Chapter 5
Friday, April 13
Jeremiah Osborne read the email one more time, then sighed and sat back in his chair. He ran a hand through his fading dark hair and sighed again. What could he do? His options had become increasingly limited as months went by without a launch. He looked out the window of his San Diego office and cursed at the sight. The 220-foot converted freighter rested near a small flotilla of other vessels and equipment, a self-contained orbital launch complex only needing to be towed into place and properly anchored before beginning operations. The problem was he couldn’t get a permit.
For his launch system to work, he had to be within service range of the coast—no more than 100 miles away. The American environmentalists—afraid his rockets would kill fish or something—had gotten an injunction against him, so he’d moved from the sweet spot of 10 miles away to 50, outside of U.S. control. Then they’d gone to the UN committee in charge of maritime regulation and succeeded there as well. In short, he was fucked.
One computer file listed a considerable number of clients, all ready to pay, and pay well, for him to launch their satellites. For 20 years he’d sunk every dollar of his considerable inheritance, all the venture capital he could lay hands on, loans, and even Internet money into his innovative launch system.
His system was a revolutionary and largely reusable Single Stage to Orbit, or SSTO. He’d even developed a design that used drop tanks to allow for a higher orbit, that could perhaps reach Earth’s escape velocity and go to the Moon or Mars.
He reached down into the right-side drawer of his desk, a grey behemoth he’d gotten from military surplus, pulled out a bottle of Sailor Jerry’s, and poured himself two fingers, adding a splash of Coca-Cola. Most evenings it was half a glass of Coke with a few drops of rum. “Why bother?” he growled and held the glass up. “To Oceanic Orbital Enterprises,” he said, downing the concoction. “Gah,” he coughed and put the glass back on the desk. “May it rest in peace.” He was about to pour another when the phone chirped.
“Jeremiah,” he said into the speaker.
“I didn’t think you’d be there,” said a voice with a distinctive Southern accent. Theodore Alphonse Bennitti III was one of the most unusual people Jeremiah knew. He looked like Steve Buscemi, sounded like Slim Pickens, and had an IQ approaching 170. He went by Al.
“Figured I’d be out drowning myself, Al?”
“Don’t be an ass, Jeremiah. We’ve been through setbacks a lot worse than this when you were still with NASA.”
“I left, and they made you Director of Colonization. I’m not sure which one of us is wasting our time more.”
“You crack me up, son.” Al laughed from Houston, Texas.
“What do you want, Al? I’m trying to get drunk.”
“Before you climb into that bottle, I want to let you in on something.” Jeremiah put the glass down, leaned closer to the speaker, and said he was listening. “That meteor storm back on March 31st may have been more than meteors.”
Al explained that, of the 70 meteors tracked over 12 hours, three displayed non-ballistic characteristics. They had observed this in the past, and often attributed it to outgassing, but they had never seen that many in the same storm. NASA had had scientists out looking for the meteors ever since the incident. “We found three attributed to the incident—all normal rocks—but we lost one scientist.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Geologist named Taylor…Ken Taylor. Been with the agency for about 20 years. He was searching the hill country of Texas around Big Bend.”
“Went camping there a few times back when I was at Houston. Is he lost?”
“According to a ranger, they were attacked by a pig.”
“Sorry, did you say pig?”
“You heard me right. Some big pig attacked their Jeep, and bit Taylor on the nose. It apparently got infected real fast, so the ranger left to get help. When she returned he was gone. They’re still searching, but one witness swears they saw him swimming across the Rio Grande the evening he disappeared.”
“Holy shit!”
“Weird, right?” Jeremiah heard the sound of keys tapping in Houston for a moment. “We could use your help.”
“I wouldn’t know how to find a lost geologist if my life depended on it.”
“I’ve seen your desk, son. I’d have to agree.” Jeremiah snorted. Blueprints, letters, books, and empty food containers currently covered his desk. “That said, I also know you have a recovery team in place in case a launch goes wrong.”
“Little chance of that since we can’t launch.”
“Quit feelin’ sorry for yerself and listen. That team uses drones and magnetometers, right?” Jeremiah agreed. “We’d like you to pick up the meteor search for us in the hill country. At least we can hire your team out as subcontractors.”
Jeremiah thought it over for a second and shrugged. “Okay, sure. Send me the details.”
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