James looked back at the teeming crowd. He stood at the broad end of the egg, the southeast end, on top of a low knoll set beneath the mountain’s bulk. Highway 24 wound north from Leadville and took one last bend directly below him before shooting straight across the basin, riding its eastern edge to avoid the heart of the marsh. “Front-row seats,” he’d told Ruth, and she’d laughed. Actually he would have preferred another location farther north. All they’d see from here was the shuttle’s tail. Endeavour would pass nearly overhead and come down a quarter mile beyond him.
VIPs couldn’t be expected to walk far, of course. Four dozen vehicles sat at the base of the knoll — army trucks, sport utility vehicles — and there was another camera crew down there, watching this much smaller crowd watch the highway, recording their presence here today. Fine and good. The problem was that James had been classified as Very Important himself. Major Hernandez refused to let him hike beyond this little bump. Hernandez had fought to keep him from coming at all, in fact, but the security chief lost out, with only a few well-placed words from James, because all of the bigwigs he’d contacted had been dead set on coming themselves.
If nothing else, the Endeavour’s landing was an event. It was historic, even in the midst of the plague year.
Perhaps three hundred thousand people had come on foot to witness the attempt. James figured they must have started out this morning, despite the still bitter cold. Most of the half-million refugees around Leadville lived in the snaking valleys and hills east of town, in the hundreds of old mine shafts and in shelters built from tailings and debris. No car rides for them, and the nearest camps were four miles away as a bird flies.
As the shuttle flies.
James shifted from one foot to the other, like he was trying to balance his fleeting smile to keep it from falling off. He knew with absolute certainty that Ruth had been complaining the whole way down, not because she’d told him that the ride up had been a slap in the shorts, but because the vocal, wise-ass style was her trick for dealing with stress. A wonderful trick.
They had become good friends. James often rested his hand on the comm equipment when they talked and was slightly embarrassed now to see her in person, as if she’d know somehow and misinterpret the gesture.
Ruth had flipped — literally flipped, she said — when he relayed the council’s proposed schedule: two more weeks. At first they’d only planned to wait out a spring rainstorm coming in from California, but James had taken the opportunity to spread a few second thoughts.
Oh, the battle had not been particularly fierce. The convoluted hierarchy of displaced officials was packed with fat egos who strove daily to stay relevant, and James had had zero trouble stirring up a battalion of congressmen to holler for resources to protect their brave astronauts. For all their excitement about committing to the inevitable, they were equally nervous about a disaster. Nobody wanted to be held accountable, and replaced, if something went wrong.
That was fine and good, as far as James was concerned. No need to tell Ruth who’d shaped their fears together into a ball and started it rolling. She could tough things out for a little longer if it meant she’d get back to Earth in one piece.
He accepted that to most survivors, the true benefit of bringing down the Endeavour was only an abstract. Maybe they didn’t even believe in it. The general populace was too busy scratching out an existence and the leadership was wholly preoccupied with more immediate threats and with the subbarrier scavenging efforts.
James had faith that Ruth would jump-start their efforts to develop a functional ANN.
James knew she might be their last chance.
During her long exile she had pursued her own concepts for all three ANN still in development, trying to stay sharp, stay busy, and the entirety of her files had never been transmitted because broadcast time was limited. Fresh thinking might be all they needed to advance their research. Her gear alone would be invaluable, with extreme imaging and real-time fabrication that exceeded anything in their hodgepodge collection.
The crowd rumbled again. The lights had come on.
James stared out across the basin and admired his handiwork. What had been a narrow, backcountry highway was now something more worthy of what they demanded of it.
It was April 27th. The highway had been ready for six days. If construction hadn’t gone so well, no doubt some grandstander would’ve proposed waiting for Memorial Day or even the Fourth of July. The NASA folks and Army Corps of Engineers had exceeded all expectations, and James was inspired to see so much accomplished with so little. For fifty-five years he had been an optimist, but this new life was short on pluses and positives.
The work crews had shown the best of everything human. Ingenuity. Cooperation. They’d ripped the targeting systems out of three M-1 tanks and built a decent radar system on the mountain above him, patching into a radio tower there to use existing power and signal lines. There was also a fully manned AWACS plane in the air to ensure accuracy. As for the highway itself, the army had widened and reinforced the railroad underpass. Embankments had been pushed up, leveled, and packed along the entire three miles — much of it by hand — to provide emergency overruns as well as wide spots for fire trucks, medical trucks, military trucks, and the PAPI equipment.
The Precision Approach Path Indicator lights were assembled in two groups, one most of the way up the basin, the other much closer to James. Each batch consisted of red and white beacons, as well as generators that had been topped off an hour ago. Some bright boy hadn’t wanted the fuel tanker sitting out there next to the road.
Calibrating the PAPI system must have been a hassle, though. It was just basic math to figure the layout, of course, but the actual lights were a mismatched selection torn from the high school football field and from the fleet of aircraft parked on the small county strip south of town. The last thing anyone wanted to do was confuse the shuttle pilot. PAPI was a visual aid that showed him if he was in the correct glide angle, depending on whether or not the reds and whites matched up.
They had done all they could. The last delay was due only to the weather, again, as they waited for mild head winds and a good high-pressure front to settle in. James had seen helicopters struggling at this altitude, and the shuttle would also have minimal air resistance to ease its descent. Would it be enough? Funny, he’d only become unnerved after everything was ready—
Endeavour came in steep and fast.
Screams filled the basin, a treble howl. James flinched but didn’t look away from the gleaming craft. They thought it was crashing, he realized. The space shuttle descended at an angle of nineteen degrees, more than six times the glide slope taken by commercial airliners.
Slowing, its blunt nose up in a flaring maneuver, Endeavour plummeted below the near horizon of white peaks.
The spacecraft was magnificent. It was their past.
James Joseph Hollister, respected scientist and middle-aged bachelor, raised both fists and screeched like a beer-blitzed college kid. Another trick he’d learned from Ruth. He yelled for her. He yelled with her.
Endeavour ripped past in a blink and was below him, its black underbelly becoming the off-white of its fuselage.
“Shit I missed it!” one of the cameramen shouted.
The pilot was top-notch. He hit the narrow highway directly in the middle. The stubby white bell of the Endeavour’s wings came down like a dress, a ball gown, unmistakably broader than the road by a good fraction on either side.