Asteroid Diversion

by Bobby Akart

  The security guard laughed. “No, sir. There are khakis and white polo shirts in a variety of sizes inside your quarters. Also, your superior officer had this package delivered for you. It contains some clothing and other personal effects.”

  He pointed toward an Air Force blue duffle bag with his name imprinted on it. Also, the guard reached to the side of his desk and handed Gunner a box that had been sent via courier. There was no return address.

  Gunner accepted the deliveries and then asked, genuinely confused, “Which superior officer?”

  “I wasn’t told, sir. All I know that is that the package was cleared upon arrival. Anything else at this moment? You can expect a phone call from one of the training coordinators within the hour to let you know when and where to be tomorrow morning. Obviously, it will be within Building 9.”

  “Yeah, Building 9, like the other guys said. Well, I’m ready for a hot shower and a bunk, but I can manage to stay up long enough for that phone call. Lead the way.”

  Gunner followed the security guard down a long hallway until they reached the last room on the right. Once he entered the sparsely furnished efficiency-style apartment, he recalled that Heather had stayed here for a brief period of time in preparation for the first failed Artemis One mission. He walked inside, dropped the package on the kitchen bar, and foolishly looked into the refrigerator, hoping that a six-pack of Oyster City beer awaited him. Even a Shiner would do.

  He shook his head in disappointment at the dozen bottles of water and cans of 7 Up. He shut the refrigerator and wandered around the one-room efficiency. There was no television, no radio, and no phone. Gunner scowled and moved the sheers out of the way to see if iron bars prevented him from leaving.

  A solid plate-glass window overlooking a long span of concrete pavement was all that separated him from stepping out on the town. He’d come into Houston once to visit Heather while she was training. During a weekend furlough she was given, they’d spent their time at nearby Kemah Boardwalk, an entertainment and restaurant venue on Galveston Bay.

  Bored, he checked his watch, glanced at the package that came for him, and headed for an armoire that looked like it came straight out of an IKEA catalog. As he was told, the shelves were full of khaki slacks and white polo shirts. After finding his size, he was headed toward the bathroom to shower when something in his gut stopped him.

  He set the clothes on the bath vanity and returned to the deliveries. He emptied the contents of the duffle bag on the kitchen island. Then, his curiosity getting the best of him, he ripped off the clear tape and viewed the contents. He pulled out a CIA-issue Globalstar satellite phone and a note. There were several Air Force tee shirts and a long-sleeve tee adorned with the NASA logo and an image of the space shuttle on the back.

  He read the note aloud. “We thought you’d like a few things from home, and Ghost wanted to make sure you had comms with GPS in case you get lost and need directions. Ride or die. Major Mills.”

  Gunner smiled and looked at the shirts on the counter. The Air Force logo tees were similar to the ones he wore around Dog Island or when he was training at Tyndall. The NASA shirt was new and a design he’d never seen before. He held it up and studied the logo on the back depicting the space shuttle. It brought a tear to his eye as he thought of Heather.

  Then he noticed something. Words were written behind the logo with a black sharpie. Gunner quickly turned the long-sleeve tee inside out. He fumbled with the fabric and held it up to the light. It read … Watch your back – G.

  Chapter 16

  Monday, April 16

  Building 9

  Johnson Space Center

  Houston, Texas

  The packages sent from Cam and Ghost made for a sleepless night. Despite his exhaustion, thoughts swirled through his mind as he tried to decipher Ghost’s cryptic message. The words were simple, often used, but had a distinctive meaning. Watch your back meant someone was out to get you.

  And why would Ghost have Cam send him a satellite phone? Unless Gunner missed something somewhere, the range on the Globalstar didn’t extend to the Moon, much less to where the asteroid was coming from. Is he suggesting that I might need to contact him from Building 9? Is the threat within this facility? Or somewhere else? Gunner glanced upward. Like, up there.

  He fumbled with the unique device specifically designed for CIA operatives to withstand the scrutiny of X-ray security checkpoints. Ghost had to know that the package would be scanned, so it was a risk to send it to Gunner. Yet Cam had made a joke about it in case it was confiscated.

  He flexed his fingers and was about to power the device on when a hard knock on the door startled him.

  “Major Fox, they’re assembling in the briefing room.”

  Gunner quickly stowed the phone deep in the middle of his mattress and replied, “Wait up. I’ll need directions.”

  He checked himself in the mirror. He looked like a college student at a preparatory school up East. He’d really hoped for a uniform of some sort.

  Gunner entered the hallway, where a young man waited for him with an arm full of three-ring binders. “Sir, you won’t be using all of these today, but the chief said to bring them with you.”

  “The chief?” asked Gunner.

  “Yes, sir,” the young man replied, shoving the binders into Gunner’s chest. “You’ll have the honor of being trained by a legend. You’re very lucky, Major.”

  Gunner chuckled. “Yeah, everybody keeps telling me how lucky I am, and others wish me good luck. I sure hope that there’s more to this than luck and a prayer.”

  The young man escorted Gunner down the hallway toward the front reception desk where he’d arrived last night, and opened the door for him. “Sir, in my opinion, I’d rather have prayer on my side. Godspeed.”

  Gunner furrowed his brow and looked inside. His eyes grew wide as he walked into a miniature version of an IMAX theater. The orbiting rocket of the NASA logo was circling around the room, periodically displaced by images of the International Space Station flying in orbit around the Earth.

  “Major Fox, please join us.”

  Gunner recognized the crusty old codger that stood in the center of the theater-like classroom. He’d seen him before but couldn’t quite place him. He suddenly realized that a dozen sets of eyes were intently studying him, and each of those sets of eyes were from astronauts in uniform. In fact, everyone in the room, except for the man who greeted him, was fully dressed in NASA fatigues.

  From the glares he was receiving, he suddenly understood two things. One, he was not one of them, hence the reason he was outfitted in mundane khakis and a white shirt. Second, Ghost was giving him a heads-up that the daggers might be out for him.

  He was prepared for the naysayers, those who would ridicule him, criticizing the world’s premier space agency for going outside their own ranks of seasoned astronauts for this mission. Gunner knew how Heather would feel about that.

  But then, if challenged, he’d look any one of them in the eyes and ask if they’d ever flown a combat jet at Mach 3? Or had they ever made a precision missile strike? Gunner was not discounting their expertise and importance to this mission. However, he also knew that he was the only one in the room with the expertise to do what they needed, and succeed. With a little luck.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re gonna get right to it because there is no time to waste. Everyone in this room knows who I am, except for maybe Major Fox. Am I correct, Major?”

  Gunner set down the set of binders on a desk with a thud and slid into a padded swivel chair in the front row. “Well, sir, all I know is that you’re a legend. At least that’s what the fella who handed me this stack of stuff said.”

  Laughter spread throughout the room as Chief Rawlings managed a smile. He reached over for his NASA coffee mug, not to take a sip, but to spit out some of his tobacco juice.

  “Major Fox, some folks around here might say that. Others think I’m a complete prick. It’ll be up to you to render your own jud
gment. One thing is certain, I’m the best chance you have of coming home from this mission alive.”

  The room quietened down and the astronauts fidgeted nervously in their seats. Not Gunner. He’d faced death more than once. It never crossed his mind that death was a possibility, unless it affected someone he loved.

  Chief Rawlings had full command of the room. He wandered about as he spoke, standing next to each astronaut, somehow gauging their interest and comfort level with this mission. As he briefed them, he clicked the remote device in his hand.

  “Let me say this from the git-go, what we’re about to attempt has never been done on this scale. Oh, sure, there are a bunch of computer whiz kids, who are a helluva lot smarter than we are, running simulations and applying different scenarios and coming up with probabilities about the success of this mission. As we all know, this has never been attempted. But hey, there’s a first time for everything, right?”

  Nobody laughed, although it was said more in a sarcastic tone than a jovial one.

  Chief Rawlings continued. “Here’s our boogeyman. 2029 IM86. The first asteroid of its size, or even close, for that matter, to be on track to cross orbital trajectories with our planet in sixty-six million years. Make no mistake, people, this is a planet killer.” He emphasized the last five words by speaking them with a different cadence, intentionally slowing down and separating each word. His intentional drama worked, and the astronauts glanced over at one another. Thus far, Gunner was unfazed as he continued to soak in the information.

  “Now, I want to show you something that will put some minds at ease and infuriate others. Or, frankly, all of you.”

  The screen changed from IM86 streaking through space to the orbiter that had just been detached from the Falcon Heavy rocket boosters. The video played in slow motion, showing the exact moment the ballistic missile struck the orbiter, causing it to explode.

  Gunner felt the room fill with fury and despair. Several of the astronauts fought back tears, as they’d likely lost friends on the first mission to attack the asteroid. Some of the astronauts balled their fists and scowled, the rage building inside them as they were prepared to punch the assholes who were responsible. Gunner remained stoic, partly because he’d seen the video yesterday at Fort Belvoir, allowing him the opportunity to let his anger build and then subside.

  “I didn’t show you this to get your dander up or cause you any more distress than you’ve already suffered at this senseless loss,” continued Chief Rawlings. “I’m showing you this for the sole reason to inform you that what happened on Friday was not a mission failure on the part of NASA. Our space program is the safest and most advanced of any in the world, despite what that moron in Moscow might believe. And I intend to prove it once again.”

  Heads nodded throughout the room as high fives and fist bumps were exchanged. Thus far, nobody acknowledged Gunner, so he didn’t feel the same sense of camaraderie.

  “Now, let me tell you how we’re gonna attack this booger.”

  Chapter 17

  Monday, April 16

  Building 9

  Johnson Space Center

  Houston, Texas

  “Hypervelocity Asteroid Mitigation Mission for Emergency Response—HAMMER.” Chief Rawlings paused to laugh to himself, and then he relieved his mouth of some tobacco juice. Over several decades, he’d seen many technological advances come and go. The visions of scientists came to fruition. The fictional imaginations of authors became realities.

  “HAMMER,” he continued, “came out of the Apophis sighting back in ’04. Initial observations indicated a two-point-seven percent chance of an impact event with Earth. It was an oh shit moment for everyone.”

  He changed the image to show a model of Apophis, a quarter-mile-wide asteroid that didn’t pack near the punch that IM86 potentially possessed, but the impact of which would have been devastating on a regional scale.

  “Apophis was named after a Greek god who was often referred to as the Uncreator, an evil serpent that dwelled in eternal darkness.” Chief Rawlings paused and changed the image on the IMAX-style monitors to provide the astronauts a visual of Apophis and IM86 side by side. There was no comparison.

  “If Apophis was the Uncreator, as they say, then what the hell are they gonna call this booger? Here’s the thing, no two asteroids are alike. They vary by size, mass, density, speed, geologic makeup—I could go on.

  “When NASA and the Energy Department developed the HAMMER project, they designed it for Apophis, which was scheduled to zip dangerously close to us on April 13, last Friday. This possibility kept Apophis as a Level 4 on the Torino scale until further study reduced the risk. As of now, 2036 is the revised date on which it could impact Earth. But Apophis won’t matter if we don’t deal with IM86 first.”

  He switched the screen to a spacecraft that resembled a satellite. “This eight-point-eight-ton craft was designed to alter the orbital trajectory of Apophis, either by crashing into it or detonating a nuclear device on its surface. This kinetic impactor, based upon NASA’s projections, would’ve effectively saved Earth from a damaging collision with Apophis. Great concept, but totally worthless as it relates to IM86.”

  The screen switched back to IM86. “This booger is simply too big for a little old satellite-sized spacecraft. That’s why we’ve been forced to take it up a notch, to a level never before attempted. I call it Project JACKHAMMER.”

  The next image he revealed showed an artist’s rendering of the Starhopper flying toward IM86. He continued. “When I was a kid, I’d take any job I could find. Growing up in tiny Gail, Texas, there wasn’t such a thing as bagging groceries for the summer to make a little spare change. You either worked on a ranch or twiddled your thumbs. But one summer I got a job helping the Reinecke Company expand one of their oil drillin’ units by leaning on a jackhammer for eight hours a day.

  “Here’s what I learned from that. You can hit a big old rock with a big old sledgehammer with all you’ve got one time, and ain’t nothin’ gonna change. Oh, you might flick off a shard or two, but that’s it. Give me that jackhammer, and let me pound away at cracks, crevices, and indentations, and in no time, I’ll bust her up. That’s what we’re gonna do to IM86—break that booger into pieces.”

  Chief Rawlings was a storyteller, and he had the room full of highly educated adults captivated as he related his childhood experiences to saving humanity from a planet killer. He spit out a little tobacco, and then he walked next to Gunner. His hands were rough and somewhat wrinkled from years of West Texas dirt and sun. He placed them on Gunner’s shoulders.

  “This man is not an astronaut. In fact, I suspect that flying a mission for NASA is the last thing he wants to do. However, he is likely one of the best combat pilots in the Air Force, and he knows how to drop a missile so that it finds and destroys its target.

  “IM86 will have to be destroyed with more than a single kinetic impact. It’s gonna need multiple precisely placed nukes to break it apart. Major Fox is the guy who can do that, and every one of us, if called upon, will make sure that he gets that opportunity.”

  Gunner smiled and mumbled, but loud enough for the others in the room to hear, “Sounds easy enough.” This drew a few laughs and several eye rolls from the group of astronauts.

  Chief Rawlings slapped Gunner on the back and walked away. He found his remote control and changed the screen to the original NASA logo. A tall swivel chair had been pushed against the wall, and Chief Rawlings retrieved it, sliding onto the seat to take a load off his feet. He’d barely slept in preparation for the monumental task of training someone to not only travel into space for the first time but to operate a nuclear-armed spaceship that was designed for ferrying humans to and from the Moon.

  “Questions?” he barked as he reached for his spit cup.

  A female astronaut, a senior member of the group, spoke first. “Chief, with all due respect to the capabilities of Major Fox, there’s a huge difference between the aerodynamics of an aircraft and a space
vehicle like the Starhopper. As Major Fox can attest, his combat jet relies upon air to generate lift, thrust, and maintain stability. A spacecraft, on the other hand, is wholly dependent on the thrust generated by its rocket engines and, in the case of the Starhopper, the cold gas thrusters. The vacuum of space is a completely different environment.”

  Chief Rawlings began to respond to her point when Gunner interrupted him. “May I?”

  “By all means.”

  Gunner stood and addressed the group. He felt confident, as always. “It’s true that I’ve never flown into space, well, except for the stratosphere, you know, just to get a better look of what you guys have experienced. Anyway, flying a combat jet is actually more difficult because of the air, wind and other atmospheric conditions. It’s not a vacuum-like environment, so the pilot must always make adjustments as the conditions dictate. In space, once you get the feel of the controls, it would seem to me that the tiny thrusters could provide more control over the maneuverability of the craft.”

  The female astronaut continued to be the voice of her comrades. “My concern, Major, is that it takes years of training to get the feel, if you will. Too much thrust, or too little, can result in your spacecraft crashing into its docking partner, or a hard landing on the lunar surface that compromises the structural integrity.”

  “Well, there’s another issue,” interjected another astronaut. “Speed. Major, your fighter jets can travel up to, say, Mach 3, in most cases. That’s just over two thousand miles per hour. Even hypersonic travel doesn’t compare to what’s required to keep up with an asteroid.”

  “How fast is IM86 moving?” asked Gunner.

  “TBD, but estimates place it at just under sixty thousand miles per hour,” responded the astronaut.