Space For Sale

by Jeff Pollard

  “Dammit,” K mutters. “I was so close. I'm gonna be stuck out here, Travis will take my place, the press will go crazy, the Koke's will be able to show how dumb I am, the board will kick me off my own company, they'll shut down the reusability program so they can just keep on going with the only rocket that's gotten the price below five million dollars per tonne, which sorry to say, means you're going to get laid off. They'll keep on with 50 million dollar rockets, never trying to make them cheaper to change the market, because, every business person I talk to is always telling me how there's not enough customers for cheaper rockets, you want a few expensive rockets, not lots of cheap ones. But these business assholes don't have any vision, they only see how the market is now, it's the same reason every car company thought nobody wanted any electric cars, they're glorified golf carts. Now look at them scrambling to catch up with me.”

  “I thought I was going to be a real difference maker. Solar, electric, space, and then Mars. But no, I'm going to be spending the rest of my life on a yacht hanging out with trust-fund barbies.”

  “That's not so bad,” Josh says. “If you totally screw everything up, you get early awesome retirement. If I screw up, I'll end up at a boring desk job for fifty years. You at least get to keep banging all these girls.”

  “Random stuck-up trust-fund girls like these? What kind of life is that?”

  “You threw away Caroline,” Josh says.

  “I didn't throw her away, she banged Justin Timberlake.”

  “No she didn't,” Josh says.

  “I saw it on TMZ,” K replies.

  “They didn't have sex, I was there too, there was a whole dance party at his mansion. Besides he's married to Jessica Alba.”

  “Biel,” K corrects. “And that's a Hollywood marriage,” K says dismissively.

  “Whatever. I'm saying, why'd you end it with her? Because of what? You think a million steps ahead when it comes to rockets, but when it comes to your personal life you just abruptly change plans for no reason and with little thought.”

  “What are you, my dad?” K asks.

  “I'm your friend, this is how friends talk to each other,” Josh replies.

  “Would you just shut up and help me figure this out,” K says. “What would drunk Kingsley do?”

  “Is that a twitter feed?” Josh asks. “Maybe we were trying to drive the boat to the cape.”

  “I don't think so, that's a three hour drive, this thing ain't gonna do 70. Which means that we would have needed a plan to get back to the cape. Maybe we have a plane waiting for us.”

  “Wait, I'm remembering something about a plane,” Josh says.

  Flashback to midnight, drunk Kingsley lands a Cessna at the cape, bouncing the plane badly on touchdown. He taxis toward a hangar at the base while security races after him for an unauthorized landing. An airman shouts, “you're not allowed here, this is restricted.” Kingsley cuts the engine, parking the Cessna crooked on the taxiway. The airman rushes to the Kingsley's door, shouting, “You can't leave that here!”

  “Here you go,” K tosses the keys to the airman.

  “You have to move this piece of shit,” the airman yells.

  “Aren't you the valet?” K asks.

  “Valet!?”

  “Run!” K shouts, as he and Josh run for the exit, jumping a chain link fence and slinking away into the night.

  “That kinda sounds like me,” K says.

  “But not me, I don't think I would go along with drinking and flying,” Josh replies.

  “I guess you've never flown Northwest Airlines then.”

  “Maybe we came back to the cape and then took the yacht out from there,” Josh says.

  “But how'd we get to the Cape?” K asks. “Besides, where are we meeting these girls? The shitty NASA bar down the street from the cape? No, these girls have a very distinct shallow Miami feel to them.”

  “What do we have? Maybe we can Macgyver something,” Josh says.

  “We've got a locked phone,” K says.

  “Does the boat not have any electronics? No GPS, no radio?”

  “I get the feeling they don't take this boat out of harbor. It's a party boat. All I've got is this shitty compass,” K says. “Wait,” K says. “Does the phone say the time on the locked screen?”

  Josh turns the phone on. “8:48,” Josh replies. K looks to the sky, the angle of the sun.

  “Can we figure out our lattitude and longitude by the position of the sun and knowing the exact time?”

  “I mean, I don't have a sextant chart on me,” Josh says.

  “Yeah, but we're smart, we can figure this out. If Eratosthenes can figure out the circumference of the Earth using nothing but feet and a well in 200 B.C., then we can figure out where we are.”

  “Who?”

  “If I hold the compass up, and sight in the sun, I can figure out the angle, right?” K says, holding the compass vertically, and trying to determine the angle above the horizon the sun sits.”

  “Even if we figured out the exact latitude and longitude, that doesn't help unless we know what the latitude and longitude of Miami and the Cape are,” Josh replies.

  “The cape is 28 degrees, 29 minutes north,” K replies while squinting and trying to sight in the compass. “Do we have some string and a weight?”

  “Do you have GPS coordinates memorized?” Josh asks.

  “No, but I do know the location of most launch sites. Baikonour is 51 degrees north. It dictates what orbital inclination you can launch into. The ISS is at 51 degrees, which is not the most efficient inclination coming out of the cape, because 51 is the lowest inclination you can manage from Star City. Now get me some string and tie it to some kind of weight.”

  Kingsley's absence is a serious cause of concern at the LCF. There's no answer on his phone, his assistant has also vanished and all that anyone knows is that he was drunk and in Miami the night before. As everyone wonders if he will show up late or not at all, they go about their jobs, trying not to think about it. Five hours before launch, Travis Clayton suits up as a precautionary measure, ready to step in as K's backup. However, he expects K to show up any minute and take the seat back. After ninety minutes of getting ready, it was time for the crew to head out to the pad and Kingsley was still absent. Travis goes along, trying not to get his hopes up that he would be going to the ISS, assuming K would show up and ground him again. But K's lateness jumps up a notch when it's time to put the crew in the capsule and he is still missing. Travis is strapped in to K's seat and the launch checklist is begun. The crew in Griffin 7 is quiet and can barely believe that K still hasn't shown up.

  At the LCF, Hammersmith tries to cover for Kingsley as best she can as the Koch's look on from the VIP box behind the Launch Control Room.

  “So what do we do?” Mission Director Eric Greenwood asks Brittany. “We have guidelines and they say we put in the backup and we keep on. But those guidelines are written to direct us about what to do if the Flight Engineer is late, it's not about Kingsley.”

  “Can we delay, give him some more time?” Brittany asks.

  “We've got a tight window for the ISS. We can push it, we can scrub it for another day. But if we do, we're going to have to explain this to NASA. So do you want to delay it and then lie to NASA about why?”

  “Alright, let's just keep on, we need the money from this mission. It's more important to this company that we get this done than it is to protect Kingsley's ass.”

  “So we push on, we're under three hours now,” Greenwood says. Brittany nods and says nothing, heading back to the VIP box.

  “Still no Kingsley?” Bob Koke asks with a shit-eating-grin.

  “He's on his way,” Brittany says.

  “Why do you even bother covering for this guy?” Bill Koke asks her while petting a pig.

  “You really think the company is in better hands with this guy at the helm?” Bob asks.

  “What kind of shenanigans would SpacEx be getting into if you were in charge?” Bil
l asks.

  “Says the guy holding a pig,” Brittany thinks to herself.

  “No, you just let the weight hang freely, then you sight in the zero onto the sun, then the string will be hanging down on the number,” K explains to Josh.

  “If you know how to do it, then why are you making me do it?”

  “Because I want multiple readings.”

  “Well what'd you get?” Josh asks.

  “Well it wouldn't fucking help if I told you what I got,” K replies.

  “What are you guys fighting about?” a hungover blonde asks with a scratchy, whiny voice.

  “We're trying to figure out where we are,” K replies.

  “What, there's no GPS?”

  “Not unless you can wake her up,” K says, motioning to the passed out girl in back.

  “Just go west, we can't be far from Daytona Beach,” the girl says. “Do we have any water?”

  “Wait, Daytona Beach?” K asks.

  “Yeah, we left the harbor at like three in the morning.”

  “From Daytona Beach?” K asks.

  “Obvi.”

  “What is that?” K asks Josh.

  “She means obviously.”

  “Duh,” the girl adds helpfully.

  “How'd we get to Daytona Beach?” K asks.

  “We took my dad's shitty private jet, it was my 21st birthday, but he couldn't send the G6, we had to use the Lear, cause who cares, it's just my only ever 21st birthday, no big deal.”

  “Well, I don't care about any of that, all I care about is that we shouldn't be far from the Cape, so I'm going west until we find land,” K says, firing up the engine.

  “Wait, don't start going yet,” the girl says.

  “Why?” K asks. The girl ignores him, heading to the back of the yacht, leaning over and reaching to the sea with a cupped hand to drink some water.

  “No! Don't drink seawater!” K shouts.

  “Chill, dickhole,” the girl replies, “I'm totes hungover.”

  “You can't drink saltwater, what have you never...read a book?”

  “Fuck you and your books, nerd,” the girl says.

  “I mean, you don't even need to read books to know you can't drink saltwater. Have you never seen Cast Away? Tom Hanks, Wilson! Nothing?” K gets nothing but vapid stares in return. “Kids these days,” K mutters and slams the throttle forward.

  “Don't blame all kids, just stuck-up, snobby, illiterate bitches,” Josh adds.

  “I can't believe I had sex with that thing,” K replies. “What have I done with my life? I'm sorry penis, seriously bro, I don't know what I was thinking.”

  “Did you just apologize to your penis?” Josh asks.

  K shrugs his shoulders and they push on, heading toward the cape which is only twenty miles to their west.

  They would arrive at the SpacEx Launch Control Facility a mere two hours before launch. Word reaches the tower crew that Kingsley has finally showed up. Travis remains in the capsule, getting Griffin 7 ready to go, while wondering if Dexter was right to abandon this ship after all. K finally arrives at the top deck, emerging from the elevator. The pad technicians open up the Griffin and help Travis out of the capsule as Kingsley waits. Travis finally gets out.

  “You alright?” Travis asks.

  “Fine,” K says.

  “You sure?” Travis asks.

  “Yeah I'm sure.”

  “Where you been?”

  “It's quite a mystery isn't it,” K replies. “Go on back to the LCF and get ready, you've got a job to do.”

  “Yes sir,” Travis says sarcastically, heading for the elevator. The tower techs help Kingsley into Griffin 7, strapping him in in silence. They seal up the hatch and the countdown resumes. Nobody says anything to Kingsley. Once he gets situated, he has a lot of work to do on the pre-launch checklist. He picks up right where they left off, knowing the checklist forward and backwards.

  There's a lull in the pre-flight checklist at T-minus thirty minutes, as the crew has little to do until the final launch sequence begins at T-minus twenty.

  “I hope you at least got a hell of a story to tell,” Commander Tim Bowe says to Kingsley, the first anyone has said other than checklist jargon since Kingsley arrived.

  “All I have to say is don't drink and fly,” K replies.

  “You know,” Tim starts, but bites his tongue.

  “What?” K asks.

  “Nothing. . . Just that it's not very astronaut like.”

  “You obviously don't know much about the original astronauts. Don Eisle went AWOL the night before Apollo 7's launch to see his mistress. Didn't show up until quite late that morning. This after NASA warned him that he would be fired if the press found out about his affair. They were always cultivating that boyscout persona for astronauts, but they were fighter jocks with a girl in every port. There's a reason the traditional pre-launch breakfast is so hardy. They would all get hammered the night before. Otherwise they'd spend the whole night too nervous to sleep. If you're not gonna sleep, might as well have some fun and relax. I'm probably better prepared for this mission than you are with your sleepless night.”

  “I slept like a baby,” Bowe replies.

  “Well, I know the only way I was going to get any sleep was to play hard. I'm always like that,” K says. K scrambles to get a sick bag and open his helmet at the same time. He just barely gets the helmet open before vomiting, unable to get ahold of the sick bag in time. His vomit trickles down his suit legs, dripping into a puddle of sick on the cabin floor.

  “Oh come on Kingsley,” Richard Branson says.

  “I thought I got that all out,” K says.

  “You better not still be throwing up when we get up there,” Richard says.

  “If you weren't my boss I'd have you kicked out of here,” Tim says seriously.

  “Well I am your boss,” K replies. “Let's keep our focus here.”

  “You're the one puking on the instruments,” Tim replies. But Kingsley wouldn't hear it, closing his helmet and preparing for the flight. The checklist picks back up as they approach launch time. The terminal launch auto-sequence begins at T-minus ten minutes. Downrange video recorders are activated. The nine Arthurs of the first stage are pre-chilled. The rocket and the Griffin are switched to internal battery power.

  “Helium loads closing out,” First Stage Control tech says over the radio.

  “T-minus one minute thirty seconds,” Kingsley says.

  “Oxygen bleed open for final chill,” First Stage Control says.

  “Flight Computer has entered auto-idle,” Guidance says. The cabin is quiet except for the nervous breathing inside each helmet and the messages on the radio.

  “Flight computer is in control,” Commander Bowe says. “Kingsley?”

  “What?” K asks.

  “You missed a call,” Bowe replies.

  “Right, vehicle is in startup,” Kingsley says. “Just mind your own panel, I'm on it. They know it's in startup.”

  “Kingsley, are you seriously ready for this?” Tim asks. “Because I don't care if you're my boss, I'm the commander, and if you're not ready, I'll stop this countdown and get Travis back in here.

  “T-minus thirty seconds,” Mission Control says on the loop.

  “All tanks at pressure,” Rocket Control says.

  “I've got this,” Kingsley replies sternly.

  “You sure?” Tim asks. Kingsley just gives him a look that says everything he has to say.

  “T-minus fifteen seconds.”

  Kingsley takes a deep breath and closely eyes his readouts. He is the flight engineer, and that means during launch he is in charge of managing the rocket engines, fuel tanks, any spacecraft system that might fail and determining the proper course of action. Bowe, as the pilot, is in charge of keeping the vehicle on a proper trajectory, and if an abort is initiated, piloting the Griffin to a safe splashdown. The first ten seconds of the launch are the most tense, as all nine first stage engines come online and any number o
f problems might arise. They won't know for a good ten seconds whether they've got a good Eagle 9 or if they're riding a death trap waiting to spring shut.

  Caroline, Arnold, and Richard know of these concerns, but don't know enough to really understand them, so they try to shut those concerns out of their minds and instead just focus on the positives. It's a trip, an epic journey like none other in history. Arnold relishes in the danger, feeling like an original Mercury astronaut, a real pioneer. Richard Branson wishes he felt like Arnold, but instead he can't help but imagining the rocket failing, an abort being called and the Griffin tearing off the top of the rocket to escape a giant fireball. Caroline just tries to think about the film Apollo 13 and know that if something goes wrong there are lots of smart people that can fix it before they all die.

  They all feel a deep rumble beneath them.

  “Fuel flowing,” K says to ease their concerns.

  Combustion starts, which feels more like standing too close to a subwoofer at a concert. It feels almost like your heart is going to be rattled out of your chest.

  “Flight Computer is in first stage,” Guidance says.

  “Liftoff,” Launch Control says.

  “Griffin has sensed first stage acceleration. Nominal,” Payload Control says.

  The five astronauts of Griffin 7 are pressed down in their seats as Eagle 9 begins its ascent, pushing them into their seats at 1.5 Gs.

  (T+0:08) Rocket Control: Eagle 9 has cleared the tower.

  (T+0:13) Guidance: Starting pitch.

  (T+0:31) Pilot, Commander Tim Bower: Starting gravity turn.

  (T+0:35) First Stage Control: First stage at full power.

  As the engines are throttled up to 100%, Kingsley pays close attention to all of the readings available to him. He is drawn to Engine 4. “First stage, take a look at Engine 4,” Kingsley says.

  “What is it?” Tim asks quickly without looking away from his controls.

  “Chamber pressure is dropping,” K replies. “It doesn't look like a flow problem, it might be combustion instability.”

  “Pogo?” Bowe asks, referring to a Pogo Oscillation. Pogo Oscillation occurs when a rocket engine's thrust varies, and this change in thrust causes a change in the flow rate of the fuel. That change in flow rate then results in variance in the thrust, setting up a standing resonance wave, or a positive feedback loop, which results in a continuous oscillation, like a pogo stick going up and down. However the data doesn't seem to point to this.