Margaritifer Basin (Margaritifer Trilogy Book 1)

by Gregory Gates

  “Construct four Jupiter-241s in two years?” Fairfax laughed. “Sorry Captain, but that’s impossible.”

  “Again, meaning no offense, sir, but given the way NASA and the government do business, yes, I absolutely agree. However, we are not NASA, we’re the private sector and we do business a bit differently. Except for the EDS, every required part for four J-241s already exists and is sitting out there somewhere just waiting to be gathered together and assembled. If one extracts politics, bureaucracy and indecision by committee from the equation, this can easily be done.”

  “No offense taken, Captain,” Fairfax nodded and smiled, “I do understand what you’re saying. But, you’ll need a lot more than four. You’ll need test launches as well. Further, where will you get the main engines?”

  “Main engines? From you.”

  Fairfax frowned. “Huh?”

  “Sir, you have 16 serviceable SSMEs in storage. You’re never going to use them. Ultimately they’ll just end up as museum curiosities. Why not give them to us? We’ll make good use of them. So far as testing is concerned, our launches will be the test.”

  “You’re willing to take the risk of launching in an untested vehicle?”

  “If you’ll forgive me sir, I’m going to let Abby address that while I take a few bites of this fine looking salad.”

  Fairfax laughed, “Of course.”

  Abby swallowed quickly. “Yes. Sir, we’re not opposed to taking risks. As you are no doubt aware, this entire plan is high risk. Still, we’re not suicidal. Crew launch would be the last in a sequence of four launches over a three-month period. By the time we launch, the Jupiter will have been tested and proven. If, by that point it is not, well, we take a long, well-deserved vacation, then go back to the drawing board.”

  “I see. Alright, I’ll grant that it may be possible, though I’m very skeptical.”

  “We’re not unfamiliar with skepticism, sir…”

  The President laughed.

  “… but,” Abby continued, “if it is ‘possible’ then it is ‘doable.’ And we intend to proceed on that assumption.”

  Fairfax nodded and turned to Colonel Creighton. “Sylvia?”

  “Thank you, sir. This isn’t a decision that I would be at all involved with, but I am rather curious. I understand that you have requested to – borrow – an Apollo CSM?”

  Jeff nodded. “That’s correct. Gabe?”

  Gabe set her fork on her plate and was momentarily surprised to see her plate whisked away. “Uh, yes. Well, as everyone knows, the developmental cycle for a Crewed Exploration Vehicle – CEV – is very long and very expensive. See for example, NASA’s own Orion Program. The simple fact is: we have neither the time nor the necessary funding to embark on a CEV development program. It just takes too long and costs too much. Further, in our opinion, it’s entirely unnecessary, as it simply constitutes a reinvention of the wheel. The Apollo program was enormously successful. Arguably America’s most successful space program ever. Yes, there were failures along the way, Apollo 1 and Apollo 13. Still, overall, the program was a remarkable success. There are today, something on the order of twenty-seven Apollo command modules – and at least three service modules – on display. The service modules, obviously, and many of the command modules have never flown. This is tested and proven technology that is built, available, and has already been paid for. Certainly some refurbishment and modern retrofit would be required. But the time required and cost of doing that is miniscule compared to an entirely new vehicle development program. The Skylab rescue module, on display at Kennedy, would suit our needs perfectly. And there are two service modules on display at Johnson. Our position is: this is technology that has been proven to work, suits our needs very well, and that America’s taxpayers have already paid for. Let’s make use of it. Let’s give the taxpayers something for their money beyond simply very expensive museum pieces.”

  “Doctor Frederick, it’s fifty-year-old technology.”

  “Colonel, from a technological standpoint, the wheel is far older, but it still works.”

  As bowls of New England clam chowder were set before them, Sylvia turned back toward the President and Dr. Fairfax with a look of resignation.

  The President nodded. “Admiral?”

  “Thank you, sir. I too have read your Senate testimony, Captain, and I understand your position on issues of planetary protection and sample return.” The science advisor grinned. “Certainly COSPAR restrictions are a minefield, and I can’t fault you with your reticence to return samples. Perhaps we can talk more about that later but, for now, how do you propose to deal with the possibility of forward and, more to the point, backward contamination by… you?”

  Jeff glanced to his left. “Sue?”

  “Admiral, in short, we don’t. Indeed, how could we?”

  Admiral King frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “Sir, planetary protection hinges on the notion of the prevention of transport of bio-organisms from one planet to another. How does one reconcile that with manned exploration of space? The very notions of planetary biologic protection and manned exploration are completely incompatible. We are biologic organisms. You cannot bake astronauts at 250º Fahrenheit for a week. Either we set aside the issue of planetary protection or mankind doesn’t go – ever.”

  “Doctor, this has been argued before and your point, of course, is well made – with regard forward contamination. But what of backward contamination? I understand full well that, to date, no life has been found on Mars. That does not – by definition – mean that it does not exist. Hypothetically speaking, what if there is in fact organic life on Mars that is potentially hazardous?”

  “Sir, from the time we land on Mars until our scheduled return is a bit more than two years – more than a sufficient incubation period for virtually any conceivable organism. If something does exist on the planet that is harmful to human life, we will not be returning, and you will have your answer.”

  Mrs. Surtees, seated beside Susan, suddenly dropped her soupspoon and stared at her in horror.

  Susan turned and smiled. “It’s quite alright. There is no life on Mars; it’s a dead rock in space and we have every intention of returning very much alive and well.”

  “There may not be life on the surface,” the President said, “but what of the suggestion that life does exist in underground pools of liquid water?”

  Susan nodded. “That is possible, sir. But if it does, we are not going to be bothering it. We have no plans for any drilling. Whatever may reside a thousand kilometers beneath the surface, we’re quite content to leave alone. Besides sir, if I may, science fiction writers enjoy regaling us with tales of horrific alien creatures but, practically speaking, why are we so certain that evolution on other worlds proceeds down a dramatically different path than that here on Earth? Is it not just as likely that some primitive organism living deep beneath the Martian surface is no different than primitive organisms living deep beneath the surface here? In which case, what difference does it make? Sir, human nature leans toward fear of the unknown. Our plan is simply to go there and answer the question. Let’s find out.”

  As the staff began removing empty soup bowls and replacing them with sumptuous plates of filet mignon, Maine lobster, potatoes au gratin, and steamed asparagus with hollandaise sauce, the Vice President turned to Jeff. “Aside from the technical matters and difficulties – many of which I’ll freely admit are beyond me – do you understand the true nature of the difficulty the government faces with your mission?”

  Jeff nodded. “Of course we do, sir. If we succeed, the government will be faced with a great many very hard questions. Not the least of which is: If a lottery winner from southern California can go to Mars, why can’t NASA? It is a dilemma.”

  “Exactly. And how would you respond to that?”

  “Me, sir? I wouldn’t. Indeed, I’d probably be the first one to ask the question. Sir, if NASA had a concrete plan to go to Mars anytime in the, well, foreseeable future
, I’m pretty sure I’d be finding something else to do with my money. But it has no such plan. It doesn’t even have a plan for a plan. In my opinion sir, the question needs to be asked and the government needs to have an answer.”

  “But Captain, you could be lighting the fuse on an enormous crisis of confidence that could extend far beyond the government’s plans – or, as you suggest, lack thereof – for manned space exploration. This could shake the very foundations of government.”

  “Indeed it could, sir. But personally, I think the people have a right to know how the sausage is made.”

  The President chuckled.

  “So, is that what all this is really about?” the chief of staff asked. “A monumental political protest?”

  Jeff shook his head. “No sir, not at all. Honestly, we don’t care how the government answers the question or, for that matter, if it even has an answer. Our motivation is really quite simple: We, as President Kennedy said, choose to go; because we can, because no one else wants to and, as Mallory said, because it’s there.”

  “Ms. Mallory, how’s your lobster?” the President asked.

  Chrissie smiled, “Delicious, sir.”

  “Good. Commander Nolan? The wine is not to your liking?”

  Abby shook her head. “Oh, no sir, it’s wonderful but, uh, we’ll be flying back to Newport this evening and I’m the designated pilot.”

  The President grinned. “Ah, an unfortunate occupational hazard?”

  “Yes sir, sometimes it seems that way.”

  Pausing between bites, Sylvia Creighton asked, “Captain, I’ve been in space. I’ve flown three Shuttle missions and spent six months on the ISS. Do you and your people truly comprehend what you are getting into? Do you really understand the physical rigors of months on end of weightlessness and the psychological impact of long-term confinement? In other words, do you really know what this will do to you?”

  Jeff glanced to his left. “Sue?”

  “Colonel, the literature on space psychology and physiology is vast, and we can read. And, though I don’t mean to minimize the subject, there’s a first time for everything.

  Weightlessness? Well, we’re not entirely unfamiliar with it. All of us are pilots and we have, on more than one occasion, flown our Citation out over the Atlantic and had Abigail here scare the living daylights out of us flying elliptics in our own little version of the Vomit Comet. The experience is, uh… enlightening. You – professionals – may look down your nose at our feeble efforts but I can assure you with confidence that our training regimen is sufficient for the task. Further, we believe we may have one significant advantage over NASA: we live, eat, breath and work together, day in and day out. Indeed, we all live under the same roof. And, by launch date, we will have lived as such for four years. We know one another’s quirks and idiosyncrasies all too well. There will be no surprises.”

  “Doctor, I’m sure your program is well thought out and well intentioned, but…”

  Jeff interrupted, “Colonel, do you know who Bobby Jones was?”

  Looking a bit surprised, she shook her head. “No, I’m sorry I don’t.”

  “Ah. Well, Bobby Jones was an amateur golfer back in the 1920s. He won the United States Open Championship four times. Jack Nicklaus tied that record. Tiger Woods has, so far, failed.”

  Sylvia looked puzzled. “Well, that’s all very interesting, but…”

  “Colonel, amateur and professional are just words in the dictionary. What someone actually accomplishes is what counts.”

  Sylvia smiled. “Yes, but…”

  The President interrupted her. “Thank you Colonel.”

  The main course complete, the staff began serving desert – chocolate mousse.

  “Captain, if I may ask, what is your budget for this?” said Dr. Fairfax.

  Jeff smiled. “We don’t have one. It will cost what it costs. That said, we presently anticipate somewhere between two and a half and three billion, give or take.”

  “You’re kidding?” the President interjected. “Your launch costs alone…”

  “480,606 kilos, $3,273 per kilo, uh…” Gabe momentarily glanced at the ceiling, “… $1,573,023,438, and change.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence, everyone across the table staring at Gabe.

  “Did you just do that in your head?” said the President.

  As Gabe nodded, a horrified expression came over her face. “Oh god,” she said under her breath, quickly rose and headed for the hall.

  All the men at the table quickly began to rise, followed by all the women as the President rose.

  Jeff rolled his eyes. “Oh lord.” He glanced down the table at Susan and jerked his head toward Gabe as she disappeared from the room.

  Susan nodded in understanding and smiled. “Excuse us please.” And she hurried off in Gabe’s wake.

  The President turned to Jeff. “Is she alright?”

  Jeff grimaced and nodded. “Yes sir, my apologies, she’ll be fine. Nervous stomach.”

  “Ah, understandable. Perhaps we have laid it on a bit heavy.” He took his seat. “Did she really do that math in her head?”

  “Yes sir. Though that’s the first time I’ve heard her get to ten significant digits. She usually stops at five or six.”

  “Good lord.”

  “Can she count a box of toothpicks that drops on the floor?” the chief of staff smirked.

  “Dr. Frederick is not an idiot savant!” Abby snapped. “She’s just a hell of a lot smarter than the rest of us.”

  The chief of staff coughed and grinned in embarrassment. “My apologies. That didn’t quite come out the way I meant it.”

  After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence the First Lady audibly cleared her throat. “Would anyone like coffee?”

  The President nodded. “An excellent idea.”

  A few minutes later Susan appeared at the door, caught Jeff’s eye and gave him a ‘come hither’ look.”

  “Excuse me,” Jeff said, rose from his seat and headed for the door.

  In the hall Gabe stood shifting uneasily wearing her ‘panic attack’ face. Jeff walked up to her. “How you doing?”

  Gabe hung her head. “I interrupted the President of the United States. Oh my god, what was I thinking?”

  Jeff laughed softly.

  Gabe glared at him. “What is so funny?”

  “It’s fine Gabe, you were great. In one rather brief display of basic mathematics you put an exclamation point on the fact that we are not idiots. Now, come on, chin up. There’s still work to be done in there.”

  Gabe sighed. “Can’t we just go home?”

  Jeff shook his head. “Soon. But we still have work to do.” He glanced at Susan, who wrinkled her nose and nodded as to say ‘she’s alright.’ Jeff in turn nodded in understanding. “Okay, come on.”

  As they reentered the dining room and the men started to rise, Jeff held out his hand and shook his head, then seated Gabe and Susan.

  The President raised an eyebrow at Gabe. “Feeling better?”

  Gabe grinned sheepishly. “Yes, sir. Thank you for asking. This is unfamiliar territory for me.”

  “Perfectly understandable, young lady. Since the inauguration, I doubt a single day has gone by that I haven’t found myself reaching for the Alka-Seltzer. This house will do that to you.”

  Gabe laughed softly. “Thank you, sir.”

  The President rose, followed by everyone else. “Fire engine red doesn’t suit my mood at the moment. What say we continue this in the Green Room? Perhaps an aperitif? Except for Commander Nolan for whom we probably have any non-alcoholic beverage you’d like.”

  Abby grinned. “Coffee is just fine, sir. Thank you.”

  “Ah yes, you Navy people don’t have blood. Your veins are running with coffee. Right?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s about it.”

  As the group strolled to the Green Room, the President walked alongside Jeff. “Bobby Jones, huh?”

  Jeff smiled.<
br />
  “Now that’s an analogy I would not have thought of.”

  “I have found, Mr. President, that this line of work sometimes demands imaginative solutions.”

  The president laughed. “I’ll bet it does at that.”

  In the Green Room, Admiral King approached Jeff. “If you don’t mind, can we return briefly to the subject of planetary protection? Specifically, sample return? Are you really serious? That is, if you were to go forward with this mission, you would not return samples?”

  “Completely serious, Admiral. As you said, it’s a minefield. I’ve had a bit of experience with minefields, and I am simply not interested in going there. If someone else wants to work out the details and, more to the point, pay for it, fine, we’ll be happy to oblige. But otherwise? Not a chance.”

  “To go all that way and bring back nothing? I’m sorry but, it borders on criminal.”

  “Oh, Admiral, we’d bring back plenty. We’ll be there for a year and a half, during which time we have every intention of conducting a massive amount of exploration and analysis. And we will send that data back ahead of us so that the world has it whether we make it back or not. But samples? Sorry sir, the world in its glorious paranoia has just made that too hard to do.”

  “Jeff, what do you think,” the Vice President asked, “would be public reaction to – and, please, I’m not trying to be morbid here – the situation where the government allowed you to go forward with this mission, perhaps even provided some support, and you didn’t make it back?”

  Jeff smiled. “Sir, public reaction to any event is always difficult to gauge. I suspect there would be questions about why the government allowed us to go, perhaps why the government did not provide more support and, probably a few conspiracy theorists amongst the tin foil hat crowd.”