“Not really. We don't need to know anything about them, really, except for their launch characteristics and weapon yield. Even that, from what I understand, is programmed in the launch coding. The missiles stay where they are, all we do is have the launch button. The host country gets to see the firing solution, and has the undiminished right to veto the solution, in which case we better find another country from which to launch, if we can.”
“Yeah. I don't know,” said John. “Looks like no upside, all downside.”
“How do you mean?” asked Lisa.
“Think about it. Suppose we get a nice big rock inbound. We track it, get a good firing solution, have three or four countries to choose from to launch, send up a missile, have an optimum detonation. EMP is low, nobody's zapped here on Earth. The rock is shoved a lot higher in orbit, nobody has to worry about it for a couple of hundred years. Result?”
“People are grateful?” said Lisa.
“Right. Until the next big rock is inbound. Over and over—we have to have optimum results every time. We’ve become Margaret Thatcher.”
Lisa looked at John. “Who?”
“Margaret Thatcher, Prime Minister for the UK in the late 1980s or so. The IRA was bombing the crap out of the place, trying to kill her or something like that. She actually talked to one of the bombers. He said 'You have to stop us, every time, to win. We only have to get lucky once.'“
Lisa nodded. “Ah! I see. We have to stop one hundred percent of the meteors, all the time. Screw up on one, and it's a black eye for us, and a lot of death for everyone else.”
“Right. Russia—those are some cagey bastards. Sure, sounds magnanimous—let the heroes of the Chaffee be in charge. Selfless, dedicated to the baby blue,” he said, pointing to the UN flag behind Lisa's desk, “and if we screw up just one meteor, then they can crap all over us, ruining our reputation, and the UN, and the US. Nobody's going to remember how they damn near wiped out the Chechens if we drop a rock in some bay and flood out a city.”
Lisa frowned. “Well, then, John, I guess we'll just have to not screw up. That means you and your fellow Engineers have a lot of work to do. So does Celine in Comms and Astrogation. Let me think about this, talk things over with Nevin, and see what we can come up with.”
John cautioned her. “Don't take too long. They want us up and running fast. All the nations want to dump this on us and get back to the backstabbing.”
***
Ambassador Nevin was impressed with Lisa Daniels. “Quite perceptive of you, Commander Daniels. Of course Russia wants us to hose it. That's why I've been buttonholing Mrs. vanDerHoog for the last three days. I knew what Russia was up to, and accepted it only because I knew that you and your people were the real deal. We've mobilized the resources of the UN Telecom department. You're going to be wired six ways from Sunday. They all have launch veto, which means you have to connect to the missiles through their individual launch control interfaces. But we're also going to demand that we get information beyond that. We don't want to punch a rocket into the sky that has dummy data showing for us, but a real target onboard.”
“How are you going to do that?” asked Lisa. “Most of that is Super Ultra Top Secret, burn-before-reading kind of stuff.”
“We just threaten to let a few rocks go through, and they will give us what we want.” Nevins sat back with a smile. “Of course we don't mean it, but we might, you know? The countries will fall in line. They'll have to.”
“I'm still worried about us hosing something.”
Ambassador Nevins leaned in. “You'll get a pass for the first several launches, I am sure. Just make sure you do it right by number five or so, and you're golden.”
“Five? I want to be perfect from number one.”
“Then I suggest you get cracking. By the way, congratulations.”
Lisa grimaced. “I'm not sure this is the best thing ever. I sure miss my family.”
“Make sure you have them over to Bavaria during the ski season. I know I'll want to be there.”
“I'll keep it in mind, Ambassador. Thank you for your time.”
Jenga at 75,000 kph
Mars Expedition, Enroute to Mars, April 3 2083, 2141 GMT
The array blasted through the dark at seventy-five thousand kilometers per hour. The final momentum slug approached the array at a closing velocity of only forty-seven kph, and the Mitt easily caught it. A series of small-scale electrical fields slowly maneuvered the slug to the beginning of the Mitt, while the ships' reactors charged the enormous capacitors of the Mitt.
There was no whine, like in the movies, merely a sense of leashed lightning gathering in the floor plates and behind the walls where the capacitors were stored. If a short circuit developed, the combined effects of fat lengthy arcs, massive fluctuating electrical and magnetic fields, and torrents of incandescent ozone from the arcs would fill the Engineering space with blue flame. The backlash energy would undoubtedly kill everyone on the Control Deck, but the hibernating crew would be safe. Of course, there would be nobody to wake them.
Benjamin's eyes flicked from the charge readout to the navigational computer which counted down the time before launch of the momentum slug. It was a ticklish balancing act. The capacitors tended to overheat, arc, and explode if they were forced to hold a launching charge for too long. But they had to be charged before the array got to the launch point, or the course correction would be underpowered. Since this was the last momentum slug, this launch had to be accurate.
“Coming up on the launch point, T minus two minutes,” Benjamin announced.
“Capacitor temperature well within limits,” said Ragesh. He was well used to handling large electrical currents as a radioman. He was also the backup Mitt controller, after Benjamin Zabor, so they worked well together. “Inertial frame initialized via star sights. We are within five milliseconds of arc to our required position.”
This was good news, but it didn't do anything to quell the acid eating through Benjamin's stomach. He chewed the antacid tablet subconsciously until his teeth hit a consolidated mass in the pill. Damn, a hundred years or more since they first came out with antacid tablets, and you'd think they'd be able to make one without an inclusion or void.
“Coming up on one minute,” said Ragesh. It was a gentle reminder for Benjamin to call out the status. How can I be woolgathering at this time?
“T minus sixty seconds. Charging is levelling off. Capacitors at ninety-five percent capacity, projected one-oh-one in fifty seconds. Slug is held at the optimal position. Fifty seconds. Forty. Thirty. Computer is sending trickle charge through the net. Mesh is settling into the correct position. Wire temperature is ten kelvin, as expected. Cutting off the flow of liquid hydrogen to wire coolers. Fifteen seconds. Capacitors at one-oh-one.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, guidance field building, thyristor primed, one, FIRE!”
The capacitors discharged, sending their leashed gigawatts coursing through the cryogenic wiring of the linear induction motor called the Mitt. Vast, fantastically dense magnetic fields seized the iron slug and accelerated it at one thousand, four hundred, fifty-seven point three two times the force of Earth's gravity. The same magnetic field that grabbed it so tightly also served to bolster the slug's own cohesive strength. Otherwise, it would be reduced to powder by the overpowering acceleration.
Once free of the field, the acceleration vanished, and with it, the need to bolster the slug’s internal cohesion. Since the fields were never perfect, nor were the momentum slugs other than moderately smooth iron cylinders, the discrepancies between the magnetic field and the uneven slugs translated to tremendous heat.
From the forward view, the ejected slug resembled nothing so much as a tracer round, spat out by the center of the array and aimed directly at the Red Planet.
“Inertial platforms integrating,” announced Benjamin. The computers compared three different accelerometers, as well as an inertial measurement unit. The errors between their measurements a
nd the desired correction showed on the computer screen, and were fed back into the course projection software.
“Assuming initial measurements are accurate, we will be no greater than six hundred and seventeen meters in x, y, or z axes, and our velocity will be within six centimeters per second of the ideal trajectory.”
He lifted exhausted, triumphant eyes to Commander Smithson. “I think we'll make it, sir.”
***
Mrs. vanDeHoog was in a meeting when her commpad blipped. She glanced at it.
“Final course correction successful. They're heading into the Asteroid Belt after their flyby of Mars in approximately three weeks.”
She resisted the urge to react. In fact, the best thing to do was to feign disinterest with the message, lest someone remark about it. She lifted languid eyes to the speaker, one of the non-governmental organizations—she forgot which one it was—who was drawing sustenance from UNESCO's budget. She tapped a few buttons and brought up the calendar. Oh, yes, this one was running schools in the Sudan. She tried to care.
“A total of fifteen incidents were reported, with a casualty count of fifty-seven workers.” The speaker paused. “Ten deaths.”
“A pity,” said Mrs. vanDeHoog. “What have you done to reduce the casualty rate?”
“There's not much we can do,” said the speaker. “It's a dangerous environment, with hostile forces everywhere. Yet the work must be done. The workers know this, and they rely on us to warn them of anything that could increase their risks. We've tried to do so.”
She glanced down at the commpad, as if checking to see if it was wagging a finger at her and her treatment of the Mars Expedition.
Cruise Control
Mars Expedition, Mars Approach, April 4 2083, 0730 GMT
The array had to be broken down, the pieces of the ships brought back together and mated. It was difficult and dangerous work. It did, though, have the good fortune to be one of the critical steps from the original Mission Plan, so they had comprehensive checklists to assist them in the task. They also had a deadline in the form of a red dot in front of them.
There were two reasons that they had to put the ships back together. First was that the ships had to be together so that they could thrust during the flyby, for without the added velocity, they would never get to the comet before their food, air, and water ran out.
The second reason was subtler. The array, a spinning assemblage of bisected ships, could only spin in a single plane, much like a gyroscope. Mars might be a small planet in comparison to others like Earth or Jupiter, but since they would be flying closely past it, the array would experience tidal forces. Whatever point on the array was closest to the Red Planet would want to go a slightly different direction than the point furthest away. As the array spins during the flyby, those points change in complex ways. The result is a flexing and overstressing of the central iron ring. Should the ring break, the parts of the ships would immediately disperse and the entire Expedition perish.
“That's why we're out here, buddy,” said Scott, the Deputy Chief Engineer to Ragesh Puna as they left the airlock. “There's still a very slight spin on the ring, just to keep the cables from fouling, so don't forget to keep your tether clipped to something at all times.”
“Gotcha, Scott. Where to?”
“First, got to secure the life sections to the ring and free up the cable spool.”
Jeff Gatson and Mickey Donovan were performing the same tasks on the Burroughs. It was delicate and tedious work, for the components—the life section and engine section of two ships–had to undergo the same tasks at the same time for the ring to stay in balance.
“How are you doing over there, Jeff?” called Scott. “We've got Bradbury's life section locked to the ring, and are about to go string the cable to the engine.”
“Give us a few minutes. Our cable had a reeling issue.”
Scott switched over to the channel that he and Ragesh shared. “So, now we float, Ragesh. Enjoy the view.”
“How? I belong behind my console, not out here in the big dark.”
“Aw, come on, man. Millions of people would give their left nut to be where you are right now.”
“You mean where supercharged particles of dead stars are blasting through my innards? Hey—I just saw a bright light in one of my eyes. What the hell?”
Scott was tempted to tell him exactly what happened, but he restrained himself. “Oh, those are just EVA lights. Every astronaut who has ventured out of their life section into space has reported them. Welcome to the club.”
“You're kidding. Why haven't I heard about these EVA lights?”
“Nobody hides them, but nobody talks about them, much. It's kind of a club thing. Don't worry, they're harmless, unless you get one when you're trying to concentrate on something delicate. Then you just wait until you can see again.”
He'd freak if he knew what they really were—the radiation given off when a particle traveling very close to the speed of light hits the human eye. If I told him it's light's equivalent of a sonic boom going off in his eye, he'd be screaming to get back inside.
“You ready over there yet?” called Scott, to distract Ragesh.
“Another minute. We're tightening up the shackles now.”
Jeff and Mickey were repositioning the cable that had connected the life section of the Burroughs to the ring, now held with a solid iron bar and backup short cable. They attached the original long cable to a fitting at the end of the life section. Hand over hand, they carried the other end of the cable to the front end of the engine section, there to attach it to the cable end of that component.
“Ready to detach the engine module. What about you, Scott?”
“Born ready. Checklist calls for everyone to be stationed on the inside of the iron ring, and tethered. Sound off.”
“Gatson, inside and tethered.” The Chief Engineer's voice radiated caution. This was one of the most perilous parts of the operation.
“Acevedo, inside and tethered.”
“Donovan, inside and tethered.” Even Mickey knew when to be serious.
“Puna, inside and tethered.”
Scott acknowledged the status. “Checklist item twelve-alpha. Test maneuver thrusters on Engine component. Jeff, ten-newton thrust in one-half-second on X axis thruster.”
“Ready,” said Jeff.
“Thrust in three, two, one, fire.” Small spurts of flame glimmered at the ends of the engines.
“Test good,” said Jeff.
“Same here,” said Scott. “Twelve-bravo, release safety tiedown on main cable release.”
“Done.”
“Bradbury, done.”
Scott was focused on the checklist, but he kept an eye out on Ragesh. How had he managed to make it through Orbital school? Well, good thing he's tethered—I don't want to have to dig out the hand thruster and go chasing across the sky after him.
“Say again, Jeff, I didn't catch that.”
“Burroughs reports completion of twelve-echo. Ready to trigger main cable release.”
“Thank you. Checklist item twelve-foxtrot. Trigger main cable release. Ready, Jeff?”
“Ready.”
“On my mark, five, four, three, two, one, release!” He pulled on the release handle. Slowly, but inexorably, the engine moved free of the ring. It reminded Scott of the launching of a large ship—the same slow and majestic movement down the slipways, then faster and faster, seemingly out of control before it slammed into the water beyond.
“Firing thrusters,” he said to Jeff. “Limit retreat to one meter per second or we're going to rip the life section apart.”
“Limiting,” said Jeff, focused on his task.
Soon, the engine sections were stretched out behind the life sections on the same cables that once held the life sections to the ring.
“Begin winching operations.” The two engineers triggered the winching motors and watched carefully as they reeled in the cables, bringing the engine sections ever closer
to the life sections.
“You know, Scott, once we're past Mars and we go spin up the ring again, we should think this whole array thing out again.”
“How do you mean?” said Jeff.
“Think about it. On the way out from Earth, if we suffered a cable failure—say by way of a debris strike—then whatever component was tethered would fly off. Didn't matter which one, engine or life section, but there'd be no way to bring it back. I know why UNSOC built it this way, dynamic stability and all that, but it always struck me as inherently dangerous.”
Ragesh interrupted. “Do you think the chance of a debris strike goes up once we're in the Asteroid Belt?”
Mickey chuckled. “Oh, that old chestnut! Hollywood always thinks the Belt is crammed cheek-by-jowl with rocks just ready to trash you. Don't tell me you believe that.”
Ragesh replied hotly, “I wasn't saying that! But you can't deny that there's more rubble between Mars and Jupiter than there is between Earth and Mars.”
“Gentlemen,” said Scott. “Let's focus here. How is the winching going? I'm at sixty-two percent in.”
“Sixty-three. No reason to change. But Ragesh does raise a good point. The amount of debris is higher in the Belt, if not quite so closely packed as Hollywood thinks. The Expedition was never going further out than Mars, so they never considered that in their design.”
“Seventy.”
“Check.”
“Wasn't there a concern that the iron ring would deform with two concentrated masses on it? I seem to remember something about that,” said Mickey.
“It would stress the ring in different places, yes. Think about this for a minute, Jeff. Consider a rigging where we used the engine and life section cables, both of them, to tie to the two cables from the other ship. That way, there would be safety should one cable get severed.”
Jeff looked at the approaching engine section. “Do you one better. We really want to keep the iron ring, don't we? If for no other reason that it represents mass, and we never want to throw anything away that we don't absolutely have to, right? Eighty, mark.”
Dead Men Flying Page 8
