“I’m sure it was a bargain,” Hammond said. “I didn’t know you were worth that much, Leo.”
“You paid my family well when you bought this airline out of bankruptcy, much more than was probably deserved. And I have a few…outside ventures of my own.”
I’m sure you do, you little bastard, Hammond thought. The pieces were rapidly falling into place.
“But until the board can vote,” he said, not having to point out that half of it was made up of his family members, “They’ve authorized me to assume CEO duties in the interim. I will handle all business decisions, and you will be on paid leave until the accident board has issued a final ruling. We are also ceasing our own investigative activities and deferring fully to the NTSB.”
“You mean hang around long enough to be a scapegoat,” Hammond growled. “I’m an engineer, Leo, not a money man. I don’t think like you, but I’m sure as hell no fool. Your pal Colin Magrath is certain to sue the daylights out of us once he recovers. Someone’s got to take the fall for that, right?”
“Please, Arthur,” he said. “Paranoia doesn’t suit you.”
“It’s not paranoia when everyone really is out to get you.”
“You always said no one man can put himself before the good of the company. I have to do this, for everyone’s sake.”
“For your own sake,” Hammond scoffed.
“Now that’s just mean, Arthur. But I understand how this is difficult for you.”
“I’ll give you this, Leo...you always were a good BS artist. I just never knew how good.”
…
Hammond quickly made his way down to the control center. He breezed by the Clipper desks and waved for Penny and Charlie to follow him into an empty meeting room.
“Any news for us?” Charlie asked quietly as Penny shut the door behind them.
He tried not to laugh. Explanations could wait. “Let’s just say I need you both working full-time on this re-entry plan,” he said hurriedly. “You do have one, right?”
They exchanged concerned glances before Penny spoke up. “We do, but it’s not completely fleshed out yet. Structures and performance are both looking at the details.”
“Brief me later,” he replied. “Our little ad-hoc detective team may have found the proverbial smoking gun…not that we can do anything about it,” he said, and explained Taggart’s power play.
Grant whistled, but remained focused on what they could do now. “Art, the people involved don’t strike me as being the type. Donner’s a crusty SOB, but he’s no saboteur.”
“Taggart always was a damned snake in the grass. I wouldn’t rule out anyone, Art,” Penny said. “Remember that FedEx pilot who wigged out back in the ‘90’s, tried to hijack one of their own airplanes and crash it into the Memphis hub?”
“I don’t disagree with you. Neither does Posey,” Hammond said. “I don’t think our primary suspect is smart enough to have inserted some bogus commands into anything. But there are no records to trace, and no physical evidence to test.”
“And that would be the only way to prove anything,” Penny said.
“So we have half of the puzzle here...” Grant said.
“And the other half’s up there,” Hammond said, finishing the thought. “Without it, everything else is just supposition. We have to get 501 back down here. And I’m willing to bet whoever did this is counting on that not happening, either,” Hammond said as he got up to leave. “Watch yourselves. I’m also willing to bet that person is working inside this building, and he’s got help.” And that help probably had a direct line to Leo Taggart’s office.
…
On his way out, Hammond took his personal phone and dashed out a quick text message to Posey:
YOU WERE RIGHT…DONNER’S A STOOGE…WORKING W/ TAGGART.
As he walked past the hangar, he tried to absorb the activity buzzing around the precious spaceplanes that had inspired him for so many decades. Almost since graduate school, he had mulled over the designs and refined the concept of operations in a notebook that never left his side. Now worn from use, he gently opened the thin leather cover and gazed pensively at the notes he’d left himself over the years. So much of it in a younger man’s handwriting, so many mental rabbit trails scratched over but never entirely scrapped. One never knew when they might turn out to be useful.
Suddenly, an almost-forgotten quote elbowed its way into his thoughts. It was one he’d heard from Taggart: “Passionate men are easy to manipulate. You only need to play to their desired outcome.”
True enough, he realized. He angrily snapped the cover shut and stuffed the notebook back into his coat pocket as he left the building.
71
ISS
“So that’s the lav?” Marcy asked, surveying what was officially referred to as their habitation module. They had been taking stock of the inventory given to them by the station’s crew and setting up housekeeping. The hab was an octagonal-shaped compartment like most everything else onboard, but this one was at least mercifully free from the usual space station detritus. The random tangle of ductwork, wiring, and spare equipment had been kept to a minimum here.
“That’s it,” Ryan said, “one for the whole place.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Our planes each have two!”
“The best outpost a hundred billion bucks can buy. But if you really have to go, there’s always the high-capacity diapers,” he teased. “Or we can arrange a late-night spacewalk over to our…sorry,” he said, his wit having got the better of him. No one wanted to think of going over there now, not with Tom still aboard.
Marcy personally doubted she could ever do something like this again. “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “Everything’s happened so fast…” she said, choking back tears. “This has been my first chance to catch my breath since...” she hesitated, “I just want to go home,” she said, and finally broke down.
Ryan reached over to shut the open hatch and pulled her close. Still sobbing, they floated alone in the hab, and before long he too could not bear it any more.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said after a few minutes, brushing a wet strand of hair away from her eyes. “We’re all going home, and Tom’s going with us. I promise,” he said, not yet daring to speak of the idea that he knew was percolating back on the ground.
…
Houston
Audrey Wilkes was sequestered in her office two floors above the ISS control room, almost literally buried in after-action reports on the past week’s events. She was frequently interrupted by frantic calls from the public affairs office, desperate to spin this into a rare coup for the Agency despite the fact that a good man had died up there.
Yeesh, what a place, she thought. Everything’s about scoring points or covering your ass.
Her desk phone rang again and she picked it up, recognizing the incoming number.
“What’s up, Penny? Haven’t I saved your bacon enough?” she answered lightly.
“That you certainly have,” she said. “We just wanted to thank you for everything. There’s some clean-up work left here on our end, but we’ve got things mostly in hand. You call me anytime you need something...okay?” she asked pointedly.
“Of course,” she replied, and said goodbye. She hung up the desk phone, immediately snatched the cell phone from her purse, and called back.
Penny answered right away. “You always were a smart kid.”
“All right,” Audrey said quietly, turning away from her office door. “What’s going on now?”
“Just a couple questions. Like I said, we’re tying up loose ends and making, um, contingency plans.”
“Uh-huh,” Audrey said suspiciously, goading her on.
“We know they want to move our bird out to a safe distance, maybe even de-orbit it. So what’s the line-of-sight range for that ATV remote control? And what’s the minimum safe distance for burning the main thrusters?”
She considered te
lling her to get lost, but it didn’t take long to find the answers. Penny hung up with a quick “thank you”.
So what are they up to? On a hunch, she scrolled back through her records for the tug’s propellant levels and compared it against the empty weight of that Clipper.
No way, she thought in shock. They couldn’t be thinking that?
“Of course they could,” she sighed.
72
ISS
Ryan swam into the common area—he had a hard time calling it a “wardroom” but that was a sub driver for you—and found just the men he’d hoped to see. Max and Sergei were finishing breakfast and preparing for another exciting day of station maintenance and roundabout science experiments.
“Gentlemen, how are you?” he asked gregariously, and began talking them up. Short of going straight to Poole, whom he wouldn’t dare put in that position, Ryan would need their cooperation. “So, what’s good around here?” he wondered aloud, sorting through identical trays of freeze-dried food-like material.
“Chipped beef,” Max offered. “But after a few weeks it all starts to taste the same,” he said disdainfully.
“Good old SOS,” Ryan chirped, sliding a tray into the convection oven. “How’s the coffee?”
“Weak,” answered Sergei. “For my tastes at least.” He was nursing bandaged fingers, having torn the nails loose inside his spacesuit gloves in the scramble to save Colin Magrath.
“Let me guess,” Ryan said. “Forty-weight?”
The Russian appeared confused. “I do not know ‘forty-weight’ coffee, just motor oil…” he trailed off, finally catching on. “Da, how did Poole say it? If the spoon won’t stand up, it’s not strong enough,” he laughed.
“Especially for waking up around here,” Ryan observed. “I can’t sleep at all in that hab.”
“That is because it used to be a supply module,” Max said, wiping his chin. “We cleared it out for extra living space, but it’s not as well-insulated for sound. It is rather loud here, if you’ve noticed.”
It was indeed, Ryan admitted. He hadn’t realized that until their first night aboard: the circulation fans needed for such a large area stayed quite busy. He was happy to at least be warm again. Austral Clipper had become bitterly cold during their final days aboard. “Speaking of supplies,” he mentioned, sipping coffee from a squeeze cup, “when’s the next ship arrive?”
“There is a Progress-M vehicle docking in three days,” Sergei answered cautiously. “A special mission to extend our rations until your group’s crew capsule arrives.”
Ryan could tell it was an uncomfortable subject by the looks they exchanged. Let’s find out why. “We appreciate the hospitality,” he said. “But why do you both seem concerned?”
“Your ship’s proximity,” Max explained, “blocks the other docking node. Progress will not be able to approach until we can move it.”
“Oh,” Ryan said with genuine surprise. “So was someone going to inform me?”
“Yes…today, in fact,” Max said. “But not until we could work out some plans. It will most likely be necessary to simply de-orbit your Clipper. The ATV does not have enough propellant for anything else. We understand your crew’s sensitivity to this.”
My crew, Ryan thought. Ordinarily he’d have gotten a laugh out of that. “Gentlemen, we’re all professionals here. We understand when unpleasant steps have to be taken. So maybe we can work something out together,” he said, adding seriously: “But we must insist on recovering Captain Gentry’s remains first. And we need to make sure the retro burn puts our plane down over a safe area, now don’t we?”
The German and the Russian smiled. This American wasn’t hard to read. If time permitted, they would have to invite him to a poker game. “How safe?”
73
Denver
“You’re certain that ATV has enough propellant left?” Frank Kirby asked in a low voice, barely audible over the background noise. The team had gathered in their unofficial meeting space, a nearby Irish-themed bar that seemed to be constructed of nothing but nooks and crannies. In other words, it was a perfect spot for hatching conspiracies.
“They’ve got the delta-v all right,” Grant said. “The big unknown is remote control. According to Houston, they normally don’t use it much beyond the minimum safe distance for the main thrusters. That’s about a half kilometer.”
“Seems like a minor design oversight,” Kirby observed gruffly.
“The remote wasn’t really meant for trajectory changes,” Penny interjected. She had quickly become their resident expert on the European vehicle. “Just proximity maneuvering in case the automated system went screwy.”
“But they can set it up on a pre-timed burn, so all the operator has to do is push the button,” Grant said, “if Hunter can get the right people on board.”
“Assuming that works,” Frank continued, “what about separation?”
“The docking collar isn’t actively engaged,” Penny said. “They grabbed it with the exhaust nozzle. And they’ll have enough electrical power to retract the burner petals.”
“And structural integrity?” he challenged. “We’re certain it won’t burn up?”
“It’s outside design specs for certain...but that’s for a commercial spaceliner. They’ll be operating well into the margins,” Penny said, “but remember, an empty vehicle means lower mass across the entire frontal area. That’ll bring heat distribution inside our maximum design margin.”
“Only if they can do a couple of skips on the way down,” Kirby reminded her. Light or no, a direct ballistic re-entry would simply be too much for the ship to handle. “How much RCS prop do they need for that?”
“Twenty-two percent, with a three percent reserve,” Grant said. “They have twenty-eight onboard now.”
Kirby whistled. “Not much in their back pockets.”
“That’s why we call it ‘minimums’, chief,” Penny said. “Ryan’s a good stick. He can do it.”
“Assuming the elevon seals don’t melt on the way down.”
Will Gardner finally joined the discussion. “Frank, the biggest concerns I have are power and life support. They’ll have just enough of both for two hours, which barely gets them through retro burn and re-entry. Those skips will take a full orbit on the way down, which will eat about ninety minutes.”
“The lakebeds at Edwards are pretty big targets,” Kirby thought aloud. “And Moses Lake is another good choice. Lots of concrete.”
“That’s our plan,” Charlie said. “If his energy state’s too low to reach Edwards, they can divert to Moses and fly a nice, easy spiral down to the runway.”
“Let’s hope you math whizzes are right about that,” Frank said, “or somebody’s sure to post a spectacular video on YouTube of them pancaking into the Cascades.” He paused to study the Coke in his glass. “This would be a lot better with a little rum,” he joked, then got serious. “Okay, I’m in. Taggart’s up to something, and I don’t like it. He always was a shifty little bastard.”
His comments brought laughs and knowing smiles. “But we have only one chance to do this right. The Feds are going to throw a conniption as soon as they see what we’re doing, and I’m the poor dumb SOB that’ll have to answer for it. You guys are the rocket scientists, not me. So do your best to keep my neck off the chopping block. Okay?”
Heads nodded around the table. They would be continually checking their work right up until Austral Clipper started re-entry.
“Final question: what about those NASA weenies?” he asked. “And I don’t mean your friends who actually helped us,” he explained. “I mean the dingbats they work for.”
“Seems like they’d be cool with it,” Will offered hopefully. “We’re giving them two less mouths to feed, so what do they care?”
Penny could only smile at that. “Let’s just say they don’t deal well with ‘unplanned events’ at that level.”
“You’re kidding? All they should care about is that we clear the dock
ing node and get the hell out of Dodge.” Will hadn’t considered the inter-agency squabble that had erupted between NASA and the combined NTSB/FBI juggernaut. The former wanted Austral Clipper to be cast loose and de-orbited as a safety hazard. The latter insisted it be preserved as the scene of an accident, possibly a crime…and their view held the force of law.
She shook her head. “Trust me.”
74
Houston
Still drilling through reports in old-fashioned government-mandated triplicate, Audrey’s mind couldn’t stop wandering. Try as she might, she could not get that last call from Penny out of her head. She thought she had pieced together their plan well enough. The incessant news stories helped her to fill in the blanks—they simply couldn’t allow that plane to burn up.
So could they actually fly it home?
Sure they could, she had eventually decided. But that cowboy can’t do it solo. He’s going to need someone in the right seat. They’ll have to be able to control the ATV precisely, too. That means one of our guys has to be involved…lovely. Just as she had worked up the courage to call Denver again, Donald Abbot walked into her office.
Good grief—he’s not reading minds now, is he?
“Miss Wilkes,” he said with his usual officiousness, “I just came to congratulate you on a job well done. You’ve made an excellent showing for the Agency.”
“Thank you sir, but we’re not quite there yet.” Why did I say that? “I mean, we’ve still got six extra people to support while keeping them out of the way. Can’t just leave them holed up in the storage node for a month, can we?”
“I believe we’ll have to find a way, Miss Wilkes,” he said with complete sincerity, and mercifully left her to go harass someone else down the hall.
Any hesitancy she might have felt left in Abbot’s wake. She flipped open her cell phone and walked over to the window. Outside, Houston was still swathed in green grass and steaming heat despite the calendar’s insistence that it was late autumn.
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