Once there, the Soviets attached the cables to a remotely operated lander which mated to the plugs. The power kernel acted as a lander platform, and the Soviets neatly landed their plugs into the center of the power kernel, detached and went back for the others until the RTG was totally assembled.
This system was totally unshielded or uncontained. They used the crater walls for shielding the base. Inside the crater was literally a no-mans-land. Standing within 15 meters of the RTG for three minutes would be fatal.
The Soviets gambled that the technological wonder of their system and the incredible feat of its construction would far outstrip the temporary flood of criticism, and they took the chance that their launch system was good enough to thwart disaster on launch from Baikonur Cosmodrome. They won the bet that they could pull it off, but they underestimated the degree of world outrage. They ended up with a nearly inexhaustible supply of energy on Mars and a black eye on earth.
"Shturmovoi, this is the United States space vehicle Goddard. Please acknowledge."
Kerry turned the volume all the way up and reduced the squelch until all he could hear was a faint background hiss. No response. It had been that way for three orbits.
No one had authorized him to place the call, but that was too bad. Earth wasn't answering their calls of late either.
"Shturmovoi, this is Goddard; over."
No response. The Soviets were not answering their incoming messages, either, and Kerry would have almost given up the next sunrise to find out why.
9
Shturmovoi
The Mars Base of the Reunified Soviet Empire
On the Lake of the Sun
yodor Stepanovich Kirov's feet were always cold. They had been cold since the first minute he landed on Mars. He cursed the pathetic trutnev (drones) who had engineered Shturmovoi's living structures. They had either miscalculated the heat transfer characteristics of the floor material or ignored them altogether.
He looked at the clock, nearing midnight, and shivered. The life support system would be automatically lowering the temperatures again in less than an hour.
He pulled a second pair of socks over his feet then he cursed the Shturmovoi's Collegium for prohibiting the use of more than three changes of underwear per week. The most recent lament among the staff at Shturmovoi was that the Collegium had first invaded their minds; now they were dictating what went on in their pants.
As far as Kirov was concerned, the Collegium members (the administrative staff) were "... pridurkovaty shkurkin!", or, self-serving, indulgent imbeciles.
Kirov was the chief scientist and the Energy Systems Chief of the RSE scientific contingent assigned to the Martian base. He sat on the side of his bed, looked longingly at the warm pile of contraband blankets, and exhaled heavily, twice, into the air.
"There! There! The ignorant bastards!" he swore again. This behavior had become a ritual with Kirov. Exhaling into the air of his quarters, watching his breath condense out in the cool air, then cursing the Collegium for not diverting more of their so-called "abundant energy source" for heat. Worse yet, it was Kirov who had designed the plant and was sent to manage it. Still, he could divert no more energy for himself than the rest of his colleagues who froze right along with him.
Kirov was a space systems nuclear engineer - a physicist with the title of engineer; a common and accepted practice in the Reunified Soviet Empire where the prestige of engineer was typically higher than that of a scientist. Prior to his assignment to the Mars base, he had been assigned to serve a sabbatical from Moscow University to the Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center in Houston, Texas. He grew fond of the humid, sweltering weather there and began to hate all forms of cold. Fearing a return to the Baikonur Cosmodrome's bitterly cold weather, he deftly parlayed his assignment into two full years before being ordered unequivocally back to the Soviet manned spaceport.
He cursed the cold and his own stupidity for not considering the consequences of a three year stint on a planet whose warmest equatorial heat made Siberia seem like Miami Beach. Career enhancement notwithstanding, Kirov recently wished he had followed in his brother's path who had married a fat Muscovite, fathered three children and worked in the Leninsky AZLK Moskvich automobile factory. At least he was warm at night.
Kirov pulled a pair of cotton gloves over his hands and flexed them several times to restore circulation as best he could. Then he picked up his folder and turned to leave for the meeting for which he had been summoned from his sleep. He had been ordered out of his bed to meet with Shturmovoi Base Commander, Colonel Zoya Anatolyevna Dimitriov.
He paused to look at the image staring back at him from his mirror. Kirov looked for all the world like a vagrant; his gray hair tumbled wildly across his naked forehead which swept all the way up to the center of his head. His gray eyes seemed to be crowded by his bushy eyebrows and pronounced nose. He wore loose, baggy sweaters that he never changed, although he had purchased half a dozen of them all of the same colors: gray and green. His salt-and-pepper mustache drooped unevenly toward the ends of his mouth. He did not particularly like what he saw, but he had become used to it, in all of its Einstinian moppishness. He wiped a few specks from the shag of tangled hair drooping over his mouth and turned to leave.
Why Dimitiov would call him out of a sound sleep to ask him a question which she specifically labeled "not urgent" was beyond him, but there was little surprise in it. Kirov had worked for an individual like her before. As an enlisted soldier in the infantry, he had served one Lieutenant Fiostich, ostensibly as an adjutant. Fiostich used to like to wake Kirov up to serve him and his fellow officers beer and vodka and then make him shine their boots during their all too frequent poker parties. It became a standard operating procedure that Fiostich should not tell Kirov of his planned festivities so that he could roust him out of bed at bizarre hours. It added something to Fiostich's sick sense of power to see Kirov stumble in half awake and stand at attention, awaiting his orders.
From this experience Kirov came to know and loathe the State, as his father had. Yet, Kirov's experience was inconsequential compared to that of his father, whose hopes and dreams were systematically denied, if not deliberately strangled, from him. Kirov often wondered why his father never spoke to him of those cherished ideas. Later in his life, Kirov concluded it was to protect him. But it did not work. His father died a bitter and unhappy man. If nothing else, they could have shared his dreams together. In the effort to protect him, his father had denied them both what little joy they could have clung to between them. At least they could have shared them together in their hearts.
The Soviet state had not just survived over the decades on its daily feast of self-indulgent paranoia; it had always defined itself thus by its secretive, compartmentalized social dysfunction. The old Soviet Union disappeared amid happy but mostly uninformed Western rumors of self-immolation, but the truth was far more interesting. After their foray into a period of capitalism, state reorganization and secret rearmament, the old Soviet State reformed just as quickly as it had disappeared as the Reunified Soviet Empire - stronger than it had ever been at any time in its history. Just as the Western economies began to disintegrate from excess, the RSE reawakened as a much more powerful, stable reincarnation of what it had been before.
Kirov reflected on these things in a swirl of recollections from far away and long ago. He stumbled, half-awake, down cold and dimly lit passages to Dimitriov's office. He rapped twice on the thin door and waited the customary five seconds before Dimitriov said sharply, "Come in."
Zoya Dimitriov looked up from her desk at him. Kirov knew well that he represented all that his boss and commander loathed in humanity. She had accused him of being sloppy and a chronic complainer, and she had told him he seemed to care about nothing but his science, which he appeared to worship more than the State itself. Dimitriov had told him to his face that she held this low opinion of him. Kirov came from a notorious family of Jewish refusnik and his father had repeatedly been den
ied permission to leave the RSE for Israel because of his intimate knowledge of State nuclear technology. But it could not have escaped her notice that before her stood one of the most brilliant nuclear scientists in the world; perhaps the only distinction that had saved him from the gulags.
"Sit down," Dimitriov said flatly, looking down at her desk. Kirov sat in the cold, plastic seat in front of her. Her office was unlit except for her desk lamp, and had no photos on the wall except for the prescribed black and white photo of the current RSE leader hanging slightly crooked in a cheap plastic frame.
Kirov wound the end of his bare fingers projecting out of his gloves through his mustache and considered the impoverished surroundings. He looked absently at Dimitriov, assuming she was going to inform him that communications had been reestablished with the earth and that he should write up some kind of inconsequential report. Whatever it was, it did not matter; he was cold, tired and wanted only to go back to sleep.
"Dr. Kirov, what do you know of the American base?" she asked him directly. The question stunned him. Was she interrogating him? Did she think he was an agent for the West?
"... ah, nothing, nothing at all. Except, naturally, from what I have read and heard at conferences," he answered truthfully.
She narrowed her eyes at him, holding her head away from the light so that her face was cast in a soft shadow. This muted her sharp features, but Kirov could see that her mordant, stern appearance held up even at this late hour. Her black hair was tied in a thick bun atop her head that seemed to pull her face tight.
"I have information that suggests the American base is tearing itself to pieces," she offered without elaboration. Then she said nothing, obviously waiting for his reaction.
Kirov and the other scientists at Shturmovoi often joked that Dimitriov had been sent to them from the Lubyanka, the notorious secret police headquarters and prison in central Moscow. The truth was, none of them had ever seen or heard of her before she was named director of the project. The job of directing a scientific mission with broad political overtones, as with the American base, was a political handoutwhich typically fell to bureaucrats, not scientists.
As for Dimitriov's association with the Lubyanka, well, such associations in the Soviet state were hard to differentiate between other party-connected professional assignments. These distinctions were considered to be distrustful of the state. The thought police were sure to root out these types of ideas and expose them; hence they were contemplated only in the recesses of the mind and never expressed by such foolishness as words.
"In what way are they tearing themselves to pieces?" Kirov asked, only mildly curious. Propaganda was typical. He discovered that believing each pronouncement from state sources would be equivalent to Americans believing everything they read on the cover of supermarket tabloids.
Dimitriov paused and lit a dark brown cigarette. While this act did not surprise him, it angered Kirov. Such items were strictly forbidden at Shturmovoi. The life support system was never designed to handle this garbage. The filth from the wretched Soviet tobacco, makhorka, would end up infecting them all.
"There has been a revolt there, and at least one is dead because of it," she said, again pausing and watching Kirov carefully while exhaling a putrid, blue cloud over the room. He found the information nearly impossible to believe. Some of the best scientists and engineers from earth had been through the American base, and many were still there. He was a personal friend of Fabian Gorteau whom he had met in Houston.
"What do you make of that?" she asked directly.
"I find it difficult to believe," he responded truthfully, his voice involuntarily catching on the acrid smoke.
"Believe what you will," she replied dully. "Do you have any personal acquaintances there?"
"No," he lied without a pause. Lying quickly and without hesitation was a technique he had learned early on. "Obviously, I have read of many of them and am familiar with a few of their publications." He successfully resisted the urge to carelessly embellish and protect his lie.
"Then you know none of their scientists or staff?" she pressed, causing Kirov's heart to race.
"No, as I told you."
"Very well. We have heard nothing from them since we lost our earth-based communications satellite. Did you know that they have a man still in orbit here from one of their shuttle craft?"
"No, I have no way of knowing that," he replied honestly.
"I would have suspected a communications attempt from them before now, but it is not surprising that we have received none, considering their state of affairs," Dimitriov said disjointedly, perhaps more to herself than Kirov.
Kirov sat still, considering the path down which Dimitriov was leading him. There was always a path. "Have we attempted to contact them?" he finally asked.
"No, of course not," Dimitriov replied, her voice revealing surprise that he should ask such an incredibly witless question.
"Colonel Dimitriov, I would be happy to present several communications scenarios with which we may contact the Americans, if for nothing else, to share information on our communications loss. Perhaps together, we can resolve the enigma. Perhaps we could use their earth-linked satellites to contact our headquarters."
"I forbid it! We both know such a plan cannot be approved at this level," she said, irritated, mashing out the butt of her cigarette and blowing the last cloud of smoke toward Kirov. "There are no acceptable scenarios. A man in your position with your supposed status should know this without discussion," she seemed to threaten him.
"And if they should try to establish communications with us?" Kirov asked without a pause, fully engaging her rebuke with his own logical riposte while anticipating the inevitable.
"Then we shall ignore them until directed otherwise."
"Is there anything else, Colonel?" Kirov asked, looking away from her hard features, his voice betraying his fatigue.
"Yes, there is. Prepare a report on the details of each individual you know or have heard about from the American base. I'd like it immediately. You may transmit it as soon as you are completed. That is all," she said looking back to her desk.
"Colonel Dimitriov," he said quietly.
"Yes?" she asked, continuing to stare at the papers on her desk and shaking another cigarette out of the pack.
"If they did have information on the loss of our satellite, perhaps we could benefit by their knowledge. Perhaps we could borrow transmission time from one of their satellites until ours is repaired," he offered.
She moved her eyes off the desk to his and looked at him with utter contempt, as though she were staring at a cockroach sitting on the edge of her desk.
"I am waiting for your report, Dr. Kirov," she said bluntly.
10
uzanne Nikifortune was a priceless gem amid the thousands in the Washington clerical staff. She was a breathtaking beauty who could crank out 90 words per minute without an error and keep better track of her boss’ schedule than he could. She knew and capitalized on the fact that being a good Administrative Assistant was an innate talent only a gifted few were blessed with. Lassiter Lipton recognized this quickly, and had lured her away from the Gentleman Senator from South Carolina with promises of a quick trip to the top of the Government General Schedule, a junket to Mars, and double her salary. She was worth every taxpayer's nickel of it. She looked her part; her beauty was carefully manicured and appropriately conservative. Yet she was able to package it in a style which served to accent her attractiveness. She had resisted the temptation to allow her appearance to deteriorate while at BC1. She did not show up to work in coveralls nor did she fail to maintain her immaculate wardrobe, even when the BC1 laundry was out of commission.
It was nearing midnight and she was still working. It did not make much difference to her; she had worked longer on occasion and kept careful track of her hours for which she was well paid. It really did not matter whether she had a night life on this planet or not. She was already convinced that any of t
he people on Mars, squatters or transients, were far from her type and she would save her affections for earthside.
"Suzanne, where is my staff?" Lipton demanded
She had rarely seen him in such a fury. He stalked out of his adjoining office and continued his harangue. "I told Hernandez to have my staff in my office nearly half an hour ago! Now where are they?" Lipton did not aim his barb directly at Suzanne. He would not have done that even if she had just set his desk on fire. Such was the unspoken bond between the professional manager and his closest aide.
"I'll do my best to find them, Dr. Lipton," she responded, with level neutrality, punching in the appropriate numbers on her C2. She was careful not to display frustration, although she had been actively attempting to track them down continuously for nearly an hour.
Suzanne was astonished at how much control Lipton had lost. She had never seen him act so frazzled in her presence before. Five minutes later she stepped into his doorway. Lipton was looking out his wide windows to the dark Martian night, the translucent domes glowing orange in the gloom.
"I’m still unable to locate any of them, Dr. Lipton. Shall I page them?"
Paging after working hours was procedurally limited to full blown emergencies. Each compound and room had a speaker connected to the paging system. To use it late at night was sure to disturb many people.
"Yes. Page them now," Lipton replied quickly. Suzanne returned to her desk and punched in the code just as Lipton's staff entered the office.
"Dr. Lipton has been expecting you," she said to them with all the professional contempt and a look of absolute derision that only a Director's Administrative Assistant could get away with.
Lipton was already at the door of his office. "Where have you been, dammit? Get into my office!" he shouted at Hernandez. As Hernandez hurriedly walked past him, Lipton grabbed his sleeve, pulling him inside and slamming the door. “I’ve been waiting for you for nearly an hour," Lipton began.
Mars Wars - Abyss of Elysium Page 12
