Chapter-16--OUTPOST: 'The Russians Launch for Mars!'

CHAPTER-16
OUTPOST, for Tom Luong Films
By Julian Phillips
Feb.3, 2010


Within four weeks of Lila’s conversation with her friend at the space-dock, Guy’s transport launch was bumped ahead to a much sooner departure, mostly due to the work communications-specialist Karen Tutturro was doing at the Mars-base. So his next flight would ferry hardware and gear she needed, and other common shipments for the Mars-base. By the fifth week, Guy and his crew were prepped for launch. So within 45 days of Lila’s expressed consternation that Eve and others knew about her affair with Tommy and how she would handle it, her one true love Guy Reisling was catapulted back into the abyss aboard the ‘Penelope’, on his way to her side again, into her loving arms. The Western Earth-US space-launches were actually rather rare, mostly Earth-orbit satellites. The inter-planet launches happened only once every few months. Everything depended on timing the launches with the position of the orbiting and moving planets. The Molinari space-dock was also in orbit, and thus in motion. So a launch-window was carefully calculated for each transport. A trained pilot like Guy was a valued resource, accounting for his re-instated pilot status as forgiven for the flight-path error, now more than a year behind him. The launch went well, and he left Earth orbit on track with his navigation plan. The journey to Molinari would take about five months, by this scenario, given the planetary-system positions when he left Earth, which was very favorable, somewhat faster than many trips.
Six weeks after he left Earth, the US Mars Program planners and decision-makers received startling and troubling news. Earth-scan tracking and monitoring of planetary-orbit pathways clearly indicated that the Russian-Islamic/Ukrainian-Hindu, or, Eastern-block Space Program, had launched a series of ships. Five inter-planet capable ships left Gaia-Earth from two launch-sites, one in the Ukraine, and one from China-Mongolia. All five were launched over a period of about ten days, then stabilized in orbit, and then escaped Earth-gravity, headed for Mars, by all appearances, much like Guy’s ship. The tracking-monitoring records and data were checked and checked again, and analyzed endlessly for days, until there was no doubt remaining. From the US-Mars Program bases at Vandenberg, and also in Florida, Texas, and Puerto Rico, their worst fears had now happened. Like a space-rocket on a chess-board (or, five of them), the Eastern-block Earthside space-explorers had made a bold move.
Imbrahim Mehudi, the Science-Lead at Vandenberg, spread his hands across a large, table-sized view screen that showed the local solar-system and planets. “This will lead us into conflict,” he said. “The world’s first war in space.”
“Move the image to show me the estimated position of Big Baby Bertha,” said Lynn Rodgers-Smith, the program director. The two of them were studying the situation, from a secondary navigation-and-pathway work-room, at one of Vandenberg’s Launch-Command. The tool they used was a flat computer-screen linked to a model of the solar-system, that approximated the daily or weekly position of the planets and other cosmic objects---an astrologer’s dream. Mehudi could fairly easily manipulate the view from various points in the circle of solar objects, the Mars-Jupiter asteroid field, planets, moons, the Earth, and also any ships, large satellites, etc. Within a few minutes, they could roughly estimate the relative locale of Asteroid-2752b, viewed as a small spec or dot on the screen, also with a computer-text data-line, indicating its ‘cosmic ID’.
“It’s here, apparently, from this,” said Mehudi. “2752b is moving much like a comet would, in an oblique orbit, not parallel to any planets, or not circular, you might say. So it’s cross-wise to other solar-pathways, cutting across the planet orbits from the side. So, from this view, it’s on the other side of the Sun, probably 10 or 12-million miles away from Earth. But, of course, as Fate would have it, our science-prophets have plotted the two paths of both Earth and Bertha, to a collision point---now I guess roughly five years from now. Supposedly. I mean, a collision is a one-in-a-million chance. But this is the science about it.”
Rodgers-Smith, the so-called Commander of Angels, glanced over the table-screen with a scowl. “Five years,” she said.
“Give or take,” said Mehudi.
“And we have only the one transport-ship in space-track corridor to Mars now, and Molinari, and then the Mars-base with their ships, in terms of any immediate response or defense to the Russian ships that we feel were launched to Mars-track pathways last week,” she asked. “Is that about right?”
“Well, if you include all of our space-able ships out there right now, that would be about right,” said Mehudi. “Keep in mind, the Mars-base has three ships of their own, but they are not used for regular transport. They can enter Mars-orbit, and they can reach Earth with preparations, mostly for emergency evacuation, if ever it was needed. And then Molinari has similar lifeboat type evacuation ships, two or three. And then the currently in-transit transport, from Vandenberg. We launched that about two months ago. But that’s it, as far as ships-in-space right now.”
“PlanetView-2 has ships,” Rodgers-Smith said.
“True, but those would never reach Mars. Local only, Earth to moon,” said Mehudi. “You know, we have ships that can launch to Mars. Realistically, our side can launch maybe---oh, I guess, as many as eight---eight space-ships that we could get on path to Mars. It would take time to set it up, for launch-window, navigation, preparations, crews.”
“Eight? I thought we had more than that, almost a total of fifteen?”
“I don’t know, Lynn. Just a guess. I mean ships that are in good enough condition and ready. We have repairs and lost function on a few of the others.”
They paused. The two of them withdrew from the high-tech Planet-Plotter, then settled across the large rectangular work-room, by a window where they could look out on the base from above, more than four stories over the view. It was very early in the day. They had been summoned-to-task past midnight, still in the dark of night, when the reports reached the base-system data-review hierarchy. The morning-light from the West beyond the Pacific as the Sun rose in the East created an orange-red-pink-gray spectacular against the distant and hazy-blue sky. Beneath, the towers and buildings, high-cranes and machinery, communications-dishes and antenna, power-transformers and huge fuel-tanks, and ship hangars---it all lay before them, a shared kingdom, powerful, dormant, resting. Low-laying green-brown hills, small roads, fences, mossy oak trees and pines, and the occasional beef-cow munching on his grassy breakfast in far-off solitude---at the edges of the vista.
“Is it really a war, Mehudi? So what if they launched to Mars? They have before. It’s a free world---or, a free solar-system. Surely we could work together, both sides helping each other. We’re scientists, researchers, explorers---not military,” said Lynn Rodgers-Smith.
“Ask the Russians, that’s all I can say,” Mehudi replied. “I totally agree with you. I’m a dove. But the hawks always take the lead. It’s inevitable, especially from the previous intelligence on the Russian plans for Mars. They didn’t even announce or report the launches of the five ships. No flight-plan. No pre-launch air-space precautions. No global aero-space community safety review. Nothing. Essentially, the launches from Ukraine and China were done in secret. What does that tell you?”
They paused. “All right, “ said Rodgers-Smith. “What a shit. I want a high-level meeting with all department heads by this afternoon. We have to do---something. Not sure what, I’ll admit.”
“The Mars-base has to be informed, and Molinari,” said Mehudi.
“And the transport pilot already on his way.”
“I know that pilot. Reisling,” said Mehudi. “Good man, fairly young, a bit wild. He was the one that Okman brought to the review-board for a flight-error, last year. But he was cleared. He should be about halfway to Molinari by now.”
“Six weeks ahead of the Russians,” said Lynn. “A single transport ship. I think I know him. Reisling---they had a shipment of communications tech-gear for the Mars-base.”
“Yes. The Snikta-base has had a significant communications problem for quite some time. We sent a specialist, Karen Tutturro. She’s been on Mars for six months or more. Her first trip. It’s a mess. Power-supply failure obliterated data-transfer.”
“I know.” She sighed heavily, holding her hand against the window. She was a large, busty woman, but very healthy and even quite attractive for her age. A Texas-gal is sexy all her life, in her ways. The two friends just waited, side-by-side, a knowingness between them, a fateful dread, and yet a call to honor and critical duty.

Somewhere beyond---and beyond-beyond, there in the depths of the infinitely peaceful abyss, a deep-indigo blanket of nothingness enveloped the space-transport Penelope, Guy’s ship. One never looked back, after a launch, or, one never kept his thoughts on Earth, where home-and-hearth waited, comfy-cozy, with food and drink and friends. Of course the ship was in contact with Earth. But in his heart, Guy, and his crew, and any space-worker, were always aware that any such voyage could be their last, ending perhaps by accident in sudden death. So the view was ever-outward, into eternity, as if Earth never-was, and only the unknown ahead. It’s just a job, Guy was thinking. Same as always. And I’m damn good at it.
The Penelope hummed like a top. During his board-review furlough period, she had been re-fitted and fully up-graded for the usual maintenance and repairs. Like any flying machine, only absolute mechanical perfection was adequate for launch and the rigors of space-travel. The so-called Condrum-21 Monsanto-DuPont Inter-Planet Space-Cruiser was a mighty piece of work. They weren’t short-term vessels for only one or two voyages, or in any way disposable. Many previous former-era space-craft were designed with numerous discarded parts, even life-support pods and engine-parts, that would be jettisoned into space, for efficiency during the trip, such as re-entry. By the time the astronauts arrived back on Earth, there really was no ship remaining. It had all been dismantled on the way, with each part falling away into the nothingness, until all that was left for re-entry was a single life-support pod that could somehow land the men back on Earth. But those types of ships were no longer is use. The Penelope was one solid block of materials, made-to-last, intended to function for many years, rather like a much more old-fashioned idea of any vessel, be it a car, a jet-airliner, or a large ship at sea. She is One, Guy thought. She is mother.He was in good spirits, and so was his crew. Rob Cowan, his co-pilot, relieved Guy from his watch every nine hours. The other crew were all the same men, except for one ‘new’ navigator, who was of course experienced and trained, and had been on several successful voyages on other transports. Everyone was glad to be back on-duty, back in space, back on-the-job.
“All is well, Captain,” said Cowan, entering the pilot-deck, a large control-room at the front of the ship, set high above the front or prow. Almost any control anywhere on the ship could be accessed from here (although many functions were never manipulated from the pilot-deck at all).
Much like Molinari, the environment was weightless, or null-gravity. Thus, Guy was seated and held down by magnetic-strips and a small strap, and Cowan pulled himself into the chamber by hand-rails, then could settle onto the magnetic floor-strips with a tiny ‘click’ from his metallic shoe-soles.
“Thanks, Rob,” Guy responded. “Entering pilot-deck command transfer to you at 1800-hours, Day-52. She’s all yours.”
“All systems are at ideal status,” Rob said. “Engine three will rest-and-restore in ten hours, then cycle through engine four and back to engines one and two, in sequence. Vandenberg-command has some kind of pow-wow going on. Earth-link telecomm ticker says you need to be set-up for a voice-to-voice at 2200-hours. Your second systems-man is working on the hook-up, should be fine.”
“Thanks,” Guy said. As Rob was providing his brief report, Guy was busy re-fixing the magnetic shoes on his feet.
“For god’s sake, Guy,” Rob said. “You’re the only pilot in the entire Mars fleet who prefers to fly barefoot. For as long as I’ve known you, you jockey your ship with nothing on your damn feet! Is that even sanitary, much less protocol?”
Guy finished with the magnetic boot-straps. The boots were somewhat heavier than the slippers they woe on Molinari, like thick, mechanical-looking tennis-shoes. On the bottoms they were metallic or magnet-sensitive. The men could move this way through the ship fairly easily---click-clack-click-clack. More commonly, they pulled themselves through the passways or tube-tunnels by handrails, floating-weightless.
“It’s my ship, and my command, dude,” said Guy. “My feet get hot and sweaty. The life-support workers on below deck work in their fucking underpants. Don’t worry about it. Was there anything else from Earth? What do they want? There’s nothing new on this pass. Steady-as-she-goes. No news is good news.”
Rob was settling into the command-chair (he used a second chair for the co-pilot, not Guy’s). He checked several of the gauges and monitors and standard-tracking views. Typically on a command-deck shift, he wouldn’t touch a single control or change a thing. But they had to be watched by an experienced pilot ready for anything, which he was, just as well as Guy.
“Not sure. The Earth-link ticker doesn’t tell you much. They want to talk to you. That’s all she wrote,” said Rob.
Guy chuckled. “Yeah,” he said. “So does my mom.”
They both smiled. “You’re relieved, Captain,” said Rob. “No problem. Get some sleep. You got four hours.”

---Julian Phillips
2,286-words