He presented the flash drive to Gorneliev. "This contains a copy of the latest executive summary of the progress of my project. It was given to me just before takeoff, and I read it on the plane. It's complete and unedited. I'm giving it to you so you can see there is no hidden agenda, no threat to your government or your nation. Essentially, a few months ago David Tarrant tracked me down with an idea."
Gorneliev looked interested. "The cosmonaut? He is at Baikonur now, yes?"
Frank nodded. "Yes, although we call him an astronaut. Anyway, David had just been grounded, and was desperate for a way to get back into space. He came up with this idea, and it has become my passion. I am prepared to spend my entire fortune to make it happen, but we need the help of your government.
"As you will see, we plan to launch a spacecraft to intercept a near-Earth comet. We will basically 'hitch a ride' on the comet back out to the asteroid belt. Once there, the crew will locate a suitable asteroid, and alter its orbit to return to earth."
Gorneliev smiled. "That would take years."
Frank nodded. "We estimate about three years. We plan to tunnel into the comet, and crack the water ice to produce oxygen and hydrogen. By the time the comet approaches perihelion, the crew should be safely inside the comet. We hope to launch unmanned cargo missions to rendezvous with the comet and deliver supplies, as long as they are in range. By the time they reach the asteroid belt, they should have a good supply of rocket motors or ion thrusters, and a large supply of hydrogen to power them. They'll probably just crash the comet into the asteroid to knock it out of its orbit and head it for Earth. They'll continue to process the water ice from the comet for oxygen and hydrogen, and will be tunneling into the asteroid to analyze its contents. They may even be able to begin processing some of the minerals; by that time I'll probably be just about broke. But if it works, it will provide millions of tons of ores that can be processed into super-pure metals and elements without being lifted from Earth's gravity well. And it also provides us an instant space station. A real space station!"
He shrugged. "That's it, sir. That's my dream, and my goal. The only hidden agenda is to reignite the spirit of adventure and the drive to space that we enjoyed in the 1960's – this time without the fear.
"But the whole thing rests on our ability to come up with a spacecraft capable of carrying half-a-dozen or so crew. All the remaining American shuttles have been given to museums, and they were mostly worn out, anyway. The only remaining true spaceships in the world are the Burans.
"Both you and NASA have moved beyond the Buran project. You've worked on a dozen projects since then. But all your current public projects are capsule, not shuttle missions, as are all of NASA's. So there is no possible conflict between my program and any of yours. And the only value the Burans have for you is as scrap, or as amusement rides like the one in Gorky Park."
Gorneliev's smile was back, wider than ever. "And what exactly is it that you want, Mr. Weatherly? What do you expect to get from Russia?"
"I would like to buy one or two Buran orbiters, all the engineering data on them, and all the data the program accumulated. I would also like to get the Energia data they used to develop the special booster designed for the Buran, and all the information on the air launch proposal, including why it was abandoned. In short, sir, I would like to buy your old Buran program. All of it."
Gorneliev frowned. His "I see" was noncommittal. His voice turned cold. "And exactly what do you offer for the space heritage of the Russian people?"
"I do not wish to steal your peoples' heritage," Frank protested. He punched the keyboard of his laptop.
"According to the information I was able to glean from the Internet, there are nine surviving Buran orbiters, in various conditions and stages of completion, besides the one you sold to a German museum. I have seen a photo taken in 2001 showing a Buran still mounted on the Energia booster in a building at Baikonur, and another, much later one, showing an orbiter covered with dust in another hangar, and photos of yet another apparently stored outside at that time. So, there appear to be at least two and possibly three fairly complete Buran orbiters at Baikonur, and others are apparently scattered around Russia, including the one at Gorky Park here in Moscow.
"My greatest hope is that the two I mentioned are still at Baikonur, stored safely indoors, and that your country is willing to see them finally attain the goal for which they were built; to go into space. My minimum goal would be to obtain at least two airframes in excellent condition, regardless of the interior or electronic condition. After all, even the best of them would need the avionics and electronics updated. Another really vital requirement is that I gather all the insulating tiles I can locate, from as many orbiters as possible.
"As important as the orbiters themselves are the remaining boosters, and the information relating to the air-launch program. My point is, sir that I would not be robbing your children of their inheritance. Even if you sell me everything I need, there will remain several Buran orbiters. As for the information, I expect to receive only copies; the originals will remain with you.
"One final point, sir. From the perspective of the people of Russia, you cannot lose. If I am permitted to buy them, you will brag that the first private space launch program came to Russia for its wonderful shuttle design. If we fail, you can claim that we screwed it up. But if I succeed! If I succeed, imagine the pride of the Russian people in knowing that it was a Russian spacecraft that traveled past Mars and brought back an asteroid!
"As for the price, I am prepared to offer fifty million U.S. dollars for the materials. I will also have to spend several more millions on work here in Russia and in Baikonur to get them into condition to move, plus the cost of chartering or renovating an aircraft. It may be cheaper to pick up a used AN124 and configure it to haul the orbiter, than to charter the AN225 for a number of flights. My total expenditure will probably be sixty to seventy million U.S. dollars coming into your economy. Still another possibility would be to separately buy or charter one of the VM-T Atlant aircraft that also carried the Burans. According to the Internet, two of them still exist."
Gorneliev was looking interested, now. "And where will you move them? You will require facilities to work on them, move them, and launch them. Why have you not asked about using the facilities at Baikonur or one of the other space centers?"
Frank hesitated before replying. "They would be ideal for the purpose, I admit. I hope I can say this without giving offense." He took a deep breath. "Ours will be a truly international project. We will have Americans, Russians, Japanese, Koreans, and probably a number of other nationalities represented. I hope we will be using a Russian orbiter. But it will be vital that my people and the people of the world see that it is not an American project, or a Russian project, or is identified with any other national entity. I'm afraid that using a Russian ship and a Russian launch system from a Russian cosmodrome would undermine that perception. I don't know yet where we can work, sir. Part of the answer will depend upon whether the air launch option is workable. I can't build a 'launch complex', or at least not much of one. But I'll need a base in a country that is independent of ties to east or west, has a stable government, and is prosperous enough to not be afraid of American bullying. It's not a big field."
"You call your own country a bully?"
Frank fidgeted uneasily. "I love my country, sir. I would die for it. But yes. For the past thirty years, American diplomacy has mostly consisted of bullying nations around the world, usually using money as the means. 'Do as we say,'" he mimicked in a scratchy voice, "'and we'll give you foreign aid', or 'do as we say or we'll cut off your foreign aid;' or 'do as we say or we'll shut off imports from your country', or 'do as we say or we'll invade'. It takes a strong nation to stand up to that kind of pressure."
Gorneliev nodded. "And what if we are unable to complete the deal?" he asked quietly.
Frank scowled. "Then the project may have to be cancelled. Or we might have to look into convert
ing an aircraft airframe into an orbiter."
The Russian snorted and shook his head. "As someone with experience in spacecraft design, I can tell you that is scarcely a practical solution."
Frank leaned forward. "Yes, sir, I noticed on your website that you were with the space agency during that time. Were you part of the Buran project?"
The ever-present smile turned wistful, remembering. "As a matter of fact I was. I worked on the life support systems. There were good times then, as well as bad ones." He came back to the present. "At any rate, you would practically have to remanufacture an aircraft fuselage to make it able to survive the stresses of spaceflight."
Frank nodded soberly. "So I'm told. I'm hoping we don't have to try."
The easy smile was back on the Russian's face as they chatted for a few more minutes before he ushered Frank out. Outside the building, Frank released an explosive sigh. He hoped he'd given an impressive sales pitch. He realized with regret that he had revealed the desperation he felt, and was uncomfortably aware that that fact would probably be an expensive one.
The trip to Kazakhstan was in a small, elderly, rather uncomfortable Tupelev airliner.
He was met at Yubileyniy Airport, a small, dusty field in the middle of nowhere with an amazingly long runway, by David Tarrant and a rather tall, sour-faced man in a too-small suit
"Hi! Frank!" David shouted and waved as he saw Frank exit the plane. He jogged over and collected Frank's small suitcase and laptop case. "Why the hell did you ride that relic?" he asked. "Why didn't you just charter a plane? Hell, you're rich enough, you could have bought one!"
Frank shook his head. "Not without it showing up in newspapers in half the world. Right now, I'd rather be invisible."
David led him toward an elderly Mercedes parked nearby. "By the way," he said, gesturing toward his sour-looking companion. "Laughing boy, here, is Sergei Andorovich. As best I can figure it, he's the guy that makes all the errors for the rest of the engineers to find."
The sour face dissolved into a toothy smile. "Ah!" he said in accented English, "But think how many of them I keep employed! Without me, they would be sweeping kitchens."
Sergei turned out to be urbane and witty, with excellent, if accented English, and a quick sense of humor. He reminded Frank of sour-faced Buster Keaton, the early film comedian.
They drove to David's quarters, a small room in a grim-looking apartment block. The furniture was ratty and old, and the room reminded Frank of '60's vintage movies showing the grimness of Soviet-era Russian life.
"Like the room?" David smiled. "We've furnished it in Early Gulag. The accommodations are pretty spartan, but we have a beautiful view of the brick wall across the ventilation shaft."
Frank grinned. "It doesn't have wings, so I imagine you don't care."
Sergei laughed heartily. "This is true! If it does not have wings, David can barely see it!"
David went to the small, new refrigerator, and got soft drinks for them. Then he could wait no longer. "Well?" he blurted. "How did it go in Moscow? Did you get to see someone at Roscosmos?
Frank nodded. "Yep. A Deputy Head of the Federal Space Agency, Dmitri Gorneliev."
Sergei whistled softly. "But this is excellent! Gorneliev is one of the younger Heads, and is Head of Operations. This must be why the Director of the space center here asked me to bring you to his office tomorrow morning so he could 'welcome you properly,' as he said."
"Really?" David's grin widened. "He called you?"
Sergei shrugged. "In a way. I was called into my supervisor's office to take the call. He said to tell you that all the facilities of Baikonur are at your disposal, and he is looking forward to meeting you."
Frank waved a hand. "All I'm interested in is seeing the Burans."
David and Sergei exchanged glances. "That's hard to say. It may be that the Director is planning to take you on a tour of the surviving Burans. On the other hand, it may have to wait a bit," David finally replied. "A couple of weeks ago, right after I called you, word came down that access to the hangars holding the Burans was restricted. For a few days, we were able to still able to check out the one sitting outside. It's pretty rough; the weather here isn't kind. Lots of corrosion. I'm not sure it's repairable. But the one inside looked good!" He paused. "Anyway, suddenly we weren't able to get near them. Maybe they got a call from Moscow about you coming. It may take a call from Moscow to get us access again."
"Is the one in the picture still in the hangar? What is it, Building 112? The one on the booster?"
David shook his head. "I don't know. But that picture was twelve years old, Frank. In 2001 they were still thinking about reactivating Buran. Hell it might have been the one that got smashed in 2002. If not, they probably pulled it all apart the next year, to make room for something else."
Frank shrugged. "Perhaps. But you're missing the main point. Somewhere here at Baikonur is not just a Buran orbiter, but a complete Energia booster, complete with tank and engines! No more Burans were launched, and it would cost too much to move, so the booster must still be here. Theoretically, you could assemble it, fuel it, and fly it!"
David and Sergei both laughed aloud. "I think it might take a little more than that, Frank," David said. "But I see your point. If they haven't scrapped it, they have at least one complete system, right here. Do you think they'll let us have it?"
Frank shrugged again. "That's up to Gorneliev and his friends. I told him I'd fly back to Moscow on a moment's notice. Hell, there was no sense trying to conceal anything. He knows I want it badly. In the last few years, they've been trying to set up joint ventures with ESA and others, so I think we have a good chance. But I won't be surprised if they hold me up for more money."
"The booster and strap-on's are probably in the Energia area here at Baikonur," Sergei said. "Only Energia management could get you into that area."
David was eager. "What about that AN-225? Will you be going to Kiev to talk to the owners?"
Frank shook his head. "Not yet. I want to make sure we have something for them to haul. You know that the owners are the Antonov Design Bureau? They figured out how to make a successful business of getting stuck with a bunch of soviet-era aircraft. A real lemons-to-lemonade story. I admire them."
The Director of Baikonur, Vasily Arkanov, was a large man, hulking and dark, almost a caricature of the soviet-era Russian. But he had a hearty laugh and a pleasant personality. He was obviously excited about the possible resurrection of the Buran program.
Frank asked him courteously if he had worked on the ships. "No," he replied with one of his hearty laughs. "I was at the time in the military. But as a pilot I flew the BTS-002 in flight testing. That was the Buran spacecraft fitted with jet engines."
Frank nodded. "I read about it on the Internet. How did it fly?"
Arkanov laughed his massive laugh again. "About like a thrown brick," he replied. "Of course we could not tell our bosses that." He shrugged. "It flew, and it landed without killing anyone. What more can one ask?" He clapped Frank on the back with a ham-sized hand. "You must be a very important man, Mister Weatherly. I received a call from the Deputy Head of the Federal Space Agency himself! He suggested that I assist you in locating and examining the remnants of the Buran program. Would you like a tour?"
Frank grinned. "I'm certain that the Director of the cosmodrome has much more important matters to attend to, than to stand around while we crawl around the guts of old spacecraft. Perhaps you could just assign us a guide? Someone who knows Baikonur well?"
"Ha!" Arkanov roared. "I am forget you are a Director, too! You know how it is."
Frank nodded. "Yes, I do, and I know how annoying it can be when you are invaded by important visitors without warning. Please, do not let us disrupt your schedule."
With a broad grin, Arkanov walked around his desk, picked up his phone and rattled a string of Russian. After about five minutes, a single knock sounded on the door, and Arkanov bellowed. The door opened and a very attractive
young woman in her mid-twenties came in. Arkanov introduced her as Maria Vespanova, and Frank discovered that her English was excellent. Frank was pleased, but David stumbled all over his tongue. Obviously, he was immediately smitten, though she ignored it.
"Maria is too young to remember Buran," Arkanov said, "but her English is very good, and she knows Baikonur. Besides," he added, "She is very decorative, no?" Again he roared laughter as she pinked and looked down. Her business suit was dark and severe, and her light brown hair was in a tight bun, but there was no doubt she was beautiful. 'Beautiful' was not a word Frank used lightly; very few women met his criteria for it. But Maria's flawless skin only accentuated her equally flawless, regular features.
Arkanov was right; she didn't recognize the name 'Buran', but when Frank began describing the orbiter she clapped her hands. "Of course!" she cried. "The space ships!"
Arkanov gave her instructions, in English, to take the Americans everywhere she had seen 'the space ships', or parts of them.
"Oh! But I know everything! The, how you say, old ones, all tell me the stories." She smiled blindingly, and David seemed to almost faint. "I do not believe many of the stories, but I am sure they have shown me everything." She looked at Frank from under lowered lashes. "Some of the places are very isolated, and I am not certain they only wanted to show me things."
Frank chuckled. "I'm certain they didn't just want to show you old spaceships."
"Ha!" she replied with a tinkling laugh, "That was all they did!"
Frank winked at her. "What a pity." She pinked again.
Arkanov called down and arranged a vehicle for them, and then fidgeted obviously until they left his office. Frank knew the feeling. Arkanov had finally gotten rid of the visiting firemen, and could at last get back to important matters.
The vehicle they were given was an old soviet-era Zil, a huge limousine. It came equipped with a driver, and Maria shot staccato Russian at him. The limo whisked away almost silently.
Man's Hope Page 4
