10
LAS CRUCES
Once inside the air-conditioned operations building, Schroeder led Thrasher, the governor, and Victoria Zane to a door marked:
mission control
authorized personnel only
Schroeder pushed through the door and led the others into a small , windowless room filled with a dozen workstation consoles. Only four of them were occupied by technicians hunched over their keyboards, Bluetooth phones clipped to their ears. Three walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling display screens, all of them blank. Thrasher noticed a glassed-in visitor’s gallery running along the rear wall. Empty.
A slim young woman in gray slacks and a white blouse that bore a Schroeder logo on its back stood behind the technicians. She turned when she heard the four visitors enter the room.
Making a circle with her thumb and forefinger, she announced cheerily, “On the money, chief. Orbital insertion in eleven minutes.”
“The first stage?” Schroeder asked.
“Harry and his team are in the truck, on their way to pick it up.”
Victoria Zane asked, “Could I get my camera crew in here for a few shots?”
The governor started to reply, but Schroeder cut him off. “Not while they’re working. Later, after the payload’s linked up with the space station.”
“How long will that be?”
“A couple of hours.”
She looked disappointed. “Maybe I can get the crew to hang around that long,” she said, more to herself than to Schroeder. “I’ll have to call the station.” She pulled a cell phone out of her handbag.
“Not in here,” Schroeder snapped. “Outside.”
Victoria nodded glumly and headed for the door. Thrasher thought, how extravagant, throwing away women like that. It was a line he remembered from an old movie.
The governor clasped one hand each on Schroeder’s and Thrasher’s shoulders and said, “Why don’t you fellows let the people of New Mexico buy you lunch?”
For the first time all day, Schroeder smiled. But it looked as if it hurt his face, Thrasher thought.
The three men rode in the governor’s air-conditioned limousine to the Ramada Palms hotel, in downtown Las Cruces.
“Finest eatery in the city,” the governor said, as a fawning hostess showed them to a table in the nearly empty restaurant. It was decorated to resemble an adobe hacienda in old Mexico.
“We’re between the luncheon and dinner serving hours,” the hostess apologized, “but I’m sure whoever’s in the kitchen will be happy to make whatever you ask for, Your Honor.”
As the governor settled his portly body onto the chair she held out for him, he said, “Just something to snack on. And drinks, of course.”
Thrasher figured they wouldn’t have ginger beer, so he asked for a Diet Coke instead. Schroeder ordered a Coors Lite and the governor settled for a dirty Martini.
As their drinks were being served, Schroeder asked Thrasher bluntly, “So are you looking for launch services or is this just a tourist trip for you?”
Thrasher leaned back in his chair. “A little bit of both. I’ll be looking for launch services soon, but I think I’m going to need a bigger rocket booster than yours.”
“Bigger?” the governor asked.
Schroeder pointed out, “We’re launching three-man crews to the International Space Station.”
Nodding, Thrasher replied, “I’ll be able to use that capability, but I’m also going to need a bird that can put ten, twelve tons into orbit.”
“What on Earth for?” said the governor.
“Nothing on Earth. It’s for Mars.”
Schroeder’s eyes narrowed. “I heard you were putting together a consortium for a Mars mission.”
“A crewed mission,” said Thrasher.
“So you need a heavy-lift capability.”
“My engineering guys tell me that’s the least expensive way to launch the components of the spacecraft.”
“You’re going to assemble your Mars craft in orbit?”
Thrasher nodded.
“Have you done a cost analysis on using medium-lift boosters? Like mine?”
“My number crunchers have. Looks like I’ll have to talk to Boeing. Their Delta IV can carry the load, I’m told.”
It was Schroeder’s turn to nod.
“You could still launch from here,” the governor said. Then he added hopefully, “Couldn’t you?”
“Not from what my engineers tell me,” said Thrasher. “Unfortunately, the Delta IV’s first stage would fall back to Earth outside the confines of the White Sands range.”
“Oh.”
“Wouldn’t want it landing on this hotel.” Thrasher said it lightly, but both the others maintained a stony silence. He took a sip of his cola.
“Then you’ll have to use the Kennedy launch complex out at Cape Canaveral,” said Schroeder. “Let the first stage plop into the ocean.”
“Looks that way.”
“Isn’t there any way you could use Spaceport America?” The governor almost whined his question.
Thrasher shrugged. “This is all preliminary, of course. Maybe, once I get my tech team fully staffed and running, they’ll come up with something better. I sure don’t want to have to lease a launch facility from the goddamned government.”
Schroeder took a pull from his beer bottle, then said, “I’ve worked with the NASA guys at the Cape. They’re not so bad.”
“I’m sure the technical guys are okay,” Thrasher replied. “It’s the bureaucrats they work for that bother me. And their lawyers.”
“But you’ll launch your crew for the Mars mission from here?” the governor asked.
“I’d like to. Unless Boeing and NASA make me a better deal.” Before either of the men could react, Thrasher added, “Which I doubt will happen.”
The governor looked unhappy, Schroeder thoughtful.
“For what it’s worth, we’ll have to launch people to assemble the spacecraft in orbit. Looks like there’ll be lots of launches.”
“And you’ll have to bring those guys back, right?” asked Schroeder.
“Right.”
Sitting up straighter in his chair, Schroeder said, “We can do that for you. We’ve brought people home from the space station.”
“Landed them right here,” the governor added, “on our own airfield.”
Thrasher gave them a warm smile. “I’d really like to do business with you.”
Schroeder nodded again. The governor said, “And we’d love to do business with you!”