INTERPOSIT FOUR:
One reason the two American spheres had managed rapid construction, an equally rapid enpopulation and lengthy survival had been adherence to a fairly strict military organisation, which still remained formal and rigid after two generations. A Shadow Cabinet still existed, and the hereditary Vice President still carried the authority of the old, pre-Crash United States. Their Texan "Carlsbad Crew", as the stiff humour aboard Washington dubbed it, had thawed under the influence of weather, fresh air, natural water and no worrying about whether their living space would stop rotating or not. Thanks to the prototype laser defence grid, a great deal more of the United State's infrastructure survived intact than anyone had expected. The problems now were maintenance, as The Phage had so severely thinned surviving populations.
Since landing from Washington five years previously the fifty men and women of Operation Phoenix had managed great things. Two completely re-assembled shuttles now resided in storage, preserved in an atmosphere of argon. A kilometre-long runway had been constructed, painstaking metre by metre, north of the mine complex and along the bed of a road from before the Crash. Recycled derricks and rigs had given themselves up to form a functional launch tower; the structure would have horrified NASA staffs from as far back as the Fifties, but it held up in a tropical storm without buckling or breaking, which satisfied Operation Phoenix. If they managed to create a sufficiently powerful rocket fuel, they could even re-use their venerable landing shuttle.
Yet over the last two years there had been a series of disasters and accidents. Not from the locals. No. They were friendly enough, willing to trade for food, or do menial work under supervision, or help with communicating to other colonies along the Gulf of Mexico. Nor were they allowed on-site; a long perimeter fence with ground sensors backed up by armed patrols, infra-red beams and occasional dogs kept any unauthorised visitors away. The official representatives of Uncle Sam Downstairs weren't going to chance anyone damaging their precious shuttles.
The real problem seemed to be fate. Twice their stores of refined fuel had gone up in flames. First, thanks to lightning from a tropical storm. Second, a leak that contaminated the groundwater and also ignited.
Now the duty team and patrolling dog handlers stared with dismay at the crumpled, punctured fuel refining plant, collapsing into itself in giant gouts of flame and fire, a salamander's delight.
Eighteen hours later the mangled metal detritus had cooled enough to be inspected. The Chief Engineer and his two deputies scrambled around, under and over struts and piping that still radiated heat, smoking or steaming in the early evening air. The three fire-suited figures congregated and pointed at a crazily-tilted pressure tank, getting closer and looking at support stanchions.
Colonel Hamilton Boyce, the humourless and by-the-book commander of Operation Phoenix, stood and watched the trio examining wreckage. A tic in one cheek was the only visible sign of the rage he felt; small as the gesture might be, it warned crew not to approach him on anything less than vital matters.
Now, doffing his oversized silver headgear, Chief Engineer Murakow came back over the cooling wrack to the Colonel. Murakow's face was grimy, his eyes red and bleary. He'd taken great risks in the small hours to try and extinguish the fires. Unsuccessfully.
'Mike?' asked Boyce. The other man sighed, straightened his back painfully and wiped sweaty ash from his face.
'Looks like the welds holding up an intermediary process tank cracked. The whole thing pancaked, split, sparked. You know the rest.'
Boyce ground his teeth. Murakow looked puzzled and angry.
'We knew those welds were crucial. I inspect – inspected – them daily. No signs of any shearing or tears.'
'How long to reconstruct?'
Murakow's face lightened a bit.
'Only a couple of months. The original engineering was a by-guess and by-golly job. We know the short cuts this time.' He gestured at the fuel storage tanks, now ringed with cameras and sensitive sensor equipment taken from towns all along the Gulf. 'The stored stuff is fine for another five months.'
Showing rare emotion, the colonel turned to look over the Gulf of Mexico.
'Dammit Mike, when are we gonna get a break? Half the country nuked, half the population dead of disease. Our official government stuck in orbit. Every shuttle site on the planet gone. If I didn't know better - '
He bit off the comment from an unfathomable, almost unconscious dread.
