Authors: William R. Forstchen
With Singh there was a moment of emotion when she broke and spoke of their friend Gary Morgan and his final words and announced they would be waiting for someone with guts to come and follow in his path and see the construction of “their Pillar” completed.
She had made this declaration even more effective by repeating it in a somewhat more polite and circumspect tone in her native Hindi, then yet again, albeit more briefly, in Mandarin, offering the hope that China would actually pursue its own program or throw in with theirs.
Overnight, if such a term could be applied to people orbiting in the near perpetual daylight of geosynch, the team aloft had become a global sensation and as much a spokesperson for the future as Franklin was … or as Gary had been.
And yet there was, as always, the pragmatic side. Three supply ships, which had already been bought and paid for before the disaster, apart from the costs of fueling and launching, had been sent aloft, carrying with them thousands of miles of the new ribbon and supplies for the astronauts—including a few delicacies for the three, even though the cost of a single pizza delivery or deluxe barbecue dinner from Phil’s Bar-B-Que Pit was well over two hundred thousand dollars; but then that was the end of the pipeline. They had a year’s worth of supplies on board; when they ran out, like it or not, they would have to abandon their posts and return home.
And so they waited, surpassing in duration the longest flight times in space ever attempted aboard
Mir
or the International Space Station.
The few remaining Apollo astronauts, now in their late eighties and nineties, and the retired and long-since-grounded crews of the space shuttle program, in their sixties and seventies, held a joint press conference and rally at Kennedy, Houston, and then Goddard to lobby for support.
The message was becoming clear.
Do we stay in this cradle, and eventually perish in it because of our own follies, or do we seek the limitless growth potential of above?
And then at last had come the day.
The House had passed a budget for NASA undreamed of but a few years earlier, but it was locked in the Senate oversight committee that Proxley still was a member of. After winning reelection by only a few thousand votes, he took up his old litany, as if he could never learn another. Senator Dennison of Maine was now chair, but Proxley still had clout and was backed now by Garlin of Indiana and more than a few others who argued that the public was being swayed by emotion rather than logic. The fact that a savvy supporter who first wrote the proposal called it the “Morgan Space Bill” had enraged Proxley, but public opinion and now pressure from a president who was of the opposing party had finally forced a hearing.
Proxley had loaded the hearing with opposition for three days straight, led by Garlin from the House, who was lauded as a professor who was an expert on the subject of the impact of a tower.
She gave damning testimony about the disruptive technologies that could shatter entire industries and cause massive economic upheaval and shocks to the stock market, reminding everyone of the finger-pointing of the first decade of the twenty-first century. The nation after a decade and a half of moribund or collapsing markets and spiraling debt was barely back on an even keel, and she maintained that now was not the time for risk but for well-thought-out plans for a steady recovery. Space had been there since the origins of man; it would still be there fifty years hence and, all sentimental appeals aside, it was time to think of the present and not some sci-fi future more than likely filled with similar disasters rather than hope. She then raised the fear that continued pursuit of energy sources in space could so destabilize the national and regional economies that out of desperation a global war would be all but inevitable—that the missile strike against the tower had been the result of disabling economic threats. Did our nation wish to incur such a threat again, perhaps this time with nuclear rather than nonnuclear missiles on board?
There were more than a few, particularly those who had always mistrusted any technology—even as they carried their iPads, drove hybrid cars, and built personal wealth through the instant trading of stock on the Internet—who sided with Garlin.
After the first two days of hearings—which Proxley had carefully stacked in his favor even though Dennison chaired the proceedings—it was the turn for those who supported NASA to testify.
Franklin Smith, who had aged significantly since the disaster—and there at his side, the widow of a man renowned for his iconic final words, joined by Victoria, who Smith announced would increasingly take charge of their mission in spite of her youth—sat down before the committee.
* * *
Much had changed in their dynamic over the last fourteen months. Victoria had easily earned her Ph.D. Her department, in the aftermath of her father’s death, had graciously postponed the final defense of her dissertation until two months later. Would anyone have dared to reject it, even though several hundred protesters without any sense of decency shouted right outside the office window while she defended her work? When they were finished, her committee, proudly and without dissent, congratulated her in the grand tradition: the head of her committee was the first to take her hand and address her as “Dr. Morgan.”
Until this crisis was past, she and Jason had decided to postpone their wedding as he finished up his own dissertation, which was a comparative analysis of disruptive technologies of the early to mid-nineteenth century and the lessons to be applied today, in particular the Pillar. And yet, in the months that passed, though the couple remained close, there was still a certain distance between them as she single-mindedly threw herself into honoring her father’s final wish and to stand as well by Franklin’s side. Though Franklin did not show it publicly, Victoria’s father’s death had indeed shaken him to the core, and he even had moments of self-doubt. Their relationship had changed. He was indeed more than ever the substitute for a lost father, and she the daughter he never had, but now did.
The disaster had worn down Franklin far more than he would ever admit, but it was evident to all. It was not just the loss of the tower. It was his deep anguish over Gary’s death. He had bonded closely to Eva and Victoria as a result, and increasingly turned to them and even deferred to them regarding decisions about what to do next.
Operations on the ground had all but ceased except that Fuchida was still cranking out ribbon at a phenomenal rate at his factory in New Mexico. Franklin could no longer afford to purchase it, but there were many from overseas who were eager to buy; some, like the Chinese, had acquired the secret of making the wire but were not yet able to spin it into ribbon. Fuchida refused to sell. He had a ten-year contract with Franklin, and whether Franklin could actually purchase it or not, it was being stored in a heavily guarded warehouse in New Mexico, waiting to be delivered. Fuchida, the hard-nosed businessman, then just started handing it over to Franklin on credit. Others had offered astronomical sums for his entire stockpile, which he angrily refused, rightly surmising any purchaser other than the Chinese would simply dump it all in the deepest part of the ocean to prevent its proper use. He’d rather give it away for free and go bankrupt than see such an end to his lifetime of work.
The third day of the Senate hearings was at last at hand, and Victoria, Eva, Franklin, and their staff and allies—including the Brit and his American partner—arrived in Washington. The two pilots handled the controls on their trans-atmospheric flight from Tarawa, landing at Reagan Airport and barely acknowledging that the flight had set a new distance and time record in transit as they dodged their way through a sea of press.
As they approached Capitol Hill, Victoria could not help but flash back to the day when she, at age sixteen, had accompanied her parents to this same hallowed place, only to see them defeated. Sitting in the back of the limo, scanning over her notes on her iPad, she looked across at Franklin. The last year had indeed taken its toll. He was no longer a towering six foot six, his features conveying power with his slight fringe of gray hair offsetting his dark face and his bright dancing eyes, his well-modulated voice that sounded nearly identical to that of a certain beloved actor. The actor had portrayed characters ranging from Civil War sergeants to presidents, and when he and Franklin finally met, they had joked together about whether Franklin had imitated him or if it was the other way around. The actor was now an active spokesman for the project as well.
Franklin’s shoulders were slightly slumped now, nothing serious other than the reality of advancing age. He was no longer in his mid-sixties. On the day he and Victoria first met, he had come across to her as a man of near-infinite wisdom, a true legend of the dot-com days—days long forgotten in the economic turmoil that followed. He was a man who had risen from the poverty of the segregated South to become one of the financial leaders of those who had not given up hope in the future and believed there could still be a bright century ahead. As he had so often said, he believed his mission now was to give back what he had received in spite of the barriers of the racism and economic poverty of his youth. But in the last year he seemed to have retreated into circumspection and even depression, and now he was going into a hearing to face one of his fiercest foes. An opponent who, under the previous administration, had actually sworn he would bring down “a monopoly created by an egotist out of control.”
Victoria looked over at her mother, born during the Cold War, in a nation under the thumb of their masters in Moscow. She carried with her memories of ancestors who, despite their oppression, had risen up to fight against the fascist evil invading their land, even though the iron fist of Stalin hung over them and despised them and kept them imprisoned after the fascists were defeated. It had become a running joke between mother and daughter that she wished she had never told Victoria of her own grandfather and hero of Stalingrad.
As Victoria looked to her mother, she recalled Eva’s stories of how, as a child, she would visit her grandfather in the military hospital and glory in the moments when he would pin his medal to her blouse. How, as a young teenager, she had fled her hometown, never to return, when the nearby nuclear reactor at Chernobyl had melted down. How she had gone to the University of Moscow with a belief that in space was not only humanity’s future energy resources but also a means of staving off yet another conflict if only old rivals could see their common future in the universe above.
On many a night over the last fourteen months, she had awakened to hear her mother softly crying, and more than once had tapped on her bedroom door, gone in, and lain by her side and held her as they both wept for a man of such simple outward bearing who had shown the world a dream and the courage to face his fate while in pursuit of that dream.
The thought of that, of her father, steadied her nerves for what lay ahead.
* * *
Settling into the chairs facing the Senate committee, Victoria did spare a quick glance around the room. C-SPAN, this time, thought the hearing worthy enough to give it live coverage, as did several other networks. She saw old supporters and friends, nodding to them, and of course Jason, who gave her a nervous smile and a “V for victory” sign. Her parents’ friend, Senator Mary Dennison of Maine, would chair the proceedings, and as they made eye contact there was a bright smile of encouragement. And also there were Garlin and her supporters sitting in the back of the room. These were the final hours of the hearings.
There were the usual preliminaries, the polite introductions, even a statement of condolence from Senator Proxley about the loss of Dr. Gary Morgan, which she and her mother graciously accepted with thanks.
It was like all the rituals between two gentlemen of the eighteenth century who a few minutes later would do everything possible to rip or blast each other’s guts out in a duel to the death.
And then it started.
There were the usual opening statements by each member of the senatorial committee, the usual platitudes and niceties, especially when they sensed the C-SPAN camera was on them. The committee basically fell along party lines, although Victoria sensed several were crossing over in support of the president, whose party held a majority in the House by a few votes but was in the minority in the Senate. But those few who were wavering, she watched carefully. One was from a state where the slashing of NASA’s budget had hit deeply, and a major influx would be a coup. Another, who was actually an idealist, was crossing party lines even though it would not mean a cent of profit for his state. He was that rare kind of man who truly voted his conscience and what he felt was best not just for his constituents but for his nation.
Was he the swing vote?
The grilling at last started, led by Proxley, to whom several on his side had ceded their time for questioning. It was absolutely brutal.
“And how much did this failed venture cost your investors?” Proxley asked.
“It was not a failure,” Franklin retorted. “It was never intended to be the primary tower but instead a means to haul aloft to geosynch, at a fraction of the cost of traditional launch vehicles, the means to build the second tower.”
“I asked how much.”
“Seventy-seven billion dollars,” Franklin replied, then paused, his old charismatic combativeness in his expression, “give or take a few hundred million. But when it comes to some government programs, what’s a few hundred million or even billions, more or less?”
“Stick to answering the question, sir,” Proxley snapped back.
“But of course, sir,” and he could not resist throwing in an ever-so-slight inflection on the last word, an echo of another time when African-Americans had to address white men with subservience.
Proxley caught the veiled insult and did not comment for a moment.
“And of your personal assets that survived this disaster?” Proxley asked.
“I have submitted my tax returns to this committee as ordered,” Franklin replied. “Personal, corporate, and for the variety of entities in which I have financial interests—my personal taxes for the last seven years as well.”