by Andrew Mayne
He's riding shotgun with Jessup in his SUV ahead of the flatbed.
We're counting on the pseudo-crisis aboard the US/iC to cut through the red tape a little.
While Markov has enough people inside and out to smooth things along, if someone gets a little too nosey and decides to dot more "i's" than we have time for, this whole thing could fall apart.
As the carryall comes to a stop, I imagine the security guards checking their clipboards and radioing into the complex about the rocket that just showed up.
Each second stretches much longer than it feels like it should, but that's just my nerves and the fact that I'm going to be spending the next several hours inside of this tin can waiting to see if I get to die in space or Federal prison.
I don't mind the tight quarters all that much. When I was a kid and had my heart set on being an astronaut I watched The Right Stuff and paid careful attention to all the difficult things the astronauts had to do.
The toughest was being stuck inside the space capsule not able to take a pee.
Alan Shepard, the first American in space, had to relieve himself inside his spacesuit because NASA kept pushing back the launch window past the limit of any human's endurance.
Not wanting to embarrass myself or go nuts in the claustrophobic space, I'd test myself by seeing how long I could spend inside a cardboard box.
After a few failed attempts at lasting more than a couple minutes, I found out I could last much longer if I poked air-holes in the box.
I decorated the box with decals and named it "The Centennial Hawk," because I was neither original nor clever.
At first I'd assume a yoga-like pose and watch movies on a laptop I placed inside as my control panel. Then I started going into some deeper meditation – or the nine-year-old's version of it.
While my box was no one's idea of a sensory deprivation tank, I went on some wild daydreams sitting inside there contemplating inner space.
This would help me out later on in life when I worked as a guinea pig and a trainee at iCosmos. I spent a lot of time in the huge water tank going through various simulations, waiting for instructions. Lately it's been zero-g construction for all the space stations being built.
I could sit in the bottom of the tank for hours and hours. Although my first launch was just a few days ago, I've spent months aboard the simulated crew modules and Unicorn prototypes.
All of this leads me to the fact that I'm totally okay here in the DarkStar.
I'm fine.
It's my safe place.
I'm. Not. Worried. At. All.
"David?" says Prescott over the radio.
"Yeah!?"
"You okay?"
"Yeah, fine. I was just dozing off."
"Wow, man. I can't imagine how anyone could sleep during all this."
Me neither. "What's going on?"
"They're letting us through. The payload master is going to meet us in the hangar and sign off on everything."
"Just like that?"
"We emphasized the point that the capsule had to be kept sealed because of the water and the new filtering system."
"Right. Good call."
"That was Ms. Washburn's idea."
"Of course."
The capsule starts to vibrate.
"We're moving."
"I can tell. Other than the payload master, does it look good?"
"We think so. We could have you launched in three hours. They're using the bigger booster, so there's some room for adjustment – which works out well for us."
Trying to intercept a space station is no easy feat. If you're off by seconds, the whole thing is thousands of miles from where you need to be and that takes more fuel.
Fortunately, they're putting me on top of a fatter version of the Alicorn that has more fuel and thrust. It's less efficient, but nobody is worried about that right now.
Prescott keeps me up to date with what's going on outside, while trying not to be obvious about the fact that he's talking to a trojan horse.
Occasionally he calls into his headset as if he's talking to someone back at the Air Force operations center.
I hear the voices of iCosmos load engineers as they inspect the feeds and cables on the outer ship.
The dashboard in front of me shows the Unicorn controls and the different readouts as it talks to the computers outside.
From my side everything seems exactly like a military payload module should look. The sensors we want to give back correct data are doing so, and the ones that we need to lie are performing admirably.
As far as the engineer's portable computers tell them, this is just a dumb cargo ship waiting to be sent into space.
"David," Prescott says in a half-whisper. "We're good. They're going to rotate the ship, connect you to the rocket and then tilt you upright in the next half hour."
"Wonderful."
"We're leaving the assembly building but will check in."
"I'll be right here. Until I won't."
"Roger that." He lowers his voice even more, "And um...thanks, man. I know what you did."
Yeah, but do I?
63
GRAND THEFT
T-MINUS FORTY MINUTES
After I run through all the different things I'm going to have to do to get DarkStar to the K1, I shut my eyes and try to find my peaceful place.
This mission is a flowchart. One action follows another. There are variables, but most of them are known. The less I think, the better my chances of survival.
Wait, that's not right. This isn't about my survival. This is about getting the nuclear device off the station. What happens to me isn't important. The only course of action that matters is the one where the people on the ground will be safe.
T-Minus thirty minutes
I watch the little lines of code whiz past on the screen and occasionally catch one of the strings I recognize.
When they sent men to the moon their spaceship had less computational power than the key fob you use to open your car. Imagine going back in time with a smart light bulb and trying to explain all the things that make that work.
Now a rocket is really a bunch of code attached to some slightly extraneous hardware. Those same engineers of yesteryear would have no trouble grasping all the parts of the Unicorn and the Alicorn. The fact that we use 3D printers to make the engines might come as a surprise, but the design wouldn't be as radical as the fact that right now I'm waiting for a neural network as intelligent as a small mammal to decide if we're good to proceed.
T-Minus twenty minutes
Everything looks good. We're in a perfect alignment for an orbital intercept with the US/iCosmos and the K1 when the DarkStar does its little maneuver.
Let's just hope they don't decide to laser me. I'm pretty sure the wavelength absorbing material that covers this thing is the exact opposite of what you want around you when you're the target of a high-energy weapon.
T-Minus fifteen minutes
We're in the final stage. In less than a half hour I'll either be in orbit or a firework.
I close my eyes to relax for a moment but have to open them when something bright starts to flash unexpectedly.
I reach a hand out to touch the panel but jerk it back in surprise when Vin's face appears on the screen.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
I freeze, not sure what is going on.
"I can see you, David. Did you know that I monitor every launch from a window on my screen? Not many people do."
"Uh...hey, Vin." Should I unbuckle and try to get out of the ship before security gets here? Hold on...maybe I can talk him out of that. "How did you know I was here?"
"When I started iCosmos I didn't want to get complacent. I promised myself that for at least the first thousand people in space I'd watch and make sure that they got there safely.
"That's a hell of a lot of pressure, if you think about it. If something bad happens, I have to watch it live. Imagine my surprise when my terminal tells me the
re's a live feed in a cargo module where there shouldn't be. When I open it up, who do I see? You. Have you seen our stock price lately? The board of directors is talking about replacing me..."
"Vin..."
He shakes his head and cuts me off. "Everything I've worked for, David – everything is on the line because of you."
"I didn't have a choice..."
"Really? What are you doing now?"
I think about Markov's warning about the reach of Silverback. "I'm not at liberty to say."
"I'm not stupid, David. I could tell Peterson and Bennet were up to something." I see his arms move as he types on his keyboard. "I just spent the last several days in what I'd technically call Federal custody after three of my astronauts caused an international incident."
All my screens go dark except for his video. He just shut me down.
"Vin! Don't!"
"I'm asking you again, what are you doing here?"
"You have to trust me."
"Do you know why it took so long for you to get a seat on my ship? It's because I have the most comprehensive psychological profiles you could imagine. I have maps of all my astronaut's brains and can predict how they'll act under different situations. Every time your name came up, I'd run your profile and come back with the same answer; you didn't have the right stuff. Your reflexes, your knowledge, your skills – those were off the charts. But there was something about your character that said this was a man who was out for himself. The only reason you got your slot was because Bennet pushed for it. I told him you didn't have what it takes. Your brain was nothing like his. You weren't a hero. You were a survivor. Survivors make great test pilots, but they're not leaders of men. And now here you are, trying to steal a quarter-billion dollars of hardware from me after causing the worst disaster of my life."
"Vin...things are complicated. I can't tell you my mission."
"That's not what I'm asking. I want to know why you're the one sitting here."
"Me?"
"Yes, you, David Dixon. Why you? What happened to Prescott?Did he back out? Was he ill?"
"Wait? You know about this?"
He gives me a pitiful look. "David, nobody does anything here without me knowing. Markov said he was sending up a specialist."
"Prescott wasn't right for the mission."
"And you are?"
"I don't know. I guess I have to be."
Vin gives me his sage-like smile. "And here we are."
"Capricorn?"
"I deny everything." He winks at me then presses a button on his keyboard.
My control panel lights up again.
"I just gave you a better insertion path to the K1. Four minutes to launch. Anything I can do for you?"
I think he means if I don't make it back. "Tell my parents I love them. Um, give Laney Washburn a chance to fly. Oh, yes, some kids in Rio helped me out. I forget the name of the neighborhood in Rio. Maybe see if you can get them into a school or something?"
"I'll find them."
"Thank you."
"Have a safe trip. When this is all over you should come out to the yacht."
"Only if you promise to lend me the silver Speedos you had on at Burning Man."
64
PROJECTILE
THIS LAUNCH IS JUST as jarring as the last the one. While rockets are a thing of beauty to see take off from the ground, being inside one is a slightly different experience. You're stuck between two forces that want to crush you and shake your brain loose from your spinal cord.
There's the rocket below you, burning millions of gallons of fuel in what can be best described as a controlled explosion. Above you is the earth's atmosphere. Maybe that doesn't seem like much, but think about when you were a little kid and stuck your hand out the car window and what it felt like when the wind slapped into it. Now imagine the wind is slamming into you at 7,000 miles an hour.
What's totally different than last time is the fact that I'm not in my comfy iCosmos form-fitting couch. The chair inside the DarkStar is a few straps stretched over an aluminum frame. I'm afraid I'm going to bust through it any second like my fat aunt on a cheap lawn chair.
One time in college a few of my buddies took turns riding around inside the trunk of an old Impala. It was a dumb, dumb thing to do.
When it was my turn, Ross, my sophomore year roommate, decided to go off-roading.
That trunk was a veritable Versailles compared to the inside of the DarkStar.
I'd give anything to be back in there right now with Mad Ross at the wheel, spinning out in the dirt lot behind Target.
I watch the readout as the countdown hits Max Q – the point where the rocket reaches the maximum impact against the atmosphere.
It's not exactly smooth sailing from here, but if there's a point where this fake space capsule is going to crush like a tin can and the rocket rip itself apart from stress, I just passed it.
Don't get me wrong, lots of things can still go horribly wrong. But we just passed a critical point. The atmosphere begins to get rapidly thinner around here and the vibration settles down a little.
I still have the gurgling roar of the rocket to remind me that I'm one misplaced decimal away from oblivion.
I get ready for the kick of the second stage booster as it separates from the primary booster.
BOOM and we shoot forward like a champagne cork from a bottle.
Meanwhile, the primary booster begins its descent back to Earth where it will land on the launchpad – making me kinda wish I was riding that down right now.
I'm now entering the 60 mile-zone that people generally agree is space.
Fun fact: the first manmade object in space was a Nazi V2 rocket in 1942. Space historians and people who like to remind you how there would be no private space industry without NASA tend to gloss over how much those goose-stepping assholes contributed to rocket technology.
Now I'm about to pass the 108 mile record they set, which basically means I'm beating Hitler again.
At this altitude, if I could look out a window, I'd see stars. But I can't, because I'm inside a black bullet designed for stealth.
Six more minutes of burn on the second stage and then we have separation. That's when the real excitement begins.
Right now I'm just doing the same launch profile we've done thousands of times before. The never-been-done-before part comes when the second stage detaches and the fake-Unicorn begins its approach to the US/iCosmos.
In order to make things look legit to anyone tracking on long range radar or telescope, at the same time the second stage engine disconnects, the DarkStar is going to launch from it.
I read the manuals and studied the interface, but I still have no damn idea what's going to happen.
What I can tell is that there's a very large cylinder between my legs like the hump of a long horse. This bad boy is filled with LMP-103S – a chemical that reacts with a catalyst and produces about 30% more thrust than the hydrazine we use on the Unicorn spacecraft.
To really appreciate the situation I'm in, you can't think of me as sitting on top of a rocket as I get pushed into space: Instead, imagine a rocket engine itself with all those tubes and metal guts – and I'm strapped inside there. Basically, DarkStar is all engine and no rocket.
That's how Admiral Jessup's engineers figured out how to put one powerful rocket inside of another – they decided to have the astronaut straddle the most dangerous part.
Sure, there's some heat insulation that's supposed to protect my testicles from frying like eggs, but this has never been tested. For all I know, they melted the last three crash test dummies they put here.
The upside is that I'm pretty sure I'm going to black out the moment the rocket fires. The K1 is on the other side of the earth and I have to race like a bat out of hell to get into an elliptical orbit that will not only match its speed, but put me on a parallel path. All without them knowing I'm even sneaking up on them.
To do this, the DarkStar is designed to pick up another
two thousand miles an hour of speed beyond the velocity of the Unicorn.
Most of it all at once.
Did I mention that the main rocket engine on the DarkStar is running between my legs?
Not in some cool this-is-my-pseudo-phalus kind of way. No, this is more of a this-monopropellant-thruster-is-about-to-violate-you-like-no-man-should-ever-be-violated kind of way.
"You ready to go?" asks Laney on the comm.
"No. Not really."
"Too bad. Time to man up."
"Baylor here, I'll be doing the countdown in mark..."
Oh, crap. Here we go...
65
THRUSTER
THE ROCKET KICKS on and I feel a rumble words cannot describe.
"MOTHER OF GOD!"
"You okay, Dixon?" asks Baylor.
"THIS IS INSANE!"
"I think he's enjoying it," says Laney.
"THE POWER! ALL THE POWER!"
I think I need a cigarette. Holy shit. I just got violated by a mothballed Navy secret weapon and I think I kind of liked it.
Hell. I know I did.
Jesus. Christ.
I don't care if the DarkStar doesn't return my texts tomorrow. There will always be this magical moment I can take with me forever.
In pilot circles there's a kind of physical envelope we all strive for. It's that borderline place between going so fast you're about to black out and the sensation that your body is moving impossibly fast and you're sort of at one with the universe.
Ernst Mach, the guy who got to name a whole unit of speed, once theorized that inertia was the property of the gravitational force of all the matter in the universe acting on a body.
Relativity provided a much better explanation, but in that perfect moment of acceleration you feel like the universe is trying to hold you back – and failing.
For several glorious minutes, the DarkStar thrusted me along that edge.
This is why I became a pilot. And to think I was going to let some Navy squid have all the fun. Not on my watch.
"Hey, Dixon," says Captain Baylor over my comm after the burn. "Did you survive?"
"Survived is an understatement. When I get back I'm changing my relationship status for this machine."
