Silent Star, page 5
Link did not move.
“Go!” Riley said.
“How many trips to orbit have you made?”
“Captain, nothing you say will get me to reconcile with the army.”
“I’m temporarily attached to NASA.”
Now Riley paused.
“NASA? What’s this all about?”
“I can’t give you any details but you have a unique set of skills that I need on this mission.”
“A NASA mission?”
Link started to speak, but Riley cut him off.
“Never mind! I don’t want to hear it. Nothing on this Earth would get me to take this assignment, whatever it is.”
“Exactly. Nothing on this Earth.”
Riley paused again, studying Link. Riley was a big man at six feet, with a thick chest. His closely cropped hair was cut flat across the top and with his large, square, jaw, Riley’s head was big and rectangular. With generous lips and nose, everything about him was oversized—head, hands, feet. Link wondered what the kick boxing Ramirez could do against Riley.
“Why the tease? Tell me what the mission is or get the hell out.”
Riley’s voice got deeper with each frustration. His last sentence rumbled in a low bass.
“It’s classified. You are either in or you can go back to flying tourists in and out of orbit.”
“The tourists pay well. What are you offering?”
“A chance to go where no man has gone before.”
“Captain, this little dance of yours is starting to bore the shit out of me. Let’s back up to where I told you to get the hell out.”
“Okay,” Link said, draining his Pepsi and setting the bottle on the top of the Pepsi dispenser. “But don’t come crying to me when aliens invade and shut down your business.”
Link walked out. Riley followed.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Link continued to his rental car, Riley trailing.
“All right, I’ll consider it,” Riley said.
“In or out?” Link demanded, ready to open the door.
“Out,” Riley said after a long pause.
Link got in, started the engine, and pulled away. As he shifted into second, a rock smashed his back window. Link hit the brakes. Riley knocked on his side window until Link rolled it down.
“Okay, I’m in,” Riley said.
“What about my window?” Link asked.
“Pull around back. I’ll give you a dozen cases of Pepsi.”
Chapter 9: Carter Gains
Forest Park
Portland, Oregon
There were miles of trails in Forest Park but Carter Gains’s executive assistant assured Link that Gains would pass the spot where he now waited. From his bench, Link looked over the city of Portland at Mount Hood in the distance. Mount Hood was what every mountain should be, a majestic peak set on a broad base, the top snow-covered even in late summer. In fact, to Oregonians, if it was not covered in snow year-round it was not a mountain.
It was a rare May day in Oregon—no rain. The temperature hovered near seventy-five and Link was relaxed, face tilted toward the sun, mirrored sunglasses protecting his eyes. A steady stream of joggers passed—pudgy men who could never put in enough miles to overcome a diet of beer and potato chips; young professional women in sports bras and spandex shorts, bottles of water in holsters on their hips; exercise addicted men running shirtless hoping others admired their bodies as much as they did their own. Link watched the parade for twenty minutes before Gains appeared. A head taller than the rest of the runners, Gains wore long sweatpants and a tank top. With his blond hair flowing and his muscular build, women and men admired him surreptitiously. Gains ran with a slight limp but moved steadily.
Wearing his uniform, reclining on his park bench, Link said nothing. Gains ran past, slowed, and then turned, walking back, stopping the timer on his watch, breaths deep but under control.
“Captain Cleveland Linkletter,” Gains said, creating a shadow.
“Dr. Gains, you are blocking my sun,” Link said.
“I’m doing you a favor. Those UV rays play havoc with the mitochondria in your cells, speeding up the aging process. I don’t go out without SPF 45 on every bit of exposed skin.”
“You always were a bit of a hypochondriac, Gains.”
“Not so, Captain. I never get sick, and you know why? Because I treat my body like the temple that it is.”
“I treat my body like an amusement park,” Link said.
“And it shows, sir.”
Gains sat next to Link.
“I’ve got two more miles to go, Captain. So, if you wouldn’t mind, tell me why you picked this particular path at this particular time to expose yourself to carcinogenic rays?”
“Are you on the wagon?”
“I gave up drinking after I had my knee reconstructed.”
“Are you still with your girl—the one who shot you?”
“You see that tall building over there? The one that looks like it was made out of leggos. She’s living with a stockbroker on the seventh floor. She accused me of nagging her like I was her mother.”
“Did you nag her?”
“Well, she did drink too much and the saturated fats in her diet would clog a garden hose.”
“Did you tell her this?”
“Every day, but that’s not nagging, that’s loving.”
“Are you with anyone now?” Link asked.
“I haven’t been as popular with women since I stopped drinking,” Gains said.
“It’s kind of the opposite with me,” Link said.”
“There is this new pharmacist I’ve been thinking of asking out but I ran into her at Red Robin and she was eating a bacon cheeseburger,” Gains said. “It was kind of a turn-off.”
The Gains Link had known indulged every whim, every passion, and felt no shame. Parties erupted spontaneously around him and the cockroach shooting incident was just one of a long line of alcohol inspired lunacies. This Gains was a new man, probably a better man, but was this Gains as useful?
“I’m offering you a mission like nothing you’ve ever taken before,” Link said. “I need a medical officer. The fact that you double as a marksman and a pilot makes you one of a kind.”
“Interesting,” Gains said, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle.
Gains’ legs blocked part of the path and now joggers and walkers detoured.
“I suppose I could give you a couple of weeks.”
“I need a couple of years,” Link said.
Gains stared, dumbstruck.
“Years? What kind of mission is this?”
“I can’t give you details until you are committed but if we succeed, you’ll be so famous, women will wrap their hotel keys in their panties and stuff them in your pocket.”
Gains gulped audibly.
“Promise?” Gains demanded.
“If they don’t, I will,” Link said, holding out his hand.
“I’ll have to negotiate a leave of absence,” Gains said, shaking Link’s hand.
“It won’t be a problem,” Link said.
“Don’t be too sure. I’ve got a dozen graduate students and almost as many staff on soft money. My lab could lose its grant.”
“I can guarantee that your research funding will continue.”
“Can you guarantee I’ll see my lab again?"
“Hell no. Are you still in?”
“As medical officer, crew nutrition would be one of my responsibilities?”
“I’ll have the orders written that way.”
Now Gains stood, stretched, and said, “I’ll report by the weekend.”
Link made a mental note to bring a stash of junk food with him on the Interceptor.
“By the way, there might be some concern about your knee. If anyone asks, tell them you are a marathon runner,” Link said.
“Did I win any of these marathons?” Gains asked.
“Just finished,” Link said.
“If I didn’t win then a respectable time,” Gains said. “Qualified for the Boston Marathon.
“One more thing. What’s your brother doing now?” Link asked.
“Bobby? He’s working for a private security company in L.A. They specialize in escorting celebrities. He worked the Oscars last year.”
“I need someone to check on my sister now and then while we’re gone,” Link said. “She’s staying at my place in Vegas. I’ll pay his expenses and his fee.”
“Free trips to Vegas? Bobby will do it. I’ll give him a call.”
“Thanks,” Link said.
With his sister taken care of, Link just cut his last bond with Earth.
Chapter 10: Launch
Interceptor
Earth Orbit
“Captain, what’s the expiration date on the secrecy agreement you forced us to sign,” Riley asked, in his gravelly voice. “If we live through this we can get a hundred grand a night on the speakers circuit. Half that from the Chinese, and twice that from the Japanese.”
Strapped into their seats, only Riley, who was piloting, and Gains, who was flying co-pilot, were busy. Riley ran at the mouth when calm and double his rate when nervous. While he and Gains worked through the launch checklist, Riley kept up a mindless chatter. Riley called it multitasking. Dr. White labeled it “displacement.” Whatever it was, Link had seen Riley do it through dozens of successful simulations and Link did not mess with success. While new to Scooter’s ship, Riley had repeatedly flown his private ship into space so Link had confidence in Riley’s ability to pilot and annoy simultaneously.
Link was buckled into the seat behind Gains, and Westbrook behind Riley. Scooter and Ramirez were in the last set of seats, if you could call webbed hammocks seats. Only Riley and Gains’s seats were recognizable as such. Once launched along their trajectory, the webbed hammocks would be disassembled and stowed. Internal space was precious on the Interceptor.
The command module of the Interceptor was patched together using the shell of a command deck based on a shuttle design and packed with instrumentation. Displays covered everything from fuel capacity and pressure, life support systems, flight characteristics, navigation, structural load, and a myriad of sensor and transducer digital data fed from every part of the Interceptor. Attached at an odd angle, a refurbished second stage fuel tank provided living space for the long voyage. Fuel was distributed among four tanks, attached seemingly at random to the living module, and one to the flight deck. To a casual observer, the engines sat at an odd angle but were actually aligned with the ship’s center of gravity. Solar panels, an EVA/supply module, and the docking module were cabled to the ship, ready to be mated in route. Weightless, there was no up or down for the crew but with the engines set above their heads it felt structurally wrong to Link. Only one in forty simulations resulted in the interceptor being torn apart when the engines fired up but at this moment that was the only simulation Link remembered.
“Scooter, this is the goddamnedest Rube Goldberg contraption I’ve ever seen,” Riley said.
“Blame Captain Linkletter,” Scooter said. “The Interceptor was a thing of beauty until he joined the mission.”
“Riley, I would appreciate it if you would not use profanity,” Westbrook said, tapping the back of Riley’s chair.
“Is the Bible-boy’s itty bitty feelings hurt by a few cuss words?” Riley said in a baby voice.
“Use all the expletives you like, just leave out the Lord’s name. Using the Lord’s name in vain is profane, saying shit isn’t.”
“Well forgive the shit out of me,” Riley said.
“You’re forgiven,” Westbrook said.
“Leave Riley alone,” Ramirez said, poking Westbrook through the webbing. “He needs to concentrate on piloting this collection of space junk and he doesn’t have any brain cells to spare.”
“Check your straps,” Gains said, raising five fingers and dropping them one at a time.
“We’re about to find out if junior knows what the hell he’s doing,” Riley said, just as the engines roared to life.
Pressed into the webbing, Link felt the pattern painfully embossed on his back. The crew took the acceleration in silence with only occasional grunts and soft gasps. Tethered a safe distance from the exhaust, Kevlar cables snapped tight, dragging the yet to be assembled pieces of the Interceptor. Elastic spacers absorbed and then metered the kinetic energy as the inertia of the components was overcome. As the Interceptor took the strain the Interceptor groaned and creaked, something that was not part of the simulated launches. Then the ship began to vibrate, objects clattering, breaking loose, and banging toward the aft.
“Is it supposed to do this?” Scooter asked nervously, knuckles white.
“You designed it,” Gains said. “Just sit tight.”
“Sit tight. What the hell does that mean?” Scooter asked.
Objects continued to rattle loose in compartments and the Interceptor complained incessantly as the burn continued. Picking up speed, the odd shaped spacecraft rocketed toward a rendezvous with the UNOB.
Chapter 11: Bursts
Interceptor
Between Earth and Venus
INT.012.C028.LIN.ATT1: We solved the problem with the dorsal coupling bolts for the docking module (DM 20-40). It involved four hours of EVA drilling and welding. Inform the subcontractor of the difference between centimeters and inches. There is general unhappiness with the space toilet. SCR denies designing it. The system is inadequate to handle solids produced by some crew (no names). Include schematics for redesign in next burst. SCR rewrote the ESYS code and the temperature regulation has improved. Attached find revised code for simulator upgrade. Isotonic exercise program failing to maintain mass. If losses cannot be arrested, I will implement steroid/human growth hormone regimen.
MC.024.CO73.BAU.ATT3: I have attached updated navigation and remote observations of UNOB. No significant change in trajectory or velocity. Rotation remains zero. New toilet schematics are included. CAT requests pulling the CO2 scrubber modules for visual inspection. Data download suggest the sensors may be unreliable. WHI requests that all team members complete overdue psych evals.
INT.030.CO82.LIN.ATT0: Assembly complete. Three leaking seals. Seal problems corrected. Toilet problems continue. Crew irritable. RIL and RAM tension—animosity, not sexual. SCR combat training progressing. Multiple hull contacts at 0300. Remote scan of exterior negative. Recommend EVA inspection. Entertainment database partially corrupted. Please attach Lucy episode where she works at the candy factory. Please attach name of actor who played James Bond in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Initiating steroid/HGH regimen. WES, RIL, GAI, LIN participating. RAM mass loses negligible will increase isotonic program.
MC.031.CO90.BAU.ATT1: Please list seals requiring repair. No to unscheduled EVA. Remote scan sufficient unless related problems arise. ALL requests details on crew tension. Requested Lucy episode attached. Repeat request for completion of psych evals.
INT.035.CO91.LIN.ATT2: Seal and morale details attached. Repeat request of name of Bond actor. Request critical. Toilet problem critical. Crew unhappy with food. GAI’S organic preferences not shared. Personal food allowances nearly exhausted. Broke up fight over frozen cream puff.
MC.036.CO92.BAU.ATT1: James Bond actor requested is George Lazenby. Why is this info critical? PSYs increasingly concerned about crew mental health. Toilet design adjustments attached.
INT.045.CO100.LIN.ATT2: New toilet design worse. Attached requested psych evals except GAI. GAI refuses to complete eval until the toilet problem solved. The scheduled EVA found micro-meteor damage within parameters—see attachment. Self-sealing core functioned per design. SCR insufferably proud. We evaluated the CO2 scrubbers again. Tell CAT we will be dead three days before we arrive at the UNOB. I urgently request a solution that does not involve spacing one of the crew.
MC.051.CO118.BAU.ATT2:
WHI vehemently recommends that you suspend the steroid and HGH regimen. Attached you will once again find a list of the potential side effects. ALL is concerned about the psychological health of the crew. The recent psych evals alarming. Three of your team qualify for a section Y discharge from the military. New toilet schematic attached. Solution to the CO2 scrubber problem is highest priority.
INT.052.CO119.LIN.ATT0: Two fights today. Cross training behind schedule. RIL orchestrated mess coup. GAI upset/depressed. RIL/RAM arguments continue. WES withdrawn/fasting. SCR/RIL argument erupted. Urgent that you send middle name of Scooby-Do’s nephew Scrappy-Doo. Request PSY recommendations for crew morale.
MC.053.CO120.BAU.ATT3: Scrappy-Doo’s middle name is Cornelius. WHI recommends meditation and relaxation training. Procedures attached. BLA recommends encounter sessions. Procedures attached. ALL sending psychoanalysis program--iFreud (attached). WHI insists steroid regimen be suspended. BAU suggests distribution of tranquilizers. I am very concerned.
INT.052.CO119.LIN.ATT0: I ordered supplies shifted from the anterior EVA module and bins dismantled to create private space for one person. Privacy privilege conditional on acceptable behavior. WES earned first rotation. Crew behavior increasingly juvenile.
MC.053.CO118.BAU.ATT2: PSYs urgently recommend no private space. Anticipate negative impact on crew. Private space works against team building. PSYs assure that shared sacrifice will promote bonding. Repeat, PSYs urgently recommend no private space. PSYs insist current problems a result of ignoring crew selection protocols. PSYs believe problems will only exacerbate with competition for privacy space. PSYs now support BAU recommendation of liberal use of tranquilizers until psychological treatment can take effect. WHI insists steroid regimen is exacerbating crew tension/aggression. PSYs want me to order end to steroid regimen. Under consideration. Psych simulation of the impact of privacy space attached. UNOB update attached.
