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13




As many times as Traci had been to Washington, she could never resist the pull of the National Air and Space Museum. Particularly after the stultifying meetings of the last couple of days, it would do her good to visit the reminders of what had come before.

Wandering beneath the shadow of humanity’s greatest aeronautical achievements humbled her in a way few other experiences could. She’d flown some of the Air Force’s most advanced jets, spent months in lunar orbit, and piloted the first long-duration spacecraft to the edge of the solar system. That could fill anyone’s head with an outsized sense of self-worth, but seeing the rickety contraptions others had voluntarily hurled themselves into the sky with reminded her of just how good they had it now.

The Wright Flyer looked impossibly fragile, its skeletal wooden frame and fabric skin powered by a cast aluminum engine block with iron (iron!) cylinders. To her, it was barely a step above steam power. Its first flight hadn’t gone a hundred yards, with Orville and Wilbur having had no idea how the launch would turn out. Short, low, and slow, it still would’ve been just enough to kill one of them had it all gone pear-shaped.

And then there was John Glenn’s Friendship 7, which for being a spacecraft didn’t inspire much more confidence in her than the Flyer. Pressing her face against the capsule’s plexiglass cocoon, she could barely believe what she saw in the cockpit: tangles of exposed wiring and ductwork surrounded the flight couch and its rudimentary controls. She marveled that any pilot would have been willing to fold himself into that tiny contraption of corrugated titanium and ride it into orbit atop a ballistic missile which had previously displayed an alarming tendency to explode. Yes, she’d had it easy in comparison.

She wondered how many of the nonflying tourists who passed through this place could truly appreciate what it had taken to do such things. The popular perception of spaceships was that they were clean, sleek, and perfectly sanitized when the reality was they were cramped, ungainly, and got smelly in a big hurry. In private conversations she would tell people to imagine a top-of-the-line RV outfitted for a year’s trip, except you had to bring all of your gas and food and you could never open a window no matter how badly your roommate had just fouled the bathroom.

That’s probably why I never get called for PR tours. As she wandered the skylit atrium, happily anonymous among the crowds, she began hearing a muted series of chimes around her. The noise of other people’s phones had become so ubiquitous that it was simply part of life’s background, like the chirping of birds in springtime. She had only just begun to notice that it had taken on an ominous tone: perfect strangers being alerted that they were uncomfortably close to someone with less-than-ideal social credit. It was her phone, tattling to people she would never know who nonetheless politely kept their distance lest they have their own ratings diminished in kind. It was therefore all the more surprising when she very nearly stumbled into a familiar face.

Owen?” she asked, startled. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

He cast a furtive look around the cavernous exhibition hall. “Not many people do. We were supposed to be in that hearing yesterday but Cheever’s assistant called us off at the last minute,” he said. “Pretty blunt about it, too. He told us it’d be a distraction and a waste of our time.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” she sniffed. “It was a foregone conclusion. They could’ve let the lawyers hash it out and ended up with the same result. It was all just to show us they meant business.”

That earned a wry smirk from her former mission manager. “I’m sure they thought so.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “If you didn’t come for the hearing, what are you still doing here? It can’t be vacation.”

“The boss wanted me up here just in case. He thought I might still have some contribution to make,” Owen said, focusing on her in a way that made her oddly uncomfortable. He gestured toward an open door at the end of a side hallway. “Phones off, please.”

She cocked an eyebrow, did as he asked, and followed him into a small meeting room. Seated at a table was Arthur Hammond, chairman of Hammond Aerospace and Polaris Spacelines, and prime contractor for the HOPE consortium. Now well into his eighties, he still carried himself with the strength and poise of the golden gloves boxer he’d once been. Other than his thinning white hair, Hammond’s only concession to his advanced years was the derby-handled blackthorn cane he leaned on as he stood to greet her.

“Miss Keene, thank you for coming,” Hammond said as he rose. Beside him she immediately recognized Penny Stratton; wisps of gray in her blonde hair and telltale creases around her eyes likewise hinted at her age despite an athletic, youthful frame.

“Didn’t know I was expected,” she said warily. “I was just here to enjoy the sights after, well, I’m sure you know.”

“After Cheever and her Ivy League flying monkeys put you in your place?”

“Something like that, yes.”

A dismayed frown from Hammond. “I’m sure they were quite satisfied with themselves afterward.”

“That’s why I came here,” Traci said. “To get my mind off politics. I’m a pilot, Mr. Hammond, not a DC swamp creature. They keep me on a short leash and only bring me out when they think my presence might be to their advantage.”

“As a prop.”

“It sounds distasteful when you put it that way, but yes.”

“It ought to be. Stratton here filled me in on your conversation,” Hammond said, with a glance at Penny. “And if I know anyone, it’s pilots. Maybe you’re stuck flying a desk but you still know which end of the jet points forward. How’s your medical?”

“NASA won’t put me on flight status, but I still maintain an FAA first class medical to keep my ratings active.” She tilted her head, looking at him sideways. Penny had to have told him as much. “Why do you ask?”

“We’ll get to that. One reason I brought Owen here was for his technical expertise. He knows Magellan and Columbus from nose to tail.”

He wasn’t answering her question, but it seemed best to play along. “And the other reason?” she asked, suspecting the answer, and beginning to realize this meeting would have happened even without her call to Stratton.

“He knew where we could find you,” Penny said. “Of course, any self-respecting aviator is going to make their way here whenever they’re in town. Same reflex that keeps us looking up at the sky whenever we hear a jet passing over.”

“You couldn’t just meet me at the hotel?”

“Too many itchy ears around these days,” Hammond said. “I barely trust encrypted networks, and that’s only when I know the person on the other end. I prefer to make these types of negotiations in person.”

“Negotiations?” She leaned away. “Mr. Hammond, you said it yourself: I’m a prop. I’m in no position whatsoever to influence anyone in this town.” She looked around the room. “Speaking of influence—why meet here if you’re worried about others listening in?”

Hammond gestured with his cane at the door behind her. “Did you check the nameplate outside?”

She opened the door and poked her head around the corner at a placard: SPONSORED BY HAMMOND AEROSPACE.

“Okay, you’ve impressed me. But why do you want to? Like I said, I can’t change anyone’s minds.”

“You won’t have to. We have connections, too. You can’t do much in this town without them,” Hammond said with curl of his lips that telegraphed his loathing of the whole sordid process. He turned to Penny.

“Cheever went into that hearing believing she had enough votes sewn up to get the AI-directed mission she wanted, but she got ahead of herself,” Stratton said. “Dr. Trumbull dropping the bomb he did made a few people rethink their positions.”

“We’re all rethinking a lot of things after hearing that,” Traci said.

“The short version is they’re going to fund a crewed expedition,” Hammond explained, “or rather, part of it. The rest is up to us.”

Her eyes widened. “It’s going to stay under HOPE’s control?”

Hammond nodded. “Like Solomon splitting the baby, they’re going to fund the logistics if we fund the operational control. We are prepared to do just that. NASA will provide up to six Vulcan cargo launches to outfit Columbus with the necessary supplies. SpaceX super-heavies will lift the propellant up there, and Polaris will shuttle the maintenance crews on our orbital Clippers.”

She was hopeful, but couldn’t restrain her skepticism. “What’s in it for you?”

Hammond shrugged and gave her a wizened grin. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m older than dirt. I’ve sunk most of my life’s earnings into building machines nobody else would touch. Elon does it because he thinks it will preserve human civilization. I do it because I believe in expanding our boundaries, to make civilization worth preserving. And I won’t stop until I’m dead.” His expression implied he knew that might not be long.

“You can’t take it with you, so you might as well spend it on something worthwhile?”

“Precisely.” He pushed a tablet across the table to her. When she tapped the screen, an employment contract appeared. She caught a knowing smile from Penny Stratton.

“Miss Keene, I’ve been in this business a long time, and I only pose this question to my most trusted pilots.” Hammond leaned in with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “How’d you like to fly something really fast?”


She trailed behind Owen and Hammond as they left the museum for a waiting town car. True to form, Hammond did not utter a word after leaving their meeting, either while walking out of the museum or during the ride to Reagan National Airport.

They made a quick stop by the Hyatt for Traci to collect her bags and check out, then a short drive down the George Washington Parkway to the airport. Passing the FBO, they were waved through the airside security gate by a guard and escorted by a “follow me” golf cart to pull up alongside Hammond’s Gulfstream, where one of its pilots waited at the bottom of the airstairs.

“Good morning, Mr. Hammond.”

“Morning, Curtis.” The pilot placed a steadying hand on Hammond’s elbow as he made his way up the stairs, with Owen and Penny close behind. She trailed them, clumsily shouldering her bags until the pilot stepped up. “I’ll take those, ma’am.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I can handle them.”

“Yes, ma’am, but you don’t have to. If you please?”

Not used to this kind of treatment, she shrugged off her duffel and headed up the stairs where she was greeted by Hammond’s personal flight attendant in the galley. Recognizing the bewildered look on her face, she directed Traci into the cabin. “You can take a seat wherever you like.”

There was a lot to choose from. She threaded her way through the spacious cabin, dazzled by its spruce trim and cream leather executive-class seating. Running her hand along a seat that was inviting to the touch, she briefly wondered how anyone stayed awake in these things. Hammond, Penny and Owen had settled into the club seats, facing each other across a small table. Another man sat across the aisle from them, beside one of the jet’s trademark oval windows. Though his back was turned to her in the aft-facing seat, she recognized his crew cut right away. They’d spent enough time together in close quarters that the only woman who knew him better was his wife.

“Roy—you too?”

“Hedging my bets,” he said with an amused shrug, and cocked his head toward Penny. “A cryptic message from our old boss—at oh-dark-thirty, mind you—suggested that it might be in my interest to shag my butt over here, and bring my stuff with me. I was intrigued, so I took her advice. So here I sit,” he finished with an expectant glance toward Owen.

“I’m just the messenger,” Owen demurred. “It’s Arthur’s show.”

Hammond snorted. “Like hell. I just run interference for you guys.” They were his first words since leaving their meeting. She noted he had waited until the cabin door was closed and the jet had been disconnected from ground service carts. “Don’t let Harriman fool you. He’s going to pick your brains about the mission plan while Stratton and I work through the less interesting stuff.”

“He means the politics,” Penny said as she fished for her seatbelt.

“I thought you said Congress was going to fund it.”

Hammond rested his hands atop his cane as the jet’s engines began humming to life behind them. “Doesn’t mean there won’t be other hurdles we’ll have to find ways around, and we’re going to be on a tight schedule. As if UNSEC wasn’t enough of a pain in the ass, this OSEP treaty could throw a bucket of cold water on the whole show. And those are just the two biggest acronyms we have to finesse.”

“They caught us short with that treaty,” Roy admitted sourly. “First I’d heard of it.”

“By design, I’m sure.” Penny said. “Cheever didn’t think it worth mentioning to you before you went into the hearing, did she?”

“She didn’t,” Traci said. “I’m sure it had the desired effect. I have to admit it took the wind out of my sails.”

“Nothing’s decided yet,” Hammond assured them. “Not until the Senate approves it and the ink’s dry with the President’s signature. That will take time.”

“But will it be enough?” Once Columbus was burning engines, no law could overcome the physics of its trajectory.

The cabin shuddered as the jet began moving. “That’s what we’re going to make sure of.” Hammond tipped his cane at her, Roy and Owen. “In the meantime, you three need to identify the choke points: planning, training, logistics. How do we kludge this together in six months? Let me and Stratton take care of the rest.”

“We don’t need to suck up to any more politicians?” Traci asked hopefully. “All we have to do is our jobs?”

“That’s all I want you doing,” Hammond said. “I understand you got your back up in that hearing, Miss Keene. Can I expect more in the future if someone gets under your skin?” It was hard to tell if he was signaling disapproval or encouragement.

She looked to Roy for a reaction, the glint in his eye suggesting he approved. She drew in a breath.

“Mr. Hammond, there are two types of people I don’t have much patience for: ignoramuses and bullies. Both of which were on full display yesterday.”

“It’s Art,” Hammond said with a satisfied grin. As the jet climbed away and Washington receded behind them, he pivoted his seat to face Owen. “You were right, Harriman. She’s a good hire.”


It didn’t escape Traci’s notice that Hammond spent the rest of the flight squirreled away with Penny in a small office at the end of the Gulfstream’s main cabin. She watched them at work behind its frosted glass partition, huddling over pages of plans in between lengthy phone calls. Though she could see them in silhouette, the jet’s soundproofing ensured whatever conversations they had otherwise remained private.

Owen unfolded a printout on the table between them, too long to put up on the jet’s bulkhead monitors. A horizontal bar chart depicted the priority and expected duration of each step in the project, so many that he had taped additional sheets to each page. “We based this on the mission concept you developed.”

Roy leaned over for a closer look. “I see a lot of potential failure points.”

“It’s a heavily compressed timeline,” Owen acknowledged. “But we’ve arranged it so most of the critical milestones are independent of the ones before them.” He pointed to a cluster of timelines. “For instance, if a logistics launch is delayed, we don’t have to postpone the integrated systems tests. We can run those concurrently. Only thing holding that up will be the propellant loadout, and we can test the tank integration independently if we have to.”

“That’s a high confidence level in a spacecraft that hasn’t been powered up in years,” Roy pointed out.

“That’s our first critical milestone. Hammond’s already got a maintenance crew heading up there on one of his Clippers.”

She and Roy exchanged surprised looks. “Hammond has a reputation for being a hard charger,” she said. “I guess the stories are true.”

Owen rolled his eyes. “You have no idea.” He stood and stretched. “It’s going to be a long day. Anybody else need coffee?”

As he headed for the galley, she leaned across the table to Roy. “We’re going it alone, aren’t we?” she said in a low voice. “I don’t know Hammond, but I can read Owen’s face. He’s got that ‘I won’t be seeing my kids for a while’ look.”

“I don’t think you’re wrong. Other than throwing money at us, Washington isn’t going to lift a finger.” Roy cocked his head at her conspiratorially. “Not a bad thing. But you know what else that means, right?”

She sighed. “They’ll pin the blame on us if it doesn’t work. Nobody’s going to want a dead Hero Astronaut hung around their necks. Not even Cheever.”

“Well, maybe Cheever,” he said caustically.

“Yeah, she’d probably see it as a badge of honor,” Traci sighed. She cradled her head in her hands. “This has to be for real, Roy. I can’t throw myself into another ‘what if’ project that turns into pixie dust and unicorn farts.”

Roy glanced over his shoulder at Hammond’s airborne office. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem working for this bunch.”

“Are we?” she asked. “Because I haven’t had time to read the actual contract and neither one of us has tendered our resignations yet.” She looked around the cabin. “Just being on his jet could violate all kinds of conflict-of-interest rules.”

“Maybe,” Roy said, reclining in his seat and closing his eyes. “For now, just be glad we’re not heading back to the office.” Before he got too relaxed, he jerked a thumb at a nearby window. “I’m actually a little disappointed in you, Keene. A pilot should always be aware of which direction they’re headed, whether they’re at the controls or not.”

She took a look outside and did a double take. They’d been heading due west out of National, which she’d expected before making the turn southwest for Houston. But that turn had never happened. They were now over what appeared to be Midwestern farmland, heading into the afternoon sun. She stood up and poked her head into the open cockpit door to peek over the pilot’s shoulders. The primary flight display showed their speed was Mach .95 and their heading two hundred seventy-two degrees, almost perfectly due west. The flight management computer beneath it was rapidly counting down the miles to their destination: APA. That wasn’t Houston . . . 

“Excuse me,” she said, “but it’s been a while. Isn’t APA one of the Denver airports?”

“Yes ma’am,” the captain said. “Centennial.”

“What’s there?” She asked, suspecting the answer.

The pilot handed her a tablet with the airport diagram and pointed to a spot off a remote parking apron. “Hammond Aerospace’s research lab. The boss has some people meeting you all there.”


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