Chapter-18
OUTPOST
By Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Film-Story Development
2010-02-20
“Yes, now I can remember. It was---great pain. Yes. Please don’t remind me, you know?”
--Charles Lindburg, pilot of the world’s first trans-Atlantic prop-aircraft flight, commenting on his fame, and the later kidnapping and slaying of his child
The US-Mars Space Program launched eight deep-space cruiser vessels, similar to the ‘Penelope’ (Guy Reisling’s transport), within three weeks of the closure of the World-Council sessions to decide on a course of action concerning the Russian-Islamic launches. Like the Easterners, the US launched their ships in ‘secret’, but the reality was that there was no real way to keep such things secret for long. The reason was that even at the amateur level, orbiting satellites and space-objects like meteors, were observed daily by a hundred different astronomers, meteorological societies, universities and students, news-media, governments, and so on. If large ships were hoisted into orbit, and then programmed for navigation and departure to the far-off red star, glowing brightly enough that even children could spot her (or, ‘him’, being thought as Aries, the Ram, or god of War, in mythology)---it was hardly something that Earth-dwellers could conceal in 2077.
Also, like the Russians, all eight ships from the US program were launched in a sequence, carefully planned and executed by then-familiar routine, over about two weeks, from several different launch-sites, some of them unknown to the public. The Mars-base Defense Task Force had done their jobs well, and following the Russian action, it was a no-brainer The US would respond. But it wasn’t popular, and it was a huge cost, and an extreme effort. In 20 years of active Earth-born travel to Mars, the program had only launched this many ships all at once, during construction periods, when large numbers of men, and large amounts of materials and gear, were needed over a relatively short time-period.
Each of the US space-ships was outfitted for the mission: to protect the Mars-base from the supposed Russian takeover attempt, still not confirmed or announced as an ‘act of war’. But it wasn’t doubted that this was what was ahead. So, the US ships were full of soldiers, of course, equipped for exactly what the planners felt would be needed to defend the Mars-base. The same was true for the Russians, but perhaps not exactly the case for either team, that these were ‘warriors’, something Earth-based space-travel had never seen in all of Earth-history, and thus ‘new’ or ‘different’. The planners didn’t quite know how to deal with the concept, as Winton Berle had tried to explain to the Task Force. Conditions in space or on Mars were so hostile, that the suits and mobility were simply not accommodating for men who might wish to make war, or bash each other’s heads in. It seemed more that things would happen like a slow-motion dance of astronauts or moon-walkers, with very determined intentions, who on either side might have to hurt each other to reach the goals of the powers involved. Certainly on the ground-level, or Mars-surface. It was true, and would probably never really be much otherwise, that the space-men were such an elite and highly trained group, that even as ‘enemies’, any of them were be loathe to kill another. But, true-to-form, each side had real weapons that would really kill, and were trained to use them---and would use them.
It wasn’t hard to calculate the number of men on the ships---the type of ships could only hold so many bodies. So, Winton Berle and other planners could realistically assume the Russian-Islamic forces to number about 100 ‘space-soldiers’, not all of them fighters, but many with very specific high-tech roles, because the job was so complex. With eight ships, and also the men at the Mars-base already, the US side could count on as many as 200 men. So, this advantage was fortunate. But on the other hand, the Russians might send more ships or more men, if the struggle dragged on for many months, and they might have some sort of ‘secret weapon’, or method---bombs, for instance, targeted at the Mars-base from orbit. Things could go either way in such a thing as a military assault on a Martian research outpost, in space-ships from Earth filled with very determined Russians, fearful of the End of the World, (Earth, that is).
There in the Abyss, Guy Reisling had taken more than one critical communication from Vandenberg, his link to home. Strategically, his ship’s position ahead of the others, could be an important edge. The journey to Mars would take a total of eight months, for most of the ships, varying somewhat as the planets moved in their orbits. It was now, as of mid-year 2077, almost an armada: eight ships from the US-side, five from Russia, and Guy’s ship, for a total of 14. And the Russians could launch more at any time they were able. So the Vandenberg mission commanders wanted Guy to be ready to handle whatever came up.
There on the Penelope, it was business-as-usual as far as the flight. She was only six weeks from Molinari, something that would mean a rest and refreshment, and time for Guy with Lila. They really did care for each other and it was a joyous thing for them both, sort of a romp, but also wistfully romantic. Now, with the hostilities, and the meteor, it all began to fray and heave for them all. Guy thought of it as a sort of deep-space version of an old World-War-2 film, like Humphrey Bogart in ‘Casablanca’.
“If that deep-space transport leaves space-dock, and you’re not on it, you’ll regret it. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow. But soon, and for the rest of your life,” he mused privately. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
For most radio-transmissions to Earth, or elsewhere, ship-to-shore as it were, Guy could use the basic radio set-up from the pilot’s deck on the Penelope. Radio-transmissions, or EMP (electro-magnetic pulse) deep-space near-Earth solar-system communication, was actually quite speedy. Under most circumstances, the radio-waves were delayed significantly enough to create a means of back-and-forth chatter, where one side would talk, and the other would wait as long as 15 minutes or so, to answer. It was reliable, and engineers had learned how to compress the signals and transmissions, so the time-lapse was smaller, and chatter was easier, more normal. Guy’s ship, like the others, had an array of antennas, and other gear, that were essential to the function of the ship. So for three weeks, transmissions from Earth to Guy’s ship, the Molinari space-dock, and the Mars-base, were flying fast-and-furious.
It’s just a load of tech-gear for their damn Mars-radio, Guy thought. I don’t have soldiers and I don’t have weapons. These guys figure I’m General Patton from now on with this.
So once again, the Captain of the Penelope found himself sending back-and-forth messages of shattering importance, to Vandenberg planners. His immediate superior, Commander Okman, the head of the transport division, handled many of these links, as they were his men and crews, and he knew them best. As the signal reached his ship, scooped from the emptiness by the Penelope’s antennas, an alert-sound notified himself, or Rob Cowan, his second, or other crew. With the time-delay for the transfer, they could often take their time to get ready to ‘chat’ with home-base. From his seat at the helm, the radio-desk looked like a fancy video-game. The sound-monitor was sometimes thick with static-noises, and at other times crystal-clear.
“Yes, Commander, I understand,” Guy was saying. “No contact whatever with the Russian ships. Radio-silence until further notice. That’s not hard, but of course you realize it’s easy for them to monitor our communications anyway.”
“That’s not the point, Guy,” said Okman. “I have very specific instructions from Berle, all the way up to Rodgers-Smith. They do NOT want you to chat things up with the Russians, or handle things on your own. It could create even worse problems. So anything we tell them must be cleared, or we say nothing at all, and if they pick up our chatter, big deal, they will anyway.”
“Some of our systems will encode messages. What about that?”
“I’ll find out. The lead ship on the Russian side is months behind you, some half-million miles or so. The military stuff will doubtless be encoded for radio-security, like any battle,” Okman.
This series of comments had been compressed so their language seemed to flow naturally. Now there was a pause, with static-noises, like a background cosmic hum-and-glow from space itself. After ten minutes or so, the alert-sound ‘beeped’ again, with a glaring red-light LCD on his control-dash.
“In-coming from Earth,” said Cowan, also on the flight-helm at that hour. He was curious as to the details where the Russian ships were concerned, too, and needed to know. “Second series. Vandenberg. Okman.”
Guy activated their side of the system, glancing at his co-pilot. Rob seemed edgy, even un-well, but he supposed it was only normal stress. They were now 78-days in space. Long haul.
“Vandenberg, US-Mars Radio-Comm, Okman speaking. For US-Mars transport Penelope, Captain Reisling. Please respond.”
“We have your signal, Okman. Go ahead.”
A long pause. “Three other directives for you to handle, Guy. This is from Command, so please document for later review, comply and implement. Number one: the Penelope will continue to Molinari, and onto Mars-base, as per previous flight-plan, with no variations because of hostilities. The reason is, your transport carries essential communications gear. This is your first priority. Number two: please make preparations for ship-to-ship interactions, should they arise. This basically means you need your ship navigators and life-support, and tech, to figure out how to lock you down for any disruptive encounters. They probably won’t try to shoot you down. But they might fuck with you, somehow, as the gap closes. So you need to make preparations to protect your ship. Number three: as of now, and upon arrival at Mars, the Penelope is under the command of Winton Berle, the lead for the eight US ships, also on their way. So, there will be codes and data to connect to his command. But by the time you reach Mars, and maybe before, you’ll be drafted into whatever happens, along with your crew. We need all hands. That’s a ways off, and transport protocol will handle your cargo mission as always. So, that’s the main commands from Vandenberg for the Penelope with this transmission.”
A long pause again. The information and recorded voice-signal was downloaded to storage. “Information received and logged, Commander Okman.”
“Acknowledged,” came back Okman’s voice, over half a million miles distant, in the comfort of the Vandenberg communications center.
“Commander Okman, this is co-pilot Rob Cowan. Questions, please?”
“Go ahead.”
“What does US-Mars Earth think will happen on Mars? How long are we expected to hold out? Our original mission would have us in orbit on Mars only for a month at most.”
A long pause-delay. Some of the voice-signal from Okman sounded like a fish in a jar full of jelly. “We don’t know, Cowan. You have the basic info. Berle’s armada is behind the Russians by two months, or more. The Penelope will be in orbit way ahead. You guys get to be the welcoming committee, along with Snikta-Ridge.”
“That’s not funny, Okman. We don’t even have a missile or a gun on this thing to shoot back with,” said Guy.
“You may be asked to delay, or negotiate, from what I hear. Same with Snikta-Ridge. Who knows? Maybe things will change. But, to your question, Rob---you won’t be coming home on-schedule. You should definitely get any supplies or fuel-resources, or re-charge, that you need from Molinari to hold out as long as possible, not to mention your ride back to Earth. Mars will also be able to re-supply the Penelope to an extent. It’s just a gamble. Try to be prepared for anything, is all I can say. Obviously we’re not going to let you waste away out there. We’ll get you home.”
Another long pause. The radio-comm system seemed to boil a bit with a strong static-energy for a moment. Both Guy and Rob tried to adjust for the error. After a few minutes, the time-compressed conversation continued.
“Mars-transport Penelope, signal to US-Command Vandenberg, Please respond. Reisling here, to Okman, re-connecting to you now. Okman? Hello?”
More static and a pause.
“Okman here. I’m logging off, Reisling. The guys are telling me the damn planet moved and our signal is screwed. Sorry. Next window for your signal is---wait a minute---next communications-window in three hours, I guess. It’s three in the morning here, Guy. Just hang tight. Okman out.”
Now the system shut down the link, with various alerts on their control-dash.
“Welcome to the world’s first space-war,” said Cowan. Guy took a deep breath, leaning back. They both quickly reviewed their flight-controls and ship’s systems. All was well, on-course to Molinari space-dock. Without extensive and time-consuming scanning, they really had no evidence the Russians were even out there, or the position of their ships. This was common---deep-space flight was a lot like a very long trip in an air-tight elevator-lift, or a windowless high-rise office complex. There wasn’t a lot to see.
“All right,” said Guy. “Log all that bullshit and we’ll inform the crew.”
“Sure,” said Cowan.
Somehow, the joy of space-flight had taken a hit in their hearts they might never recover from. It just wasn’t fun anymore.
-2,267 words
-Julian Phillips
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