March 28, 2035
Earth Departure Minus Eight Days
18:00 Universal Time
The White House
“High noon,” muttered Bart Saxby.
As NASA’s chief administrator, Saxby had his neatly-typed resignation in his jacket pocket. If this attempt to grab the wayward rocket stage didn’t work, he was ready to fall on his sword and be the scapegoat for the ruin of the Mars program.
Saxby was a handsome man, a former astronaut who had worked his way through Washington’s bureaucratic mazes with the skill of a born leader. He had been delighted when President Harper came out for the Mars program, although now he understood that everything—including his career—depended on the performance of Conley Fennell’s robotic OTV orbiting more than four hundred miles overhead.
And Fennell’s team of technicians sweating at their consoles in Alabama, he added silently to himself.
The Oval Office was tensely silent. President Harper sat behind his imposing desk, Saxby and red-haired Sarah Fleming, Harper’s chief of staff, were in cushioned chairs before the desk, angled to see the 3D hologram above the fireplace on the far wall.
It looked as if the wall was actually an opening to another room, another space. In the middle of it, a grainy telescopic view showed the OTV creeping up on the errant rocket stage, its grappling arms extended. The curving blue and white panorama of Earth glided past in the background.
Several other White House aides occupied the pair of ornate little sofas by the darkened fireplace. They craned their necks at the view.
“Looks like a giant squid stalking its victim,” muttered Ilona Klein, the president’s news media chief. She was a smartly dressed brunette, nervously thin.
“Did you hear what Donaldson said on the Hill this morning?” the president grumbled to nobody in particular.
“Senator Donaldson is an ass,” groused Fleming.
“I hope the recorders are off,” Klein said, looking alarmed.
Recorders or not, the president continued, “He said I should shut down the whole manned space program, the idiot. Cut it out entirely and use the money on ‘infrastructure improvements.’ He said the little green men on Mars will just have to wait.”
“Spend the money on the concrete contractors in his state,” said Fleming, clear disgust in her tone.
“He’s going to call for an early vote on the NASA budget.”
“He wants the party’s nomination for president next year,” Klein pointed out.
Fleming said sourly, “Billy Donaldson in the White House? I’ll move to Australia.”
Pointing to the TV screen, the president said grimly, “This had better work.”
Or we’ll all be looking for new jobs soon enough, Saxby thought.
Steven Treadway suddenly appeared, seemingly standing in empty space near the spacecraft, earnestly explaining the intricacies of the linkup between the OTV and the rocket stage containing the hydrogen fuel for Arrow’s nuclear engine.
“Without those final eight tons of liquified hydrogen,” Treadway said, “the Arrow spacecraft’s nuclear engines won’t have enough propellant to reach Mars.”
From her seat in front of the President’s desk, Ilona Klein complained, “Every time he says ‘nuclear,’ I wince.”
“The anti-nuke lobby will be happy if this mission fails.”
“Not once they realize the nuclear engine is going to re-enter the atmosphere and crash somewhere.”
“In the ocean, most likely.”
“You hope.”
“Quiet!” the president snapped. “I can’t hear what Treadway’s saying.”
The Oval Office went still, except for the smoothly professional voice from the hologram.
“This is the moment,” Treadway was saying, dropping to a near-whisper.
The hologram showed the OTV’s extended arms reaching for the attachment points built into the stage’s magnesium alloy skin. Slowly, with seeming tenderness, the OTV clasped the gleaming cylinder.
“It looks good.” Treadway’s voice rose a notch. “Yes! We have confirmation from the Marshall Space Flight Center! The Orbital Transfer Vehicle has successfully captured the rocket stage. Now it will carry it—”
The rest of his words were drowned out in the roar of triumph and relief that shook the Oval Office. The only place where the ecstatic cheers were louder was in the control room at NASA Marshall, where Conley Fennell nearly collapsed under the congratulatory pummeling his staff inflicted on his frail body.