without ever flying another shuttle.”
“Sad, but true.” The President slaps his thigh and stands, holding his hand out for Mitch to shake. “I’ll issue the order.”
“Rehire Kent and get a rescue mission ready if possible?”
“Yes. Shear may resign, Mitch.”
“And, Mr. President, your point would be what?”
They both laugh as the senator takes his leave.
The President picks up the phone. Within a minute the requested voice comes on the line.
“Geoff? This is your leader. What the hell are you doing upsetting senior citizens like Mitch Lipensky?”
The very sound of Vasily’s voice on the other end of the surprise phone call is comforting, buoying Richard DiFazio’s spirits.
“There is a chance, Richard. I did not realize we were as far along in our preparations as we are.”
“How soon could you launch?”
“This is the space station resupply mission, you understand. We would have room for two, and only to transport them to the station. From there, one of the escape capsules would have to be used to return.”
“For one?”
“Or both. We don’t have enough seats to do our mission and return two of your people.”
“One may be badly hurt, or worse. We may have only one alive.”
“If only one, we can bring him back after the resupply rendezvous.”
“How soon?”
“Five days.”
“Oh jeez, Vasily, they’ll be dead by then.”
“Not if they’re careful. There are conservation steps, even with CO2 scrubbers.”
“Yes, but we can’t tell them. We can’t talk to them.”
“And we cannot move any faster. But if there’s only one alive, you have twice the time, no?”
Silence while Richard grapples with that possibility.
“And… there is one thing, Richard. I’m sorry, but in the new Russia we still count every ruble, and this is a substantial change.”
“How much, Vasily?”
“Twenty-five million.”
Richard feels his blood pressure rising, simply out of the question. Unless…
“Can’t we get that lower? This is a humanitarian rescue, an emergency. Suppose you need us someday?”
“Then you will name your price, too.”
“Vasily, we don’t have that kind of money.”
“One of your backers, Butch Davidson, certainly does. He makes more than that every week in interest, I think. Is good idea, true?”
Why he’s hearing the word “okay” coming from his mouth is a mystery. He knows Davidson’s true penny- pinching nature that contrasts so gratingly with his publicly magnanimous reputation. The thought of approaching him for such a sum scares him.
“I have two million I can wire you as a down payment,” Richard tells him.
“Okay. The rest you can get from Davidson.”
“Please tell me you won’t demand payment in full before launch.”
The pause scares him again, but the chuckle from Baikonaur Cosmodrome is reassuring. “No, we will extend you credit, my friend. But the money comes due whatever happens up there. Success or failure, you agree?”
“Yes. Five days, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll need coordinates and everything from us then?”
“No, we already know precisely, Richard. I shall e-mail you the bank account information within the hour. And then we begin.”
Richard replaces the receiver in shock. Two million dollars without so much as one line on paper. Not to mention the remaining twenty-three million.
He shudders thinking of the reaction when he tells his board, which includes Davidson.
He stands suddenly, as if considering bolting. The deal he just verbally inked is based on a colossal set of assumptions, chief among them that NASA’s chief is as good as his word and there will be no American rescue attempt.
Clearly, the two million will be lost the moment it’s wired, but it’s a risk he has to take. He reaches for the nearest computer keyboard and punches up his e-mail. The bank information message from Vasily is already in place.
Chapter 15
It was inevitable, Diana thinks, and in some ways she’s surprised it took this long. It’s minutes past five P.M. western time and the sun is hanging low,
The six flat-panel TV screens arrayed along the wall at the end of her desk are one-by-one posting their versions of a breaking news alert, adding file photos of ASA’s spacecraft, first on Fox News and now on MSNBC. She’s trying to keep up, toggling on the sound one by one to hear the same basic message: “A private spacecraft launched this morning has lost communication and may be in trouble.”
Two secretaries are handling the rising tide of media inquiries, and she’s staying out of contact to think and write a statement for Richard. She sees no easy or quick solution to this nightmare, and despite her concern for both Bill Campbell and Kip Dawson, her job is to play this situation with infinite grace.
The tie-line from Mission Control rings.
“Diana? Richard. You called?”
She briefs him on the approaching media storm, before adding the essence of the storm warning, “There are satellite trucks being scrambled right now in L.A., and I’m working on a statement, but I need about fifteen minutes. You
“No. I want you to be the face.”
“Not a good idea, Richard. You have the major skin in this game. They look at me as a flack.”
The sigh she hears from the other end worries her. He’s a good man and a good leader, but in the last six hours he’s been all but falling apart. This may be a major mistake.
“Whatever you think, Diana,” he says. “When do you want me over there?”
“Within the hour, if you can. Any changes?”
“No.” His reply is a bit too curt. She knows something new has happened. “Who got it first?” he adds.
“The story?”
“Yes. Who broke it?”
“The
“ABC and CBS?”
“They’ve called, too. I’m not returning calls for another hour, but the girls are handling it. Oh, Richard… someone did talk to Kip Dawson’s wife, right?”
“Arleigh was going to.”
