Shanghaied to the Moon by Michael J. Daley Read Free Book Online Page B

he’s wrong if he thinks Pad 12 is a safe place to hide.
    â€œIt won’t work. Your ad is on my computer. They’ll know where I am.”
    He turns the key. “We’ll be gone before anyone comes.”
    â€œGone …?” I look toward Pad 12. One old PLV, operational. He does have a plan. To blast off. With me. Now.
    â€œTake off that wrist yapper.”
    I shield the wireless OmniLink on my wrist with a soda. “I can’t just disappear ! ”
    â€œThat’s sort of the point, kid.”
    â€œI have to call Mark.”
    â€œNot with that. Easy to spot as a supernova.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œWe’ll call him from orbit. Safer that way.”
    Orbit. He really means it.
    â€œDitch it and get in. We’ve got to keep moving now.”
    Suddenly, he’s the one in a hurry. I pull my gaze from the rocket, toss the sodas onto the seat. Hooking a finger under the stretch band of the OmniLink, I slip it off. The breeze slides coldly over the bone-white skin of my naked wrist. That skin only sees daylight during a bath. There aren’t even any little hairs growing there anymore. We were always told: Never be without your OmniLink. Never talk to strangers.
    I look at the TransTube curving away from the station toward the city. Things don’t seem that simple anymore.
    â€œDon’t fool yourself, kid. You were lucky today. They won’t screw up again.”
    I drop the OmniLink into the sand and hop in.
    He lays the throttle to the floor. Sand sprays, tires squeal, then catch, bucking us into motion. I slam back against the seat. The soda cans go flying out of my hands. No acceleration dampers; this sure isn’t an ordinary golf cart! Even the modern air-riders don’t go this fast.
    I whoop and shout against the breeze. “What did you do to this thing?”
    The corner of his mouth curls up a bit. “Double wired the traction pack.”
    Bad news for the motor. Then it dawns on me. Nobody’s going to drive this cart away from the gantry. It’ll be burned toast as soon as we … blast off.
    We’re close enough now to get a good look at the rocket. Not a fleck of paint left on it. The skin is as rusty brown as an uscrubbed potato. Black stains fan down the sides from each of the staging joints. I know my boosters. This is an old ICBM. A lot of nuclear missiles were converted to PLVs during the worldwide disarmament a half century ago. They were a quick, cheap, and dirty way to orbit for people who couldn’t afford a ride on shuttles.
    Not exactly what I imagined making my first trip to space in.
    Taller and taller it looms until even with my head tilted way back, I can’t see it all at once. We coast to a stop right under the rocket nozzles.
    A smell of burned motor wiring wafts up from below my seat. I hop out and step away from the cart, worried it might burst into flames. He’s either not worried or can’t move any faster, I’m not sure which.
    We’ve pulled up next to a tent. A tidy campsite is arranged compactly around it. The PLV towers silently above us. The only sound comes from the waves breaking on the beach just over the sand dunes.
    â€œGrab that duffel.” He heads for the open mesh-wire elevator at the base of the gantry.
    Guess he doesn’t need anything from his camp.
    I sling the duffel over my shoulder. It isn’t too heavy, but you’d never guess that from the way it bent him over. Whatever is inside shifts around like potatoes in a sack, settling into a lumpy bulge at the bottom.
    I hustle into the cage. He pulls the door closed. It clatters like a freight train. The elevator lurches upward so fast my knees nearly buckle. I like that feeling.
    The sound of the breakers fades as the elevator lifts us out of the deep shadow between the tail fins. A light wind blows; the air coming off the sundrenched beach is warmer here.
    The rocket is only a few feet away. On this side,