Chpt.-22 'Sauce for the Goose'

OUTPOST-Chapter 22
For Tom Luong Films-Development
By Julian Phillips
2010-04-05



“How do you cook a goose? First you kill the damn thing. Once it’s dead, it’s much easier to cook, and you can be as creative as you want. They’re delicious, with stuffing and you baste them with the best butter you can buy.”

--Commander Rudolph Terchanko, leader of the Russian-Islamic space program, 2077, from the KK-F/Region-6 space-port in the Ukraine.



And so it went, with the race to Mars, where Tweedle-Dee (the US side), and Tweedle-Dum (the Eastern-block) had agreed to have a battle. Mars, the barren, virtually dead world and stuff of Earth-legend for ages, sat in the sky like a fat brown-red marshmallow, half-roasted. And there on it, somewhere (a planet, after all, of considerable size), was a life-support research station deemed far more valuable than the ‘marshmallow’ itself. The reason, re-stated: God or whoever, had sent a very large rock through space towards home, looking very much like a collision, down-the-road some four years or so. Deep-thinkers on Earth thus now felt the battle to take Mars-base was worth the effort, or, an intelligent ‘move’, like an epic struggle for survival for human species survival, into eternity, or, however long the human species might survive. Despite the fact that no one seemed to get along anyway, as far as the human family was concerned.

There in the deep woods and mountains of the Ukraine, where KK-F/Region-6 was actually a very similar facility to the sought-after prize on Mars, Commander Terchenko was sweating the details, there in the frosty cold. The whole thing was making him feel taller, he thought idly. To move his thoughts skyward towards Mars, a reddish star in Earth’s night sky, and to plan, rehearse, study and commission Mother Russia’s considerable resources ‘out there’, to do her will---it gave him a headache. Not to mention the whole idea of his Earth-home being hit by an asteroid the size of the British Isles, or larger, and what all that might mean. Standing tall might help. But maybe not that tall.

“I’m not God, Milana,” he told his young secretary-assistant. “Despite what you think. I wish I was. Personally, I can only do my best. We are all in the hands of fate together.”

Once again, Terchanko’s work at Region-6 meant many hours of labor, holding together the many-numbered threads that would give Russia and the Islamic-coalition the ‘win’. This meant, in effect, that he had stepped into the role in direct opposition to that of the US-Mars program leader, Lynn Rogers-Smith, the Commander of Angels. Had they spent any time together in-person, such as over a Lone-Starr longneck back home in her native Texas, it’s true, the two would have likely been good friends, or ‘muy sympatico’, in any case. Smith could certainly be as tough as nails, like he, and was hella-smart. To kill a goose was not beyond her means and ways, at all. Or a space-ship full of men, sad-but-true. Not her venue anyway, military.
Terchenko, on the other hand, had very similar responsibilities. Launches, ships, men, women, fuel, navigation, orbit-paths, science-tech, politics. Both had power, and also during a critical juncture in history, supposedly. Each sensed their own mortality, and just how small they really were in the grand scheme of things. But a job’s a job. So, they laughed. It was all they could do.

Yet, they would never meet at all, ever, these two. Terchenko was Tweedle-Dee, and Smith his complimentary Tweedle-Dum? It hardly mattered. Earth’s political and global space ambitions now meant that two people, a man and a woman, in such roles, would indeed stand like giants on either continent, squaring off to reach for a star. Smith was but five-foot, seven-inches tall. Terchenko was six-feet, two inches.

Milana, Terchenko’s deeply-devoted assistant, had worked with him for more than five years. Gruff, hard, cold at times, yet, he loved her. Who wouldn’t? She was very healthy, quite young and fresh about herself. Her devotion to him was near absolute. Rich, powerful, mysterious, Terchenko was her father-figure. She was always busy, his needs were demanding. Meals, drink, and also books, data-files, research, many phone-calls, urgent contacts with distant lands and hard-to-reach men or women who held one or three or ten-thousand of the many-numbered threads he needed to control his complex task and command.

Milana and the Region-6 Commander were now working with three space-path navigators, and others, to plot the course ahead for the ships on both sides, projected right into Mars orbit, and how the military-battle planners and Generals would intend for the take-over to go ahead. Because this was now a ‘war in heaven’, the navigations for the ships was as critical as any other aspect. Terchenko knew enough about the methods to keep up. They all worked in one of the ‘mission-control’ centers, with many computers and monitors, and telemetry devices, and data-streams from various points around the world, pointed skyward.

“Now, here, Commander, you see?” said one of the navigators, a small man with a red face, very tech-savvy with his endless math and projections. “The one transport vessel, which is ahead of the rest. Our ships will over-take his position by less than 10,000-kilometers. That will take place in about two weeks, at the current speeds and paths. This may be an advantage for us.”

“How so?” Terchenko asked.

“Well, it has to do with the launch-dates and the curvature of the telemetry. The transport is ahead, yes. But prior to the mid-point, ours start to reduce the distance because of the orbital movement. It’s not much. But it will place them closer. Even, close enough for some kind of---inter-activity.”

The Commander frowned. A certain Colonel for the program, a military man they called ‘Bowder’ (for some reason), now offered an opinion, hearing this talk.

“Ship-to-ship,” Bowder said, his voice was like a clarinet with a broken reed. “Destroy them!”

“At 10,000-kilometers, colonel?” said Terchenko.

“It can be done. There is a way. Our team’s ships were re-invented for this with weapons. Bombs. Missiles. Of course we can. They could target the transport and---“

So, with this, they spent more time on the idea, with more experts and math-scientists working the space-telemetry, there in the Ukraine. Guy Reisling, of course, knew nothing about whatever they might decide, now some half-million miles away, sleeping comfortably in his bunk, dreaming of Lila Meetek, with a very nice erection to deal with, too. But it wasn’t lost on the US Mars-team at Vandenberg, that at some point the transport would be vulnerable. And this was why Okman, the transport program leader for the US, was placing long-distance calls to Guy, with the specific instructions for him to have no contact whatsoever with the Russian ships, of his own initiative.

The sunset over the woods in Russia that night was hidden beneath gray clouds without rain. The trees and woods were still, and if one had taken the time, perhaps half-an-hour, it was possible to view the floating drifts of moisture-clouds, moving en-masse, like a huge gray pancake, just above the tops of the hills and mountains, and the green trees that seemed to shiver in the wind. Then it grew dark and you could not see the clouds at all, or the stars. As the world turns, within a few hours, the sunshine of the morning on the California coast revealed the far-away Vandenberg space-port, inland a few miles off the sea. Sparks of blinding white reflection bounced off the many windows and shiny metals from the cranes and fuel tanks and hangars.

Rogers-Smith and some of the tech-planners, along with Branson Porter, Ibramim Mehudi, and members of the Mars-Base Defense Task Force, took an early breakfast conference-briefing, complete with all the tools they needed for their work. Muffins, hot coffee, eggs, orange-juice, vitamins. It was a working-day, they wasted no time, so to eat together while they talked and reviewed the reports was just more efficient. They used one of the smaller VIP dining halls.

“Go ahead with what they’ve been working on at Mars, Mehudi, would you? Some of the task-force haven’t been up-dated,” said Rogers-Smith to Ibrahim Mehudi, the loyal and highly intelligent Middle-Eastern scientist.

“Shitting bricks, I’d say,” Porter joked, with a few chuckles. Branson, also a Texan, was the security man, now recruited to plan various war-efforts and measures proposed for the battle ahead on Mars.

“Wouldn’t that be convenient, Branson?” Smith replied. “Easier to dispose of. Conserve water.”

Mehudi replaced his cup of hot-coffee, following a swallow. He had a lap-top connected to other computers within the facility, and tapped the keyboard for a moment. “The base on Mars has not been idle since all this started,” he said. “They’ve gone ahead with many of the task-force plans, but maybe not all, and some have not been completed. By the time the ships enter orbit—the Russians ahead of us by 50-days or so---the Mars-base will have considerable means to defend itself. All the men at the base on Mars are now being prepared with whatever weapons they had on-hand. They didn’t have many weapons, but of course they had some.”

“What kind of weapons?” asked Porter.

“I’m not quite sure, Branson. It’s in the data-base for their permanent inventory. But, you can pretty well guess. Standard modern fire-arms, for one thing. They work fine, the Mars-atmosphere has no effect. So, the large-bore shot-guns, the military style multi-shot rifles like our Earth soldiers have. They were included only---well, I guess only for something like this. But there are not enough for every man. There are other---“

“All right,” said Rogers-Smith, impatient. “Yes, yes. Guns, they have guns, and that sort. We knew that. I want to know about the external defenses. The air-lock gates, and the---what did you call them? The Oxygen-Igloos on the perimeter, outside? And what about any way they might have to shoot down the damn Russians when they are in orbit?”

“None,” Mehudi replied instantly. “None at all. Why would they? No one would plan to build a research base anticipating to shoot down our own ships as they arrive with goods or people? So, there are no missiles they can launch or target at the Russian ships once they are in orbit.”

“Too bad,” said one of the task-force men.

“Anyway, the plan on the external perimeter fox-holes has gone ahead. They’ve created about 50 of them, at various points in a circle around the air-tight facility. They aren’t quite ready, yet, from the reports we’ve gotten. But they will be. They used cargo containers, and other supplies. Men from inside can survive in one of these for about two days, on the outside. They can also re-charge the walker-suits they use, for oxygen. Each igloo has electricity, and some of them have communications back to the base. They’re air-tight once they enter. They used the plans and designs from before the base was built.”

“That’s what we wanted,” said the same man, from the Mars-base Defense Task Force, who was a military planner. He was finishing his small meal. None of the military men worked at Vandenberg in-uniform. “When they arrive, if things get into an attack situation---and that is what we expect---the men inside the base take stations in the igloos, and defend the base, moving in and out, onto the surface, or into the fox-holes, if you will, and back into the well-guarded air-locks. So, any progress there beforehand is excellent.”

Lynn looked dour. In her thoughts, the idea of ruining the costly space-suits and Mars-base resources they had worked so hard to build, over many years, not to mention the loss of lives---it was hard to see the point of it all. Asteroid 5726-b was just a dream, distant, un-real to them. Almost not a worry anyway, and she well-knew of the plans to stop or divert the asteroid, as it grew closer, from other Earth-global resources. Shot-guns? God! My Mars surface suits are worth more than a million credit-units each!! She cast an eye across the faces at the long table.

“All right, thank you,” she said tersely.

They paused. People were going over paper-work and reports, or gazing at their computers. Rogers-Smith also had hers. Two or three minutes.

“Who the hell is Rudolph Terchenko?” said Rogers-Smith, after another moment. “Commander Rudolph Terchenko, at one of the Russian launch-sites. Does anyone know?”

Dull stares and ignorance. No one seemed to know off-hand. Some shook their heads.

“No one knows him? That figures. They’re very secretive. Well, just FYI, everyone. According to my desk-top, this commander or whoever he is, is the responsible party on their side for a series of intercepted radio-communications and instructions in the past week to the Russian ships. Translations say they want their ship that is closest to the single transport we have---the ‘Penelope’, under Captain Guy Reisling, I believe---they are moving to encounter him. I guess because they are in range at some point in the near future. Did we know about this?”

Okman, Guy’s immediate superior, was not at this breakfast work-session, or he could have told her. But the Mars-base Defense Task Force man, named John Williams, was privy to that aspect.

“Yes, we know,” he said. “We can probably get something on this Terchenko.”

“What the hell do we tell the transport pilot? He’s defenseless, less than halfway to Mars,” said Lynn.

“Not sure,” said Williams. “We’re working on it. Depends what the Russians have planned for him.”

She breathed a deep sigh, heavy with the entirety of the effort, the emptiness of it all. For Lynn Rogers-Smith, a career space-program leader with a ton of experience, the ships and technology, the gear, the science applications---these were things of great beauty to her, near-perfection in their advanced functionality, very rare birds indeed, valued for the causes of research and exploration. Each ship took years to build and prepare, and even ages of learning and discoveries, from the past, for them to even be possible. And they were expensive to society, if that meant anything. And the cargo, and the people working at mission-control, and the planners---and the men on the ships. Human beings, real people, they wanted to come back alive.

“Well, whoever the son-of-a-bitch is, I think I hate him,” she said, half-joking, still reading more of her reports and data. Some laughed, some didn’t. “If they shoot him down, his goose is cooked, know-what-I-mean? Helluva’ way to die, floating away in space. Have somebody find out about this rat, this Rudolph the Red-Nosed Russian mother-ducker. And connect directly to the sources here that are picking up their radios to their ships. I want every detail every hour, to keep ahead of them, and maybe save this transport.”

“You got it, Lynn,” answered Branson Porter, a bit stunned, even for a Texan.



2,480-words
Julian Phillips