On Mars Pathfinder (The Mike Lane Stories Book 1) (5 page)

Presently, I was now in the final leg of the GTO and coming up on the rapidly approaching apogee. Because of the MTV’s higher overall mass, the MTV trajectory burn was from a bit higher orbit. I had been awake now over thirty hours, but the thought of sleep still wasn’t anywhere on my radar. With the PDV finally en route to Mars, I was strapped in my seat again and was impatiently waiting for the Mars Transit Vehicle to be on its way.

The size of the MTV had caused some comment. The Command Module itself had just over 30 feet by 12 feet of interior space (minus cupboards, equipment, and storage areas) for the occupants. It was designed for four people to spend over eight months inside that small area. For just one occupant on this journey, it was positively palatial by comparison to the Apollo 11 Command Module. However, as a proof of concept mission, there were a lot of concepts I had to prove. That was why they sent me in the full size Command Module.

The Support Module had caused a small stir. Most space designers (Roscosmos, ESA, Falcon, etc.) agreed it only needed to be about eighteen feet long; however, the Support Module on the MTV was forty feet long. That had caused some pause and more than a bit of commentary when images of the MTV were revealed during the launch day video feeds. The fact that the Lander, Command Module, and Support Module were almost ninety feet long in total, and that they were all matte black, raised quite a few technical and military eyebrows. We simply told everyone the Support Module was full of new technology for space travel that we needed to proof and validate for the safety of future flights of humans to Mars. I was the first human going to Mars, after all. That seemed to keep most people happy in the long run.
Most people
.

The day after the trajectory burn, the Science and Space reporter for Fox News appeared on the early morning Fox & Friends program, and raised some questions. He made some suggestions about secret military missions, and government cover-ups in how the mission was planned and announced so suddenly. He then went on to suggest that the mission was solely to establish a weaponized military presence on Mars. He even referred to me as the “expendable package”. It was a pretty farfetched accusation considering this was a one man colony mission. I like to think that most people would have just snickered at him from behind their coffee cups, and got on with their day. However, John Portland had a reputation. He was the reporter known for some outlandish views and opinions that invariably turned out to be true.

Mr. Portland went straight to his suburban home after that early morning appearance. He arrived in time to see his young daughters off to school, and his wife off to work; kissing each one in turn. It seemed like his wife had only just pulled her car out of the driveway when his doorbell rang. There were two very tall and solidly built men standing at the door when he opened it. They hovered in his doorway in black suits and black fedoras, perfectly trimmed crew cut hair, very square jaws, wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses. After a brief discussion, they suggested to Mr. Portland that he should refrain from reporting any further wild speculation on the nature of the colonization mission, particularly the components of the space ship; the Support Module specifically. He informed them his opinion was protected by the First Amendment and that he would report on that which he chose to report on; including his own opinion and speculation. He further informed them that now he was even keener to investigate this topic,
and
that he would indeed continue his reports of said investigations,
and
that they did not intimidate him from finding out the truth about what was being sent to Mars.

The next morning, Fox News reported the unfortunate passing of John Portland. They reported that he had apparently committed suicide, by jumping from the balcony of his home, thus tragically ending his life. They judiciously chose not to report that it was a second floor balcony, and he fell only ten feet to the lawn at the back of his house. They may have been incensed and outraged, but there wasn’t a single executive at the news agency that wanted to fall from their second floor balcony as well.

The medical examiner, while unaware of the circumstances of the man’s recent on-air commentaries prior to his untimely demise, had a lot of unanswered questions on his hands. These questions were soon taken care of by a couple of visitors. As the two large men in black suits and black fedoras, perfectly trimmed crew cut hair, very square jaws, wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses hovered in the doorway of the medical examiner’s office; he somewhat nervously edited some observations out of his final report. Specifically, he removed reference to the observations that the 3 metre fall had apparently caused Mr. Portland to break an eye socket, a cheek bone, his neck, his left arm, six fingers and both legs. After Mr. Portland’s death, there were no more serious media stories
anywhere
concerning the Support Module.

Shortly after Mr. Portland,
ahem
, committed suicide, another incident of little note took place involving Brenda Finney, an acquaintance of Mr. Portland and a high level civilian clerk at Vandenberg Air Force Base. She was a sweet middle aged woman, single with no children, winsome in appearance as my grand-mother would have said. She had a passion for retro 50’s clothing, and bought far more than she could afford, even though she had the ample pay grade of a high level clerk in the requisitioning office. Her passion caused her to have a significant debt load and financial problems that she kept hidden from everyone. The shame of her compulsive behaviour was too much to share. Shortly after Mr. Portland’s as yet undiscovered demise, she answered the phone ringing on her desk, and was summoned to the main gate. She was told there were a couple of men there to see her. Not expecting anyone, curiosity eating at her, she arrived at the gate minutes later to find two large men in black suits and black fedoras, perfectly trimmed crew cut hair, very square jaws, wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses. They had offered the Duty Officer the ID of another government agency, but the D.O. didn’t say which agency, when he led her to them. When questioned later he said he hadn’t slept well the night before, was kind of bleary-eyed that morning, and didn’t really remember what agency they were from. That was his story, and he was sticking to it. All he remembered was that Brenda had spoken briefly with the two men, and then appearing to be fighting back tears, she accompanied them to the nondescript black sedan that they had arrived in. Brenda Finney was never seen again. By anyone. Ever.

Of course, I didn’t know any of that had transpired while I was waiting, a bit impatiently, in my rocket ship. I didn’t find out until years later.

As the time for trajectory burn was closing in on me, I fastened myself in the flight couch, pulled the restraints really tight, and did a final COM and video check with Flight Control. The Flight Control centre with the imported German Flight Director and my friend, Hans Gohs, was in the Falcon-X facility in Texas, although we had launched the rockets from facilities at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California and Cape Canaveral in Florida. After the final trajectory burn, control would be handed off to the Mission Control centre set up at the Corporation’s offices in Sweden. Hans would then board a private jet to return there. Florida, California, and Texas were far beyond the reach of the Swedish or Chinese governments so they could not stop the launch. The Americans were not too keen on someone stealing their space-race thunder, particularly the Mars-race thunder; but they got more joy out of screwing over the Chinese, whom everyone thought (wrongly) was behind the Swedish government’s announcement to us twenty weeks ago. They also had certain requirements, that I have alluded to, for permitting the launch to be hosted on U.S. soil, but again, I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

While I was gritting my teeth through the boredom of the last hour, the Corporation was holding a news conference. They were announcing to the world that less than a day ago I had been launched into space, and in the next few minutes I was going to be propelled towards Mars. We waited until this moment for the announcement, because once that last candle lit up, there really would be no stopping it.

Not soon enough, Flight Control took me through the final local checklist, and then I was ready to rock and roll. Hans came over my headphones, “Flight Control to Pathfinder, we’re ready to begin transmitting live to the world.” I gave the camera two thumbs up. My own video feed from Flight Control flipped over to a stage at the Corporation’s auditorium in Sweden. It was 9:00 A.M. (GMT) in Sweden. Jayden and the brain trust of the company were on the stage. My son and his wife were there, and my BFF Mary as well. I could see in my own video monitor that the large screen behind them had gone from the mission logo, to showing the live feed from the Lander, with a close up of yours truly. I smiled and waved at the camera, watching my smiling waving image, behind the image of Jayden looking off stage, and of those around him. Even in HEO there was no signal delay.

What I couldn’t see was who Jayden was looking at. He was looking at the Swedish Ministry official who had just arrived and was standing in the wings of the stage, surrounded by six very large Swedish Federal law enforcement officers. They stared at each other, the Minister scowling and chewing on his lip, and Jayden looking resolute. Finally Jayden just nodded at the Minister who after a pause let out a deep sigh, nodded back and then turned around leading his entourage out of the building. He appeared to have decided it would be easier to beg forgiveness from the cabinet, than do what it was that he had probably been ordered to do; but didn’t want to go through with. Many years later, the official confessed to Jayden, over cognac and cigars, that he had been incensed that his government had given in to the threats and sabre rattling from Pyongyang.
Screw the North Koreans,
was his thought du jour as he stomped out of the building ahead of the six, very relieved,
Säkerhetspolisen
.

The world had not expected anyone to be going to Mars for another six years and there had been plenty of speculation and talk about who would actually be first: the Corporation, or one of the superpowers vying to be first on Mars. The fact that the Americans were helping us out (not the least by not interfering) was surprising to everyone, and as events would later play out, a bit ominous in its prescience. Everyone in the auditorium had been stunned when this press conference was called, with short notice, and no warning. The crowd, mostly media, was certainly in a pandemonium of enthusiasm.

Jayden had explained to them that this was a “proof of concept” mission, and that the courageous lone astronaut was setting the path for the future colonists; that I was setting the path for all future interplanetary and exo-planetary exploration. He explained that I was taking on the incredible risk of this one-way mission to show the entire human race that it was possible to get safely to Mars and to live there. If one man could do it, then a colony would thrive. He then called me the “original Pathfinder of the human interplanetary space effort”. That was how the term Pathfinder became synonymous with me, Mike Lane. It was also the name of the Lander, the name that I alone had picked, but the name was forever associated with me, as a person.

From that moment, I became the most famous person on the planet, or more precisely, off the planet. Jayden delivered a brief biography about me that he had committed to memory. He introduced my son, Gary, and daughter-in-law, Amy. They had married four weeks ago, after I told them what I was doing. They insisted on advancing their own plans because they wanted me to be at the wedding. Jayden didn’t introduce Mary, my closest friend, but that was at her request. She was there to show her support for me and have one last chance to say good-bye.

One of the not totally unexpected offshoots of my departure was the media attention that would soon focus on my son and his family. With the talk shows, a book and movie deal that would come from this event, the press conference began the process of his financial independence for life. As that news eventually worked its way to me over the coming weeks, I was glad. I was relieved and it felt good that I had been able to give him a parting gift that would last forever. I had unknowingly been, as the Canadian rock group Bachman Turner Overdrive put it, “takin’ care of business”.

Jayden was wearing an ear piece that was providing him with an audio feed from Flight Control. He and I both heard the anonymous voice:

“GTO Apogee in 15 seconds, Three minutes to trajectory burn for Heliocentric Orbital Insertion.”

The smiling Jayden put his hand up to stop the media’s questions. He then asked me a couple of sound-bite questions for the media’s benefit.

“At GTO apogee, two minutes, forty-five seconds to trajectory burn. Heliocentric Orbital Alignment procedure running.”

“OMS engaged.”

My son and my friend Mary, stepped up to the microphone. They wished me a safe journey and Godspeed. They told me they loved me and were proud of me.

“Alignment procedure completed, trajectory alignment lock activated. NavCom final update in progress.”

The audience politely laughed when my adult son pulled off his sweater and revealed a red t-shirt with yellow lettering that said, “My Dad went to Mars and all I got was this damn T-Shirt”.

“Forty-five seconds to final trajectory burn, OMS to ready state.”

“Final alignment confirmed. NavCom confirmed.”

Flight control then asked the all-important question
, “Pathfinder, Flight. Confirm Go-No-Go.”
It was my last chance to bail on the whole thing.