After thousands of launches, we have a humongous data-set that tells the AI that supervises the launch what's going on at any given time. While there's somebody with their finger over an abort button, it's mostly ceremonial.
In the old days the abort button was just a trigger to make the thing explode. Now there are a dozen different scenarios, from exploding the first two sections after the crew section ejects, to a slightly more graceful abort that splits the sections apart and allows them to all land back on the pad.
While this hasn't made us complacent, everything has become more routine, like commercial air travel. There are ground crews to inspect the engines and fuselage and checks and balances in place to make sure they did their job.
The biggest variable now is the payload. While you can predict what kind of stress an engine will go through and the wear on related systems, if someone stowed a cylinder of acetylene gas in the cargo section and used a valve that wasn't rated for the degree of vibration you'll encounter on take off, your perfectly fine rocket will explode because someone goofed.
Every rocket has a launch supervisor and a payload master. For my mission, the supervisor was Renata. The payload master was an engineer named Greene, who supervised all the things loaded into the Unicorn and made sure the variables wouldn't cause the whole thing to crash.
We've already got an insider with iCosmos who will change the launch profile for the upper stage, making it possible for us to get the DarkStar into a trajectory that will bring it to the K1 without it looking like we're trying to actually aim for the Russian space station.
The most difficult part about getting Prescott into space is going to be on the ground — getting the iCosmos payload master to sign off on the fake-Unicorn capsule.
Markov's trick for that is to get an Air Force payload master to commandeer the launch while not letting it be publicly known that's what's going on.
As Laney and I try to cram everything else we can into Prescott's über-man brain, our Russian strategist is working diligently to make sure that when we load our payload onto the truck and drive it up the road, through the iCosmos security gate and into the assembly building, nobody pops the hatch and spots a Navy SEAL hiding inside our mystery rocket.
The obvious solution would be to ask our CEO, Vin Amin, the man who has the keys, permission to do this, but he's an unpredictable risk. If he says "no" and goes public, we're screwed. If he says "Let me think about," and asks one of his government contacts, we run the risk of Silverback finding out and the K1 going boom.
He's already dealing with the fallout of my shenanigans.
We're in a classic ask for forgiveness later scenario. He'll either love us or hate us. Right now we have to make sure we don't get caught.
60
Mission Statement
While I help fill Prescott's head, people begin to file into the hangar as Markov and Admiral Jessup call in favors. There are eight Navy and Air Force personnel who have clearly worked together before. It's a testament to the amount of trust they have for the two men that they're ready to jump in and get to work without a lot of questions.
Jessup walks each one by me, says something to the effect, "You've never met this man before," and they give me a nod then go about their business setting up an impromptu tracking station in the control room and making sure the DarkStar and its shell are flightworthy.
The manuals are tossed back and forth between us as we try to make sure all the systems are up and running.
Few of them were the original members of the Space Ops crew and the exact specifications are a complete mystery. For all we know, turning the thing on could cause it to blow up.
Prescott puts on the suit and starts to drill, running through the switches and referring to the manual. I want to point things out to him, but know better. If Bennet taught me anything, it's when to back away and let the student teach himself.
"You want me to give you twenty?" I ask Prescott.
"That'd be great," he replies, running a finger down a line of text.
I look over at Laney as she confers with some techs about the spacesuit radio equipment. She might possibly be the most informed person here.
The authority she's been given is a testament to how dire the situation is and the confidence Markov has in her. I think it's well-placed.
The back door raises to let the carryall truck inside. I use the opportunity to step outside and get a breath of night air.
The Cape has always been a special place for me. The launchpads and buildings are spread out between mangroves and serene bays. It's an odd mixture of nature and technology, the past and future.
To the north, the gleaming complexes for NASA, iCosmos, SpaceX and others are brightly lit. I can spot two BFRs, "Big Fucking Rockets," standing on the launchpad waiting to fly into space. Each one weighs more than a battleship and is half as tall as the Empire State Building.
We live in an incredible age. People like Laney get it, so do some of the general public. But I think they're still in that early phase like the internet in the 1990s.
Yes, they know space is an industry now. Sure, they may know of someone who is peripherally involved. But they don't realize how big things are going to get.
If you look in the right direction you can see the US/iCosmos station as it flies by. Every other week a BFR launches with more hardware for it. When it's finished, the K1, the ISS and all the other space stations before will seem like tiny preludes to the future.
The US/iC will rotate in space, giving it artificial gravity. I think the moment people on Earth realize there are people walking around, behaving very much like life down here, yet in space, they'll begin to understand what it's all about.
The US/iC is just the first of many stations being planned. Smaller ones, bigger than the K1 and the ISS, are already coming online. There's even talk by the Chinese to build something even more massive than the US/iC — an actual city in space.
Then there are the spacecraft being built in orbit — ships for going beyond our orbit, to the Moon and the outer planets.
It's an exciting time to be alive.
"It'd be a shame to lose all this," says Laney as she manages to sneak up behind me on her crutches.
"Yeah, I was just thinking about that. This EMP would be bad."
"Technically it's an NMP, a nuclear magnetic pulse, but yeah." She nods to the people in the hangar. "There's a good team in there. Captain Baylor, she's smart. She'll be handling operations."
"With your advice, I hope." I seriously mean that.
"Oh, yeah. They're too short-staffed to kick me out. Let's just hope we can pull it off."
"You're a real trooper. A couple hours ago you had no idea what you were going to get pulled into."
She lets out a laugh. "Are you kidding? This is the kind of thing every space geek dreams about. Well, that and aliens coming down and asking me to go for a joyride. Heck, it's good to be part of something."
I take a look at the people going over equipment, inspecting the DarkStar and planning Prescott's mission. "Yeah. I'm just glad I don't have to be in hiding anymore. At least not here. Not in front of them."
"It must have been hell," says Laney.
"You have no idea. I'm just glad…"
"You don't have to run anymore?"
"Well, I'm worried what will happen if the crazy Russians set off the nuke. That's for sure. But it's nice to stand still for a moment."
I'm still worried that at any moment we're going to be raided by a bunch of soldiers descending from Black Hawks. At least I won't be alone.