rocket because of its reliance upon the Russian RD-180 main engine. The American-built G-series was the obvious first choice for a replacement. Dahm hated the Ryan administration’s policies, but he was happy to cash their checks.
Many governments were watching tonight’s launch. Billions in future contracts for SpaceServe, including ones with the U.S. government, were at stake. Tonight’s successful launch would secure them all.
SpaceServe, a subsidiary of CloudServe, was Elias Dahm’s greatest dream: a platform that would allow him to build a rocket fleet to rival those of the spacefaring nations and their private contractors. His goal was to put the first manned rocket on Mars and inaugurate the colonization of the Red Planet. Unknown to most, Dahm had founded CloudServe only as a means to achieve his SpaceServe vision.
The G-series was designed for heavy payloads and, ultimately, manned spaceflight. He had staked CloudServe’s future on SpaceServe and the G-series in particular, borrowing heavily against CloudServe assets to finance the capital-intensive operations. SpaceServe had invested more than $1 billion developing the new SS-1 integration and launch facilities at CSG, and designing the “SpaceCloud” for all CSG operations.
The CSG facility location in French Guiana was ideal for tonight’s launch. Established in 1964 by the French space agency (CNES), it had been continuously upgraded by the French, European, and even Russian space agencies for a variety of commercial, scientific, and military satellite launches. Because it was closer to the equator than any American spaceport at 5.3 degrees north latitude, less energy and fuel were required to place a satellite into geostationary equatorial orbit than a pad located in California or Florida. An infantry regiment of the French Foreign Legion provided base security.
Elias Dahm stood in the SpaceServe remote mission control center in Fremont, California, which was jointly monitoring the liftoff with the CSG launch control facility. His eyes were fixed on the eighty-five-inch monitor with a live feed from the Guiana SS-1 launchpad and the 232-foot rocket standing on it. Forty-five smaller displays at the fifteen stations around him in Fremont monitored every technical aspect of the launch, from hardware to software. Live audio from French Guiana launch control was full of chatter from the mission management team, including the range control officer and finally the launch director, who each gave their “go for launch” commands.
Flight computers had already taken control of the launch sequence. The countdown advanced by digital numbers on the screen and also in audio: a woman’s voice speaking in heavily accented English. The audio countdown was pure PR for the live Internet feed, a nod to the melodramatics of Fritz Lang’s 1929 film Woman in the Moon.
“Three, two, one, zero, ignition . . .”
Thirty roaring launch engines fired, lighting up the night sky. The vehicle rose majestically as the hold-down arms and the service structure umbilicals fell away.
The two launch centers erupted with cheers and applause. Dahm high-fived the technicians seated around him, a victorious grin plastered on his handsome face.
A graphic superimposed on the video image displayed telemetry stats of speed and distance. Seventy seconds into the flight, the G-rocket reached a height of 10.5 kilometers and a speed of 1,234.8 kilometers per hour—the speed of sound.
With applause still ringing in his ears, Dahm watched a ball of flame erupt from one of the booster nozzles, and in less than a second the entire second stage was enveloped in explosive fire.
The room quieted, as if a volume knob had been turned down.
The range safety officer calmly announced he was initiating the remote destruct sequence.
A moment later, the night sky erupted with the resulting supernova of burning liquid oxygen and RP-1 rocket fuel propellant. Most of the rocket’s fiery wreckage rained down harmlessly over the Atlantic Ocean, while some engine components crashed on infamous Devil’s Island, evacuated during each launch in case of just such an occasion.
An explosion of technical and emergency chatter flooded the audio and the room Dahm stood in. No one dared look at him. Everybody involved understood the magnitude of this catastrophe, none better than Dahm.
He stared ashen-faced at the image on the widescreen.
Flaming embers trailed through the night sky like falling stars, dying out as they splashed into the cold, dark Atlantic.
51
THIRTY KILOMETERS NORTH OF BEYNEU, KAZAKHSTAN
Cluzet’s three-truck convoy of blood-red JAC tractor-trailer rigs had been rolling along at a good speed since descending from the jagged, snowcapped mountains of Afghanistan down into the verdant greenery of Tajikistan. But the farther north and west they drove, the drier it got, finally hitting the desiccated