Ocean of Storms: A Timeline of A Scientific America
- Thread starter BowOfOrion
- Start date
XXXVI: Apollo Punk
Apollo Punk
22 March 1985
National Air and Space Museum
Washington, DC
38° 53′ 16.8″ N 77° 1′ 12″ W
After a few days of meetings at headquarters, getting some final details ironed out, it was a joy to be outside in the spring air.
There was a bit of a chill, but nothing a NASA-issued windbreaker couldn’t deal with. The cherry blossoms were in bloom and gave the entire town a charm that wouldn’t last through summer. For the moment, it was as though pink clouds had descended on the trees to give a dream-like quality to the National Mall. Mike Dexter was grateful for the open fields that separated the Capital from the Washington Monument. With his plans for the next few months, he’d take all the green fields that he could get.
The reception was more or less just an excuse for a photo-op. The first crew of Orion, the first Moonwalkers of the 1980’s, were assembled outside this temple of technology alongside the original crew of Apollo 11. Mike Collins, Al Bean and Frank Borman had all made their marks, both on Earth and the Moon, and the idea was to give the press a chance to put the new six beside the first three and see the progress NASA had made in the last decade and a half.
There were a few other astros here too, the ones that were already in town, or could spare some time for a press event on a Friday afternoon. John Young had made the trip up, mostly to see old friends. Dexter peeled off his aviators and spotted Jim Lovell, Vice President Glenn, Senator Schmitt and a few other heroes of the 1970’s. This was a who’s who of his idols from his earliest days as a Marine aviator.
Dexter turned to avoid Tom Wheaton, the agency suit who somehow found a way to be anywhere that an astronaut and a TV camera might cross paths. He’d made his peace with the fact that everything he did and said for the next year or two would have a public relations aspect, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Still, none of that, technically, was the fault of NASA’s chief PR man. Dexter made a mental note to cut Wheaton some slack.
His crew seemed to be enjoying the festivities quite a bit. Fred and Ellison were chatting up John Glenn and Story was engrossed in a conversation about art with Al Bean. Those two had been old friends since the glory days. Kathryn was a hanger-on in that conversation, but she seemed to be having a good time all the same. He turned to hear Dave Griggs cackling at a yarn being spun by Jim Lovell and decided that that was the group to join.
Armed with a glass of punch, he strode over to the standing table where the aviators had gathered. Borman, Lovell and Young had shared several laughs already that day and now they had Dave Griggs and his epic mustache for an audience. Mike Dexter’s grin returned. This was where he belonged.
“I’m telling you, Lovell, there’s no way that was your shot,” Borman was saying.
“John and Bill have no sense of art. You’ve seen that picture. The framing, the angle, it’s all spot on,” Lovell said.
“Oh, pschaw,” John Young retorted.
“I’m telling you, Dave. Apollo 8, Earthrise, the stamp, that was my photo,” Lovell said.
Dexter took a spot and interjected, “I think, officially, they said it was taken by Bill Anders.”
“Oh, stow that crap. Anders was a nuclear engineer and an Air Force man. No eye for color,” Lovell said.
“Besides that, he’s not here. Whenever you ask someone from Apollo 8 who took that photograph, it’s always the one you asked,” Borman said.
Another light laugh went around the table.
Borman slid an old book across the table towards Dexter. “Mike, here you go. One walker to the next.”
Dexter picked up the proffered paperback and examined it. Roughing It by Mark Twain. Dexter raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Took that up on Gemini VII. Jim and I spent two weeks in the front seat of a Volkswagen and I brought that along. I don’t think we ever read so much as a page of it, did we, Lovell?”
“Nah. I took Drums Along the Mohawk. Don’t think I even cracked it,” Lovell answered.
“Anyways, maybe you’ll get some more use out of it than I will. I’d appreciate it if you left it up there. I hear you guys have a little library going up on Skydock. Start one on the Moon,” Borman said.
Dexter changed his grip at the realization of what he was holding. Suddenly the little novel was his most prized possession. He tried to play it cool, but it was an internal struggle. He stifled a gasp.
“I’m honored, Colonel. I’ll treasure this. And I’ll make sure it gets safely to its destination,” he said.
“You’ve got room in your PPK?” Borman asked.
“Uh, we call ‘em APK’s these days, but yeah. Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve got things I can dump if I have to,” Dexter said.
“Much obliged,” Borman said.
Dexter still could barely believe what he was holding. He stowed the book in an interior pocket of his jacket and zipped the liner shut carefully. It was next to his heart, which had sped up quite a bit since he had come over to the table.
Lovell could see that the young astronaut was a bit star-struck and decided to change the subject.
“Ah, Gemini VII was a rough one. Frank and I spent two weeks in our underwear, trying to get comfortable with a dozen medical instruments stuck way up in places you don’t want to hear about,” he said.
“Singing Nat King Cole tunes to each other,” Borman chimed in with a smile.
“Right. And not a decent bathroom facility for two hundred miles in any direction!” Lovell said. He paused for laughter, which came right on cue. Jim Lovell was as much a storyteller as he was an astronaut.
“And I knew going in that it was going to be rough and ripe in that little spacecraft even before we had to deal with the doctors and their tests. Oh, those godawful bags. But Frank had a whole other solution to the bathroom problem. He just decided not to go,” Lovell said.
“For two weeks?” Dexter said, raising that eyebrow again.
“West Point teaches you discipline. I assume they’ve heard of that down in Annapolis, Jim,” Borman said with a joking grin.
“Most amazing thing I ever saw in all my years with the program,” Lovell said.
“Including Fra Mauro?” John Young said.
“Absolutely including Fra Mauro,” Lovell said, getting the laugh again. He continued, “Frank Borman fought off his bowels for a week, all the while he was filling them up with this nasty rehydrated food they sent us up with…”
“And the fruitcake,” Borman said.
“Right, the fruitcake. I almost forgot. That was the only thing that tasted like it was supposed to,” Lovell said.
“Meaning not all that great in the first place,” Borman said.
“Oh yeah. Anyways, we get into the eighth day of the flight and I’m just amazed. I mean the willpower, the sheer orneriness of it all. And we get into day nine, we’re coming up over California and I’ll never forget this ‘til the day I die. Frank just stares straight ahead and says, ‘Jim, I think this is it.’ And I couldn’t help myself. I’d been rooting for him to make it, and I couldn’t help myself. I just turned to him and said, ‘But Frank, you’ve only got five more days left to go!’”
John Young, not known as the funniest man in the astronaut corps, absolutely fell out laughing. The others joined in to the point where it almost caused a scene.
After a few more stories about the old days, Lovell pulled Dexter off to the side and buttonholed him for a bit, “I know it’s a lot going on right now. Keep your head clear and stick to the procedures. They’ll get you home every time,” he advised.
Mike Dexter nodded, “Absolutely, sir. We’ll make you proud up there.”
“You surely will,” he swung his arm to indicate the crew of Orion 1 scattered around the reception, “Looks like you’ve got a great team behind you here,” Lovell said.
Dexter nodded again, “They’re the best. Couldn’t ask for a better crew.”
“You’ll be fine. We’re always heading West in this country. Pioneering is the national business,” Lovell said.
“You’ve been a great example,” Dexter said.
“Be one for the next guy. There’s a lot more rocks out there,” Lovell patted him on the shoulder, then went in search of some more punch. Dexter patted the novel in his pocket to make sure it was still there. This had already been quite an afternoon. Tonight’s dinner at the White House would be anticlimactic.
Before he fully recovered, Tom Wheaton had sidled up to him.
“We can write you up a few options, is all I’m saying,” Wheaton said, just rolling right back into the conversation they’d abandoned yesterday.
“I really think I’d prefer to wing it,” Dexter said.
“That’s fine. But you’re gonna have a billion people watching,” Wheaton said.
“Cause that’s what I need right now: more pressure.” Dexter replied.
“I’m just saying, you might want to give it some thought,” Wheaton said.
“How about ‘where’s the beef?’” Dexter said, snorting a bit.
“Perfect, assuming you want your next job to be at a Wendy’s,” Wheaton snapped back.
Dexter smirked. Of all the things to be thinking about, less than two months out, the fact that this was a legitimate topic of conversation filled him with an ironic humor.
Dexter jutted his chin towards Borman who had retreated back to the table he’d been sharing with Jim Lovell, “Did you give him the same advice back in ’69?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was a mid-level staffer back in ’69. My boss talked to him. I imagine it went about like this.”
“I heard Collins told him he should say, ‘What the hell is that thing?’ and then scream and cut his mic,” Dexter said.
“Let’s call that plan B,” Wheaton said.
Dexter’s smirk got less ironic. He looked away and recited the immortal words that were somewhere on a plaque in the building behind him, “Oh God, Thy sea is so great and my boat is so small.”
“He really screwed us over with that one, didn’t he?” Wheaton said.
“It’s just such a damned good line,” Dexter said. “You really think your guys can do better?”
Wheaton sighed, “No. Not really. I just figured it was one less thing on your plate if we could help you out with it before you left. You’ve got enough to worry about as it is,” he said.
Dexter turned to face him, “Well. …I never really thought of it like that. That is awfully nice of you, Tom,” he said, with sincerity. He had been thinking of this whole thing as a power-grab by Public Relations.
“Don’t mention it,” Wheaton said, “Literally. No matter what you do, I’d rather people think you came up with it yourself.”
Dexter let out a small laugh, “Roger that. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Have your people do whatever they do. I’ll take a look when we get back,” he said.
Wheaton nodded, “Sure thing. Go enjoy the party,” he said.
“Tom. You mind if I ask you something?” Dexter said.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“What drove you to this? Why public relations at NASA? You’re good enough you could be doing it for the airlines or one of the defense contractors or something. Make you some big money. You must have the contacts by now. Why…”
“Well, you know damn well there’s a lot more to this job than money,” Wheaton said.
“Sure, when you’re in the cockpit or in mission control. But you spend your days making guys like me and them look good on TV and I’m just curious,” Dexter said.
Wheaton sighed. “My brother, David. My older brother. It was him, my sister Peggy, and me. I’m the youngest,” he said.
“I don’t…”
“David was the smart one. Amazing kid. A math whiz. Brilliant at chess. You should’ve seen him. He was smart enough to do what you do,” Wheaton said.
“What happened?”
“He got in to Princeton. I was fourteen at the time. Winter break rolls around, David had saved up some money to go out to San Francisco. He was on the wharf and saw a guy beating a woman up. He went in to stop it and the guy stabbed him to death,” Wheaton said.
“My God,” Dexter said, floored.
Wheaton couldn’t have sounded calmer, “The tuition money that my parents gave me for four years at Yale was supposed to go to him. They never could have afforded to send us both. I figured I’d better do something important and honorable to be worthy of that. So, after graduation, I found the most important thing that I could do with my skillset and I’ve been doing it ever since.”
A beat passed.
“For the record, Mike. I don’t do it to make you look good on TV. That’s just a byproduct. I do it for the kids who watch you on those TVs. I want to make sure they all want to grow up to be astronauts one day.”
Mike Dexter reevaluated so much of what he knew an hour ago. There was nothing more to say.
“I’ll take a look at those drafts whenever you’re ready, Tom. Just call the office and I’ll swing by,” Dexter said.
“Sure thing,” Wheaton said.
“Thanks, Tom,” Dexter said.
“You bet.”
2 May 1985
CF-401 Orion
MET: 00:02:40
Altitude: 52 mi
The crew lurched forward in their seats, belts straining to keep them from flying through the cockpit windows. A muffled poof and a shudder reverberated through the hull and then a beat passed before they were pulled back into the custom, contoured seat backs.
From the left-hand seat, Dexter made the call, “Houston, Orion. We have Pegasus sep and Centaur fire.”
He would have liked to add more, but the strain of acceleration was stronger than his desire to say anything more than was necessary.
The mission clock ticked past three minutes.
“Orion, Houston, copy your Pegasus sep and good clear. We have you at six and a half minutes until SECO,” said the voice of CAPCOM.
2 May 1985
Johnson Space Center
Houston, TX
29° 33’ 47” N 95° 05’ 28” W
Jim Hunley had been hired on to the Public Affairs office last year, mostly to write copy for press releases that hardly anyone read. With all the hubbub regarding Orion and the return to the Moon, they’d needed another pair of hands on a keyboard.
And what a keyboard it was. Apple’s new Macintosh computer had unveiled last year and the Public Affairs office had one thanks to a budget surplus that no one had expected. They’d put the new kid on the new system, mostly to keep the old timers from having to deal with this crazy technology that had invaded the office. Jim Hunley didn’t know any better though and had been spitting out public statements with the goofy little machine since he’d started at NASA back in August.
At the moment though, no one was writing copy. Everyone had gathered around the TV to watch the first launch of Orion.
When the phone rang at T-30 seconds, everyone ignored it. Tom Wheaton had the best seat in the office and was laser-focused on the television. The rest of the team had gathered around and were similarly unaffected by the sound of the ringing phone.
For Jim Hunley, it was annoying to say the least. He decided to take the initiative and picked up the receiver.
“Press Office, this is Jim Hunley,” he said.
“Orion is doomed,” said the voice on the other end of the line. The prediction was stated in an eerily calm voice. Like someone ordering breakfast.
“I’m sorry?” Hunley said, not quite sure what was happening.
“We have put a bomb in your rocket. The pieces of your evil mission will crash on your heads,” said the voice.
“Excuse me. Who is this?” Hunley asked.
“Your blasphemies will end in fire!” said the voice, finally sounding raised and angry.
The line went dead before he could respond.
Hunley looked at the receiver in his hand, stunned at this sudden twist to his day.
“Uh… boss? Tom? Somebody?” he called out, looking at the group gathered at the far end of the room.
Ryan Grimm looked over and saw the stricken look on Hunley’s face.
“What is it, kid?” he asked.
“Uh… they said there was a bomb, on Orion,” Hunley said.
“Really?” Grimm said.
“Y…yeah. They said there was a bomb and something about evil and blasphemy…” he trailed off.
Grimm’s face had a peculiar look. He paused for a beat, turning back to the TV and then back to Jim Hunley.
“Well… jeez. If there’s a bomb… we should call someone, don’t you think?” Grimm said to him.
“Uh…” Hunley said.
“C’mon Jim. If that spacecraft has a bomb on it, we’d better call Mission Control, right. Tell them to abort or something,” Grimm said.
“I don’t…” Hunley said.
“Go quick, before the whole thing blows up!” Grimm said, patting him on the shoulder, his voice ticking up. “Tell them to stop the flight! Hurry!”
A few heads turned from the TV to look over at Grimm and Hunley.
Hunley looked around for the nearest phone. He reached for it when a booming voice called out from behind the crowd.
“Ryan! Stop fucking with the new guy!” Tom Wheaton said.
A series of laughs rolled through the collective group.
Ryan Grimm broke out into a side-splitting laugh, “Oh, c’mon chief. He was just about to call up MOCR and cancel the flight.”
“Ryan,” Wheaton repeated. His tone was all the admonishment that the situation required.
“You never let us have any fun,” Grimm said before sitting back down to watch the TV.
“Harvey, come on up here kid. There’s a seat for you,” Wheaton said. He patted the back of the chair next to his.
Jim Hunley was still stunned and silently took the chair next to his boss’s boss.
“Relax, Harvey. It’s fine. We get those every time,” Wheaton said, not looking away from the television.
“Uh… it’s Hunley, sir.”
“Sorry. Hunley, then. As you get older, names tend to blur together,” Wheaton said, by way of an apology.
The group gave a small cheer as the Pegasus engines peeled away and the telescopic feed showed the engine pod’s wings unfurl. Orion continued the long climb to orbit in one piece.
“Sir, what’s going on?” Hunley said.
“Bomb threats. They happen on every flight. Always some crazy guy who is mad at us for something and wants to ruin everyone’s day. Sometimes it’s the religious nutjobs. Sometimes it’s some guy who thinks the Earth is flat or something.”
“The Aryans,” Ryan chimed in.
“Oh, right. Crazy skinheads. They hate it whenever anyone is on a flight who isn’t white. Always saying they’ll scatter them all over creation or some such. It’s just bullshit, kid.”
“People looking for attention,” Martin Brick said.
“Right. Usually, they have the decency to call an hour or two before the launch. Sometimes they call here. Sometimes they call Kennedy. Sometimes they just call CBS.”
“Every time,” Ryan chimed in again.
The television cameras had more or less lost sight of Orion. At this range, it was basically just a white dot on a blue background. They cut to show the descent of the Pegasus engines making their slow, careful, computer-controlled turned to come back to Kennedy. Wheaton kept his eyes on the big box set.
“Don’t take it as anything, Hunley. Just some cranks trying to have fun at our expense,” Wheaton concluded.
“Heck, what was it, back in ’83, they had that guy Falwell who said we were meddling in God’s creation ‘cause we were trying to live away from Earth, where God had put us,” Grimm said.
“Ugh, crazies. Always mad about something,” Wheaton said. “Anyways. Sorry they spooked you. There’s plenty of people out there who hate NASA. Hate anyone trying to do something big…”
“Hate science,” Martin said.
“Hate science, exactly,” Wheaton said. “Stick around for a few more missions. You’ll see. Nothing to worry about.”
Jim Hunley began to unclench a bit. He’d never thought of his workplace as all that controversial before.
“Relax. We’re going to the Moon. It’s gonna be fun,” Wheaton said, patting his shoulder.
3 May 1985
CF-401 Orion
Orbital Inclination: 29°
Altitude: 250 mi
“Orion, this is Skydock. We have you at 100 meters. You look beautiful out there,” said Robert Overmyer, the current commander of Skydock.
“Skydock, Orion. Thanks. We’re loving the new car smell. Have you got our package ready?” Mike Dexter radioed from the flight deck.
“That’s a roger, Orion. Your Eagle is ready and waiting. Are you happy with how we parked it, over?”
Dexter moved his gaze from the CRT by his knee, to the targeting reticle that was right in front of him. He shook his head to clear his vision and swung the reticle up and out of the way. He took a look at the Eagle lander as a whole. For the past hour, he’d mostly focused on the alignment of the top docking hatch. He decided to take a proper look at his target before moving in.
The lander was white and spindly. Eagle was a patriotic name, but Arachnid would have been much more fitting. Dexter considered cracking wise about docking this lovely, smooth Clipper with her soft, curving lines, to the ugly, rugged, industrial spider that would carry them down to the Moon. The joke just didn’t come to him.
He looked over to Fred in the right-hand seat and they exchanged a thumbs-up. He adjusted the mic on his headset.
“Skydock, Orion. We’re happy with that placement. Preparing to move in. Opening our nose port now. Stand by,” he said.
On the board between Fred’s seat and his own, he opened the cover on the nose cone switch. He pulled the toggle from CLS to OPN and heard a whirr below his feet. He could not see the nose bay door swing down, but when the whirring ended, he was sure the mechanism had performed properly.
Still, no one in the astronaut corps had ever died from being too careful.
“Skydock, can you confirm our nose door opened fully?” he asked.
“Orion, Skydock. That’s confirmed. You are cleared for docking maneuvers,” Overmyer said.
He still had to check in with Houston.
“Houston, this is Orion. Can we get a ‘go’ for docking, please?”
No matter how secure the operation, it always seemed to take thirty seconds to get a ‘go’ for anything.
“Orion, Houston. You’re go for docking.”
“Roger that,” Dexter said.
He took a grip of the joystick and gave the RCS a light pulse, pushing the shiny new Clipper forward.
“One hundred feet,” Fred said, with a scope on the Eagle out in front of them.
“Like throwing a fifty-ton dart,” Dexter said. He let his fingers off the joystick, but kept them less than an inch away.
“Fifty feet…. twenty… ten feet,” Fred said, lowering the rangefinder.
Eagle was held in place by one of Skydock’s manipulator arms. The elbow of the arm had been positioned to serve as the docking target and Dexter blinked for the first time as the elbow filled his reticle. The last few feet required no adjustment and Mike Dexter and his crew gave a small lurch as the two ships became one.
“That’s it! We’ve got barber pole,” Fred said, indicating the gauges were at null.
“Reel her in, Fred,” Mike said.
A clicking resounded through the ship as Orion’s docking probe retracted, pulling the lander in tight to the mothership.
“Houston, we have hard dock.”
9 May 1985
CF-401 Orion
Orbital Inclination: 86°
Altitude: 75 mi
“Okay, all aboard the Silver Rail Express. Next stop, the South Pole,” Dexter announced from the docking tunnel as he floated into the Eagle lander.
Several “woohoos” greeted the mission commander as he came aboard.
“Silver Rail Express?” Kathryn asked as he sealed the hatch shut behind him.
“I liked model trains when I was a kid,” he answered.
“Preflight checks are done. By the clock, we’ll be good to undock in ten minutes,” Fred said from the right-hand seat of Eagle’s cockpit.
“Our big girl all secure?” Dave Griggs asked from behind him.
“She’s secure. Should be ready and waiting when we’re done,” Dexter said.
“Let’s hope so!” Story said.
Mike sank into the routine of preflight checks that had been a mainstay of his life since he’d left Parris Island. Dave and Fred had handled most of the check out for the lander. The computer was, theoretically, set to take them down. But none of that took away the pride he felt as he moved his hand over the joystick.
Undocking allowed them to get their first good look at Orion since she had departed Pad 39B. The pristine white and black space whale had carried them to the Moon and it seemed a shame to have to leave her seventy miles up while they went and had their fun.
“Houston, Eagle, we are free and flying. Good sailing to our mothership and we’re ready to head downstairs and get to work,” Mike said.
Somewhere in the back, Story had begun a low chorus of We’ll Meet Again.
Mike let it go and cracked a smile as Frank pulled up the descent sequence on the computer. Technically he should have stopped the revelry, but there was something to be said for morale.
After one verse, they cut it out and Mike made the call they’d all been waiting for.
“Houston, Eagle. We are initiating the EDL program. Hope you’re all paying customers. This will be a good little show.”
The Eagle Descent/Landing program relied on accurate measurements of time and location. Fed by data from the ground and from Eagle’s external sensors and cameras, the computer would guide Eagle’s descent automatically from orbit to landing. Gone were the days of silk-scarved pilots guiding in fragile little LEM’s to a dusty landing with ten seconds of fuel to spare. Part of colonizing the frontier was removing the dangers of it.
The initial burns were relatively short, but they did the trick. Out the front windows, the horizon was close enough to give Dexter a sense of the scale. He could make out Shackleton coming up in the landscape. In his mind, he could see the long arc that would mark their path. As he watched the altimeter tick through its digital countdown, he silently braced for the main engine to light once again.
As the lunar surface filled the window, he felt the familiar tug of acceleration pull him into the bottom of his seat.
“Whoa there. We’re lit,” he said.
“Houston, Eagle. We are in the lane and EDL program is now in phase three. Seeing a slight oscillation, but we’re within the parameters,” Fred said, checking the instrument panel between them.
Mike Dexter could feel the shake more than he could see any indications of it. The engine and computer were working to correct what must have been a slight error in the trajectory. The oscillation of the spacecraft was the byproduct of the system correcting itself.
“Little shimmy there,” Dexter said.
“Yeah, we’ll see if it settles,” Fred said. Technically he was second-in-command, but he’s been working with Eagle systems since their initial design. Mike trusted his judgement.
As they passed ten thousand feet, the shudder increased. There was a noticeable swing in his stomach as the spacecraft swung back and forth, trying to find an elusive equilibrium point.
“Uh, Fred?”
“Still within limits,” Fred said.
The swing around the vertical axis didn’t let up. Dexter didn’t need his fifteen years of experience in fighter cockpits to know this wasn’t getting fixed. This was getting uncomfortable.
“I’m going to manual,” he announced.
“I wouldn’t,” Fred said.
From behind them they heard a groan. The sway was affecting them all.
“It’s gone from bad to worse. We can’t swing like this under five thousand.”
“It’ll settle,” Fred said.
“Then why hasn’t it?”
“It’s got to settle,” Fred said.
“We’ll never know. Houston, Eagle. We’ve got a wicked little shimmy up here. I’m going to manual,” Dexter radioed.
“Mike…”
Dexter flipped the switch that shut down the EDL program. The cockpit lights brightened. It was a subtle indicator that the astronauts were now in control.
A second later, he got a confirmation that Houston understood. With the ground coming up this fast, they would never second-guess him. They didn’t have that kind of time.
“Talk to me, Fred,”
“Forty-five hundred, plenty of gas, all systems go,” Fred said.
He pulsed the RCS and felt the lander respond. It was a little like riding a bike that had begun to wobble. With a few more pulses, he had gotten a handle on the oscillation. After twenty seconds, he’d managed to null it out.
“Seventeen fifty, down at twenty,”
“Easy does it. Here we go. You seeing Excalibur?”
“Left five. You got it?”
Dexter lifted his eyes from the cockpit instruments long enough to see the glint of sunlight bouncing off the unmanned lander that had preceded them.
“Houston, Eagle. We’re coming in. Read less than three meters deviation from default LPD, over.”
“Roger that, Eagle.”
“Two hundred down at three. Maybe a little more gas, Mike.”
“Trying to say in the window.”
“LPD is good. You’ve got a good line, watch the ridge and we’re there.”
“Copy. Completing the pitch around,” Dexter said.
“Your angle is good. All good to put her down,” Fred said.
“My kingdom for a contact light,” Dexter said.
“You’ll get one when we’re down,” Fred said.
With the Eagle landers designed to withstand more than one landing, their flight profile didn’t call for a five foot drop to the surface, as the Apollo LEM’s had done. The Eagle, like her namesake, came down with a bit more grace, her talons spread wide and ready to cushion her fall.
“You’re there. Two, one, down. Shut it down, Mike!” Fred said.
The Eagle’s main engine spun down slowly. It was not a sudden quick cutoff, but more of a downthrottling until the engine no longer gave any push at all. Within five seconds, all was quiet inside the lander. He pulled down on the toggle to safe the motor and sat back in the chair, listening for trouble. He’d never known a silence like this.
“Houston, Eagle is down at Shackelton West. Good sighting on Excalibur. Stable one and secure, engine arm is off. We are here.”
9 May 1985
Shackleton West
Expedition 1
89.68°S 166.0°W
There was no lever to pull. The Eagle’s aft cameras had been pointing at the rear hatch since the landing. The ladder was simple enough to hop down. He was a traditionalist and kept up the habit of bunny hopping with both feet, which was easier considering that the EVA suits were only marginally less bulky these days.
The good people who had built this lovely little lander had been kind enough to throw in an extra rung at the bottom of the ladder. This would save everyone the big leap that it had taken to mount up in the old Apollo LEM’s. His feet found the pad at the base of the ladder. The pad was large enough for him to settle his feet and take a slow turn to review the site.
To his left he saw the water tanks that were the first pieces to arrive. Their supplies would be of great help, not only for drinking and cooling, but to shadow the first parts of the base from solar radiation.
He turned slowly, with a vast swath of humanity watching him as he took his silent survey. Directly ahead was the rover that he would be driving. It was as large as an RV and with no atmosphere to sway the light, he was able to see fine details on the plow that was mounted to the nose of the rover. That too would be put to good use, clearing a channel for the first modules to settle into. That work would begin tomorrow morning.
As he looked to the right, he could see Excalibur, proudly standing there with the mission modules in her tight grip. She towered over the landscape on her slim black legs and he felt rather like a mouse peering at the back of an elephant. A pregnant elephant at that. The pair of surface modules that the robotic freighter had so kindly and gently delivered would serve as their first home on the lunar surface.
The long term plans for Moonbase called for more than a dozen modules to be brought together, some buried under the regolith, others resting under a mound of dirt and dust, but these first two modules would be used differently.
At almost every construction site in the civilized world, one would find a shack or office of some sort where the foreman was able to organize and direct the work being done. Construction on the outer edge of Shackleton Crater was no exception to this.
Once the rover had towed Excalibur’s prize to the appropriate spot, the modules would be set up on the surface, in the shadow of the water tanks and would serve as a temporary habitat for the expedition crews that would construct the lunar base, one or two pieces at a time. The little shack was filled with necessary tools and equipment and, once some of that equipment had been deployed, the shack would have room enough for the six new moonwalkers to enjoy a few creature comforts as they began the work of building the first home for humanity on another world.
He realized that he’d been silent for quite a bit here. What to him was an organization of his thoughts was manifesting to the world as a very pregnant pause. There was much to do and it was time to be about it.
On Thursday, the 9th of May, 1985, at a few minutes past eight pm, Houston time, astronaut Mike Dexter became the twenty-fifth man to walk on the Moon.
“First we came to explore, in peace we have returned to grow. Annuit Coeptis.”
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Above all else, with this latest chapter, I'd like to give a special thanks to @nixonshead and the invaluable work he has done with his artistic magic. He has made this timeline so much more interesting and beautiful than I ever could have done without him. I truly hope we'll see more of his work in the future, both on Ocean of Storms and wherever he chooses to make his mark. A space artist of the highest order.
I was going for Frederick Gregory. I had plans for a couple of scenes that followed this. (They may appear in the next chapter.) As I was writing it, I realized that when Mike steps out onto the surface, that's the end of this chapter. Sometimes the work tells you where to go.
This could give you room for another Space tribute. When he first walks on the Moon,Paul Linley (Randy Claggett’s LMP,black in the book but white in the miniseries) says “Hot damn! Finally it pays to be black!”
As much as I loved all 800 pages of that book, I'd forgotten that reference. It's not half bad though. May have to stick that in my back pocket.
Hey,in my timeline the miniseries is like 50 episodes long and much more book accurate....
Honestly, never thought about it either way. Wasn't meant to be some subtle signal of a massive change.
XXXVII: Annuit Coeptis
Annuit Coeptis
14 May 1985
Moonbase Outpost Shelter
Expedition 1
Day 6
He woke suddenly. Houston had piped in a subtle beep that wasn’t jarring, but he’d been startled nonetheless. Mike Dexter banged his head on the top of the bunk above his. That one was meant for Elison. Surely a poke from below would have woken up his crewmate, but there was no stirring from the next bunk up.
Dexter rolled over and saw the reason. Elison was asleep on the floor, wrapped in, appropriately enough, a space blanket, his pillow on the grated floor. Dexter looked around and saw that Kathryn, the first woman to walk on the Moon, had taken a similar spot, further down in the module. Astronauts were trained to deal with claustrophobia, but there were limits.
He’d slept with his headset on. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but he’d wanted to give the reveille and he wanted the crew to get as much rest as they could. This was about to be a busy day and they were sleeping in very tight quarters. These little coffins would serve fine for the construction shack, but eventually, they’d need something roomier.
Pioneering was, by its nature, an uncomfortable line of work.
He rolled out of his bunk and tiptoed past his slumbering crew. He couldn’t help himself. He went straight for the porthole in the center of the module. Looking out onto that grey landscape with the long shadows forming pools of night, he could never imagine growing sick of the view. This was a hostile, barren rock that had never known color, let alone life, but it was the frontier and he was honored to be taming it.
He tossed a pen in the air and watched it zenith and tumble before beginning its slow descent back to his hand. The low gravity gave him a spring in his step and he used it to bounce into the adjoining module and set up the coffee maker that had been generously thrown in by the boys in Huntsville.
He set out the thin cups that bore the NASA meatball and the crew’s names and poured a small stirring of java for each of his teammates. He’d figured the aroma might be enough to rouse them, but the air circulation pushed the arousing scent away from the sleepers.
He took a sip and found it strong enough to be worthy of a Marine post. They’d all need the caffeine fix. He looked forward to watching Elison and Kathryn cough their way through the first couple of sips. Story would feel right at home.
Mike Dexter leaned on the combing of the hatchway and took up a drill sergeant’s tone, loud enough to be heard by everyone on the Moon.
“Rise and shine, boys and girls! The coffee is hot, black, and strong, just like your pilot, and we’ve got a real busy schedule today. Who’s ready to work?”
14 May 1985
Moonbase Outpost
Expedition 1
Day 6
Story and Elison were technically running the show from the shelter, but neither of them really felt like they were in command. On separate radio loops, the workflow for today had been split in two.
Fred and Kathryn were setting up the water recycler, which was a bit tricky as it required them to interface with the large water tank that had been brought up last year. They had to be very careful not to expose the inside of the tank to the hard vacuum that surrounded it. The water inside would boil off violently and quickly in the event of their failure. Elison was talking them through a step-by-step checklist that they’d spent months practicing back in Houston.
They’d been fine using the small water tanks inside the shelter for the last day, but that wouldn’t be adequate for much longer.
In contrast, Dave and Mike had the fun assignment. One of the benefits of being the mission commander was that Mike was expected to drive the rover, almost exclusively. And if there was anything more fun than driving around on the Moon, Mike Dexter couldn’t think of what it could possibly be.
He drudged along with Dave Griggs as they walked over towards the shadow of the ridge. Shackleton Crater was surrounded by randomly scattered, low lying, hills and crests and it was in one of the valleys outside the crater that the crew of Apollo 21 had landed a dozen years ago. In that same valley, the crew of Orion had now begun to build the first home on a world beyond Earth.
Nestled in the shadows of two rises, the sun rarely crept into this cold grey landscape. On Earth, that would make this patch of land a horrible real estate investment, but on a world without an ozone layer, it might as well have been El Dorado.
Together, Griggs and Dexter marked out a rectangular space in the regolith. They paced a path, checking for stones or divots or anything unusual and found nothing of interest. Then, with gleeful anticipation, they attached the scoop plow on the front of Rover 1 and boarded through the side hatch.
Rover 1 was designed to be operated in full vacuum, with the operators in space suits. The controls could easily accommodate a bulky, gloved hand. In the event of an issue with a suit, the entire rover could be sealed and pressurized in under two minutes. There were even emergency procedures for getting someone from the rover to the shelter through use of a flexible tunnel. The crew had tried this procedure on the ground several times and all agreed that it would be an absolute nightmare if it had to be done outside of a simulation.
For now, they kept the rover in vacuum. It was easier to recharge the suit’s air supply than the Rover’s emergency reserves. Sometime next year, NASA was planning to send up a rover for long traverses. There was a bit of work to be done before that happened.
As the morning progressed, Mike and Dave transformed the smooth rectangular patch into a trough of soil and rock that would be able to accommodate another module that would be coming in from Earth. The rut they cut in was not terribly deep, but it did provide an adequate place to nestle the cylinder down without substantial risk of the module rolling. Tomorrow, they would go in with hand tools, smooth out the sides, cut an area around the ends which would accommodate an entryway, and check to see if their furrowing had unveiled any interesting rocks or other material from underneath the surface.
Time had gotten away from Mike and Dave and it was only the rumbling from their stomachs that told them that lunchtime had come and gone.
“Shelter, this is Rover 1. Story, I’m thinking let’s call it here for the moment and Dave and I will come in and eat. We can flesh out the afternoon over some freeze-dried ice cream. Sound good?”
Story’s reply took a little longer than it should have, “Rover, Shelter. Mike, we’re getting a flicker on the interior lights. I’m taking a look at the gauges. Stand by one, over.”
Inside the hard suits, it was impossible to get a good read on body language, but neither Mike nor Dave were liking what they’d just heard.
The word came back before they had a chance to consult privately.
“Rover, we’re having intermittent power losses. We’d like you to take a look at the lines leading up to the cells on top of the hill, if that’s not too much trouble.”
“Roger that, Shelter. We’ll take a look before we head back in.”
“Sorry about this, fellas. I’ll save some ice cream for you.”
“Understood,” Mike said. He shrugged and put the rover in reverse, pulling the wheel right to orient towards Shackleton’s ridge.
“If we have to break out that rad box, this is gonna turn into a very different day,” Dave said.
On day four, Mike had driven up this hill, slowly unspooling a line of power cables that interfaced with the aged solar panels that had been left behind in the 1970’s. No one had expected the cells to work after all this time, but it was worth it to see how they’d held up. The engineering knowledge was just as important as any power offset.
Shockingly, the panels had been able to provide a bit of juice after all. They operated at about 45% of their previous efficiency, but a bit of dusting and replacing the old cables had gotten that number into the high fifties. This was enough to allow Mike and the crew to place a few newer panels. They’d tried not to tread on the old footprints left by Stafford and Chapman, but a few priceless traces had suffered eternal loss as they had interfaced with the old systems.
Prior to launch, both retired astronauts had given their blessing to the inevitable creative destructions that would have to take place. The crew of Expedition 1 had promised not to disturb any more than was necessary. The old LEM, Explorer, rested more than three hundred yards from any of their surface activities. They treated Henson, the cargo LEM that had supplied so much of the equipment for Apollo 21, as a cultural monument on par with the pyramids of old.
Now, as the rover made its careful way up, using the same path that it had cut two days ago, Mike and Dave studied the ground for any signs of trouble. If he was being honest, Dexter would have to admit he had no idea what he was looking for. There was just a simple power cable running along the ground. The cable clearly wasn’t cut through, because then the Shelter would be on its backup batteries. Any internal issues with the power cable would have been impossible to spot from the rover itself. Beyond that, there was little that could be said or done during the traverse, so the two astronauts silently watched the cable as they moved up the crest.
When the summit was reached, things got a bit more interesting. At the top of the hill, the power cables split from the main trunk and branched off in more than a dozen directions, each going to a different array of solar panels. Four had been placed by the crew of 21, the other eight were fresh, crisp panels that had been in a box less than three days ago.
Checking the connections brought a potential issue to the fore.
“Story, I’m gonna try pulling a couple of cables now. Tell us what you see down there.”
Dexter removed the connections from one of the aged panels and Story reported no significant change. He did the same for two others and Story reported a low drop in power.
“Yeah, that’s about right. The old panels are the ones giving us trouble. I haven’t pulled them yet, but I’m betting our 1980’s tech is just better than something we left behind during RFK’s second term. I’m gonna switch the old stuff over to Main D and lay out some new panels. Story, please make the adjustments on your end. We’ll let the panels from 21 charge backup batteries and things like that. They’re not useless, but clearly they aren’t reliable.”
“What’s the difference up here?” Griggs said.
“Well, I’m not abandoning working hardware just because it’s not a hundred percent. Might as well do something. That sunlight isn’t doing a damn bit of good if we leave it in the capacitors,” Dexter said.
“Roger that,” Griggs said.
“If the rewire doesn’t work, we’ll have to see about setting up the reactor,” Story Musgrave said.
“If, Story. If. Let’s not play with plutonium until we have to,” Dexter said.
“Copy that,” Musgrave answered.
Two hours later, with stomachs aching and oxygen tanks dwindling, Rover 1 pulled up about 50 feet from the entrance to the shelter. Twenty minutes after that, Commander Dexter and Specialist Griggs enjoyed their prescribed Day 2, Meal B packets which included ham, cheese wedges, one apple, 6 Saltine crackers, fruit juice, and 1 cube each of chocolate and vanilla freeze-dried ice cream.
22 May 1985
Moonbase Outpost
Expedition 1
Day 14
“I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Houston. I didn’t pay attention in this part of chemistry class,” Dexter said, checking the cable as he backed away.
“That’s okay, Mike. We’ve got a lot of people down here that did,” said CAPCOM after the light-speed delay. Bob Stewart was on comms down in the MOCR today. Mike was glad to have a fellow
“I was always a physics and math kind of guy, you know?”
“I know how you feel, Mike. Air from rocks still sounds like alchemy to me,” Bob said.
“No kidding. So… the intergalactic Easy-Bake Oven is now assembled. I think we’re ready to give this a shot.”
“They say the tests down here went pretty well.”
“Eh, either way, I’m still getting as far as I can from this thing,” Dexter said. He changed his tone slightly, “Story, you and the others got the hatches battened down?”
“Affirmative, Mike. Shelter is on battery backups. Low power mode on everything but the essentials. We’re bouncing the sensor readings to Houston and we’re go for the test.”
“All right, give me a sec. I’m about to duck behind the rover in case this sucker blows to kingdom come.”
“The geology division would like to thank you for that vote of confidence, Commander Dexter,” Bob said from the ground.
“Tell them I’ll be greatly appreciative if this thing actually works,” Dexter said.
“Here’s hoping,” Bob said.
Dexter paused at the front of the rover and looked back. Fifty yards away, he saw the contraption that he’s spent most of yesterday building. It rested between a couple of boulders, in a feeble attempt to shield the surroundings in the event of a malfunction.
The In-Situ Oxygen Extractor, or ISOE, as it was acronymed, was a prototype device that could use chemical stripping to extract the iron oxides using hydrogen and something called ilmenite. The resultant products of that reaction were the metals in the regolith and water. Water, in and of itself, was a valuable enough product in this grey desert, but the oxygen within the water could be taken out via electrolysis. On a large enough scale, this could provide oxygen for a habitat.
After that, Dexter had started to doodle and tuned out most of the rest of the briefing.
Essentially this was a small furnace that would heat rocks to a very unpleasant temperature. At some point, the ilmenite would be involved and the whole idea came off to Mike as sounding like a very tightly controlled bomb that would produce water, heavy metal, and heat instead of shrapnel.
Assuming he’d put it together right.
The components had been waiting on one of the cargo modules they’d unloaded on Day 3. The whole assembly had required a lot of power, so two days ago, the small nuclear reactor had been set up under the watchful eyes of the engineers back on Earth. All things considered, Mike would have preferred to just build the shelter, pick up some rocks, dig a hole for the next module and come on home, but he had to fly the mission he’d been given. That meant mucking around with some weird science.
“Okay, Houston. Time to make the doughnuts,” Dexter said, hunkering down behind Rover 1’s engine block.
“You’re go, Mike.”
He looked down at the controller in his bulky, gloved hands. There were a couple doodads here, but it was basically a big red button. Dexter wasn’t a man to stand on ceremony, except for a couple weeks ago when they’d first gotten here.
He pressed the button.
For a long beat, nothing happened. He couldn’t hear anything, it was space, after all. He looked at the controller but felt moronic as there was nothing it could tell him. After a beat, he looked down at his boots on the surface.
Even in the shadow of the rover, he could see his boots clearly.
He peered around the front of Rover 1 and took a look at the box. Through the front of it, he could see the white-hot glow coming from within. Whatever was happening seemed to be powerful.
“Houston… uh… I think… I think we’re going here. Can you confirm?”
“Roger, Expedition 1. We’re seeing the data coming in. The test is conducting. Stand by, please,” Bob said.
A long time ago, Mike Dexter had been transferred across country and got to make a stop at Mt. Rushmore in South Dakota. He’d paid the fee to get in, took a look at the old stone faces for 10 minutes, and then got the hell out of there, figuring that was about as much as he’d get from the experience. Impressive, but not worth lingering.
Staring at the glowing box of science, he found the same feeling coming back to him.
“How long am I supposed to…” he started.
Then the box began to dim and he paused as he watched it slowly return to its former state.
“Test concluded, Orion. Geology has got their numbers. Mike, we’re ready for you and Dave to return to the shelter. We’ll have you out there tomorrow to grab the samples. In the meantime, we’re done for the day. A big thanks from everyone here.”
“Roger that, Houston,” Dexter said.
He turned to Dave Griggs who sat up in the rover cockpit. As best he could, he shrugged in his spacesuit and got the gesture returned from his traveling companion.
At his foot, he saw a small stone that didn’t have the typical jagged edges that he’d seen on the majority of the rocks in this area.
There was a standing order from the geology folks to keep an eye out for anything that seemed unusual. He took a quick pair of photos, grabbed it, bagged it, and handed the sample up to Dave, before mounting the Rover.
“Thanks for the fun, Houston. Nothing like a little science experiment on the Moon.”
19 June 1985
Hadden Systems Integration Facility
Palmdale, CA
34° 37′ 45″ N 118° 05′ 06″ W
He stared out the picture window at the half-completed spaceship on the floor below. The skeleton still showed in several places. Technicians were lazily wrapping up their work. The current shift was about to close out. He was supposed to do a walk-around with a couple of VP’s in the morning. One of their new Japanese practices. It wasn’t going to be fun.
This one was black. It was certainly sexier. He’d seen the numbers and the black hadn’t really been necessary. They had run a cost-benefit and it wasn’t a problem, but it seemed like it was done to make the ship stand out against the civilian model. They had been tweaking this since Reagan announced Star Wars. These days, the Republicans were willing to throw money at anything that might beat communism. Having a sleek, black Clipper that would exclusively service SDI hardware was apparently a need these days. SDI was still fledgling, but this was something tangible, so it had value to the people who wrote checks.
“What better job in all the world than to make something fly?”
She looked up from the report she was reading, “What?”
“Nothing. Sorry, I get philosophical in the afternoon. You know me. It’s one of my things.”
“You want me to get you some coffee?”
“Nah. It’ll keep me up.”
“Okay. They’re starting back up. You need to get in there.”
Hank Patterson sighed. He did not want to sit through the back half of this update meeting. They’d been going since 10 a.m. and at this point, it looked like they’d be here another two hours.
“What the hell do they want from me, Kim? It’s got no wings. It’s a Clipper without any damn wings because we can’t get the wings in from Downey because the tests were bad because the Air Force wants eleven-hundred nautical miles of cross-range. They tried to reinvent the wheel and it came out square. Talking about it for twelve hours isn’t gonna fix a damn thing.”
“Hank, the sooner you get in there, the sooner it’s over. The Air Force isn’t going away. They’re trying to protect, you know, the entire country. And they’re counting on us. So... I need you to get in there, or I need you to get me a purchase order number so I can start ordering Soviet flags and some kind of Cyrillic typewriter.”
He raised an eyebrow and turned to the woman who had kept this office running perfectly for the last three years, “You get sarcastic in the afternoon.”
“You know me. It’s one of my things,” Kim said.
“Ugh. Okay.”
“Oh, Paul McBride called around noon,” Kim said.
He frowned, “Paul? You told him I can’t do press about this, right?”
“He said this wasn’t about that,” Kim said.
“Okay. Well. Did he say anything else?”
“He wanted to talk to you himself,” Kim said.
“That’s odd. Do me a favor. Call him back. Ask him what this is about. It’s got me curious.”
“Okay, get back in there,” Kim said.
Twenty minutes into the meeting, Kim poked her head in and waved for him to come to the door. She spoke in whispered tones, “I got a hold of McBride. He said there’s a news story you’re going to need to see. CBS. Should be on in ten minutes.” Inside the conference room, the phone rang.
“I’m a little busy,” he said, annoyed. He indicated the waiting Air Force officers at the long table.
“I’m just telling you what he said,” she replied.
“Okay. Paul isn’t flighty, so it must be serious. Watch it for me and report back. Or hey, better, we’ve got a VCR, don’t we?” Hank said.
“Yeah, but I don’t think anyone here knows how to work it,” Kim said.
“Give it a try. If you can’t make it happen, just take some notes or something,” he said.
“Will do. How’s it going in there?”
“Boys want their toys,” he answered.
As he reentered the conference room, the junior Air Force man was speaking in whispers to his superior. Hank sensed something was up.
The senior man waved off his subordinate and spoke, “Mr. Patterson, we got a call just now. Apparently there’s a matter of some importance on the news this evening.”
Patterson kept his poker face, not knowing what the play was.
The general continued, “Is there a television set somewhere in this office?”
Ten minutes later, the seven members of the review crowded around a color TV that had been set up in a corner of the engineering bullpen.
On the screen, Dan Rather sat behind the big desk in New York and introduced a guest who sat to his left. The man being interviewed had the clichéd look of a scientist. The glasses, the slight frame, and the wisps of black hair that were desperately clinging to as much scalp as they could conceal would have been complemented by a white lab coat and a clipboard. The subject had removed his lab coat in favor of a tweed suit that did nothing to give him a sense of style
Rather made the introduction, “Since the announcement of the Strategic Defense Initiative, better known as Star Wars, the program has come under much criticism, both for the deployment of military equipment into outer space, and for the considerable costs of the program itself.”
Patterson understood why everyone had been told to watch now. He looked out at the factory floor at the black, military-edition Clipper that was to supply the Star Wars platform when it was ready.
Rather continued, “As the SDI program has the potential to shift the doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction, or MAD, the Soviets have undoubtedly continued to develop weapons and plans that account for the promises of the SDI system. Here tonight, we have Dr. Ronald Chambers, of the Union of Concerned Scientists. Dr. Chambers, can you speak to the Soviet Union’s efforts to counter the SDI system.”
The aged scientist’s soft tones gave a soothing note of credibility, “Since their first development during World War II, every nuclear power has worked to make their nuclear devices as small as possible. This is helpful if you want to launch the device on a rocket. The smaller the payload, the farther and faster the rocket can go. The SDI system is reliant on laser beams to shoot down incoming rockets. The lasers target missiles and warheads once they are beyond the Earth’s atmosphere. ”
Rather cut in, “Have the Soviets managed to decrease the size of their bombs to be so small that the SDI systems are unable to shoot them down?”
“Based on the best available data to civilians, the general consensus is that space-borne lasers, if operable, would still be able to target and destroy incoming missiles. This, however, is an incomplete summary of the situation.”
“How do you mean?”
“Size reduction has allowed for nuclear devices to become small enough for transport by non-military means. A thermonuclear deuterium-tritium device could be placed in a container no larger than a standard oil drum.”
“An oil drum?”
“Yes. And, if that drum were properly constructed, the device would give off very minimal amounts of radiation.”
Rather turned to the camera again, “It is with this knowledge that CBS News, in concert with the Union of Concerned Scientists and with the knowledge of certain highly-placed sources in the federal government, began an investigation two months ago. We present the findings of this investigation now.”
The view cut away to an exterior shot. In the background were the distinctive onion forms of the Kremlin. This was Red Square, and in the foreground stood two men, facing the camera. Between them, on the sidewalk, was a standard oil drum. The top third was painted bright red, the middle section was left white and the lower third was a union blue.
“Oh shit,” said one of the Air Force staffers. Patterson wasn’t sure of the reason for the man’s concern.
A voiceover began to play as the men on screen loaded the oil drum into the back of a van. “This oil drum is lined with lead and filled with radioactive medical waste to simulate the radiation signature of a nuclear device. While the nature of the radiation is somewhat different, its intensity is comparable with an unexploded weapon.”
“Beginning in Red Square, the drum was transported to the border and met with a vessel bound for Nicaragua. In less than a month, the drum had been smuggled from Latin America into Mexico.”
In concert with this narration, the screen showed the oil drum being offloaded by a handcart and other scenes involving various trucks. The last truck was a green softside that was shown arriving at a desert airstrip.
“Drug runners have created very profitable criminal empires by smuggling drugs by road and air over the United States’ southern border. By using commonly known air smuggling routes, our pilot was able to transport this oil drum from a private airport outside of Monterrey to a small airstrip on a leased property between Las Cruces and Carlsbad, New Mexico.”
“Easy as pie,” said the Air Force colonel as he watched the Learjet land in a bare patch of the southwest. The cactus in the background had been a nice touch.
Another white van awaited the oil drum and video showed the loading of the container in the back of this van and, just as in Moscow, the camera watched it drive off, this time with a New Mexican license plate on the back.
“This van was used for the final transportation of the container. Departing New Mexico, the container traveled through six states before reaching Chicago, Illinois. The only incident was when the van suffered a flat tire outside Kansas City, Missouri. A Missouri state trooper offered assistance to our investigators and their journey was not questioned. The journey from New Mexico to Chicago was completed in less than two days.”
The scene showed a state trooper putting out flares and helping the motorists. The flat tire was changed and soon after the oil drum was shown in front of the iconic façade of Wrigley Field.
“From there, the oil drum was transported through Ohio and Pennsylvania, via Pittsburgh, before reaching its destination: Washington, DC.”
The two men from the Moscow shot now posed in the exact same position, this time with the White House in the background.
“Holy shit,” Patterson uttered, unable to maintain his decorum under this shock.
The shot came back to Rather and his guest in the studio. “At no point in the journey across the United States did our investigators encounter any harassment from any law enforcement entity. The methods used by our team to cross the border were nothing that is not currently known to both illicit smugglers, and the law enforcement agencies that attempt to stop them. No extraordinary means were used and our investigators were instructed to comply with any and all searches if challenged. No such challenges ever came.”
The shot panned out and showed the coup de grace for Rather’s indictment of the SDI systems. Between Dr. Chambers and Dan Rather, in the middle of a studio, in the middle of the largest American city, sat the same red, white, and blue oil drum that had traveled so far.
Rather delivered the eulogy for the work that Hank Patterson had been stressed about for the last eighteen months. “If the SDI system is developed and implemented, it is well within current Soviet capabilities to deliver and maintain nuclear weapons to key targets on American soil. The ability of the United States to shoot down an incoming nuclear weapon will in no way inhibit the ability of the Soviet Union to deploy them.”
Hope all of my readers are keeping safe and socially distant in this quarantine. Nothing like the inability to leave the house to convince a writer that they aren't working hard enough. It's amazing how many side projects you can get into when the alternative is a white piece of paper.
Speaking of the ability to fill that paper, I must thankfully acknowledge the towering work of Payne Harrison and his fabulous technothriller Storming Intrepid, which is my favorite book that is not authored by Arthur C. Clarke. If you haven't read it, I cannot encourage you more strongly to do so. You can find it by clicking the name above.
Storming Intrepid was the inspiration for the final scene in this latest chapter and is also the reason why any timeline I ever write will undoubtedly possess a Shuttle (or Clipper) named Intrepid.
Hope to hear that all of my readers are doing well! Let me know your thoughts, comments, and questions.
Speaking of the ability to fill that paper, I must thankfully acknowledge the towering work of Payne Harrison and his fabulous technothriller Storming Intrepid, which is my favorite book that is not authored by Arthur C. Clarke. If you haven't read it, I cannot encourage you more strongly to do so. You can find it by clicking the name above.
Storming Intrepid was the inspiration for the final scene in this latest chapter and is also the reason why any timeline I ever write will undoubtedly possess a Shuttle (or Clipper) named Intrepid.
Hope to hear that all of my readers are doing well! Let me know your thoughts, comments, and questions.
I'm interested to see how the Expedition 1 crew are going to be naming things in and around Shackleton crater.
The question is - will the SDI be cancelled, and what's going to happen to that military-grade Clipper under construction?
The question is - will the SDI be cancelled, and what's going to happen to that military-grade Clipper under construction?
Great work Bow! Always a pleasure to read.
I seem to recall hearing one of the moon walkers say the moon wasn't all gray, there were splotches of color all over the place from different color rocks, etc. Is this accurate or is it really just a bleak gray landscape?
I seem to recall hearing one of the moon walkers say the moon wasn't all gray, there were splotches of color all over the place from different color rocks, etc. Is this accurate or is it really just a bleak gray landscape?