Mission One
Table of Contents
PART I
- [ Launch ] -
PART II
- [ The Voyage ] -
PART III
- [ The Artifact ] –
Author Notes
For my bright little star
Jeff Dolan squinted and shielded his eyes as he looked up at the 61-meter rocket. The 2700-ton Neptune III solid-fuel colossal towered above him on launch platform LC-44 in Cape Canaveral, silhouetted by the glaring morning sun. Two smaller solid-fuel boosters clung to the sides of the world’s largest privately-built rocket.
The support scaffolding of the gantry hugged one side of the white rocket from the ground up to the door of the tapered command module, just below the dart-like tower jet on the nose. Humid Florida air condensed against the liquid-cooled shell. Thick steam rolled slowly down the exterior, dropping past the blue Diamond Aerospace logo and over the tri-finned solid rocket booster, into the three-story engine-wash space below. In less than twelve hours, four nine-engine Hydra cores at the bottom of the Neptune III rocket would blast that empty space with the exhaust from ten million pounds of thrust and torch it with heat in excess of 2000 degrees Fahrenheit.
Jeff admired his bright orange Mark IV Constellation Space Suit and couldn’t help but smile. Thinking back over the past few days, there wasn’t more than a minute when he didn’t have a stupid grin plastered on his face. He felt like a little boy on Christmas as he stared up at the rocket. This wasn’t just a simple unearned gift, however. Jeff had worked hard for the opportunity to be on the launch pad right then, at that exact moment. His entire adult life had been focused on breaking out of Earth’s atmosphere.
Now he was on the threshold. He would finally be amongst the stars, instead of merely staring up at them in wonder.
He laughed. Sixth months ago, he was just one applicant in a crowded pool of more than three thousand, each more eager than the last to claim a seat aboard the Neptune III for its inaugural launch.
But that was six months ago, Jeff reminded himself. That was the past.
Today he would be going into space.
Jeff stepped into the industrial elevator at the base of the support scaffolding. A young ground crewman in a white jumpsuit and hard hat pulled the door down behind him.
“One pumpkin, goin’ up,” the crewman said with a grin, referring to Jeff’s Constellation Suit. “Morning, Mr. Dolan.”
“Hey, Danny. How’s your mom doing?”
Danny thumbed a green button and the elevator lurched upward. He tilted up the front of his hard hat and scratched at the hair plastered to his sweaty forehead.
“Much better, thanks. Doctor thought she’d be stuck in bed until the end of the year, but she’s a tough old bird. Third time with pneumonia in two years, and she’s already back in her garden.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Jeff watched the smooth side of the rocket as the elevator ascended the scaffolding, passing the seam where the lower booster connected with the upper. He always forgot the sheer size of the rocket until he was close enough to touch its cold metal exterior.
The elevator passed a clean hull panel and Jeff smiled. He remembered joking with the other crew members about spray painting TITAN OR BUST on the outside of the rocket. It would have gone a long way to add character to the overused Diamond Aerospace logo the company tried to slap on every available surface.
Titan.
Even the mere thought of the name sent fresh chills down Jeff’s spine. It conjured images of warring gods struggling for dominion over the cosmos – battles on an epic scale, stretching back to the dawn of the universe.
None of the previous missions to Saturn’s sixth moon – from Pioneer 11, Voyager 1 and 2, and Cassini-Huygens, to the most recent Van Schuyler probe – had cast as bright a light on the enigma of Titan as would the team of Explorer I.
“How about you?” asked Danny, breaking through Jeff’s daydream. “Do anything crazy for your last night on Earth?”
“Just had a quiet evening at home. I have a feeling I’ll be missing it more than I expect.”
“It’s only a few months, Mr. Dolan.”
Twelve, actually, thought Jeff. “A year can seem a lot longer when you’re leaving someone behind,” he said.
Jeff’s enthusiasm for the upcoming journey waned briefly as some of the darker thoughts he’d been suppressing seeped into the foreground. If he hadn’t just spent such a fantastic night with the woman he loved, he would have no reason to think twice about boarding the rocket. It was too late to turn back now, of course. Every detail of the mission had been planned with four team members in mind. The entire project would have to be canceled if the flight engineer wasn’t aboard.
The elevator bumped to a stop and Jeff forced himself to smile. “But like you said, it’s only a few months.”
He looked away from the rocket, beyond the concrete platforms of LC-44 and over the shimmering waters of the Banana River toward NASA Causeway. Since it was the closest spot from which the public could witness a launch from Kennedy Space Center, crowds of enthusiasts and press would gather along the shores of the river hours in advance.
“Usually a few die-hards on the causeway this early,” Jeff said.
He noticed there was no traffic on the causeway, either.
“With a launch this important,” Danny said, “they probably have the bridges closed for security reasons.”
“Maybe,” Jeff said, not quite convinced.
Danny pulled up the elevator door, revealing the open hatch which led to the command module of Explorer I.
“Have a good flight, Mr. Dolan,” he said. “See you when you get back.”
Kate Bishop slammed her palm down on the snooze button of her blaring alarm clock. She swiped back long, dark hair and tried to focus on the blurry red numbers. 7:20am. She had slept through her first two alarms. Apparently, purposely buying one that sounded like an old fire engine klaxon was still not enough to do the job.
Kate rolled onto her back with a sigh and stared at the white ceiling. Seagulls cried on the beach outside her small ground-floor apartment, occasionally shutting up long enough to allow for the sound of gentle waves rushing over sand to drift in. She reached out next to her and felt the indentation in the mattress where Jeff had slept.
Well, neither of them had really slept. They had been too busy enjoying the longest goodbye of their relationship. It was a goodbye that had to last them a year, until Jeff’s return.
Kate smiled with satisfaction. It had been a damn good night.
A few minutes in a scalding hot shower brought her most of the way back to life. There wouldn’t be time to make coffee before she left, which meant relying on the swill at work. Every time she had to drink that motor oil, she swore it would be her last.
After reluctantly leaving the shower and drying off, she riffled through the clothes strewn over her floral-print sofa while brushing her teeth until, miraculously, she managed to find a clean outfit.
The furniture had come with the apartment. Jeff thought the wicker-and-doily decor was tacky, but it reminded Kate of the beachfront timeshare condo her family had frequented when she was a child. Nostalgia was a powerful force, she reflected, perhaps the most powerful, and Kate was not immune to its charms.
She got dressed in a hurry, pulling on a pair of gray slacks over what she liked to call her practical underwear, and a white, button-up blouse over her no-nonsense bra. Kate had different themes for different sets of delicates. Last night’s theme had been “make him remember you”. Today’s was “get it done”.
Of course, it hadn’t been a one-way street during their long goodbye. Jeff wasn’t always Captain Romantic, but last night, he had certainly tried. Kate came home to scented ca
ndles, a three-course steak dinner, and a bottle of her favorite Merlot. He should have been a chef. At least then he wouldn’t be strapping his ass to a space-bound rocket and leaving for a year.
Yet that was part of the job. Kate had known it when they started dating two years ago. He stuck it out when she left for five months to finish her master’s degree. She could do one year, right? It was only a slightly longer walk in the park.
She tied her wet hair back in a tight bun, slipped into a pair of black flats, scooped up her keys, and headed out the door.
Jeff squeezed into the command module of Explorer I. The bell-shaped spacecraft nested in the top of the Neptune III rocket, which sat with its pinched nose pointing skyward.
Constellation Space Suits with slide-lock joint seals and soft front entry weren’t as bulky as the golden-age extravehicular variety used until the early 2020s, but getting settled into the cramped command module was always a fun challenge regardless. Switches and dials covered every inch of the low, domed ceiling. Many were protected with plastic flip guards, but the ones that weren’t systems-critical could be tripped by a careless crew member.
More delicate maneuvering would have been easier in one of the comparably flimsy Modified Advanced Crew Escape Suits astronauts used to wear during launch and reentry, but that design had been rolled into the pressure-friendly Mark IVs, creating a hybrid for all stages of a mission – including spacewalks – rendering MACE Suits obsolete.
The command module had been designed for four, and Jeff was the last one to arrive. While the craft was resting on the pad, the floor was actually one of the walls. All four flight chairs were above him as he stood just inside the hatch. There were two chairs in each row. The front row was for the pilots, closer to the nose of the rocket.
There was only a small space behind the two aft flight chairs. Jeff hunched over and turned around, then, moving backward, used strategic hand- and footholds to maneuver himself deeper into the command module until his head bumped the back of his own chair. Utilizing the crew-patented technique known as “diving ass-first”, he hoisted himself up and squatted over his form-hugging chair. He wiggled his hips, squeezed between the narrow, rigid armrests and finally plopped down onto the seat. Sensing his weight, the seat automatically reclined until he was on his back, facing skyward.
The other three astronauts were already settled in and going through their pre-flight checklists.
“Thought maybe you got lost,” said Commander Tag Riley from the pilot’s chair above him.
“Just smelling the roses,” Jeff said.
Riley grunted with amusement. At fifty-one, he was the oldest member of the crew. After thirty years of flying jets for the Navy and extensive space flight training in the resurrected NASA astronaut program, he had accepted an offer from Diamond Aerospace to lead the first manned mission to Titan.
The mission needed someone like him at the helm, said the head of public relations at Diamond Aerospace. They needed someone who would radiate confidence; who would soothe the apprehensions of a public that hardly ever looked up anymore; a public that would most likely wonder why the hell we kept sending people back up there in the first place.
It didn’t hurt that Riley still maintained the rugged good looks of his youth. His gold-flecked, dark brown eyes were frequently mentioned by some of his more ardent fans.
He kept the military-style flattop haircut from his Navy days, though his hair was now shock white instead of chestnut brown. His respectably-weathered forehead wrinkled in thought as he read an instruction from his metal clipboard, then he flipped a switch on the crowded control console before him.
Lieutenant Li Ming sat in the co-pilot’s chair to his left, scribbling numbers into data grids on her own clipboard. Sitting only a foot away from Riley, she seemed like a child who had wandered in through the wrong door. Her slight frame fit easily in her chair, even while wearing the padded, bright orange Constellation Space Suit.
Her small stature belied a huge talent for piloting any vessel her commanding officers would authorize. She graduated in the top five of her class from the academy of the People’s Liberation Army Air Force, and within ten years of service had already racked up more flight time than many retired pilots.
She ticked a box on her clipboard and flipped another switch in front of her.
The control console covered the wall in front of the two pilots’ chairs. The designers of Explorer I had been kind enough to add a narrow strip of window above the console to ease the claustrophobic, cave-like atmosphere inside the restricted compartment. For now, it showed only the blackness inside the tower jet capping the rocket’s nose.
Doctor Gabriel Silva sat in the seat next to Jeff, tapping on his clipboard with a pencil and humming to himself. The two of them became fast friends at the beginning of the intense six-month training program leading up to the launch after being repeatedly grouped together in the same mock flight team.
Jeff had a fairly conventional career trajectory for an active flight engineer – he cut his teeth on a deep-sea research yacht two years after receiving his bachelor’s degree, then followed that up with private contract work overhauling Navy submarines.
Gabriel graduated from the University of Sao Paolo with a doctorate in biology at the young age of twenty-four. He had his pick of jobs after that, and shocked his mentors when he packed up and went to Antarctica, where he spent four years operating an advanced hydroponics lab for an American genetics research corporation. Afterward, the good doctor accepted a comfortable teaching position at his alma mater, occasionally taking time off to pursue his growing interest in agronomy.
“Hiya, Gabe,” Jeff said. He pried off his own metal clipboard that had been magnetically attached to the side of his seat and skimmed the first few action items.
“You look tired,” said Gabriel, “which means you didn’t take my advice to go to bed early.” He wagged a scolding finger at Jeff. He already wore his Communications Carrier Assembly, which tightly hugged his scalp. The broad white stripe down the middle and the bulging black ear coverings had led to the CCA being called the Snoopy cap. The crew wouldn’t be donning their full helmets until a few hours before launch, but they communicated with Mission Control using the earphones and microphones built into the CCAs.
“Oh, I went to bed plenty early. Maybe I just didn’t fall asleep right away.”
“Well, we’re gonna be sitting in this tin can for twelve hours. Plenty of time for a nap.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Riley said. “As soon as we finish one set of checklists, Mission Control will spit up some more. It’s half their job.”
With all the chairs tilted back, Riley and Ming were several feet above Gabriel and Jeff, closer to the nose of the rocket. Jeff watched the pilots’ movements, steady and smooth. If he recorded a continuous video of them over the next twelve hours and played it back at high speed, he bet it would look as if two androids were going to guide the craft into space.
Jeff settled deeper into his seat and went back to the first item on his checklist: fuel tank integrity. He cycled the appropriate switch on a small control panel next to his seat, waiting for a flashing green light. Flashing green meant he was in test mode, and the test was good. Solid green meant the rocket was in flight and the system remained stable. Yellow and red – well, Jeff thought of those as different shades of impending doom.
The light above the fuel tank integrity switch flashed green.
Jeff ticked the appropriate box on his checklist, then moved down to the next of over one hundred items that remained.
Kate hit the brakes hard in front of the security guardhouse gate. Her old Mustang groaned at the harsh stop. She peeled off her sunglasses and fished through her purse for her badge, chiding herself for not having it ready. Humid morning air rolled in through the open window, overpowering her weak air conditioning.
A stocky security guard in a dark blue uniform approached her side of the car and stopped a few feet away.
“Hi, Ed. As always, yes.”
“You know I gotta ask.”
“Oh, I know.” She forced a smile as she became increasingly frustrated with the futile search for her badge.
Ed was part of Blackbird private security, the company Diamond Aerospace hired for the duration of their lease agreement at Kennedy Space Center. Based on his refrigerator-like appearance, Kate guessed he had probably made a good linebacker or wrestler in one of his previous careers. He hooked one thumb in his belt and casually rested his other hand on the butt of his night stick.
“I feel like such a mess this morning,” Kate said. “I can’t seem to find anything.”
“Well, things may get worse before they get better. It’s only fair to warn you that the money men are here.”
She stopped rooting for her badge and looked at him, then at the square, bulky Launch Command Center on the far side of the Diamond Aerospace parking lot. There weren’t supposed to be any representatives on-site, especially not on launch day.
“What money men?” she asked. “From Atlanta? Chicago? Beijing?”
“All of ‘em, I think.”
She shook her head in frustration and dumped the contents of her purse onto the passenger’s seat.
“Ah ha!” she said, plucking up her badge and handing it to Ed.
He produced a hand-held scanner from the back of his belt and swiped her security badge. The device chirped happily and Ed returned her I.D.
“Any idea why the causeway is empty?” she asked. “Usually they start piling up out there before sunrise.”
“I heard your boss got the local Sheriff’s Department to close the bridge.”
“All day?”
“Seems like it.”
He turned and nodded at the reflective glass of the guardhouse. The gate in front of Kate’s Mustang slowly lifted.