ONE YEAR LATER
Tuck banked the Corsair F4U into a sixty-degree left turn rounding the Marine Air Station in San Diego. The WWII bird responded like a dream, the G-forces pressing him in his seat. The Pratt & Whiney R – 2800 engine roared as he goosed the throttle, increasing speed in the turn and aligning the nose of the plane with the center of the runway. Below, thousands of eyes gazed at him as he put the gull-wing fighter through its paces.
At the moment, Tuck gave little thought to the crowd and even less thought to the events of the past year. He was doing the thing he loved most, flying at the edge of the envelope, pushing the sixty-year-old aircraft to its limits.
Applying more power, Tuck pulled the plane into a steep climb, its engine singing with the strain. The Corsair had a distinctive sound. The Japanese called it “Whistling Death.”
The deep blue of the sky replaced the distant hills Tuck had seen a moment before the plane began a steep climb, its propeller clawing at the sky, pulling against thinning air.
Higher. Higher.
Tuck fixed his gaze on the canvas of blue before him and his mind added miles and miles of altitude. If only he could keep climbing, keep stretching until the blue of the sky dissolved to black and the Earth receded into a huge blue ball. If only . . .
But one did not toy with gravity. The powerful pistons pounded out all the energy they could but the plane slowed its climb, reaching its maximum altitude.
“A little more, baby. Just a little more.”
Tuck had no idea of his altitude and he didn’t care. Aircraft like these were flown more by feel than instruments. The Corsair began to vibrate with the strain.
“Come on, sweetheart. This is what you were built for. A couple hundred feet more.”
The creators of the Corsair had designed it for speed. During the war, pilots learned a new technique for finishing a dogfight: run. The manual instructed pilots in trouble to apply full power, climb, and head home. Nothing else in the air could catch it.
Then the jet age arrived and craft like the Corsair yielded to a new era. Still they served in World War II with distinction and made themselves known in the Korean Conflict. Now the plane was an oddity, a gull-winged used-to-be that once knew courage, strength, purpose, and glory.
An important used-to-be.
Just like Tuck.
Before the engine stalled, Tuck rolled the plane and started a dive that drew goose bumps over every square inch of his skin. Blue sky was now behind him, Mira-mar Marine Air Station below. He could see the crowds gathered for the annual air show, each a lover of aircraft or related to an enthusiast.
Tuck pulled back on the stick to flatten his descent. He was about to give the audience a sense of what it was like to be the object of a strafing run.
His air speed climbed so quickly that he could use the hands of the altimeter gauge as a fan. It was hyperbole, but the image made Tuck smile. Something he didn’t do often anymore.
From the pilot’s perspective, the ground rose at shocking speed, but Tuck knew he was the one moving fast.
Fifty feet above the runway, Tuck pulled the Corsair flat and raced the length of the concrete strip. From the corner of his eye, he saw the crowd raise hands and pump fists in the air. He almost wished he could see it himself.
As he reached the end of the runway, he took the plane high again, but this time just enough to allow a safe turnaround.
His part of the show had come to an end and a vague depression — a constant companion over the last thirteen months — invaded him again.
Reality returned.
Tuck despised reality.
He had been warned by the NASA docs — specifically, the NASA shrinks — that depression was likely. They told him of the deep melancholy felt by Apollo astronauts after returning from the Moon. They knew they’d never top the experience. Everything else would be second rate.
Of course Tuck’s gloominess didn’t stem from a great achievement he could never do again; it came from a massive failure. No matter how many times investigations declared him guiltless, no matter how often the world treated him as a hero — he knew the truth.
He and he alone survived the Atlantis mission. The rest of his crew rested in the ground. Dead.
The landing gear lowered smoothly and Tuck brought the blue beast down gently on the runway. His speed reduced quickly and he began the zigzag taxi maneuver every Corsair pilot learned. On the ground, the steep angle of the plane from nose to tail prevented the pilot from seeing forward. The long cowling also limited vision. Tuck moved left then right, left then right, taking sightings out the side of the cockpit.
A Marine stood to the side and guided Tuck to his place on the tarmac with hand signals.
Tuck killed the engine and exited the craft. He did so with a confidence and bearing that fit a fighter pilot/ astronaut. A year ago, that confidence and bearing had been real.
“Spit-shine spectacular, Commander.” The crewman stepped forward and shook Tuck’s hand. He looked too young to be a Marine. Of course, they all looked too young to him now. “If you’re up to it, there’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
“I’m not in the mood, Sergeant. I’d rather catch a cup of coffee.”
“I don’t think he’s here as part of the audience.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice, even though no one stood close enough to overhear. “It’s Ted Roos.”
Tuck blinked. “Am I supposed to know the name?”
“Well, yeah . . . I’m mean, yes, sir. Ted Roos created The Cube and New York Underground.”
“I don’t follow.”
The man looked puzzled. “He’s the hottest game designer on the planet.”
“Game? Video games?”
“Exactly, sir. The Cube sold a bajillion copies, and New York Underground is the best shooter game ever created.”
“Did Mr. Game Fantastic say what he wanted?”
“No, sir. Just so you know. He’s mega-rich. Got more money than God.”
“I doubt that. Where is he?”
“He’s on the other side of the barrier by the flight line.”
“Thanks. Take care of my baby.” Tuck patted the wing.
“She’s in good hands, Commander. Listen. Do you think you can get his autograph for me?”
“No.”
Tuck walked away. .
Tuck didn’t know what he expected, but Ted Roos wasn’t it. He wore his I-just-crawled-out-of-bed hair proudly, and his chin hadn’t seen a razor for several days. He stood five-eight, and bore maybe 165 pounds on a straight frame. His eyes were a blue that looked like they wanted to be green but couldn’t pull it off. There was, however, a detectable intelligence behind those eyes.
“You Ted Roos?”
“That’s me, Commander.”
Tuck ducked under the nylon ribbon that formed the barricade. He was surprised to find Roos here. It was off-limits to the public. “This area is limited to support personnel, Mr. Roos.”
“I’m not here as a spectator, Commander. I’m here with a proposition.”
“Doesn’t explain how you got here.”
“I know people, Commander. I have money. I have connections. No big whoop.”
“No big whoop, eh? What kind of proposition?”
“Business.”
“I already have all the business I need.”
Roos smiled in a way that made Tuck think he was the butt of an unspoken joke.
“Something funny, Mr. Roos?”
He shook his head. “I don’t mean to offend, Commander. I just know the business you’re in and I don’t imagine you find it all that satisfying.”
“I’m not sure you know that much about me.”
Again, a smile. “I’ve arranged a room where we can talk. Shall we go there?”
Tuck’s first inclination was to walk away, but something about Roos hooked him. He was young, maybe early thirties, but he had the confidence of an older, more experienced man. “Lead the way.”
The room Roos mentioned was a conference space with a battered table and chairs in the center. Someone had shut the thick Venetian blinds. Another man rose from his seat when they entered. Roos gave a nod and the man departed. He left a laptop computer on the table.
Tuck and Roos were alone.
“Do you want to sit?” Roos motioned to one of the chairs.
“I prefer to stand.”
To his credit, Roos remained on his feet too. “I take it you’re a straight-to-the-point kinda guy.”
“Yup. You said you know my business?”
“No, I said I know the kind of business you’re in and that you’re probably not satisfied.”
Tuck removed his pilot’s gloves. “That’s a pretty bold statement.”
“Let’s see if I’m right. In the last year, the year since the accident, you’ve been traveling around the country shilling for NASA, doing air shows, talking to schoolkids. Right so far?”
“Shilling is a harsh word.”
“But accurate. Let me ask a pointed question. When do you plan to go into space again?”
“That’s hard to say.”
“No it’s not, Commander. It’s not hard to say at all. NASA isn’t going to put you up again, are they?”
“It would be inappropriate for me to discuss any future missions I might have.”
“Then I’ll discuss it for you. You’ve been grounded. Not formally, of course, but the suits aren’t going to put you back in orbit. Too many questions.” He raised a hand. “I know you’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing or error. In fact, the world thinks you’re a hero. They should. I do too; otherwise I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Still, it’s pretty cocky to say you know what NASA will or won’t do.”
“Have you been getting odd looks from others on the astronaut corps? Do they look at you like you’re a Jonah?”
Tuck didn’t answer and he hoped his face didn’t tip his hand. He would never admit it to anyone — never admitted it to himself — but he had caught a few questioning stares. Worse were the fleeting looks that broadcast doubt or pity.
“I know your kind is the best and brightest. You’re not only superjocks but brainiacs too.”
“You may be exaggerating.” Tuck tossed his gloves on the table.
“Only to a point. Let’s face it: you guys breathe a different air than the rest of us mortals.”
“I’m just a man like you, Roos. I have a family. My back hurts if I work in the yard too long.”
Roos laughed. “Three times you let them harness you into a vehicle strapped to thousands of pounds of explosive fuel. Before that, you flew fighter jets. In between you were a test pilot.” He laughed again. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure your kind is different.”
“Normally, I’m a patient man, Mr. Roos — ”
“I want you to work for me.”
Tuck’s mind chugged to a stop. “What?”
“I want you to quit NASA, retire from the Navy, and join me on the front lines of space. I want you to help turn humans into a space-faring people.”
It was Tuck’s turn to laugh. “NASA has been doing that for decades.”
“One time, maybe, but not so much now. Look, Commander . . . they call you Tuck, right? May I call you Tuck?”
“No.”
“Fine. Have it your way, Commander. You know as well as I do that NASA has been tasked to go back to the Moon and then on to Mars. President Bush laid that down in 2004. All well and good. And they’re planning to do it in the same fashion they’ve gone about everything else, chained to big businesses as contractors. They will spend billions upon billions. The estimated cost of sending astronauts to Mars is five hundred billion dollars.”
“And you don’t think we should spend that kind of money.”
“Of course we should. I think we should spend more. It’s not as if NASA is breaking the US budget. Their percentage of the national budget is little more than a sliver. Less than seventeen billion dollars. The National Institute of Health gets twice the funds.”
“Most people think NASA gets too much money.”
“I’m not one of them. Let’s get down to it, Commander. The Shuttle program is on the way out. In a few years, its budget will be less than 1 percent of all NASA dollars. How many orbiters do you think will be riding the flame into space? Not many.”
“Work on the ISS continues and will continue.”
“Sure it will, but who cares? It took thirty years and a hundred billion dollars to get it to this point. For NASA, low-Earth orbit is passé. Good work has been done. Worthwhile experiments have been performed. But near-Earth work is now on NASA’s back burner.”
“There’s plenty of excitement with the effort to reach the Moon again and Mars.”
“Like I said, I’m all for it, but with the end of near-Earth missions, a vacuum has been created. If you’ll pardon the pun.”
“And you want to fill it?”
“Me and others like me. I plan to put people in space.”
“Rich people.” Tuck knew where this was going.
“At first, but the dream is to make space available to almost everyone: carpenters, educators, and business people.”
“Sounds noble but not practical.”
Roos leaned forward. “More practical than you think. Spaceports are already being built. Last count, there were eighteen such efforts underway, including those in New Mexico, Alabama, Washington, Russia, Singapore, Tasmania, Australia, and Canada. Space tourism is almost here. I need someone like you to make sure we lead the pack.”
“So I just up and quit. Do you realize what you’re asking?”
“I do and I can make it worth your while. If you agree, you’ll sit on our board of directors. I’ll arrange for you to sit on the board of a few other corporations linked to entrepreneurial space travel. Your income will be in the solid six figures.”
“So I sit in a boardroom from time to time?”
“You’ll do much more than that, Commander. You’ll work with our engineers developing innovative flight tech. You’d also be our public face. I don’t make a good spokesperson. I prefer the background.”
“Still, I’d be flying a desk.”
“Which is pretty much what you’re doing now. However, you’ll do more than fly a desk, Commander. I want you to be our first pilot.”
Tuck didn’t know whether to laugh or not. “You want me to fly a homemade spaceship? Into space?”
“Suborbital at first, then orbital. And Legacy is hardly a homemade spaceship.”
“And you think that comment should make me feel better?”
“When you see it, you’ll know I’m right.”
“I can’t decide if you’re mad or laboring under the self-delusion of genius.”
“Commander, you know this can be done. It has been done. Burt Rutan’s company Scaled Composites won the X-Prize in 2004 by flying into space twice within fourteen days. SpaceShipOne reached three hundred twenty-eight thousand feet. Earned them ten million bucks. Michael W. Melvill was sixty-three when he reached space.”
“I’m aware of all that, Mr. Roos, but I’m just not interested.”
Roos pulled a card from his front pants pocket. Unlike most business cards, this one was made of plastic. “I hope you change your mind.”
“I doubt I will.” Tuck took the card.
“Oh, one other thing. Lance Campbell signed on last week. You’re my choice for lead pilot, but if you decide to stay your course, then I’ll offer him the position.”
“Campbell? You’re kidding, right?”
“I know you two have a bit of history, but I figure you can work it out.”
“History? Yeah, you might say we have history.”
Roos smiled. “Odd, he said the same thing.”