Shuttle, tank, boosters and transporter were fused into a single hot blob. Most of it melted down into molten metals arid sublimed rubber and other toxic fumes. Heat-resistant ceramic tiles rained down-literally rained. They came down as white-hot liquid precipitation that made smoking black teardrops on the ground.
The remote cameras were also consumed, so there was no footage.
Except for one still camera.
A National Enquirer photographer, denied admission to the facility on general principles, happened to be shooting from a vantage point in the marshes outside of NASA property.
He was taking shots of the Reliant silhouetted against the moonlit sky, clicking the shutter rapidly, not paying much attention, knowing that at least one good shot would emerge from the roll.
The image in the viewfinder was so small he missed seeing the important phenomenon in person. It was only after he developed the roll, looking for the "before" shot to go with the "after" image of the cataclysmic disaster he had captured, that the faintly glowing letters in the sky were discovered.
Because of what they spelled, all hell would break loose on both hemispheres.
Chapter 14
The President of the U.S. was awakened from a sound sleep by the urgent voice of his chief of staff.
"The new shuttle blew up, sir."
The President roused from the rosy haze of his dream life.
"Shuttle?"
"The Reliant. It went the same way as the BioBubble."
"Damn. Don't tell my wife. She'll find a way to blame me."
A stern kick to his ankle reminded the President of the U.S. that he happened to be in bed with his wife-contrary to his interrupted dream.
"Sorry. Didn't recognize the new hairdo," he muttered, throwing off the bed covers.
His chief of staff followed as the Chief Executive hurried from the room, tying a blue terry-cloth robe with the Presidential seal about his waist.
"You have to give a speech to reassure the nation," the chief of staff said anxiously.
"Have it written," the President snapped.
"We have to come up with a plausible explanation that won't trigger nationwide panic."
"I'll leave that up to you," the President said, stepping into the tiny White House elevator.
The chief of staff started to step aboard but a pudgy Presidential hand pushed him back.
"Meet me in the Oval Office. Ten minutes."
"Where are you going?"
"Upstairs."
"Oh."
The elevator took the President to the Lincoln Bedroom, where he got the tireless Smith on the line. Smith sounded sleepy for almost five seconds, then the lemonade started coming out in his voice.
"Smith, the space shuttle Reliant was just destroyed. It looks like whatever melted the BioBubble got it."
"I will look into it."
"I thought you were looking into it."
"I did. My people came up with nothing tangible. Although I am pursuing leads."
"How do I explain this to the American people? It looks like Martians are attacking the space program."
"The BioBubble was not part of the space program," Smith clarified.
"Try convincing the American public of that. With Dr. Pagan telling everyone space aliens are angry at us, they're sure not going to believe me. I don't have his credibility."
"Do your best. I will put my people on it."
The President lowered his voice, knowing the First Lady's office was just down the hall.
"Do you think someone is out to crush our space program?"
Smith cleared his throat. "The possibility cannot be excluded."
"The Russians, maybe. They're getting shirty again."
"Except for the Mir space station, their space program is in the doldrums."
"And they're on short rations up there ever since their shuttle failed to dock with Mir last month."
"Exactly. Russian involvement makes no sense. Should they have an emergency on Mir, their best rescue option rests with our shuttle fleet."
"Guess you're right. We can scratch the Russians off our short list."
"The French, the Chinese and the Japanese all have active commercial space programs and are trying to compete with NASA," Smith continued, "but I cannot conceive any of those nations targeting our space agency. The technology is beyond them."
"The Japanese have been pretty mad at us lately. I'm not even sure why."
Smith said nothing to that. He knew why. He had ordered Remo and Chiun to punish a certain Japanese conglomerate for acts of commercial sabotage the President knew nothing about. The Japanese understood America had been behind the dropping of a steam locomotive on Nishitsu headquarters in Osaka, but couldn't complain without exposing their own complicity in an attempt to destroy the U.S. rail system.
"I will be back to you, Mr. President," Smith said, terminating the conversation.
The President hung up, knotted his bathrobe and shuffled in his fuzzy slippers to the White House elevator. Just once he'd like a major crisis to come in the afternoon. He hated being pulled out of bed at these ungodly hours. If he didn't get his ten hours' sleep, he was out of sorts all day.
HAROLD W SMITH HAD excused himself from his marital bed, and was rewarded by a brief interruption in his wife's steady snoring before taking the briefcase containing his satellite uplink to the CURE telephone line. It was the only weak link in his direct line to the White House. When he wasn't at Folcroft, the call was forwarded through his computer system to the briefcase, which also contained his laptop connection with Folcroft.