Skyfall

Bannerman nodded and watched the pillared buildings sweep by. He yawned again, then sipped the straight scotch. He was used to going without sleep, commanding an armored cavalry division had given him plenty of experience. At the age of sixty-one he looked ten years younger and had the stamina of a man ten years younger than that. Beryl had told him that no more than an hour ago, and she had reason to know. He smiled at the thought. So what the hell did Bandin want him for at this hour of the morning? Arabs again, probably, it was usually the Arabs. Since he had been appointed Joint Chief of Staff nearly all the meetings were about oil and Arabs.

The car stopped before the discreet rear entrance of the White House and Bannerman emerged. As the door opened the two guards there presented arms and he returned the salute. That little pimp Charley Dragoni was waiting inside, moving from one foot to the other like he had to pee, waving at the elevator.

“You're the last one, General Bannerman, they're all waiting.”

“Well good for them, Charley. What's this meeting about?”

“The elevator, General, if you please.”

Well up yours, Bannerman thought. Bandin's errand boy was getting kind of big for his breeches. As the elevator rose he speculated happily about different ways in which he might put the kibosh on Dragoni.

A Marine guard opened the big door and the general sucked in his gut and stamped forward, hitting his heels down hard enough to make the spurs on his cavalry boots jingle. He knew a lot of them hated it, which is why he did it. Bandin was at the head of the big mahogany table, Schlochter next to him and — surprisingly — the only other person was Simon Dillwater. Interesting. The Secretary of State, Dillwater who was the top man at NASA, and himself. What did they have in common? The answer was obvious.

“Trouble with Prometheus, Mr. President?” The best defense is a good attack.

“Christ sake, Bannerman, doesn't your radio work? What do you think we're doing here?”

Bannerman pulled out his chair and sat down slowly, coolly. “I worked late with my staff, then retired and slept soundly.” Not a twitch of expression, even from Dragoni, so maybe the captain had told the truth and the Secret Service did have close mouths.

“Tell him, Dillwater, and as simply as possible if you don't mind.”

“Of course, sir. Prometheus has serious difficulties. Primary staging was fine and the boosters separated and have landed as planned. But the core body will not fire nor will it separate completely.”

“Still attached?” Bannerman was cold attention on the instant.

“Partially,” Dillwater said.

“What's their altitude?”

“Approximately eighty-five miles at perigee.”

“That's a damn crappy orbit!”

“Your description is accurate.”

“What's being done?”

“We're still attempting to separate. Then Prometheus should be able to climb to her correct orbit on her atomic engine.”

“Well work fast. That orbit must be decaying. How long before it goes bust?”

“About thirty-three hours on our last estimate.”

Bannerman tapped his fingers on the table and thought quickly. “If that thing burns up it's going to put paid to a couple of billion dollars and maybe your whole project.”

“I was thinking more of the six people aboard,” Dillwater said coldly.

“Were you, Simon?” He paused. “You've got to get that thing into some kind of stable orbit as soon as you can.”

“You're damn right,” Bandin broke in. “Listen to some sense, Dillwater. We have got national prestige to think about. We have the entire Prometheus Project to keep in mind, and the damn Russkies and the UN who are on our side just this once, and the next election and a lot of goddamn things. We'll worry about the passengers if and when we have to. Right now we don't. Schlochter will tell you what Polyarni said while Dragoni gets an update report on the thing. Top priority must be to get that thing moving up up and away before it goes bust. Nothing else matters — and I mean nothing!”

Dragoni, who was seated discreetly at the small table by the door, reached for the telephone before him to get the report for the President. Before he could touch it, it buzzed softly. He picked it up, listened, then replaced the receiver. Then he rose quietly and stood beside Bandin until he was noticed.

“What is it? Anything new?”

“I did not call yet, Mr. President. I took a priority call from your press secretary who said that a big news story has broken in New York about Prometheus.”

“What the hell do they know in New York we don't know in Washington?”

“He did not say, sir. But NBC is having a special news break in about three minutes and he said it might be best to watch.”

“Call him back and find out what this nonsense is about.”

“It might be wise to turn the television on at the same time,” Bannerman said calmly. “We could learn just as much that way.”

“Yes, I suppose so. In my office then.”