The small team of senior officers and one very nerdy captain are waiting with the patience and respect appropriate to being in the presence of four stars, and Risen retakes his seat at the end of the coffee table, mindful that once again his first challenge is to get them sufficiently at ease to talk openly.
He fixes the young captain with a smile and gestures to the papers he’s clutching.
“Sammy, go ahead and tell me what you found.”
“Yes, sir. As you know, we reran the tapes of everything and downloaded NASA’s images to take a close look at the gyrations around the end of Orbit Two. We assumed he had a control problem, but what we’re seeing is all the reaction jets firing in staccato sequence. As the sequence continues and the craft stabilizes, the patterns calm down, as if the pilot is learning.”
“She’s not on automatic, in other words? The astronaut is on the controls manually?”
“Someone is. I mean, we’re not trying to be NRO analysts or anything, sir, but if you want a guess, mine would be that those reaction controls were being manually fired by a person who did not have the training of an astronaut.”
There is silence as Chris Risen glances at the two other officers present, a colonel and a brigadier.
“Bill Campbell is the pilot up there, right?”
“Yes, sir,” the one-star answers.
“And you’re saying that…like listening to a telegraph operator’s patterns in the old days, you can tell that isn’t Bill?”
“Not quite, sir. More like just saying that whoever’s on the controls is an amateur with a very steep learning curve.”
“And…that would be the passenger?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, shit. Which means that Campbell is hurt or worse.”
“You know him, sir?” the colonel asks.
“It’s a small fraternity, our service. Yeah, I know Bill. But what’s important here is not who’s alive up there but that someone is. And here’s our challenge. There’s a renegade rescue going on at NASA now that’s already gotten the chief astronaut fired, but one of the other space programs will probably try to launch and save whoever remains. We’re going to provide full support up to and just short of revealing any classified capabilities. I don’t care whether it’s the Russians, NASA, ASA’s other little ship, or even the Chinese, whoever wants our help in this gets it full bore.”
The chorus of “Yes, sirs” fills the room as they get up to disperse. When the office is empty, Risen pulls out his own cell phone and dials a number in Houston, dispensing with the formalities as the circuit is completed.
“John, I’ve got some bad news about Bill Campbell’s situation.”
THE WHITE HOUSE, 2:45 P.M. PACIFIC/5:45 P.M. EASTERN
Even after three terms in the U.S. Senate and countless visits to the White House, Mitch Lipensky still feels the rush of history and power when he walks into the Oval Office. He supposes it should always be so—never should he become complacent about the responsibility bearing down on anyone in this place.
The greetings and smiles befitting a white-haired committee chairman and member of the President’s own party lubricate his passage through the hallways to the east entrance and the waiting President.
He’s had thoughts of running for this office, dreams of being the leader of the free world and making the tough decisions. But in truth, the fire has never been hot enough in his belly, and the brutality of the campaign and the compromises which stand like huge peaks before any contender are simply beyond him.
He greets the President like the old friend that he is, refusing to call him anything but Mr. President, and they settle onto opposite sides of the coffee table before the fireplace, the Chief of Staff taking a side chair. There are only so many chits even a senior senator can call on for an immediate audience, and this one has been costly but necessary. NASA is his committee’s responsibility, and the disturbing call from a man in Houston he considers an American hero has triggered a telephoned explanation and now this.
He knows Geoff Shear all too well, and sometimes even respects Shear’s iconoclastic invulnerability to even the strongest congressional pressure.
But an order from the President would be a different matter.
“NORAD is telling me the pilot may be hurt or dead, Mitch. Is that what you have?” The voice is distinctive, tinged with the Virginia accent of his youth, and it’s met by the equally familiar warm growl of the senior senator from Texas.
“Yes, sir. I have the same report. But the important thing, to my mind, is that someone is alive up there with a few days of air left, and he apparently can’t fire his engine and get out of orbit.”
“Understood. So no self-rescue. But is this something we have the ability to do?”
“We don’t know, Mr. President, because our esteemed NASA administrator has rejected even the most rudimentary attempt to find out.”
“You made it clear you want me to order John Kent reinstated.”
“Yes, sir, I do. He’s the best man to spearhead any attempt we might make. But there’s a good reason beyond that. Way beyond that. All through the cold war, all through the space race, all through our history of manned—sorry, I mean human—spaceflight, our nation has maintained a steadfast consistency on the value of even one human life. For God’s sake, even Stalin said the loss of one life is a tragedy.”
“Yes, and the rest of that quote is that a million deaths is a statistic. Terrible thing to quote in part.”
“I’m a doddering old senator with a selective memory. Sue me.”
“Go on. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“Mr. President, we’re the nation that refused to let the Apollo Thirteen crew die. The Russians killed dozens in their space program and refused to be moved. I submit we not change that now just because the stranded human is in a private spacecraft and is not a certified NASA astronaut. He’s an American, and…”
“I get it, Mitch. That’s an eloquent speech, but you can stop now. I get it.”
Mitch’s hand is out. “Let me finish. We need to have these words ringing in our minds. The business of America is business. Calvin Coolidge said that and we should be teaching it in every elementary school. Are we going to let a bureaucratic bureaucrat like Geoff Shear reject a rescue only because it involves someone shot into space by a mere American corporation and not our mighty government? Not to mention his personal animus against Richard DiFazio. If this was a current NASA astronaut up there, would there be any question? Aren’t we dedicated to encouraging our companies, including private spaceflight ventures?”
“You know my stance on that.”
“Then, dammit, Mr. President, you have to rein in Shear. He’s out of control.”
“Mitch, he’s defending our ability to carry anyone into space. How long have we been operating with only two shuttles? Six years?”
The senator chuckles with a knowing smile. “He’s already called you, hasn’t he?”
The President is smiling back, almost embarrassed. “Well…you know Geoff. He’s a Beltway pro. He got to me before Kent got to you.”
“That’s unimportant. The order of contact, I mean.”
“He’s not an evil force, Mitch. He’s got a point.”
“He’s on a personal vendetta, sir. You remember the fallout from that rather infamous hearing.”
“Yes, but he still has a point.”
“You going to let him cloud the bigger picture?”
The President laughs. It’s more of a snort than a laugh, but he ends it by looking at his shoes before shaking his head. “Of course not.”
“You still hate bureaucrats?”
“With a passion. But they have their uses.”
“True. Landfill, for one.”
There’s a resigned sigh. “Mitch, if we lose a shuttle in this, can you steer the Senate to adopt the replacement bill at long last?”
“No guarantees, but we can probably do it. And you know we’ve got more than enough satellite lif
t capability without ever flying another shuttle.”
“Sad, but true.” The President slaps his thigh and stands, holding his hand out for Mitch to shake. “I’ll issue the order.”
“Rehire Kent and get a rescue mission ready if possible?”
“Yes. Shear may resign, Mitch.”
“And, Mr. President, your point would be what?”
They both laugh as the senator takes his leave.
The President picks up the phone. Within a minute the requested voice comes on the line.
“Geoff? This is your leader. What the hell are you doing upsetting senior citizens like Mitch Lipensky?”
ASA MISSION CONTROL, MOJAVE, CALIFORNIA, 3:05 P.M. PACIFIC
The very sound of Vasily’s voice on the other end of the surprise phone call is comforting, buoying Richard DiFazio’s spirits.
“There is a chance, Richard. I did not realize we were as far along in our preparations as we are.”
“How soon could you launch?”
“This is the space station resupply mission, you understand. We would have room for two, and only to transport them to the station. From there, one of the escape capsules would have to be used to return.”
“For one?”
“Or both. We don’t have enough seats to do our mission and return two of your people.”
“One may be badly hurt, or worse. We may have only one alive.”
“If only one, we can bring him back after the resupply rendezvous.”
“How soon?”
“Five days.”
“Oh jeez, Vasily, they’ll be dead by then.”
“Not if they’re careful. There are conservation steps, even with CO2 scrubbers.”
“Yes, but we can’t tell them. We can’t talk to them.”
“And we cannot move any faster. But if there’s only one alive, you have twice the time, no?”
Silence while Richard grapples with that possibility.
“And…there is one thing, Richard. I’m sorry, but in the new Russia we still count every ruble, and this is a substantial change.”
“How much, Vasily?”
“Twenty-five million.”
Richard feels his blood pressure rising, simply out of the question. Unless…
“Can’t we get that lower? This is a humanitarian rescue, an emergency. Suppose you need us someday?”
“Then you will name your price, too.”
“Vasily, we don’t have that kind of money.”
“One of your backers, Butch Davidson, certainly does. He makes more than that every week in interest, I think. Is good idea, true?”
Why he’s hearing the word “okay” coming from his mouth is a mystery. He knows Davidson’s true penny-pinching nature that contrasts so gratingly with his publicly magnanimous reputation. The thought of approaching him for such a sum scares him.
“I have two million I can wire you as a down payment,” Richard tells him.
“Okay. The rest you can get from Davidson.”
“Please tell me you won’t demand payment in full before launch.”
The pause scares him again, but the chuckle from Baikonaur Cosmodrome is reassuring. “No, we will extend you credit, my friend. But the money comes due whatever happens up there. Success or failure, you agree?”
“Yes. Five days, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll need coordinates and everything from us then?”
“No, we already know precisely, Richard. I shall e-mail you the bank account information within the hour. And then we begin.”
Richard replaces the receiver in shock. Two million dollars without so much as one line on paper. Not to mention the remaining twenty-three million.
He shudders thinking of the reaction when he tells his board, which includes Davidson.
He stands suddenly, as if considering bolting. The deal he just verbally inked is based on a colossal set of assumptions, chief among them that NASA’s chief is as good as his word and there will be no American rescue attempt.
What if NASA decides to do the rescue? How much do I owe the Russians then?
Clearly, the two million will be lost the moment it’s wired, but it’s a risk he has to take. He reaches for the nearest computer keyboard and punches up his e-mail. The bank information message from Vasily is already in place.
Chapter 15
ASA OFFICES, MOJAVE, CALIFORNIA, MAY 17, 5:03 P.M. PACIFIC
It was inevitable, Diana thinks, and in some ways she’s surprised it took this long. It’s minutes past five P.M. western time and the sun is hanging low, Intrepid has been gone for almost ten hours.
The six flat-panel TV screens arrayed along the wall at the end of her desk are one-by-one posting their versions of a breaking news alert, adding file photos of ASA’s spacecraft, first on Fox News and now on MSNBC. She’s trying to keep up, toggling on the sound one by one to hear the same basic message: “A private spacecraft launched this morning has lost communication and may be in trouble.”
Two secretaries are handling the rising tide of media inquiries, and she’s staying out of contact to think and write a statement for Richard. She sees no easy or quick solution to this nightmare, and despite her concern for both Bill Campbell and Kip Dawson, her job is to play this situation with infinite grace.
The tie-line from Mission Control rings.
“Diana? Richard. You called?”
She briefs him on the approaching media storm, before adding the essence of the storm warning, “There are satellite trucks being scrambled right now in L.A., and I’m working on a statement, but I need about fifteen minutes. You are going to be our face, right?”
“No. I want you to be the face.”
“Not a good idea, Richard. You have the major skin in this game. They look at me as a flack.”
The sigh she hears from the other end worries her. He’s a good man and a good leader, but in the last six hours he’s been all but falling apart. This may be a major mistake.
“Whatever you think, Diana,” he says. “When do you want me over there?”
“Within the hour, if you can. Any changes?”
“No.” His reply is a bit too curt. She knows something new has happened. “Who got it first?” he adds.
“The story?”
“Yes. Who broke it?”
Strange he’d ask that.
“The Washington Post. They slammed it on their Web site twenty minutes ago and gave it to their partners, MSNBC and NBC, and it’s been mushrooming since then.”
“ABC and CBS?”
“They’ve called, too. I’m not returning calls for another hour, but the girls are handling it. Oh, Richard…someone did talk to Kip Dawson’s wife, right?”
“Arleigh was going to.”
“If he didn’t, she’ll find out the wrong way within minutes.”
“Hold on.” Within half a minute he’s back. “Yes, thank God, he did it.”
“Anything else I…need to know?”
More silence. Telling, pregnant silence, unbroken by an offered explanation, and she elects to sidestep it.
“Okay, you tell me whatever you think I need to know when I need to know it. Just don’t let me twist in the wind.”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“Are we going to get them back, Richard?”
She fears the answer to the question she’s blurted, but beneath the facade she’s struggling to maintain, she feels like a frightened little girl watching the twisting trails of a shattered Challenger against the blue of her mind’s eye.
“I don’t know, Diana. I do know we’re going to try everything.”
JOHNSON SPACEFLIGHT CENTER, HOUSTON, TEXAS,
5:12 P.M. PACIFIC/7:12 P.M. CENTRAL
The chief of security leans into John Kent’s newly reoccupied office with a grin on his face and something in his hand, aware the chief astronaut is concentrating totally on the deluge of papers before him.
“Hey, John?”
Kent looks up, more curious than startled, and smiles. “Daniel. Missed the fireworks, did you?”
Daniel walks in, fanning the air with a small plastic security badge. “I was crushed I didn’t get to escort you out at gunpoint myself.”
“Yeah, right,” Kent laughs, recalling the hours the two of them have spent talking about security matters on one of the post-9/11 committees.
“But I’m happy to bring you back a new badge, freshly minted with zero limitations and even a nice, fresh clip.”
“Didn’t know you made house calls.”
“Oh, indeed. When one gets a call from the office of the President directing immediate reinstatement of even an Air Force guy, I hop to.” He lays the badge on the overburdened desk, his expression turning serious. “I heard what you’re working on. Can we do it? Launch that fast, I mean?”
Kent meets his eyes. “I don’t know, but the President says it’s a national priority to try, so…I’m working on it.”
“I’ll leave you alone, then.” He hesitates halfway to the door. “I knew Bill Campbell, too, you know.”
John is nodding, aware of the past tense. “Could be he’s still with us, Dan, and just hurt.”
“Could be.”
“But we’re going up regardless.”
“Yeah. You might call the alternative Shear madness.”
John shakes his head, a sworn enemy of puns. “Get out of here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door closes and John works back through a list just e-mailed in from the Cape. His clandestine effort has now become the twenty-four/seven focus of the entire Kennedy Space Center, and the orbiter is already on its way aboard the crawler-transporter from the vehicle assembly building to Pad 39B, the nearly fourteen million pounds of launcher and spacecraft moving at less than a mile per hour.
John stops for a second, placing the pencil he’s been using on the desk and sitting back to clear his head.
He doesn’t envy Bill Campbell’s current dilemma, whatever it is, but he’s watched the project in the Mojave with a certain longing for the last five years, knowing he’s in Houston nursing a dinosaur that doesn’t see the asteroid-sized meteor coming. To be able to just fly into space rather than blast and claw a sixteen-story building into orbit each time should have been the national focus for years. But here they are with only two ships left, both of them essentially flying museum pieces. It’s no wonder, he thinks, that all versions of Star Trek were so popular in the space community. For NASA, watching the possibilities of twenty-third century technology each week was the equivalent of a centurion of ancient Rome getting a look at M-16 rifles, F-15 fighters, and cruise missiles.
Orbit Page 10
