“Well, that sucks,” he grumbled.
“Tell me about it,” Boomer said, sounding discouraged. “But however much I hate running up against problems I can’t solve, I just don’t see a workable way forward here. In the short run, we can’t squeeze any more efficiency out of the S-19 and S-29 engines and thrusters.”
Brad frowned, thinking out loud. “Maybe we could add auxiliary fuel tanks—”
Boomer shrugged. “We could, but only at the cost of passengers or cargo or crew. Or defensive and offensive weapons, if the Russians are planning new military operations in orbit against us. Mass is mass.”
Brad pointed at the shelves lining the wall behind Boomer’s desk. They were crowded with detailed scale models of every aircraft and spacecraft the other man had ever flown or worked on. “There’s the XS-39 you’re designing,” he pointed out. “It’ll have spare payload capacity according to the specs I’ve seen.”
With a weary smile, Boomer shook his head. “The XS-39 is a beaut,” he agreed. “The trouble is, right now it’s just a collection of design drawings and models. We’re at least a couple of years away from getting a prototype into space, even with a crash R&D, flight-test, and manufacturing effort.”
Feeling more frustrated than ever, Brad bounced to his feet and started pacing around Boomer’s cluttered office. All his life, he’d had a hard time sitting still — especially when he was thinking hard. As far as he was concerned, Rodin’s famous sculpture The Thinker just showed a guy who looked constipated. Maybe, he mused, anyone who honestly tried to capture the process of real thought in solid stone should finish up with the blurred, impressionistic shape of a man in motion.
The high-pitched sound of two powerful jet engines spooling up broke in on his distracted thoughts. Drawn to the sound like a moth to the flame, Brad turned around to stare out a window that overlooked McLanahan Industrial Airport’s main runway. He froze for one brief instant, pinned in place by a sudden burst of inspiration as it flashed through his restless mind.
Then he swung back again, unable to control a wild, shit-eating grin. “What if I told you the solution to our problem is out there right now, just staring us in the face?”
Curious now, Boomer got up from behind his desk and came over. “Yeah? So what have I missed?”
Brad nodded toward the runway, where a twin-engine Boeing 767 airliner was preparing for takeoff. It was one of the modified aircraft Sky Masters used as aerial refueling tankers for the S-series spaceplanes after they took off and climbed to thirty-five thousand feet. To make sure the spaceplanes had enough fuel for the rest of the mission, it was standard practice to top off their tanks before they lit their scramjets and rocketed into orbit.
Impatiently, Boomer shook his head. “Nice try, Brad. But there’s no way we can pump in more fuel from those 767s. Not without completely rejiggering the cargo hold and fuel system to cram in additional tankage. And even then, we’d still be sacrificing payload capacity we need.”
Brad’s grin grew even wider. “You are being way too literal here, Dr. Noble.” He tapped the window. “I’m not talking about that 767 in particular. I’m talking about the whole concept of in-flight refueling. Transferring fuel from one aircraft to another is an old game. So why not try the same thing in space?”
For a long moment, Boomer just stared at him. Then he looked again at the big tanker aircraft taxiing past on the runway… and back to one of the cutaway scale models behind his desk, this one an S-29 Shadow. His eyes narrowed in concentration while he worked through rapid-fire mental estimates of payload mass and necessary equipment modifications. Slowly at first and then faster, an answering smile spread across his face. “You know, Brad,” he said with growing excitement. “That could actually work!”
Eleven
NASA’s Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory occupied the core of a large white warehouse-like building, the Sonny Carter Training Facility, located about ten miles southeast of Houston and right on the edge of Ellington Airport. Essentially, the NBL was an enormous indoor swimming pool. More than two hundred feet long, a hundred feet wide, and four stories deep, the tank held over six million gallons of water. Full-scale mock-ups of old International Space Station modules and newer spacecraft were submerged at different points below the surface.
While it was not a perfect simulation of the microgravity experienced in Earth orbit, training in the giant pool had allowed NASA astronauts to practice complex EVA maneuvers and tasks before flying missions aboard its now-retired space shuttles or aboard the ISS. Now it was being leased by Sky Masters, both to train its own spaceplane crews and for what Jason Richter, the company’s CEO and chief inventor, euphemistically called “special technology development research.”
Today two of Sky Masters’ best customers were here to view Richter’s most recent invention.
Awkwardly, Patrick McLanahan climbed down from a black Cadillac Escalade and into the sweltering heat of a southeast Texas afternoon. With Kevin Martindale at his elbow, he headed into the large, air-conditioned building. Two of the former president’s bodyguards trailed along close behind.
Patrick walked rather stiffly, like an elderly man afflicted with osteoarthritis. The motor-driven LEAF exoskeleton and attached life-support pack he wore could keep him alive, but they would never make him graceful. Not that he would ever have been mistaken for Gene Kelly before he’d been hurt, he thought wryly.
Inside the massive NASA facility, they climbed a staircase up to the main pool deck and stopped to get their bearings. All around them, the Neutral Buoyancy Lab was a hive of activity. Small groups of technicians in jeans and short-sleeved polo shirts were busy at various places throughout the huge building — working on different types of equipment or helping trainees into cumbersome EVA suits. Divers wearing wet suits bobbed at the water’s edge, ready to submerge and assist them at a moment’s notice. In skybox-like control rooms fixed above the pool, teams of scientists and engineers monitored each practice session.
“Where, oh where, is Dr. Richter?” Martindale said quietly in his ear. “I do hope he remembers that he asked us to come here today.”
Patrick smiled. Jason Richter had a deserved reputation as both a brilliant cybernetics engineer and a superb high-technology project manager. He had an equally well-earned reputation for occasionally losing all track of time while ironing out the bugs in pieces of prototype hardware. Working with and, from all accounts, sleeping with the elegant, highly focused Helen Kaddiri, Sky Masters’ president, had rubbed off some of his rougher edges… but there were still moments when Jason was more of the geeky tech wizard than the buttoned-down corporate executive.
“General McLanahan! Mr. President,” he heard, and turned to see the tall, fit-looking Richter headed their way at a fast clip. The other man looked ready to burst with enthusiasm.
“Brace yourself,” Patrick murmured to Martindale. “My guess is that we’re about to be shown the world’s Eighth Great Wonder.”
“And offered the chance to buy it, no doubt,” Martindale agreed dryly.
“Hey! Glad you guys could make it,” Richter told them with a broad grin when he joined them. He looked Patrick up and down. “It looks like that LEAF we designed and built for you is ticking over okay.”
“I’m still breathing,” Patrick acknowledged gratefully. He chuckled. “Even if I don’t get asked to dance very often.”
Richter nodded seriously. “Sorry about that. I know the software interface between the exoskeleton’s servos and the other hardware is a little rough.” He pulled at his chin. “You know, we might be able to tweak that some. If you could set aside just a day or two to come to the lab, we could run a few tests and—”