The Long Hard Road

Chapter Three: High Above the World

Churchill Space Centre

French Guiana, South America

25^th March 1942

Major John Dashwood, Base Commander and director of the Ministry of Space, looked down on the effects of his labours and smiled. For five miles around, factories, barracks and assembly points dominated the scene, only slightly marred by the handful of trees planted in carefully-picked positions. A person in the complex could almost believe that they were back in 2015, rather than 1941. In two years, a massive portion of Guiana had been converted to the world’s first spaceport.

Dashwood grinned as he looked down at the world’s first SSTO spacecraft, a Hamilton-class vehicle capable of carrying seven passengers or two satellites into orbit, crewed by a single man. The craft hadn’t been designed by the British – it had been an American design that had taken years for NASA to approve, with several countries building their own copies while NASA waffled – but there was no need to tell anyone that, was there?

He sighed; he would have much preferred to use the Hamilton-class alone, but sheer logistics made that impossible. Much of the Ministry’s sheer lifting power came from the boosters, the Goddard-class basic launch rocket and the Clarke-class heavy lift rocket, each of which could launch more weight than any SSTO. Their problem, of course, was that they were hardly reusable, except some components of their final stages, which could be placed in orbit and used as part of Hamilton.

Thinking of the Space Station, as always, made him glance upwards. He couldn’t see it, of course, even with a telescope it was only a single spark in darkness, but he knew it was there. Ten men – and one woman – working to build a permanent home in space. He smiled; given how easy it was to launch an Armstrong-class tank launcher into orbit, the space station would soon be much larger.

“Then the moon,” he said. He knew that the Prime Minister had plans for the space station, ones that included tactical impact weapons to be deployed against Russia, but his plans were different. The funding practically forced them to move forward, running to establish as big a lead in space technology as they could; the American space program was far behind them. No one knew what the Nazis were up to – they’d tried to build a spaceplane and apparently failed – but they could build rockets. They’d done that without knowing a technological tree… and now they did, no one knew what they were up to.

“You can get quite some distance with brute force,” he muttered grimly. Truthfully, he was concerned that they hadn’t seen more German rockets; it didn’t take much imagination to see how control of space could offset all of the British advantages. It was one of the reasons why MI6 watched so closely for German space activities… and why Dashwood was concerned that they’d seen none.

Captain Troy Tempest, his second, nodded politely to him as he entered the control room. It was a vast improvement from the draft-racked open tower they’d used for the first few launches; Dashwood almost missed it. It had had… style the modern control room lacked.

“Any change in preparation to launch Thunderbird?” Dashwood asked. Thunderbird, the SSTO being prepared for launch now, was one of the only two in existence. “Can it still be launched on schedule?”

“Yes, sir,” Tempest said. “The three new crewmembers and some additional equipment for the station have arrived.”

“Excellent,” Dashwood said. “Anything else?”

“The Americans have repeated their request for permission to include one of their people for the trip,” Tempest said. “This was a bit… firmer.”

“Bastards,” Dashwood said. The ideal of cooperating with the Americans hadn’t matched up to the reality, when the Americans had started to repeat some of the mistakes they’d made the first time around. The Americans had suffered the worst space disaster so far as well, trying to launch a man into orbit without a proper capsule.

“They might end up taking it to the Prime Minister,” Tempest pointed out. Dashwood scowled. “They’re very determined to get their own program up and running.”

“Then why bother us for space on an SSTO they can’t duplicate for years?” Dashwood asked sharply. He considered the manifest for Thunderbird. “Is the bastard here now?”

“Yes, sir,” Tempest said. “He’s former pilot Zack Lynn, from the United States Navy. Sir, it’s hardly his fault.”

Dashwood glared at him. “This is going to make me unpopular with the pilots,” he said. “Bump… um, Daniels from the crew; inform him that we need his slot for an American. Who’s the pilot?”

“It’s Abernathy, sir,” Tempest said. “You know; the new guy.”

“The RAF pilot,” Dashwood muttered. “Very well; inform him that he has Mr Lynn joining him. When the Finance Committee complains, inform them that it was an American decision.”

“Very good, sir,” Tempest said.

Thunderbird sat on the launch pad, poised to jump for the stars. Victor Abernathy, formerly of the RAF, stared up at the craft as its main hatch opened, drinking in every detail of its shape. It was simple; a blunt cone, designed for boosting up from any location into space.

“Sheila would have loved this,” he said, thinking about his colleague, who combined a love-life of astonishing complexity with a sheer love of flying that had brought her to the RAF. Sheila Dunbar had tried to apply, but she had been rejected at the second hurdle; she wasn’t very good at allowing the computers control.

“Ah, you must be the new guy,” the crewman said. He stuck out a hand. “I’m Matt Tracker.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Abernathy said. “Do I just go onboard?”

“Do you have your tag?” Tracker asked, glancing at the security tag on Abernathy’s lapel. “Pass, friend.”

Abernathy chuckled and followed him into the cockpit, climbing up the ladder into the cockpit. It wasn’t much; just a flat deck with access to the airlock, and seven seats, placed close together in the centre. One of them held a bank of controls, designed to fly the ship when the computers failed.

“You’re going to take her up?” Tracker asked. Abernathy nodded. “We just gave the old girl a tune-up,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with her at all.”

“That’s good,” Abernathy said. “Is there anything I should know that isn’t covered in the simulations?”

“Not really,” Tracker assured him. “The computers have control most of the time; if you have to take control, you’ve practiced for every conceivable eventuality. Just remember… living in the station isn’t easy.”

“You’ve been up there,” Abernathy said. “What’s it like?”

Tracker’s eyes shone. “Awesome,” he breathed.

“Captain Abernathy?” A man asked. “I’m Captain Tempest, deputy controller. The rest of your flight is here, except there’s been a slight hitch; we’ve had to add an American to your flight.”

Abernathy blinked. “I thought that seven was the maximum,” he said, wondering if it was a final test, to see how willing he was to break the rules. “Who are we booting?”

“Daniels,” Tempest said. “The others are coming onboard now.”

Abernathy stepped to one side as the six other astronauts stepped onto the cockpit deck. “That’s… not good,” he said. “Why…?”

“Politics,” Tempest said. He checked his watch. “Take your place, Captain,” he said. “You’re about to make history.”

“Could have been worse,” Tracker muttered, as Tempest left the cockpit. “At least you still have a back-up.”

“I suppose,” Abernathy said, checking his restraints. “Are you coming as well?”

Tracker chuckled. “I’d love to,” he said. “Still… seven only, don’t you know?”

He finished checking the straps and left before Abernathy could formulate a reply. Shrugging, he pulled on his helmet and checked the links between Thunderbird and mission control.

“Thunderbird, this is mission control, we read green,” Tempest’s voice said. “Confirm.”

Abernathy ran a practiced eye down the list of tell-tales. “Everything reads green, mission control,” he said. “We are green to go.”

“We really have to get over this space opera nonsense,” Tempest muttered. “Thunderbird, you may launch when ready.”

Abernathy took a breath and tapped the launch button. Thunderbird shuddered slightly as the main engines fired, slowly rising from the launch pad and heading upwards. Abernathy glanced out of the portal, seeing the spaceport vanishing into the distance, replaced by a cloudy blue sky.

“We confirm, you have passed zone one,” Tempest said. “Telemetry reads good, Thunderbird.”

“Acknowledged,” Abernathy said. Zone one was the danger zone; the zone where a malfunction could kill them all. Any higher and the parachutes would bring them down. “Increasing boost… now!”

The weight on his chest grew as the spacecraft rose into the atmosphere, heading higher and higher with every second. The sky darkened and the stars came out, but he was too weighed down to notice. The pressure grew and grew… then the tiny manoeuvring boosters fired, tipping the SSTO into Low Earth Orbit.

“My God,” Abernathy breathed, as he stared down at the planet. For the moment, there was no sign of Hitler, or Stalin, or the stubborn Japanese; there was just peace.

“We confirm LEO injection,” Tempest said. The radio signal flickered a little as it was relayed through a satellite. “Confirm course change to rendezvous with Hamilton.”

Abernathy paused long enough to check everything. Three different sets of computers were working on the puzzle, confirming that the speed of the SSTO was just enough to catch up with the space station, without colliding with it, or making rendezvous impossible.

“Confirmed,” he said. “Docking with Hamilton in…”

He fell silent. Ahead of him, he could see it, a silver and gold construction, hanging above the Earth. Ten massive cylinders, joined end to end, covered with solar panels and tiny objects, gliding above the Earth. A handful of similar cylinders floated near to it; fuel supplies, he guessed.

“Thunderbird, this is Hamilton,” a new voice said. “Confirm slaving of navigation computer to Hamilton.”

Abernathy tapped the final instruction into his panel and carefully removed his hands from the controls. He’d heard about endless arguments between pilots and designers over that feature… and knew how dangerous it would be to send the SSTO on an unplanned course change.

“Confirmed,” he said finally. He heard the tremor in his own voice. “Confirm slaving sequence initiated.”

“Another flyboy,” the female voice said. “Don’t worry, we haven’t pronged any of you yet.”

“What?” Abernathy asked, as Hamilton grew in the portal, and then vanished as the boosters fired. He felt a quick spurt of panic, then realised as Earth appeared below them that the SSTO had rotated to present its airlock to Hamilton. A tiny tremor ran through the shuttle… and then it stopped.

“Confirm docking,” the voice said. “Confirm airlock attachment. Welcome to Hamilton, leave your biases about movement at home.”

“What did that mean?” Lynn asked, as he unstrapped himself. Abernathy smiled as the American rose out of his seat… and kept heading up. “Good God!”

“We’re in zero-gee,” Abernathy reminded him, not without a touch of malice. Daniels would have reacted much better. “Come on; let’s go and meet the neighbours.”

The woman’s name was Caroline Salamander and she was the space station’s commander. Abernathy took a certain amount of pleasure in watching the American’s reaction to discovering that she was the commander, rather than a glorified secretary.

“Welcome to RSF Hamilton,” she said, ignoring the American’s palpitations. “We’re a fairly tight-knit community, so I imagine that you know us all already. Captain Abernathy, you are going to be working on the MSV; Captain Shuddery will take Thunderbird down to the surface.”

“Thank you,” Abernathy said, who’d been wondering exactly what he was going to be doing. The Ministry had had a whole series of tasks planned, but he hadn’t been told what he would be doing. He’d known that it was a distinct possibility that he might just be sent down at once… and the relief in knowing that it would not be so was glorious.

“Three of the cylinders are habitable space,” Caroline said. Her voice was firm and hard. “Two of them are male dormitories; one of them is the female dorm. I should note, now that we have three available women, that while fraternisation is not frowned upon, we expect you to keep it discreet. If you cause trouble, you’re on the first flight downstairs, understand?”

They nodded. Abernathy smiled; Caroline didn’t seem to think that she was available.

“Of the other cylinders, two of them are for repairing satellites, one of them is for fabrication, one for the MSVs to dock and unload supply pods, and the rest are military,” Caroline continued. “While the ultimate purpose of this base is to serve as a base for lunar and LEO colonisation, we are a military base for the moment; we serve as a reconnaissance platform and we repair military satellites. Eventually, we may graduate to space-based weapons as well.”

She looked around their faces. “Although it is deemed unlikely that the enemy can get at us up here,” she said, “I will brook no laxity in security procedures. Except in emergencies, we will dot every last ‘I’ and cross every last ‘T,’ just to avoid problems. As part of them, you will each spend at least an hour exercising on the equipment on the habitat modules.” Abernathy gaped at her. “Yes, that is a security precaution,” she said.

She smiled. “I’ll give you the tour now,” she said. “Any questions?”

“When are we going to the Moon?” Abernathy asked. “We could do it by refuelling an SSTO and just leaving LEO for the trip.”

Caroline smiled again. “Sooner than you think,” she said. “Sooner than you think.”

“Might I ask you, Major, why you saw fit to dump a trained pilot and substitute a half-trained American?”

Major John Dashwood sighed. The Finance Committee was the only real oversight the Ministry of Space got – the astronauts were deemed old enough to understand the risks without any EU rules – and it was determined to ensure that Dashwood didn’t overspend. Given the requirements to keep the American economy going, the Ministry of Space pumped a vast amount of dollars back into America – after receiving them as part of a complicated tax system.

He shook his head as Ronald Tilley, MP for Margate, continued his rant. Prime Minister Hanover had packed the Committee with his supporters, but not all of them agreed with all the requirements for the Ministry of Space. They had to spend money – money that was worthless in Britain anyway – to make money… and not all of them understood that.

“Might I remind you, Major, that Captain Jack Daniels was trained by us for the SSTO flights, including the planned lunar shuttle,” Tilley continued. “Instead, a great big American will be in Hamilton, watching all of our plans and…”

“I thought that it was government policy to aid the Americans in their space program,” Dashwood said. “As you may be aware, the priority is to establish as commanding a position as possible in space, and aiding the Americans is one way to ensure that competition is maintained – and at the same time allowing us a window into their program.”

“That is of course true,” Tilley said. It was more than true; it was the statement of the policy ordered by Hanover himself. “However… there is some disquiet over American determination in this field.”

“They would have been determined anyway,” Dashwood pointed out. It wasn’t quite true that the Americans would not be able to build their own SSTOs; Hanover and he had fiddled with the information they had provided the Americans. “However, as yet them have only managed to launch a couple of satellites – and they have had a handful of disasters. One of them, I might add, was worse than anything we have suffered.”

That was true; the Ministry of Space had sixty years of spaceflight knowledge to draw on, recreating a project that had had all of the false steps charted out and discovered by the Americans or the Russians. They were moving with what they knew would work, and the Americans… were not. A certain amount of trial and error was to be expected.

“We have at least twenty years before the Americans catch up with us,” he continued. “For the moment, we should at least attempt to help them get launch capability… its not as if they will be able to interfere with our profit margins.”

Tilley snorted. “Perhaps,” he said. “However… how long until you will be able to deploy the special weapons?”

“It depends,” Dashwood said. “We need to mass-produce a number of the weapons, a difficult task with the other requirements upon our advanced weapons production systems. Once they are mass-produced, we have to get them into orbit, and then command and control systems fitted to Hamilton. I live in hope of a month, but the current requirement to mass-produce JDAM weapons and precision missiles limits what the Ministry of Space can deploy.”

Tilley nodded. “I’ll take your words back to the Prime Minister,” he said, and the other members of the Committee nodded. “However, I have been asked to remind you that the Ministry of Space may well be the key to victory.” Dashwood nodded; he’d had no doubts on that score. “When can you start establishing the lunar base?”

Dashwood smiled at the sudden change in subject. “We’re boosting more Armstrong units now,” he said. “Although it won’t look pretty, some of them can be converted into a spacecraft slash space station fairly quickly, which can then be orbited to the Moon.” He smiled. “The basic plan is simple; we’ll use the third SSTO, once its built, to push it into lunar orbit, and use the SSTO for trips to the lunar surface, where a base can be set up.

“Once we have the station orbiting the moon,” he continued, “we’ll start dropping supplies to the lunar surface and start working on a base there. Now that we know what we’re doing, we can force forward development at a far higher pace, laying claim to the entire moon years before anyone else can get there. Once we have the moon, we can start building new industries there, opening up the gateway to the outer solar system… and beyond.”

He grinned. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Britannia; ruler of the stars!”