Confrontation

by William Hayashi

  “Right away. You want to call Dr. Milton or should I?” she asked.

  “Go ahead and give him the heads-up, let him know I’ll be checking in with him soon.”

  Seeing how tired the president looked, Dawkins paused before leaving the office.

  “Do you want me to clear your afternoon, Mr. President?”

  “No, I’m going to get something to eat. It’s probably just low blood sugar, now shoo! Be sure to let me know what Paul says when you drop this on him. By the way, he’s met Mathews, and that propulsion guy has too. Remind him that those two shouldn’t cross paths, and would you find out where the investigation into the industrial spying is? I want to know who’s been behind it.”

  “I will. Anything else?”

  “That will be all, Debra.”

  Dawkins returned to her office and immediately called Milton in Houston.

  “Dr. Milton, I have something to discuss with you,” she began.

  “Oh? Is it something the president’s concerned about?”

  “Not exactly,” she replied, pausing.

  “Okay, then. I’m sitting down. Give it to me.”

  “Do remember the GST security guy who visited your office over that breach?”

  “The nice one, or the spook?” Milton replied, getting a little annoyed.

  “Mathews, John Mathews.”

  “Good cop. What about him?”

  “GST wants him to be their pick as crew member on the mission,” she said.

  “What? Who … ” he said sputtering. The getting himself back under control, he asked, “God dammit, what in the holy hell is going on?”

  “If you have one, pour yourself a drink, doctor. This is going to blow your mind,” Dawkins promised.

  After a few moments, Milton signaled he was ready to listen.

  “It goes like this, John Mathews is the last person on Earth to have spoken with one of the separatists before they departed. He was investigating the disappearance of one of the last recruits for the colony when he ran into Sydney Atkins, dean of students at Steddman College just outside of Atlanta. You know of it I assume.”

  “Indeed I do. One of the students there was doing incredible work in oxygen-producing algae. Her project was cancelled when she disappeared and then it was discovered she was on the roster transmitted back. So this Mathews was what, FBI?”

  “No, Atlanta PD, missing persons. He fell in love with the dean, who just happened to be the recruiter for the women to join the colony.”

  “So, GST wants him on the mission, why? Does he know something he’s been keeping from the authori—from you guys? He’s got some special ‘in’ with the separatists that no one knew about and you’re just finding out now?” Milton asked in disbelief.

  “Not at all. He’s GST’s pick all the way. They think he may be able to work his way in somehow, giving them a strategic leg up on getting access to their technology is my guess because he was involved with Atkins.”

  “How involved?”

  “According to the FBI file, he was standing out on his lawn in his underwear in the pouring rain when Atkins drove away from his house the night she left for the moon,” Dawkins answered.

  “Oh my.” Milton guffawed heartily. “That’s got to be an interesting story. Okay, I understand the ‘why.’ What’s the ‘how?’”

  “GST’s going to put together his cover, I’ll make sure you get the details as soon as we do. From there we’re figuring that he can train with Ambassador Ortega. GST’s supposed to have his credentials ready by tomorrow,” Dawkins explained.

  “Let me ask you this, whose idea was this? GST’s or the detective’s?”

  “Given the calendar of events, I’m betting GST had the idea all along and worked things out so that Mathews was effectively under their thumb. He was on their payroll for a few months before he was approached. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I want to know whether I have a willing recruit or an indentured servant on my hands. This mission is the longest in NASA’s history. Yeah, we stuck folks in the International Space Station for months at a time, but they could always come home in a matter of hours if they had to. At best, they’re looking at about seven months out, a little less back during this mission. If he doesn’t want to be there, I can’t—no—I won’t take a chance having him aboard,” Milton protested.

  “Tell you what. You interview him once he gets there, have him screened by your psych people before you give the okay. Have as frank a discussion with him as you want. You say no, the president will back you up. Even GST’s going to have to pay attention if both of you veto their selection, I promise.”

  “So he’s not being shoved down my throat?” Milton asked, relieved.

  “Of course he is,” Dawkins said, laughing. “Ours too. But they’ll listen to reason. If this mission doesn’t go well, they lose as much as we do. Plus the entire Fortune 500 is going to cry foul when they find out that a rep from GST is in on the mission, so keep it quiet. By the way Dr. Milton, if there’s anything you need, call me directly,” she said, giving him her mobile number.

  “Count on it,” Milton said before hanging up.

  After she hung up the phone, Dawkins thought through the possibilities the Jove mission could meet upon their arrival at the colony. The combination of Roscoe and Mathews might do more harm than good if someone got it in their mind that the entire mission was designed to either trick them or railroad them into some precipitous action. With the inclusion of former detective Mathews on the mission, the U.S. authorities were really putting all their eggs into one basket to give the separatists the hard sell.

  Politics was an ugly business. But what they were planning to do with the Jove mission was risky in the extreme. Should the media get wind of Mathews’ inclusion in the crew, she had no illusions about keeping the details of his relationship with Dean Atkins under wraps. The last thing President Laughlin’s administration needed was the distraction of wild speculation and pointed questioning about the events of a decade ago. It was a bad enough reminder every time supplies were sent to the back side of the moon in order to keep the stranded SEALs alive, costing seventy million dollars for every grocery and spare parts delivery.

  The seven remaining SEALs had passed all off-planet endurance records, and had marked the first off-earth death of a soldier when Seaman Greenfield died of sepsis from a burst appendix. For their first few months, sheltered in one of the Separatist outposts left functioning on the moon, they survived by strict water rationing and by eating the algae used to refresh the oxygen for the complex.

  Their first order of business was to ensure good communications back to Earth after the shuttle that dropped them off left orbit. The SEALs rigged one of their suit radios to an antenna left behind by the departing separatists, keeping in contact with Earth via a hastily orbited communications satellite launched by NASA.

  Their exploration of the facility turned up power supplied by solar cells, a hydroponics installation stripped of everything but the oxygen-producing algae and an efficient water recycling system. No other furnishings remained except for a large, built-in freezer and a small electrically-powered kitchen. Not far from the huge inner airlock door were the command and lunar lander modules from the Apollo 13 mission that almost ended in disaster. At first the SEALs believed them to be mockups, some sort of museum-like display, given that everyone believed both craft had been destroyed, burning up in Earth’s atmosphere after the successful return of the astronauts.

  Both spacecraft were drained of fuel and power. Their presence and pristine condition did as much to foster awe and fear of the separatists’ capabilities as their gravity-driven spacecraft and other known technological achievements. To realize that the separatists were close enough to recover the Apollo spacecraft with no one the wiser invoked paranoia, and a lingering suspicion that the people of Earth were under some so
rt of super surveillance by African Americans with nearly unlimited technological capability. And though the separatists had given absolutely no sign that they were interested in the doings of their Earthborn cousins, there was a constant undercurrent of fear in the United States that one day there might be a reckoning addressing the centuries of institutional wrongs perpetrated on America’s black population.

  Chapter 15

  FANTASY

  John’s training schedule caught up with Ambassador Ortega’s rather quickly, so the two were able to continue the remainder of their training exercises together.

  This met with John’s immediate approval, as the ambassador was easily one of the loveliest and easiest to get along with women he had met. When they were introduced, John was struck by both her beauty and projected inner calm. For a moment he was nagged by a familiarity with her looks that he couldn’t easily identify, almost as if they had met before. Then it hit him: she looked very much like a rather famous Brazilian actress, her high cheekbones, full lips, darker complexion and piercing eyes blended into nearly flawless perfection. His reaction when they shook hands was a visceral reminder of woman that John hadn’t felt since Sydney’s first and last visit to his home.

  It appeared that his hastily-thrown-together cover identity was accepted without question, leading him to believe that neither Roscoe nor Ortega were aware of who he really was.

  His preliminary meeting with Dr. Milton was a surprisingly painless affair as John told him that regardless of his personal feelings about joining the expedition, he hadn’t found an acceptable reason to turn down the offer given the power of those who had made it.

  Milton had John laughing when he told him how the White House had informed him of John’s joining the crew and the necessity of his going on the mission undercover. When Milton inquired about the investigation into Patrick Jensen’s former girlfriend, John told him that GST, along with support from the FBI, was still doing background on the people behind her and that he would be kept in the loop.

  Ambassador Ortega and John were housed with the rest of the crew, including mission commander Susan Roscoe. Everyone in the crew was a topnotch intellect and all were training hard to become more than marginal experts in the disciplines outside their assigned area of expertise. By this time they were being introduced to the Jove spacecraft’s systems. The simulators were identical to the control systems in Jove, including firmware and software updates occurring in the real-time development of the spacecraft.

  In their daily sessions, the crew worked with NASA and GST engineers in Houston in their effort to completely master every environmental and control system. Also during the day, several members of the crew could be found underwater in the weightless tank, practicing the replacement or repair of essential systems of the spacecraft, acclimating to the difficulties of working with their space suit’s thick gloves in the simulated weightless environment.

  On most days their training schedule allowed them free time after their evening meal, usually an hour or two before they retired, exhausted, for the evening, only to begin an early morning physical workout before breakfast.

  One evening, conversation turned to John’s role in the mission. He’d been training by himself for the first week before his schedule began to mesh with the ambassador’s, both trying to get up to speed with the rest of the crew. They were all sitting around the lounge they had co-opted in the housing facility when Ambassador Ortega casually mentioned, “John here took to the vomit comet session this morning like an eagle. At the beginning I was happy that I had skipped breakfast, but after about half a dozen drops I was just fine. John here was bouncing around, tumbling and just laughing like a kid without a care in the world. Had you done that before, John?”

  John blushed, uncomfortable to be singled out in front of the group, but quickly answered, “It was exhilarating! The freedom, no cares in the world, not really feeling like I was falling at all. On top of it all I knew I was completely safe. Those Air Force guys weren’t going to let anything happen to us. It was great!”

  As he looked around at the others he saw they were all grinning or nodding, remembering their time in the comet.

  Rachel Cole, the crew’s propulsion engineer, said, “It took me a while before I felt okay. That first time I panicked, and just about tossed my cookies. But you know what? When you see the others having so much fun, it’s hard not to relax and let go. Did you actually puke—sorry—well, you know what I mean, Madam Ambassador.”

  Ortega laughed. “Just call me Bianca, everyone. I can’t imagine we need titles and honorifics on this trip. And to answer your question, dear, not exactly. Almost, but not quite, John’s enthusiasm was quite infectious.”

  “I did exactly what they told me not to do. I closed my eyes and immediately felt like I was falling,” Roscoe said. “But then I looked at the far end of the compartment and everything kind of straightened out.”

  “That’s the thing, though. There’s no real up in space, or down. I guess you could look at Earth as ‘down,’ but you don’t really feel it,” pilot Harriet Manson interjected. She’d flown three shuttle missions before the fleet was decommissioned. “We’ll be lucky. The Jove spacecraft is going to be under propulsion for the whole trip, giving us a little more than a third of a G; twice the weight of being on the moon. Halfway there accelerating, the last half braking. So any of you who get wonky in zero-G should be fine until we get near the colony.”

  “John, if it’s okay to ask, what did you do for GST, and why did they pick you?” Roscoe asked.

  John began with a laugh. “I was a sort of troubleshooter in logistics.”

  “What does that mean, John?” asked Chester Grier, probing for a little more insight into their somewhat mysterious crewmate.

  “It’s really nothing nefarious. GST has me here to watch out for their considerable interest in the mission, I guess you’d call it. I’m not some kind of spy or anything, but what if we get out there and we are offered the opportunity to share information, technology, whatever. I’m supposed to keep an eye out. To tell you the truth, I’m just stoked as hell to have been offered this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” John said disarmingly.

  “So you’re the company man?” asked Roscoe. “The man looking after the store?”

  “Oh please. You all are the smartest people in the world. I’m the newbie here. I’m going to learn more about things so far outside of my own experiences that I’m hardly going to have the time or inclination to serve in any asshole capacity on the mission at all. Just think of me as the ship’s janitor.”

  Roscoe laughed along with the others at John’s declaration.

  “When there’s some dirty, nasty job no one else wants to do, chances are I’ll end up being the one doing it,” John added.

  “Probably both of us, John,” added Ortega. “I feel as useless as, I believe the saying is “teats on a boar.” Everyone broke out in uproarious laughter at hearing such a phrase coming from the ambassador.

  “Close enough,” Roscoe said, grinning broadly.

  “I’m sorry, I do not understand,” Peter Gordon said, bringing a fresh spate of laughter to the group.

  “Where did you grow up, Peter? Your name’s American but your accent is Japanese,” inquired John, happy to direct attention toward someone else.

  “Just outside Tokyo. My father is American, my mother Japanese, and he worked for Sony until I was in my teens. He was an engineer and also a translator for their documentation division. He used to bring home instruction manuals that their own people had written to proofread and correct; they were a hoot! He spoke formal Japanese better than most of the factory workers and managers. He made sure that I knew Japanese even better than English while we were there. Most of the Americans working over there put their kids in one of the American schools; he didn’t. He wanted me to easily live in and understand both cultures,” Peter explained.


  “I see. So anyway, the actual American phrase is ‘useless as tits on a boar.’ You get it?” explained John.

  Peter laughed.

  “So when Ambas—Bianca said ‘teats’ she made it sound so high-class,” added Roscoe.

  “I get it!” Peter said, laughing. “I had never heard that one before. Please excuse my lack of understanding of idiom. I sometimes even have to have jokes in Japanese explained to me when it’s something culturally embedded that I may not know well.”

  “Hey, no problem,” said Rachel, patting him on the back. “It happens to us all.”

  The evening turned into a joke-telling free-for-all, everyone trying to top the previous joke. After about an hour of continuous laughter they decided to bag it for the night. On the way out of the lounge, Roscoe pulled John aside to ask, “You weren’t pissed off at my asking in front of the whole crew, are you? I mean, we’re all supposed to be working together, closer than family even. Some of them were bound to wonder.”

  “Not at all. What about you? What do you really want to know?” John pointedly asked.

  “I’m curious what your real role on the mission is. That is, if it’s something other than what you’re telling me. I don’t want any surprises, and I don’t want trouble.”

  “What if I told you that part of why I’m here is to make sure you don’t get pushed aside, sort of watching your back?” suggested John.

  “If so, then I apologize. But I’m like Ronald Reagan in leading this mission, ‘trust, but verify.’ Anyway, the reports on your training are good, and the ambassador appears to like you. That’s not a bad start. But there’s definitely more to you than meets the eye. I’ll be keeping my eye on you, John,” she said with a smile.

  “Likewise, ma’am,” John said, returning the smile as she turned to go to her room.

  * * *

  Chuck and Andrea were hovering their identical Jupiter-equipped jumpers above the monstrous planet’s famous red spot, a centuries-old storm holding steady in the atmosphere of the planet and quite visible telescopically from Earth.