Project Sail (2 page)

As he worked, Fenner answered Norton, “We assumed something happened to the QE connection resulting in no codes coming in, but what if we are still receiving codes only the computer is not telling us?”

“Paul, we ran a full diagnostic. The deciphering protocols are working fine, there just hasn’t been anything to decipher.”

“I’m going to reroute the pincushion to a portable unit to check for activity.”

Norton chomped off another bite and said, “A portable unit cannot translate codes, it will just come across as gibberish.”

Fenner turned and tapped Norton’s chest.

“If it receives
anything
, even gibberish,
then we know the QE link with the probe still works and that points to a computer problem. If so, I will rip this console apart until I find whatever software hijacked the damn thing.”

He logged in and drilled down into the operating system. Norton leaned over Fenner’s shoulder for a good look, but lost his balance and bumped into his friend.

“Hey, watch out,” Fenner said, but as he spoke a bout of dizziness hit, followed by a ringing in his ears.

Norton stumbled toward the exit where a panel on the wall next to the closed bulkhead provided environmental control information.

“Jesus, oxygen levels are up.”

“Call maintenance,” Fenner said as his disorientation grew.

Norton pushed the OPEN button but nothing happened.

“The door is jammed.”

“Shit, I do not need this right now,” was all Fenner managed to say before a massive power surge hit every workstation.

Monitors popped like glass balloons, sparks flew from control panels, bolts of electricity crisscrossed the air, and a sharp alarm rang out. The volume of oxygen inside the room overcame the safety features designed to prevent fire, feeding fast-spreading flames.

In the blink of an eye, the cramped chamber became a broiler as heat and fire fed off chair cushions, paper, clothing, and flesh causing a fog of charcoal-black soot. High-tech computerized suppression systems should have snuffed out the sudden inferno, but they did not activate.

Any answers Paul Fenner hoped to find died with him.

3. Commander Hawthorne

Commander Jonathan Hawthorne wore only a bathrobe as he hurried across his quarters aiming for the bar, pausing along the way to peer out the oversized port side portal. That big blue marble of Earth nearly filled the window. He thought he saw the Arabian Peninsula below, although clouds obscured the details.

Nearby, a cylinder-shaped ship unfurled solar sails, a trio of boxy heavy-lifters struggled to achieve escape velocity, and, on the horizon, China’s sea-based space elevator reached into orbit.

Twenty years ago such sights would glue him to the glass, but he had spent most his forty-seven years working in space and lost any sense of awe for the place.

As he left the window, he felt one side of his body briefly become weightless while the other half remained firmly planted to the artificial gravity panels beneath his feet. He had found this small gap five years ago, yet it never failed to amuse him.

The bar’s black marble top contrasted with the walls, carpet, and furniture of his quarters, all dressed in a painfully bright white to impress the passengers, which as a cruise ship captain was Hawthorne’s primary job.

However, at that moment his interests were personal. He poured a Scotch whisky for himself and sake for his visitor who waited behind the closed bedroom door. The scotch looked inviting but the intercom buzzed before the glass touched his lips.

“XO to Commander Hawthorne.”

His title was
Captain
Jonathan Hawthorne, but people knew him as the war hero
Commander
Hawthorne, more a brand name than rank.

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Visitors to see you, one from the company, the other military.”

“How come every time we dock at the space station someone pesters me?”

“They are on their way down.”

Like a frustrated child, he insisted, “Tell them I am in conference and give them free access to holographic tennis or the direct feed games.”

He placed the drinks on a tray, rounded the bar, and retraced his steps across the luxuriously appointed cabin but as he passed the main door a chime sounded.

Hawthorne stopped, sighed, then opened the door. On the other side stood a young black man dressed in a business suit alongside a mid-fifties Caucasian in Captain’s dress with a double chin and a glare that suggested pissed off was his natural state.

“Captain Hawthorne?” The black man smiled although his grin faltered as he noticed the bathrobe.

“Yes, I am busy now but my second-in-command is arranging for you to enjoy the leisure facilities onboard until I can break free.”

The visiting captain grunted and pushed inside, the company man smiled apologetically and followed.

“Sorry, but we are here on urgent business. My name is Reagan Fisk from Universal Vision’s Space Resource Exploitation Division and this is Captain Donavan Charles from the USNA navy.”

Charles sat on the couch and scowled; Fisk remained standing and smiling.

Hawthorne stood still, hoping the bathrobe and tray of drinks would convey a sense of urgency.

“To be honest, right now is not a convenient time.”

Charles said, “Make time; we have important business to discuss.”

The crescent-shaped bedroom door opened and a woman’s voice burst into the conversation, “Are you coming or—” she paused when she saw the visitors and her oriental eyes sharpened into daggers.

She was about thirty years old with blond hair hanging to her waist and wearing a powder blue robe smaller than Hawthorne’s. She did not speak as she walked over, took the sake from the tray, returned to the bedroom, and shut the door, leaving a scent of lilac drifting in her wake.

Fisk nearly fell over from fright or surprise.

“Given your history, you are not worried she could be a Chinese agent?”

Hawthorne stared at the empty spot on the serving tray.

“She is Asian-American and she also happens to be my navigator.”

Captain Charles did not approve.

“You are sleeping with your navigator?”

“Not yet, but I am trying, so if you gentlemen will just excuse me…” and he motioned toward the front door.

Charles grew a stiff lip and Fisk sat fast, as if the song had just stopped during a round of musical chairs.

Seeing no other choice, Jonathan plopped into a plush chair and balanced the tray—now with only one drink—on his lap.

“Obviously you are not leaving until I hear what you have to say, but let’s hurry this up: she will wait, but not forever.”

Captain Charles said, “Speaking of the Chinese, two weeks ago they hit the new shipyard in orbit around Ganymede, your old stomping ground.”

Fisk playfully cheered, “The hero of Ganymede!”

Hawthorne grabbed his scotch and put the empty tray on the floor.

“That was a long time ago.”

Charles took delight in their host’s discomfort as he brought up the reason Captain Hawthorne was remembered as
Commander
Hawthorne.

“Thirteen years ago at the Battle of Ganymede Commander Jonathan Hawthorne takes out the enemy’s flagship as well as a heavy cruiser with only a damaged frigate, turning defeat into victory.”

Fisk shouted, “Do it!”

This was a reference to bridge audio logs that had captured Hawthorne’s famous instructions to a helmsman who had questioned an order. A sturdy “do it,” that seemed crazy at the time turned out to be the order that won the battle. In the weeks following that historic victory, the phrase became a popular saying throughout the United States and its territories. Athletes, actors, and speechwriters found ways to work it into every performance; an entrepreneur had even printed tee shirts.

Of course, his popularity faded and nobody recognized him now unless reminded of that famous battle.

For his part, Hawthorne had no interest in digging up the past but the mention of that Jovian moon forced him to ask a follow-up question.

“Have they launched an offensive?”

Charles answered, “No, a suicide run against a heavy cruiser under construction: the
Niobe.
The Chinese still have not recovered from your little battle, at least not enough to retake lost territory. From what intelligence has pieced together, they feared we were building the
Niobe
with the intent of taking Europa from them. That is the only territory they hold around Jupiter, so they decided to launch a preemptive strike.”

Fisk jumped in, “The
Niobe
was built for a specific purpose, but nothing to do with Europa or the Chinese. That is why we are here; with the ship destroyed, we must find alternate arrangements. That is where you come in Commander, or I mean, Captain Hawthorne.”

“Well, gentlemen, you have come to the wrong place, this oversized company yacht is no warship. We sail from Earth to Mars and back every week, and the only weapons are in the galley. Trust me, stay away from the dinner buffet.”

Charles explained, “Captain, we are not here for the ship; we are here for you.”

“Now what exactly does that mean?”

“You are transferring to my command, part of the Project Sail initiative, a joint venture between the navy and Universal Visions. Apparently a computer program thinks Jonathan Hawthorne is the right pick for my second-in-command, I have no idea why.”

Fisk, tugging at his sleeves in what seemed a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder, added, “Tomorrow we leave for Oberon; that’s one of Uranus’ moons.”

Hawthorne smiled politely, waved a hand as if shooing away a fly, and told them, “Oh no, not me. Look, I am pushing fifty and I have served my time. Besides, only two things interest me these days, and one of them is staying alive.”

Fisk cocked his head and asked, “What is the other?”

“None of your business. Point is I am strictly an inner-planets guy. I travel further out than Mars and my life expectancy shrinks.”

The young businessman asked, “Why no further than Mars? Is it a health condition?”

Hawthorne looked first to Charles who shrugged off his companion’s ignorance, and then asked Fisk, “Excuse me, have you ever been in space?”

In a defensive tone, the young man answered, “I am a trained corporate astronaut but I do not see what that has to do with anything.”

Captain Charles explained, “Reagan, an unwritten rule exists among the major powers not to cause trouble around the inner planets. With diametric drives, gravity projectors, kinetic impactors, and nuclear weapons, a conflict would lay waste to Earth in minutes. Beyond the asteroid belt that changes into a wild west atmosphere, with warships acting as gunslingers.”

Fisk said, “Then wouldn’t it be safer to build a military shipyard in Earth’s orbit instead of around Ganymede?”

Charles answered, “A shipyard is a legitimate and tempting target. The last big war here was the Russians and the European Alliance in the Balkans back in 2093 and that killed two million in a week. For twenty years now, Earth has been free of that scale of war.”

Hawthorne tilted his head toward the bedroom door and put a fine point on it.

“If my navigator was a Chinese assassin sent to avenge their defeat at Ganymede, she would not touch me until we pass the asteroid belt. Then she would slit my throat and kick me out an airlock, which she might do anyway if we do not finish this meeting. As I said, I like my job and I like my safe, comfortable ship. So, have a nice day, gentlemen.”

Captain Charles said, “You have no choice, the original crew and specialists died on the
Niobe
. The computer picked you and the other replacements, so pack your bags.”

“I do not think so.”

“Well, um, actually, sir,” Fisk grew that apologetic smile again as he brushed his hand over his lapel as if trying to iron imaginary wrinkles. “If you read the terms of your contract, you will find that in an emergency we can reassign officer-grade employees as necessary.”

“My contract does not—”

“Yes it does,” Fisk insisted, still smiling. “You may want to review it.”

“Then I will resign.”

This time Captain Charles smiled.

“In that case, the USNA Navy will recall Jonathan Hawthorne to active duty with a multi-year commitment.”

Hawthorne jumped to his feet and paced while scratching his dark hair.

“Look, guys, you don’t want me, I’ve been on the bench a long time now. There has to be someone else out there who will be a better fit.”

Charles surprisingly replied, “I agree but I do not have a choice, either.”

Fisk said, “The computer picked you, that means you must go.”

“Well what the hell is out on Oberon anyway?”

Captain Charles answered, “Oberon is not the destination, but the starting point for a deep space mission. That is all the information we can share at this point.”

“I am no astronaut; I’m a cruise ship captain who takes rich clients on tours around Mars.”

Fisk answered, “The computer says otherwise, and I can promise it will be historic. Besides, when you learn the details of Project Sail, I know you will be glad you joined; we will restore the people’s faith in space exploration.”

“What does that mean?”

Charles said, “Space has become dull and routine. If you live on Earth, you care about the weather, what’s happening in orbit, and when the next convoy of helium three or refined dark matter is making planet fall so you can get back to work in one factory or another. If you live on Mars, the news is the riots, the latest terraforming promise, and dome repair. Everyone else is stuck in a warship picking fights or in a mining camp hoping to finish their tour in one piece and hop the first transport home. The public will start caring about exploration when we give them a reason to care.”

“Lump me in with the lot of them; I just want to live as long and as easily as possible. I am not the man for this job, whatever the mission.”

“No choice,” Charles said and took to his feet like a victorious general finally willing to leave the battlefield, now that he owned it. “Mr. Fisk will collect you at your home tomorrow morning, 0900 hours. You will accompany him as he gathers other members of the team on the way to Oberon.”