Sullivan Obie awakened with a groan to the sound of the ringing telephone. His head felt as if cymbals were banging on it, and his mouth tasted like an old ashtray. He reached for the phone and accidentally knocked it off the cradle. The loud thud made him wince with pain. Aw, forget it, he thought, and turned away, burrowing his face into a nest of tangled hair.
A woman?
Squinting against the morning light, he confirmed that there was indeed a woman lying in bed with him. A blonde. Snoring. He closed his eyes, hoping that if he just went back to sleep, she be gone when he woke up again.
But he could not sleep now. Not with the voice yelling from the fallen receiver.
He fished around at the side of the bed and found the phone.
“What, Bridget?” he said. “What?”
“Why aren’t you here?” Bridget demanded.
“‘Cause I’m in bed.”
“It’s ten-thirty! Hel-lo? Meeting with the new investors? I as well warn you, Casper is wavering between crucifixion and strangulation.” The investors. Shit.
Sullivan sat up and clutched his head, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
“Look, just leave the bimbo and get over here,” said Bridget.
“Casper’s already walking them over to the hangar.”
“Ten minutes,” he said. He hung up and stumbled to his feet.
The bimbo didn’t stir. He had no idea who she was, but he left her asleep in his bed, figuring he had nothing worth stealing, anyway.
There was no time to shower or shave. He tossed back three aspirins, chased them with a cup of nuked coffee, and roared off his Harley.
Bridget was waiting for him outside the hangar. She looked like a Bridget, sturdy and redheaded, with a bad temper to match.
Sometimes, unfortunately, stereotypes do ring true.
“They’re about to leave,” she hissed. “Get your butt in there.”
“Who are these guys again?”
“A Mr. Lucas and a Mr. Rashad. They represent a consortium of twelve investors. You blow this, Sully, and we’re toast.” She paused, eyeing him in disgust. “Ah, hell, we’re already toast. Look at you. Couldn’t you at least have shaved?”
“You want me to go back home? I can rent a tuxedo on the way.”
“Forget it.” She thrust a folded newspaper into his hand.
“What’s this?”
“Casper wants it. Give it to him. Now get in there and convince ‘em to write us a check. A big check.” Sighing, he stepped into the hangar.
After the harsh desert glare, the relative darkness was a comfort to his eyes. It took moment to spot the three men, standing by the black thermal barrier tiles of the orbiter Apogee II. The two visitors, both in suits, looked out of place among all the aircraft tools and equipment.
“Good morning, gentlemen!” he called. “Sorry I’m late, but I got hung up on a conference call. You know how things can drag on…” He glimpsed Casper Mulholland’s warning look of Don’t push it, asshole and swallowed hard. “I’m Sullivan Obie,” he said.
“Mr. Mulholland’s partner.”
“Mr. Obie knows every nut and bolt of this RLV,” said Casper.
“He used to work with the old master himself, Bob Truax out in California. In fact, he can explain the system better than I can. Around here, we call him our Obie-Wan.” The two visitors merely blinked.
It was not a good sign when the universal language of Star Wars failed to elicit a smile.
Sullivan shook hands, first with Lucas, then with Rashad, grinning broadly even as his hopes sank. Even as he felt a surge resentment toward these two well-dressed gentlemen whose money he and Casper so desperately needed. Apogee Engineering, their baby, the dream they had nurtured for the past thirteen years, about to go under, and only a fresh infusion of cash, from a new of investors, could save it. He and Casper had to make the sales pitch of their lives. If it didn’t work, they might as well pack their tools and sell off the orbiter as a carnival ride.
With a flourish, Sullivan waved his arm at Apogee II, which looked less like a rocket plane and more like a fat fireplug with windows.
“I know she may not look like much,” he said, “but what we’ve built here is the most cost-effective and practical reusable launch vehicle now in existence. She uses an assisted SSTO launch system. After vertical takeoff, upon climbing to twelve kilometers, pressurefed rockets accelerate the vehicle to a Mach four staging point at low-dynamic pressures. This orbiter is fully reusable, and weighs only eight and a half tons. It fulfills the principles we believe are the future of commercial space travel. Smaller. Faster. Cheaper.”
“What sort of lift engine do you use?” asked Rashad.
“Rybinsk RD-38 air-breathing engines imported from Russia.”
“Why Russian?”
“Because, Mr. Rashad—between you, me, and the wall—the Russians know more about rocketry than anyone else on earth. They’ve developed dozens of liquid-fueled rocket motors, using advanced materials which can operate at higher pressures. Our country, I’m sorry to say, has developed only one new liquid-fueled rocket motor since Apollo. This is now an international industry. We believe in choosing the best components for our product—wherever those components may come from.”
“And how does this… thing land?” asked Mr. Lucas, dubiously at the fireplug orbiter.
“Well, that’s the beauty of Apogee II. As you’ll notice, she has no wings. She doesn’t need a runway. Instead she drops straight down, using parachutes to slow her descent and air bags to cushion touchdown. She can land anywhere, even in the ocean. Again, we have to tip our hats to the Russians, because we’ve borrowed features from their old Soyuz capsule. It was their reliable for decades.”
“You like that old Russki technology, huh?” said Lucas.
Sullivan stiffened. “I like technology that works. Say what you want about the Russians, they knew what they were doing.”
“So what you have here,” said Lucas, “is something of a hybrid. Soyuz mixed in with space shuttle.”
“A very small space shuttle. We’ve spent thirteen years in development and only sixty-five million dollars to get this far—that’s amazingly inexpensive when you compare it to what the shuttle cost. With multiple spacecraft, we believe you’ll get an annual return on investment of thirty percent, if we launch twelve times a year. Cost per flight would be eighty thousand dollars, price per kilogram would be dirt cheap at two hundred seventy. Smaller, faster, cheaper. That’s our mantra.”
“How small are we talking about, Mr. Obie? What’s your payload capacity?” Sullivan hesitated. This was the point where they might lose them. “We can launch a payload of three hundred kilograms, plus a pilot, to low earth orbit.” There was a long silence.
Mr. Rashad said, “That’s all?”
“That’s almost seven hundred pounds. You can fit a lot of research experiments in—”
“I know how much three hundred kilos is. It’s not much—”
“So we make up for it by more frequent launches. You can almost think of it as an airplane to space.”
“In fact—in fact, we’ve already got NASA’s interest!” Casper interjected with a note of desperation. “This is just the kind of system they might purchase for quick hops to the space station.”
Lucas’s eyebrow shot up. “NASA is interested?”
“Well, we have something of an inside track.”
Shit, Casper, thought Sullivan. Don’t go there.
“Show them the newspaper, Sully.”
“What?”
“Los Angeles Times. Second page.” Sullivan looked down at the L. A. Times that Bridget had thrust in his hand. He turned to the second page and saw the article, “NASA Launches Astronaut Replacement.” Next to it was a photograph of JSC high-muck-a-mucks at a press conference. He recognized the homely guy with the big ears and the bad haircut. It was Gordon Obie.
Casper snatched the paper and showed it to their visitors. “See this man here, standing next to Leroy Cornell? That’s the of Flight Crew Operations. Mr. Obie’s brother.” The two visitors, obviously impressed, turned and looked at Sullivan.
“Well?” said Casper. “Would you gentlemen care to talk business?
“We might as well tell you this up front,” said Lucas. “Mr. Rashad and I have already taken a look at what other aerospace companies have in development. We’ve looked over the Kelly Astroliner, the Roton, the Kistler K-1. We were impressed by all them, especially the K-1. But we figured we should give your company a chance to make a pitch as well.” Your little company.
Fuck this, thought Sullivan. He hated begging for money, hated getting down on his knees before stuffed shirts. This was a campaign. His head ached, his stomach was growling, and these two suits had wasted his time.
“Tell us why we should bet on your horse,” said Lucas. “What makes Apogee our best choice?”
“Frankly, gentlemen, I don’t think we are your best choice,” Sullivan answered bluntly. And he turned and walked away.
“Uh—excuse me,” said Casper, and he went chasing after his partner.
“Sully!” he whispered. “What the hell are you doing?”
“These guys aren’t interested in us. You heard them. They love the K-1. They want big rockets. To match their dicks.”
“Don’t screw this up! Go back and talk to them.”
“Why? They’re not writing us any checks.”
“We lose them, we lose everything.”
“We’ve already lost.”
“No. No, you can sell this to them. All you have to do is tell the truth. Tell them what we really believe. Because you know and I know we’ve got the best.”
Sullivan rubbed his eyes. The aspirin was wearing off, and his head pounded. He was sick of begging. He was an engineer and a pilot, and he’d happily spend the rest of his life with his hands blackened by engine grease. But it would not happen, not without new investors. Not without new cash. He turned and walked back to the visitors. To his surprise, both men seemed to regard him with wary respect. Perhaps because he had told the truth.
“Okay,” said Sullivan, emboldened by the fact he had nothing to lose. He might as well go down like a man. “Here’s the deal. We can back up everything we’ve said with one simple demonstration. Are the other companies ready to launch at the drop of a hat? No, they are not. They need preparation time,” he sneered. “Months and months of it. But we can launch anytime. All we need to do is load this baby onto its booster and we can shoot her up to low earth orbit. Hell, we can send her up to hotdog the space station. So give us a date. Tell us when you want liftoff, and we’ll do it.” Casper turned as white as a—well, a ghost. And not a friendly one.
Sullivan had just taken them so far out on a limb they were clawing at thin air. Apogee II hadn’t been tested yet. She had sitting in this hangar for over fourteen months, gathering dust while they scrounged for money. On this, her maiden voyage, wanted to launch her all the way to orbit?
“In fact, I’m so confident she’ll pass muster,” said Sullivan, raising the stakes even higher, “I’ll ride in the pilot’s seat myself.”
Casper clutched his stomach. “Uh… that’s just a figure of speech, gentlemen. She can be flown perfectly well unmanned—”
“But there’s no real drama in that,” said Sullivan. “Let me take her up. It’ll make it more interesting for everyone. What do you say?”
I say you’re outta yourfucking mind, Casper’s eyes told him.
The two businessmen exchanged looks, a few whispered words. Then Lucas said, “We’d be very interested in a demonstration. It will take us time to round up all our partners’ travel schedules. So let’s say… a month. Can you do it?”
They were calling his bluff. Sullivan merely laughed. “A month? No problem.” He looked at Casper, who now had his eyes closed as though in pain.
“We’ll be in touch,” said Lucas, and turned toward the door.
“One last question, if I may,” said Mr. Rashad. He pointed to the orbiter. “I notice the name on your prototype is Apogee II. Was there an Apogee I?” Casper and Sullivan looked at each other.
“Uh, yes,” said Casper. “There was…”
“And what happened to her?” Casper went mute.
What the hell, thought Sullivan. Telling the truth seemed to work with these guys, he might as well do it again.
“She crashed and burned,” he said. And walked out of the hangar.
Crashed and burned. That was the only way to describe what had happened on that cold, clear morning a year and a half ago. The morning his dreams had crashed and burned as well. Sitting at his battered desk in the company office, nursing his hangover with a cup of coffee, he couldn’t help replaying every painful detail of day. The busload of NASA officials pulling up at the launch site.
His brother, Gordie, grinning with pride. The air of celebration among the dozen Apogee employees and the score of investors who had assembled under the tent for prelaunch coffee and doughnuts.
The countdown. The liftoff. Every one squinting up at the sky as Apogee I streaked toward the heavens and receded to a glinting pinpoint.
Then the flash of light, and it was all over.
Afterward, his brother had not said very much, barely a few words of condolence. But that’s how it was with Gordon. All their lives, whenever Sullivan screwed up—and it seemed to happen all too often—Gordon would just give that sad and disappointed shake of the head. Gordon was the older brother, the sober and reliable son who had distinguished himself as a shuttle commander.
Sullivan had never even made it into the astronaut corps.
Though he, too, was a pilot and an aerospace engineer, things seemed to go Sullivan’s way. If he climbed into the cockpit, that was precisely the moment a wire would short out or a line would rupture. He often thought the words Not My Fault should be tattooed on his forehead, because more often than not, it wasn’t his fault when things went wrong. But Gordon didn’t see it that way.
Things never went wrong for him. Gordon thought the concept of bad luck was an excuse to cover up incompetence.
“Why don’t you call him?” said Bridget.
He looked up. She was standing by his desk, her arms crossed like a disapproving schoolteacher’s. “Call who?” he asked.
“Your brother, who else? Tell him we’re launching the second prototype. Invite him to watch. Maybe he’ll bring the rest of NASA.”