The Promise

By D. Paul Meyer

A love story that reaches all the way to the plains of Mars, The Promise by D. Paul Meyer is an authentic epic of space exploration told thru a cast of unforgettable characters.

Beyond Walter Carswells window, the moon emerged from behind the clouds and disappeared again. He thought of the space rendezvous he and Susan Marie had promised each other and tears rose once more in his eyes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 12, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462822362

D. Paul Meyer

The Promise is the third novel by D. Paul Meyer. It follows Herdsboy (1995) and Kulal’s Shadow (2001). Before studying novel writing at the University of Iowa, he worked on NASA missions including Ranger to the moon, Mariners to Mars and the Venus-Mercury, Galileo to Jupiter, and he supported advanced planning for the International Space Station and for human missions to Mars. He lives with his wife in Seattle

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The Promise

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D. Paul Meyer

Copyright © 2006 by D. Paul Meyer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

PROLOGUE

MOSCOW, RUSSIA, OCTOBER 24, 2029

The members of the official party on the mausoleum snapped to attention and flashed a simultaneous hand salute. Strains of the Russian anthem reverberated from the Kremlin’s medieval walls, and the multitude below stood in frozen silence, giving homage to the five bemedaled cosmonauts on the flag-draped balcony.

In time, the music retreated, and the two-hour program of celebration ended. People surged toward the foot of the marble structure, weeping and cheering for their heroes. The human tide, met by a breakwater of uniformed defenders, rolled back on itself. Reporters moved forward and hurled questions over the police and security guards, journalistic grenades launched without receiving response.

A veteran correspondent from the Moscow bureau of The Associated Press unobtrusively offered a fresh pack of American cigarettes to the young subaltern who held the line in her sector. With a glint of gratitude in his eyes the soldier pocketed the bribe and looked off in the distance.

The correspondent slipped past him and once inside the barricade assumed her best imitation of an officially sanctioned person. She walked purposefully to the side doorway of the mausoleum where a small group of dignitaries waited for the honorees to appear. She would approach the Russian commander of the space crew. He would be the one most likely to know answers to her questions. Though she had never talked to him before, he had been easy to identify on the platform, resplendent in his new colonel-general’s uniform.

She pushed her way through and took a position near the dark opening of the marble building. She smiled politely at the favored few who stood near her, and after a moment, the first security guard for the entourage stepped squinting into the daylight.

Fourth in line, the cosmonaut leader emerged, and the correspondent spoke to him in her flawless Russian:

General. Excuse me, Colonel-General Vukinev.

He looked at her, studying her face, perhaps wondering which official entity she represented.

She blurted out quickly: How would you describe the American? Was he indeed the mission’s hero as the president has just implied in his speech?

The cosmonaut must have been convinced that she was someone significant, or maybe the controversial nature of her query intrigued him. Whatever the reason, he stopped and faced her.

She waited for his answer but he frowned thoughtfully and said nothing. He removed his broad-crowned cap and slowly dragged the fingers of his free hand through moist wisps of his hair.

She was about to ask again when he smiled a tired-looking smile and spoke in a raspy voice.

No. I would say all of my crew members were heroes. All were involved in a most heroic situation. After a reflective look downward, he added, The American’s part was, perhaps . . . How shall I say? . . . perhaps more dramatic.

Puzzled by his answer, she took a breath to rephrase her question, but the colonel-general shook his head and waggled a finger.

I am sorry, he said and jammed the cap back on his head. The motorcade is waiting.

CHAPTER 1

CENTRAL KAZAKHSTAN, MAY 2014

Walter Carswell down shifted his Zhiguli two-seater as he turned off the road from the Tyuratam highway and into the parking lot of the Russian Space Agency’s Rover Test Center. The four cylinder engine sputtered, and he made a mental note to stop at the center’s maintenance shed for a timing light and tune-up tools before he left work.

He shook his head and smiled as he thought about the 26-day trip to America he had just completed, and though he had enjoyed seeing the Iowa countryside again, the overall visit had definitely been a mixed experience. The springtime farmlands had been green but not as green as he remembered. Global warming had moved dry areas eastward on the North American continent, and most fields in the Van Hooke region now looked like those in the Nebraska he had crossed on his way to California in 2007.

In the untended soil of his infrequent visits, Walter’s family roots had also withered. The only relative who might have forgiven his neglect, Great Aunt Mary, hardly recognized him when he went to see her. In her late 90s, she clung to life in a nursing home in Iowa City. His brother, Martin, and Martin’s wife, Cindy, were decidedly cool. They resented him for not coming to their daughter’s funeral the previous year and still did not accept his explanation that he never could have made it in time.

Walter’s mom, also withdrawn at first, recited over and over the date of his last visit, three years earlier. He had apologized each time he heard her say it but she did not want apologies. She wanted him back in America to stay. Russia, to her, remained Ronald Reagan’s evil empire.

Why did you have to pick such a country to live in? she asked, and the answer, that he had gone because of his job, fell, as it always did, on unlistening ears.

She wanted to know about his plans to get married. You need to think about finding a wife and settling down in a decent place, she pleaded.

He replied that he had no time to think about marriage. I’ve been working so hard I haven’t had the time for dating of any kind. I don’t suppose you’d want me marrying a Russian woman anyhow, would you?

She allowed that she would not, and they both laughed, her probably from relief over hearing that her wants made any difference to him.

But you are planning to move back some day?

Oh sure, I’ll probably return to JPL after the mission is launched, but that’s still about two years away, you know.

And you’ll try to settle down then, won’t you? . . . get married and have some children.

That’d be nice, I guess but by that time I might be too old and too set in my ways.

Now you’re talking nonsense. You’ll only be 33; in the prime of life I’d say.

I suppose, but I won’t know anybody to marry over here, not when I first come back. Anyhow, let’s talk about something else for a while.

That conversation, awkward as it had become, seemed to break the ice. From then on, his mother’s attitude softened. She reminisced with him about the old days, about his dad and about the times when they were all together on the farm. They went to see his father’s grave, and she took Walter to visit the hospital where she did volunteer work. In the hallways, people stopped to greet her, and she introduced Walter, rather proudly it seemed, as her son, the space engineer. She obviously thought more of his profession than she had ever let on to him.

He bought reeds for the school saxophone that she still kept in her upstairs closet and he played for her. She had always liked the fact that he continued with his music and sat with hands folded, smiling, while he went through some of the old tunes. When he played the song she had always like the best, The Tennessee Waltz, she broke down and cried.

On the Sunday before his return, his mother invited all the nearby family to her home for a massive potluck dinner. He talked with his aunts and uncles about times past and the way things had changed. After the meal, he played in raucous horseshoe games with his Uncle Donald and several of the cousins.

Before leaving for Chicago and the long flight back to Moscow, Walter made a pilgrimage to the grave of Susan Marie Franklin. He pulled tall grass from around her marker and planted violets. If they grew, they would make a small memorial to a time that would stay in his heart and in his thoughts no matter where in the world he lived.

CHAPTER 2

EASTERN IOWA, SPRING OF 1999

Susan Marie Franklin had been Walter’s special friend since 5th grade at Van Hooke School, and from the beginning, they had shared a passionate interest in space and in becoming astronauts. They had been good pals but even after nearly completing high school he had never been on a date with her.

He had dreamed of going out. He had dreamed but never asked her. He would have had to drive a car to go on a date and, though he was a excellent driver, he had not been old enough for a license until the fall of his senior year. After getting the license, he had been busy working on his dad’s farm, playing basketball on the school team and studying to raise his grades to the highest level in hopes that he could get a scholarship for college.

Then on a Friday afternoon in the early springtime of that 12th-grade year, everything changed when Susan Marie unexpectedly walked up to Walter’s locker as he put his books away for the weekend and opened with: Hi, Walter. What’s happening?

Surprised, he just looked at her. It was not like Susan Marie to just drop by and ask silly questions.

What’s up? he replied. Maybe she just wants to compare notes on what the teacher said about kinetic and potential energy during physics class, he thought.

An impish look came into her eyes. Have you, like, decided where you’re going to college next year? she asked.

Completely puzzled by the strangeness of the out-of-context query, he offered a quick answer, confiding that during the upcoming year, he would not be going to college.

Her brows knitted with what seemed a genuine show of concern.

But, haven’t you always planned on getting an engineering degree? You know . . .

I do have those plans, but my dad says there isn’t enough money right now and doesn’t want me to go into debt with a student loan or anything.

Bummer!

I’d been hoping for an academic scholarship but a couple of weeks ago I found out that Van Hooke doesn’t have any that will pay more than tuition. I checked the ROTC webpage and talked to an Air Force recruiter on the phone, but I won’t be old enough for their program until next October. I even asked Coach Hargrove about basketball scholarships based on my all-state honorable mention, but he said the colleges were focusing on tall players this year.

Double bummer.

Walter closed his locker door and made ready to depart.

Susan Marie put her hand on his arm. What I really came to ask is . . . . Are you, like, going to the prom with somebody?

The prom. So that’s it. She probably wants me to take one of her girl friends. She couldn’t be asking for herself. Popular as she is, there must be dozens of guys who have already asked her.

No, I’m not, he answered cautiously. Been pretty busy around the farm. Spring plowing and stuff.

She tilted her head and smiled. Well, I’m available if you’d like to go with me.

He said nothing. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

You remember our promise, don’t you? she added, . . . to have a date in outer space some day.

Of course he remembered. How could he forget that day during her first year at Van Hooke when she and he had stayed to ask questions after the teacher showed a film about space travel, and then she’d walked with him to the lunch room and told him she wanted to be an astronaut. They’d eaten lunch together and after he told her that going into space had always been his dream, she proposed that they pledge to meet each other there some day. He’d gone along with her suggestion even though it had seemed a little silly to him. He’d thought that she must have felt it was silly too because she’d never mentioned it again – not until today.

Yeah, our promise, he said. But I thought you must’ve forgotten all about that. We haven’t said anything about having a date in space for years, and . . .

Well, I haven’t forgotten. And I think if we’re going to do something so spectacular, we ought to go out at least once while we’re in high school.

Stunned by that, Walter just stood, staring.

So what do you think? she asked, her head cocked sideways.

Sure . . . Sure, I’d like to take you. For a prom, I guess I’ll have to get my dad to let me use the car. And I’ll need a suit . . . probably have to rent a tux or something.

She laughed out loud. I suppose you will. But come, I’ve something outside I want to show you.

She grabbed his hand and he walked with her to the front of the school building. At the top of the outside steps, she stopped and pointed down to the parking lot and the gleaming, white Mustang, sitting in the first row.

So what do you think of my graduation present?

Wow! Cool!

Want to go for a ride?

He could not believe her – first the prom and now this. He wanted to say yes right away but knew his dad was seriously upset over the work that was piling up. The old Dodge pickup Walter and his younger brother had been driving to school since winter had thrown a rod and they had been getting home late riding the school bus.

Maybe, if you drive me to my folks’ place, he answered. She smiled. Sure, whatever.

Okay, but I better go tell Martin that I won’t be taking the bus.

While Walter went to talk to his brother, who had already boarded, Susan Marie walked down the stairs and opened the passenger door of her Mustang.

When he returned, Walter climbed in and checked out the plush interior.

This is some present, he said when she opened the driver’s side door. She folded herself into the seat and smiled as she punched buttons on the tape player.

One of my golden oldies, she said, and Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run started from the speakers.

She eased the car out of its parking space and steered toward the exit.

Walter sniffed. I like that new smell, don’t you?

She didn’t answer.

At the entrance to the main road, she turned right, away from the Carswell farm.

Hey, this isn’t the way!

She smiled again. Don’t worry, I won’t get lost.

But you’re going in the wrong direction.

I’m just taking a little detour is all.

He shook his head and said nothing.

A few minutes later, Susan Marie’s graduation present barreled south along the road toward the Cedar River. A trail of white gravel-dust followed as the car streaked between hillsides covered with lacy-leafed trees. Walter wondered when her detour would head back toward the place he needed to be.

They came to the old steel bridge that spanned the north fork. Floor planks rumbled, and the tie rods of the superstructure resonated as the glistening Mustang crossed above the swirling currents of the spring runoff. Fleetwood Mac’s Lindsay Buckingham wailed Go Your Own Way on the stereo.

Less than a mile past the bridge, Susan Marie turned off the road and into the driveway of what seemed to be an abandoned farmstead. She stopped in front of the galvanized gate and dug in her handbag.

Why are we stopping here?

She ignored his question, and after withdrawing a wooden block with a key attached, she opened her door and stepped out.

Walter watched while she unlocked the gate, climbed back behind the wheel and steered the car through.

She locked the barrier behind and drove slowly across the mud-puddle farmyard and up a ramp into the open doorway of an old corncrib.

This must be some kind of a trick, Walter thought. She’s brought me here because of a bet or something. A bunch of kids from school will soon be jumping from behind that far wall and yelling gotcha.

Inside the corncrib, Susan Marie turned off the car’s engine.

No screaming students materialized.

She rotated in the seat and faced him. The shadowed light of the building’s interior bathed her with a candle-like glow, and Walter saw sparks dancing in the depths of her dark eyes.

What’s going on? he asked.

Again she did not answer, but her look sent a message that he could not ignore.

Growing up on a farm, with parents who had kept a close watch on their sons’ social lives, Walter had been isolated from sexual contact with girls. He had fantasized about it, and now, when Susan Marie’s right hand reached for the buttons at the front of her blouse, reality raced erotic images lodged in his mind.

He felt he ought to look away, but he could not.

She held back his hand when he tried to touch her.

Transfixed, he watched as the tip of her tongue appeared, tight against a corner of her mouth, and saw her reach behind her back and free the glory of her young breasts.

He moved a tentative finger toward them.

She did not pull away but stayed within his reach while she wiggled out of her remaining clothing. With one hand, he frantically worked his jeans and shorts to his ankles. He felt the warmth of her body and as if he had done it a hundred times, he pressed himself to her.

When the world came back into focus, shadows of evening had advanced from a nearby barn and into the interior of the old granary. Susan Marie placed a cupped hand against Walter’s face.

Now, what did you need to know about a tux? she asked.

They both laughed, and then he thought of his dad.

Oh God! The old man will kill me!

He pulled up his jeans and tucked in his shirt. I have to get home right away.

At the gate, she handed Walter the key, and after he got back in the car, she told him where they were.

This used to be my Uncle’s Bill’s place. He sold most of his land a long time ago, but the buildings stayed in my grandmother’s possession. Nobody ever comes here this time of the year so this morning I took the key from the hook in the pantry.

So you planned this? he asked.

Not all of it.

To that he said nothing.

Out on the highway, she put a new cassette in the player. They rode, not talking, absorbing the sounds of Jackson Browne.

As they neared the Carswell farm, she glanced over at Walter and asked, Do you think we’ll ever get there? To outer space, I mean.

He nodded. I think we will, don’t you?

She nodded and smiled.

During the weeks that followed, classes at Van Hooke High School got easy. That was fine with Walter. He had lost his enthusiasm for academic work. Getting away with Susan Marie Franklin was all he could think about, and at every opportunity they did get away, back to her grandmother’s farmstead and to Riverville Park where on a warm afternoon, they made love under an open sky, surrounded by a bed of springtime violets.

Walter told his mom about taking Susan Marie to the prom. When Alice Carswell heard it she beamed as if she were a high-school senior herself. Within a day she had telephoned a tux shop in Cedar Rapids and scheduled him for a fitting.

And Susan Marie will want a nice corsage, she bubbled.

Walter contacted the town florist in Riverville to reserve the best the man had.

In the evenings, after supper, whenever Walter did not work late in the fields, Alice put cassettes of big-band music on the living room stereo and coached him in fox trot and waltz steps.

It will be a night you will always remember, she said. So we want everything to be perfect.

Before the prom, sometime in late April or early May, Van Hooke School always has an annual celebration called Skip Day. It does not appear on any calendar, but on a morning when the weather is warm, and coming summer is in the air, a sort of rebellion occurs. A shout by several students during the first study hall triggers the event, and then all classes join in a general walkout.

In the early hours of April 28th, Walter’s dad decided that the day for the school exodus had arrived. The weather seemed perfect – warm, like in mid-June even during the pre-dawn darkness.

While he and Walter finished up the milking, he issued an edict to his son.

The ground is dry enough, and we’ve still got that plowing to do in the back pasture, so get yourself home if this turns out to be Skip Day.

But there won’t be any buses running ’til late in the afternoon, Walter protested. He and Martin were still riding the school bus, because repairs had not been completed on the old pickup.

Hell, it’s only a five mile walk. You can do that easy.

Though irritated, Walter said nothing more. In recent weeks, because of being with Susan Marie, he had gotten home late a number of times, and he did not think it wise to add to his father’s already high level of aggravation – not with the prom only 17 days away and use of the family car still hanging in the balance.

Skip Day did happen on the 28th as Joe Carswell had expected and Walter dutifully trekked homeward. Carloads of cheering grade-school kids passed him on the road, teachers chauffeuring their classes to Riverville for impromptu picnics in the park.

Kids in high school who had cars would be taking off on a different route and without teachers. They would be heading to Cedar Rapids where they would go to the amusement park which always opened this time of year. Rick Houser had borrowed his parents’ SUV. Rick, like Walter’s dad, had deduced that this would be the day. When Walter left school he saw Houser offering rides to as many as could squeeze into the large vehicle. Mike Stillman loaded others into the Camero he had recently received for graduation.

Inside the school building, Walter told Susan Marie that he would not be going, that he had to help his dad with the plowing. She screamed in protest against him deserting her when they could have spent the entire day together, and he tried to console her. I’m not deserting you. I’d love to go to ‘the Rapids’ with you, but I’ve got to keep my dad happy or he’ll never let us use the Buick on prom night.

Why do you even care about his old car? Susan Marie said, speaking to an issue she’d obviously been thinking about. We could take my Mustang, and then you could stop having to do all these things to keep your dad happy.

Walter had no response to her logic. All he could think of was the edict his dad had given that morning and how furious his father would be if he failed to show up.

I’m sorry, he said. He’s expecting me, and I have to be there. At that Susan Marie marched stiffly away, toward the doorway of the school office.

A few minutes later, Walter passed that doorway on his way out and he overheard her talking on the phone to her father. He heard her ask if she could drive her Mustang to Cedar Rapids but from the way she reacted to the answer, it was clear that she would not be taking her car anywhere except to her parents’ home.

When Walter reached the farm, only a couple hours of the morning still remained and he wasted no time getting changed into his work clothes. If he finished the plowing early, he would call Susan Marie and see if they could still get together in the late afternoon.

His dad was already in the field, and Walter hitched the spare John Deere to the six-bottom plow and pulled the rig over to the diesel pump to fill the tank.

He listened to the gurgling of the fuel. Its sound combined with the song of the meadowlark perched on a nearby fence post created a feeling of peace that made Walter almost glad that he wasn’t going to the amusement park. Only the distant wail of a siren intruded.

He climbed into the seat to start the engine and saw his mom come out of the house. She had a bottle of water for him to take and when she handed it up, she had a look of indecision in her eyes.

I suppose your dad will have a fit that I told you this, she said, but I just got off the phone with Trudy Bonner. She told me there’s been an accident over near town. Some kids out on Skip Day were involved. She didn’t know how bad it was, or who . . .

Remembering the siren, Walter jumped from the tractor and ran to the house. Where’re the car keys?

Alice Carswell dug in her pocket. I have them here. But Walter don’t stay away long, and please, please drive carefully.

The family Buick tore out of the yard, leaving a shower of gravel behind, and fishtailed twice as Walter floored it toward Van Hooke.

A gathering of students from school and a bunch of farmers stood in front of Lyons Cafe. Looking solemn, Phil Marsden one of Walter’s basketball teammates towered near the eatery’s entrance.

You heard anything, Phil?

Wally! I thought you went home.

Mom heard about the accident on the phone, so I drove in to find out what happened.

Phil looked around and seemed strangely nervous. What did your mother hear?

Only that some kids from school were involved. So, how bad was it?

It was bad . . . real bad. Houser’s SUV met head on with a loaded gravel truck.

Jesus! Where?

The big hill on the two-lane just west of town. Houser was trying to pass another car and the truck, coming over the rise, couldn’t get over.

I heard the siren.

Phil looked as if he wanted to be someplace else.

Yeah . . . Well, I gotta go. I’ll see you later, Wally.

Wait a minute, you haven’t told me what happened to Houser. Did he get hurt bad or . . .

Phil started to walk away, and Walter grabbed him by a shirt sleeve.

What’s the matter? Why don’t you want to talk to me?

Phil gave him a pained look. Some the kids were killed, Wally, Houser and two of the girls.

Jesus!

One of the substitutes on the basketball team, Rick Houser had goofed off a lot, but Walter had always liked him.

Who were the girls? Walter asked, trying to remember who he had seen climbing into Houser’s vehicle.

Phil Marsden looked away.

What’s wrong? Walter asked.

"Damn it Wally, you ought