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Cathedral

Written by Mike Barretta

I. Conspiracy theory

“Gentlemen . . . for next Monday,” said Dave Coyle, the mission director. He tapped a remote and the screen changed to a matrix of potential mishaps and the likelihood of their occurrence. “You have a copy of this operational risk management matrix in your binders along with our first cut on abort options for the revised mission profile. What I need you to do is to flesh out the details."

“This isn’t a mission. It’s not even footprints and flagpoles,” whispered Jerry Beaden to the man sitting to his left. The man snorted and Jerry regretted his whisper. Dave Coyle was not only the mission director but a close a personal friend doing his best to hold the center together and get some hardware into the sky.

"You have to land to plant a flag," snickered the man.

“It’s the best we can do, Jerry,” said Dave Coyle.

Jerry looked up and felt his face flush with embarrassment. Dave had ears like a cat. The temperature in the room seemed to rise a few degrees. A few muttered agreements indicated he had allies in the room, which didn't mean all that much. Technically, everyone in the room was an ally. No one really liked the mission, but it was the only game in town.

“This is the mission that’s economically and politically possible, let’s stay focused,” said Dave.

“Is a flyby really the best we can do? Jerry looked around the table. There were more than a few new faces. NASA had lost a lot of talent to industry. One departing senior staffer had remarked to him that if you can't make history then you better make money. The man had departed with a generous offer from Grumman and a lot of sadness.

"This is old ground. You're not the only one that's disappointed. Fortunately, I have a dozen unemployed astronauts to pick from. Do you want the mission or not?”

“Yes, I want it. It's better than nothing," said Jerry. He turned his attention back to the ORM matrix and Dave's somber voice turned into a drone.

"I don’t see any abort-to-Mars scenarios,” said Jerry.

"The scenario was summarily dismissed. It doesn't make sense to abort to Mars for a flyby mission. It would be a virtual death sentence," said Dave.

"Not necessarily," said Jerry. "After the transit maneuver we are committed to Mars one way or the other. It's too energy intensive for an Earth return."

"You’re preaching to the choir," said Dave.

"Well the next logical place to abort the mission is Mars. The original equipment manifest was designed for in situ survival."

"Agreed, but any abort scenario would maroon a man on Mars indefinitely. We don’t have the resources to mount a timely rescue," said Dave

Heads swiveled back and forth as each man took turns speaking. "Garrison?" said Jerry looking at the pudgy Boeing representative.

"The other two landing vehicles and transit boosters are in deep preservation in the Huntsville facility. The launch boosters have been in sheltered storage at Boeing since the contract was cancelled."

That's certainly enough hardware," said Jerry.

"The sticking point is reconstituting the technical expertise to bring the hardware out of preservation and build the stack," said the Boeing Representative. "It's all been laid off or reassigned, but then again, in this economy, you would be amazed at what can be done if you throw enough money at the problem."

"The sticking point is the financial resources and political will," corrected Dave.

"Hardware is the easy part."

"How long would an astronaut be marooned for?" asked a support engineer.

"Three years minimum provided the decision is even made to rescue him," said Dave. He checked his watch. "Let's cut to the chase. Are we in agreement that an abort-to-Mars is a viable though not necessarily politically plausible scenario?"

Jerry watched the group nod in agreement. "It's consistent with astronaut safety," said Jerry. The magic words. With high profile mishaps part of NASA's history, nearly anything could be done if it was in the best interests of safety.

"Then let's design for it. What I need is fully developed risk scenarios and resolution options regarding the proposed abort-to-Mars option. Thank you for attending.” Notebooks folded shut and chairs shuffled. People filed out of the room.

Jerry waited till the room was clear. "Dave, I'm sorry about my sarcasm. I didn't mean anything by it."

"I know. Forget about it"

"I have an idea," said Jerry.

"Close the door."

II. Willing Accomplice

The gin and tonic went down smooth. Jerry placed the glass down on the coaster. It was his third one and he was feeling mellow. The waves rolled into the beach in no discernable pattern. A few teenage surfers practiced their skills in the confused surf. He laughed as one amateur took an unexpected header off his short board. Allegra Perricone-Beaden, his wife smiled back at him. By her smile he could tell she didn't mind his drinking. He did it so rarely. Her two glasses of Zinfandel qualified as a knock-down drag-out rave for her.

He felt her hand wrap itself around his and he was surprised at the sudden warmth. He turned to the bartender. "Bobby, I got a question for you?"

"Another?"

He hoisted his glass, inspected it, and swirled the half-melted cubes. "No, I'm good."

"Watcha need, Jerry?"

"Who was the first American in space?"

“John Glenn.” Bobby dragged a damp cloth across the mahogany bar and smirked. "Dumb ass, astronaut you're supposed to know that," he muttered. Bobby turned and tucked the damp cloth into the rear pocket of his Levi's He walked to the other side of the bar and leaned in close to the two female office workers that were the vanguard of the after work crowd.

“My point exactly,” said Jerry to his wife. No one would remember a flyby mission.

"I'll remember," said Allegra. "You'll be gone for eight months. Actually now that I think about it, that might be a good thing. I mean you still have direct deposit. I have Power of Attorney. I just might get that beach house and matching cabana boy to take care of the pool."

"A cabana boy? I've got three empty seats on that ship. I just might take you along as part of my personal allotment."

She twirled a lock of hair and sipped some more wine. Her face was slightly flushed. "What could we possibly do for eight months cooped up in that cozy capsule of yours? I know. We could do what has never been done."

"Oh, it's been done before," said Jerry.

"Really now. You've never told me that astronaut story."

"You'll have to read about it in my memoirs."

"If it was you, you won't live long enough to write any memoirs. I have three Sicilian brothers."

"I know . . . you're from a small but influential crime family." It was a standing joke. Her father was an engineer for Alenia Aeronautica and immigrated to work for Lockheed-Martin. Her brothers were all doctors or lawyers. He turned around to face the gray-blue Atlantic.

“I think I'm going to do it," he said suddenly. Over the past month he had dropped hints knowing that she would be able to put the pieces together on her own.

“I know," she said.

She sat up straighter changing from wife to engineer before his eyes.

"What about the supply manifest?”

“Substantially unchanged from the original mission, it's been re-designated as emergency supplies,” said Jerry.

“Rover?”

"No. Dave didn't think that he could possibly slip that by the suits."

“I thought so.” She opened up her purse and took out a folded drawing and handed it too him.

He unfolded it. “What is it?

“An early birthday present. You can use parts on your manifest, reconfigure them, and make yourself a bicycle. I think it would work. See how broad the seat is; it would easily fit a space-suited butt."

"All the other astronauts married beauty queens and TV reporters. I had to marry an engineer." He leaned into her and kissed her. "Thank you.”

“You need to come home to me,” said Allegra. Her eyes began to tear.

He reached over and wiped the corners of her eyes. “Write your congressmen.”

III. Abort-to-Mars

Allegra stood outside Dave Coyle's office. She thought about walking away and waiting for the news but then changed her mind. She knocked.

"Come in."

Dave sat at his oak desk watching the high definition monitor that displayed the mission control floor and operational parameters of the Barsoom Express, the unofficial nickname of the Mars ship. The volume had been turned down and the normal mission chatter was a dull murmur. He stood.

"Do you have a few minutes?" asked Allegra

"Yes, Allegra, of course," said Dave.

"Can I sit?"

"You don't have to ask"

"I'm nervous that's all." In three hours the possibility of an abort-to-Mars scenario would expire and the ship would be committed to a return to Earth. The Barsoom Express would not be able to shed enough velocity to capture Mars orbit. She half-hoped that her husband would give up on history and come home, but that would be out of character for the man she married.

“If he is going to do it; he will do it soon to give the engineers down here time to recommend the option." On queue, mission control erupted into controlled chaos. Supervisors stood and leaned over technicians shoulders. His phone rang. He answered and listened for a moment. “Verify that the pressure drop is genuine and not a sensor or indicator malfunction and convene the crisis team. I’ll be there in a moment.” He hung up the phone and turned to Allegra.

“He’s made his decision.”

She nodded and took a deep breath.

Dave got up rounded his desk to leave. He touched her shoulder gently as he walked to the door. Her husband would either die on Mars or force the United States to spend billions to bring him home.

IV. The Great Man Theory

The landing module had been optimized for the flyby. The engines that would have lifted the return portion of the ship had been removed for additional living space and weight savings. The ship could theoretically land but it could never lift from the surface of Mars. The fuel and oxidizer tanks were left in place and filled with cryogenic hydrogen ostensibly to be used as contingency fuel for the flyby or as raw material to manufacture water, oxygen, and methane on Mars.

Jerry sat in the pilot seat gazing at the thirty-six inch flat panel monitor that had been set such that it seemed to be a cockpit window. Six smaller multi-purpose screens and a few backup analog gauges were mounted below. The oxygen reserve tanks still indicated full. A secondary screen displayed the false data relayed to mission control.

He could imagine what was going on back at mission control. Engineers were trying to interpret the data, decide if it was glitched or not. The crisis team was halfway assembled and soon they would contact him and he would have to corroborate the lie.

Does it matter to be the first? In the grand scheme of things it probably didn't. Sooner or later, Mars would be explored and perhaps even colonized.

“Barsoom, this is Houston. We have indications of a breach in your primary O2 tank. We need to know what you’re seeing and have you take a direct tank reading.”

Three years alone. No, not really alone. He had routine mission, private communications with his family, and his public blog. He had thousands of hours of entertainment and books electronically stored. He would be able to stay involved with the Earth so it wasn’t exactly the man-in-the-lifeboat situation that was described in scenario development meetings.

“Houston, this is Barsoom. I’ve taken direct readings. The primary storage tank has vented. I’m standing by for recommendations." He was amazed at how easy it was to lie.

Is this sacrifice or selfishness? The boundaries blurred. Does it really matter who is first?

Yes it matters, he answered himself.

It matters to me and maybe, just maybe, everyone else.

V. Done Deal

Allegra took a seat next to Dave. She knew her presence in the room was unprecedented and unwelcomed. She didn't care. If they were going to make her leave they were going to have to tell her and the only person who would do that was Dave.

"Maybe she shouldn’t be here,” said the flight supervisor. The man fidgeted uncomfortably. It was an unspoken rule that astronaut family was royalty.

"She’s his wife," said Dave. "If anyone has a right to be here, it's her."

"I didn’t mean . . . it's just . . .” stammered the flight supervisor.

“It's okay. What are you recommending?”

“We are recommending an abort-to-Mars. We need a four minute engine burn at full throttle.” He checked his watch. "And we need it in twenty-three minutes to capture orbit in six weeks.”

"Or," said Dave.

"No other real option given the data we have. Primary O2 tank is completely depleted. We have sufficient reserves and scrubbers to reach Mars where we can keep him alive for about three and half years or we can get a corpse back in three months."

Allegra winced at the man's blunt statement. As an engineer she appreciated the no nonsense purpose behind it, as the wife of the subject at hand it was a dagger in her heart.

“Hydrogen boil off?” asked Dave.

"Within expected parameters. We have sufficient quantities to manufacture oxygen and water in situ.”

"That's good. Then the abort option is a consensus decision?"

Heads nodded around the room.

He turned to Allegra. "Allegra, we need to reschedule your private communication time until the burn is complete."

She nodded. Anxiety warmed her. She felt her breathing quicken and she hoped no one would notice. The last thing these people needed was a distraction. They were all acting in good faith. She needed to play her part, but she didn't know what her part was: anxious wife or sly accomplice.

"Lets get to work. We have twenty-one minutes to make this happen," said Dave. "And I have to call the administrator."

The crisis team broke up to coordinate the abort-to-Mars.

"I'm going to sit here a moment, Dave," said Allegra. The room emptied quickly and quietly as people returned to their work stations to address the crisis. She took another deep calming breath. When her husband had deployed in the navy she was a cruise widow, left behind by the needs of the navy, now she was a Mars widow, left behind by choice.

"Here. Drink this."

She turned and a pony-tailed man with the look of tech support about him handed her a glass of water. "Thank you."

"I've been a data analyst for twelve years," said pony-tail man.

The man wore NASA standard uniform circa 1970's: white short sleeve button down, black pants, paisley tie, and a no-fooling pocket protector. She couldn't help but smile.

He pulled out a chair one removed from her and sat down. "They think that just because you're into computers you're socially stupid, but I watch people. I can read between the lines. I've seen you and your husband around. He wouldn’t leave you for so long without letting you know."

"What are you suggesting?" she said quietly.

"I'm suggesting that everyone here is looking at processed data, just what the screen says. You and Dave seem like you've had awhile to prepare for this or you're both really cool cucumbers. Oh yeah, and the raw data stream that I monitor indicates the oxygen tank is full."

"What do you want?" It was the obvious question. Was she being set up for blackmail?

“Nothing, I've altered the archived raw data files. His tank is empty like it should be and no one will ever be able to prove otherwise unless they go to Mars. Maybe this NASA thing will last long enough that I can work my way up to the big table." He rapped the faux wood table top with his knuckles. He pulled black rimmed glasses from his pocket and put them on his face. They slid down the bridge of his nose and he pushed them back up. He blinked to focus.

"Thank you," he said. "I would have hated to go into game design when real life is so much more interesting."

VI. Trickle Up Effect

Barlowe DiFate, NASA Administrator, paced outside the Oval Office. His Armani suit caressed his skin like a lover. It didn't comfort him. He had never felt out of control before. Powerful forces jerked other people around, not him. He was a career bureaucrat, one step below politician, but far more lucrative with half the risk. He had fewer constituents to please and most of the time he only had one constituent to please. His constituent was going to be pissed.

The door opened and the President's chief of staff, Gabrielle Hernandez glared at him. "The President will see you now."

He crossed the threshold into the room

"Barlowe," said the President. "I've heard rumors. What's happening?

Presidents don't hear rumors, thought Barlowe. They receive intelligence. Hernandez had probably poisoned the well. "We've had trouble with the Mars mission."

"What sort?"

"A rupture in an oxygen tank."

"What is the plan? Bring'em home early?"

"That is not possible, Mr. President. The ship is committed to landing on the planet."

"So we have an accidental Mars landing. Barlowe, when you screw up you screw up big. Okay, don't get me wrong here but what does that mean to the astronaut . . . and me?"

"It means that this country commits billions to rescuing the man or he dies. The political fallout is beyond my purview," said Barlowe.

"I'll make it your purview, Barlowe. I am beginning to regret I ever appointed you."

Now he was down by one constituent. "I'll have a more comprehensive brief for you tomorrow morning."

The President nodded, indicating he was dismissed.

VII. Smiles across the miles

Mars loomed. The angry red planet filled the viewer. It filled the viewer ominously. How could it fill the viewer any way but ominously? Jerry's initial fascination turned to fatalism. The planet's reflected light filled the cockpit with its redness and at the moment it felt like a march down a dim prison corridor. Soon he would land and the door would slam shut and it just might never open again. He pushed regrets away. They were pointless now.

Mars vanished and his wife’s face appeared on the monitor window. She smiled three minutes ago and the image just reached him. He stretched his hand out across the millions of miles and touched her face. He felt better.

VIII. Cathedrals in Space

"One hundred sixty billion dollars? You want me to go to Congress and request an additional one hundred sixty billion dollars? Have you been watching C-SPAN lately, David? Have you been watching CNN? I am getting raked over the coals for losing a man. I am up to my ass in inquiries and panels, all of them trying to figure out where I screwed up," said Barlowe.

"I'm sorry. It's not your fault, but it is your job," said Dave. "And he isn't lost. We know exactly where he is."

"Don't tell me what my damn job is," grumbled Barlowe.

"And that's one hundred sixty billion dollars plus the inevitable cost overruns and delays. Sell it as a welfare program for engineers. They have to eat too, you know."

"Sarcasm. That's exactly what I need right now. That's going to go over great on the hill."

"Why shouldn't it? Congress has bailed out every other business enterprise in this country. Why shouldn't scientists and engineers get a helping hand? At least they're making something instead of just consuming. We're building cathedrals," said Dave.

"I wish I knew what the hell you are talking about," said Barlowe.

"Medieval Europeans would build cathedrals to house relics of saints. The cathedrals would employ thousands of craftsmen, merchants, and farmers for decades. Do you know how many pizza shops, laundromats, and used car dealerships depend upon NASA facilities?"

"Okay, I get it. I'm just pissed," said Barlowe.

"Barlowe, pull out the stops. If they don't appropriate the funds make him a martyr, make his wife a widow, and make her unborn son fatherless."

"Oh my God. You're kidding me. She's pregnant."

"She got pregnant just before the launch, last night on Earth kind of thing."

"This is starting to sound like a conspiracy," said Barlowe.

You have no idea, thought David.

IX. A Reason to Live

Olympus Mons rose in the Eastern horizon like an immense frozen wave. The Barsoom had landed in a field of odd vertical wind sculpted stones that turned out to be remnants of igneous rock. They peppered the landscape like bizarre chess pieces. The Martian sands in their infinite graduations flowed like slow motion water around the base of the stones. It was a natural Zen garden and the marks of his presence were polished smooth within a day. An American flag fluttered in the carbon dioxide breeze. Footprints and flagpoles after all, thought Jerry.

He walked back from his modest power farm in his filthy Mars stained spacesuit with his daily survival chores more or less complete. Power was life and to that end he had cleaned dust from solar fabric stretched out over aluminum poles and lubricated the three lightweight wind turbines. His power farm augmented the ship's thermal decay reactor that kept the Barsoom's lithium batteries charged. He entered the lock and brushed himself off. He turned on the vacuum filters that pulled the air downward as he swept himself clean. Satisfied, he shut down the vacuum and cycled breathable air into the lock. He undressed in the chill utility room and climbed the ladder to the main deck. He stopped for a drink of Mars flavored water and then continued his climb to the flight deck.

He waited for the monitor to come to life.

"Jerry, I have a surprise for you," said Allegra. "Please don't get upset."

Her image blurred and the screen turned blue with momentary signal loss. She reappeared frozen in time and then the image skipped. His private fear was that she would grow weary of waiting, whereas he had no choice but to wait. Her image came back.

"Why would I get upset?"

He waited for the reply and looked around in mild disgust. The ship looked like a college dorm room. He was becoming increasingly sloppy with his work schedule, less fastidious about his appearance, and short-tempered with surface ops staff. His pointless unscheduled bike rides on Mars were a constant source of frustration for staff members responsible for his every movement.

"You're going to be a father." She stood up and showed her belly. "I found out four weeks after the launch."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you distracted. Are you happy?"

"Yeah, I'm happy. Well, I don't know how to feel. I wish I was home with you."

"I wish you were home, too. Jerry, you need to pull yourself together and do things right. This is bigger than you. This is bigger than Mars. You're going to have a son."

"That's wonderful." How