.
Jim Wright came in. He was still new to this post. Speaker of the House was the crux of power at this end of Pennsylvania Avenue and he’d only been in the job for a month. It was regrettable that Tip hadn’t decided to stay on. They could have used as many familiar faces and steady hands as they could get.
And then the staffers wheeled in Stennis.
John Stennis was something of a legend among the legislative community. He had been around since Truman and was literally older than powered flight. He had lost his leg to a bout with cancer a few years ago. These days he stalked the halls of the Capitol like the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. Being the most senior man on the hill, he’d been named President Pro Tempore and so was required to be at this meeting.
The coffee was poured, the doors were shut and the two legislators looked at the Vice President for answers.
“Good morning Jim, John. I’ll come right to the point,” Bush said, taking the envelope from his breast pocket.
“Pursuant to Section Four of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment to the Constitution, on behalf of myself and a majority of the officers of the Cabinet, I hereby transmit to you our written declaration that the president is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office. Effective at noon. I will be assuming the powers of the office as Acting President.”
A pair of stunned faces watched as he placed the envelope on the table and slid it between the two sitting men.
“My God,” Wright said. It took almost ten seconds for him to get that much out. Stennis stared at the sealed envelope like it might sprout an arm and pull him into the Great Beyond.
Wright picked up the document, opened it, and scanned it briefly. As he read the signatures of the Cabinet officers, he looked over at Stennis.
“Have you spoken with the President about this?” Stennis asked.
“I’ve tried,” Bush replied.
“Unresponsive?” Stennis asked.
“I’d say disinterested. His focus is not what it once was,” Bush said.
An idea formed on Jim Wright’s face. He braced himself.
“Do you think the Tower Commission’s report is really going to be that bad? Are you trying to change the story?" Wright asked.
“Jim, that is…” Stennis started.
“I swear to almighty God, Jim, I’m just trying to serve my country,” Bush said.
“If you’re thinking that you’ll look better to voters in ’88 by already sitting in the Oval, I must say…”
“No!”
A stunned silence filled the office. Bush blew out a breath and then spoke again. His words were laced with barely contained frustration.
“This isn’t about Iran. It’s not about the Tower report. It’s not about North or Don Regan or anyone else. This has to be done and it has to be done now. The President is simply no longer capable of executing his office!”
“Is it that bad?” Stennis asked.
“Staffers are initialing documents for him that he never even reads. He’s inattentive in meetings. When he actually goes in the first place, that is. He’s had whole days where he doesn’t leave the residence, watching television and old movies,” Bush said. He sat back in his chair, the weight of the world slumping his shoulders.
“George?” Stennis said.
“There are ten thousand nuclear weapons pointed at us right now and I don’t know what will happen tomorrow. I don’t care about the scandal anymore. Do whatever you like about the Contras. I don’t care about ’88, or the office, or Air Force One, or anything else. I’m bound by the Constitution to do what I came here to do. You’re bound to do your duty as you see fit following on from here. You have the letter, and my thanks.”
“Will he fight back?” Wright asked.
“I don’t know. I’m on my way there to ask him now.”
9 February 1987
CF-136 Constellation
Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean
MET: T+ 134:54:22
“
Constellation, Houston,” said CAPCOM.
“Houston,
Constellation,” said Conrad.
“Pete, it’s not clearing up at the Cape at all,”
Conrad arched his neck and looked out at the horizon.
“Copy that, Houston. I can confirm. Looks like a pretty good little thunderstorm down that way. Are we officially on for Edwards?” Conrad said.
“Affirmative,
Constellation. You are go for entry and landing at Edwards. They’ll be expecting you.”
“Roger that, Houston. Maybe we’ll catch a Lakers game before we head home,” Conrad said.
From the right-hand seat, Tonya Wilkins spoke up, “Houston, we’re still getting a bad reading on APU 2. Can you confirm?”
There was a pause while Houston went around the room. Privately, Pete Conrad hadn’t been wild about flying with a woman in his right-hand seat, but Wilkins had been a consummate professional since the day they’d met. He’d have no problem flying with her again.
“
Constellation, Houston. We are showing the same on APU 2. Recommend that you disregard that as an option in descent operations. Consider it dead and we’ll take a look when we get her back in the stable,” CAPCOM said.
“I’m not wild about that, Houston. Between the APU and the issue with Battery B from last night, are we going to have a problem here?” Wilkins asked.
“EECOM says we’re go with the hardware as is. That’s one reason why we aren’t waiting for the storm to pass. If we left you up there for another day, it’d be a problem, but we’ll have a smooth margin for the next few hours.”
Wilkins put a hand over her microphone, “Emphasis on the ‘few’,” she said.
“You worried?”
“If this thing crashes, no one it’s going to say it’s because we had a
male pilot on the flight deck,” Wilkins said.
“I don’t think your gender is going to be held responsible for an electrical problem,” Conrad said.
“Famous last words,” Wilkins replied.
“Keep an eye on it, but I think we’ll be okay,” Conrad said.
“Roger that,” Wilkins said, both to Conrad and the ground.
9 February 1987 – 1200 Hours
Main State Building
Washington, DC
38° 53′ 40″N 77° 02′ 54″W
“Good morning, my fellow citizens. Over the past weeks, myself and other members of this administration have noticed a change in the demeanor and disposition of President Reagan. This change has been slow, but steady and has been noted by both medical professionals and members of the President’s own staff. The strain of the office of President of the United States is a heavy burden and one that can and has pushed the best of men to their limits.
It is with a heavy heart that I and the other members of the Cabinet have determined that the president is no longer able to discharge the powers and duties of the office. This decision was not made lightly, nor was it done in haste. But with the various challenges and issues that are faced by this administration, by any administration, it was determined that, for the good of the country, for the safety of the public and all United States interests at home and abroad, that the nation could no longer ask President Reagan to serve in his diminished capacity.
Pursuant to the twenty-fifth amendment to the Constitution, myself and the other members of the Cabinet have transmitted a letter to the appropriate officers of Congress declaring that President Reagan is unable to discharge his duties. President Reagan is free to dispute this declaration if he chooses to do so, at which point Congress will resolve the dispute within twenty-one days.
Until and unless President Reagan chooses to dispute the judgment of myself and the Cabinet I will be the Acting President of the United States with the powers and duties of the office.
The decision to take this step has been agonizing for all involved, and there will likely be more agonies to come, but at all times and for all involved, the primary motivation has been and must continue to be the safety and preservation of the nation and the Constitutional principles on which it was founded. I ask for your patience and calm as this matter is properly resolved. Thank you, and God bless America.
9 February 1987
CF-136 Constellation
Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean
MET: T+ 138:12:57
He was getting nothing but static in the headset. Radio blackouts were as much a part of this life as canned air, but he would have given anything to consult with a room full of engineers right now.
“How’s it looking?”
“Temperature readings are pegged. It’s got to be a fire, Pete,” Wilkins said.
“Battery A?” Pete asked.
“Not gonna get us to Hawaii, let alone Edwards.”
“APU 2?”
“You think?”
“Give me another option,” Conrad said.
“Short of cutting into the bulkhead and going after it with an extinguisher.”
“I’m all out of chainsaws. This bitch is shaking like a crack addict and we don’t have the time,” Conrad said.
“APU 2.” Wilkins said.
“Do it,” Conrad nodded. He watched her throw the switch.
The electrical gauge pulsed for an instant and he saw the cockpit lights grow brighter. Then the board fell out.
“Aww hell,” Conrad said.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t need a power plant to fly a damn airplane. Kinetics alone will get us to Edwards.”
“You can’t turn her without the electronics.”
“If we’re close,” Conrad said.
“We’re not
that close,” Wilkins said.
“How far now?”
“We’re passing Oahu tracking. I can’t get anything on comms.”
“We’re close enough, maybe the suit radios,” Conrad said.
“That might work,” Wilkins replied.
“Doc, grab one of the radio headsets from an EVA suit and declare an emergency,” Conrad called over his shoulder.
“That’s not much,” Wilkins said.
“Message in a bottle. Jerry, all the samples are stowed, right?”
“Affirmative,” came the call from their geologist moonwalker who was catching a ride down.
“Maybe that’ll be enough,” Wilkins said.
“I’m not done yet.”
“I think we both are,” Wilkins said.
“Tonya…”
“Pete. There’s not much left to work with here.”
“ICES. I’ll see if I can keep it in the air long enough for sample drops too.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Wilkins said.
“They tell me those are pretty nice rocks.”
“Not
that nice,” Wilkins said.
“Go.” Conrad said.
Tonya Wilkins unbuckled her harness and went back to open the rear airlock door. She took the radio from Mission Specialist Greene. It was useless. That had been a longshot, but not a bad idea.
Already Jerry Chan was removing the bagged samples and putting them into a special container that was stowed on every Clipper just for this purpose. The bright orange bag, known as “International Orange” would be easily spotted on the blue ocean surface, assuming the whole thing didn’t sink.
“You guys remember how the chutes work?” Tonya asked, pushing past both of the scientists as she made her way to the rear. She touched the rear bulkhead, wondering if she could feel the heat from the APU fire. She felt ridiculous when she remembered that her suit gloves were designed expressly to stop that from happening.
“This ain’t like those friendly little training jumps. We’re still screaming here,” Conrad called back.
“Everyone got a good seal?” Wilkins asked.
She got nods and thumbs up from both men.
“Pete?”
“Just do it!” he called back.
She primed the emergency charge, waited the two seconds for the light to come on, then hit the button. A rush of air and a screech of metal as the rear airlock door blew out and tumbled away. At their current altitude, the pressure equalized between atmosphere and spacecraft relatively quickly. It wasn’t like the movies.
When the debris cleared she saw a sight of horror. An angry black smoke trail billowed from the right side of the ship, leaving a thinning line of acrid grey that stretched back as far as she could see.
“We’ve got smoke,” she said to Conrad on the flight deck.
“No surprise,” Conrad replied. “Can you see flames?”
“Negative,” she answered.
“Should be okay, you’ll be through it real fast,” he said.
“Agreed. Okay doc, you’re first,” Wilkins said. She took the ring that was attached to his backpack and leaned out to notch it on the long pole that had opened above the now-vacant hatch.
“Happy trails,” she said, giving him a light shove as he flew into the sky. She watched for about five seconds as he flipped twice and then stabilized. His chute should deploy automatically, but he hadn’t hit anything, so she wasn’t worried about his ability to pull the ripcord.
“Jerry?”
Jerry Chan took three steps to her position, clutching the emergency sample bag like a child. She took it from him.
“I’ll handle this for you,” she said.
“I’d prefer to toss it now,” Chan said.
“You afraid I’ll forget it?” she asked.
“No, I’m afraid it’ll hit me in the head on the way down,” he quipped.
She tossed the bag out of the airlock and they both watched the red and white parachute deploy. The samples would be recoverable once they hit the water.
“Okay, you’re all set.”
“Here’s to not dying,” he said and jumped through the circular airlock like he was diving into a swimming pool.
“Pete, you’re up,” Wilkins said.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Conrad called back.
“Don’t mess with me, Conrad. I’m not leaving you behind,” she said. When she wanted to be stern, she used last names.
“Still the commander,” Conrad said.
“Don’t let ‘pulling rank’ be the last thing you ever do, okay?” she said.
“Get off my ship, Air Force,” Pete Conrad ordered.
Captain Tonya Wilkins of the University of Colorado, U.S. Air Force, and NASA Astronaut Corps flung herself out of the rear of the
Constellation. She spread her arms to stabilize herself and waited for the tell-tale beeps to indicate it was time to deploy her parachute.
On the flight deck, Pete Conrad kept a white-knuckle grip on the control yoke. “It’s still got good structure and airspeed,” Conrad said. That was more than he’d had in a lot of other crippled birds that he’d handled.
The Master Alarm blared again. That angry red light seemed to bore into his soul. No matter what, this was his ship. He was supposed to bring her home.
For a moment, Pete considered staying with the old girl. He’d been there for her first test flights over Edwards back in ’75. This was his third time taking her into orbit. He felt guilty as hell abandoning her in her hour of need.
Constellation was an old friend, and he didn’t want her to die alone.
Still, bourbon tasted good and he was young enough to walk on the beach, and his grandkids were just getting interesting.
He took one last look around the
Constellation.
She was beautiful, but she wasn’t worth dying over.
He patted the flight controls and wished that he could have done more. They’d never let him fly again. They might not let anyone fly again. For want of a working APU.
His idiot aviator brain told him that he could still find some spot to put down. The manual said you could theoretically put down on any solid patch of road with two miles to work with.
Still, if he was wrong by a little, or if something broke the wrong way, he might bring the old girl down right on Dodger Stadium.
Gritting his teeth, he put the ship into a bank, pulling back on the stick with all his might to put her on a new course. He saw the gauge drop out to zero and the last of his juice was gone. Whatever she had, she’d given it all.
The ship listed about ten degrees to port. It meant he had to adjust his steps like a rookie seaman when he stepped out of his chair and grabbed one of the parachutes from the overhead locker.
“Time to go,” he announced to no one. He saw the mix of blue and grey out of the rear hatch. On fire and screaming out from Mach Ten was a hell of a way to end a career.
He jumped. He tumbled. For a moment he couldn’t tell the difference between the blue above and the blue below. It took a moment to get his bearings, but the horizon settled after a few somersaults.
He arched his neck, looking around for other parachutes, but then realized the futile nature of the action. He’d flown so far in the time between Wilkins’ jump and his own that she would be far out of sight, even in the pumpkin suit.
Gently the ocean swallowed the aged naval aviator. He had jumped in too many times to be scared and with a practiced hand, he cut away the harness.
The life raft inflated around him and he tossed a few stray cords from his chute to make sure they were clear. He looked up and saw the smoky trail in the sky heading north, parallel to the coastline.
Constellation was about to auger in.
At least she wouldn’t come down on somebody’s house.
His survival gear radio crackled and he picked it up. Wilkins voice came out of the speaker, “You out there, boss?”
“And now, for my next trick…” he said, laughing, “You all right?”
“Yeah, just floating. Trying not to think about how big this damn ocean is.”
“It’s okay. Navy’ll be here inside of two hours, worst case.”
“20 bucks?”
“Make it 50.”
“You’re on.”
9 February 1987 – 1900 Hours
229 West 43rd Street
New York, NY
40° 45′ 27″N 73° 59′ 16″W
“Is it possible to run two papers?” the editor joked.
The other department heads gave a light chuckle.
“Seriously, they couldn’t have waited one day? We get a Vice President declaring the President unfit and a Clipper crashing down from outer space on the same, damn, day? Don’t they know there’s only so much room on the front page?”
“What do you want to do, chief?”
“What’s to do? This isn’t a hard choice. The country is more important than the space program. Bush gets the front page. But how the hell do I put a spaceship crashing into the ocean below the fold?”
“We have better art on Bush,” someone said, which got another laugh.
“Some bastard at the LA Times is gonna find a great snapshot of a wingtip being pulled out of the drink before they have to go to press and we’ll get screwed.”
“It’s the best we can do, chief,” said the lead political reporter.
“You’re damned right it is. Ugh, just you hate to put such a big story anywhere but in the headline,” the editor said.
“Are we sure there’s no art for
Constellation?” his senior man asked.
“What, are we gonna show it taking off? No. Not unless someone hops a Concorde out there and faxes me back something from the middle of the Pacific. We’re locked. The headline is Bush Declares Reagan Unfit. NASA gets pushed to the lifestyle section.”
“Not the obits?”
“Not today, thank God,” the editor said.
“Have they found the last guy yet?”
“Conrad is still out there, but they’re working on it. If he’s alive, he’ll be picked up by morning.”
“You hope,” the editor said.
“We hope,” came the reply.
He picked up the phone on the left side of his desk. One button got him to the printers downstairs, “We’re locked. The Bush headline. Run it.”
END OF ACT TWO
)
