Taylor turned toward Falcone, who looked ready to launch another objection or quite possibly storm the dais and slug Collinsworth.
“I like to think that I’m a product of the free-market system, Senator. I’ve been allowed to pursue and achieve a measure of professional success well beyond my dreams, and surely those of my parents. But I had a helping hand along the way with great teachers, scholarships, grants, and loans. In other words, like the frog sitting on a lamppost, I didn’t get there all on my own.”
“This isn’t about frogs or lampposts, Mr. Taylor, but about your belief that the U.S. government and its citizens should not be allowed to claim title or ownership to any real estate or resource in international waters or outer space. That we must share the fruits of our labor and capital with other nations under a treaty drawn up by the United Nations, which boldly questions American sovereignty. That is not capitalism, Mr. Taylor. Not as I understand it. That’s unadulterated socialism.”
Falcone knew that Collinsworth was going to play hardball, but this was a brass-knuckle assault on Taylor. First, Collinsworth accused Taylor of being an atheist, and then a socialist—which was just a Texas taco short of being labeled a communist. Collinsworth was a throwback to Joe McCarthy’s headline-making anticommunist crusade that ruined the reputations and professional lives of scores of innocent people.
Collinsworth, however, was smarter than McCarthy, more telegenic, and wise to the ways of the new social media, which operated without filters for either truth or decency.
Falcone ignored the advice he had given Taylor to remain calm. “Senator Collinsworth,” he shouted, not bothering to speak into Taylor’s microphone. “I object to what can only be described as outrageous and reprehensible—”
“I warned you, counselor,” Collinsworth barked back, repeatedly slamming his gavel. “Any more interruptions or outburst and I’ll have the sergeant-at-arms remove you from this hearing.”
“It’s all right, Sean,” Taylor said. This time it was his steel-like grip on Falcone’s arm. “I can handle this.
“Senator Collinsworth,” he continued, sweeping his gaze along the dais, “as you know, and most if not all of you know, through my writings and public appearances, I strongly support NASA’s space programs. The exploration of space is in my DNA. I am incurably curious about the creation of our planet, our galaxy, and those that exist in the unbounded universe. Many find their curiosity and questions about our beginning in their religious faiths. I respect those that find such solace there. But the pursuit of scientific knowledge, of trying to comprehend the mysteries of the unknown, has been the driving and uplifting force in my life.
“And there is another reason that explains my passion—a sadder, darker, and less noble reason. I believe that humankind will one day destroy life on this planet. That we will continue to overpopulate, to desecrate and despoil our fragile ecosystem through the mindless denial of our contribution to climate change—yes, global warming—and—”
Collinsworth was pounding the gavel, but Taylor spoke on, his voice strong and sure, the voice of a scientist and a skilled showman. “And, I say to all members of these committees, I fear that nuclear weapons will continue to be proliferated and that they will one day be unleashed and result in a nuclear winter that may leave insects as the only animate life on Earth. I further—”
“My, my, Mr. Taylor,” Collinsworth sneered, putting down his gavel and deciding to engage. “From Einstein to Malthus! Oh, ye of little faith.”
“Ironically, Senator, I know your vision of the future. I share your view—and that of so many of your Texan supporters—that we should be sending explorers to the moon, to Mars, and eventually to other galaxies. Not just for the wonder and the miracle of space travel, but so we can have the chance to save our species, to start over, to build a more humane and peaceful civilization—having destroyed the many opportunities we’ve had to do so here.”
“I’m astonished at the depth of your pessimism about God’s children and our ability to be redeemed by God’s grace,” Collinsworth said, affecting a tone intended to express sadness rather than anger. “But based on what I’ve heard today, I don’t think you’re exactly a role model for the younger generation who might be looking to you and your fellow scientists for leadership. That’s my personal opinion and others on these committees may differ.
“But just one final question from me before I yield to others. I have been told by my staff that in public and private conversations you have advocated that the United States should lead a crusade to change the UN space treaty so that commercial activities in space—such as the mining of asteroids—are regulated or restricted or even banned. Is that correct? If so, why do you take this anticapitalist position?”
“Because greed is going to kill us all,” Taylor calmly answered. “You may think that since America has a lead in technology at the moment that we are always going to enjoy the high ground on the new frontier of space. But others have the same goal in mind. The Chinese are planning to set up a colony on the moon. If they arrive first and claim title to all of that cratered land, are you willing to say that the first ones to plant a flag, create a village, and draw territorial boundaries become the owner of the property? And if they get to Mars before we do, will we have to buy or rent a piece of the desert from them? Or will you start banging the drum to go to war to challenge their ownership claims?”
“As I understand the Outer Space Treaty—which you have supported with such gusto—you might recall that states, nations, governments, can exercise no claim of ownership of heavenly bodies.”
“Indeed, Mr. Chairman, I recall it well, and I recall that you and some of your colleagues over the years have tried to find a way to circumvent the treaty’s provision against land—or should I say—space grabs?”
Taylor paused for Collinworth’s retort. When none came, Taylor went on: “It’s not my area of expertise, but I feel the same way about the need for the United States to ratify the Law of the Sea Treaty—we being one of the few nations on the planet who’ve refused to do so. What if the Russians or the Chinese lay claim to the resources under what remains of the ice cap in the Arctic, which is melting at an alarming speed? What if—”
Before Taylor could finish his question, Collinsworth slammed his gavel down and said, “You are here to answer questions, not ask them. And it may come as a surprise to you, but we don’t need to wave a piece of paper at the Russians and Chinese. We need to stick a missile right in their gazoos if they ever try to interfere or stop us…”
“So you think shooting off some missiles is a better choice than—” Taylor parried, before he was cut off again.
“Yes, sir. Rather than raising a white flag and turning everything over to the UN. You bet. A few years ago, the Chinese up and destroyed one of their own satellite systems. No notice to anyone. Just damn well did it. They spread debris all over the place, putting our assets and manned missions in jeopardy. They didn’t give a flying French fry if they hurt or killed anyone. They wanted to make a point. Show the world. And what about the Russians invading Ukraine, an independent and sovereign country?
“What did the U.S. do about it? Complain to the Yu Nited Naations?” Collinsworth asked, looking theatrically over his pair of half-rim reading glasses at his fellow senators on the dais, sarcasm dripping with every stretched-out vowel.
“Hello, anybody home there? No answer? Doorbell didn’t work? Next stop the International Court at The Hague with all of those wigged European judges? Well I’ll tell you where I come from, possession pretty much determines ownership, and if we get our hands on one of those ore-rich rocks, well game over and the Chinese and Russians can—”
“Go to … war?” Taylor asked, forcing a smile, hoping he didn’t appear as contemptuous as he felt right then.
“We’ve heard just about enough from you. As I said at the very outset, Mr. Taylor, you pander in fear. And it’s clear that your science has been shaded by your liberal, socialist a
genda—”
“You insisted that I come here today, Senator,” Taylor broke in, stunning Collinsworth. “I thought you wanted an honest discussion of the issues that affect our economic and national-security interests. But it’s apparent that you have other motivations. I know you want the federal government, and especially NASA, to fold up and disappear. Just step away and allow the private sector to explore and exploit space, including the mining of asteroids.
“My word of caution to you and your colleagues is that space is no place for Lone Rangers. No place where finders-keepers cowboys ride asteroids to the promised land of wealth. If there are no rules, no regulations, there are going to be mistakes and miscalculations made. And when that happens, you are going to see calamity come rushing at us with the power of a thousand suns.”
Taylor felt a curious mixture of anger and adrenaline welling up inside him. Then his voice trailed off as he took a deep breath and exhaled. He had said enough.
For the first time that morning, the low-level buzz and chatter stopped completely. A few seconds passed, and then several members in the audience stood up and started applauding.
Hamilton, fuming, looked around, then turned to Sprague and said, “That stupid jerk has lost control. What the hell is going on?”
“It’s over. Anderson’s taking charge,” Sprague said, nodding toward the dais. Collinsworth was slumping in his chair, as if battered by Taylor’s stream of words. Anderson took the gavel from his hand. He banged down once and, aiming his stare at the witness, said, “Mr. Taylor, I would advise you to cease the outbursts and answer my questions with direct and responsive answers.”
“Certainly, Senator. As you know, I have a statement that I would like to have entered into the record. The gist of my statement is the necessity to—”
“I’m afraid that your statement cannot be entered into the record of this hearing,” Anderson said, conjuring a frown on his broad brow.
Falcone grabbed Taylor’s microphone and said, “My understanding, Senator Anderson, is that my client would have the opportunity to make a short opening statement. Obviously—”
“I’m afraid that is not possible, counselor. I’ve had the chief counsel of my Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation examine your statement, and she advises us that it contains classified information that, if disclosed, would institute a serious breach of national security.”
Taylor at first clamped his jaw shut and fought to control his rage. But in a moment it erupted: “That is flat-out false, Senator, and I say that with all due respect.”
“Take care, Mr. Taylor, before you call this senator a liar.”
“I repeat that—”
Slamming his gavel loud and hard, Anderson cut Taylor off and said, “I have referred your statement to the Department of Justice for investigation as to how you obtained this classified information and whether prosecution is warranted. You hereby are properly advised not to attempt to disclose this information to anyone.”
“That’s bull … feathers,” Taylor said. “I used open-sources information for my statement. The public deserves to know the dangers posed and—”
“You’re out of order,” Anderson fairly shouted. “I’m in charge of this hearing now. And I will not tolerate any insolence. And I’m not going to permit you to say anything more. This witness is dismissed for now. The hearing is adjourned until two o’clock this afternoon, when, Mr. Taylor, you will get some questions from me.”
Falcone and Taylor looked at each other. They both expected that the worst was yet to come.
46
Falcone, Taylor, Darlene, and Sam Bancroft headed for Hunan Dynasty, a Capitol Hill restaurant that was a short walk down Pennsylvania Avenue. As soon as they were seated around a window table, Taylor turned to Falcone and asked, “What was that business in the hallway? Did you really quit?”
“You heard it right, Ben. No big deal,” Falcone said.
“What are you two talking about?” Darlene asked. Taylor told her what he heard when Sprague confronted Falcone.
“You quit? Just like that? Why the hell did you do that?” she exclaimed. An approaching waiter, hearing a raised female voice, turned away.
“Let’s not make a big deal of this, Darlene,” Falcone said. “I’m your father’s lawyer. And that’s all there is to it. I don’t think much of Hamilton anyway. Or of Sprague, for that matter. This was bound to happen.”
“I don’t know about that, Sean,” Taylor said, reaching out to pat Falcone’s hand. “I thank you. But I feel guilty and—”
“My clients are never guilty, Ben.”
“Okay, Sean. Thanks. But I worry—”
“And my clients never worry, either, Ben. I’m in fine shape. That’s what’s important—for you and for me.”
“Okay, Sean, if you say so. But … it’s more than worry. It’s disgust at the way they acted in there this morning.… Was it like that when you were here, Sean?”
Falcone did not speak immediately. He was at a loss for words. He couldn’t believe how far the Senate had fallen in the years since he left. No longer was there any respect for tradition, for Rules or Protocol or Grace. Now it was just throw everything and everyone into the meat grinder and churn out the gross-smelling sausage on prime time. Hell, at anytime.
“No,” he answered. “It wasn’t this bad. But by the time I decided to leave, it was headed toward the gutter.”
“They ever treat a former member like they did today?”
“No. Well, maybe if he had been tossed out of the Senate or been convicted of something.”
“Sad,” Taylor said. “Used to be a lot of respect and prestige that went with the title Senator.”
“Hell. Some of them quit halfway into their terms to take high-paying jobs with political action groups masquerading as think tanks.… But, you know, Ben, it’s not just the Senate. The deterioration is happening everywhere.”
Everywhere. No matter where Falcone turned, he saw the loss of quality. In the people who served, the bridges that were falling, the roads that were crumbling. And the financial marketplace, where the rules were there to be broken and the people in charge, the people with power, were never charged for breaking them.
“And crude, mean language in messages and tweets,” Darlene injected. “We’re the fattest nation on the planet, and we don’t seem to give a damn! There’s no middle class any longer. Just the rich, super rich…”
“And the poor bastards at the bottom of the pyramid,” Falcone said. “All true. But at the moment, it does us little good to complain about it. We need to try to get back on what we came here for.”
“What’s going to happen next back there?” Taylor asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Capitol.
“You all saw what Collinsworth and Anderson were up to—belittle you, build up SpaceMine, give Hamilton a platform for spouting his private-enterprise gospel, and ignore worries about mining satellites,” Falcone replied. “You’ll get another session on the hot seat this afternoon. And then will come Hamilton for the finale. If you think of this as reality television instead of a congressional hearing, you’ll understand it better. It’s staged for drama, not truth.”
“What about the opening statement?” Bancroft asked. “They suppressed the Air Force report. It’s not classified. It has never been classified.”
“I know. I know,” Falcone said. “There’s nothing we can do about it right now. In a while we can petition the White House for a declassification order. Eventually, we’ll get that report made public. It will take time. Right now we’ve got the hearing to deal with.”
“But how could Collinsworth say it’s classified?… That’s a lie.”
“I’ve seen it done before, Sam,” Falcone said. “A powerful congressman decides to bag something that is not classified. He takes it to a friendly intelligence bigfoot and gets it provisionally classified.”
“He can do that?” Bancroft asked. “I thought only the Preside
nt can classify and declassify. Or am I being naive?”
“No, under the law, you’re absolutely right. The law says only the President can classify and declassify. But he can also deputize the job. And so some secrets are artificially classified without the President’s notice.”
“But Ben needs to get it out, needs to tell the public. Can’t we get President Oxley to simply order it declassified?”
Falcone reflected on his dealings with Oxley. The President was single-minded in the pursuit of his own agenda. He was not inclined to take any risks, not even for friends.
“He could,” Falcone replied. “But he won’t. Not at this point at least. He’s trying to make a budget deal with Congress, and crossing Collinsworth would be a deal-breaker. Think how it would look to the press.”
“You’re ahead of me. I’m just a flyboy. Tell me how it would look.”
“The CIA has classified a report that an astrophysicist wants to release so that the information can be used by our enemies against us. And, by the way, few people know what in hell it is that an astrophysicist does, other than he’s some egghead who is trying to discover the origins of our planet and deny that it was God’s handiwork. And—”
“Come on, Sean. That would be bullshit.”
“Sure. But lots of times news is bullshit, and with the CIA and Collinsworth in the story, it’s big news. And there’s more. This particular atheist is involved in a murder that’s being investigated by the FBI.… So you tell me, what do you think Oxley will do?” Falcone turned to Taylor. “Okay, Ben. It’s back into the Colosseum.”
47
Senator Frank Anderson of Oklahoma, chair of the Commerce, Science, and Transportation Committee, was a slight man in a rumpled brown suit, checkered shirt, and yellow and black bowtie. He sat at Collinsworth’s right. As soon as the room settled down for the afternoon session, he took up his part in the script that he and Collinsworth had laid out days before over a two-martini lunch at the Monocle.
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