Christopher Nuttall - The Long Hard Road

25 thMarch 1942

Major John Dashwood, Base Commander and director of the Ministry of Space, looked down on the effects of his labours and smiled. For five miles around, factories, barracks and assembly points dominated the scene, only slightly marred by the handful of trees planted in carefully-picked positions. A person in the complex could almost believe that they were back in 2015, rather than 1941. In two years, a massive portion of Guiana had been converted to the world’s first spaceport.

Dashwood grinned as he looked down at the world’s first SSTO spacecraft, a Hamilton -class vehicle capable of carrying seven passengers or two satellites into orbit, crewed by a single man. The craft hadn’t been designed by the British – it had been an American design that had taken years for NASA to approve, with several countries building their own copies while NASA waffled – but there was no need to tell anyone that, was there?

He sighed; he would have much preferred to use the Hamilton -class alone, but sheer logistics made that impossible. Much of the Ministry’s sheer lifting power came from the boosters, the Goddard -class basic launch rocket and the Clarke -class heavy lift rocket, each of which could launch more weight than any SSTO. Their problem, of course, was that they were hardly reusable, except some components of their final stages, which could be placed in orbit and used as part of Hamilton.

Thinking of the Space Station, as always, made him glance upwards. He couldn’t see it, of course, even with a telescope it was only a single spark in darkness, but he knew it was there. Ten men – and one woman – working to build a permanent home in space. He smiled; given how easy it was to launch an Armstrong -class tank launcher into orbit, the space station would soon be much larger.

“Then the moon,” he said. He knew that the Prime Minister had plans for the space station, ones that included tactical impact weapons to be deployed against Russia, but his plans were different. The funding practically forced them to move forward, running to establish as big a lead in space technology as they could; the American space program was far behind them. No one knew what the Nazis were up to – they’d tried to build a spaceplane and apparently failed – but they could build rockets. They’d done that without knowing a technological tree… and now they did, no one knew what they were up to.

“You can get quite some distance with brute force,” he muttered grimly. Truthfully, he was concerned that they hadn’t seen more German rockets; it didn’t take much imagination to see how control of space could offset all of the British advantages. It was one of the reasons why MI6 watched so closely for German space activities… and why Dashwood was concerned that they’d seen none.

Captain Troy Tempest, his second, nodded politely to him as he entered the control room. It was a vast improvement from the draft-racked open tower they’d used for the first few launches; Dashwood almost missed it. It had had… style the modern control room lacked.

“Any change in preparation to launch Thunderbird ?” Dashwood asked. Thunderbird , the SSTO being prepared for launch now, was one of the only two in existence. “Can it still be launched on schedule?”

“Yes, sir,” Tempest said. “The three new crewmembers and some additional equipment for the station have arrived.”

“Excellent,” Dashwood said. “Anything else?”

“The Americans have repeated their request for permission to include one of their people for the trip,” Tempest said. “This was a bit… firmer.”

“Bastards,” Dashwood said. The ideal of cooperating with the Americans hadn’t matched up to the reality, when the Americans had started to repeat some of the mistakes they’d made the first time around. The Americans had suffered the worst space disaster so far as well, trying to launch a man into orbit without a proper capsule.

“They might end up taking it to the Prime Minister,” Tempest pointed out. Dashwood scowled. “They’re very determined to get their own program up and running.”

“Then why bother us for space on an SSTO they can’t duplicate for years?” Dashwood asked sharply. He considered the manifest for Thunderbird . “Is the bastard here now?”

“Yes, sir,” Tempest said. “He’s former pilot Zack Lynn, from the United States Navy. Sir, it’s hardly his fault.”

Dashwood glared at him. “This is going to make me unpopular with the pilots,” he said. “Bump… um, Daniels from the crew; inform him that we need his slot for an American. Who’s the pilot?”

“It’s Abernathy, sir,” Tempest said. “You know; the new guy.”

“The RAF pilot,” Dashwood muttered. “Very well; inform him that he has Mr Lynn joining him. When the Finance Committee complains, inform them that it was an American decision.”

“Very good, sir,” Tempest said.

Thunderbird sat on the launch pad, poised to jump for the stars. Victor Abernathy, formerly of the RAF, stared up at the craft as its main hatch opened, drinking in every detail of its shape. It was simple; a blunt cone, designed for boosting up from any location into space.

“Sheila would have loved this,” he said, thinking about his colleague, who combined a love-life of astonishing complexity with a sheer love of flying that had brought her to the RAF. Sheila Dunbar had tried to apply, but she had been rejected at the second hurdle; she wasn’t very good at allowing the computers control.

“Ah, you must be the new guy,” the crewman said. He stuck out a hand. “I’m Matt Tracker.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Abernathy said. “Do I just go onboard?”

“Do you have your tag?” Tracker asked, glancing at the security tag on Abernathy’s lapel. “Pass, friend.”

Abernathy chuckled and followed him into the cockpit, climbing up the ladder into the cockpit. It wasn’t much; just a flat deck with access to the airlock, and seven seats, placed close together in the centre. One of them held a bank of controls, designed to fly the ship when the computers failed.

“You’re going to take her up?” Tracker asked. Abernathy nodded. “We just gave the old girl a tune-up,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with her at all.”

“That’s good,” Abernathy said. “Is there anything I should know that isn’t covered in the simulations?”

“Not really,” Tracker assured him. “The computers have control most of the time; if you have to take control, you’ve practiced for every conceivable eventuality. Just remember… living in the station isn’t easy.”

“You’ve been up there,” Abernathy said. “What’s it like?”

Tracker’s eyes shone. “Awesome,” he breathed.

“Captain Abernathy?” A man asked. “I’m Captain Tempest, deputy controller. The rest of your flight is here, except there’s been a slight hitch; we’ve had to add an American to your flight.”

Abernathy blinked. “I thought that seven was the maximum,” he said, wondering if it was a final test, to see how willing he was to break the rules. “Who are we booting?”

“Daniels,” Tempest said. “The others are coming onboard now.”

Abernathy stepped to one side as the six other astronauts stepped onto the cockpit deck. “That’s… not good,” he said. “Why…?”

“Politics,” Tempest said. He checked his watch. “Take your place, Captain,” he said. “You’re about to make history.”

“Could have been worse,” Tracker muttered, as Tempest left the cockpit. “At least you still have a back-up.”

“I suppose,” Abernathy said, checking his restraints. “Are you coming as well?”