by Peter Damon
The lift doors opened on a short passage, two uniformed Special Service guards at the end. He nodded towards them and used his pass and numeric password to gain entry into the secure area, before moving to one of the smaller conference rooms.
“Good evening,” he called, seeing Colin helping himself to a Coke from the fridge in the corner.
“Chief,” Colin answered with a nod.
“You’ve got some news?” Brad said as much as asked as he sat down and made himself appear relaxed.
Colin nodded. “We have a man on the ARC with a private history that we’re able to use as leverage in exchange for information. Having said that, the information he’s provided is largely mundane.
“The craft was only partially fitted out when they lifted it into space, so most if not all their attention has been directed towards trying to finish it in time for the academic year, commencing in September.”
“So they really do plan to use it as a college,” Brad observed.
“Predominately. They do, however, plan to convert the shipping containers into communication satellites,” Colin advised.
“That sounds bad, but is it? I mean; shipping containers for God’s sake,” Brad said disparagingly.
“I asked a couple of our people in NASA, and they tell me that it’s very bad news for us. Those things are made to withstand rough handling, so in collisions, they’re going to come off the victor. In terms of interior volume, they exceed just about everything up there, and their costs are next to nothing, having lifted them all into space already. In essence, they have greater capacity at a much lower cost.
“My NASA contacts are extremely concerned and suggest we do something to stop it, and as quickly as possible.” Colin finished.
“What about their sourcing of the components. Have we any leverage there?” Brad asked.
Colin shook his head. “They have agreements already in place, predominately with Korean suppliers.”
“Then your man is the only thing we have going for us. There’s no way we can launch a missile!” Brad pointed out.
Colin nodded. “We’ll continue to work with the Russians in suggesting appropriately negative stories to the press. China is continuing to ignore our suggestions that they join with us while India is waving the white flag and reminding the UK that they’re part of the Commonwealth and should be on a preferred list for receiving benefits, but negative press coverage has been quite good so far, and our man admits that it has the senior people on board a little worried. Would you want our man to begin some works of sabotage?”
Brad considered it, sipped from his can of Coke and slowly nodded. “No fatalities please, just small things to distract them from fulfilling their commercial ambitions,” he suggested. “And, of course, make sure none of it can come back on us.”
Colin nodded and refrained from taking notes.
July 19th.
“Well, well,” Michael called from across the hangar space.
Frankie looked up from cleaning his nails of the last of the grease under them and smiled. “What do you think?” he asked, stepping away from the vehicle.
It was an impressive craft, twice the size of the original but in the main, still a Sports Utility Truck or SUV.
Frankie opened the large doors as Michael approached, and let him look inside to where the special seating had been installed along with multiple screens to monitor their internal and external environments. There were more monitors per station than those of a financial dealer in the City, he reflected.
The floor of the vehicle had been lowered to provide additional headroom, more than enough to allow fully helmeted spacemen to enter and sit. Each seat now held a backpack as part of its construction. To sit in the seat was to ‘plug in’ to its added facilities, and for the period that the backpack remained linked to the seat, it received power and air from the vehicle.
“This is it, then,” Michael asked, looking around it appreciatively. It was a large and mean machine, easily seating four but with a design capability of five, all of whom would have their backpacks plugged in.
Michael had to laugh, even as he shook his head in admiration for the work the travellers had completed. Like the Range Rover, it retained its earth heritage while still becoming unique to space.
“How long a support time does it provide?” he asked.
“A week, though we don’t plan to use it for more than 12 hours at a time, absolute tops” Frankie explained. He showed Michael the cabinet immediately behind the cabin that held the air tanks, recycling units, a second set of batteries and a tool box. He pointed out the myriad of cameras whose lenses were flush with the bodywork, but all providing views of the outside for those enclosed within the vehicle.
“When are you going to test it?”
Frankie laughed. “We’ve been testing vehicles since we got up here, Michael. We’ve been ‘capturing’ and moving shipping containers. This is it; the final version. This beast has all the things we’ve learnt from over 5 weeks of testing. We’re ready,” he announced.
“Good. That’s really good!” Michael beamed. They were about to become true spacemen. “Let’s see if we can find you some business.”
July 20th.
It was both a training exercise and a statement of intent by the college, with Oliver Cole ensuring the media had all the details to make a good middle page spread. Practically everyone on board had been outside at some stage of the project, either to help spray the new rubber solution across the hull, or to then assemble the network of scaffolding over the top of the rubber.
Allan had created a numbering sequence for each square metre of both port and starboard sides, and with the scaffolding put in place and similarly numbered, the projects could be put in position and the relevant university teams informed.
20 of the most competent crew members installed the projects. Frankie, Mickey, Paddy and Maddy were among them, putting the test equipment onto the hull, ably assisted by a number of other gypsies. The four had undertaken as much work outside as possible, quickly learning new skills as they worked without gravity to manhandle the equipment into place and then laboriously ensure that it was aligned properly and securely fastened to the scaffolding.
They wore long overcoats that resembled the US Western type of overcoats from the turn of the 19th century, what the Australians called an Oilskin Duster; a long and loose fitting but sturdy overcoat that ended mid calf and possessed deep and varied pockets. The original coats had been made from canvas or thick cotton.
The Travellers had updated the design a little, making it from the same material that coated the ship but woven in a duck weave and cutting the pattern so as to fit over their backpack. Multiple layers of the fabric helped minimise the sudden change of temperature on their suits, and the resulting strange feeling of the changing water temperature running across the wearer’s skin. A large upturned collar gave added protection to the air-feeds that ran from the top of the backpack into the base of their helmet, while the whole garment not only helped protect them against a strike from a small piece of rubbish, but helped smooth the shape of their backpacks so getting jammed on the many pieces of equipment beginning to adorn the hull was far less of a risk. A broad line of Velcro down the front made it easy to fasten or unfasten, while deep pockets allowed them to keep their tools close to hand.
Paul Wright idly monitored them from his surgery, pleased to see that their heart rates were near normal. He had been forced to limit initial bouts outside the hull to just one or two minutes following the racing hearts of just about everyone who had experienced being outside in just their close-fitting spacesuits. While the suits had long since proven their ability to protect the wearer, their close fitting nature made a lot of people feel practically nude when going out into the vacuum. Now, people like Frankie no longer needed any limits, and were as comfortable working outside as they were inside.
“Allan; P6C5 is ready mate,” Mickey murmured, satisfied that the antenna was correctly
positioned.
“P6C5, York University,” Allan murmured to himself as he updated the database from his seat in the control-room. The act would send the university an email requesting they confirm communication and function.
“York. Been there; visited York Minster,” Mickey said, remembering the elaborate ceiling within the Minster, and the ton of lead he had liberated from nearby buildings.
“York, Toronto in Canada, Mickey,” Allan corrected him. They had a graduate program within the faculty of Science and Engineering. Allan had been tempted himself, before Cambridge had approved his application.
Toronto came straight back to him with their confirmation and Allan closed the dialog box. “That’s good Frankie. Let’s call it a day,” he suggested. They had provided seven universities with experiments, three of whom had been outside the UK.
“Stow the tools, boys. Time for tea,” Frankie confirmed, and bent his legs to propel himself towards the rear of the long ship.
Like Mickey, Maddy and Paddy, he had declined the use of a safety rope. But unlike the other three who were still valiantly using the compressed nitrogen guns to control their movement, Frankie used the new facility in his suit to move with greater ease, and grace, towards the open doors of the docking bay.
Safety lines, they had found, were more dangerous than safe when working with others, or among awkwardly shaped equipment. They tangled with equipment, they pulled at delicately set antenna, and overall proved more of a disability than a benefit. The nitrogen gun, on the other hand, needed hours of practice. Shoot the gun just slightly off centre of mass, and you ended up rotating or spinning, as much side-to-side as head-over-heels. On top of which, movement with the airgun invariable meant at least two shots; one to propel the user in a direction, and the second to stop them. As a result, the nitrogen guns took hours and hours of practice to use them efficiently.
Frankie heard the complaints from the others and smiled to himself. He had asked Peter and Thomas to proceed with making enough material for at least another dozen suits, but he would let the others complain for a bit longer before he’d tell them.
++++++++++++++++
Michael left the Range Rover at the Cambridge police station and took a leisurely walk through Cambridge town centre to reach the Cavendish laboratory, to the north west of the town. It had been a while since he had felt such freedom, even if more than a few people watched him pass with that, ‘haven’t I seen you before somewhere’ look.
The receptionist seemed unsure of him too, and asked Michael to wait while he phoned the professor to ask if he’d accept a visitor, and then appeared a little embarrassed for having not realised who he was as he provided directions to the professor’s study.
Michael found the room with ease, having been a regular visitor to the laboratory, and knocked quietly before opening the door.
“Professor Charles Brewer?” he asked, entering the professor’s study that, like many of those at the laboratory; was overflowing with magazines and books, and yet distinctive enough so that any of the students at the laboratory would have instantly recognised it as being Professor Brewer’s. A small area remained clear, a semicircle created by five chairs where the students would sit.
A desk stood to one side of a whiteboard that dominated the far wall, and seated at it was Professor Charles Brewer, the American who, as well as teaching, was studying the physics of novel superconducting materials.
“Chas, please. And you must be Michael Bennett, head of Rolle College,” the man said, his American accent muted by his long stay in England. He held out his hand, a tall if slender man in his late forties, perhaps early fifties, his hair cut short, his brown eyes intent, searching for meaning. Michael had the feeling he was going to like the man, even if he distrusted his origins.
“Ready?” Michael asked.
“Taken you lot long enough!” he cried, picking up a small holdall. “But yes, I’m ready,” he smiled.
++++++++++++++++
Jake tore his eyes from the monitor long enough to glance at his watch. Matt was with the others, discussing the forthcoming trip to the moon, but he’d be back soon, and Jake didn’t want to be caught watching a monitor filled with real-time images of the Turkey-Syrian border.
Not that Matt would recognise it. Jake wasn’t even certain what he was looking at really was the area he was interested in.
He had spent close to an hour re-directing the camera and calculating the position he wanted it in. He had anticipated seeing army personnel, armed vehicles, perhaps even damaged and burning buildings. All he could see was the rough terrain of the area and the odd and unidentified building, the occasional empty road. He had seen nothing to suggest this was one of the most fiercely contested pieces of land on earth, nor anything to warrant the amount of air-time the region got on the media.
Jake glanced at his watch again, then returned the outside camera to its proper station, disappointed, but not yet ready to give up. He’d try again tomorrow and see if he could find something.
July 23rd.
The meeting had been arranged at Cambridge Airport, within the grandly named Business Reception Area the airport authority had created some years before and had now been purchased by Cambridge University.
Although plans had been drawn up to refurbish the complete facility, it still retained its original decoration, with wall panels that were more grey than blue and thinly upholstered seating suggesting a 1990’s design often seen in the railway carriages of that era.
Stan Charway was distrustful of spaces with panelled walls. Nor did he particularly like the thinly upholstered seating or the chrome legged meeting tables, but it was typical of its type, he reflected as he and his team ran their sensors one last time over all surfaces, and then installed their own devices.
Cheryl and Gary drove down in the Range Rover rather than draw attention by arriving in a wheel-less and over-sized SUV. With the vehicles now twice the size of their origins and sporting hooks, eyes, satellite dishes and strong searchlights, they made quite an intimidating sight. The Range Rover at least looked unchanged, and they were able to drive around the perimeter road and up to the secure side car-park with only a few cursory glances from nearby maintenance workers.
Security was already in place they noticed, with armed Special Forces personnel on the tarmac and close to each entrance and exit, their heads turning as they kept constant vigilance on the area, small but powerful weapons held across their chests.
A door opened and Stan waved at them, hurrying them into a stairwell before shaking their hands and leading them up into the welcome area.
“They’re being very tight lipped, even for Russians,” he explained. “But he mentioned you both by name, so I assume it has something to do with your current projects.”
“What do we know of him? How should we handle him?” Cheryl asked.
“No time,” Stan said, a finger holding his earpiece firmly into his ear as he received instructions. “He’s here,” he explained. “Probably best I don’t give you any preconceptions of what he’s like, but just remember; it is extremely rare for any Russian diplomat to want to talk alone. So something is up, and he’s effectively coming to you cap in hand, so to speak,” he explained while hurrying them through the lounge and to the door of the meeting room.
“Good luck,” he told them, and opened the door.
Cheryl had anticipated someone older, not looking so boyish, with light brown hair worn slightly too long, blond eye brows and a long thin mouth. He was dressed casually too, his shirt open at the neck and displaying a worn pair of Levi jeans as he stood up to take their hand.
“I’m not sure who should be host and thank the other for meeting, but I am pleased you have come,” he told them, his English only slightly fractured. “I am Dimitry Kozlov, the new Cultural Attaché at our embassy in London.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Gary said, speaking for the two of them.
“No, it is I who am happy to meet you both. I
think it an incredible achievement, what you have all done. Of course, I would prefer it if it had been Russians, but it is done, and is no less a monumental feat, whoever has done it,” he told them, his grin both shy and genuine. It wasn’t at all what they had expected from this meeting, requested by the Russian embassy through diplomatic channels and set up by Stanley.
“So, what can we do for you?” Cheryl asked.
“I understand that you are offering a service to remove the remnants of previous space exploration,” he said.
Cheryl nodded. “Yes. We invited ROSCOSMO to confirm such items from their previous launches, and we would remove these items on everyone’s behalf, without fee,” she explained.
Dmitry nodded. “Yes. They are still unsure of how to respond,” he chuckled. “ROSCOSMO do not like your competition, and yet, as you say, your service would be of great benefit to them. They must learn to swallow, yes?” he asked.
“So, you’re not here on behalf of ROSCOSMO?” Gary asked.
“No, and yet, yes,” the Russian grinned again. “It is a very sensitive issue that I must discuss with you, and I need your assurances that our conversation, and any activity undertaken as a result of this conversation, will be in total confidence,” he told them.
“As long as it breaks no international laws,” Cheryl nodded.
“Oh no, quite the opposite, but let me explain. The Soviet Union launched a number of satellites during the 1970 and 80s. They were to be part of the RORSAT program. What that was and how they performed is not important here, other than to say that they were placed in a medium earth orbit, and that subsequent efforts to move them out into a graveyard orbit were not very successful.”
“I think I remember something of this,” Gary nodded. “Kosmos 954?” he queried.
Dmitry winced and nodded. “So you will know that this series of satellites have a small nuclear reactor on board. Oh, very, very small reactor, but one in particular will soon cross the path of another piece of space debris, and we do not wish to be seen as poor citizens of earth who cause radioactivity spills in space, and yet, nor do we want to be seen coming to you for help. Do you understand?”