The Chinese had opted for a lunar orbit rendezvous approach. Like Apollo, they were going to launch the entire vehicle, including the crew and the lunar lander, on one rocket. Unlike the United States, whose lunar missions would use two rockets, one for crew and the other for all the hardware required for reaching the Moon, the Chinese opted for just one. They had no International Space Station to service with the crew-launch vehicle, so the idea, and cost, of building two rockets was simply out of the question.
To those monitoring the flight and listening to all the telemetry and voice chatter from the Chinese ground controllers, this seemed to be a full dress rehearsal for the real thing. As far as anyone could tell, the Chinese were treating this like a crewed launch and dotting all their i’s to make sure it went according to plan. Signals-intelligence stations were even picking up mock-up voice-data channels going back and forth between the ground and the rocket.
As good as American intelligence was, they still could not decode in real time all of the telemetry coming back from the rocket. The encryption was too good, and it would take some time to decipher. The data was passed off to the supercomputer center at the National Security Agency with top priority for decryption. The code-breaker wizards there would figure it out soon enough. Unfortunately, it would not be deciphered for at least a week, because there was already a priority cipher in the queue—and a few surprises would have been avoided had they been able to decode it just a little bit faster.
Before the press knew what was going on, appropriate phone calls were made to the White House and the Pentagon about the Chinese launch. Within an hour, Calvin Ross was aware of the flight and had called the manager of the NASA Public Affairs Office, asking him to be prepared to take the inevitable questions from the media. And once the story broke, the phone calls started coming in.
In China, when the news broke, the public was euphoric. Spontaneous rallies broke out at China’s major engineering universities, with the students carrying homemade banners extolling both their space agency and their political leaders. Schoolchildren began writing letters to the taikonauts who, they were told, would be taking the first piloted journey in just a few months. Companies that had made hardware for the flight convened “all hands” meetings of their employees, allowing them to take time off to watch televised replays of the rocket launch and the animations of what the rocket would be doing in space during its voyage to the surface of the Moon.
For China, it was a day of national pride and anticipation. Anticipation of the next step, expected in a scant few months, that would carry three Chinese taikonauts to the Moon and show the world that China had “arrived.”
Oddly enough, the public in archrival India celebrated as well. The world’s largest democracy, though much poorer than its Western cousins, had made tremendous strides in space exploration over the previous decade. India itself was only a few years away from sending vyomanauts into Earth orbit. Seeing another formerly backward country be on the edge of accomplishing what only one of the last century’s superpowers could attain was a cause for celebration. Engineers were jealous. Politicians were eager to use the moment to promote India’s growing technological prowess. And the average Indian looked forward to their own day on the Moon.
In America, few noticed and even fewer really cared. And fewer still understood the technical implications and political ramifications. In America, it was just another day and another headline about something happening “over there somewhere.”
Chapter 15
“This is it!” Paul Gesling said into the camera that transmitted his image from the cockpit of the Dreamscape to the five passengers strapped into their seats behind him in the crew cabin. “In a few days, you’ll be the first people since the Apollo astronauts to go to the Moon and back. I know the training has sometimes been less than fun, but what we’re about to do will make history and give you something to tell your grandchildren about. You are going to get your money’s worth—and then some!”
Not wanting to be distracted from his preflight checklist any longer, Gesling turned back to the forward view screen and instrument panel. With the press of a virtual button on the touch screen, he turned off his audio but left the video feed on. Gary Childers insisted that the paying customers have a chance to see what the hired help was up to in all stages of the mission.
The Dreamscape was certainly living up to its name. Perched on the Nevada desert runway like a large and beautiful bird, it was about to take flight. The engines were running, producing the telltale heat exhaust, causing the air behind the vehicle to distort light in unusual ways, making objects appear to ripple in the heat of the mid-day sun. Crisscrossing orange and red plasma streams poured into a billowing exhaust cloud of puffy white steam. Emblazoned on the front of the spaceship was its name, the corporate emblem of Space Excursions, and a big American flag. Gary Childers was in business to make money, but he was also a proud American.
Within the vehicle, hundreds of sensors were measuring electrical current in numerous subsystems, fluid temperatures, and the mechanical status of anything and everything that had to move or rotate in order for Dreamscape to make its upcoming voyage.
As the passengers waited anxiously in their seats, the shrill whine of the jet engines increased in volume as one of the last preflight tests was run to completion.
Gesling was pleased. So far, all systems were operating as they should, and the launch countdown was proceeding on schedule. In just another few minutes, he would ease off the brakes, throttle up, and begin the journey down the runway. Piece of cake, he thought to himself.
Now it was time for Gesling to examine the crew in the last of his preflight checklists. This checklist was not one that the FAA required; rather, it was one Gary Childers mandated. First, he was to look over the vital signs of each passenger, as relayed to the display to his left inside the cockpit. From here he could monitor their heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature, and virtually every other organ in their bodies. Each had been benchmarked against their physiological profiles during training, and the current results were meticulously compared with their earlier results by the onboard computer. If any were out of the anticipated bounds for this, the real thing, then Gesling was authorized to have them removed from the vehicle. The Moon was nearly a quarter million miles away from the nearest hospital, and under no circumstances could the health of any passenger jeopardize the mission (or its profitability and good press coverage).
The second part of the Childers Checklist was highly subjective. Paul was to look over the faces of each passenger and determine if any looked like they were about to panic or faint. Again, this could be cause for removal—but Paul knew that if he exercised this option and the passenger turned out to be okay, his future piloting opportunities with Space Excursions would be limited indeed.
The Dreamscape was designed with seats much like those of a commercial jet. There was one pilot seat up front in the middle of the cockpit. Behind the pilot seat was the “aisle,” and on either side was one seat. Each passenger therefore had an aisle and a window. The seats were numbered in rows and lettered for the side of the aisle they were on. Seats 1A and 2A were on the left side of the aisle. Seats 1B, 2B, and 3B were on the right. Where seat 3A would have been was where the docking/boarding hatch was located. And behind seat 3B was the bathroom and storage-container wall. Each of the seats was designed for full reclining to allow for sleeping on the long lunar flights. But at present all the seats were upright and filled with occupants.