Domestic Enemies
8 September 1991
Taylor Lake
Houston, TX
29° 34’ 52” N 95° 02’ 56” W
Ken Borden could always be relied upon to throw a hell of a barbecue. The lake gave a perfect backdrop for the afternoon. The kids splashed at the edge, enjoying a reprieve from the warm summer weather. Beers and conversations flowed at a dizzying pace. The hot dogs had run out around three o’clock, but the plan was to get a bunch of pizzas here before the main event. Tim Donnelly had soberly pointed out that pizza delivery was going to be a lot longer than usual tonight on account of every basketball fan in America being in front of a TV tonight. In groaning response, Tim himself was tasked with going to Michaelangelo’s before the game started at 7.
Ken smiled, waving to Mike Dexter out on the water. Mike had been pressed into service to command a paddleboat which was now overloaded with children. His wife had returned to their home a few blocks away, needing to put the baby down for a nap. Dexter, ever the showman, hadn’t been able to resist a bit of fun. Now he ordered the six- and seven-year-olds under his command to fire their Super Soakers at the pirate ship captained by Boston Low.
Ken turned from the amateur naval engagement and headed back into the sanctuary of the air conditioning. Even on a Saturday with the biggest sporting event of the year as a capstone, somehow the conversation had turned to shop talk.
John Larone from engineering had the attention of the local cluster, which occupied every chair and couch slot in the room. Ken caught him mid-diatribe.
“This is a firesale. We should take advantage. The Reds are selling off assets left and right. With their economy, we could get this thing for two goats and a bucket of trading stamps…”
Ken prodded Sheila Grant and jutted his chin towards John, silently questioning. Sheila cupped her hand to whisper, “John’s on his Energia kick again,” she said. Ken nodded and listened.
John had the room, “It’s the biggest proven rocket in the world. It’ll go into mothballs unless we do something. We stopped making Saturns and it was a huge loss in terms of heavy load lifting…”
One of the ASCANs, Randall Something-or-other jumped in, “We stopped making Saturns because every one of them ended up in the Atlantic. Pegasus is way more economical.”
“Yeah, but we lost the ability to put up massive sections into LEO. If we’re serious about replacing Skydock, and we sure ought to be; then we can’t use up all our trucks running up cans for two years. They have four Energias ready to go. Another three are halfway or better. That’s seven hundred metric tonnes in LEO.”
“So we can build the Battlestar Galactica?” Sheila asked sarcastically.
“So we can build whatever we want. That’s a lot of freight in orbit. Say two for a new station, two for Mars, maybe two for the Moon. That’s literally tons of gear. Along with a ton of new capabilities. We don’t even have to make more. We just go buy these and we’ll be set through 2010.”
Borden quietly slipped out and went to the kitchen. He found his wife, Sarah, talking to Margaret, his mother-in-law. Just by entering, he could feel a bit of tension in the air.
“All I’m saying is I don’t think they should be holding him up as an example to children,” Margaret said.
“I don’t think that’s what they’re doing. This seems to be more about sports and gambling. I think it’s designed to appeal to grown men,” Sarah said
“Michael Jordan is a role model to half the kids in the country. To have him out there with a degenerate like Magic Johnson…” Margaret said.
“They’re old friends,” Sarah said.
“Well, clearly that was a mistake on Michael’s part. When you run around with diseased people like that…”
“I don’t think you have to worry about Michael catching anything tonight, Margaret,” Ken said, as he entered.
“It’s not that. They shouldn’t be letting Magic Johnson or anyone else with HIV out in polite society,” Margaret said.
“We’re calling Vegas ‘polite society’ now?” Ken asked, jokingly. Sarah gave him a look.
“This AIDS mess is a sign from God. We’ve been too lenient with these people for too long and look at where it’s gotten us. We have to start cracking down. Get the degenerates off the streets and out of the schools, put prayer back in. We’d have a lot less problems, for sure.”
Through the window, Sarah spotted Tim Donnelly coming in from the driveway with an armload of pizzas. She pointed and spoke to her husband, “Sweetie, why don’t you go help Tim with the food. Mama, go tell the kids to wash up, if you would, please.”
Welcoming the distraction, Ken did as he was told. The audible sigh from Sarah was a reminder that the lunacies of the mother need not pass unto the daughter. He was grateful for that, as he required a better way of thinking for his own children.
Ken opened the door and took half of Tim’s load for him. Donnelly was grateful for the help.
“Did I miss anything?” Tim asked.
“Nah, they haven’t started yet. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“This should be a barnburner. Magic and Jordan, finally facing off. One-on-one.”
“I just hate that we never got to see it in the playoffs,” Ken said.
In the spring, it had seemed like a foregone conclusion that the Lakers and the Bulls would play for the NBA championship, but Magic had been sidelined with an injury that was later revealed to be an HIV diagnosis. The Bulls had beaten David Robinson’s Spurs in five games, but the whole country still clamored for a showdown between the two greatest basketball players. Some genius had the idea to let them play one-on-one and put it on Pay Per View.
In Las Vegas, on a specially designed court in the heart of Caesar’s Palace, the two All-Stars would square off for two fifteen-minute halves. According to reports, more money would change hands after the buzzer than had been won and lost after Mike Tyson lost to Buster Douglas.
Two hours later, it was over.
Pizza boxes piled high against the kitchen trash can. Astronauts, engineers, and assorted spouses thereof filed out the front door, strolling, not always soberly, back to their homes, usually no more than a couple of streets away.
When the last of the guests had gone, the kids were fast asleep, and her mother was heading back home, Sarah Borden found her husband, as she had so many times before, staring out the sliding doors, looking at the stars.
She slipped her hands around his back, finding his warm chest as she slid up behind him, “Where are you tonight? Moon base? Jupiter?”
“Still Mars,” he said. “Can’t get it out of my head.”
“Probably won’t be up to you anyway,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as her husband.
“Jeremy will be in high school, Caroline would be by the time I got back,” he said. “Not a great time to be without a father for a year and a half.”
She started unbuttoning his shirt, “What do you think you’d find up there anyways? Space aliens?” she asked.
“I’d settle for water,” he said.
“Plenty of water out there,” she said, nodding to the lake at the edge of their yard.
“Well…” he began.
“And ours is a lot more fun. Let me show you,” she said.
Chasing after his wife, watching her frolic, skyclad, towards a beautiful lake under a perfect sea of stars, Ken Borden forgot about all his questions and decided to just enjoy life on Earth for the rest of the night.
13 January 1992
GNN NewsNight
Good evening. Terrible news out of Dallas, Texas today. Vice President Kemp suffered a stroke and collapsed whilst giving a speech this afternoon. The Vice President, speaking at an event sponsored by the Texas Chamber of Commerce, was heard slurring his words before he fell to the floor. He was rushed to Parkland Memorial Hospital by members of the Secret Service. Spokesmen for the hospital have listed his condition as critical.
Shock and surprise echoed through the corridors of Washington this afternoon. Vice President Kemp, a fifty-six-year-old former NFL quarterback was widely regarded as hale and hearty to his colleagues. Leaders on both sides of the aisle expressed prayers and good wishes for a safe recovery.
This development comes at a precarious time for the McCain administration. President McCain, riding high off the successes of the war in the Persian Gulf, has enjoyed an approval rating in the mid-eighties for the last ten months but is facing a concerted primary challenge by Jerry Falwell, of the far-right leaning Liberty University. Mr. Falwell, speaking on the campaign trail in New Hampshire this afternoon offered his sympathies and prayers to the Kemp family.
In other news, a coalition of nations, spearheaded by the European Space Agency, have announced a plan to pool their resources in an effort to broaden access to outer space for smaller and developing countries. The International Alliance for Space and Astronautics, informally acronymed as “Yas-ah”, announced today at an event in Paris, combines the European Space Agency, the Japanese National Space Development Agency, the Indian Space Research Organization, and BrazilSpace.
The new alliance, representing twenty countries, have announced plans to enter into negotiations with the Russian space agency Roscosmos to purchase the remaining reserves of the Soviet heavy lifting booster rocket, Energia. Space analysts have said that this move, if successful, may allow IASA to compete with NASA and the Russians in new spaceborne projects.
The economies of the former Soviet states, including Russia itself, have been undergoing a series of sweeping changes. The collapse of the Soviet system has led to a near-desperate need for funds. The sale of the Energia fleet is expected to bring almost half a billion dollars to the Russian economy.
In the world of sports, the Texas Mustangs stunned Washington last night in the NFC Championship Game. The Mustangs, led by quarterback Warren Moon, drove fifty-four yards in less than forty seconds and kicked a forty-one-yard field goal to defeat Washington 37-35.
The Mustangs, in only their second year in the NFL, are the first team from the United States Football League to reach the Super Bowl. They will face off against the Buffalo Bills in Super Bowl XXVI later this month in the city of Minneapolis.
We leave you tonight with this footage from the South Pole of the Moon, where astronauts are currently constructing the latest addition to Moon Base. This geodesic dome, which will be the base’s third, is thirty percent larger than the first two and will have an airlock large enough to accommodate vehicles, allowing astronauts to repair and modify the base’s complement of vehicles in a safe and pressurized environment. Construction began in December and is expected to last until March.
On behalf of everyone here at GNN, we wish you a good night, and good news.
12 March 1992
The White House
Washington, DC
38° 53′ 52″ N 77° 02′ 11″ W
“Colin, good to see you. Sorry to call you in so late. I had a meeting with the leadership and Mitchell’s back on his stump about AmeriCare,” the President said.
“Oh, not at all, sir. I’m so sorry for your loss,” General Powell said.
“The country’s loss. Jack Kemp was a great patriot. A great statesman. He’ll be missed. It’s terrible,” McCain said.
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Please, take a seat. Did anyone offer you some coffee or something?”
Powell waved him off, “No, thank you, sir. I’m fine. I’m not entirely sure why I’m here though.”
“Yeah, this one’s technically off the books. It’s not a military matter. I needed to talk to you, but I wanted to do it outside of normal working hours. If anyone asks, this is just a quiet drink between work colleagues,” McCain said.
“Uh… okay. Can I ask what this is about, Mr. President?” Powell asked.
“I’d like you to be the Vice President,” McCain said.
Powell’s breathing hitched, but other than that, he showed no signs of surprise, “Oh, sir,” he began.
“You’re the right man for the job. If Jack Kemp was here, he’d say so too,” McCain said.
“I’m not sure I…,” Powell started.
“You’ve served this country your entire adult life. You’ve negotiated treaties with the Russians. You know Washington and the military. There’s no reason to be modest here, General. Your resume is better than mine.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you to say, sir. But I’m not sure I’d do well with the leadership of your party.”
“I’m the leader of my party, Colin. And you’re who I want as the next leader. We spent a lot of the eighties trying to claw our way back to the fifties and it’s time to stop. Falwell and his idiots are trying to get me out of here with a crowbar because I don’t want to enact Leviticus or end AmeriCare. They think I caved to the liberals, but I call it embracing reality.”
“I don’t know if I’d be a good steward for your policies, sir,” Powell said.
McCain scoffed and gave a look of incredulity.
“Do you believe in the Constitution?”
“Yes, sir,” Powell said.
“You believe in the rule of law?”
“Yes, sir,” Powell said.
“You believe in a strong military?”
“Yes, sir,” Powell said.
“You believe that those who can work should, and that those who can’t should get some help?”
“Yes, sir,” Powell said.
“Personal responsibility?”
“Yes, sir,” Powell said.
“Freedom of religion?”
“Yes, sir,” Powell said.
“How about justice and fairness?”
“Yes, sir,” Powell said.
“Then what the heck are we talking about here, Colin? You’re a perfect steward for my policies.”
“Sir, I don’t speak about my personal positions, but not all of them align with yours,” Powell said.
“Oh, you’re hitting all the selling points,” McCain said. “If you have strong opinions, I want to hear them. If you’re worried about abortion, or AmeriCare, I’ll tell you what I tell everyone else. The court has ruled on both and that’s that. I’m not looking for a parrot. I’m looking for a leader. Someone who will help me keep the lunatics at bay. I mean, my God, Colin, there are people who call themselves Republicans who think we should be out there stoning gay people. Some others who think we should get rid of taxes completely. Half a town down in Alabama wants to abolish all laws except the Ten Commandments. It’s the last gasp of the Luddites. The twenty-first century will have no place for people like that, and the Republican Party shouldn’t either.”
Powell let that little speech wash over him, “Sir, I don’t disagree with anything you’ve said, but I don’t know if I have the kind of… zeal for politics that the Vice Presidency requires.”
McCain paused, smiled, and patted the general on the shoulder, “I know exactly how you feel. But Colin, I’ve got enemies at the gate now and I need your help. The country needs your help. The two of us can show the people that there’s a way to be moderate, compassionate, and realistic all at the same time. If I thought anyone else could show that to the nation, I’d be talking to them. If you say no, I’ll have to cave to the crazies and take on someone that would appease them. Someone Falwell wouldn’t object to. Don’t make me do that, General. These are the times that try men’s souls.”
“Hard to say ‘no’ to Thomas Paine, Mr. President,” Powell said.
“The people I’m trying to beat are a lot more vicious than the British,” McCain said.
Powell nodded, “I need some time.”
“Of course, you do. Take the weekend. Talk about it with the family. Come back to me Monday.”
“Thank you, sir,” Powell said. “I’m honored just to be asked.”
Together they stood and shook hands. As he reached the curved door, Powell turned back with one final thought.
“Mr. President? Sir, you never asked me if I was a Republican,” he said.
“General, I don’t care.”
20 July 1992
Moonbase Outpost
Expedition 22
Day 4
“I’m telling you, if anyone gets to be ‘Bandit’, it’s me.” Cynthia said.
“How are you Bandit? I’m the one driving here,” Boston said.
“You’re driving the big rig. You’re ‘Snowman’,” Sabrina said.
“Which would make you, what? Two hundred crates of Coors?” Boston asked.
Sabrina wrinkled her nose, “Fair point. Maybe we just pick different names?”
“Can someone tell me why this is necessary?” Cynthia asked.
“We’re going on the longest road trip in the history of… wheels. This is gonna be like driving across America three times. We must honor our one common cultural ancestor, which just happens to be the greatest movie of all time,” Boston said.
“Smokey and the Bandit is the greatest movie of all time?” Cynthia asked.
“I defy you to name one better,” Boston said.
“Jaws, Star Wars, 2001: A Space Odyssey,” Cynthia said. At the same time, Sabrina spoke her list, “Gone With The Wind, Casablanca, The Godfather, Citizen Kane.”
“Philistines,” Boston said, breaking the cacophony of titles. He picked up the radio and held it like a CB handset, “Breaker one-nine, breaker one-nine, this is the Bandit, do you copy us, Houston?”
A few seconds later, a confused voice called back, “
Conestoga, uh, confirm your comm check, five-by-five. Are you calling yourself ‘Bandit’?”
“Affirmative, Houston. The supplies are loaded up. Everyone has been to the bathroom. I’ve got six wheels on the ground, and I am Northbound and down,” Boston Low said.
“Good luck out there,
Conestoga. Be careful and watch your margins. We’ll see you in a few months,” said Carl Key, the voice of CAPCOM for today.
Watching from the monitors in the control center, the crew of Moonbase bid farewell to their three compatriots as the crew of the
Conestoga departed for a four-month circumnavigation of the Moon.
21 August 1992
Command Point Alpha
Ruby Ridge, ID
48° 37′ 14″N 116° 25′ 59″W
“Okay Vinnie, open the crate,” came the call over the radio.
U.S. Marshall Vincent Aghosta slid the catch to the side and opened the door to the small, sealed box. Having no interest in nuance and knowing that this wouldn’t end well for them no matter what, Vincent tipped the crate forward and unceremoniously dumped the three brown Snowshoe hares onto the ground. He then shut the door and hauled his one-hundred-and-ninety-pound frame back up the ridgeline. When he was out of the clearing and to the line of fire, he ducked behind the thickest tree trunk he could find and waited, checking his sidearm and listening to the barking coming down the hill.
Three hundred yards away, Striker had already picked up the scent. As soon as the cage had opened, the yellow lab knew that game was nearby. The dog broke into a loping pursuit, followed loosely by his human, Samuel. In pursuit of Samuel as much as anything else, Randy Weaver and his friend Kevin Harris made their way into the clearing, determined to get some fresh meat for the family.
Striker, adept from years on this mountain and millennia of inherited instincts, turned sharply to pursue the closest hare, giving no thought to the other two which were rapidly heading for Canada. The rabbit bounded left and right, with no understanding of its importance to the U.S. Marshalls that had made it bait in a trap designed for a much more cunning foe.
“All stations, hold position. Wait for the call,” came the next call from the walkie-talkies.
Scene Commander Roderick stood next to a tree, watching the three men enter this section of the mountain. As the elder Weaver passed his position, he let the trap enclose as Striker finished a successful pursuit of the rabbit.
Roderick aimed at this low-level criminal not with a rifle, but with a bullhorn.
“Randy Weaver! This is the U.S. Marshalls! You are surrounded. Put down your weapon and put your hands in the air!”
Randy Weaver had spent the last year holed up on this patch of rock at the edge of the country that he viewed with a skeptical eye. He had no intention of surrendering to a government that would likely hand him over to evil Zionists of the New World Order. He had been warned about such things. It had been foretold.
He turned to his left, in the direction of the call of the bullhorn. From an elevated position, marksmen already had Weaver, his son, and his friend in their sights.
Samuel Weaver saw no need to wait for his father’s instruction. He spotted a glint in the trees and took aim with the Ruger Mini-14 which was never out of his possession.
The Marshalls, restrained by predetermined Rules of Engagement, waited until the first shot had been fired before returning fire from the ridgelines on either side of the Weavers. Under the protection of thick trees, the Marshalls dutifully fired between three and seven shots each from specially made M16A1 rifles.
Samuel Weaver, being the most immediate threat, was the first hit Rounds struck him in the back, the leg, and on his right arm, just below the swastika armband that he so often wore. As the young man fell, the elder Weaver and Kevin Harris took to combat.
A round from DUSM Coleman struck Kevin Harris in the right thigh and he released his .30-06, declassifying himself as a combatant.
Understanding that he was outflanked and outnumbered now six-to-one, Randy Weaver retreated back along the path he had come, heading for the cabin housing his wife and daughters.
Not wanting to pursue their armed target in open ground, the U.S. Marshalls allowed the retreat as they moved in on Harris and the younger Weaver, eager to arrest and assist the two men.
“Check, check! Anyone hit? All marshalls report!” Roderick called.
The Marshalls returned the comm check. Roderick heard only four calls and felt his blood run cold.
“Has anyone got a twenty on Bill?” Roderick said.
“Oh god. Bill’s down. Get medical in here, Bill’s been shot. It’s bad.”
1 September 1992
Outpost Roanoke (abandoned)
Mare Crisium
17° 0′ 32″ N, 59° 6′ 12″ E
“Okay, Houston. Third check confirms. It’s barber pole on the pressure gauges. No air. We’ve got an empty can here, over.”
“Roger that
Conestoga. Are you seeing any signs of exterior damage?”
“We’re still checking, Houston. But so far, no joy. I mean, this could be a crack on the base, in which case we’ll never see it. Could be a micrometeor strike on the top, and same thing, we’d just not have the angle. I estimate even with a full walkaround, we can only look at about forty percent of the surface area, over,” Sabrina said.
The empty rocket stage lay on its side, the only landmark on a sea of infinite flat. With the MOLEM that served as a command center and front entrance attached to one of the circular ends, Roanoke Outpost sat, much like its namesake, silent, empty, and waiting for explorers from distant lands. Rather than the pedestrian Atlantic Ocean, Sabrina and her comrades had crossed the far more forbidding Sea of Crises to reach this dot of civilization.
“Look, Houston, just because it’s not the Waldorf doesn’t mean we can’t get something out of this, right? I mean, we’ve come all this way,” Boston said.
“Standby,
Conestoga. We’re talking it over down here.”
“Talk it over all you want, I’m gonna check the forward hatch on
Sacagawea.”
“
Conestoga, do not enter the vehicle without authorization, over,” CAPCOM said.
“I’m not. I’m simply getting ready for what you’re gonna authorize in about two minutes anyway,” Low said.
“Boston,” Sabrina admonished.
“It’s not like we aren’t gonna go in. We came all this way,” Low said.
“Are you sure the new suits will fit in that hatch?” Cynthia asked.
“We tried it downstairs last year. It’s tight, but I’m not gonna get stuck,” Low said.
“That’s what everyone says right before they get stuck,” Sabrina said.
“Houston, how’s that authorization coming?” Low asked.
“
Conestoga, you’re clear to enter the Roanoke. Please use caution. And we authorize only one of you to enter at this time, over.”
“Roger that, Houston,” Low said, climbing up Sacagawea’s access tunnel.
“Yeah, I’m not going in that thing with authorization or not,” Sabrina said.
Crawling in, Low called back, “You claustrophobic, Sabby?”
“Yeah, claustrophobic. Like I haven’t spent forty days and forty nights in a box with you and Cynthia. No, I’m just saying, this thing has been sitting out here since the 70’s. That’s twelve times a year for fifteen years that it’s gone through a 400-degree temperature swing. And it was designed to work for a few days, one time.”
“That’s fine. If I get attacked by space monsters, Cynthia can come and get me,” Boston said.
“If you’re attacked by space monsters, Cynthia will be hauling her black ass back to the rover,” Cynthia said.
“Can you believe we get paid while we do this?” Sabrina said.
“Houston, I’m in. Dark and dry, no signs of damage. Do you want me to try to power her up?” Boston said.
“Negative,
Conestoga. Engineering says that has the potential to cause more problems than it’d solve. We would like you to get some good imagery and pull the memory circuitry behind panel three.”
“I’m a little rusty on my MOLEM manuals, Houston. Have you got a procedure for that, over?”
“We’re dusting one off. In the meantime, take a look around for us please,” CAPCOM said.
“Roger that. I’m heading into the main module now. Bit of a tight squeeze with the suit, but I’m managing. Let’s see here. The bed frames are intact. Looks like whatever happened wasn’t catastrophic. Gonna try and pick up… oh boy. Okay, the blanket on the left-hand cot snapped like an old twig and basically turned to dust. Doubtful this place will be hosting guests any time soon.”
“Any chance they left some booze behind?” Cynthia asked.
“Have you ever met Neil Armstrong? He’s the world’s most boring human,” Boston said. “I’m kidding. We love you, Neil. I’m sure he’s listening from somewhere.”
“Anything on the workbench?” Houston asked.
“Uh, nothing of note. Looks like a couple of pens, bit of dust. Ha. Well, I take it back, one of them must have had some sense of humor,” Boston said.
“What is it?” Sabrina asked.
“It’s uh… piece of paper, red ink on it. All caps it says, ‘Croatoan.’ Very funny. That had to be Collins,” Boston said.
“Not bad. He couldn’t have just carved it into a tree,” Sabrina said.
“Boston, we’ve got that procedure for pulling the memory circuits. We’d like you to check the cabinets and then make your way back into the MOLEM, over,” CAPCOM said.
“Roger that, Houston. Sorry there wasn’t more of interest here,” Boston said.
“Maybe we’ll have better luck with nineteen,” Cynthia said.
3 September 1992
USAF VC-25 28000
Air Force One
En Route to Columbus, OH
Bobbie Claisson approached the conference room doors and saw Will occupying a chair right outside. She pointed silently at the door and silently Will shook his head.
“Who’s he in with?” she asked.
“Director Butterman. There have been a lot of new threats,” Will said.
Bobbie nodded, “Got it. Is he going to have time before we land?”
“Hard to say,” Will said.
Mark approached from the other end of the corridor. He pointed at the copy of the Wall Street Journal that Bobbie was holding. “Didn’t I tell you not to worry about it?” he said.
“Yeah,” Bobbie said.
“Keep not worrying about it,” Mark said.
“I am worried. This is a borderline disaster and it’s in print, which is kind of my thing,” Bobbie said.
“You think he’s going to hold you personally responsible?” Mark asked.
“He’s a Republican incumbent and the paper read by every businessman in America isn’t endorsing him. Yeah, I think he might have some words for his press secretary,” she said.
“The Journal might be indecisive, but its readers aren’t. Do you think any of them are seriously going to look at Falwell or Clinton?”
“Falwell, no. Clinton, maybe,” Bobbie said.
“His tax proposals are a nightmare for anyone who reads the Journal. Withholding the endorsement was just their way of getting back at us for not taking a Reaganite for VP. It’s grandstanding,” Mark said.
“It’s effective,” Bobbie said.
“With who? A millionaire has the exact same amount of votes as a pauper,” Mark said.
“Let’s not pretend that you really believe that,” Bobbie countered.
“I thought it sounded good,” Mark said.
“How does this sound?” Bobbie said and then turned to the Opinion page, reading, “President McCain appears determined to continue his ongoing impersonation of Robert F. Kennedy, devoting massive amounts of tax dollars to science and technology programs with limited potential and hiding behind a popular military man as his Vice Presidential choice. In 1968, this led to a decade of gross governmental spending on programs that are now in desperate need of cancellation or curtailing. Action that President McCain has repeatedly refused to take.”
“Okay, whatever else they said, I think we can all agree that ‘curtailing’ is an awful word,” Mark said.
“It doesn’t have to be Shakespeare,” Bobbie said.
“You read the rest, right? They go after Falwell plenty and they call Clinton a socialist. It’s a pox on all our houses.”
“I don’t care that other people lost. I care that we didn’t win!” Bobbie said.
“You’ve really got to quit worrying about this,” Mark said.
“We’re six weeks out and running 40-37-20. Why are you and the President acting like it’s in the bag?”
“Because he won the war. That’s why he’s fine abandoning the far right.”
“The war was last year. Now it’s a cultural thing,” Bobbie said.
“Which is why we have a VP that can appeal to people who’d otherwise run straight to the Democrats,” Mark said. “He’s not running to win anymore. He thinks he already has. He’s running to remake the Republican Party.”
“Into the Democratic Party?”
“He who controls the center controls the game,” Mark said.
“And you didn’t try to talk him out of this?”
“I’m the one who talked him into this,” Mark said.
“Playing fast and loose with the Oval Office?”
“When the country decides to shift, it goes quickly. We had twenty years of Democrats in the White House and now we’re into year twelve of Republicans. The next time the national mood changes, it’s going to be beneficial to be seen as the reasonable center. To say nothing of, most people don’t want to go back to the fifties. It turns out they like Macintosh computers. They like the space program. They like having faster air travel, cleaner cars, cleaner air.”
Bobbie gave him a skeptical look, “This strategy only works if you win. If you lose, the crazies will drag the party back to the Stone Age and the Dems will have the high ground.”
“We’re not going to lose. This election ends on October 22nd.”
“You think it’ll all come down to the debates?”
“I think it’s going to be John McCain’s inherent decency standing center stage. Falwell will go after Clinton and all his women. And by the time he’s done, the President will look like the only one you’d want to have as a neighbor, let alone in the White House.”
“God help you if you’re wrong,” Bobbie said.
“If I’m wrong, then I think it’s proof that God won’t be helping me at all.”
10 September 1992
Apollo 19 Landing Site
Hadley Rille
26° 7′ 57″ N, 3° 38′ 3″ E
“We can see both structures clearly now, Houston. How close do you want us to get?” Low asked over the headset.
“
Conestoga, we recommend you approach southerly and park at approximately one-hundred yards out from the
Newton, over.”
“I love how you guys toss around north and south so casually. You know a compass would be useless up here, right?”
“Just do your best with the sun angle,
Conestoga. You’ve made it this far,” CAPCOM said, leaving the “smartass” unsaid.
“Wow,” Cynthia said, looking out the window at what was left of
Challenger.
“Our tour of busted Apollo relics continues,” Sabrina said, sharing the view.
Apollo 19’s lunar module,
Challenger, had been named for a British Naval research vessel from the nineteenth century. A more apt namesake would have been the underdog boxer who steps into the ring to face the champion.
A moonquake had delivered an uppercut to Challenger’s ascent stage that had ended the ship’s effectiveness when its task was only half complete. A stranded Elliot See and Anthony England had barely escaped Hadley Rille’s one-sixth gravity with the aid of a jury-rigged rocket couch that had blasted out of here on a tarp that still marked the spot.
The remains of the landing site were a secondary concern to a survey of the local geology. Apollo 19’s samples had been left behind as unnecessary weight. Twenty years later, those rocks would now be of interest to the next generation of lunar field geologists that were now arriving in the latest lunar rover, known as
Conestoga.
22 October 1992
Wake Forest University
Winston-Salem, North Carolina
36° 8′ 6.72″ N, 80° 16′ 44.4″ W
As the debate passed the half-hour mark, Jim Lehrer posed the question, “Mr. President, do you have regrets about the way Ruby Ridge was handled?”
“Randy Weaver sold guns to Nazis,” the President said.
Falwell interjected, “Two shotguns to a man that turned out to be an FBI informant.”
McCain continued, “Which ones and how many doesn’t really matter to me. In the old days, we used to send B-17s after people who gave guns to Nazis. This time, we offered Randy Weaver the entire justice system to defend himself with. He and his son chose to shoot a U.S. Marshall. If Randy Weaver had been a black man selling guns to Detroit gangbangers, Mr. Falwell here wouldn’t have shed a tear. But because Randy Weaver was white and racist, Jerry wants you to see him as some kind of paragon of American independence. My only regret is that we just got to kill the bastard once.”
“Mr. President, are you declaring open season on anyone who doesn’t agree with your misguided sense of decency?”
“Not at all, Jerry. If an American wants to be racist, or xenophobic, that’s no business of mine, but if he then breaks the law and kills a U.S. Marshall, I’m going to raise a lot more than a skeptical eyebrow. You can believe whatever you want, but you don’t get to break the law and hide behind a gun or a Bible. That’s not how the law works.”
***
Lehrer set the next question to the candidates: “The Mars program is now in full swing. Despite the revenues that NASA has generated from its licensing and technology programs, the agency continues to have high costs. Would you reign in those costs in the coming term, and if so, in what ways? Mr. President, we begin with you.”
“I made a promise that we would celebrate the dawn of the new millennium with astronauts on Mars. Since then, we’ve made great progress towards that goal. In my second term, we’ll continue that work. Work which has employed thousands of technicians, engineers, and scientists. Also, welders, computer operators, secretaries, electricians…”
Falwell interrupted, yet again, “A massive government program spending tax dollars which could be used to strengthen families instead of tossed into the sky. You sound like a true Democrat, Mr. President.”
Clinton didn’t take the bait.
Falwell went on, “Let’s let the citizens decide how to spend their hard-earned dollars, Mr. President. They can find better uses than a godless starship.”
“Godless starship? I know you aren’t a fan of science Jerry, as evidenced by your university’s constant struggle for accreditation, but let’s not denigrate the work of proud and industrious Americans. And unless you’ve got some updated version of Exodus that I don’t know about, I don’t think God expressed any strong opinions about going to Mars or exploring His creation.”
“’Eat not from the tree of knowledge,’ Mr. President. And I wasn’t denigrating their work, sir. I’d ask you not to denigrate my faith and that of millions of Americans.”
“You don’t have faith, Jerry. You just have an enemies list and a stack of Bibles to throw at them.”
Clinton took the stunned silence as his cue, “While I am certainly a fan of our space program and all the great things it’s brought to American life, with the fall of the Soviet empire, I think this is a good time to reevaluate our budgets and look at where we’re putting our tax dollars.”
***
Lehrer resumed control of the floor, “Now, we’ll move on to our closing statements. We proceed alphabetically. Governor Clinton, we’ll start with you.”
“First of all, let me thank you, Jim, and let me thank all the good people who have put this fine evening together for us.
“Let me say with utter clarity that the problems that have been discussed tonight are not easy to solve. And they can’t be solved by the same thinking that created them in the first place. For twelve years, we’ve seen the effects of trickle-down economics and it’s been a stranglehold on American families. In my state, I’ve pushed hard for better schools, more jobs, and a balanced budget. Three ideas that don’t get very far in Washington these days.
“But balanced budgets are not enough. More important is a focus on people. Families. Real folks, with real problems, who need down-to-Earth solutions. This next generation needs all the help it can get to make sure they do better than their parents. That’s work we can begin right now.”
Lehrer said, “Thank you, Governor Clinton. Reverend Falwell, your closing please?”
“Thank you, Mr. Lehrer. Tonight, you’ve seen three different visions for America. Sadly, only one of them honors traditional American values.
“President McCain’s embrace of high-science and high-technology is more suited for a science fiction film. Governor Clinton would lead us to a hedonistic Gomorrah, casting our daughters into a life of sin. What I am offering is a path in righteousness. A new America, returning to its former glories by returning to the values that attained them. Faith in the Lord. Communities united, not divided. Schools that prioritize character over calculus. A place where those who seek the highest values hold the highest regard. If that’s the America you want to build, then I ask you to join me tonight, and on Election Day.
Lehrer said, “And last, but not least, President McCain, your statement please?”
“Thank you, Jim. What kind of America do we want, and what kind of leader do we need to achieve it? Those are the questions we face every four years. Over the last four, I’ve given you my answer. An America of strength and justice. An America where we come together to do mighty things. An America where education leads to innovation, innovation leads to advancement, and advancement leads to the betterment of all of us.
“I think that’s the America we’re building right now and I think it needs a leader who has the wisdom and character to make it endure. The twenty-first century is right around the corner. The nations that will shape the future are those who are unafraid to do big things. Let’s do big things together. Thank you all, and God Bless America.”
19 April 1993
Mount Carmel Center
Waco, Texas
31° 35′ 45″ N 96° 59′ 17″ W
He’d gone back to the car, so his back was turned when the fires started. There had been an old lady from Fairfield who had wanted to buy a couple of the bumper stickers, so he’d been dealing with her.
After exchanging two stickers for four dollars, he grabbed his old canteen and slipped the dog-eared copy of The Turner Diaries into the pocket of his jeans. It took a moment to remember that he’d put his binoculars down on the roof of the car. When he found them, he walked back to the hilltop near where he’d parked.
Explosives from the lead tank had punched a hole in the wall near the front door. They’d been pumping gas in for about a half-hour earlier in the morning. One of the early-rising onlookers had been worried the gas was poison. He had assured her that it was tear gas. He remembered the smell quite clearly and was familiar with the FBI’s tactics in matters like this. The gassing had been a flurry of activity in the early morning, but the federal agents now seemed poised to begin it anew, as it had produced no surrenders among the Davidians.
The heat of the noonday sun started to scorch the back of his neck. He could feel the beginnings of a sunburn. But he now stared at the columns of smoke rising from near that front door.
“They knocked a corner of the wall down,” someone said. A civilian onlooker, out here, much like himself, and fascinated by this sudden change in the otherwise dull routine that had marked the last fifty-one days of this siege.
“The wind is taking it,” someone else said. A woman this time. He agreed with her assessment. The east Texas gales were blowing hard into the compound and already the roof was beginning to rapidly burn.
More fires sprung up. Spread through the concealed interior, or sparked by other means he could not say. Nonetheless, fire rose and engulfed the compound. In the distance he could hear sirens.
By two o’clock, he’d abandoned his vigil. There was nothing left to see. Before he left this little unremarkable township, he stopped at the local McDonalds, in search of a remedy to the growling stomach that was protesting his skipping lunch to watch the fiery demise of the Branch Davidians.
Disgusted with his government and its unthinking people, he sat on a beige plastic seat and looked at the folly of citizens who went by, oblivious to the silent tyrannies they lived under.
He noticed a child playing, noisily, by a table in the next row. The boy carried a cheap plastic spaceship and rushed down the aisle providing his own sound effects as the toy was held aloft in defiance of gravity. The boy’s mother was distracted from his unthinking racket with a newspaper, which showed a headline about the launch of yet another probe to Mars. The latest in the line of misdirection that the media provided for the masses.
NASA had been one of many amusements that the federal government had provided to distract ordinary Americans from the growing wave of socialism and oppression that had marked the last thirty years. Men like himself had been taxed into ruin as a means to finance all manner of degeneracy. Housing for the lazy. Aid for the unthankful. Abandonment of Biblical ideals and traditional roles. Washington had been a corrupting influence for half a century. It had even robbed a formerly good man like John McCain of his moral compass. Now the twice-elected President had reaffirmed his allegiance to big government, oppressive gun restrictions, and a star-spangled jackboot on the concepts of individual freedom and responsibility.
He would suffer this no longer. Watching the fire had forged his resolve for action to an unbreakable temper. No longer would he be content to observe this destruction passively. He would forever mark the day of April 19th as the breaking point where he broke with peace and desecrated law.
Traditional American values might be dying, but they would not go gently, or quietly.
