Delta-v, page 16
Jin nodded. “So you admit, capitalism has no loyalty.”
Morra took a sip of bourbon. “Are you really going to stand there and tell me China isn’t capitalist?”
Adisa interjected. “Space does not belong to America.”
Everyone turned to Adisa. It was an uncharacteristically blunt comment for the soft-spoken Nigerian.
Adisa looked to Jin. “And space does not belong to China.” He looked to Yak. “Or Russia. Or any other nation.” He gazed around the lawn. The entire party had turned quiet.
“I will tell you, when I was a small boy I dreamed of going to space. I read all I could find about it. I learned math. I learned software. I learned engineering. All because of a speech I once heard. It was made well before I was born—two years after Nigerian independence, at the height of the Cold War.” Adisa seemed to realize all eyes were on him. “At a time when the world was close to nuclear annihilation, John F. Kennedy said these words: ‘There is no strife, no prejudice, no national conflict in space as yet. Its hazards are hostile to us all. Its conquest deserves the best of all mankind, and its opportunity for peaceful cooperation may never come again.’”
The entire class of trainees stood in silence.
Adisa studied the faces of his colleagues. He raised his glass. “To peaceful cooperation.”
The entire assembly raised their glasses. “Hear! Hear!”
CHAPTER 15
Parabolic Trajectory
Lukas Rochat exited Newark International Airport, Terminal B, rolling a carry-on suitcase behind him. Normally he’d be exhausted after a nine-hour flight from Frankfurt, but traveling business class was a different experience altogether. Aside from a touch of jet lag, he felt rested. The fact that a new client was paying for this trip made it stress-free. This was billable time.
He checked his phone for the location where his driver would meet him. He was in the right spot—Door 5.
This wasn’t the first time Rochat had visited the States. However, it was the first time he’d traveled here on business. His new client was an American aerospace startup looking to set up an office in Luxembourg City. He’d met them at a space-law conference in Geneva. He wasn’t out of debt yet, but his practice was definitely looking up.
Rochat spotted his name displayed on a tablet on the dashboard of an approaching black SUV.
He waved the vehicle down, and it double-parked across from him.
The driver, a large bearded man in a black suit, got out and came around to the curb. “Afternoon, sir.”
Rochat passed his suitcase to the man. “Will we hit much traffic heading into Manhattan?”
“We’ll be fine.” Unlike most Americans, the man did not smile. Instead, he simply opened the passenger door and took charge of the luggage.
Rochat got in and used his phone to check email while the driver stowed his bag. In a moment they were under way, the driver bringing the electric SUV into the flow of terminal traffic.
Rochat checked news headlines on his phone as they drove but noticed the SUV pass by signs for New York as it drove onto a local aviation road.
Rochat leaned forward. “You missed the turn.”
The driver stared darkly into the rearview mirror. “You were brought to the US for a reason, Mr. Rochat. I suggest you stop asking questions.”
Rochat felt a bolt of fear cut through him. He leaned back in his seat.
The builders of the mysterious spacecraft. Rochat had been waiting for word from them. Here he’d thought that he was clever for bagging a new client. Apparently it was the same client—just under another name.
In a few moments the SUV came to a gate bristling with security guards. The driver showed credentials and the gate rose for them to pass. The SUV moved quickly toward an upscale terminal entrance and parked behind a Bentley sedan unloading passengers. The sign above the terminal read “Signature Flight Support.”
The driver got out, retrieved Rochat’s bag, and then opened the passenger door. “Follow me, Mr. Rochat.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
They left the SUV where it was.
Rochat moved quickly to keep up, gazing at the opulent décor as they entered a check-in area. Uniformed staff greeted them with smiles. However, Rochat’s escort brought him through the check-in without stopping. Staff opened doors for them. No one asked for identification.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Rochat nodded. “Afternoon.” It was a strange sensation. Some powerful force propelled him through all obstacles.
Moments later his escort brought him through an automatic door and out to the tarmac. Ahead of them was the most beautiful aircraft Rochat had ever laid eyes on—one he had only seen in aerospace magazine ads. It was a needle-shaped private business jet with the name “Aerion AS2” painted beneath its swept tailfin. The main wings were short, stubby things, but the fuselage was incredibly long. It had only eight passenger windows, and these occupied at most 20 percent of the length of the plane. The rest was taken up by nose cone, engines, wings, and tail. It was a supersonic business jet.
The cabin door opened as they approached. An attractive young blond woman in a dress and hairstyle reminiscent of the 1960s smiled at him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Rochat. Welcome aboard.”
“Yes, I . . .” Rochat noticed his escort wheeling his suitcase to a hatch open in the side of the plane.
“They’ll care for your luggage. Please come inside. We have a tight schedule.”
Rochat climbed the steps. “Of course.” He entered the passenger cabin to see a half dozen luxurious leather seats. Burled wood, carpet, and accent lights gave the compartment a soothing vibe.
The attendant showed him to a seat. “May I get you some refreshment before we depart?”
The sound of the hatch shutting outside reached him, and the engines immediately began to spool up.
“I . . . No, thank you.”
She nodded and turned to head to the front of the plane.
He stopped her. “Excuse me, miss.”
She pivoted, a pleasant smile on her face.
“Where are we going?”
“Approximately two and a half hours from here, sir.” Another toothy smile. “Buckle up.” With that she walked away, disappearing into the galley compartment.
Two and a half hours.
If he recalled the top speed of this aircraft correctly—Mach 1.5, nearly 1,800 kilometers per hour—where did that put him in two and a half hours? Imagining a map of the United States, Rochat realized it placed him anywhere in North America.
The engines surged higher, and soon they were taxiing toward the runway.
* * *
—
Although they left late in the afternoon, the supersonic jet chased the sun across the continent, heading due west. At this speed Rochat realized he would arrive about the same time he left—perhaps even earlier. Cruising at over 50,000 feet, Rochat could even see the curvature of the Earth.
Thankfully he’d had a chance to freshen up in the nicest aircraft bathroom he’d ever been in (replete with marble washstand), and curiosity made him have a light bite—an excellent salmon Niçoise salad made with mâche instead of frisée—served with skill by the cabin attendant.
However, despite jet lag, he couldn’t sleep; they could land at any time, and he must be prepared. He had begun to accept the fact that this was going to be a forty-eight-hour workday.
A little over two hours later, the plane began to descend from the stratosphere. They soared low over a desert. He was somewhere in the southwestern US.
The attendant came in to ensure that his seat belt was fastened, and then he was left again to his own thoughts.
Who had built the secret spaceship? What was their intention with it? They clearly had immense wealth—but also desired secrecy. Was he in actual danger?
That last part seemed unlikely. If they wanted to disappear him, it wouldn’t make sense to bring him to the US.
But then a disturbing thought occurred to him.
Unless they were the US government.
That last idea reverberated in his mind as the AS2 jet descended toward a pale, mountainous, and desolate landscape. Sagebrush and Joshua trees raced past below, but a long, modern airstrip soon appeared to receive them. The plane descended to a smooth, fast landing.
Rochat looked out the window. In the near distance scores of large, new commercial passenger jets were parked in a row, but not near any terminal. They were simply left on a tarmac in the desert, freshly painted with livery from every major world carrier. It was puzzling.
Soon the supersonic jet taxied toward a row of hangars, but instead of moving into one or waiting for a tug, the AS2 came up alongside a small control tower. A sign on the side of it read “Mojave Air and Space Port.”
He was in Mojave, California. It was here that some of the most advanced aircraft in history had been built and tested. It was indeed starting to look like he’d stumbled across a US government black project. He tried to recall if Guantanamo prison was still in use.
The engines whined down, and the flight attendant entered the cabin. “We’ve arrived, Mr. Rochat.”
Rochat descended the aircraft steps and walked out into a warm, dry breeze. It brought back memories of a holiday he’d taken in Spain—although he wasn’t trembling in fear then. He noticed a serious-looking man in a dark suit and buzz-cut hair standing on the tarmac next to the entrance of a downscale café. A faded sign announced it as “Voyager Restaurant.” The man motioned for Rochat to approach.
As Rochat closed the distance, the suited man opened the door to the café and gestured for Rochat to continue inside. Rochat entered what looked to be a plain American coffee shop with ceiling fans, simple wooden furniture—and a huge map of the world on the wall, along with framed photos of jet fighter pilots, exotic test aircraft, rockets, and aerospace pioneers.
The café was sparsely occupied—just a trio who looked to be aerospace engineers in short-sleeve dress shirts, ties, and ID badges, and in a nearby corner what appeared to be a gray-haired rancher, replete with cowboy hat and leathery, sun-blasted skin. The man sipped a cup of coffee while interacting with a tablet computer.
The only other person in the place was a tanned man in his thirties, wearing absurd rose-colored sunglasses and a faded concert T-shirt for the Cure. His pronounced jaw and rugged good looks seemed vaguely familiar to Rochat. The man smiled and waved Rochat over.
Rochat approached warily. Whoever this was, it was hardly the person he was expecting to meet—and this was especially not the environment in which he expected to meet him.
“Have a seat.” The man grinned confidently, revealing straight white teeth.
And that’s when Rochat recognized him—despite the sunglasses. Sinking down into the booth on the far side of the table, Rochat fell into shock.
“What’s wrong, Lukas? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You’re Nathan Joyce.”
Joyce calmly put a ringed finger to his lips. “Shh. Trying to stay below the radar.” He took a bite of a cheeseburger that was half finished and spoke with his mouth full. “Want something to eat?”
Rochat looked around the place. It was a dump. “No. No, thank you.”
Joyce finished chewing, then shouted toward an elderly waitress reading a newspaper over by the cash register. “Helen! Get me a check, will ya?”
She nodded. “Sure, hon.” And she started writing on a pad.
Rochat was still in shock. He was sitting across from famous billionaire Nathan Joyce—one of the Space Titans. A man who’d invested billions in commercial space exploration. Only now did Rochat realize that this meant the secret spaceship had been built by Nathan Joyce himself. Rochat fell into stunned amazement once more.
“Best not to leave your mouth hanging open, Lukas. There’s flies out here in the desert.”
“Oh . . . sorry.”
The waitress walked up with the check. “Nothing for your friend?”
Joyce grabbed the check. “No, thanks. We’re just heading out.” He passed her several twenties. “Keep it.”
“Hey, thanks. You take care, now.”
“You, too, darlin’.” Joyce stood and slapped Rochat on his suited shoulder. “Let’s take a walk, buddy. About time we had a chat.”
Rochat, still bewildered, got up and followed Joyce—Nathan R. Joyce in the flesh—out the ringing front door of the café and into the warm desert air. In a moment Rochat caught up and they walked alongside a service road next to a rusted chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Behind the fence a line of wingless, sun-bleached jet fighter fuselages from the Cold War era languished in disorder, their rounded canopies as opaque as cataracts. Not far ahead, a squat rocket several stories tall stood in a tiny park as some sort of memorial. Signs reading “For Lease” were visible on most of the hangars and warehouses nearby.
“You know why I like this place, Lukas?”
Rochat shook his head.
“Because it reminds me—reminds me how risky it can be to play it safe.” Joyce gestured to the dilapidated buildings around them. “A few years back this place was hopping. Space startups—like hot-rodder garages—each making their own ‘spacecraft.’” This last word he bracketed in air quotes.
Rochat looked around. The neighborhood had an air of desolation about it.
“But they weren’t spacecraft. They were carnival rides. Their builders thought too small.”
Rochat had no idea what to say in response. He didn’t even know if he could respond. He could barely breathe.
Joyce studied Rochat. “I hope you’re not sore at me about that helicopter stunt. Damn Russians. Something got lost in the translation. You’ve got some balls on you, Lukas. I’ll give you that.”
“I am not easily deterred, Mr. Joyce.”
“Good—and call me Nathan.”
“Nathan.” It felt odd being so familiar—but he remembered Americans were like this. They didn’t stand on formalities. Getting shit done is what they’d say, and Rochat was definitely here to get shit done. “I meant what I said; I am very much willing to protect the confidentiality of your current endeavor.”
“My ‘endeavor.’ You think we can keep that confidential? You figured it out all by yourself, and no offense, but you’re not the sharpest utensil in the drawer. I can’t imagine it’s going to take the big boys long to do the same.”
“How long must you maintain this secret?” Rochat realized he was way out of his depth. He barely had any idea what he was doing here, much less what the hell he was talking about. Fake it ’til you make it kept echoing in his head.
“Half a year. Maybe longer.”
“And this . . . gravity ship, it is in lunar orbit already?”
“We are under attorney-client privilege, Counselor. Understood?”
“Of course, Mr.—Nathan. Everything you say to me I will hold in the utmost confidentiality.”
“No notes about our meetings. Nothing with my name on it. You don’t even whisper my name in your sleep. My people will tell you how to handle your billing.”
“Absolutely.” Rochat could barely contain his elation. If this was some sort of interview, he had apparently passed it. He was now working directly for Nathan R. Joyce. He could say good-bye to daily-rate office space. If his former colleagues knew, they’d ask him for a job. “I will follow your instructions to the letter.”
“The ‘gravity ship,’ as you call it, is currently in a lunar distant retrograde orbit.”
“Truly?” Rochat could barely keep the awe out of his voice. He laughed slightly.
Joyce put his arm on Rochat’s shoulder. “Truly.”
Normally reserved, Rochat didn’t even mind the familiarity the American billionaire was presuming. The man had built the most advanced spacecraft in history—one that spun to create artificial gravity—and secreted it in orbit around the Moon. This conversation was quite possibly the most interesting one under way on Earth at the moment. Rochat could forgive Joyce his eccentricities.
“All the components have been brought together. It’s in the final assembly stage.”
“At what point will you inform the grand duchy’s Ministry of the Economy and apply for human flight certification?”
Joyce grimaced. “Yeah, see, that’s the thing, Lukas. I’m not a permit kind of guy.”
Rochat furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand. Surely you—”
“I need you to go back to Luxembourg City and file a blizzard of paperwork to keep the bureaucrats busy. Can you do that for me?”
This was a decision point. Every fiber in Rochat’s being was telling him to agree out of pure desperation. However, it was time to advise his client. “Nathan, I realize you want to shortcut the process. However, if you wish to financially benefit from your endeavor, certain laws must be observed. Article 6 of the Outer Space Treaty states that activities of nongovernmental entities in space shall require authorization and continuing supervision by the appropriate state party to the treaty—which in this case is the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. Moreover, the Registration Convention, UN Resolution 3235 of 1976, requires that all objects launched into outer space must be registered.”
Joyce looked amused. “I received authorization, and they are registered.”
“Not for their actual purpose and trajectory. Cislunar treaties are designed to minimize space debris and deconflict orbits. Assembling this spacecraft without notifying authorities of its actual location makes it a navigational hazard that could expose you to enormous criminal and financial liability.”
“I have clearance; I’m just using my approved orbit for a larger spacecraft than I claimed, and which I assembled from other spacecraft in adjacent orbits—which I also legally obtained. So I have no spacecraft in unapproved orbits, Counselor.”
