Mercury Rising Read online

  PRAISE FOR R.W.W. GREENE

  “With a deft weaving of rock ‘n roll, denim suits, AMC Pacers and nuclear-powered spaceships, Greene effortlessly recreates a 1970s America that could have been… The story becomes a ride as fast as an Oppenheimer-powered rocket and you won’t want it to stop. Can’t wait to see what comes next!”

  Sarah J. Daley, author of Obsidian

  “The action in Mercury Rising is compelling from the first chapter. Greene’s skill at creating an alternate space-faring America in the mid-1970’s is studded with the perfect amount of pop culture references, and his many-layered Everyman, Brooklyn Lamontagne, feels like a long-lost best friend. All this combines to lock you in for a thrilling story that’s impossible to put down.”

  Ginger Smith, author of The Rush’s Edge

  “Everything I’ve come to love about Greene: impeccable story logic, fantastic prose, sly humor, and hope in all its glory.”

  Zig Zag Claybourne, author of Afro Puffs are the Antennae of the Universe

  “Mercury Rising charmed and fascinated me. Greene has taken an absolutely wild premise and somehow made it fit like a puzzle piece into our own history and knowledge of the greater universe. It is unexpected and clever, heartfelt and funny, with big, conceptual penny-drop moments that hit the reader as hard as they hit the novel’s weary protagonist, Brooklyn Lamontagne.”

  Chris Panatier, author of Stringers and The Phlebotomist

  “On the surface, you get an engrossing space opera, but if you look deeper you will find explorations of poverty, arranged marriage, and the toll that difficult moral choices take on families.”

  Kirkus Reviews on The Light Years

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Twenty Five to Life

  The Light Years

  ANGRY ROBOT

  An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd

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  All rise

  An Angry Robot paperback original, 2022

  Copyright © R.W.W. Greene 2022

  Cover by Glen Wilkins

  Edited by Eleanor Teasdale and Paul Simpson

  Set in Meridien

  All rights reserved. R.W.W. Greene asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Sales of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  Angry Robot and the Angry Robot icon are registered trademarks of Watkins Media Ltd.

  ISBN 978 0 85766 793 9

  Ebook ISBN 978 0 85766 794 6

  Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by TJ Books Ltd.

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To the 1619 Project and other scholars who are rewriting our history to show what really happened.

  Contents

  PART ONE Mercury Rising

  PART TWO Bad Blood

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  PART THREE Squeeze Box

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  PART FOUR Take the Money and Run

  TEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  PART FIVE The Rubberband Man

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  PART SIX Flight ’76

  SEVENTEEN

  PART SEVEN Boogie Nights

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  PART EIGHT Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  PART NINE Runnin’ on Empty

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  PART TEN Flash Light

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  PART ELEVEN Boy From New York City

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-ONE

  PART TWELVE Take a Chance on Me

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  Rapture

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PART ONE

  Mercury Rising

  JANUARY 27, 1961

  Commander Jet Carson shrugged into his flight jacket, assuming the weight of its fireproof fabric. The coat snagged on his gun belt, and he rolled his shoulders to settle it into place.

  The woman in the bed across the room rose to one elbow, sleep-tousled hair falling in soft layers around her. The air got caught in Jet’s chest. Twenty years married, and it happened every time he saw her. He crossed the floor in two quick steps and sat next to her.

  She fluttered her hand over a yawn and blinked up at him. “Do you have to go?”

  He smiled. “You always ask that.”

  “Always will.”

  He bent to kiss her. “Betty Brown.” He kissed her again. “Betty Brown, you are mine, mine, mine.”

  She cocked her head. “I think you mean ‘Betty Carson’.”

  “Girlfriend, fiancée, wife…” His eyes twinkled. “You’ll always be the girl I met at the malt shop.”

  “And you’ll always be the jerk leaving me.” She faked a sigh.

  Jet captured her chin and looked into her eyes. “I always come back.”

  “You’d better.” She sat up in bed, the covers falling to reveal her camisole. “Level with me, Jet. Is this one dangerous?”

  “Piece of cake, darling girl. A quick ride to the top to see if anything is coming our way.” He grinned. “But I’ll get out to Mars one of these days. It’s only a day out and back with the new Oppenheimers. John’s already done it twice.”

  “And everything John Dunne does, you have to do too.”

  He laughed. “Unless I do it first.”

  Jet blew Betty a kiss and made his way into the earlymorning air. The Cape was twenty minutes away by car, but he could get there in half that on his motorcycle. He detoured to buy doughnuts for his prep crew and parked on a scenic overlook above the Cape. Looking at the rocket towers and gantries made him giddy, like when he was a kid and dreamed of being a spaceman. He winced. Loworbit patrols and scrambles. Not exactly what you imagined when you signed up. This day’s mission, something to do with an overnight meteor strike in Kansas, unexpected though it was, promised to be more of the same. Jet got back on his bike and continued to the Cape.

  There were two taciturn guards at the gate instead of the usual friendly-faced singleton, and it took Jet a few extra minutes to clear security. He snagged a chocolateglazed from the box and handed the rest of the pastries to a runner. “Get these to Big Swede.” He pointed toward the launch bay with his doughnut. The runner hurried away without the usual banter. Jet watched him go, his mouth full of doughnut, head full of questions.

  Pastry gone, Jet slid his hands into his pockets an
d strolled to the logistics office, where he stuck his head through the door without knocking. “What’s in the wind, Mickey?”

  The logistics chief tilted his head to look over the top of his reading glasses and leaned back in his chair. “Not a thing, Jet. They say get ’em ready, I get ’em ready.” He held up his clipboard so Jet could see the cotton-candy pink of an ammunition requisition.

  Jet whistled. “How ready are we talking?”

  “Full load for everyone.”

  “Lot of firepower for a meteor.”

  “It is at that.” He adjusted his glasses. “You don’t look too broken up about it.”

  “Any day I chase stars is a good one.” Jet pushed himself upright. “Everyone else in Brief?”

  “Yeah.” The chief stuck out his hand to shake. “Good luck up there. See you on the other side.”

  The elevator took Jet five levels down and dropped him off at the briefing room. The rest of his squad, the intrepid Eagle Seven, was already there. Carl White waved and pointed to a seat next to him. “What do you hear, boss?” he said.

  Jet dropped into the seat. “Not much, but we’re going up loaded for grizzly.”

  “Interesting.” Carl nodded toward the podium, where the NASA bigwigs were gathering. “Maybe we’re about to find something out.”

  Pad boss Guenter Werthner kept the briefing short and unusually vague: launch in two hours, form up in high orbit, and unseal a packet of formal orders. The thin-faced man straightened his bow tie. “That’s all the information I’ve got, boys. This little trip originated at the highest level.” He switched off the podium light. “We’re out of time. Prepare your ships.”

  Jet leaned over to whisper to Carl. “Sounds like this might be worth getting out of bed for.”

  Carl frowned. “High orbit with all weapons loaded? I don’t get it. Who are we going to shoot that far out?”

  “Guess we’ll find out at 1350.” Jet clapped his pal on the back. “See you up there.”

  Carl nodded. “Good flying.”

  Jet took the monorail to the launch pit, where the crew was already hard at work on his ship. The aging LRF-15 stood on its tails, umbilicals attached at every port.

  The crew chief appeared out of a bank of steam, wiping his hands on an oily rag. “We’re making her good for you, Jet.”

  Sven Lindeson had a PhD in physics, but no one called him “Doctor”. Some of the other eggheads insisted the pilots use the honorific, but Sven was always just “Sven” or “Big Swede” because of his height and broad shoulders.

  Jet stuck out his hand, and Sven engulfed it in a paw like a catcher’s mitt.

  “Don’t suppose you can tell me where we’re going,” Jet said.

  Sven grinned. “Straight up. No sudden stops.”

  Jet faked a glower. “Then I just take a left at the Moon. Thanks a heap.”

  Sven ran a hand through his thinning blond hair. “Go see to your baby. After all this milk she may need burping.”

  Jet exchanged pleasantries with a few other members of the launch crew, but he only had eyes for his ship.

  From seven paces back every red-white-and-blue foot of her looked as smooth as a car fender. Up close, Jet could see the seams, rivets, and too-frequent patches that made up her skin. Ready for another show, girl?

  He circled the ship looking for flaws. He wouldn’t find any – Sven’s crew was top-notch – but it was part of his flight-check process, like kicking the tires before a road trip.

  Jet had dubbed her Victory after their first mission, and she’d proved worthy of the name, surviving more than seventy-five combat and recon flights in near space. Two years before, one of the eggheads had saved Victory and her sisters from retirement when he pointed out how easy it would be to retrofit the aging long-range fighters with third-generation Oppenheimer Atomic Engines. The modification increased the fighters’ straight-line range and speed, while maintaining their inherent toughness and maneuverability. There were younger, more sophisticated ships to be sure, but Jet wouldn’t trade his girl for any five.

  Jet climbed the metal staircase up to the hatch and ducked inside. A sliding door straight ahead led to a small bunk and refresher unit. The ladder anchored to the inside wall fed down to the power and life-support plants and up to the cockpit. Jet headed up and sank into the cracked leather of his pilot’s couch. He flipped the switch to activate the control board and continued with the flight checks. Forty-five minutes later, he closed his flightbook and switched on the radio. “Sven, this is Victory. We’re green as grass in here. What’s it like outside?”

  The clear-channel static sounded like a light rain, and Sven’s voice cut it like an awning. “Forty more minutes to top off the tanks, and you’ll be good to go. Want to come out and grab some coffee?”

  Jet clicked his mic. “Negative on the Joe, but thanks for the offer. I’ll grab a quick nap on the couch.”

  Sven chuckled. “Sweet dreams. I’ll wake you before launch.”

  Jet grinned. He’d be up in plenty of time for final checks. Everyone on base knew about his habit of catching cat naps where and when he could. Jet draped a bandanna over his face and stretched out in the seat. He was asleep in seconds.

  Twenty minutes later he was running through another, abbreviated, checklist. Victory cleared her final hurdles without a hitch and Jet pulled his acceleration straps tight while the launch clock ticked down in his earphones. He checked the seal on his helmet and watched the clock move from forty to thirty to twenty to twelve.

  “Ten count!” the flight controller announced. “We’re at ten!”

  Jet flicked the safety cover off the launch controls and, at zero, stabbed the ignition button. Some of the other guys in the flight left the whole sequence up to the computer, but Jet wasn’t about to let a glitch keep him out of the stratosphere.

  The liftoff pushed him into the seat cushions, and the engine roar nearly blotted out the mission-control updates coming through the earphones.

  “Eagle Seven is away!” the flight controller said. “Repeat: Eagle Seven is away.”

  At the computer’s signal, Jet cut the launch engines and entered microgravity. Another switch uncoupled Victory from the booster ring, and the ship slid into orbit on her own power. Jet clicked his mic. “Everybody who made it up form on me, standard configuration.”

  He heard a chorus of “rogers”, including one from a voice he hadn’t expected. “I didn’t think you’d make it back on time for this, Bullets,” Jet said.

  “Got tired of kissing babies,” the voice said. “Figured I’d come along to make sure you didn’t screw up.”

  Commander John Dunne had earned his nickname for his uncanny ability to attract enemy fire. He’d been on a meet-and-greet publicity tour when the mission alert went out, and Jet had assumed his seat would go to a backup. “Thanks for pitching in, Johnny Boy. Sorry to cut your vacation short.”

  The commander snorted in reply. John “Bullets” Dunne would rather be making garbage runs to the Moon than pressing flesh and smiling for the cameras in the Heartland.

  Eagle Seven assumed formation and made their status reports.

  “Looks like everybody made it to the top, boss,” said Carl, Jet’s wing man.

  “Confirmed.” Jet slid his hand down his right leg, feeling for the cargo pocket where he had put the sealed envelope. “I’m opening our orders.” Inside the envelope Jet found a folded sheet of paper and a plastic punched card. He scanned the sheet. “Says here we’re to park and wait for re-enforcements.”

  The radio burped static, then cleared to reveal the voice of Lt. Roger “Senior” Shaw, the longest serving member of Eagle Seven. “This is a turd fest, Jet. Some Congressman has his comb up about something, and we’re here as a show of force.”

  “Could be, Senior,” John said. “But maybe we should wait and see before we talk trash over an open channel. Little pitchers have big ears.”

  Senior grumbled something, but the static covered most of it up
. He cleared his throat. “Sorry all you kids on Earth listening in with your crystal radios. Go America. Mind your mothers.”

  Carl laughed. “Senior apologizes to all the roosters in Congress, too.”

  Jet clicked the mic. “Look sharp, boys. Company’s coming.” He turned his attention to radar. Six bogies had entered range and were moving toward the Seven.

  “What are they, Jet?” Carl said.

  “I can’t get a good read.” He tapped the radar display. “Can you see anything, John?”

  Static hissed for long seconds while he waited for the hero’s reply. When John spoke, his voice was crisp, his earlier tomfoolery replaced with military precision and calm. “A squad of Reds, boys. Coming in fast.”

  Jet flicked the switches that activated his weapons systems and barked an order to the others to do the same. Victory responded to the new defense condition by tightening Jet’s restraints and pulling the control rods a few more inches out of her reactor core. Instruments and dials in front of Jet crept closer to the red zone.

  Jet worked his blindspots. “Anyone else have a visual?”

  “Got ’em,” Senior said. “Seven o’clock high. Six of them.”

  “Let’s come about and get in their faces. On my mark.” Jet held his control stick in one hand and put the other on the attitude-control panel mounted on his armrest. “Mark.”

  The control thrusters fired on the ship’s nose and tail, and Jet wheeled his ship around like a well-trained war horse. The Russian ships swung into view outside his cockpit.

  “Do we engage, chief?” Carl said.

  “Negative,” Jet said. “We keep to the treaty. Sit on your hands until we know what they’re up to.” It had been two and a half years since an American had fired a shot at a Soviet, and Jet wasn’t going to break the streak without a darned good reason.

  The Russian ships matched their orbit, flying in precise formation. The drab green of their hulls reflected little sunlight, making them look more like patches on the sky than the high-tech military spacecraft they were.

  “MiG 220s,” John said. “Good-looking boats.”

  “They won’t be so good looking if they try anything,” Senior said. “I have the center one in my sights.”