“John, I’ve got some bad news about Bill Campbell’s situation.”
Even after three terms in the U.S. Senate and countless visits to the White House, Mitch Lipensky still feels the rush of history and power when he walks into the Oval Office. He supposes it should always be so—never should he become complacent about the responsibility bearing down on anyone in this place.
The greetings and smiles befitting a white-haired committee chairman and member of the President’s own party lubricate his passage through the hallways to the east entrance and the waiting President.
He’s had thoughts of running for this office, dreams of being the leader of the free world and making the tough decisions. But in truth, the fire has never been hot enough in his belly, and the brutality of the campaign and the compromises which stand like huge peaks before any contender are simply beyond him.
He greets the President like the old friend that he is, refusing to call him anything but Mr. President, and they settle onto opposite sides of the coffee table before the fireplace, the Chief of Staff taking a side chair. There are only so many chits even a senior senator can call on for an immediate audience, and this one has been costly but necessary. NASA is his committee’s responsibility, and the disturbing call from a man in Houston he considers an American hero has triggered a telephoned explanation and now this.
He knows Geoff Shear all too well, and sometimes even respects Shear’s iconoclastic invulnerability to even the strongest congressional pressure.
But an order from the President would be a different matter.
“NORAD is telling me the pilot may be hurt or dead, Mitch. Is that what you have?” The voice is distinctive, tinged with the Virginia accent of his youth, and it’s met by the equally familiar warm growl of the senior senator from Texas.
“Yes, sir. I have the same report. But the important thing, to my mind, is that someone is alive up there with a few days of air left, and he apparently can’t fire his engine and get out of orbit.”
“Understood. So no self-rescue. But is this something we have the ability to do?”
“We don’t know, Mr. President, because our esteemed NASA administrator has rejected even the most rudimentary attempt to find out.”
“You made it clear you want me to order John Kent reinstated.”
“Yes, sir, I do. He’s the best man to spearhead any attempt we might make. But there’s a good reason beyond that. Way beyond that. All through the cold war, all through the space race, all through our history of manned—sorry, I mean human—spaceflight, our nation has maintained a steadfast consistency on the value of even one human life. For God’s sake, even Stalin said the loss of one life is a tragedy.”
“Yes, and the rest of that quote is that a million deaths is a statistic. Terrible thing to quote in part.”
“I’m a doddering old senator with a selective memory. Sue me.”
“Go on. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“Mr. President, we’re the nation that refused to let the Apollo Thirteencrew die. The Russians killed dozens in their space program and refused to be moved. I submit we not change that now just because the stranded human is in a private spacecraft and is not a certified NASA astronaut. He’s an American, and…”
“I get it, Mitch. That’s an eloquent speech, but you can stop now. I get it.”
Mitch’s hand is out. “Let me finish. We need to have these words ringing in our minds. The business of America is business. Calvin Coolidge said that and we should be teaching it in every elementary school. Are we going to let a bureaucratic bureaucrat like Geoff Shear reject a rescue only because it involves someone shot into space by a mere American corporation and not our mighty government? Not to mention his personal animus against Richard DiFazio. If this was a current NASA astronaut up there, would there be any question? Aren’t we dedicated to encouraging our companies, including private spaceflight ventures?”
“You know my stance on that.”
“Then, dammit, Mr. President, you have to rein in Shear. He’s out of control.”
“Mitch, he’s defending our ability to carry anyone into space. How long have we been operating with only two shuttles? Six years?”
The senator chuckles with a knowing smile. “He’s already called you, hasn’t he?”
The President is smiling back, almost embarrassed. “Well… you know Geoff. He’s a Beltway pro. He got to me before Kent got to you.”
“That’s unimportant. The order of contact, I mean.”
“He’s not an evil force, Mitch. He’s got a point.”
“He’s on a personal vendetta, sir. You remember the fallout from that rather infamous hearing.”
“Yes, but he still has a point.”
“You going to let him cloud the bigger picture?”
The President laughs. It’s more of a snort than a laugh, but he ends it by looking at his shoes before shaking his head. “Of course not.”
“You still hate bureaucrats?”
“With a passion. But they have their uses.”
“True. Landfill, for one.”
There’s a resigned sigh. “Mitch, if we lose a shuttle in this, can you steer the Senate to adopt the replacement bill at long last?”
“No guarantees, but we can probably do it. And you know we’ve got more than enough satellite lift capability without ever flying another shuttle.”
“Sad, but true.” The President slaps his thigh and stands, holding his hand out for Mitch to shake. “I’ll issue the order.”
“Rehire Kent and get a rescue mission ready if possible?”
“Yes. Shear may resign, Mitch.”
“And, Mr. President, your point would be what?”
They both laugh as the senator takes his leave.
The President picks up the phone. Within a minute the requested voice comes on the line.
“Geoff? This is your leader. What the hell are you doing upsetting senior citizens like Mitch Lipensky?”
The very sound of Vasily’s voice on the other end of the surprise phone call is comforting, buoying Richard DiFazio’s spirits.
“There is a chance, Richard. I did not realize we were as far along in our preparations as we are.”
“How soon could you launch?”
“This is the space station resupply mission, you understand. We would have room for two, and only to transport them to the station. From there, one of the escape capsules would have to be used to return.”
“For one?”
“Or both. We don’t have enough seats to do our mission and return two of your people.”
“One may be badly hurt, or worse. We may have only one alive.”
“If only one, we can bring him back after the resupply rendezvous.”
“How soon?”
“Five days.”
“Oh jeez, Vasily, they’ll be dead by then.”
“Not if they’re careful. There are conservation steps, even with CO 2scrubbers.”
“Yes, but we can’t tell them. We can’t talk to them.”
“And we cannot move any faster. But if there’s only one alive, you have twice the time, no?”
Silence while Richard grapples with that possibility.
“And… there is one thing, Richard. I’m sorry, but in the new Russia we still count every ruble, and this is a substantial change.”
“How much, Vasily?”
“Twenty-five million.”
Richard feels his blood pressure rising, simply out of the question. Unless…
“Can’t we get that lower? This is a humanitarian rescue, an emergency. Suppose you need us someday?”
“Then you will name your price, too.”
“Vasily, we don’t have that kind of money.”
“One of your backers, Butch Davidson, certainly does. He makes more than that every week in interest, I think. Is good idea, true?”