"Well?"
She grinned. "Bruce Irwin's willing to be the captain and pilot if we get one built. As you know, Jackie Secord's already offered to run the engineering side, and she's keeping the reactor-engine assembly maintained now. Pricing on the standard Nike or Phobos Station habitat ring segments, though, is totally out of our league, even if we could get them to slow down their build schedule to supply us."
"We really do need something like that, though, don't we?"
Maddie nodded. "Anything much less than one-third g as constant living conditions will cause a lot of health problems. In fact, I'd really feel more comfortable if we could push that up, and on some of the new ships like Odin they might well. They'll have more time and luxury for crew selection, so they won't have to worry about spin disorientation as much."
"Does Ares have a solution in mind?" This was one of the major reasons for establishing cooperation between the IRI and its closest neighbor. They were, as India had already recognized, the only talent pool of space-qualified experts who were not currently committed to a specific country's space program.
"Since the full agreements haven't been signed, I can't officially say anything, but Joe told me to tell you 'Damn straight we do.' If it's what I think, it will work, too."
Nicholas leaned back slowly. "Then get me those originals pronto, so I can sign them. Let's get to work!"
Chapter 5
"I can't believe this," said the national security advisor. "First Fathom turncoats, and now the U.N. is going to steal a march on us. You want to explain this particular mess, General?"
Ken Hathaway kept his expression respectfully neutral. Despite his dislike for the current administration, he had no intention of torpedoing his own career as the first and, currently, only military commander of a major space vessel. "I wouldn't describe this as a mess, sir. There are actually some advantages for us in this situation."
Jensen looked at him incredulously. "You—along with my other analysts—assured me that there really wasn't a chance that the IRI would be able to build a ship around that engine. You all told me they'd probably just use it as a portable power source, or maybe a Mars-to-Phobos transport. And now Walter tells me that they're about six months from launching their own version of Nike!"
Ken issued a chuckle, which he hoped looked spontaneous. He'd planned this sort of reaction, and Jensen had obliged him with precisely the kind of line he'd been hoping for.
The national security advisor's face darkened. "Would you like to tell me what you find amusing, General?"
"Sorry, no disrespect meant, it was just . . . You haven't seen the thing. Saying they were ready to launch their own version of Nike . . . Sir, that's like saying Huck Finn was launching his own version of Old Ironsides when he pushed his raft into the river."
Jensen slowly leaned back, the anger shifting toward a hard speculation. "Go on. Are you saying they're not really making an interplanetary vessel?"
"Well . . . No, sir. They are, in one sense. I mean, their ship does have a real nuclear engine on it, and that can sure push it around the solar system. But . . . Here, look at it."
Ken sent a command to the White House network, which acknowledged he had authorization to trigger image presentations, and the far wall lit up with a picture of Nobel, the interplanetary vessel Glendale was having constructed.
Jensen snorted. There were a few other grunts or chuckles around the table.
The Nobel looked very little like Nike. Both had a central hub where the main engine sat, and other parts about four hundred and fifty feet from that center which would serve as living quarters. But where the Nike was a shining vessel, an integral structure of smooth components and clear functionality, Nobel was . . .
Clunky, Ken thought, was probably the most charitable term you could use. "They've had to make do with whatever they could get," he said. "They don't have manufacturing capability of their own, and all the aerospace resources we have—all the aerospace resources any country has, for that matter—are tied up in building our own ships and bases. So they had to go to the one group of people who can somehow manage space construction and who don't have their own ship—Ares. But Ares doesn't have the money or the manufacturing capability to crank out things like Nike's habitat sections. So what do they have? Speaking as a military man, they've got Tinkertoys, Legos, and an Erector Set to hold 'em together."
He pointed. "Look at their so-called 'habitat ring.' Looks like a bunch of tuna cans linked together with duct tape and silver straws. That's because what they've got are basically just standard Ares habitat cans, not all that much different from the ones Zubrin first drew up almost half a century ago. The whole central body there"—he pointed at the boxy gray skeleton in the middle of the screen—"that's just some beams to hold all the pieces together. They'll be using something like an inflatable tank to hold their fuel together, I'd guess, or maybe some reusable solid tanks. The point is, sir, that thing can't match Nike in any respect. Especially since you got us a second engine."
The sight of the Nobel, looking rather like the result of a high-school science project to create a model of a space station, had thawed the atmosphere considerably. Ken no longer felt that his job was immediately in jeopardy.
"You mentioned that you thought this situation offers advantages, General Hathaway?" Jensen said. "Explain."
"If that thing actually works, sir, it takes a big load off of us. We've been committed to being their long-range support since the Institute got established, because there just wasn't anyone else available. Once they have their own ship working, we're free to work more for the United States' direct interests. Sure, we'll still be doing runs to Phobos Station and the Institute. We've got plenty of reasons to do so, and we'll have to help with the short distance ferrying anyway."
Hathaway flashed a momentary smile at the realization he was now calling Earth-to-Moon orbit hops "short."
Before he could continue, one of Jensen's analysts spoke up. "What you're saying is they won't need us just to survive any more. They can send their own ship on their own errands, ferry their own supplies back and forth, and in general deal with all the logistical headaches we've had to handle the past few years. And welcome to them."
Jensen nodded. "All right, General Hathaway. I understand your points. The reports from Mr. Keldering were perhaps overly alarmist. So you don't see anything to worry about in this situation?"
"Nothing whatsoever, sir," Ken said. "We have a battleship and they have a rowboat. Let's just hope they don't spring a leak rowing back and forth—that would require us to rescue them."
PART II:
ALLIANCES
Plausible Deniability, n: positioning oneself such that one can permit actions to be taken which would be politically damaging, but in such a manner as to allow one to deny any knowledge of, or connection to, the actions in question.
Chapter 6
"Prepare for spin-up. Nike, are you on station?" Jackie waited for the response.
"Around behind Phobos in case of disaster, yes, ma'am," Ken Hathaway's voice responded.
"I don't think you had to get that far away, Ken!" Jackie responded in a nettled tone.
"Probably not. But probably nothing bad's going to happen, either, and we're not betting on that. Nike is the U.S.A's only major interplanetary vessel, and Uncle Sam isn't paying me to take risks with it."
"Especially," she said, "for a rowboat."
Hathaway clucked his tongue. "Look, I don't control what the NSA says in public. Been me, even if I thought that, I'd have kept my own counsel."
" 'Even if I thought that,' " Jackie jeered. "Ken, I'll bet you're the one who first coined that charming term. Applied to us, anyway."
A diplomatic silence followed. Jackie smiled. She was pretty sure that Hathaway had, in fact, been the one to put the idea in Jensen's head that the Nobel was a "rowboat." He'd used the derisive term himself in private, after all, when joking with his friends in Ares.
He wasn't
going to admit it, of course. Jackie was quite sure that if Hathaway had done so, he'd been aiming to relieve or at least deflect tensions between the current U.S. administration and Ares and the IRI. But the same political skill that would have led him to do so—you didn't get to be a general in the U.S. armed forces without such skills—would also keep his mouth diplomatically shut.
"Sticks and stones may break my bones . . ." came Ken's singsong voice.
Jackie chuckled. "Yeah, sure, I know. 'But words can never harm me'—and people who aren't really familiar with space travel usually don't realize how little appearances matter when it comes to deep-space craft that don't have to penetrate an atmosphere. Still, I didn't like having my baby called ugly."
"Well, sure. Are you ready?"
"Almost. A.J.?"
The sensor specialist's confident voice rang out. "Every inch of Nobel is wired, Jackie. If anything happens, you'll be the second to know."
"After you, of course."
"Glendale squeezed a guarantee out of us on workmanship. I get the bad news first by a millisecond if we have to pay out."
Jackie took a deep breath. "Fire laterals."
The side reaction thrusters fired. They were powered by the central reactor, as long as reaction mass was available. The wavering pale line of superheated gases stood straight out at a tangent to each "tuna-can" chord. To protect the bottom of the cans, the side thruster vents were actually mounted a short distance farther out.
Slowly, majestically, the Nobel began to spin. "Rotation started. Stresses all at predicted levels. No unexpected readings. Keep it going, guys." A.J. was in his professional voice now, which she found immensely comforting. A pain in the ass he could be, but his skill and his ego combined to make him the best man for a job like this. He wouldn't let anything go wrong; it would be a personal insult.
"Up to an interior acceleration of one-tenth g . . . closing in on a revolution per minute . . . still all green, no signs of stress. Wobble within acceptable limits. Might need to trim weight a bit on one side, though, I think someone missed a couple kilos somewhere . . . almost there . . . now!"
The superfluous command coincided exactly with the automated cutoff of the thrusters. Nobel spun with massive dignity, generating exactly one-third gravity within its linked habitat cans. "How are we doing, A.J.?"
"Nobel, all green. You're well within tolerances. Minimal precession at this time. Orbital alignment optimum for main drive test."
Jackie took a deep breath. The next set of maneuvers would stress the Nobel to the maximum that any ordinary conditions would demand. If she survived that, she'd be fully spaceworthy and Jackie Secord would be the chief engineer for the only independent nuclear-powered vessel in existence. "Captain, all systems appear to be ready. We are going to try a main-drive burn."
"Very good then, Chief," came the cheerful Australian tones of Bruce Irwin. As the first man to ever land (however disastrously) a manned vehicle on Mars, and one of the few interplanetary-qualified pilots, he'd been top of the list when Glendale was looking for someone to command Nobel.
Well, actually, second from the top. Glendale had first offered the job to Jackie, to which she'd replied: "Jesus, no. I'm an engineer, and I don't want to move to management. I'll stay here in charge of keeping everything running."
Jackie brought her focus back to the here-and-now. "Right, let's see what our lady's got. Nike, now that we're spinning fine, Nobel is going for a full main-engine burn. Figuring on one to lift us up in orbit a bit, say twenty seconds at full."
The entire set of maneuvers was meant to take only about sixty seconds of full burn. Nobel was lightly fueled right now, with only about a hundred tons of reaction mass—enough for two hundred seconds of Nobel's maximum million-pound thrust at an ISP of around one thousand. The light load was important; by having a minimum of reaction mass on board, the effective acceleration of Nobel was maximized, which maximized the strain of the maneuvers. There was no point in testing her at low thrust if she'd break at high thrust, especially since high stress would, obviously, occur when the vessel was low on fuel—toward the end of a journey and therefore potentially as far away from help as it was possible to imagine.
"Understood, Nobel. Nike is standing by to initiate rescue in case of emergency."
"We surely do appreciate that, mate. Not that I have any experience with emergencies while flying, mind." Bruce's tone sobered. "Check course vector."
"On target, Captain," A.J. said after a minute. "Radar scans show all clear, not that there's ever anything to hit out here. And Joe isn't on board this time to jinx everything."
"True enough. All stations, report in. Everyone strapped in for full acceleration?"
The full acceleration wasn't actually the problem, as even with a million-pound thrust the Nobel couldn't exceed about a quarter-gee. The concern was if something went wrong. There were only five people aboard, but that was still a major portion of the skilled space personnel available to the Institute.
"Good," Bruce said after everyone had confirmed readiness. "Nobel, as programmed: all ahead full, twenty second burn."
When you were used to weightlessness, a quarter-gravity acceleration was actually pretty impressive, Jackie thought. Nobel seemed to lunge forward, the hissing rumble of the NERVA-derived engine transmitting itself through the main supports of the ship. A few seconds later, the jets cut off. In the rear-view cameras, Phobos Base was shrinking. By space standards, of course, the Nobel was barely moving at all; that burn had added a puny forty-nine meters per second to her orbital velocity of over two kilometers per second. Still, it had stressed the entire ship along its main axis as much as anything ever should. "Anything to report, A.J.?"
"Minor tightening and tweaks will probably be needed later," the sensor specialist answered a few minutes later, after examining the data. "I'm seeing nothing to worry about on any important components, though. I think we're go for Operation Cartwheel."
"Then Cartwheel it is. Nobel, initiate."
"Operation Cartwheel," as A.J. had whimsically termed it, was the major active structural test. Since the habitat sections were spinning, any attempt to turn Nobel would be fighting against the gyroscope effect, causing a lot of stress across the entire ship. Nobel would be using several short periods of vectored thrust from the main engine to attempt to turn in different directions while the wheel spun.
A few minutes later, A.J.'s voice reported with great satisfaction, "Everything important's intact. Might want to shore up some of the connecting areas—I've highlighted them in the model—but unless you plan on flying like that a lot, I don't think it's necessary. Congrats, Jackie, Bruce—you've got yourself a ship!"
Jackie let out a whoop of relief and exultation.
"Congratulations, Nobel. A lovely test flight, even if you didn't get to go very far, and that tail-shaking maneuver looked kinda fun. Maybe I'll have them do it on Nike before we head back."
"It probably looks more fun than it is."
"Yeah, probably helps if you already look like a Ferris wheel."
"Watch it, Captain Hathaway!"
"Sorry, sorry. Really, it's a great ship."
She gave him a chuckle. "You're right there, Ken. So, when are you heading out?"
"A couple of weeks. We're waiting for some artifacts they're shipping back, and I have to send a couple guys over to Nobel to do the inspection."
"Oh, come on, Ken!" A.J. grumped. "Do they really think we're putting super-duper deathrays on this workhorse?"
"No, not really. But the regs clearly state what you can have as armaments in any space vehicle, and that at least one of the major powers has to inspect any new space vehicle after construction to ensure it meets those regs. And since I have every intention of keeping my job, I'm going to make sure the inspection's done."
"No worries, mate. I don't have any guns, bombs, missiles, or even loose sharp sticks on this crate." Bruce said. "Come on over and we'll have dinner."
"That sou
nds like it could be an attempt to bribe an officer of the United States."
"Righto, I'll just offer you some vegemite."
"Ahh," said Hathaway in a tone filled with grim vindication, "I knew it. Biological weapons hidden on board. I may have to have my inspectors confiscate any and all biological products connected to Captain Irwin."
Jackie giggled. "Heard about Bruce's interplanetary beer stash, sir?"
"Pressurized containers. Very dangerous. Could be classed as explosives, Mr. Irwin. I'm afraid I will have to inspect some of them. In person."
Bruce gave a heavy sigh. "Yeah, that'd be right. Suppose you'd better just come over an' get it done, then. Eight tomorrow all right?"
"My inspectors and I will be ready."
Chapter 7
Helen unlocked the pressure-cooker cover. A hiss of fragrant steam billowed out as she took the cover off, filling the dining room with the warm brown scent of . . .
"Pot roast!" exclaimed Nicholas, leaning forward in astonishment. "With . . . actual vegetables. Cooked right here. I'm utterly astounded, Helen."
"You should be," A.J. said with reflected pride in Helen's achievement. "Not only have Helen and Joe been spending off-hours time trying to figure out ways to duplicate the effects of on-Earth cooking in our habitats—which carry a lot less pressure for a lot of reasons—but also a lot of the rest of us have to put in hours getting those greenhouses to work."
"First major crops grown in Martian soil—or mostly Martian, anyway." Helen started serving. "Some of these are imports—besides the beef, I mean—but this is a special dinner. And when A.J. says 'us,' he means it. Not that his sensing and tracking talents aren't pretty much omni-useful around the colony, but the colony still needs plenty of good old-fashioned pioneering muscle. Which," she continued, giving A.J. a kiss on the cheek as she passed, "my trophy husband here happens to be willing to use even if it does make him in danger of being viewed as a real worker instead of a lab geek."