“Carolyn, is the link with Paul up and running?” Childers asked, waving off Carolyn’s attempts to straighten his tie and make the lapel microphone a little less noticeable to the many cameras that awaited him on the other side of the door they were making their way toward.
“Yes, Paul’s made himself presentable, tough as that is sometimes, and I think excitement of being on the Moon will more than make up for his lack of sleep.”
“Its tough duty to have to sleep in a hammock…on the Moon,” said Childers dryly, with sarcasm so thick that it would drip—had that been physically possible.
“He’ll be fine, you know Paul. Now, here’s the latest on who’ll be in the audience for the press conference. You’ve got another six minutes before show time, can I get you anything?” Carolyn handed Childers a printed copy listing the press, media and new media outlets participating in today’s press conference. The list contained the usual national and international news networks, the space bloggers and a few freelance journalists who covered events such as this for whoever hired them to do so.
“And the models?” asked Childers.
“The models are on the table to the right of the podium and within reach.”
“Carolyn, don’t let Paul take you for granted or he’ll have to answer to me. You have got to be the best organizer I’ve ever had work for me. You haven’t missed a beat since I hired you.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to tell him after you let him come home from the Moon. For now, let’s just settle for getting you through this press conference and then we’ll worry about getting my husband back to me.”
“Right.” Childers smiled and opened the door to the auditorium on the other side.
He walked into the familiar surroundings of the company auditorium and the throngs of faces looking back at him. The antiquated-sounding click of high resolution camera shutters was the dominant sound as Childers walked from the door to the podium in front of the assembled media. Just as Caroline said, to the right of the podium were his “toys.” Models of the Dreamscape, the Dasher and the Dancer, Childers’s names for his lunar orbiter and lander, respectively, and the Out of This World, the lunar hotel in which Paul Gesling had spent his lunar sleep cycle. The sight of his toys evoked a smile, which in turn calmed his nerves and put him into his element—explaining the latest company milestones to a group of interested and anxious reporters.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your attention. Today I am pleased to announce that Space Excursions has accomplished yet another space first and is preparing the way for a series of further successful firsts. Last night, Space Excursions employee and chief pilot, Paul Gesling, spent the night on the Moon, resting as the first guest in the company’s lunar hotel while former NASA astronaut Bill Stetson, who accompanied him on the lunar voyage, remained in the orbiting Dasher module. Gesling will remain on the Moon for another day and night, and then he will return to lunar orbit to rejoin Mr. Stetson and make the homeward trip to Earth. You’ll hear from Mr. Gesling, live from the surface of the Moon, in just a few moments.” Childers paused to assess his audience. He was a gifted spokesman and, as with many similarly talented speakers, he knew that the key to making a good speech is to make sure that you understood your audience and that they understood you. Judging by his quick scan of the faces in the room, he was sure he was in a good place.
“Following the successful return of Messrs. Gesling and Stetson, and in about eighteen months, Space Excursions will relaunch the Dasher and Dancer spacecraft with her first party of tourists bound for the lunar surface and a week-long stay at the Out of This World, where they will experience first-hand both deep space flight and the thrill of actually walking on the surface of an alien world, in this case, our Moon.”
“Before we transfer to the Moon and Mr. Gesling, are there any questions for me?”
Hands all across the room went up. Childers, not being a politician and therefore not really giving a damn if he ticked off a reporter or two, had his favorites among the crowd and he called upon one of them first. In this case, Doreen Davidson, not only because he liked the alliteration of her name, but also because he liked her blog, and that she had always written positively about Space Excursions in the past.
“Mr. Childers, we know there will be six paying customers on the next flight and staying on the Moon in your hotel. Can you tell us who they are?” she asked.
“As I think we clearly explained in our press release, we’re not going to provide those names at this time. If one of the passengers wants to make themselves known, that is up to them. But we all signed some fairly strict confidentiality papers that my lawyers advise me to stick with. I suspect you will know who they are by the time we actually launch, but again, that’s strictly up to them.”
Next, he called on the reporter from the BBC.
“Mr. Childers, you and your company are among a group of companies spending obscene amounts of money in space to dubious benefit. With at least five companies now working to mine asteroids for private gain, a recent poll in Europe showed that a majority don’t approve of the world’s rich elite taking extravagant trips to the Moon while so many on the planet are living in poverty and barely able to subsist. There’s even been a discussion of banning European citizens from flying on your ship. How can you justify this overt display of excess?” The BBC reporter, a man in his mid-twenties with a clear upper-crust British accent looked at Childers with a smug smile and the arrogance that only a well-heeled Brit could possibly manage.
“Mr. Brighthall, the last time I checked, the United States of America is neither subject to European opinion polls nor its politicians. Furthermore, as a believer in economic freedom and the right of people to spend their money as they choose, I am inclined to tell the good people sampled in your poll where they can put their sanctimonious, better-than-thou attitudes, but I won’t, since I am a gentleman and since I don’t want to cause an international incident. And, most importantly, because I want to sell rides to the Moon to my many European friends.” Childers looked, and was, annoyed. He continued, “Let’s just say that in aggregate, the world is a much better and more affluent place to live today than at any time in history. Personally, I attribute that as the inevitable outcome of free people, in free economies, spending their hard-earned money as they so choose.”
“Space technology is helping to lift the economies of the world in ways that were unimaginable just a few years ago and I won’t even try to list them all. Instead, I recommend you do some reading. There are several great books out there that describe what I’m talking about. If you and your colleagues don’t want to participate, then don’t. And please keep your hands out of my pockets while you pursue whatever it is you decide to pursue.” With that, Childers was through talking to the BBC reporter and on to the next.
“Mr. Childers, are you going to fly on one of your own rockets? And, if so, when?” The question came from a female freelance journalist that often wrote space-friendly articles for Space.com and other sites frequented by space advocates.
“Well,” he paused in thought briefly at the question. Then Childers smiled and raised his left eyebrow just before he answered, “That’s two questions. To answer the first, yes, I plan to go. The answer to the second question I will leave to your speculation.”
After about ten more minutes of mostly benign questions, Childers walked toward a large hyper-resolution monitor that was displaying the Space Excursions corporate logo. He nodded to Carolyn and the image of Paul Gesling appeared on the screen. Gesling was in shirt sleeves and standing in front of one of the large viewing windows of the Out of this World showing the truly spectacular lunar landscape immediately behind and outside. The 3D image was stunning, giving those in the room the sense that they, too, were on the Moon.
“For your next round of questions, you’ll be speaking with Paul Gesling from the surface of the Moon,” said Childers, looking for all the world like a sixty-five-year-old kid on Christmas mornin
g.
“Good afternoon and welcome to the Out of This World,” Gesling said as he did his best not to smile like a kid in a toy store. He gestured somewhat excitedly as he began to walk through the interior of the habitat. The camera tracked his movement across the floor and faded into a different view as he approached a closer camera on the side wall. The automated camera system was working flawlessly. “This is where I spent the night and where our guests will spend their week on the Moon. Now, let me show you around…” The tour continued as Gesling moved around the habitat, stopping at each point of interest, including the toilet.
“Mr. Childers, it’s time for you to leave for Nevada. Paul and Hami can take it from here,” whispered Carolyn, trying not to be heard through the microphone as she spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I need to get on the road. My associate, Hami Kunda, will answer any additional questions you may have.” Childers moved toward the exit where Carolyn and the rest of his entourage that would accompany him to the airport and on the Space Excursions private jet to Nevada.
It was a beautiful Kentucky day and Childers stopped on the way to his limousine to admire the brilliant blue sky filled with jet contrails that contrasted with the ever-growing Lexington skyline. The sight conjured in his mind’s eye the thought that had driven him since he was a boy. One of these days, instead of jet contrails, those will be rocket exhausts and we’ll be flying people to and from space by the hundreds each and every day. The thought lingered in his mind as he started to move toward the limo and just as suddenly as the thought of rockets had popped into his mind the first 7.62x63 millimeter slug caught him in his right leg, shattering bone as it tore through his skin. Skin, bone, ligament, and muscle tissue flew from his leg in a spray of pink, red, and flesh-colored mist.
Childers was pushed backward and spun clockwise by the impact as the mist and tissue fragments splattered against the open limo door. He twisted sideways from the impact, knocking Carolyn off balance and directly into the path of the next bullet as he fell to the ground. The second slug caught Carolyn in her upper back which was now facing in the direction she’d been walking just seconds before. The bullet passed through her like a warm knife through butter, perforating her left lung and making a large and bloody exit wound. She, too, fell to the ground. The wound gushed in red and made a wheezing and sucking sound each time her heart beat or she struggled for a breath.
Max Potter, Childers’s longtime body guard was on Childers as soon as he realized what was happening. Moving as he had been trained, he only momentarily had the wherewithal to consider aiding the stricken O’Connor instead of his boss. Realizing that she had not likely been the primary target of the attack and likely not to be shot again, he moved toward Childers. Potter, outweighing the aging Childers by two-to-one, formed the perfect human shield for his boss as the next two slugs meant for Childers struck him. Even though the bodyguard was wearing a level four bulletproof vest under his sport coat, the very large and fast sniper rounds tore through him like the armor wasn’t even there, killing him instantly. There were now three bodies on the ground; one dead and two who would be soon if nothing was done.
Childers’s other assistants scattered, as did the pedestrians who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and in the line of fire. It was one of the pedestrians who called 911 from the safety of a doorway just behind where the bodies were bleeding out on the ground.
Just as instantly as the thoughts of rocket contrails had popped into Childers’s mind and just as instantly as the sniper rounds had made life-altering and life-taking impact on them, the shooting stopped.
CHAPTER 3
Paul Gesling and Bill Stetson should have been leaving lunar orbit for home with a sense of triumph. Both had visited the Moon more than once. Gesling had now piloted five of Space Excursions’ commercial trips around the Moon and back to the Earth in the reusable Dreamscape spacecraft. Lunar tourism was Space Excursions’ first commercial space venture. It was a resounding success and formed the financial basis that now enabled the company to build a lunar hotel. Stetson had walked on the Moon during the rescue of the stranded Chinese astronauts; now he was coming home with a fellow moonwalker.
They were not feeling triumphant. Instead, they felt powerless and, worse still, useless, especially Gesling. His colleague and friend was nearly a quarter of million miles from home, and from his wife, and there was absolutely nothing either of them could do to help her or to get home any faster. Orbital mechanics just would not allow it.
“I can’t believe anyone would want to kill Gary Childers,” said Bill as he watched the ship’s instruments, pausing only briefly to peer out the window at the rapidly receding Moon.
“I can’t believe that Carolyn’s been shot. Damn it all to hell, I feel so helpless way out here. When they catch whoever did this, I’ll kill him. I swear I’ll kill him.”
Stetson knew his buddy was worried sick and blowing off steam, so he didn’t bother reminding his friend that he couldn’t hurt a fly and that he was a huge believer in the rule of law. It wouldn’t serve any purpose to try and talk reason with someone in an unreasonable state, unreasonable distances from home, following such unreasonable and horrific acts.
“Who would do such a thing, anyway?” Gesling shook his head in disbelief.
“People are screwed up, Paul. Gary is a successful businessman in a time that people don’t value the rugged individual like they used to. It doesn’t help that he’s so damned outspoken about what he believes,” Bill said, hoping to reassure his friend. “They’ll be okay. She’ll be okay.”
Stetson knew that Gesling and Childers were friends as well as colleagues. He was getting to know Childers, but he wasn’t likely to ever get into the man’s inner circle where Gesling resided. Only going together through the hard knocks of growing a business, being “in the trenches” together could grow the camaraderie that these two men shared. Stetson knew that he had to try and get his friend to think of something other than his critically injured wife, if that were even possible. Looking out the port at the black sky and the eternal gray sphere that was the Moon, he tried feverishly to come up with something to say that would change the subject, even if it were only for a brief few minutes.
“Wow, wouldya just look at that?” Finally, Stetson broke the silence, “Look at the Earth. Isn’t it beautiful? I never get tired of looking at it. And from here you can see the whole sphere.”
“No political boundaries visible from up here.”
“It’s hard to believe there are now over seven billion people. When I was a boy, there were fewer than four billion and we wondered then how we were going to feed them all.” Stetson pursed his lips and continued, “But we managed. And now there are that many people in the middle class alone. Yep, it’s a better time to be on Earth now than at any time in human history.”
“But for how long? Four billion people consuming resources at the same rate as three hundred million Americans doesn’t seem sustainable. And it isn’t. Look at Africa. The South African War has been raging for nearly three years with no end in sight. Both sides are just proxies for the Chinese and the West, each backing their favorite dictators and warlords just because they want the mineral rights if their side is victorious.” Gesling’s mood was certainly sour. But Bill understood. If somebody had told him that a maniac shot his wife he’d be in an equal or worse fugue.
“Paul, I know you are worried, but I’ve never heard you be this pessimistic. I just can’t believe you buy that ‘limits to growth’ crap. Look where you are. You’re in space, where the resources are unlimited. There are more minerals on the Moon and in near Earth asteroids than there are accessible on Earth. That’s why those space mining companies are coming to Mr. Childers to build them their habitats. They have to have a place for their miners to live when they’re out here getting the mineral resources ready to be sent back to Earth. Pretty soon those African warlords will look around and see that no one is backing them anymore
because it’s easier and more ethical to get the same resources from up here.”
“Bill, do you honestly believe we can mine the asteroids on a scale that will make any difference? Right now that seems like it is millions of years away—science fiction. It can’t be cost effective with today’s technology.”
“Yes, yes, I do.” Stetson didn’t blink. “And I also know that when Japan finishes their prototype space solar power station and starts beaming clean, zero greenhouse-gas emission power back to their resource-starved island that other countries will take notice and start building their own power stations. I’m angry that the first one will be Japanese and not American. But, hey, as long as someone is building it, that’s just fine by me.”
“Space solar power. I still don’t buy it being cost effective. Or safe, for that matter. But who the hell knows? Cost effective or not, Carolyn would’ve loved to write the press release for something like that,” Gesling said with an even darker tone.
“Stop talking like that!” barked Stetson, incensed that his friend was talking of his wife in the past tense. “She’ll write press releases for things more exciting than that—like the first trip to Mars in a few years. She’s alive and in the care of some of the best trauma surgeons in the country. They’ll pull her through…and Mr. Childers to boot.”
As if on cue, the radio beeped to alert them that someone from back home in Nevada wanted to have a conversation. Thus far, all of their musings had been made with the radio muted and all recording devices on the ship purposefully turned off. Bill had insisted on it. Gesling remained fixated on the view through the port while Stetson reacted to the signal and turned on the ship’s radio. Stetson knew that his friend wouldn’t be up for talking unless there was news about his wife.
“Stetson here, what’s up?”
“Bill, we have some news. Gary Childers is out of surgery and it looks like he’ll make it. One of the bullets shattered a bone in his leg and the other passed clean through his body without hitting a vital organ. He suffered a great deal of blood loss, but not enough to do any permanent damage. Fortunately, whoever the sniper was wasn’t a very good shot.”
On to the Asteroid Page 3
