The VX-90

"Protocol Officer? What kind of crap is that?"

The Admiral spread his hands. "I know how you feel, but I’m telling you, the requirement is non-negotiable. It’s coming down from way over my head."

"Sounds like a bureaucratic plant, if you ask me. You told me this was strictly a scientific mission. No politics involved, or were you just yanking my chain?"

"You know I wouldn’t do that."

"I thought this planet was supposed to be uninhabited, except for possible low level life-forms."

"That was the indication. But the scientists don’t really know for sure. So the orders are crystal clear. We need to have a PO."

"Probably some pencil-dicked stuffed shirt with a government policy rule-book shoved up his ass."

"Be nice, Nathan. I’ve seen the guy’s qualifications and they’re impeccable. He’s had extensive experience negotiating trade deals and border agreements between hostile countries. His expertise’ll come in handy in the event you do find intelligent life. Anyway, however you may feel about it, it’s a done deal."

"It still smells like horseshit."

The Admiral gave a wry smile. "How would you know? Horses have been extinct for what? Almost fifty years?"

Hawke returned to his office and threw himself into his chair. Already he sensed wheels turning behind the scenes. What else could it be? Langolier said the requirement had come from over his head. That eliminated a lot of people. Only the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Secretary of Defense, or someone in the Oval Office could supersede the Admiral’s authority.

Hawke teleported to the cargo flight hangar to check his scheduled transits for the week. But when he examined the shuttle schedules, he found both his and Jim’s names had been removed from the roster.

Puzzled, Hawke walked down the hall to speak to his flight boss, Captain Harold Carson. He found him in his office poring over projected space traffic flight paths on his wall-mounted, landscape-style screens. The panels created a nearly seamless monitor that provided unparalleled resolution and work space along two entire walls of his office and showed real-time traffic. Small geometric symbology and unique tag identifiers displayed craft type, SCUIC, heading information, country of origin, and mission type: military, commercial, training, or private. Using voice commands and gesture recognition, the Captain zoomed in and out of specific regions. He put his hands down when he saw Hawke enter the room.

"What’s the matter?" he growled.

Captain Carson was a squat, grizzled man with deep pock marks on his cheeks and a scar running from his chin to his lower lip. He looked like someone you wouldn’t want to have as a cellmate in a maximum security penitentiary, much less your boss. But despite his menacing appearance, he was level-headed and rational – tough, but fair. Hawke had a great deal of respect for him.

Unlike other squadrons which had as much turnaround as a local fast food joint, Carson had been Hawke’s supervisor ever since Hawke had quit flying in a Space/Fighter squadron and switched to cargo transport. Captain Carson had been offered other posts over the years but he had repeatedly turned them down. "Why go someplace else and have to start learning a whole new way of doing things?" Carson reasoned. "I’d rather stick with what I know best and maybe do some good by it." Hawke couldn’t agree with him more. Over the years, he’d heard other pilots gripe in the halls, in the cafeteria, in bars, about the inevitable problems that always arose as a result of frequent changes in leadership.

"I saw Jim and I weren’t on the schedule this week, or next for that matter."

"Orders."

"From who?"

"Who else? Our esteemed Admiral, of course."

"Why?"

The Captain shrugged. "Who can explain anything the top brass do? But he told me to take you and Starling off the roster and suspend your usual duties. Doesn’t want anything distracting you from your preparations." He looked at Hawke through narrowed eyes. "I was told you were also given the authority to select your own team members. I’m assuming you want Ben. Is there anyone else I should know about?"

Without batting an eye, Hawke replied, "Giordano."

"Jeezus Christ, Hawke! Why don’t you just cut off my right hand?"

"I need a good maintenance engineer if I’m going to be thirty million light years from the nearest depot."

Carson sighed heavily. "All right. I’ll put through the necessary paperwork. You can have him. I’ll make sure he and Ben are available."

"Thanks, Captain. You’re a good man."

Harry brushed the compliment away as though it were a gnat buzzing in his ear. "Looks like I’m going to have to requisition Personnel for a new flight crew. Dammit, Nathan, I’m going to miss you around here. You’re one of the best pilots I’ve ever had. I guess I should be thankful I’ve had you this long. I knew you’d be the one they picked." He banged his fist on his desk. "I swear, the next chance I get, I’m going into Admiral L.’s office and give him a piece of my mind."

"Actually, Captain, I was wondering if you might be able to do me a favor."

"Haven’t I done enough?" he replied in mock irritation. "What is it?"

"They added a Protocol Officer to the list of required personnel for this jump."

The Captain snorted derisively. "Assholes."

"His name’s Maxwell Snelling. I was wondering if you might be able to dig up some information on him, besides the publicly available files. Discreetly, though. I think this guy might be connected." It was generally known among the pilots and maintenance techs the Captain had spent some years doing intel for Special Ops. He still knew people in the business.

Carson typed the name down on a small keypad device on his desk. "Discreet is my middle name. I’ll look into it and get back to you."

Hawke thanked him, saluted and headed for the door.

"Hawke."

"Yeah?"

"Be careful out there," Harry said kindly.

"I will."

*****

Hawke concentrated the bulk of his time reading everything he could get his hands on about the VX-90 StarCruiser, Echelon Class: how big its turbolift engines were, what its maximum payload was, minimum crew requirements, safety regulations, standard operating procedures. While he’d flown many types of aircraft and spacecraft over the years, none of them had had the size, enhancements, and luxury features the VX-90 sported. A full-size flight cabin had been mocked up so he and Jim could practice flying the craft in simulation and get used to the controls; they’d already logged dozens of hours in it. If the real Cruiser handled anything like the simulator, Hawke couldn’t wait to take her out on her maiden voyage.

That afternoon, upon returning to his desk after another simulated space flight, Hawke learned all the members of the expedition had arrived in the District of Columbia. They were being carefully sequestered from the general public and protected at all times by the National Guard. The news media was in a frenzy for information, looking for any new angle to the story they could sensationalize.

He received word from the Admiral’s office that a formal gathering had been planned at the Hilton-Premier Dynasty ballroom that night at twenty-hundred hours. Also, an informal meeting between the scientists and flight crew had been scheduled for thirteen-hundred the following afternoon in the Space Command Headquarters Building, Conference Room A102. Required dress for the former was dress whites, while the latter was military blues – no exceptions. There was an additional memo, hand-signed and certified by the Admiral, emphasizing Hawke’s presence at both functions was mandatory. In fact, other than the official letterhead and signature, it contained only two words: "Be there!"

Hawke wished there was some way he could escape the reception. Top brass and big shots from the Hill and Oval Office were certainly going to be there, as well as select members of the press. He cringed at the thought of having to chit-chat with reporters and sycophant politicians looking to improve their image to the public. His only consolation was that his friends would be there as well. Misery loves company.

For the next thirty minutes, he slogged through piles of electronic mail. Since Hawke had been publicly named as pilot for the M51 mission, he’d received thousands of letters from people all over the globe. These included reporters and general well-wishers within the military command, but there were also tons of ridiculous ones that for some reason weren’t being filtered by the DoD’s cybershield – offers of additional life insurance, photo opportunities, even several marriage proposals and a movie offer. He didn’t bother to read them any more. They had been amusing for the first few weeks, but now he automatically deleted anything that didn’t come from the internal communications network.

He was just finishing when Jim appeared at his desk in a rush.

"There you are. I was afraid I missed you."

Hawke leaned back. "Here I am. What’s up? You could’ve just reached me on my UCD, you know," he said, indicating the device clipped by his hip.

"Yeah, right. Like you ever have it turned on."

"Well, you could’ve left a message," Hawke replied sheepishly.

"She’s here," Jim answered in rapture, as if that explained everything. "I thought you knew, but Frank and Ben said they hadn’t seen you."

"Who’s here?"

"The VX-90. She arrived this morning. Passed all her inspections through customs with flying colors. She’s in hangar four. Want to go down and take a look?"

Hawke pushed himself away from his desk. "Sure. Let’s go." As an afterthought, he turned back to the screen. "Computer, Commander Nathan Hawke. Initiate log-off."

"Affirmative. Voice recognition confirmed. You are officially logged out of the system," responded the computer’s auto-reply.

Jim smirked. "I didn’t think you followed security protocols."

"Yeah, well, I generally don’t, you know that, but Betty snoops around for that sort of thing. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s reported me to the ESPO."

Miller Space Base was tucked away outside Front Royal, Virginia within a carefully maintained and guarded multi-acre compound. Rather than hop on one of the overcrowded shuttles, Hawke suggested they walk. The outside air quality was listed as Red 5, so they were forced to use one of the filtered tunnels to reach their destination. On the way, they discussed the mission and the scientists they had yet to meet. That, in turn, led to the night’s planned gala.

"You haven’t heard from Jen, have you?"

Hawke gave him a look. Hawke’s last relationship had lasted little over a month and the breakup hadn’t been pretty. Far from it, it had caused such a public scene it even made the local news and Langolier had chewed him out for the bad press. Neither he nor Starling had ever been married, but Jim was at least dating the same woman for nearly a year now, a pilot in one of the other cargo squadrons.

"Well, what about some of your other ex-girlfriends? What about Laura?"

"She said if I ever tried to call her again she’d call the cops."

"What about Cynthia?"

"Got back with an old boyfriend. High-school sweetheart, or something."

"Becky?"

"Married."

"Linda?"

"Ditto."

"What about that blonde, what was her name? The one you hooked up with in Stoney’s."

"Samantha. Moved to the Moon Colony a year ago. Never gave me a forwarding address."

"Too bad. Well, there’s Allison. Surely her mom doesn’t still blame you for–"

"She does. Leave it at that."

"Ouch. So I guess this means you’re going stag?" The question was asked light-heartedly, but there was an underlying note of concern.

"Yeah. Flying solo. You never know. Maybe there’ll be some beautiful, wealthy, and desperately lonely female debutante in need of an escort."

"Just don’t hit on any senators’ wives this time."

"Hey, that was just a simple misunderstanding. Besides, you know she was as much to blame." Hawke changed the subject. "What about you? You bringing Carla?"

"I would, but she’s on a run. Won’t be back until Friday evening. It looks like my main responsibility tonight will be to make sure you don’t get into any trouble."

Hawke gave him a pained expression. "Oh, Horatio, how little dost thou understand me."

"Oh, I understand you alright. And so does the Admiral. He told me to keep an eye on you."

"He did, huh? Well, who’s going to keep an eye on him? Once he’s had a few martinis, he’s friskier than a rooster in a henhouse."

"Don’t worry. He’s taking his wife to this one."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He didn’t have much choice. It’s been splashed about all over the news so there was no way he could sneak it past her."

"In that case, the old man’s in for quite a night." They both laughed. "So how does Carla feel about all this?"

"Well, first off, she blames you."

"Naturally."

"But she’s a pilot, so you can imagine how jealous she is. And she’s upset we won’t be together for a whole year."

"How do you feel about it?"

"Well, let’s put it this way: I popped the question to her last night over the wire."

Hawke punched his friend playfully on the shoulder. "You sly dog! What’d she say?"

"She said yes. I told her we’d figure out a date when I got back."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. Knowing you, I thought you’d be offering me condolences."

"You know what this means, don’t you?"

"What?"

"From now on, you’re going to have to do ’couples’ things. No more hanging out with me. I’ve got too much of a bad rap." He sighed. "Looks like I’ll be on my own."

"Aw, you’ve still got Frank."

Hawke looked upward in comic despair. "Lord, kill me now. Fortunately, Frank’s too busy rotating child care duties between his ex’es to fixate on helping me with my anemic social life."

They opened a heavy, metal door painted white. Flecks of gray showed where the paint had peeled, and someone had scratched a peace symbol in one corner. A sign above it read: "Restricted Area. Military and Government Personnel Only. All Others Must Have a Valid Pass and Be Accompanied By an Escort at All Times." They came out onto a large mezzanine on the fourth floor of a cavernous room, over two hundred feet high and two thousand feet in length. A railing traveled the entire length of the room. Clustered along the railing were hundreds of people, military and civilian, their gazes fixed on the scene below. Hawke and Jim hunted for an opening.

"Hey, Hawke, it’s about time you got your ass down here."

A black man in khaki casuals detached himself from the crowd. Lieutenant Ben Johnson was big and athletic, in his mid-forties, as physically trim now as he had been twenty years earlier and the proud father of six children. Ben kept his pate shaved clean but sported a closely cropped beard and mustache streaked with gray. He had broad, even teeth that made his whole face light up when he smiled. He was the perfect image of a military fashion magazine cover.

Standing next to him like a genetic dipole was Frank Giordano. Where Ben was over six feet, Frank was a modest five and a half, with a large belly that he proudly attributed to his love for beer and all things fried. Dressed in maintenance coveralls, his shirt was stained in a dozen places (mostly from grease and oil, but at least three of the stains appeared to be food-related), and there was perpetually grease under his fingernails. His hair was at least combed today, Hawke noticed, but he had his usual five o’clock shadow. The only thing Frank had in common with Ben was his libido. Frank boasted of carrying on the Giordano tradition of a large family. He had seven children spread out over three different failed marriages, and one out of wedlock.

Frank was a stereotypical Italian from New York City, and despite many years of living in D.C., he still had the accent to go with it. No amount of ribbing from anyone could get him to drop it. Quite the contrary, he was proud of his grammatically incorrect vernacular. "Youse guys just don’t understand the finer points of havin’ a foreign accent. Chicks dig a guy who can speak Italian." In all the years he had known him, Hawke had never once heard Frank utter a word in Italian other than linguini or marinara.

But his mannerisms aside, Frank was the best maintenance engineer Hawke had ever met, capable of fixing anything with nothing more than a coil of wire, some rubber hose, and a roll of duct tape. While he typically stayed Earthside, personnel requirements for deep space exploratory missions demanded they have at least one maintenance engineer on board, and Hawke couldn’t think of anyone he could depend on more than Frank. He had a natural understanding of how electromechanical systems worked and hands-on experience with just about every switch, valve, pump, and servo-controller ever manufactured.

"C’mon over here and check this baby out," offered Frank.

Hawke and Jim sauntered up to the railing. Involuntarily, Hawke drew in his breath. There were a number of spacecraft in the hangar but there was no way you could miss the VX-90. She wasn’t the largest spacecraft – a massive JTX Titan CargoCruiser held that distinction. Nevertheless, her aerodynamic shape and crisp, contoured lines were riveting. Compared to the old, worn shuttlecraft around her, she fairly glowed. Her sleek hull, custom-crafted turbolift engines, futuristic cockpit design, and stylish markings were inspiring. With her wings folded back in the stowed position, she looked like a giant grasshopper, ready to leap into the sky.

"She’s gorgeous, isn’t she," said Ben. It wasn’t a question.

Armed military personnel were everywhere on the ground. Teams of engineers and technicians scuttled around the StarCruiser running diagnostics. Everything was being checked and double-checked. Even simple functions such as lighting and door locks would be verified before her virgin flight into space. Anyone who went inside was accompanied by no less than two guards. Hawke had never seen such tight security in the hangar before.

"You guys want to go down for a closer look?"

Ben looked skeptical. "We haven’t received official permission to be down there. Security could get a little skittish if we try to start poking around."

"Hey, no harm in trying. After all, we’re the ones who’re going to be flying that heap."

Hours later, Hawke tried to finish up some routine paperwork at his desk, but his mind was elsewhere. He’d managed to get his friends inside the Chinese StarCruiser, though he’d had to fight with the Senior Flight Boss to do it. Even then, without proper clearance they wouldn’t have gotten in if Hawke hadn’t spied Major Bishop coordinating the security detail.

The Major grudgingly smoothed the way for them, giving the eager crew an early look at the new Echelon model. An annoyed maintainer gave them a personal tour, while three armed guards shadowed them everywhere they went. Certain areas of the ship remained off limits as essential equipment and supplies had yet to be loaded and installed. Nevertheless, they saw the cockpit, the main engine room, the teleportation control room, and several of the living quarters – many of which were larger and more modern than Hawke’s apartment. Everything was fresh and clean and significantly more luxurious than anything Hawke had ever flown.

In fact, the cockpit more closely resembled the bridge of an extravagant hover-yacht than a spaceship. The pilot and co-pilot command consoles were placed front and center, but behind them, forming a small outward-facing semicircle, were four other chairs, two on each side, which served no purpose other than sightseeing. Immediately behind the seats was a raised, circular platform with a railing, ostensibly so other people could stand and look out of the VX-90’s oversized windows.

But it wasn’t excitement that kept the StarCruiser on his mind just then. Despite its classification as a passenger craft, Hawke had been surprised to discover the ship’s superstructure had been modified to carry four thirty-megaton fusion bombs (nicknamed "Earth-Quakers"). Just one of the bombs was capable of leveling a small city. Under the belly of the bow, a powerful laser, complete with a high-powered scope and computerized targeting system, was being installed. He wasn’t the only one to notice.

Lieutenant Johnson commented, "Kind of sends the wrong message, don’t you think?"

Next Chapter: Chapter 6: Formalities