I signed Eric that, for now, to let things be. But I did have a request: do all you can to investigate these initials. I signed AJV. I communicated that I didn’t know if they meant anything but that I had seen them on something that made me curious. It might be something or nothing. He noted that he would get back to me the following night. We signed that we loved one other and that was it.
I have to say that I hate conflicts; challenges I can handle. If there is an engineering issue, it can be sorted out by using logic, previous experience, innovation, inspiration, and perhaps a bit of luck. But when it comes to dealing with people and those who are a pain in the ass, I have my limits. If you aren’t there to help, get out of the way. Ted easily fit into that category. He was constantly second-guessing my every decision. I’d seen men like him before. You know, the young junior executive trying to prove that he’s something he isn’t. With no engineering background, Ted was trying to impose the most inane and pointless ideas imaginable. Maybe if we piled up enough moon dust—or a serious mountain in this case—maybe we could do things like the Egyptians did and drive the lift rover up the hill. The only problem was that we didn’t have a bulldozer let alone a hand shovel. I asked, “How are we supposed to make the impossible happen, Ted?” He didn’t like my question. No, instead, he got in my face. He accused me of being the problem. “If it weren’t for my indignant approach to the project, things would be further along.”
“Really? Offer one example that justifies that statement.”
Ted glared at me. He lost it. He told me I was no longer on the project; he was now assuming my position. From that point forward, or until the executive team decided otherwise, I was now assigned to begin “impact gardening” for shadow ice. In other words, a water harvester had been included in one of the latest shipments. It was this solar-powered battery device that used thermal mining to extract and then collect melted water. From previous planetary surveys, it was estimated that 1.3 trillion pounds of water ice were hidden at the poles as well as the shadow side of impact craters. The harvested, contained, and then purified water would be used for drinking water, oxygen, and rocket fuel. Ted told me to take the time to watch the tutorial and then get to work. He said I had three hours to do that. When I told him this task was entirely out of the scope of my signed contract, he said he didn’t care. From this point forward, I was to do as told and to stop questioning his authority. I could have pushed back. I thought, however, that with time by myself, it might provide an opportunity to consider my options. Besides, I saw little point in investing energy in a losing battle. For the moment, Ted and his superiors held the upper hand. I did tell Ted that he would be the one to tell my crew about the change in plans. If I was no longer their manager, it was now up to him. I knew exactly how they would react. It didn’t take a genius to know that they would view him as the incompetent obstacle that he was: an imperious, inexperienced, egotist with no sense of how to work with men of exceptional talent. It wouldn’t take long before Ted would have a full-blown mutiny on his hands. How that would manifest was yet to be seen? But I knew it was coming. Without a crew, Ted would become impotent and ineffective. The project would soon come to a complete stop.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The ice detector on the water harvester had been activated. I had memorized the steps required to identify potential harvest zones. The small monitor on the rover-like vehicle lit up. Keep in mind that this was on the shadow rim of the crater where the resort was being built. To be honest, I went there almost on a hunch. I didn’t bother telling Ted where I was going. I simply informed him that I was leaving and would report back on any findings sometime later. So to find water ice this close to the settlement was unexpected. How much was there, however, was uncertain?
As I continued moving around the designated area, I focused on an especially rich vein. I activated the remote digger/thermal arm and the device went to work. It didn’t take long before the containment tank began filling with what I assumed was potential H2O. The sensors ran a chemical analysis and identified what was filling the tank as 80-85% liquid water. The rest were impurities that would be removed either through heat or a UV filtration system. Then, the somewhat purified water would be added to the existing reservoir tank that would, in turn, further pass that water through a series of filters until it met purity standards.
Once activated, the water harvester went about its business autonomously. I simply had to monitor its activity. When the containment tank was full, the device would shut off and then send a signal that its task had been completed. So as that process was underway, I took the time to climb to the crest of the crater. I wanted to sit down and look back at my home planet. I wanted to honor the view. But even with that, the ever-present sense of remoteness was further magnified. It took the better part of an hour to reach the ridge top.
In the past, I’d been a member of any number of deep-sea underwater endeavors. That meant that returning to the surface didn’t happen for a number of days or even a week. But at a given moment, and once decompression was completed, I knew I was coming back to a hospitable environment: a place that most of us take for granted. And that was the point: you begin to miss that which you can’t have. You don’t fully appreciate a planet so brilliantly poised to support life until you are positioned in a place that doesn’t. It doesn’t require much evidence to deduce that the Moon and Mars are forbidding outposts. From what I now knew, any sort of human habitation would be tested to its limits. I knew; I was living just that. So much optimism and hope had gone into the space program. Getting a man on the moon once seemed an impossible task—not unlike reaching the furthest depths of the sea. But with ingenuity, luck, and a lot of determination, things once deemed impossible were not only realized but had become commonplace.
It didn’t take much to glance around and realize how privileged we are to have such a remarkable planet. The barren state of the moon drives home that point. But as I gazed at our black-framed blue pearl of a planet with its precious landmasses, I couldn’t help but think of the many ways mankind has failed to honor such an amazing gift. I distinctly recall reading about Jacques Cousteau’s sense of outrage when he first encountered human-created debris floating in the water—and that was well over sixty years ago. He went out of his way to warn that if what he was seeing continued, there might be more plastic in the oceans than fish. That noteworthy benchmark was recently realized. I had read about that shortly before this awful project began. But when you live with destructive practices on a daily basis, you fail to account for how pervasive and damaging such accepted methods can be. You don’t realize that your lobster is cooked until it’s too late.
With that in mind, I thought about my son and his generation. I felt the anguish that comes with awakened awareness. It’s the idea that ever since the Industrial Revolution, mankind has been heading toward a cliff of its own creation. The demise of our species will be on us; it wasn’t the result of some outside force. Technology was far too tempting. Discovery driven by insatiable curiosity pushed us to the precipice. But now...now we needed to create alternative places to escape the madness. Now we needed to devise a plan for a select future generation where DNA would be safely stored on this, the earth’s closest neighbor.
This line of thinking was making me angry. In a way, I blamed science for putting me in this god-awful situation. I hated the idea that so much effort was being directed off the planet when it should have been devoted to the earth’s healing or ultimate well-being. At a bare minimum, just the investment alone in this project could have been dedicated to that which held the greatest potential to assist mankind. But no, this was a place destined for the rich and powerful. This was to be their remote residence. Here, they would be removed from the chaos as it soon began to unfold on a planet growing more and more inhospitable by the day. The fortunate could carry on as if nothing was wrong. They, of course, hadn’t contributed to the devitalizing process that was unfolding on a planet that didn’t deserve us—no
t to mention such unbridled and reckless abandon.
But as I sat there, wondering how I could make a difference, I received notice that the water harvester had completed its task. The two hundred gallon tank was now full. It was hard to imagine that with this one act was the beginning of what would become routine. In this first instance of water harvesting, a revolution of sorts had begun. Now there would be a potent reason or validation for greater habitation. When other nations discovered what I’d done, and that this newly devised equipment worked as designed, it would be a game-changer. That, of course, created a monstrous conundrum. I could see it now...Ted would immediately get on a conference call with the executive team. They, of course, would be elated with the news. They would be credited with being the first to do what many had speculated was possible. Now there would be no limits to not only water harvesting but mineral and rare metal mining as well. Before long, the lunar landscape would be populated by a host of nations as they competed with one another for land rights and assumed control.
All of that made me pause. I had a serious decision to make. If I gave in and reported the success, it would only be a matter of time before what I had envisioned would come to pass. The desire to complete this monstrosity of a project would be further enhanced. But if I chose instead to hide what I’d accomplished and then suggest that it wasn’t as easy as once assumed, I could delay the inevitable. As it was, we’d already made a mockery of the earth; how long would it take before the same applied to the moon? Before we knew it, trash dumps would be created on the dark side—forever preserving the signature of a destructive and ruthless species. Robotic rovers would remove the daily human-created debris—something that would otherwise be a stain on the pristine view.
I took in one deep breath after another. And with each one, I further honored the preciousness of oxygen. Hell, if my air replenishment system failed even for a few moments, my life could easily come to an end. Living here was that tenuous, that crucial. With that in mind, I made a decision: Ted would have no idea what had transpired. I wasn’t going to let him know that, on the very first day, I had achieved something that was once a dreamed of possibility. No, instead, I would prolong this process for as long as it took. Until I had a viable way off this Devil’s Island, I was keeping things to myself. While everyone was off working, I would offload the water into the reserve reservoir. Then, no one would be the wiser. After all, part of my assigned task was to monitor the water system, its function, as well as its repair.
CHAPTER NINE
When I returned to the crew living module, the place was in an uproar. At first, the accusations began. Why wasn’t I the one to tell my crew about my having been replaced? Why had Ted assumed that authority? And who did he think he was...telling a group of highly trained professionals how to do their jobs? Ted was called more names with worse language than is appropriate to mention. Suffice it to say that if we had been on earth or at least had the means to get out of this god-awful situation, today would have the last day for all of us. Of that, we could all agree. It bothered me greatly, however, when D told me that Ted had informed the crew that they were not to talk to me. I was to be assigned to one of the finished modules in the morning. Once that was arranged, I was to be isolated and not to be communicated with by any means. Ted would act as the intermediary. If a problem came up with the crew, he would determine if I should be part of the solution. But even with that, I was to remain at a distance until otherwise determined. Any contact with me was off-limits until it became necessary.
With that in mind, I knew the window for reaching my son was rapidly closing. Ted, of course, would curtail my access. Once I ate with my men, I got online and crossed my fingers. Just because I was calling didn’t mean my son would pick up or was available for the call. Fortunately, he picked up. But when he did, the worried expression on his face was unmistakable. He quickly signed that things had gotten worse with what was being reported. I was being accused of something that seemed highly improbable: Ted must have told Lawther that I was being insubordinate and they had taken it from there. I was being accused of undermining project progress and intentionally doing things to sabotage it. My son, of course, knew that wasn’t true. I signed back that until I could do something directly, whatever was being said was what it was.
But when I asked if he had looked into the initials I had mentioned, he nodded affirmatively. He then signed that he had something remarkable to share. Despite being somewhat in-depth, the gist of his discovery was that the coffin-sized container held what Ted identified as an “autonomous jettison vehicle” or an AJV. In other words, contained inside that aluminum footlocker was essentially a heat-insulated emergency reentry vehicle. It was only to be used as a last resort. It had been designed for both spacecraft as well as the International Space Station. Yes, an escape module was part of that program, but if the need arose, this newly devised alternative was a much more convenient backup system. In the event of an emergency, the time required for escape would be far less than a more cumbersome space module.
That realization was stunning. Here, all along, I thought that footlocker held nothing but personal items. But, instead, it was a potential means for getting off the planet. When I asked Eric what else he knew about it, he signed that it had enough oxygen for twenty-two hours. Advanced Hall thrusters would be used initially and then supported by Ion thrusters (where xenon was used for fuel) once the spacecraft was free of the moon’s gravity. It had twin parachutes intended to deploy once the reentry device was 9,000 feet above the earth.
Eric brought up the issue of trajectory. Just because this device was available didn’t mean you could simply aim it and hope to hit the earth. Yes, the earth’s gravity would play a significant part in the overall equation. But the chance of hitting mid-ocean and not some land-based landing was a greater possibility. In other words, if you didn’t burn up in the outer atmosphere first—which was harrowing to consider—you could just as easily drown or die of thirst while floating aimlessly in the middle of the Pacific or the Atlantic oceans. Even though this was an emergency vehicle didn’t mean it would keep you buoyant for days on end or send out a rescue signal—something I hoped it had but had yet to confirm.
With that being said, Eric signed that if I was to even contemplate using it, he would have to do the trajectory calculations—something I knew he was capable of doing, what with his exceptional math and science skills. The only problem was getting that information to me. I informed Eric that this might be our last call. As soon as tomorrow, Ted was shutting down my access. But with that, it was decided that Eric would contact D and then he could pass along the needed information. Eric would tell him it was for a science project he was working on and that he wanted me to check and then confirm for accuracy. I did note that Eric would have to be very careful how he worded everything. And, again, D was not to talk to me. Getting the needed timeline and trajectory information would be critical but had to be done on the sly. Even D couldn’t know what I was up to.
For no apparent reason, I was exhausted. I went to bed early. But maybe it was the idea that this would be the last night I would share with my crew. I glanced at each of them and valued their heroism, courage, and determination—but especially under the worst possible conditions. These were remarkable men that don’t often appear in your life but also in such abundance. I valued each of them and their unique skill sets. When you work together in such demanding conditions you became a team: a tight band of brothers.
D shook me awake. I was immediately alarmed. I peered up at D and he motioned for me to be quiet. He handed me his iPad. He whispered that there was a message from my son. D didn’t know if it was important or not, but he figured that I’d want to see it before I was transferred to what might prove to be my isolation quarters. I thanked him and said how much I appreciated his being there.
I glanced at Eric’s message. It soon became obvious that he felt the need to immediately address the pending issue. He explained that he had
gone online and found an open-source application—an “evolutionary trajectory mission generator” (or EMTG)—that gave him immediate access to plotting my reentry. He took a random date that was ten days out, checked the potential weather conditions (meaning that I wouldn’t want to return in the middle of a lightning storm for obvious reasons); made sure that there wasn’t a commercial or military airbase within sixty miles or in a designated flight path; made certain that neither the space station nor any sort of satellite’s orbit might be in the way, etc. In other words, he had to trace the most logical and precise path through any number of potential obstacles. He had to make assumptions based on speed and distance to arrive at a rough estimate for the time required.
But even with that, Eric was concerned that such an intense experience could prove fatal. The idea that the parachutes might not open after entering the earth’s atmosphere was the first concern. We had to assume that, along with me, they would be protected under an outer layer of carbon fiber encased in Avcoat. But I did know that the furthest out any human being had ever gone—as far as free-falling back to earth—was around 100,000 feet. That example suggested it might be possible. From my perspective, the only issue was keeping somewhat hydrated for what might prove to be an extended period of time. I wasn’t sure if Eric was being optimistic or factual. By his estimate, it appeared that if things went as he assumed, it would take around twenty-two hours to go from the moon’s limited gravity to reach the earth’s surface. The only unpredictable variable was speed. There was no way of knowing how fast I would be going once I was beyond the lunar gravitational pull. But at least we had a rough estimate. I could easily go a day without water. I could also wear an extra pair of adult diapers just in case.
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