Asteroid Diversion

by Bobby Akart

Gunner turned to Chief Rawlings. “And how fast will my spacecraft travel?” Gunner intentionally referred to the Starhopper as his spacecraft. It was time to remind everyone in the room who was necessary to pull off this mission. Something Cam and Bear always understood was that there could only be one person driving the bus.

  “It can push seventy K if need be,” he replied.

  “Well, there you have it,” said Gunner. “Speed’s relative. As long as the spacecraft can keep up with the target, and it maneuvers as I need it to, then we can take care of business. Am I right?”

  The female astronaut was persistent. “But, again with all due respect, Major, you’ve never done it.”

  Gunner shut down the conversation. “And neither have you. Nor anyone else, for that matter. Pinpoint bombing isn’t like playing video games on your sofa. It takes more than training. It takes an eye for the target, a steady hand, and perfect timing.

  “Even with advanced technology that can be used on seekers, those missiles that use heat or GPS to latch on to a target, without that touch—the innate ability to transmit commands from your brain to your fingertips—you’ll miss. A miss means failure. Failure means everybody dies.”

  Chief Rawlings stood and shoved his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the room. He gave Gunner a nod of approval. He turned around and addressed the room.

  “No pressure.”

  Chapter 18

  Monday, April 16

  NASA Mission Control

  Johnson Space Center

  Houston, Texas

  Colonel Maxwell Robinson had a storied history with the Department of Defense, one that would never be told. The U.S. government, like others like it around the globe, had its secrets. Matters of state, as they’re known, that never see the light of day.

  To be sure, every government has its whistleblowers—those who pull back the curtain to give the rest of us a look, except in the communist regimes, which use fear, intimidation, and executions, if necessary, to keep the curtain closed. Names like Edward Snowden, Bradley Manning, and Julian Assange dominated the headlines for decades as America’s secrets were exposed.

  Did that open up the halls of government so that the American people could see how things work? Not hardly. If anything, it forced the deep state farther underground. The shadows grew darker. Lips remained shut. The curtains were pulled tighter together.

  Colonel Robinson was one of those individuals who’d take his knowledge of shadowy dealings to his grave. He considered himself a red-blooded, patriotic American, who, when called upon, did the deeds that nobody else had the intestinal fortitude to do.

  In a way, he was not that different from someone like Gunner Fox. Gunner’s missions were always off the books, dark ops kind of stuff that the American people suspected were going on, but didn’t care to know about. Envelopes were pushed. Laws were ignored. Morals and values were cast aside at times. All for the greater good.

  Colonel Robinson could sleep at night without remorse or regret. He always justified carrying out his orders, even if he overstepped his bounds at times. Those who gave them, longtime officials of the State Department and the Pentagon, took orders from the administrations they served. Make no mistake, regardless of political affiliation, presidents and their teams have relied upon the Colonel Maxwell Robinsons and Gunner Foxes to do their deeds. They were considered indispensable in the defense of the nation.

  Colonel Robinson rubbed his temples as eyestrain began to overtake the rest of his head, causing a migraine to emerge. A combination of sleepless nights and stress were taking their toll on the sixty-four-year-old, who should’ve retired many years ago. He didn’t continue working for the money, as his pay and bonuses for a job well done made for a comfortable lifestyle. He did it out of a sense of duty.

  The astronauts’ dossiers were spread around his desk, some neatly stacked into piles, others laid open with Post-it notes marking pages of interest. Robinson had several legal pads on his desk, each containing his thoughts on the different candidates.

  While Chief Rawlings was preparing Gunner for his mission, Colonel Robinson was actively seeking his replacement. It was a vetting process that only a handful of people knew about. Officials of the government at the Pentagon and within the West Wing. People who wanted to find a way to keep Gunner Fox on Earth.

  In his chosen line of work, Colonel Robinson operated under one basic principle—gossip kills three people. The one who speaks it, the one who listens, and the one about whom it was spoken.

  The director of Flight Control One in the Mission Control Center, Mark Foster, did not give orders to Colonel Robinson. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time during a sad time in NASA’s history.

  In fact, there was a point when Colonel Robinson had performed this same exercise to find a replacement for Foster, but was told to stand down. He tried to argue his point with his superiors, without appearing to question their directives. He knew Foster to be weak and therefore vulnerable to pressure. But, as the events of three years ago unfolded, and the details of the tragedy were hidden within the dark recesses of government, Foster acknowledged that he had a vested interest in keeping his mouth shut. Nonetheless, Colonel Robinson would’ve preferred to eliminate Foster, one of the gossips in his axiom.

  A light tapping on the door brought him to attention, and he quickly scrambled to cover up his project. “Who is it?”

  “Mark.”

  Robinson rolled his eyes and sighed. “Sure, come on in.” He really didn’t want to be interrupted, but Foster could provide valuable insight on the three candidates he’d identified to replace Gunner on the mission.

  Foster entered and headed for the chair, immediately annoying the colonel.

  “Foster, my door was shut for a reason. Please close it behind you.”

  After closing the door, Foster plopped into the chair across the desk. “What have you come up with?”

  Robinson organized the notepads in front of him, revealing four names arranged in columns, with a series of notes labeled pros and cons underneath.

  “Basically, it was a process of elimination. Some of these astronauts are totally worthless. Strictly eggheads who fill up beakers or stare through microscopes. These four have the aptitude to pull off the mission because they’ve flown the Starhopper, both to the lunar outpost and to dock with the ISS.”

  “That’s a far cry from what Major Fox is tasked with,” interrupted Foster.

  “No shit. But at least they can pull it off. It might be a suicide mission for them, but that’s not my problem. They all know what they’ve signed up for.”

  Foster leaned forward and scanned the desk. “Can I see?”

  Colonel Robinson handed him the two legal pads. “On this one, I’ve got two options with military experience. Both of them are equal, but this one worked at Creech Air Force Base for a period of time, piloting MQ-9 Reaper drones.”

  “I know Hector well,” said Foster. “She’s got a level head. But she’s also married with a kid. She may sign on for the first leg to the Moon, but I seriously doubt she’d agree to head to IM86.”

  “She would if her president asked her to!” Colonel Robinson couldn’t understand why anyone would turn down a mission as critical as this one, much less refuse to answer the call to duty.

  Foster studied the other notepad. “Crawford is a good candidate. He’s single and has a reputation as a space cowboy. He’s an attention seeker who always seems to find the cameras when the media comes around.”

  Robinson grabbed his dossier. “He’s got a pedigree. His dad was one of the early ISS crew members. No military experience, but he’s flown the Starhopper more than once. He might be our guy.”

  “Honestly, I would’ve pointed to him from the beginning if anybody had asked me.”

  Robinson dropped Crawford’s file back on the desk and rubbed his head again. “Rawlings has been driving this mission from the beginning. He had the benefit of sitting in the conference room with
the chief of staff when the whole thing started. It’s hard to overturn his plan without something drastic.”

  “Do you wanna change the mission?” asked Foster, appearing puzzled by the colonel’s statement.

  “No, his proposal is solid. I’m just not comfortable with whom he recruited to carry it out, for obvious reasons.”

  Foster nodded in agreement. He looked at the legal pads again and then returned them to Robinson. “Max, I can subtly approach Crawford and see if he’s mentally up for the task. Everyone in that training program created by Chief Rawlings realizes that if they’re tapped to ride along with Major Fox, they may not return.”

  “Yeah, do that,” instructed Robinson.

  “Max, have you thought about what I just said? That this is a one-way mission?”

  “Yeah, and I know where you’re headed with this. If Fox was flying solo and had no contact with the other astronauts or the personnel on the Moon, I’d send his ass up there to die. The problem, the lunar outpost is crawling with Russians, many of whom were on the ISS that day. I can’t risk him coming in contact with them and then causing a damn revolt.”

  “I get it,” said Foster. “What about Fox? How will you keep him grounded?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Chapter 19

  Tuesday, April 17

  Building 9

  Johnson Space Center

  Houston, Texas

  Gunner slept hard the night before. His exhaustion and wakefulness had finally caught up with him. He crashed soon after having dinner in the cafeteria with several of the astronauts who had been friendly to him during the day. Gunner sensed the hostility, but others went out of their way to make him feel comfortable, especially those who’d known Heather. Much of the conversation over dinner was devoted to her rather than the looming mission.

  When he was awakened by the alarm on his watch, he jumped out of bed well rested, hit the showers, and hustled downstairs to the large conference room, where a light breakfast was served.

  He was excited about today’s schedule because the classroom work was mostly behind him now, and later that afternoon, it would be time for him to slip into the seat of the Starhopper simulator.

  But first, he had to undergo the worst part of the entire week—the psychological evaluation. When he was told by Chief Rawlings that it was an absolute necessity, Gunner tried to argue that NASA was stuck with him, so the process was a waste of time. Besides, he had a three-inch-thick file to peruse from Dr. Dowling at Eglin if he wanted to see what made Gunner tick.

  Chief Rawlings was not persuaded by Gunner’s argument. While it was true that NASA’s astronaut psychological examination was known to eliminate candidates at times, in Gunner’s case, it was more to expose any mental weaknesses that he might have concerning space travel. Once identified, then the psych team, along with Chief Rawlings, could modify his training to address the potential scenarios and responses.

  After some last-minute grumbling, Chief Rawlings led Gunner to the psychologist and said he’d be waiting outside to ensure the doctor got everything she needed.

  “Major Fox, I’m Dr. Blasingame. I’m fully aware of the expedited process due to the circumstances we face, so I’ll be dispensing with the preliminaries. Naturally, for most AsCans, this aspect of their application is just as important as their education, experience, and physicality.

  “It is a rigorous process designed to separate the wheat from the chaff. Truthfully, it’s an elimination process rather than an inclusion technique. AsCans don’t get the benefits afforded to you in this particular case. If they don’t have the right stuff, as the saying goes, they’re removed as a candidate. In your case, we’re looking for those attributes that will make you a great astronaut, albeit temporary, and any weaknesses that I believe warrant special attention as we move forward. Do you understand?”

  “I have a question,” said Gunner.

  “Fire away.”

  “What do you mean by albeit temporary? I mean, I’m not temporary and fully intend to return to Earth after I blast this sucker.”

  “No. No. Major, that’s not what I meant. I was referring to your length of time in this temporary career as an astronaut.”

  “What makes you think that I don’t want to sign on to future missions? I mean, I feel like I’m ready for a career change and—”

  Dr. Blasingame was furiously writing notes, and Gunner stopped mid-sentence. As she continued to write, he leaned onto her desk to catch a glimpse of her notepad. She quickly covered it up and peered at him over her glasses.

  “What?” he asked, feigning innocence.

  “Argumentative. Deflective. Delusional. Uses charm as a defensive mechanism. Strong will to live.”

  Gunner’s eyes closed slightly. He didn’t like to be psychoanalyzed. “So? What’s your point?”

  Dr. Blasingame laughed. “Two things. Number one, I read your file from Dr. Dowling, who, by the way, happens to be an old colleague of mine and, therefore, shared his true opinion by telephone yesterday. You see, there’s a patient’s file, and then there’s that unwritten file that a psychologist will only share with a close friend.”

  Gunner frowned. “Doesn’t that break some kind of ethical rule or something?”

  Dr. Blasingame leaned onto her elbows and studied Gunner. “The last thing that Brian said to me after our hour-long conversation was please keep him alive. That’s what I intend to do, Major. So let’s get started.”

  Gunner was stunned by her statement, but appreciative at the same time. He and Dr. Dowling had worked together for years, but it was only after he crashed the F/A XX that he realized the good doctor truly cared about his well-being. It had changed Gunner’s approach to treatment.

  “Major, I only have two hours with you. The first part of the testing usually involves an interview process. We’re already underway, as you can see; plus I have the benefit of Dr. Dowling’s clinical notes and appraisal of your mental state.”

  “What’s the second part?”

  “Ordinarily, we put our AsCans through a variety of field exercises to determine their fitness for space. The job that an AsCan is selected for is often determined by this process. For your purposes, we need to focus on keeping you mentally stable long enough for you to blast that sucker, as you put it, and then get you home safely.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Dr. Blasingame removed her glasses and dropped them onto the desk. “The two most challenging aspects of spending an extensive amount of time in space is the close quarters and the isolation. You have the benefit of training as a combat pilot, where you’re used to squeezing your body into the cockpit of an aircraft with little or no room to move other than to operate the controls. The Starhopper will seem like sitting in a cushy recliner compared to that.

  “Secondly, the matter of isolation from friends and families. Major, I’m familiar with your situation. I evaluated your wife many years ago. I understand heartbreak. A concern of Dr. Dowling’s is that you haven’t been able to move on and, at times, you exhibit reckless behavior. You do realize that will get you killed in space, and any others who might be within your sphere of influence.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay. We’re going to spend time discussing sleep deprivation, something that’s common in astronauts in the months leading up to launch, as well as in those initial days following arrival at the ISS or the lunar outpost, as the case may be. Again, your case is different because of the time limitations, but you’re not going to have the benefit of the sleep aids ordinarily provided to the astronaut team. You must remain completely alert and be able to respond to emergency situations at all times. As you’ll see once you arrive at the lunar outpost, the schedule could change based upon solar activity, updates on the trajectory of IM86, and any number of other unforeseen events.”

  “Got it.”

  “Before you and I finish up with this morning session, let me forewarn you that we’ll be getting together at the e
nd of what will be a very long day for you. That is by design. Days in space are like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. It takes a toll on your mind and body. There is a battery of stress tests that I’ll be putting you through this evening, designed to be administered when you’re at your weakest state.”

  “Sounds simple enough. I’ve got pretty good endurance.”

  Dr. Blasingame laughed and retrieved her glasses. She was getting ready to get down to business, but she added, “Major, it’s less about endurance than it is hand-eye coordination. You’ll be required to track targets on a computer screen and push buttons as prompted. We’ve learned that astronauts make tracking mistakes twice as often during a mission than prelaunch. Your reaction time is significantly less, and accuracy suffers as well.

  “Frankly, there is nothing more important than the results we glean from the Test of Reaction and Adaptation Capabilities, or TRAC. You’re our gunner, pardon the pun. You need to be a deadeye marksman for this mission to succeed.”

  Now it was Gunner’s time to laugh uproariously. “Doc, if that’s all we need to know, I can leave now. There isn’t anybody better than me, under any conditions, in any aircraft, or spacecraft, for that matter.”

  Dr. Blasingame made another notation on her notepad.

  Overconfident? Arrogant? Justifiably so?

  Chapter 20

  Tuesday, April 17

  Building 9

  Johnson Space Center

  Houston, Texas

  Chief Rawlings had just escorted Gunner back to his quarters when his phone rang. It was Dr. Blasingame, who requested to see him as soon as possible. Chief Rawlings had been present during the TRAC session with Dr. Blasingame, and the two of them discussed it as they walked back to Building 9.

  Neither knew the actual results, but Gunner did express frustration that the test was unrealistic and, on several occasions, he made suggestions on how to make it better. Chief Rawlings tried to explain that the test was not of his abilities in the flight deck of a combat jet, but rather, how well he reacted under tired, stressful conditions.