Judgment Day (8 page)

"Hello, Reverend Maitland. I'm Shelly. Its pretty amazing, isn't it?"

Christy looked around the interior. It was roomier than it appeared from the outside, and there were two chairs, one in front of the other. Most of the interior surface of the sphere was covered with equipment and devices she could not identify. Small monitors filled the wall in front of the lead chair, and another set sat in a console in front of the second. Each station had a keyboard and joystick.

"It's tightly packed in here because there's three of every system," Shelly said. "It's set up for two pilots now, but we can squeeze another person in if we want. The other capsule is identical."

"What makes it fly?"

Shelly blushed, then she said, "I can't tell you that."

Mark leaned over next to Christy, his cheek almost touching hers.

"It's not that we don't trust you, Christy, but this technology wasn't meant for the world."

Disconcerted by Mark's closeness, Christy pulled out and climbed down the ladder, Mark following.

"You can't keep a monopoly on this technology forever," Christy said. "If it's been discovered once, it can be discovered again."

"It was given to us by God. If He wants to give it to someone else, He can."

"You could patent your technology."

"Only if we provide details on how it works. We're better protected this way."

Suddenly Floyd shouted from the far side of the work floor, out of breath from excitement.

"Something's happened!" Floyd shouted. "You've got to see this!"

Floyd disappeared and others in the hangar quickly followed him. Christy trailed, wondering what could be more exciting than what she had witnessed in the last two days.

CHAPTER 10 THE STORY

Experiments with the X-15 showed a single stage reusable space plane was feasible. However, the race to the moon diverted resources to disposable space hardware. While we won the race to the moon, we delayed development of the technology necessary to make access to space affordable.

—
ALTERNATE PATHWAYS TO SPACE
, EDWARD NORTON

N
ot since the last earthquake in California had Roland seen a studio this busy. From the technicians to the on-air talent there was a sense of importance. This wasn't just television, this was "news," and these were the people who determined what the world needed to know. Writers sifted through bits and pieces of information, carefully selecting adjectives to create copy with "punch," then fed the words to the mouths of the "talent" who further modified it with the inflection they gave the words. Simultaneously, editors cut and rearranged videotape to tell the story visually, putting their own unique spin on events. In the control room, where Roland watched, producers made the final decisions about sequence, emphasis, and juxt a position of video, copy, and talent, and this is what the world was fed.

Roland noted parallels with his own newsroom. At their core, they were all reporters but sometimes Roland thought a better name would be "creators." You couldn't take the human out of the news business and as long as people were in the cycle the truth would always be filtered through the eyes of the beholder. Any story could be seen from a dozen perspectives and someone had to take responsibility for determining what was "truth."

The producers in front of him were surrounded by monitors showing video footage of stories they were developing. Most of the monitors were carrying some angle on the Fellowship. There was video of the launch, the now infamous helicopter incident, interviews with two former Fellowship members, one claiming the cult practiced polygamy. A story on price gouging in Christ's Home had just been added to the mix and they were editing video of the junior senator from California calling for an investigation.

Someone from the FAA had been tracked down and was talking vaguely about it being illegal to fly the
Rising Savior
. There were minor stories about the church they worshiped in, Exeter—the town the Fellowship had taken over—and about the security around the compound. There were many close-ups of barbed wire. The rest of the stories amounted to news-people interviewing each other, or experts speculating about the cult's beliefs and technological capabilities.

Cindi Winslow brought Roland a cup of coffee. She was thirty, attractive, and devoted to her profession. She was the only black female associate producer at the network and talented enough to go to the top. Roland and Cindi saw each other when their paths crossed, both unwilling to give up their careers to build a permanent relationship.

"Watch over here, Roland," she said, pointing. "We've just put together a new story. We used footage from that failed Ariane launch this morning."

Roland was only vaguely aware that a European Space Agency Ariane rocket had failed in an attempt to put an Australian communications satellite in orbit. The second stage had malfunctioned and the satellite was now in a useless low orbit. In a few days the satellite would reenter the atmosphere and a 270-million-dollar project would become a shooting star.

When the story came up on the monitor it started with the footage of the Ariane launch from Kourou, French Guiana, while a voice described the tons of liquid hydrogen and oxygen burned to reach orbit. Stock footage of the flames of a rocket engine came next—Roland recognized the engine of a Saturn V. A young Asian-American reporter appeared on camera describing the combustion process, the cost of disposable rockets, and how rocket exhaust polluted the atmosphere. Next they cut to the footage of the
Rising Savior
silently floating into the sky without the roaring flames of the Ariane. The report finished with talk of a "new era," and then turned grim when the reporter asked, "What will a fundamentalist cult do with this new technology?"

Roland realized that one day after the launch of the
Rising Savior
the media was already spinning rockets as antiques.

"Has there been any other signals from their satellite, Cindi?"

"We're monitoring the frequency they've given us but so far nothing but nonstop Bible reading." Looking at her watch she said, "If you hurry you can catch the minor prophets."

After the preview they put the story into the rotation, the first new slant Roland had seen in hours.

"Cindi, have you run across a George Proctor anywhere in this story?" "The gun nut? Not that I know of. Is he part of this cult?"

"I'm not sure."

"Hey, Cindi, you're not going to believe this," a voice called.

Roland recognized the new arrival as Wyatt Powder, an on-the-air reporter and weekend anchor. His sculptured good looks and resonant reading voice made it not matter that he was a short man with a less than average IQ. He was on the fast track to network stardom. Acknowledging Roland with a nod he spoke to Cindi.

"The cult is going up again. They're going after the Aussie satellite."

"When?"

"I don't know, but I've got a contact with Hughes Space Group. They built the satellite the Europeans sent up this morning. They've been contacted by the Fellowship and a deal's been made."

"They must have planned this," Roland said.

"Sabotage? But how?" Cindi asked.

"It's too convenient," Roland said vaguely.

"Guess how much they're charging?" Wyatt asked. Without waiting for an answer he said, "Twenty million."

It would be a bargain if they could save the satellite, Roland knew, but it would be like pouring gasoline on a fire. With the infusion of cash the cult would grow, attract more followers and more donations.

"Alert our crews," Cindi said. "I want pictures of the launch. And find out what frequency they're using, we want to listen in."

Then Cindi turned to Roland.

"It looks like the story just got bigger."

CHAPTER 11 MISSION

Cults are the most destructive social phenomenon, short of war. They tear families apart, drain a country's resources, and agitate the members of the dominant religions. Occasionally, the worst happens, and a cult gets a foothold, growing in power before it can be eradicated, adding to the religious delusions of the masses. The offshoot of Judaism we call Christianity is a good example of this.

—
RELIGION, PLAGUES, AND EARTHQUAKES'
.

NATURAL AND UNNATURAL DISASTERS
, MARION WADE

O
nce the deal had been struck to save the Australian satellite, Mark called everyone to worship. The hangar became a church and chairs were set up in a circle. Hundreds appeared for the service, although Christy had seen only a few during her tour. It was a simple service, typical of low churches. They sang choruses from memory, then worshiped in silence. Occasionally someone would stand and share how thankful they were for what God had done for them, then someone else would pray. There was a pentecostal fervor at times but no speaking in tongues. Mark closed the service with a prayer, asking God to protect "His people that would soon go in harm's way."

Then like a hive of workers with a collective consciousness, they dispersed, each returning to their respective task. Christy asked to stay, but Mark declined, promising she could return for the launch.

Reporters were waiting for her at the motel, cameras shoved in her face, reporters demanding to know what she knew. No one told her not to speak, but it felt like betraying a trust.

Floyd helped her push through to her room where she stayed, virtually a prisoner. She spent the afternoon watching TV. The broadcast networks finally returned to regular programming, promising to interrupt instantly if anything newsworthy happened. CNN, Fox, and the other cable networks were still giving the cult heavy coverage but were now mixing in other stories. Sports coverage returned, a sure sign of a drift toward normalcy. At suppertime Evelyn brought her dinner from the Pig and Pancake and a can of pop from what was now a seven-dollar machine. There was no charge for either. Late in the evening Christy fell asleep with the TV on. At three A.M. the phone woke her.

"Come downstairs in five minutes," Evelyn said. "Floyd will take you back to the compound."

"Are they going to—"

"Don't say anything else, just in case someone is listening."

She dressed quickly in her Wal-Mart clothes, then stood by the window peeking out the curtains. It was clear. Then she stepped out, pulling the door closed quietly, and walked down the stairs.

Suddenly a match lit the bottom of the landing. A man was there in the shadows, lighting a cigarette. Christy froze,- reaching into her purse she palmed a canister of pepper Mace, then she screwed up her courage and went down the last flight. The man stepped into the light as she reached the bottom.

"You're Reverend Maitland," he said. "Bill Towers, with
Cutting Edge
. Just a few questions if you don't mind."

Christy knew of the tabloid TV show but had never seen it.

"Not now, please," Christy said.

"Where are you going in the middle of the night?" Towers asked.

Christy ignored him, walking toward the office.

"We know the Fellowship is going after that satellite, I just need to know when."

The office was dark so she knocked on the door.

"Just tell me when they're going to launch," Towers persisted.

His voice was harsh and when Christy turned to walk away he jerked her around by the arm and pulled her close. She could smell alcohol on his breath.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" Towers accused.

"Get away from me or I'll scream."

"Tell me what I want to know or I'll scream and every reporter in this place will come running. You'll never get to where you're going."

Christy struggled to get free but he held her firm. Then Floyd's van roared into the parking lot. When Towers looked toward the van Christy Maced him. He was cursing and rubbing his eyes when she climbed into the passenger seat. Lights were coming on in the rooms as they drove away. As they passed the Eternal Rest Motel, two cars pulled out and followed them.

"Uh-oh," Floyd said. "I didn't expect this."

He sped up but the cars stayed close behind.

"This may be a problem. Everyone's busy getting ready for the launch and I won't have help at the gate. We can't let them get on the grounds right now."

Christy was disappointed.

"We've picked up another tail," Floyd said.

"Tail" made Christy smile. Floyd was acting like a secret agent on a mission.

"I'm sure they'll respect your property rights. They won't trespass."

"We had two incidents this afternoon. Three reporters and a cameraman are in the county jail right now. Their bosses won't pay our price for an interview and they're getting desperate." Then Floyd stared long and hard in the mirror. "Here comes one now."

Christy looked back seeing the third car in line had pulled into the left lane and was passing the other two. Floyd sped up to keep ahead of the accelerating car but it kept closing. Now feeling like she was in a spy movie, she watched the car pass the other two until it was nearing theirs. Suddenly it swerved in behind Floyd's van, slamming on its brakes as it did. The two trailing cars hit their brakes to avoid a collision. Tires screamed as the last two cars tried vainly to avoid colliding with the first, the last car in line ramming into the trunk of the second. The car that started the chain reaction swerved left out of harm's way, then sped up, leaving the occupants of the other cars to exchange insurance information.

"He must want an exclusive," Christy said.

The third car caught up again, then passed on the left. Floyd waved at the driver as he did.

"It's one of Proctor's people. Just when I decide they're one of the enemy, they do something like this."

"Do they work security for you?"

"Nope. Mark won't have anything to do with them. He's a pacifist and Proctor's not."

They reached the compound without further incident and again the exterior was deserted. They entered the same way, Christy realizing she had seen only a small part of the complex, her tour limited to the central hangar and one side room.

The hangar was buzzing with activity, the
Rising Savior
still the center of attention. Christy stood back from the activity around the ship, letting them work.

The
Rising Savior
had been modified, a set of manipulator arms had been attached to the right sphere. Ira Breitling sat at the console and spoke into a microphone. Occasionally, a voice crackled back over the speakers. Then the arms began to move, stretching out. A steel drum had been tipped on its side and the arms snaked out slowly until they were inches away. Then the pincers opened and arms moved slowly forward, sliding over the rim of the drum on both sides. Slowly they closed until the speaker crackled and Ira barked out a command. Then the pincers released and the arms were retracted. A minute later John popped up out of the sphere. His cheeks were their usual red and his face one big smile. He wore a space suit but no helmet.

"Hey, Christy," John shouted.

Others turned and looked at her, waving or nodding hello.

"Get back in there," Ira said gruffly. "If you damage that satellite I'll take the twenty million out of your hide."

John put one hand in the air and held his nose with the other, then slowly lowered himself into the
Rising Savior
, imitating someone sinking in a pool.

"We'll launch in about an hour," Shepherd said from behind her.

Mark stepped up next to her. He looked happy to see her. She felt the same.

"In an hour? Isn't that pretty imprecise for rendezvousing with a satellite?"

"It would be if the
Rising Savior
was an ordinary space transport. We have the capability to chase down the satellite no matter when we launch but it's less complicated if we wait until it comes to us. Ideally, we'll launch in seventy-three minutes. Does that sound better?"

"Very NASA-like."

"We don't have NASA's resources but we have some advantages. You see the manipulators on the
Rising Savior2
. We didn't have to build an underwater simulator to train John because our manipulators work in a one-gee environment. Those manipulators saved us millions too. They were purchased off the shelf from an industrial supply company. We only

had to make minor modifications for use on the
Rising Savior
. We'll get the next set of manipulators free."

"Why is that?"

"If they work we've agreed to trade video of them in operation for another set. The manufacturer will add a little cash on top of that."

"Mark, why is there a dollar sign attached to everything you do?"

Mark's cheeks reddened.

"I know it seems that way but I have to do everything I can to keep us going."

"Are the Australians really going to pay twenty million dollars to rescue their satellite?"

"The European Space Agency is kicking in some of it, but that's the total. Let me show you what we're after."

He led her to the room dominated by a projection screen with several smaller monitors mounted on the wall. There were also five work stations with computers and monitors. She joined Mark at one of the stations. Quickly he pulled up specifications on the satellite. It was cylindrical, resembling the steel drum.

"The Hughes Aircraft people sent this over. They built the satellite for the Australians. Aussat VII is 6.5 meters long. It has two extendable solar panels."

Mark punched a key and the picture of the satellite came to life, the two solar panels folding out from the sides of the satellite.

"There's an antenna array that deploys too."

Another keypunch and the top of the satellite opened, three dishes extending on long arms.

"It's carrying twenty-five C-band transponders and ten Ku-band. Most of the transponder space has already been leased. CBN, HBO, Fox, Disney, TBN, many of the big broadcasters have been counting on it."

"Doesn't doing this make you a bit uncomfortable?" Christy asked.

"Why?"

"Won't this satellite broadcast programming you find offensive?"

"We wrestled with this issue, but several of our members work for the post office and they deliver pornography as part of their job. We don't hold the carriers responsible for what their customers subscribe to."

Christy recognized rationalization when she heard it. By rescuing the satellite the Fellowship was enabling the distribution of what they believed was pornography, yet they adjusted their reality so they remained blameless.

"How much does the satellite weigh?"

"Its launch weight is 1,075 kilograms."

"But in orbit it's weightless, right?" Christy asked.

"True, but it still has mass. Even in orbit the inertia of that mass has to be overcome in order to move the satellite—Newton's second law of motion. The
Rising Savior can
handle it."

"Why are you in a hurry to get this satellite? The flight yesterday was history making and today I saw you making tests on the
Rising Savior
. Don't you want to take the time to analyze the results before you risk another flight?"

"The Australian satellite is in a rapidly decaying orbit and we have to get to the satellite before the orbit degrades to a dangerous altitude. We can't chase it into the atmosphere. The sooner we get to the satellite, the less risk to our ship."

"Am I keeping you from helping get the ship ready?" Christy asked.

"No, that's not my gift."

Mark was referring to his spiritual gift, a concept common in fundamentalist theology. Fundamentalists believed when the person was filled with the Holy Spirit they were bestowed with a gift that should be used for the good of the body. For some it was teaching, for others preaching, and for still others the gift of healing.

"You're not good with technical things?"

"Actually I am, but I wasn't called to build the
Rising Savior,"
Mark explained. "That's Ira's job."

"So what is your gift?"

Mark's eyes glazed for an instant and he looked sad.

"My gift is a great responsibility," Mark said.

Others came in, asking Mark questions, so Christy didn't get a chance to follow up on what his "responsibility" was. Instead, Christy returned to the hangar, noting that the cannibalization of the helicopter had been suspended. Christy sat in the cockpit of the helicopter, watching the Fellowship work on their technological miracle. That's what it was, she realized, a miracle built by the hand of man—and woman, she reminded herself, although there were few women working in the hangar. And within a couple of hours, the
Rising Savior
would be rising again.