by Dale Brown
Raydon began by flying the Black Stallion beside the tower directly opposite from the docking port, then gently stopping the spaceplane so the port was slightly behind his left shoulder but clearly visible out the side windscreen. There was an electronic positioning device straight ahead, but several pieces were missing and the indicators were dark. “Looks like the positioning target has been damaged,” Raydon said.
“Thank the Russians for that,” Ann said. “Their ‘Elektron’ spaceplanes did a lot…”
“I said, be quiet,” Raydon interrupted. “I didn’t want to chat, Senator. Button it.” Ann shook her head and snorted her frustration so hard it briefly fogged the inside of her helmet. “I’ll just have to line it up by feel and guide it in after I translate.” Raydon made a few more barely perceptible adjustments with the controls. The only sound anyone heard was the briefest of puffs from the thrusters. Then slowly, ever so slowly, the Black Stallion started a roll to the left so the top of the spaceplane was pointed at the station.
Just then, they heard a strange humming noise. Boomer checked his readouts—everything was normal. “Crew, station check,” he ordered.
“Quiet, Captain.”
“I hear a funny sound.”
“That’s me, Noble. Now be quiet.” Sure enough, a moment later the humming sound came back, getting louder and louder as Raydon nudged the Black Stallion ever so slowly toward the tower. “Clear the docking tunnel, Senator,” he said.
“Tunnel’s clear.”
“I asked you to clear it, not talk!” Raydon snapped. “What part of ‘be quiet’ don’t you jokers understand?” Ann had to bite her tongue to keep silent. “Okay, Captain, extend the tunnel…slowly.” Boomer hit a switch, and the docking tunnel extended out the top of the spaceplane. “Stop.” Raydon made a few more imperceptible adjustments. “Okay, extend…stop.” Another nudge of the controls; then they heard a deep “CLUUNK!” and four sharp snaps. “Contact, locks engaged,” Raydon said. “Senator, double-check your suit status lights, and tell me what they say.” Silence. Raydon waited a moment longer, then said irritably, “You can talk now, all of you.”
“Four green, no red,” Ann Page said. “My, Colonel, what a fart you are.”
“Thank you, Senator. I’m just doing my job. Lieutenant?”
“Four green, no red. I’ve double-checked Ann’s controls—she’s ready.”
“I’ve checked Nano’s controls,” Ann said. “She’s good to go.”
“Roger. Captain?”
“I’ve got four green, no red,” Boomer responded. “I’m ready.”
“Roger. I’m showing four green, no red. Flight crew is ready for cabin depressurization, and passenger module is ready for equalization with the transfer module. Senator, Lieutenant, ready to go?”
“We’re ready, Colonel.”
“Ready.”
“Very good. Captain?”
Boomer checked the status readouts being transmitted via an encoded datalink from the station. “Transfer module showing pressurized to nine point nine psid,” he reported.
“Good. Clear to match cabin pressure.”
“Roger. Bringing the passenger module pressure down to nine point nine.” Boomer hit a control. “Passing fourteen psid…twelve…ten…nine point nine pressure differential in both station transfer module and Stud passenger module.”
“Very good. Okay, Senator, Lieutenant, you’re cleared to unstrap, enter the tunnel, and open the hatch. Be sure to check the visual indicators first. Good luck.”
“We’re on our way,” Ann said. “And you still owe me a shot for every time you called me ‘Senator,’ Kai.” She and Nano carefully removed their seat restraints and floated free. Ann moved to the tunnel first and pulled herself up inside. At the top of the tunnel she opened a small shutter over an observation window, which lined up exactly with a similar window on the station’s transfer module. She flicked a switch, and a tiny LED light illuminated a pressure gauge inside the transfer module. “Transfer module shows nine point five on the gauge,” she said. “Close enough for government work. Here we go.” Ann twisted two recessed levers in the tunnel’s hatch, and the hatch unlatched. She floated back and swung the hatch in, then locked it in place. She then reached up to the hatch visible just a few inches away, double-checked the pressure differential gauge again, then twisted two handles and swung the hatch open. “Hatches are open. I’m going inside. See you when I see you.”
“We did it,” Boomer breathed.
“We’ve still got a long way to go, Captain,” Raydon said. “But we’ve cleared one incredible hurdle.”
Nano began by unstrapping several equipment cases and boxes inside the passenger module, floated them through the tunnel to Ann, then followed them inside. In a few minutes she was inside the station’s transfer module, and she secured the hatches behind her. “The hatches are closed and latched,” she reported from the transfer module. “Tunnel and module are pressurized and secure. This is so cool. Can’t believe all the room in this thing!”
“The transfer module is the smallest on Silver Tower,” Ann said. “Wait till you see the rest of the place. You might want to move up here permanently.”
“Awesome!”
Inside the station, Ann floated into an adjacent tunnel, turning on lights as she went, then entered the adjacent crew sleeping quarters. She had stayed on the station a few times in the past several years, and she was pleased to see many of her “womanly” touches still in place—some artificial silk flowers, a few pictures, and even a magnetic chess board floating in the middle of the module.
“Wow, this is huge!” Nano remarked. “You can sleep a dozen people in this thing with room to spare! And there’s a shower, closets, TVs, and desks—how cool! I thought it’d be all cramped like the Shuttle orbiter.”
“I told you you’d like it,” Ann said. She floated “down” to another connecting tunnel and checked the pressure gauges. “The cargo module is depressurized and checked, guys. Come on over.”
“Ready, Captain?” Raydon asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” Boomer said.
“I’ll go over first,” Raydon said. “Follow me and do what I do. There’s nothing to it.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Your readouts look okay?”
“Four green, no red, reading nine point eight psid.”
“Me too. Check your tether.”
Boomer opened a hatch on his side of his seat and pulled out a length of shielded nylon cable. “It’s ready.”
“Mine too. Here we go.” Raydon hit a control, and the forward cockpit cabin began to depressurize. “Fourteen psid…twelve…ten…” But this time it didn’t stop at ten psid, but went all the way to zero. “Forward cabin depressurized. Canopy coming open.” As Boomer watched in amazement, the forward canopy motored open, and moments later Raydon floated free of his seat and was outside the spaceplane. My God, Boomer thought, he’s walking in space! “How you doing back there, Captain? You look like you seen a ghost.”
“I…I’m okay.”
“This is my fifth space walk, and I’m still nervous and excited every time I go out,” Raydon admitted. “But we don’t have all day. Let’s go.” Without appearing to push or even touch anything, Raydon gently moved away from the spaceplane so he was floating in space several yards away. As Boomer watched, the remote manipulator arm began to move toward him. Raydon reached up, and Ann steered the grapple at the end of the arm precisely into his grasp and towed him toward the cargo module on the station. Moments later he was inside the module, and he motioned for Boomer to follow him.
His stomach was knotted with flocks of butterflies, but he was holding up the show, and the remote manipulator arm was waiting for him. He touched the controls and slowly depressurized the rear cockpit cabin…done. With a finger that he noticed was shaking slightly, he hit the canopy switch…and it motored up. Holy Jesus…he was in space! Not just flying through space, but in space!
“Let’s move out, Captain.”
Boomer undid his seat straps, being careful to keep the metal buckles under control as they snaked around him, then pushed himself out of his seat…too hard, and his helmet banged up against the inside of the canopy overhead.
“Easy does it, Captain,” Raydon said. “Use just enough force to overcome inertia and that’s it, and remember you have to counteract inertia on the other side—nothing stops by itself up here. Remember that. Otherwise you’ll be making like a pinball all day. Don’t even think about moving and you’ll find you can move just fine. Keep an eye on your tethers and those locking teeth on the edge of the canopy—rip your suit and your blood will boil away in seconds.”
Slowly, carefully, Boomer eased himself away from the canopy and floated across the sill. Unconsciously he swung his legs out of the cockpit and almost succeeded in spinning himself around like a top. But before he knew it, he was outside the spaceplane, floating between it and the space station. God, he was space walking! He remembered watching videos of the Gemini astronauts doing their spacewalks, stepping outside their tiny capsules to float around at the end of an umbilical cord while millions on Earth watched on TV, and now he was doing it! He looked around and got a hint of vertigo as he saw Earth over two hundred miles below him, and he realized only then that he wasn’t floating—he was falling around the Earth at over seventeen thousand miles an hour! It was an absolutely incredible feeling.
“Sightseeing time is over, Captain,” Raydon prompted him. “Let’s get going. Ann, bring the arm down.”
But Boomer had other ideas. Without waiting for the remote manipulator arm, Boomer gently pushed against the Black Stallion and propelled himself across the distance between the spaceplane and the open cargo module. Somehow he measured that push just right, because he gently floated through space and glided like a falling leaf directly inside the open module’s hatch. Raydon barely had to stop him before the magnets on Boomer’s boots engaged and he stood proudly and excitedly on the cargo module’s deck.
“Well, well, look at the newbie,” Raydon said. “Thinks he’s Buzz Aldrin all of a sudden. Very impressive, rookie.”
“Like he’s been space-walking all his life,” Ann said.
“Enough showing off for the ladies, Captain,” Raydon said with a smile. “Let’s get this cargo module ready to dock the Ares cargo stage and to refuel the Black Stallion, and we can get you on your way. After that, we’ve got a space station to run!”
ASHKHABAD, TURKMENISTAN
A FEW DAYS LATER
She was almost home. She could feel her strength increasing with every step she took in the direction of her real homeland.
Azar Assiyeh Qagev waited patiently in her seat in the Turkmenistan Airlines Boeing 737 for the other passengers to deplane. Major Najar sat across the aisle from her watching the departing passengers; Lieutenant Saidi sat beside Azar, appearing to flip through her carry-on bag but was actually scanning the passengers and crew as well for any sign of trouble. Although certainly not required on this airline, but to avoid any complications or undue attention, both Azar and Saidi wore thick medium-colored scarves and plain brown dresses that covered every part of their bodies except for face and hands.
Although Turkmenistan was predominantly Sunni Muslim, and in recent years under new president Jalaluddin Turabi, the former Afghan Taliban fighter who helped defend Turkmenistan from a Russian invasion, Islam was undergoing a resurgence in an attempt by the government to quiet religious unrest, religious expression was still generally not encouraged and anyone flaunting their religious beliefs or customs was viewed with suspicion or sometimes outward aggression. It was a tactical decision to dress conservatively on this flight from Istanbul, Turkey, to the capital of Turkmenistan. According to strict Muslim practices it was not allowed for a man to stare at a woman in public who was not his wife, and Azar and her bodyguards hoped that practice would be followed even in this former Stalinist country.
It had been a long, harrowing trip so far since hijacking the jet chartered by the U.S. State Department. American and Canadian radars along the border had improved markedly since the American Holocaust, and after commandeering the plane and crossing into Canada they were approached immediately by Royal Canadian Air Force patrol jets. Fortunately the jets didn’t attack, but instead shadowed them as they flew northward. Major Najar’s plan was to land, force the airport to give them fuel, then try to make it to an isolated American airport, refuel again, and try to make it to the Caribbean or Bahamas. But stuck almost directly in the middle of North America, their chance of fighting their way out safely was quickly diminishing.
Finally Azar herself got on the jet’s telephone and contacted the Canadian foreign ministry office in Winnipeg, proclaimed they were political refugees, and promised to land the jet there. Upon landing they were immediately placed under arrest. Fortunately the American Department of State only wanted the jet and crew back and didn’t want to press charges, so Canadian officials promised they would not prosecute if they left the country immediately.
The three carried two sets of passports, American and Turkish. The Canadian officials confiscated the American passports on behalf of the United States—another condition of release—but allowed the group to use their Turkish passports to exit the country. They purchased Lufthansa airline tickets from Winnipeg to Istanbul. While in Istanbul they received a required letter of introduction from a former Turkmeni consular officer—price, one thousand dollars U.S. for the three of them—then purchased tickets on Turkmenistan Airlines to Ashkhabad.
Thirty grueling hours later after departing Minnesota, they were finally just a few miles from Iran. All they had to do was get safely past Turkmeni customs and immigration, and the Qagev security network would take them across the border. Unfortunately they did not have visas to enter Turkmenistan, and the Turkmeni government disliked foreigners who didn’t bother getting visas before trying to enter the country.
Najar tried to steer them toward a customs officer who looked like he might be Muslim, but soon they couldn’t hesitate any longer, and they queued up before an agent who unfortunately looked anything but Muslim. “Your papers, please,” the customs officer ordered in Turkmen, holding out his hand without looking up. Najar handed over their passports and letter of introduction. Azar and Saidi had pulled their scarves low, obscuring their faces, and kept their heads bowed.
The customs officer looked at the passports carefully, eyeing Najar suspiciously. “You have no visa to enter Turkmenistan,” he said. When Najar’s narrowed eyes told him he didn’t understand, the officer switched to Arabic and repeated his statement.
“I was assured I could get a short-term visa here, at the airport,” Najar said.
“Only under very unusual circumstances—very unusual circumstances,” the customs officer said. “Is this an urgent trip or some sort of family emergency?”
“No. Just business.”
“I see.” He scowled, looked past Najar at the two females, then flipped open their passport photo pages and motioned. “Take off the scarves.”
“It is not permitted,” Najar said sternly.
“In your society it is not permitted—here, on my order, it is,” the customs officer said perturbedly. Najar hesitated again. The customs officer closed the passports and shuffled some papers as if getting ready to write a report. “Very well, sir. With all deference to your religious preferences and your women’s frail and unassailable femininity, we will send your wife and young daughter to a segregated area where a female officer will continue inprocessing. It should take no longer than…oh, I’d say a few hours, perhaps tomorrow morning, depending on availability of suitable personnel. All of you will have to sleep here in the airport security office’s holding cell—along with all the drunks, pickpockets, and other reprobates we catch preying on honest visitors and residents of Turkmenistan. Now tell me, sir, which would you prefer to do?”
Najar sized up the officer, considering
whether he should challenge this affrontery, then deciding to relent. He turned and told the females to take off their scarves, and they did.
“I am relieved to see that God has not turned anyone to slabs of salt before my eyes,” the customs officer said dryly. He studied the photos carefully, taking his time, then shaking his head to indicate to the females that they could cover themselves again. “So. You are from Turkey but come from Winnipeg, Canada. What do you do, Mr. Najar?”
“Telecommunications software engineer.”
“What is your business in Turkmenistan?”
“I am to enter discussions to upgrade your country’s wireless phone system and provide service to every part of your country.”
“I see. Very impressive, very impressive.” He peered at the letter of introduction. “I assume you deal with the government ministry of energy and industry for this project?”
“No, I would deal with His Honor Matkarim Ashirov, minister of communications,” Najar corrected him, thankful he had taken the time to carefully study his own cover’s background. “But we are in negotiations with RuTel for some of their infrastructure and land leases—that is the purpose of my visit. Hopefully we will be meeting with His Honor Ashirov soon afterward.”
“I see,” the customs officer said. But he impaled Najar with an icy stare, held up the letter of introduction with disdain, then said, “But what confuses me, sir, is why you would need to go through this particular person in Istanbul for a letter of introduction when you could have just as easily obtained a visa from the ministry of communications or a letter of introduction from RuTel—if you are indeed working with these agencies? This person in Istanbul is well-known to us as a letter-writing hack—he would give Satan himself a letter of introduction for a thousand dollars. Can you please explain this to me, sir?”
“Of course,” Najar said. “If I would have requested a letter from Mr. Saparov at RuTel, I would be beholden to him, and that is no way to begin any business negotiations. And I have not spoken to the minister about my deal because it has not been formalized to my shareholders’ satisfaction. We wish to go to His Honor Ashirov at the very least as equal partners with RuTel in this venture, preferably as majority partners. So the ministry was not obligated to grant us a visa since we have not been dealing with them at all yet.”