SpaceCorp (24 page)

“He said the path to the stars is not blazed with achievement, but with change. For my whole career I’ve been watching us
achieve
the same thing over and over again. Stuck on the same step. Today, we made a change. Today, we moved up a step, one step closer to the stars.”

August 2071

Iranian Space Agency (ISA) Mission Operations, Shahrud, Iran

It was a night launch. Not because the rocket plume would be less visible to passersby on the ground, but because there was a 32-minute window when the Shahrud Launch Facility would not be under the microscope of American spy satellites. A new satellite could be put into orbit and maybe not noticed for months, given the state of disrepair that the American space traffic monitoring network increasingly found itself in.

The
Simorgh F
rose on a fountain of fire at precisely 0134 HRS. She would be well past 1
^st
stage cutoff and separation at 30 kilometers altitude, past second stage cutoff and separation at 65 kilometers, and half way through the 3
^rd
stage burn when the first spy sat neared the launch facility. Spy sats were optimized to observe ground images in the visual and infrared spectrums. All the passing satellite would see was the sleepy village of Shahrud, Iran, all lights off per orders from the local chief of police. The
Simorgh’s
smoke plume would not be visible at night and the heat signature would be almost invisible to the satellites infrared sensors—a passing heat wave, they would say.

The satellite, codenamed
Aqrab
, now separated from its 3
^rd
stage booster, would begin moving into formation, first of a cluster of similar satellites sent to keep an eye on SpaceCorp’s newest station. Its maneuvering thrusters would first orient it to the nadir point directly below on the Earth’s surface. Then the solar panels would deploy relieving the onboard batteries from the burden of powering the satellite. With all systems checked out and nominal, its star tracker would begin searching the heavens for a guide star. Once found the guide star would be used to obtain a precision azimuth and tilt angle for the satellite’s onboard imager, now trained on an object 150 kilometers away. The image was compressed and burst-transmitted back to Mission Ops. A mission specialist saw it on his monitor.

“Dr. Rahmani,” he called.

Dr. Rahmani set down his tea cup, paused, then walked to the mission specialist’s monitor with slow deliberate steps. It was the
SSS Albert Einstein
.

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July 2071

Iranian Space Agency (SA) Launch Site, Shahrud, Iran

By Persian standards, Dr. Farshad Rahmani’s office was large enough but its appointments were a extremely understated for a man who was both Director and Chief Scientist at the ISA. Gossip mongers held that wasn’t really a true Persian—too much time in European Universities. He did not mind. He fancied himself a worker and felt his austerity would set a good example for his subordinates.
Nothing worse than a fancy office at the top to incite an arms race of interior decorations among an ambitious staff.

“Go ahead, Armin,” Rahmani said. “Tell these gentlemen exactly what you told me.”

Armin Paria nodded to Rahmani, “I read a notice in Space Review that SpaceCorp was hosting visits to instrument lessors for their new space station. I was surprised that I had not received an invitation so I contacted the SpaceCorp salesman’s assistant.”

“Why the assistant?” General Omid Farahavi asked.

“I thought the problem might be the unfortunate incident with our missile test, General. So I was hoping I could get permission from the assistant to travel to Vandenberg personally where I could better influence the situation.”

“Very wise,” Farahavi said. “And what did you learn?”

“The assistant was very cordial—I almost got the impression that he was unaware of the missile test—he said they would be ‘too happy’ to receive me. He even said we were an excellent and highly esteemed customer of theirs.”

“So you went to Vandenberg,” said Farahavi. “Did they let you in?”

“Yes, they even had a limousine waiting for me at the airport as they do all their instrument lessors. The driver took me right to the headquarters building of SpaceCorp. I was starting to think it really was just an oversight when I was stopped by the salesman who told me that he was sorry for the inconvenience, but under no circumstances would I be allowed to see the mockup or offer a bid for our new communications satellite.”

“And did you remind him that we too lost an instrument in the missile test?” Minister Shirazi asked.

“Of course, Excellency. I hoped he would see reason. The Centaur we were aiming at was a half orbit from their precious station. How were we to know that such an unfortunate mishap might occur?”

“Were you able to learn anything at all?” Farahavi asked. “About the new station, I mean.”

“Nothing, General. Nothing at all.”

Dr. Rahmani stepped forward and put his hand gently behind Armin’s arm just above the elbow by way of dismissal. “Thank you for your service, Armin.”

Armin nodded with a faint click of his heels betraying his military past. “Good day, Excellency… Sir… Dr. Rahmani.”

*   *   *

“Have we been able to learn anything from our friends in the business?” Shirazi asked.

“Not yet,” Rahmani said. “The few that I know well have all cited NDAs. They don’t want to jeopardize their berths on the station.”

“Non-disclosure agreements!” Farahavi said. “This is the Middle East! They can’t believe such trash carries any weight here!”

“They can when they know we have been shut out,” Rahmani said.

“Do you think they might share what they know for a price?” Shirazi asked.

“Maybe not money,” Rahmani said. “But a bit more oil perhaps?”

Shirazi smiled. “Thank you, Dr. Rahmani. You have been most helpful.”

In the helicopter on the way back to Tehran

“The Netherlands, you think?” Farahavi asked.

“Too western,” Shirazi said.

“India? They certainly import a lot of oil.”

“Yes, India. We’ll get China too. Always best to have corroborating sources.”

“How will we convince them to give us information that will allow us to destroy a platform they depend on to host their instruments?”

“We won’t, Omid. But we will convince them that with SpaceCorp’s growing fickleness, it’s time the 3
^rd
World had its own space station capability. We don’t want to shoot theirs down, we want to build our own. And the parties who help us will be rewarded with free berths on the new station.”

“Should we have Rahmani start mocking up a scale model, say, 1/32 scale?” Farahavi asked.

“Oh no, Omid. We need to convince them we’re serious. Go for a 1/8
^th
scale. And back it up with one of those virtual tours. We need to look real… very real.”

“You don’t think they may take that idea and attempt to build it on their own?” Farahavi asked.

“All the better! In fact, we should sell it as a joint effort. Make sure Rahmani puts logos from each nation on the mockup. Half dozen besides India and China… tell them the others are already in. Oh, and one more thing: make sure the mockup has an obvious design flaw. They’ll be more likely to point it out to us—get them talking. We, of course, will be only too happy to be ‘enlightened.’”

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July 2071

White House Bunker – meeting room outside the main chamber

“Mr. President, the country is coming unhinged,” Senator Pitstick said. “They need some kind of event to pull them together again, remind ’em of their common bondage, remind ’em that they’re all part of the same great nation. What they need, Mr. President… Mr. President? Mr. President, are you listening to me?”

“Hmm?”

“I say, Mr. President, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, yes, of course, Senator. I was just resting my eyes. A man my age needs his rest, Senator. Do go on.”

Senator Pitstick paused, then leaned forward on the sofa placing his face less than a yard away from the president’s. The secret service agent standing to the left of the president stopped looking into nothing and glared down at the senator. The senator gave him a self-conscious smile and assumed a more upright position on the couch.

“What they need, Mr. President, is a leader… a
visible
leader!”

“Hmm… a visible leader, you say…” The president turned toward his secretary of defense and gestured toward the senator with his open hand palm canted upward. His hand remained suspended for some seconds before he returned it to his lap. “George, what do you make of the good senator’s suggestion? Think I should be more visible to this great nation of ours?” The president inflected an accommodating tone to his voice as he asked the question. The secretary of defense and the secretary of state were the president’s closest advisors and oldest surviving friends. He’d trained them well for confrontations such as this one. When he asked George for his opinion, he always wanted a pessimistic one. The open hand gesture was a signal—the longer he held it, the more pessimistic the opinion was supposed to be.

George did not miss his cue and shook his head while directing his eyes toward the floor. “Oh, bad idea, sir, very bad. Exposure could go very badly for you… for the nation. Would you want the public to witness something awful on live television? How would their morale be then?”

The president nodded, then looked back at the senator shrugging his shoulders. “There you have it, Senator. Could go badly. Lots of downside risk. Too much, yes, too much. Out of the question.”

Senator Pitstick reddened in spite of the near frigid temperature in the anteroom outside the inner sanctum where the president kept himself secluded from the outside world and all its hazards. “But, sir, I must respectfully protest. The country is coming apart, the people are aimless. They look to the White House for direction, but their eyes are unrewarded. Forgive my saying this, sir…” The senator paused and glanced at the secret service agent, then back to the president. “I mean this metaphorically, truly I do—“

“Speak your mind, man. You needn’t hide behind metaphors here!” The president leaned toward the senator. “We go too far back, you and I. Speak freely, sir.”

“Well, again, I… don’t read anything into this… but you are… for all intents and purposes… already dead to the people. Just as dead as if some assassin’s bullet had found its mark.”

“Now see here!” The secretary of state went off script—he was supposed to be the optimistic one in these meetings, never the alarmist, never indignant.

The president raised his hand palm toward the secretary. “It’s all right, Foster. Let him speak.” Then turning toward the senator, “Perhaps you could clarify your views?”

“Not my views, sir. The
people’s
views!”

The president turned toward a bespectacled little man who had been hanging in the background. “Maccabee! Maccabee! Come over here young man. What do your polls say? Do the people think I’m dead?”

“Definitely not, sir! Nationwide, you’ve been running a very solid 52 percent favorability since March.”

“Do they
wish
I were dead?”

“Uh, we… uh, don’t have a poll for that, sir.”

“Hmm… to hear the senator from Mississippi talk, maybe you should devise one.” Turning to the senator, “You heard the man, senator. A very solid 52 percent!”

“I don’t mean to cast aspersion on the good pollster, Mr. President, but 52 percent... that’s just a bunch of numbers on paper. If you really want to know what the people think, you have to go out among them and look into their hearts. You have to feel the people, sir.
Feel
the people!”

“What people?
Your
people? Mississippians? They’ve hated me for generations. No, scratch that, not me. They’ve hated Washington for generations, and whoever happens to be sitting in the White House… well, that just helps them put a name and a face on their hatred. Why do you think the press refers to you and your neighbors as the ‘hate states?’ Your people prefer to live in their shacks with their leaky roofs and floorboards that show the dirt below. Yes, they live there while their children can’t read and have no future—“

“Now you see here, Mr. President! Say what you will about me, but I won’t have you mocking my people or their way of life.”

“You call that ‘life?’ When their families die of curable diseases not the least of which is ignorance?”

A blood vessel that bisected the senator’s forehead was visibly pulsing now. “We call it freedom, Mr. President! Do not mock us for rejecting your socialist nanny state!” His voice had risen to a near shout and his hands were trembling.

“Freedom? Socialist nanny state? More like brainwashing, if you ask me. I see now why illiteracy is the unofficial mandate down there. Someone might read the Constitution and see where one of the roles of the government is to
promote the general welfare
—that means everybody’s welfare, Senator. Even Mississippians! That’s in the Preamble, in case you need to look it up.”

“The great state of Mississippi is not and shall never be a welfare state, Mr. President!” The senator gesticulated with his index finger, and indignation dripped off his words. “We shall not live off the largesse of the government. We are a free and independent people and as long as I am alive, we shall remain that way.”