CHAPTER 2
Gary Childers was an old-school businessman running a multibillion-dollar energy company from his corporate headquarters in downtown Lexington, Kentucky, where he’d made his fortune mining, processing and selling coal. Then came the whole global warming thing and he’d diversified into solar, geothermal and offshore wind energy—making more millions in the process. Childers was one of those people who knew how to make money turn into more money, and he did it well and often.
At age sixty-five, Childers was also a frustrated space fanatic. As a boy, he’d seen the end of Apollo and the lunar landings that went with it. He lived through Skylab, the International Space Station and the slow rebirth of American piloted spaceflight after the retirement of the Space Shuttle. And the pace at which his beloved NASA was making progress pained him. It pained him so much that he had spent over half his fortune to build a commercial space company that would do more than the other, similar startups that were ferrying wealthy businessmen on suborbital joy rides. He built a completely reusable spaceship capable of traveling from Earth to the Moon and back again. He built it with passenger seats and big windows. And the millionaires and politicians lined up to take their own five-day joyrides around the Moon and back. For the first few years, his Space Excursions company was a money loser. Then it broke even. Now it was turning a profit that stockholders would love, had there been any. But Gary Childers didn’t want to be beholden to anyone, let alone a bunch of shortsighted investors that didn’t know or understand the long view. That’s why Space Excursions remained one hundred percent private and one hundred percent owned by Gary Childers.
It was the crew and paying passengers aboard Childers’s company’s spaceship, the Dreamscape, that had heard the call for help coming from stranded Chinese astronauts in their disastrous attempt to beat America back to the Moon just five years prior. His friend and chief pilot, Paul Gesling, had then once again come to the rescue by flying the Dreamscape into Earth orbit to bring home the Chinese crew rescued by NASA and stranded there by the actions of a rogue Chinese astronaut among the crew who had apparently thought it would be better to be dead than rescued by Americans. Now, he was about to make history again, hopefully in an equally dramatic but less dangerous manner. And it was this topic that he and his public relations manager, Carolyn O’Connor-Gesling, were discussing in his last minute pre-press conference cramming session.
“Carolyn, is the link with Paul up and running?” Childers asked, waving off Carolyn’s attempts to straighten his tie and make the lapel microphone a little less noticeable to the many cameras that awaited him on the other side of the door they were making their way toward.
“Yes, Paul’s made himself presentable, tough as that is sometimes, and I think excitement of being on the Moon will more than make up for his lack of sleep.”
“Its tough duty to have to sleep in a hammock…on the Moon,” said Childers dryly, with sarcasm so thick that it would drip—had that been physically possible.
“He’ll be fine, you know Paul. Now, here’s the latest on who’ll be in the audience for the press conference. You’ve got another six minutes before show time, can I get you anything?” Carolyn handed Childers a printed copy listing the press, media and new media outlets participating in today’s press conference. The list contained the usual national and international news networks, the space bloggers and a few freelance journalists who covered events such as this for whoever hired them to do so.
“And the models?” asked Childers.
“The models are on the table to the right of the podium and within reach.”
“Carolyn, don’t let Paul take you for granted or he’ll have to answer to me. You have got to be the best organizer I’ve ever had work for me. You haven’t missed a beat since I hired you.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to tell him after you let him come home from the Moon. For now, let’s just settle for getting you through this press conference and then we’ll worry about getting my husband back to me.”
“Right.” Childers smiled and opened the door to the auditorium on the other side.
He walked into the familiar surroundings of the company auditorium and the throngs of faces looking back at him. The antiquated-sounding click of high resolution camera shutters was the dominant sound as Childers walked from the door to the podium in front of the assembled media. Just as Caroline said, to the right of the podium were his “toys.” Models of the Dreamscape, the Dasher and the Dancer, Childers’s names for his lunar orbiter and lander, respectively, and the Out of This World, the lunar hotel in which Paul Gesling had spent his lunar sleep cycle. The sight of his toys evoked a smile, which in turn calmed his nerves and put him into his element—explaining the latest company milestones to a group of interested and anxious reporters.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your attention. Today I am pleased to announce that Space Excursions has accomplished yet another space first and is preparing the way for a series of further successful firsts. Last night, Space Excursions employee and chief pilot, Paul Gesling, spent the night on the Moon, resting as the first guest in the company’s lunar hotel while former NASA astronaut Bill Stetson, who accompanied him on the lunar voyage, remained in the orbiting Dasher module. Gesling will remain on the Moon for another day and night, and then he will return to lunar orbit to rejoin Mr. Stetson and make the homeward trip to Earth. You’ll hear from Mr. Gesling, live from the surface of the Moon, in just a few moments.” Childers paused to assess his audience. He was a gifted spokesman and, as with many similarly talented speakers, he knew that the key to making a good speech is to make sure that you understood your audience and that they understood you. Judging by his quick scan of the faces in the room, he was sure he was in a good place.
“Following the successful return of Messrs. Gesling and Stetson, and in about eighteen months, Space Excursions will relaunch the Dasher and Dancer spacecraft with her first party of tourists bound for the lunar surface and a week-long stay at the Out of This World, where they will experience first-hand both deep space flight and the thrill of actually walking on the surface of an alien world, in this case, our Moon.”
“Before we transfer to the Moon and Mr. Gesling, are there any questions for me?”
Hands all across the room went up. Childers, not being a politician and therefore not really giving a damn if he ticked off a reporter or two, had his favorites among the crowd and he called upon one of them first. In this case, Doreen Davidson, not only because he liked the alliteration of her name, but also because he liked her blog, and that she had always written positively about Space Excursions in the past.
“Mr. Childers, we know there will be six paying customers on the next flight and staying on the Moon in your hotel. Can you tell us who they are?” she asked.
“As I think we clearly explained in our press release, we’re not going to provide those names at this time. If one of the passengers wants to make themselves known, that is up to them. But we all signed some fairly strict confidentiality papers that my lawyers advise me to stick with. I suspect you will know who they are by the time we actually launch, but again, that’s strictly up to them.”
Next, he called on the reporter from the BBC.
“Mr. Childers, you and your company are among a group of companies spending obscene amounts of money in space to dubious benefit. With at least five companies now working to mine asteroids for private gain, a recent poll in Europe showed that a majority don’t approve of the world’s rich elite taking extravagant trips to the Moon while so many on the planet are living in poverty and barely able to subsist. There’s even been a discussion of banning European citizens from flying on your ship. How can you justify this overt display of excess?” The BBC reporter, a man in his mid-twenties with a clear upper-crust British accent looked at Childers with a smug smile and the arrogance that only a well-heeled Brit could possibly manage.
“Mr. Brighthall, the last time I checked, the United States of America is neither subject to European opinion polls nor its politicians. Furthermore, as a believer in economic freedom and the right of people to spend their money as they choose, I am inclined to tell the good people sampled in your poll where they can put their sanctimonious, better-than-thou attitudes, but I won’t, since I am a gentleman and since I don’t want to cause an international incident. And, most importantly, because I want to sell rides to the Moon to my many European friends.” Childers looked, and was, annoyed. He continued, “Let’s just say that in aggregate, the world is a much better and more affluent place to live today than at any time in history. Personally, I attribute that as the inevitable outcome of free people, in free economies, spending their hard-earned money as they so choose.”
“Space technology is helping to lift the economies of the world in ways that were unimaginable just a few years ago and I won’t even try to list them all. Instead, I recommend you do some reading. There are several great books out there that describe what I’m talking about. If you and your colleagues don’t want to participate, then don’t. And please keep your hands out of my pockets while you pursue whatever it is you decide to pursue.” With that, Childers was through talking to the BBC reporter and on to the next.
“Mr. Childers, are you going to fly on one of your own rockets? And, if so, when?” The question came from a female freelance journalist that often wrote space-friendly articles for Space.com and other sites frequented by space advocates.
“Well,” he paused in thought briefly at the question. Then Childers smiled and raised his left eyebrow just before he answered, “That’s two questions. To answer the first, yes, I plan to go. The answer to the second question I will leave to your speculation.”
After about ten more minutes of mostly benign questions, Childers walked toward a large hyper-resolution monitor that was displaying the Space Excursions corporate logo. He nodded to Carolyn and the image of Paul Gesling appeared on the screen. Gesling was in shirt sleeves and standing in front of one of the large viewing windows of the Out of this World showing the truly spectacular lunar landscape immediately behind and outside. The 3D image was stunning, giving those in the room the sense that they, too, were on the Moon.
“For your next round of questions, you’ll be speaking with Paul Gesling from the surface of the Moon,” said Childers, looking for all the world like a sixty-five-year-old kid on Christmas morning.
“Good afternoon and welcome to the Out of This World,” Gesling said as he did his best not to smile like a kid in a toy store. He gestured somewhat excitedly as he began to walk through the interior of the habitat. The camera tracked his movement across the floor and faded into a different view as he approached a closer camera on the side wall. The automated camera system was working flawlessly. “This is where I spent the night and where our guests will spend their week on the Moon. Now, let me show you around…” The tour continued as Gesling moved around the habitat, stopping at each point of interest, including the toilet.
“Mr. Childers, it’s time for you to leave for Nevada. Paul and Hami can take it from here,” whispered Carolyn, trying not to be heard through the microphone as she spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I need to get on the road. My associate, Hami Kunda, will answer any additional questions you may have.” Childers moved toward the exit where Carolyn and the rest of his entourage that would accompany him to the airport and on the Space Excursions private jet to Nevada.
It was a beautiful Kentucky day and Childers stopped on the way to his limousine to admire the brilliant blue sky filled with jet contrails that contrasted with the ever-growing Lexington skyline. The sight conjured in his mind’s eye the thought that had driven him since he was a boy. One of these days, instead of jet contrails, those will be rocket exhausts and we’ll be flying people to and from space by the hundreds each and every day. The thought lingered in his mind as he started to move toward the limo and just as suddenly as the thought of rockets had popped into his mind the first 7.62x63 millimeter slug caught him in his right leg, shattering bone as it tore through his skin. Skin, bone, ligament, and muscle tissue flew from his leg in a spray of pink, red, and flesh-colored mist.
Childers was pushed backward and spun clockwise by the impact as the mist and tissue fragments splattered against the open limo door. He twisted sideways from the impact, knocking Carolyn off balance and directly into the path of the next bullet as he fell to the ground. The second slug caught Carolyn in her upper back which was now facing in the direction she’d been walking just seconds before. The bullet passed through her like a warm knife through butter, perforating her left lung and making a large and bloody exit wound. She, too, fell to the ground. The wound gushed in red and made a wheezing and sucking sound each time her heart beat or she struggled for a breath.
Max Potter, Childers’s longtime body guard was on Childers as soon as he realized what was happening. Moving as he had been trained, he only momentarily had the wherewithal to consider aiding the stricken O’Connor instead of his boss. Realizing that she had not likely been the primary target of the attack and likely not to be shot again, he moved toward Childers. Potter, outweighing the aging Childers by two-to-one, formed the perfect human shield for his boss as the next two slugs meant for Childers struck him. Even though the bodyguard was wearing a level four bulletproof vest under his sport coat, the very large and fast sniper rounds tore through him like the armor wasn’t even there, killing him instantly. There were now three bodies on the ground; one dead and two who would be soon if nothing was done.
Childers’s other assistants scattered, as did the pedestrians who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and in the line of fire. It was one of the pedestrians who called 911 from the safety of a doorway just behind where the bodies were bleeding out on the ground.
Just as instantly as the thoughts of rocket contrails had popped into Childers’s mind and just as instantly as the sniper rounds had made life-altering and life-taking impact on them, the shooting stopped.