OUTPOST--Chapter FIVE has arrived!!!

OUTPOST-Chapter Five
By Julian Phillips
From the story by Tom Luong/Tom Luong Films
Oct, 20, 2009

“Mars is the subject of much speculation as to whether or not it is inhabited, because it’s behavior is similar to that of the Earth. Mars is 141-million, 500-thousand miles from the Sun, and has a diameter of 4, 230 miles. The diameter of the Earth is 7,918 miles, so gravity on Mars is somewhat less.”
--The Story of the Globe, Replogle Globes, Chicago, Illinois, 1933 (‘Replogle Globes Are Better Globes’)

It was true what Cargo-Transport Commander Okman had said about disgraced pilot Guy Reisling’s relationship with the woman who worked at the Molinari Deep-Space Dock. Her name was Lila Meetek. The Molinari Space-Dock was created years in advance of the Snikta-Ridge Volcanic Basin Mars Outpost. Molinari was placed in permanent deep-space orbit as a mid-point rest-stop for ships making regular voyages back-and-forth to Mars. It was like a small city in space, floating in orbit, in the vast gap between the two planets, a rather lonely form, shaped like a buoy one would find bobbing in the waters of an ocean-harbor back on some sunny beach or rocky coastline on Earth. Molinari was the size of a very large sky-scraper building in New York, or even a small airport. And of course it was sustained and operated just like any space-ship or space-vessel, with life-support and breathable air and food, a large array of high-tech computer and communication stuff, and thruster-powered maneuverability. But it did not fly or travel, and remained at a constant distance from the Earth, in orbit forever, or until it died, or decayed, or was somehow destroyed, perhaps in 1,000-years or so.

Which was about how long Guy supposed he would stay in love with Lila. Who would not delight in a beautiful space-girl, the portrait of ideal health and vigor, as well as sexy intelligence, and a certain knack for grilling outstanding hamburgers? She was about age 38 years-old, and it was Lila’s job at Molinari to monitor and track activity in the abyss corridor on the Mars-Earth flight path. Lila had either blonde, henna-reddish, blue-green, or brown-gray hair, long and feathery. Thin, athletic, and privately slutty, with an outstanding set of boobs and other body-parts that Guy often dreamed of, 1,000 years of her wouldn’t have been enough for Guy.

“Molinari! Ha! Your girlfriend!” Okman had said when Guy was decommissioned from his ship’s command. “The data on the solar heat-flares was no better than your hot sex-chat and perverted pic-trading with Lila on official communications-links! No wonder you screwed up!”

So, as the US Mars Command Mission Up-Date Conference for Spring, 2075 at California’s Vandenberg Space-Port, continued into its third hour, Guy had to speculate about what would be going on at Molinari, where Lila was currently stationed, and how the news about Asteroid U2357b would affect her, and the others. The Mars-base was not the only off-world sustainable human habitat. At least one other was Molinari. But it hardly seemed to matter, with the Asteroid’s near approach to planet Earth still six years away. Unless there was now to be some sort of international conflict for control of these same off-world resources. Which was the topic of the last part of the conference-meeting, with Dr. Willy Atta-Bowman, Ph.D., as the Explainer-in-Chief, that chilly gray California day. Guy envisioned his beloved Lila taken prisoner by Russian or Chinese space-forces of a more military sort. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss, he thought to himself.

The conference meeting had melted like grilled cheese on a beef-patty into a long sequence of science-proofs for the claims about the asteroid. Photos, plotted orbits and intersecting paths, distance, speed-and-acceleration, trajectory, mass-density, impact results, timeline, and anticipated response or planned attempts to divert the meteor, were all quickly reviewed. The Mars program staff and various worker-bees were used to this kind of sharing. Dry and boring, technical and mathematic, all science and facts-and-figures---and yet at the same time, critically important for the lives and well-being of millions. There were many yawns and aching backs as the experts went on-and-on.

“Let me introduce now our Mars program Security Specialist, Captain Branson Porter,” Bowman told the audience, as the topic now shifted. Porter, the tough-looking Texan in charge of Program Security, came forward like an altar-call at a Baptist revival, and took the speaker’s podium. There was a pause, as everyone waited for his report. Many people in the program felt Porter was too harsh and military for what was essentially a long-term scientific research mission. But it was inevitable that the space-program would have its hawks. Porter even had a large, ugly-looking blue-black steel high-caliber handgun strapped to his belt in plain view of everyone, there at the front of the large conference room. There was no mistaking his job-description and grim intention to defend the program and its people and components---something many felt should never be necessary at all.

“Hi everyone,” Porter started. He coughed and cleared his throat. His voice was deep and sandy, like grit. “As you know, I’m Captain Porter, Security and Military Police Commander for the Mars Program. Right now I’m going to share with you about what we feel we know concerning the Mars-base, and why the news on the asteroid could cause us problems with our international Earth neighbors.”

Now the image projector operator programmed a series of photos showing the actual Mars base, to roll past on the large screens behind Porter. Everyone could see the base, much like a small city, with many buildings, structures, gates, towers, holding tanks, ports, etc., set against the stark, dusty Martian landscape. Sort of like a family memory-album for the program, and they had all seen the same images many times before.


“Okay,” Porter said. “Well, we may be military-police, in my department, and we may be environmental-scientists, too, but we’re not stupid, and neither are whatever enemies we really have, right here on earth. What I’m telling you now is classified, so try not to head out and do interviews with your local TV news-shows. The info we have here is from good old-fashioned spies and informants. That’s right, the FBI never really died, it just rotted to a new shade of green. And obviously, it’s the type of thing where you just don’t know, and it’s also incendiary, and by that I mean, a cause for conflict, battle, war, call it whatever you want. Hostile, or war-like. Which is not for me to decide.”

“Get on with it, Branson!” someone shouted from the assembly, probably one of the pilots, known for their antics. Others in the audience laughed. Branson stiffed, a little embarrassed, not used to public speeches.

“Right. You’re grounded for that one, pilot,” Branson said. More weak laughter. “Well, the report is simple enough. Bottom line---intelligence feels that an alliance of Mid-East Islamic and Russian-Ukranian Space-Program forces are planning to take control of the Mars-base, sometime prior to the arrival of the asteroid, as a way to assure their survival and control of future programs, if any. The logic isn’t hard to understand. If the meteor wipes us out, whoever controls the Mars base would survive, even though in small numbers. The same is true for Molinari, and the ships, and various systems.”

A long pause. Many in the crowd had not heard of this. “So, you might be asking yourself how we know this, or exactly what the Russians have planned, or how they feel they can get away with it, right?” Branson continued. “The intelligence community never really changes. No one knows anything. But we have various convincing indicators. The Eastern space-programs are just as advanced as ours here in the US, and in some ways more-so. They have ships like ours, launch-and re-entry programs, highly trained crews and pilots, tracking and satellite control. But, Russia, and the Islamic space-programs, and also space-flight out of India, have had too many internal conflicts, wars, and financial shortfalls, to really compete. The US-Mars program was initiated as a global partnership, at one time, maybe 30 years ago. But that fell apart. There were agreements and treaties, however. The US went ahead, while the others fell away.”

Now Branson paused again, clearing his throat. He took a sip of hot coffee he had with him at the speaker’s podium, and idly rested his hand on the blue-steel handgun on his belt, as if not even thinking about it.

“In reality, the Russians and the others, are putting out signals. That’s how the game is played. There have been recent high-level meetings in Khazikistan, in the Ukraine region, where Russian space-ports are based, as well as their nuclear bombs and rockets. Russian space-scientists have gathered information on our Mars-base systems, flight-paths and orbits, our ships and really our entire program. None of this is actually secret, but much of the Mars-base technology is highly classified. Even more convincing----the smoking gun, if you will---was the recent acquisition of a secret document-file, stolen from Russian think-tank planners, in exchange for $50-million in gold held somewhere in the Netherlands by a private individual. Hey, it’s spy-stuff, what can I say? This file, or document, however, represents a 200-page detailed proposal and specific plan, for Russian space-forces to attack and take control of the Mars-base, and Molinari as well. It’s all there. This is only a proposal, only a paper, or electronic file. But they put a lot of work into it. It’s all there. I’ve personally reviewed it, and made notes. Russian ships and crews would make the run to Mars, take control of the base by force, take hostages or kill anyone who resists them, and then squat out whatever else happens, at the Snikta-Ridge US Mars base. And of course in typical Russian style, any explanation or apology to the world community would come later, if ever.”

Atta-Bowman tapped the microphone at his seat at the long panel-discussion table. “Captain Branson, if I may?” he said.

“Sure, Doctor Bowman.”

“How do we know this supposed attack-plan to take over the Mars-base is real, or authentic to the Russian space-command? Could it be a fake, or planted by someone else, or other enemies of theirs?”

Branson took a breath. “It’s intelligence-community stuff, Doctor. So, it’s true, we really can’t know. From reviews and expert analysis, however, the file I looked at was very well-researched and very well-planned. It included details on the Russian space-fleet and resources that would be hard to obtain outside their own staffers. The source of the document was connected directly to high-level insiders on the Russian side, so that’s also a point. The science was also very accurate, something a novice or terrorist group probably couldn’t master in a short time. The report was also attributed to known Russian or Islamic scientists and Ph.D. astro-physicists. Real people, we know their names. Additionally, other reports show Russian hardware, real equipment and gear, or actual ships, taking baby-steps towards this type of effort, like minor-level preparation. I agree, it’s a sort of Cuban Missile Crisis deal, or a WMD-type report. Maybe no need to panic, that’s for sure. So, to answer your question---how do we know their plans are real? Well, we don’t. We don’t know for sure, and we may never know for sure, until they go ahead, if they ever do.”

“What about their timeline?” Bowman said. “From the plan you looked at, when would they be thinking of doing this?”

“The possible meteor-hit is at least six years out. They want control of the Mars-base well in advance. The stolen attack-plans were not specific. But any time in the next three years, or even one year, the entire might of the Russian-Islamic Space Program alliance could potentially launch a group of ships armed with various weapons and ground-level soldiers with oxygen suits and weapons, to take control of Snikta,” Branson said.

“Would they just kill everyone? Could they actually destroy the base, maybe by accident during a battle? What would happen here on Earth? Would they try to excuse their actions at the United Nations, for instance? Or would they go to war with the West? Anything there?”

“It’s all speculation. Anything could happen. As sneaky as the East can be, they might simply stonewall, and claim they have rights to the base, as participants 20 years ago, or as educational research. They could stall, drag it out. Or hold hostages. After all, if the meteor is headed our way, all they really care about is the survival of chosen leaders and persons on Mars---when we’re all the rest of mankind dead and gone back here, or living in caves under a black cloud of ice-cold meteor dust, eating bugs for dinner.”

A long stillness hovered in the air throughout the conference-hall. Now even the courageous pilots and space-jockeys were nervous. It all seemed unreal.

“All right,” Bowman responded to Branson’s remarks, into his microphone. “What about our plans for a defense, or to protect the base on Mars, or to fight back an attack?”

“That’s another hour’s worth, Doctor Bowman,” Branson said. “For ten years, my department has only had to deal with protesters at the gates here at Vandenberg, drunk cafeteria workers, stolen toolboxes, and night-watch duties to protect expensive high-tech items stored outdoors. I’m not necessarily prepared to figure out a five year space-war. However, if you give me another 15-minute break here so I can take a piss, I’ll be glad to tell you all about it.”

Weak laughter again from the audience. “Space-men piss in their flight-suits into catheter tubes, Branson. Everyone knows that,” Bowman joked, More laughter. Now Bowman stood up and stretched. “Let’s break again for 15-minute folks. This is all too much. Rest-easy, back in 15.”

Now the room full of Mars-workers began to break up again, as the audience stood, or separated into groups, or grabbed coffee-and-snacks. Everyone seemed relieved for a moment. They had a lot to talk about.

---Julian Philips
OUTPOST/Tom Luong Films
Oct. 20, 2009
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