SpaceCorp (9 page)

“How’d you deal with him?”

“Book.”

“What, you hit him with it?”

“No, I read it.
Muay Thai: Breaks, Locks, and Submissions
. Single girl’s best friend! First punch I ever threw in anger—broke his nose. Paramedics said he almost died—something about skull fragments getting into this frontal cortex. You really have to be careful with that stuff!

“Anyway, there were also a bunch of books on enology—winemaking. Lot of chemistry which was easy but boring. There was a bunch of stuff on organic chemistry which was also easy but more interesting. I used to sneak the book files home and study them at night on my reader. Then I got into molecular biology—my scientific passion to this day. Then I got… skip that. Let’s just say it was time to leave. I picked my way down to V-berg. Heard about the bio lab and the work they were doing on algae and nanocellulose. So I put on some clean clothes and some lipstick and started talking about gene splicing. They thought I had a PhD. Started calling me Dr. Carvalho. I didn’t tell them I hadn’t even finished grammar school. Early maturation finally did me some good for once!” She giggled at the recollection. “And then the astronaut recruiter dropped by one day.”

“Good thing we don’t have much of an HR department at SpaceCorp. Back East they’d have wrung you dry with background checks. Here, most people learn what they learn through shadowing. So, how’d you deal with astronaut training? Don’t they have classrooms?”

“Very little of that is in the classroom. And the parts that were I found were pretty short and to the point. Instructors fancied themselves more as trainers than teachers. I liked that. And I was ballsy—try anything, bust my ass to get it right. Instructors liked that.”

Mack stretched and got up and walked over to the railing and pointed toward Vandenberg. “The big Eagle Vs used to rise up over that mountain. They’d go streaming up, up, up and then they’d stop. Main engine cutoff—I learned later on. Then a bit higher up the second stage would kick in and they’d go up, up, up again till I couldn’t see them anymore. I used to wonder where they were going, what they’d see.”

She walked over to the rail beside him. “And now you know.”

“Well, I thought I did. Until you told me what I’d been missing. Next time I go up, I want to try again. See if I can do the ballsy thing and keep my eyes open.”

She held his arm close. “Let’s go down now. I want to…” She looked away blushing in the moonlight. “Let’s just go down.”

July 2070 – a week later

Mack’s office overlooking the floor of the mock up hangar, Vandenberg

Mack was sitting at his computer when a message avatar from Hank Larsen interrupted his thoughts. “Monica, can you come here please? I think you’ll find this interesting!”

Monica leaned over his shoulder to read the message, then smiled. “Oh, Mack! They bought it! Do you really think we can pull this off in a year?”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

August 2070

Hotel InterContinental,
7-9 Chemin du Petit-Saconnex
, Geneva, Switzerland

The room was windowless, dominated by a large boardroom table in its center which was in turn surrounded by two dozen plush leather captain’s chairs—twelve to a side. Several dozen armless leather chairs were arranged along the walls. Overhead hung a large crystal chandelier that reflected very little light off the dark inlaid wood ceiling. Track lights along the ceiling provided the primary illumination of the room. The wall paneling looked like mahogany, the carpet was a plush but worn burgundy wool. The world was a cooler place two centuries ago when the building was constructed. Today a couple of floor fans whirred from opposite corners to provide circulation to the stuffy atmosphere. Access to the room was by separate entrances on either side of the table. Several members of the press occupied strategic viewing positions around the room. Guards would occasionally step forward to shoo them back into position when they got too curious.

The American side left the twin doors open, the better to provide circulation. On the Iranian side the doors were still closed. The Americans sat quietly staring at the vacant seats on the other side of the table. The Iranians were uncharacteristically late… over an hour now since the agreed upon time.

Deputy Secretary of State Roger Miller leaned over to the Secretary, Foster Adams. He whispered behind his hand to shield his lips from possible lip readers, “
Without prior concessions?
Tell me again that wasn’t your idea.”

Adams smiled. “You shouldn’t drink so much coffee.”

At that moment, the Iranians burst through their entrance led by the Iranian Foreign Affairs Minister Payam Najafi. All were dressed in dark western style suits, Seville Row from the look of them, white shirts open at the collar, no neckties—all except one who wore traditional Shi’a cleric’s robes. He was a thin, intense little man who couldn’t seem to hold still. He wore rimless spectacles that kept slipping down the bridge of his nose.

 The American Secretary waited for them to be seated. “Minister Najafi, thank you for—”

Najafi appeared not to notice. His assistant showed him a folder which he glanced at and nodded. The assistant rose from his seat and removed the paper from within the folder. “Mr. Secretary, we have a list of demands.” Without waiting for the Secretary to answer he began reading. Najafi’s vacant eyes were fixed on the Secretary, looking as though he would prefer to be taking a nap. The assistant droned on: “...economic sanctions must be lifted and reparations must be paid for the economic damage done to the people of Iran since 1953 and a formal letter of apology read into the record by your president at the United Nations.”

The cleric rose and waved his finger toward the Americans. “And the apology must be
pre
-ratified by the Senate!”

The assistant paused to look at the cleric, his countenance waffling between embarrassed and irritation. “Yes, pre-ratified by
your
Senate.” Then he sat down.

Adams stared at the Iranians, eyes unblinking for a full minute. Then without a word, he rose slowly, turned, and walked out of the room. One by one the Americans rose and followed him.

*   *   *

Once in the hallway with the doors secured behind them, Miller caught up to Adams and spoke in a low voice. “You had intel on that?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Bastard.”

Adams smiled, “I believe my proper title is ‘Mr. Secretary.’”

“‘Sorry, Mr. Secretary... You’re still a bastard.”

The first of the reporters strode up to the Secretary. “Mr. Secretary, do you have a moment for a statement?”

A guard was about to escort him away, but the secretary stopped him. “It’s okay, I know this one.” The guard nodded and backed away to a discreet distance.

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary. What can you tell us about what went on in there?”

“Well, Bill, we find it absurd that after the Iranians shoot down our space station, they choose to initiate the meeting with a list of demands, especially the one about the apology.”

“What was he referring to by 1953?”

The secretary shrugged. “Who knows? Whatever it was I should think the statute of limitations has run out. I mean
1953
? That’s over a century ago!”

“Perhaps so, Mr. Secretary, but history shows the United States was implicated in the overthrow of a legitimate democracy of Iran back then. Can you comment on that, sir?”

The secretary glowered imperceptibly at the reporter, then smiled affably as he spoke. “
Democracy?
Since when is communism to be equated with democracy? Better review your history books, Bill. America would never overthrow a legitimate democracy.” The secretary looked at the guard and nodded as he strode away.

The reporter ran after him. “But, Mr. Secretary, what about Operation Ajax? The CIA was quite active in regime change back then…”

The guard intercepted the reporter and blocked his way as the secretary and his entourage walked outside to their waiting limos.

 Air Force Five, Atlantic Ocean, 200 Nautical Miles West of Bordeaux, France

The flight got off the ground early thanks to the walkout at the meeting with the Iranians. Within two hours, everyone had settled in to comfortable first class seats in the airliner and was either nursing a Scotch or reading email.

“Roger, Harry, how about joining me under the cone of confusion to brief the old man.”

The three of them repaired to a special compartment on the plane equipped for secure video-conferencing. It had an elongated table large enough for six and a large monitor at one end.

“Good evening, Mr. President, we’re on our way home,” Adams said.

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense, how’d it go?”

“Predictable. They barged in an hour late and started reading a list of demands,” Adams said. “We followed our planned protocol and got up and left.”

“And our source?” the president asked.

“Very reliable. Only minor deviations from the version they read.”

“Were they surprised? When you left, I mean?” the president asked.

“You were the last man out, Harry. Were they surprised?”

“I’d say more like smug, like they landed a punch. Except the cleric. He was going to get up and yell or something, but this big burly guy pushed him back down.”

“Are you sure our little demonstration didn’t tip them off?” the president asked.

“You mean that we were on to them? No, sir, I don’t think so. I tried to look like I was forcing passivity onto my expression. And I sat there a full minute acting like I was trying to figure out what to do. The business of everyone following me out is just standard procedure.”

“We were all looking at the Secretary,” Miller said.

“Well, I hope you’re right. We have so few sources over there. I’d hate to think we put this one in jeopardy. Well, have a safe flight.”

“Thank you, Sir. And you have a good night.”

After the president rang off, the Secretary looked over at Harry. “You going to advise your people about the source’s little faux pas?”

Harry was a CIA liaison who worked at the State Department. “You mean the reference to ‘the’ Senate instead of ‘your’ Senate?”

“It’s minor, I know, but that’s the kind of thing that can get us in trouble.”

“I quite agree, sir. I’ll get word to his handlers.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

August 2070

Military Helicopter, en route to Iranian Space Agency (ISA) Launch Site, Shahrud, Iran

General Omid Farahavi looked about the interior of the helicopter taking him and his colleague to Shahrud. This aircraft, a
Shamal
, or desert wind, was barely recognizable from its French forebear, the Aerospatiale
Dauphin
introduced nearly a century ago. The
Shamal
started out as a purchase from the Iraqis, later reverse-engineered for manufacture in Iran. A lot of Iranian military aircraft had similar heritage. They started as leftovers from the days of the Shah, but with America choking off parts when the Shah was deposed, Iran had to develop her own aviation manufacturing industry—an insult turned into a blessing.
How backward would my beloved Persia be without Western insults to prod her into the future?

Farahavi looked across to his colleague, Government Minister Hashem Shirazi who was dozing in the stuffy summer air. The two of them had been boyhood friends, growing up in the same village. When they came of age the local cleric arranged for Hashem to go off to
Écoles des Hautes Études Internationales et Politiques
in Paris while he attended the Imam Ali Military Academy. How exciting Paris must have been for Hashem even if his waistline did evidence a weakness for the finer things! But at least the Academy had gotten him to Tehran. And working his way up through the ranks of the Takavar to eventually command the elite commandos of the
1-Lashgare 78 Takavar Zolfaghar
did have a certain prestige that Hashem would never know.

“Hashem, wake up! We’re landing soon.”

Shirazi yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “So soon? I can never stay awake in these contraptions in spite of the noise.”

“Before we land, I must ask you. Are you sure this is good idea?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Omid. The Supreme Leader thinks it’s a good idea, so we will do it to the best of our ability. Oh good, we’re landing on tarmac—less dust.”

They were escorted inside a multistory structure that had no floors. In the background stood a launch vehicle that was at least 35 meters high. ISA Director Dr. Farshad Rahmani was standing before it looking pleased with himself.

“Greetings, gentlemen! Welcome to Shahrud. I trust your flight was comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Rahmani,” Shirazi said.

“Quite a building you have here,” Farahavi said.

“Yes, it’s so tall inside we even get a microclimate in here on some days. Will you have some tea before we start?”

“We’re on a bit of a schedule... could we have some tea while you talk?” Shirazi asked.

“Of course!” A servant began pouring tea into cups arranged on a sidebar that was really a stainless steel shop stand draped with a white linen table cloth.

“In front of us is the
Simorgh F
satellite launch vehicle. Thirty-six meters, three stages, liquid fuel. It can put a satellite up to 700 kg mass into an orbit 1000 kilometers above the Earth.”

“But this rocket is old,” Farahavi said.

“Old, yes, but it will do the job and it is very reliable. More importantly, it will not attract attention.”