First on the Moon, Jeff Sutton [most read books in the world of all time TXT] 📗

away. It was a study in greens and yellow-browns and whitish ragged areas where the eye was blocked by cloud formations. Straight out the sky was black, starry. Prochaska reached up and swung the glare shield over the forward port. The sun, looked at even indirectly, was a blinding orb, intolerable to the unprotected eye. Night above ... day below. A sun that blazed without breaking the ebon skies. Strange, Crag mused. He had been prepared for this, prepared by long hours of instruction. But now, confronted with a day that was night, he could only wonder. For a moment he felt small, insignificant, and wondered at brazen man. Who dared come here? I dared, he thought. A feeling of pride grew within him. I dared. The stars are mine.

Stage three was easy by comparison. It began with the muted roar of thrust chambers almost behind them, a noise spectrum almost solely confined to the interior of the rocket. Outside there was no longer sufficient air molecules to convey even a whisper of sound. Nor was there a pressure build-up. The stage three engine was designed for extremely low thrust extended over a correspondingly longer time. It would drive them through the escape spiral—an orbital path around the earth during which time they would slowly increase both altitude and speed.

Crag's body felt light; not total weightlessness, but extremely light. His instruments told him they were breaching the exosphere, where molecular matter had almost ceased to exist. The atoms of the exosphere were lonely, uncrowded, isolated particles. It was the top of the air ocean where, heretofore, only monkeys, dogs and smaller test animals had gone. It was the realm of Sputniks ... Explorers ... Vanguards—all the test rockets which had made the Aztec possible. They still sped their silent orbits, borne on the space tides of velocity; eternal tombs of dogs and monkeys. And after monkey—man.

The communicator gave a burp. A voice came through the static. Drone Able was aloft. It had blasted off from its blasting pad at Burning Sands just moments after the Aztec. Prochaska bent over the radarscope and fiddled with some knobs. The tube glowed and dimmed, then it was there—a tiny pip.

Alpine came in with more data. They watched its course. Somewhere far below them and hundreds of miles to the west human minds were guiding the drone by telemeter control, vectoring it through space to meet the Aztec. It was, Crag thought, applied mathematics. He marveled at the science which enabled them to do it. One moment the drone was just a pip on the scope, climbing up from the sere earth, riding a firestream to the skies; the next it was tons of metal scorching through space, cutting into their flight path—a giant screaming up from its cradle.

It was Prochaska's turn to sweat. The job of taking it over was his. He bent over his instruments, ears tuned to the communicator fingers nervous on the drone controls. The drone hurtled toward them at a frightening speed.

Crag kept his fingers on the steering controls just in case, his mind following the Chief's hands. They began moving more certainly. Prochaska tossed his head impatiently, bending lower over the instrument console. Crag strained against his harnessing to see out of the side port. The drone was visible now, a silver shaft growing larger with appalling rapidity. A thin skein of vapor trailed from its trail, fluffing into nothingness.

If angle of closure remains constant, you're on collision course. The words from the Flying Safety Manual popped into his mind. He studied the drone.

Angle of closure was constant!

Crag hesitated. Even a touch on the steering rockets could be bad. Very bad. The slightest change in course at their present speed would impose tremendous g forces on their bodies, perhaps greater than they could stand. He looked at the Chief and licked his lips. The man was intent on his instruments, seemingly lost to the world. His fingers had ceased all random movement. Every motion had precise meaning. He was hooked onto Drone Able's steering rockets now, manipulating the controls with extreme precision. He was a concert pianist playing the strident music of space, an overture written in metal and flaming gas. Tiny corrections occurred in the Drone's flight path.

"Got her lined up," Prochaska announced without moving his eyes from the scope. He gradually narrowed the distance between the rockets until they were hurtling through space on parallel courses scant miles apart. He gave a final check and looked at Crag. They simultaneously emitted big sighs.

"Had me worried for a moment," Crag confessed.

"Me, too." The Chief looked out of the side port "Man, it looks like a battle wagon."

Crag squinted through the port. Drone Able was a silver bullet in space, a twin of the Aztec except in color. A drone with view ports. He smiled thoughtfully. Every exterior of the drone had been planned to make it appear like a manned vehicle. Gotch was the architect of that bit of deception, he thought. The Colonel hadn't missed a bet.

He looked at the earth. It was a behemoth in space; a huge curved surface falling away in all directions; a mosaic of grays punctuated by swaths of blue-green tints and splotches of white where fleecy clouds rode the top of the troposphere. His momentary elation vanished, replaced by an odd depression. The world was far away, retreating into the cosmic mists. The aftermath, he thought. A chill presentiment crept into his mind—a premonition of impending disaster.

CHAPTER 4

The communicator came to life with data on Pickering. The satelloid was moving higher, faster than the Aztec, riding the rim of the exosphere where the atmosphere is indistinguishable from absolute space. Crag felt thankful he hadn't been tabbed for the job. The satelloid was a fragile thing compared to the Aztec—a moth compared to a hawk. It was a relative handful of light metals and delicate electronic components, yet it moved at frightful speeds over the course the armchair astronauts had dubbed "Sputnik Avenue." It was a piloted vehicle, a mite with small stubby wings to enable it to glide through the air ocean to safe sanctuary after orbiting the earth. Pickering would be crouched in its scant belly, a space hardly larger than his body, cramped in a pressure suit that made movement all but impossible. His smallest misjudgment would spell instant death. Crag marveled at Pickering's audacity. Clearly he had the roughest mission. While he thought about it, he kept one part of his mind centered on the communicator absorbing the data on the satelloid's position and speed.

The Northern tip of Africa came up fast. The Dark Continent of history seen from the borders of space was a yellow-green splotch hemmed by blue. The satelloid was still beyond the Aztec's radar range but a data link analog painted in the relationship between the two space vehicles. The instrument's automatic grid measured the distance between them in hundreds of miles. Pickering, aloft before them, had fled into the east and already was beginning to overtake them from the west. The ships were seen on the analog as two pips, two mites aloft in the air ocean. Crag marveled at the satelloid's tremendous speed. It was a ray of metal flashing along the fringes of space, a rapier coming out of the west.

The Middle East passed under them, receding, a mass of yellow-green and occasional smoke-blue splotches. The earth was a giant curvature, not yet an orb, passing into the shadow of night. It was a night of fantastic shortness, broken by daylight over the Pacific. The ocean was an incredible blue, blue-black he decided. The harsh sound of the communicator came to life. Someone wanted a confab with Crag. A private confab. Prochaska wrinkled his brow questioningly. Crag switched to his ear insert phone and acknowledged.

"A moment," a voice said. He waited.

"Commander, we've bad news for you." It was Gotch's voice, a rasp coming over a great distance.

"The S-two reports a rocket being tracked by radar. ComSoPac's picked it up. It's on intercept course."

Crag's thoughts raced. The S-two was the satelloid's code name. "Any idea what kind?"

"Probably a sub-launched missile—riding a beam right to you. Or the drone," he added. He was silent for a second. "Well, we sort of expected this might happen, Commander. It's a tough complication."

A helluva lot of good that does, Crag thought. What next? Another set of pilots, more indoctrination, new rockets, another zero hour. Gotch would win the moon if he had to use the whole Air Force. He said, "Well, it's been a nice trip, so far."

"Get Prochaska on the scope."

"He's on and ... hold it." The Chief was making motions toward the scope. "No, it's the satelloid. He's—"

Gotch broke in with more data. Then it was there.

"He's got it," Crag announced. Gotch was silent. He watched the analog. All three pips were visible. The satelloid was still above them, rushing in, fast. The interceptor was lower to the northwest, cutting into their path. He thought it was the Drone Able story all over again. Only this time it wasn't a supply rocket. It was a warhead, a situation they couldn't control.

Couldn't control? Or could they? He debated the question, then quickly briefed Prochaska and cut him in on the com circuit.

"We can use Drone Able as an intercept," he told Gotch.

"No!" The word came explosively.

Crag snapped, "Drone Able won't be a damn bit of good without the Aztec."

"No, this is ground control, Commander." Gotch abruptly cut off. Crag cursed.

"Calling Step One.... Calling Step One. S-two calling Step One. Are you receiving? Over." The voice came faint over the communicator, rising and falling.

"Step One," Crag said, adjusting his lip mike. He acknowledged the code call while his mind registered the fact it wasn't Alpine Base. There was a burst of static. He waited a moment, puzzled.

"S-two calling...."

Pickering! He had been slow in recognizing the satelloid's code call. The voice faded—was lost. His thought raced. Pickering was up there in the satelloid moving higher, faster than the Aztec, hurtling along the rim of space in a great circle around the earth. The stubby-winged rocket ship was a minute particle in infinity, yet it represented a part in the great adventure. It was the hand of Michael Gotch reaching toward them. For the instant, the knowledge gave him a ray of hope—hope as quickly dashed. The S-two was just a high-speed observation and relay platform; a manned vehicle traveling the communication orbit established by the Army's earlier Explorer missiles. He turned back to Prochaska and sketched in his plan of using Drone Able as an intercept.

"Could be." The Chief bit his lip reflectively. "We could control her through her steering rockets, but we'd have to be plenty sharp. We'd only get one crack."

"Chances are the intercept is working on a proximity fuse," Crag reasoned. "All we'd have to do is work the drone into its flight path. We could use our own steering rockets to give us a bigger margin of safety."

"What would the loss of Able mean?"

Crag shrugged. "I'm more concerned with what the loss of the Aztec would mean."

"Might work." The Chief looked sharply at him. "What does Alpine say?"

"They say nuts." Crag looked at the scope. The intercept was much nearer. So was the S-two. Pickering's probably coming in for an eye-witness report, he thought sourly. Probably got an automatic camera so Gotch can watch the show. He looked quizzically at Prochaska. The Chief wore a frozen mask. He got back on the communicator and repeated his request. When he finished, there was a dead silence in the void.

The Colonel's answer was unprintable. He looked thoughtfully at Prochaska. Last time he'd broken ground orders he'd been invited to leave the Air Force. But Gotch had taken him despite that. He glanced over his shoulder trying to formulate a plan. Larkwell was lying back in his seat, eyes closed. Lucky dog, he thought. He doesn't know what he's in for. He twisted his head further. Nagel watched him with a narrow look. He pushed the oxygen man from his mind and turned back to the analog. The pip that was Pickering had moved a long way across the grid. The altitude needle tied into the grid showed that the satelloid was dropping fast. The intercept was nearer, too. Much nearer. Prochaska watched the scene on his radarscope.

"She's coming fast," he murmured. His face had paled.

"Too fast," Crag gritted. He got on the communicator and called Alpine. Gotch came on immediately.

Crag said defiantly. "We're going to use Drone Able as an intercept. It's the only chance."

"Commander, I ordered ground control." The Colonel's voice was icy, biting.

"Ground has no control over this situation," Crag snapped angrily.

"I said ground control, Commander. That's final."

"I'm using Drone Able."

"Commander Crag, you'll wind up cleaning the heads at Alpine," Gotch raged. "Don't move that Drone."

For a moment the situation struck him as humorous. Just