Slowly, carefully, Boomer eased himself away from the canopy and floated across the sill. Unconsciously he swung his legs out of the cockpit and almost succeeded in spinning himself around like a top. But before he knew it, he was outside the spaceplane, floating between it and the space station. God, he was space walking! He remembered watching videos of the Gemini astronauts doing their spacewalks, stepping outside their tiny capsules to float around at the end of an umbilical cord while millions on Earth watched on TV, and now he was doing it! He looked around and got a hint of vertigo as he saw Earth over two hundred miles below him, and he realized only then that he wasn’t floating — he was falling around the Earth at over seventeen thousand miles an hour! It was an absolutely incredible feeling.
“Sightseeing time is over, Captain,” Raydon prompted him. “Let’s get going. Ann, bring the arm down.”
But Boomer had other ideas. Without waiting for the remote manipulator arm, Boomer gently pushed against the Black Stallion and propelled himself across the distance between the spaceplane and the open cargo module. Somehow he measured that push just right, because he gently floated through space and glided like a falling leaf directly inside the open module’s hatch. Raydon barely had to stop him before the magnets on Boomer’s boots engaged and he stood proudly and excitedly on the cargo module’s deck.
“Well, well, look at the newbie,” Raydon said. “Thinks he’s Buzz Aldrin all of a sudden. Very impressive, rookie.”
“Like he’s been space-walking all his life,” Ann said.
“Enough showing off for the ladies, Captain,” Raydon said with a smile. “Let’s get this cargo module ready to dock the Ares cargo stage and to refuel the Black Stallion, and we can get you on your way. After that, we’ve got a space station to run!”
She was almost home. She could feel her strength increasing with every step she took in the direction of her real homeland.
Azar Assiyeh Qagev waited patiently in her seat in the Turkmenistan Airlines Boeing 737 for the other passengers to deplane. Major Najar sat across the aisle from her watching the departing passengers; Lieutenant Saidi sat beside Azar, appearing to flip through her carry-on bag but was actually scanning the passengers and crew as well for any sign of trouble. Although certainly not required on this airline, but to avoid any complications or undue attention, both Azar and Saidi wore thick medium-colored scarves and plain brown dresses that covered every part of their bodies except for face and hands.
Although Turkmenistan was predominantly Sunni Muslim, and in recent years under new president Jalaluddin Turabi, the former Afghan Taliban fighter who helped defend Turkmenistan from a Russian invasion, Islam was undergoing a resurgence in an attempt by the government to quiet religious unrest, religious expression was still generally not encouraged and anyone flaunting their religious beliefs or customs was viewed with suspicion or sometimes outward aggression. It was a tactical decision to dress conservatively on this flight from Istanbul, Turkey, to the capital of Turkmenistan. According to strict Muslim practices it was not allowed for a man to stare at a woman in public who was not his wife, and Azar and her bodyguards hoped that practice would be followed even in this former Stalinist country.
It had been a long, harrowing trip so far since hijacking the jet chartered by the U.S. State Department. American and Canadian radars along the border had improved markedly since the American Holocaust, and after commandeering the plane and crossing into Canada they were approached immediately by Royal Canadian Air Force patrol jets. Fortunately the jets didn’t attack, but instead shadowed them as they flew northward. Major Najar’s plan was to land, force the airport to give them fuel, then try to make it to an isolated American airport, refuel again, and try to make it to the Caribbean or Bahamas. But stuck almost directly in the middle of North America, their chance of fighting their way out safely was quickly diminishing.
Finally Azar herself got on the jet’s telephone and contacted the Canadian foreign ministry office in Winnipeg, proclaimed they were political refugees, and promised to land the jet there. Upon landing they were immediately placed under arrest. Fortunately the American Department of State only wanted the jet and crew back and didn’t want to press charges, so Canadian officials promised they would not prosecute if they left the country immediately.
The three carried two sets of passports, American and Turkish. The Canadian officials confiscated the American passports on behalf of the United States — another condition of release — but allowed the group to use their Turkish passports to exit the country. They purchased Lufthansa airline tickets from Winnipeg to Istanbul. While in Istanbul they received a required letter of introduction from a former Turkmeni consular officer — price, one thousand dollars U.S. for the three of them — then purchased tickets on Turkmenistan Airlines to Ashkhabad.
Thirty grueling hours later after departing Minnesota, they were finally just a few miles from Iran. All they had to do was get safely past Turkmeni customs and immigration, and the Qagev security network would take them across the border. Unfortunately they did not have visas to enter Turkmenistan, and the Turkmeni government disliked foreigners who didn’t bother getting visas before trying to enter the country.
Najar tried to steer them toward a customs officer who looked like he might be Muslim, but soon they couldn’t hesitate any longer, and they queued up before an agent who unfortunately looked anything but Muslim. “Your papers, please,” the customs officer ordered in Turkmen, holding out his hand without looking up. Najar handed over their passports and letter of introduction. Azar and Saidi had pulled their scarves low, obscuring their faces, and kept their heads bowed.
The customs officer looked at the passports carefully, eyeing Najar suspiciously. “You have no visa to enter Turkmenistan,” he said. When Najar’s narrowed eyes told him he didn’t understand, the officer switched to Arabic and repeated his statement.
“I was assured I could get a short-term visa here, at the airport,” Najar said.
“Only under very unusual circumstances — very unusual circumstances,” the customs officer said. “Is this an urgent trip or some sort of family emergency?”
“No. Just business.”
“I see.” He scowled, looked past Najar at the two females, then flipped open their passport photo pages and motioned. “Take off the scarves.”
“It is not permitted,” Najar said sternly.
“In your society it is not permitted — here, on my order, it is,” the customs officer said perturbedly. Najar hesitated again. The customs officer closed the passports and shuffled some papers as if getting ready to write a report. “Very well, sir. With all deference to your religious preferences and your women’s frail and unassailable femininity, we will send your wife and young daughter to a segregated area where a female officer will continue inprocessing. It should take no longer than…oh, I’d say a few hours, perhaps tomorrow morning, depending on availability of suitable personnel. All of you will have to sleep here in the airport security office’s holding cell — along with all the drunks, pickpockets, and other reprobates we catch preying on honest visitors and residents of Turkmenistan. Now tell me, sir, which would you prefer to do?”
Najar sized up the officer, considering whether he should challenge this affrontery, then deciding to relent. He turned and told the females to take off their scarves, and they did.
“I am relieved to see that God has not turned anyone to slabs of salt before my eyes,” the customs officer said dryly. He studied the photos carefully, taking his time, then shaking his head to indicate to the females that they could cover themselves again. “So. You are from Turkey but come from Winnipeg, Canada. What do you do, Mr. Najar?”
“Telecommunications software engineer.”
“What is your business in Turkmenistan?”
“I am to enter discussions to upgrade your country’s wireless phone system and provide service to every part of your country.”
“I see. Very impressive, very impressive.” He peered at the letter of introduction. “I assume you deal with the government ministry of energy and industry for this project?”
“No, I would deal with His Honor Matkarim Ashirov, minister of communications,” Najar corrected him, thankful he had taken the time to carefully study his own cover’s background. “But we are in negotiations with RuTel for some of their infrastructure and land leases — that is the purpose of my visit. Hopefully we will be meeting with His Honor Ashirov soon afterward.”
“I see,” the customs officer said. But he impaled Najar with an icy stare, held up the letter of introduction
