THE NOAH PROJECT

by Paul Shope

            "Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the seatbelt sign.  Please return to your seat and buckle up as we will be firing boosters to reach our low orbit peak of eighty thousand feet in just a few minutes.  This will mark the halfway point on our flight from Tokyo to New York this morning."

            The flight attendant smiled sweetly as she spoke to the glassy-eyed passengers.

            "On the forward screen, we will begin showing the live world news update, but if you prefer, you may choose to watch one of our other entertainment channels on your personal viewscreen.  Thank you."

            "Hmmph."  Sam Forman unfolded the screen from beside his seat.  The older man seated next to him watched Sam put on the wireless headset.  Sam could sense the comment coming.

            "Not interested in world events?" said the man.  He had introduced himself, but Sam chose not to remember his name.  He seemed unnaturally interested in Sam's actions since they took off over an hour ago, criticizing everything from his brand of watch to his choice of drink.

            Sam smiled.  "Nothing new, I'm sure."

            "That's not true, of course.  Things change by the minute these days.  I would think a man of logic like yourself would realize the importance of keeping up.  What'd you say you were in?  Computers or something?" 

            "Yeah. Something."

            The man shrugged.  His condescending tone was beginning to grate on Sam's nerves, and he moved more quickly to pick a channel from the interactive display.  The man continued, undaunted.

            "The whole situation in the Middle East is about to come to a head if you ask me.  I was over there just a few months ago, on business..."

            The opening credits to a loud action movie drowned out the man's political discourse, and Sam let his shoulders relax.  He tried to put the old man, the political unrest, and the fact that it would be another three days before he saw his family again, to the back of his mind. 

            Ten minutes or so had passed when the man elbowed Sam sharply.  Sam tried to ignore the gesture, assuming it was an accident, but when the elbow jabbed him a second time, even harder, he ripped the headphones off and turned to the man, ready to give him a choice word or two.  The remarks faded from Sam's mind.  The old man's face had drained of color; his eyes were haunted; his hand covered his mouth.  He had his own headset in place and was staring straight ahead.

            "Are you OK?"

            The man didn't look at Sam, but moved his finger ever so slightly toward the front of the plane.  Sam slowly turned his head, following the direction of the gesture, his gaze lingering on the man's face.

            When he looked around the plane, he could see most everyone had a similar expression.  Then he saw why.  On the front display, a world map dominated the screen.  Trajectory lines radiated out from India and Pakistan, and a blood-red banner spread across the bottom of the display.  White letters spelled out "Dateline Pakistan:  Nuclear missiles launched." 

            Sam put his headphones back in place.  An explosion startled him as the movie played on.  Hands shaking, he changed the channel to hear the broadcast.

            "...targets projected in Europe, Asia and North America.  If you can, take shelter in the nearest fallout facility.  We will continue to provide updates as to the destinations of the missiles.

            "Once again, satellite imaging has picked up an undetermined number of missiles launched from Iraq, Pakistan, and now India.  We have information that these are definitely nuclear devices.  President Brandt is expected to address the nation in just a few moments, and hopefully he will be able... yes, here he is now.  We're going live to the White House."

            The scene changed to the press room as the President stepped to the podium.  Sam could not move.  He could not breathe.  He could not think.  To think was to accept, and he could not, would not, accept what appeared to be happening.

            President Brandt hesitated.  He stared at the podium for several long seconds.  A hush fell over the press corps and the passengers of flight 489.  Brandt took a slow, deliberate breath.  He made the sign of the cross and raised distraught eyes to the cameras.

            "My fellow Americans," Brandt began, "it is my unprecedented, and unfortunate, duty to inform you that there are, in fact, two dozen nuclear warheads now in the air, six of which are headed for United States soil."

            Gasps and cries from all quarters of the plane escaped from dry lips.  One woman began sobbing.

            "Our intelligence reports seem to indicate that terrorist groups seized control of launch sites in Iraq and Pakistan and coordinated this attack on the rest of the world.  Prompted by these launches, which they interpreted to be a first strike against them, the Indian government responded with equal force against Pakistan and Iraq only."

            Brandt's voice caught, and he paused.  He took another breath, cleared his throat and resumed.

            "Several warheads have already impacted in the Middle East.  There is nothing we can do for those poor souls.  We are, however, doing everything in our power to launch counter-measures against the strike on the United States which will not occur for some time..."

            "Mr. President..."

            An aide interrupted Brandt's speech, urgently pulling him aside.  The cameras continued to watch, unblinking, as the aide conveyed some late-breaking news to the President. 

            Brandt gasped in horror.  His legs seemed unable to support him and he sat on the nearest chair.  The aide glanced nervously at the cameras and seemed to be urging Brandt to follow him out of the room.  But Brandt pulled away from his grasp.  He regained some of his composure and resumed the podium.

            "I have just been informed that we have detected an impact in New York City."

            The plane erupted in wails of despair.  In his ear, Sam could hear the members of the press corps talking over each other.  Two questions became clear:  How could this have happened? and What about Washington?  Brandt tried to go on.  Sam and many other passengers continued to listen, too stunned to do otherwise.  Some broke down.  One man ran for the door, screaming to get out.  The attendants had to restrain and eventually sedate him.

            Once some of the pandemonium had subsided, Brandt continued.

            "As to how this could have happened, I can only tell you that they must have used a faster, stealth-capable missile which we did not believe they possessed.  As for Washington, and the rest of the country... I suggest we all seek whatever shelter we can find... and pray to God..."

            The broadcast ended abruptly in static.  The plane was silent.  Two seconds stretched to ten, twenty.

            Into that timeless void, the intercom crackled to life and the captain's voice, sounding distant and detached, came to them.

            "Uh.  Um.  Ladies and gentlemen... This is extraordinary.  I know you're all following developments on the ground... Before we lost contact with New York, we received a priority signal from the Secretary of Defense.  We have been instructed not to attempt to land.  Uh, instead we are being directed to boost the plane into a higher orbit and dock with the Hyperion space station."

            The sounds of helpless sobbing were replaced by a curious murmuring among the passengers.  The old man, (Nick.  His name was Nick), was no longer interested in Sam's habits.  Instead of the subtle arrogance of a few minutes ago, Nick was now tugging compulsively on his ear and mumbling to himself.

            "How can we go to the space station?  We should just land.  Why can't we just land?  We'll never make it to the station.  Too high, too high..."

            Sam found Nick's rambling unnerving.  Besides his slightly manic behavior, Nick was voicing many of the same concerns Sam had.  Were these planes capable of reaching that altitude?  How low was the Hyperion that it would even be possible?  Does the captain know how to dock?

            His next thought was, How can I think about the flight?  What about my family?  My God, what about my family?!

            As though he could sense the doubt in the cabin, the captain continued, "Please, please try to remain calm.  We will do everything we can to get us all through this crisis safely."

            Surprisingly, this simple plea from the captain, anonymous and strangely godlike from the intercom, helped pull Sam back from the edge of panic.  His family was in Michigan, and there was no reason to think that any harm had come to them. 

            Many people were fiddling with their cell phones, despite the standing rule that they were not to be used and the fact that they were far too high for a signal to reach the ground towers.  Sam glanced at Nick, who was still absorbed in his own thoughts. 

Well, he won't say anything, thought Sam.  He pulled out his own phone and dialed home.   As he expected, nothing.  Not even a recording.  Sam wished he hadn't even tried.  The dead line did nothing to calm his nerves.

            The attendants tried to tune other channels, but they found nothing but static or black.  Sam thought some channels should still be available, somewhere in the world.  There should be somewhere to land, something left standing.  He felt so isolated, on this plane, hovering high above the world which was now a very different place than when they left the ground.  He had a sudden fear that he would never set foot on that ground again.

            Not knowing what to think or do, he could only sit and wait.  One by one, the passengers around him began to succumb to panic, or rage or grief, driven over the edge by the sitting and the waiting.  Small groups began to form.  Like those therapy groups, Sam thought.  They seemed to naturally balance themselves with an even mix of mania types.  A few, like himself, preferred to be alone, contemplating the impact of the events.  Contemplating, not comprehending.

            The desperate scene—the group forming, the outbursts, the meltdowns—continued for nearly two hours.  Sam felt he might soon be ready to join the chaos, but he couldn't decide between an outburst or a meltdown.  He was saved by the captain's timely update.

            "Folks, I know this is incredibly difficult to bear, but we appreciate your cooperation.  I want you to know that we happened to be quite close to the Hyperion, so we're nearly ready to attempt the docking."

            All of the moaning, sobbing and wailing subsided as the passengers assimilated this new information.  Sam thought it was good for everyone to have something else to think about, though if he were the pilot, he hoped he would have said, "We're nearly ready to dock," rather than "We're nearly ready to attempt to dock."  Then again, the man undoubtedly had a few things on his mind as well.

            "Uh, just a few things to hopefully put your mind at ease.  First of all, the Hyperion is equipped with a docking bay, rather than a docking clamp.  This means that, with a few differences, we can make a regular landing, which makes things easier.

            "Second, even though this plane is intended for low-orbit transport only, it is well within the tolerances of the craft to make it a little higher where the station is located.

            "Finally, believe it or not, as pilots of a low-orbit plane, myself and the rest of the crew up here have been trained in this type of emergency situation, so we have been through it.  In simulation at least."

So close, thought Sam.  He could have left out the part about the simulation.

            "That's it for now.  Please continue to stay calm and seated, with your seatbelts fastened.  We'll be landing shortly."

            Sam went through the motions of checking his seatbelt, then checked it again, just to give him something to do.  He also checked Nick's seatbelt, since Nick didn't seem to be in a focused state of mind.

            Sam thought about talking to Nick, trying to help him through this, and perhaps help himself.  But he couldn't.  All of his thoughts were selfish and the only action he wanted to take was to make himself as small as possible, so that nobody would see him weep.

            It was almost eerie how normal the final approach seemed.  The "fasten seatbelt" sign lit.  The flight attendants secured the stores.  Half an hour passed before they finally landed.  Another half hour and the plane door opened.

            Sam followed along with the procession of zombies.  One by one they shuffled to the door.  As far as anyone knew, they had nowhere else to go.  One by one they jumped down the emergency ramp. 

Lemmings, thought Sam.  Zombie lemmings. 

He blinked as he exited the plane and entered the glaring, sterile light of the docking bay.  It was much larger than he expected.  He was also surprised to see three planes already parked in a neat row beside their own.  He wrinkled his brow, trying to make sense of the situation.  He kept recalling news blips he had seen about the station.

            "Visitech stock took a hit today following the announcement of intentions to construct the first space platform built under the auspices of a private corporation.  While not a complete surprise, many in the financial and technological communities believe it is a waste of resources, even for the largest corporation in the world..." —World News Net

            "The Hyperion.  A feat of technology and engineering previously reserved for NASA, this super-structure is the brain-child of Noah Masters, founder and CEO of Visitech Corporation..." —Discovery Channel

            "Visitech reached its stature by manufacturing the first successful biochemical computing system, quickly followed by a revolutionary biochemical energy transfer process.  These two advances were critical in allowing engineers to design the first practical, long-distance space drives."  — Tech TV

            "Sir?  Please, sir, it's your turn.  Cross your arms and jump forward, feet extended.  Please?"

            Sam blinked at her.  The young attendant was barely holding her composure.  She was clearly afraid he might cause some trouble that would topple her precarious emotional balance.  He tried a tentative smile, to reassure her he meant no harm.  It felt creepy and must have looked the same because her lower lip began to tremble.  He crossed his arms and jumped.

            At the bottom of the ramp, as he regained his feet, Sam found himself promptly ushered away by a man wearing a gray jumpsuit with the Hyperion logo on each shoulder.  The man escorted him across the hangar, away from the row of planes, to a doorway.  A woman smiled a sad little smile at him and indicated that he should follow the corridor around to the left.  He paused to look behind him.  The last person in a line of similarly dazed people from the previous plane passed him without making eye contact.  It struck him how oddly efficient the whole process seemed, as though it had been rehearsed or even planned.

            "Please keep moving, sir," the woman at the door requested.  "There are refreshments and necessary facilities inside the station.  Everything will be explained to you there.  Just follow the corridor."

Everything?  How the hell could they explain everything?  The world's just ended, we've been rerouted from our original course into space for chrissake, and they're going to explain everything?

            He smiled the creepy smile again and moved on.  He had no other options.