Man's Hope

by Zellmann, William

  "We can spend those months examining asteroids so we can pick out a good one. When we select one, we use the rockets to alter the comet's orbit to take us to it. Maybe we crash it into the asteroid to get it started headed toward Earth." He shrugged. "I don't know, that's technical details that can be worked out later."

  Frank looked skeptical. "So you want me to start my own private space program. So, how do you get back, and what's the payoff?"

  David looked puzzled. "I thought you'd see that by now, sir. We kick the asteroid out of the belt, and guide it into an Earth orbit. The payoff for you is access to millions of tons of minerals that don't have to be transported out of the Earth's gravity field. By the time we get back in three years or so, we'll already have tunneled out a space station, with the remains of the comet to provide oxy and hydrogen. While we're gone, you set up an orbital factory to refine the purest minerals in the universe. For mankind," he continued, "we get not just a few tin cans assembled into a makeshift space station, but a real, usable, kilometer-sized station in space. One we can use to really develop space colonies. After all, once out of Earth's gravity well, you're halfway to anywhere!"

  Frank looked thoughtful. "I still see some problems. You can't transport supplies for three years in a shuttle. For that matter, how do you keep a crew living in a tin can for three years sane?"

  David shrugged. "Certainly there are problems. I'm an aeronautical engineer by training, and I can probably see more of them than you can. As for supplies, send up unmanned cargo capsules to rendezvous with the comet and/or the asteroid. We'll be in constant communication, although light-speed lag will make it one way; but you will always know our orbital data, and where to shoot your cargo capsules." He shrugged. "For the crews, you may be able to swap them, once the comet emerges from behind the sun. Send up another shuttle with a fresh crew. Hell, I don't know, sir. There are literally millions of details that would have to be worked out." He jumped to his feet and began pacing. "What I do know is that this is a possible way to jump start man's future, and it can be done with today's technology!'

  Frank's frown eased, and a slow smile appeared. "I suppose you've talked to NASA about this."

  David looked shocked. "Good lord, no, sir. They're the people that took the most exciting moment in mankind's history, the moon landing, and managed to make it boring! Maybe back in the '60's NASA was full of visionary young people, but nowadays all that's left are bureaucrats looking for bigger budgets and engineers looking for raises."

  Frank's smile widened and he jerked a nod, as though making up his mind. "All right, David, I'll take a look at it. I'll have to have some research done, and do some myself. Meanwhile, you'd better get back to duty. But you had better understand this: if we do this, we will be cordially hated by NASA and the U.S. government. For one thing, I can foresee the necessity of sending a nuclear reactor on this mission, and if so, Washington will be after both our scalps – mostly mine. We can't do this from the states, and don't forget, after a twenty-year retirement, you're technically a reservist, which gives them a handle on you. I also wouldn't be surprised if they didn't find a way to use your pension to bring you around. You'd better give that some thought. For now, just go on to D.C. and keep your head down."

  Paul Goodman, PhD was Frank's advisor on scientific and specifically space science issues. He had two doctorates, one in physics, and one in aeronautical engineering. Frank paid him a retainer large enough to let him concentrate on his own researches, but the value of his advice easily justified the admittedly high cost.

  When his phone rang at 3AM, Paul didn't have to wonder who was calling. "Hello, Frank. You must be in the Philippines again."

  An embarrassed silence was followed by a curse. "I'm sorry, Paul. I keep forgetting the time difference. Did I wake you?"

  Paul chuckled. "It's 3AM here. What do you think?"

  "Sorry," Frank repeated. "But I've got a research project for you. A man came to me with an idea today. It's pretty science-fictiony, but I want you to take a serious look into it and see if it could be possible with today's technology." He outlined David's idea.

  "It's crazy!" was Paul's first reaction. "For one thing, even you couldn't afford to do it. NASA might be able to, but they wouldn't touch an idea like this with a twenty-meter pole!"

  Frank's tone turned cold and serious. "I don't just want your first impression, Paul. I want you to research it. If it's not possible, I want to know why, and if it's just not practical, I'll want to know why not. If it is possible, I may have found the purpose in my life that's worth every cent I have. I may finally be able to do something to really benefit mankind, instead of just passing out money to unemployed scientists with a pet theory."

  Paul had sobered. "All right, Frank. I'll look into it. You might have to help me break loose some data the government considers classified."

  "Thanks, Paul, for taking this seriously. How long do you think it will take?"

  Paul considered. "Give me a month. I have to catch up on the current state of the art in the European Union and Russia. But I'll give it a fair look, Frank, I promise."

  "Good enough." Frank's tone was satisfied. "If you need me to break any logjams, just call me on the regular number."

  Some three weeks passed before Frank's personal cell phone went off at 3AM. He picked it up to hear a jubilant voice. "Ha! I did it! I finally managed to do it to you!"

  Frank chuckled. "This has got to be Paul!"

  "Right on the first guess," Paul replied. "Please tell me it's 3AM there!"

  By now, Frank was smiling. "It's 3AM here, Paul. Let me grab my notebook." He reached over and took the note pad off the bedside table. He wanted to be ready in case he needed to make notes. "Okay, Paul," he resumed. "What did you find out?"

  Paul's voice sobered. "Okay. I can't speak for the financial side of it, but if it can be done, it will cost billions. That's billions with a 'b'.

  "From the scientific standpoint, I have to say it's barely possible, if you can find a good passenger launch vehicle. But I don't think you can. All of NASA's old shuttles are in museums or have been scrapped, and there's nothing else that big flying.

  "As for everything else, money is so tight you might be able to get just about anything you need. The Russians are selling tickets on their rockets, and they'll sell you just about anything else they've got, except nukes, of course. The European Space Agency has been seeing a lot of their funding go to CERN since the American recession of 2009-12. ESA isn't as willing to sell technology as the Russians, but they may be willing to deal information, and they'll send just about anything you want into space. They also have state-of-the-art electronics and guidance systems. The Americans are, as usual, a crap shoot. With your contacts, you can probably get most of the information you'd need, but they keep throwing the word 'classified' around, even while they're selling the same stuff for scrap. You'd definitely have to worry about the technology transfer laws. But they're doing some interesting stuff with robotics and control systems. Of course, if NASA gets wind of your plans, and thinks you might show them up, they'll set all the alphabet agencies from the CIA to the SEC on you.

  "To summarize what my 36-page report is going to show, it appears technologically feasible, but you might go broke trying. And don't even think about trying to do it in the U.S. And finally, I want in."

  "What?"

  "I want in," Paul repeated. "I think you're crazy as my old maid aunt, but you're just crazy enough and stubborn enough to make it happen. And I won't miss a chance to be in on the biggest event of the century – even if it's the biggest failure."

  "Paul," Frank said uncomfortably, "I can't guarantee you'll go."

  Paul laughed. "Hell, I don't want to go. I'm no hero. But I want to be a part of it."

  Frank grinned into his phone. "Great! I appreciate it, Paul, because I don't have the vaguest idea where to go from here."

  "Well, I'd say you should start assembling some teams. Several of them. And find somewh
ere for them to work. For a while, you can probably get by with putting them in the U.S. somewhere. Most of your people will probably be from the U.S. and Europe at first."

  Frank was quiet for long enough to cause Paul to suspect the call had been dropped. "Hello?" he said uncertainly.

  "Sorry, Paul," Frank replied. "I was thinking. No, I don't think it's time yet to build teams. As you said, the first and most obvious problem is getting a spacecraft." He paused again, but was back in a few seconds. "I want you to get on to Colonel David Tarrant, at the Pentagon. This whole thing was his idea. I want you two to get busy finding me a space ship, or figuring out how to build one cheap."

  "Ha!" Paul laughed. "That isn't even a word in the language of manned spaceflight!"

  Frank grinned into the phone. "So, add it to the dictionary. That's why I pay you the big bucks." He gave Paul David's number in D.C., and after a few more pleasantries, they signed off.

  Frank knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, so he started thinking and making notes. Thoroughly engrossed, he only roused when he smelled the coffee Maria, his maid, was brewing. He got up, hurried through a shower and shave, and headed for the kitchen. Maria didn't live in; she lived about a quarter mile up the road. She worked for him from 7:00 AM to 7:00 PM. Her broad grin greeted him. "Bangus Meester Frank?" she asked with a mischievous expression.

  Frank shuddered theatrically, as she expected. Frank would never get used to people eating fish and rice for breakfast. "You eat it," he replied. "I'll just have coffee and eggs."

  Her laughter rang out. She never tired of her "joke" of offering Meester Frank fish in the morning.

  Today, though, Frank had a lot on his mind, and a lot to do.

  First on the agenda was finding a personal assistant. The first stage of the project would be nearly all planning and brainstorming. So his first call was to Susan Andrews. She had been his secretary – uh, "administrative assistant" – for ten years before the board fired him. She still worked for the company, but she also received a small retainer from Frank, who called on her occasionally when he needed her skills. He had been told that she had a huge crush on him, but he couldn't see it. This time he'd remembered to consider the time difference; it was 6 PM in Dallas, so he called her cel number.

  She answered on the third ring. "Hi, Susie," he said with a smile. He was the only one who ever called her "Susie," a nickname she hated. He used it to tease her.

  "Mr. Weath – uh, Frank! It's been over a month!" There was genuine pleasure in her tone. "You almost missed my retirement!" she said. "I couldn't take Mr. Wakely anymore, so next Friday is my last day."

  Excitement flared. "That's great!" he gushed. Then he said in a wary tone, "Uh, I guess it's great. Are you really looking forward to retirement?"

  "Oh, lord, no," she replied. "I don't know what I'm going to do with myself. I've brushed up my resume; I guess I'll look for some part time work. But it was either retire or slap Mr. Wakely and get fired!"

  "How would you like to come to work for me again?" Frank was surprised at the nervousness he felt as he asked the question.

  "I'd love to!" she replied enthusiastically. But then there was a hesitation. "Uh, Mr. uh, Frank, where are you? Would I have to move halfway around the world?"

  "You'd probably be travelling all over it, at least for awhile. After six months to a year, though, we will be settling down outside of the U.S. for a year or two. Of course," he added reluctantly, "You wouldn't have to move, if you didn't want to. We could set you up with a small office, or you could work from home. It'd be a lot more convenient, though, for you to travel with me." He wanted to kick himself. He sounded like some teenager asking for a first date!

  "Oh, Frank! It's so good to hear you planning again! I'd love to become a world traveler. Is there anything I can do while I'm still at the office?"

  "Not really," he replied. "Just relax and enjoy your last few days there. And I'm glad to hear you call me 'Frank'. We'll be working very closely for awhile, and every time you call me 'Mr. Weatherly' I start to look around for my dad. I had to put up with that crap from my secretary, but I won't take it from my Personal Assistant."

  "'Personal Assistant," she replied in a musing tone. "I like that much better than 'secretary'." Her tone turned businesslike. "Can I reach you at the old number?"

  "Yeah," he said with relief. Maybe she didn't notice. He'd been thinking about her lately; and not just as an efficient 'administrative assistant'. "But don't forget the time difference! I just finished breakfast."

  She laughed. "And my dinner just boiled over. Is there anything else I can do to help? When will you be coming back?" She sounded enthusiastic. Could it be . . . No, he decided. She just liked working with him.

  "It will probably be a week or two. I've got to figure a way to sneak into the country without Homeland Security alerting the entire press corps. Maybe I'll come in through Canada or Mexico by car. Anyway, I'll keep you posted." He was surprised to find himself reluctant to hang up.

  Getting back into the United States was even worse than he remembered, now that Homeland Security had everything locked down and was doing its best KGB imitation. From Manila, he flew to Hong Kong using Cebu Pacific, a small Filipino airline. From there he flew to Mexico City on Cathay Pacific, a Chinese airline that probably would not share its passenger lists with the press. The Mexican authorities seemed to be taking lessons from their northern neighbors; customs processing was a much larger inconvenience than before. After a night in a Hilton near the airport, he boarded a small turboprop executive plane bearing the name "Engineering Specialties, Inc." that carried him to a small company airstrip outside Tijuana. A large SUV with blacked-out windows and a nondescript Toyota waited for him. As the aircraft taxied to a stop near the cars, the four doors of the huge SUV flew open, and six men with AK-47's poured out, spreading out to form a twenty-foot perimeter. The driver's door of the Toyota opened more slowly, to reveal a Hispanic man in a business suit.

  Frank emerged from the plane and looked around. "Buenos Dias, Hernando. What's all this?"

  The man in the suit shrugged. "This is life in Tijuana now, Frank," he replied in nearly accentless English. "We kept your arrival secret, of course, but the cartels own the border cities now. I'd have brought another carload of gunmen if I hadn't thought it would be too conspicuous. Please," he added anxiously, "don't stand in the open. Kidnapping is an industry here. Please get into the car." He hustled Frank to the Toyota. Once they were safely in the car, the gunmen piled into the SUV and followed as Hernando drove the Toyota into the city.

  "Okay, Frank, here it is." Hernando began. "This car was rented in your name in Puerto Vallarta this morning. Expect the U.S. Customs officer to want to see the rental agreement. In fact, expect a big hassle. The more obviously American you are, the more inconvenience. Don't be surprised if they decide to strip search you and the car. They seem determined to take over where the KGB left off. Oh, yeah. Just as a precaution, we had the car inspected and detailed to make sure there were no traces of drugs from a previous trip. A few years ago, I'd have just driven you to San Diego, but now that would just cause even more hassle."

  Frank shook his head sadly. "My poor, poor America," he said softly. "What's happened to you?"

  Hernando looked sympathetic, but shrugged. "The Cartels now own my Mexico, and the government now owns your America. You were wise to leave when you did. Anyway," he continued, "I understand that your inimitable Susan reserved a suite for you at the Hilton in San Diego. It's reserved under your real name, so be prepared."

  Hernando pulled the Toyota to the curb and the big SUV followed. "I must leave you here, Frank. Turn right at the next corner and just fall in at the end of the line." He grinned. "Your Homeland Security has cameras watching the line. If they saw me get out, you would get the full treatment. Good luck, Frank."

  Frank got out of the car and walked around to the driver's door. He shook hands with Hernando and thanked him, and then got in.


  Frank later had to admit that at least part of his problem clearing U.S. Customs was his own fault.

  His name was recognized when he presented his passport. The Customs agent examined it, then looked startled and called over another officer. That officer examined the passport, and then waved Frank into the 'inspection' lane. He was made to get out of the car, and while agents swarmed over it, an agent was questioning Frank.

  "You've been in the Philippines for over a year?" the agent asked. Frank admitted that he had.

  "And you just arrived in Mexico City yesterday?" Frank nodded.

  "Yet the rental agreement shows you rented the car in Puerto Vallarta this morning," the agent persisted, "and this afternoon you're entering the U.S. by car. Care to explain that?"

  Frank shrugged. "I flew into Mexico City because I had a meeting there. Then I flew to Puerto Vallarta for another meeting. I rented the car there, and here I am."

  "Why not fly into the States? There's regular service from Puerto Vallarta."

  Frank was getting irritated. This man knew that one of the world's wealthiest men was unlikely to be smuggling drugs; he was making a point, displaying his authority.

  "I can't fly into the States any more. Too many Homeland Security agents make extra money by selling the names of interesting passengers to the press. So, I have to come in unannounced."

  The agent stiffened and flushed. "We do not sell names, sir," he replied, his emphasis on the last word conveying his disgust.

  Frank was still irritated. "Does that mean I may get out of here soon, or are we waiting for the reporters?" was his acid comment.