For millennia Mankind has watched the stars and wondered. They have wondered if anyone else was out there. They made myths and legends and prayers. They named the stars after the gods made in their own image. Nightly they watched them slowly slide across the evening sky. They used them for navigation. They made lenses of glass to draw them closer. They put high fidelity electronics into rockets and sent them into low orbit to look more clearly at the stars. They built for themselves phase array radio telescopes to let their ears listen to the farthest reaches of the galaxy and beyond. But they never heard from them, those they supposed were out there. All they ever heard were the noisy quasars and pulsars. They decided to send eyes and ears to the stars in search of whoever might be out there…
* * *
“Wow! Hey, Mike…”
Black with little luminescent specks.
“Hey, Mike,” he said again.
Black with little luminescent specks. He noted something new. His face reflected in the small window stared back at him. Mike continued to ignore him.
“Hey, Mike…”
“Geez, Lou, can’t you see I’m busy…” Silence. “What?”
“Have you ever noticed how ‘black’ it is out there?”
Mike sighed. “You won’t think so once we rotate toward the sun. Remember to pull down the screen.”
Commander Michael T. Booker returned to his clipboard, printouts, and panels full of gauges, meters, lights, and switches. Thirty years, he thought. Thirty years of training for this one moment in time and I get saddled with a ‘sightseer.’ Shaking his head slightly, he tried to refocus his attention on the project at hand.
Silence.
“Wow! Hey, Mike…”
* * *
Admiral Booker looked down at the faces in the photo. Using the back of his hand, he wiped away a bit of dust. The faces seemed so young, full of expectation, full of excitement for things unknown. He missed those guys. Mark, Lou, Gretchen, Maku, and Yeorgi. His crew. Was it really twenty years ago? It seems only a few weeks ago and yet it seems a lifetime ago. He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. The memories of his first days in space. This mission seemed so banal now. Place a satellite in low orbit, collect a dead satellite, collect some debris, and deliver supplies to the ISS. He lived with these five for years in preparation for five days in space. And, Lou’s first day in space. How like a child he was. Looking out every portal and saying, “Wow!”
Those days had long since passed. The Commander became a Captain, made five more trips into space, made Rear Admiral and a new assignment… a desk. Several commands later found him being asked to take a bold new assignment, the Moon. First he jockeyed a desk, then planning, then execution, and at last lift off. Admiral Booker received his fourth star directly from the President of the United States of America, pinned on by his daughters while his wife and son looked on. A handshake from the Secretary General and several other dignitaries and he boarded the ship that would take him to the first off planet, landed command, Lunar One. His command center was named Camp Armstrong and was located at Serenity Base. As he stepped into the low but artificial gravity of Lunar One’s space dock, he could not help but recall, “One small step for man…” He sighed. Later today he would be relieved of command. Stepping down. Time to retire. Forty years of service was not long enough, he thought, as he put away the photo.
“Good-bye my friends. You were not here with me physically, but you were here with me none-the-less.”
“Admiral?” The intercom squawked.
“Yes.”
“The General’s launch should be docking shortly. Everything is prepared to receive him. Are you ready, sir?”
“Yes. Thank you, Gerald,” was his only reply as he clicked off the link. Am I ready, really? Hell no! Grabbing his cap and straightening his jacket, he opened the door and strode out of “his” office for the last time.
The pipes sounded. An immaculately dressed gentleman in military finest stepped into the receiving hall underneath an arch of drawn service swords, an old tradition reserved for ceremony. The new ESA march played brightly as this well-dressed, rugged man strode forward in measured steps. He was followed by his staff, of course. There would be a lot of changes in just a few days, the Admiral thought to himself. The gentleman stopped short in front of Admiral Booker and snapped a very sharp salute.
“General JT Tanaka of the Earth Space Agency reporting as ordered, sir.”
Returning the salute just as crisply, “Welcome aboard, General Tanaka. Let me show you to your quarters before we take you on a brief tour.”
“Splendid, Admiral. Lead on, sir.”
And that, Admiral Booker thought to himself, is how you lose your job.
It was several days later, after much pomp and show, that the Admiral and the General found themselves sitting casually after another formal dinner. It was the time for the “debrief.” Admiral Booker was ready and not ready for this. This signaled the true ending of his command of Lunar One.
“Ya know, Mike, you’ve made history here.”
Admiral Booker looked up from his glass of fine Kentucky Bourbon. “Do you think so, Jim? We haven’t done much more than secure a foothold on this rock. Gravimetrics is still flakey. Leave nothing out just yet and strap yourself in. It is really weird to wake up floating slightly.”
“Thanks for the tip.” The two men eyed each other squarely. “Ya have ya know.”
“Thanks.” He did not really feel it however. “You’re making history yourself.” He raised his glass in salute. The General returned the acknowledgement. “The first real command of significance for the ESA. This is like your launching point, starjockey.”
A big grin split the General’s face. “Yes it is, squid-out-a-water.”
The Admiral smiled in return. It was genuine. The ESA had recruited the finest officers and enlisted personnel from all over the planet for this initial unified Earth effort. Allegiances were to the ESA and not to national origin. It was an experiment. If it paid off, the G12 would not have to bear the funding alone. The combined Earth conclave would directly fund its operations. Lunar One was being handed over to the ESA. Michael T Booker was handing over his baby to James T Tanaka. Even after reading over the General’s dossier several times, getting additional background on him and his staff, the Admiral was not sure of him until now. It is always the intangibles that come into play before doubts are settled. There was something in his eyes and demeanor that reminded the Admiral of his days at NASA pre-mission. Surety without cockiness, resolve without stricture, eager anticipation of the mission ahead tempered by years of study and experience. The Admiral decided they picked the right man for the job after all.
Their conversation moved along in easy order discussing all of the necessary day to day and mission critical functions and overview of operations. The General asked good questions. The Admiral answered forthright and in necessary detail. The two gentlemen gained additional respect for each other’s experience and command insight beyond the chest full of ribbons both had on their dress jackets resting on the backs of their chairs. Somewhere in the conversation the discussion turned to home. Then what was missed most and who. What would be the first thing to do or see after arriving back Earth-side. They found themselves talking more like old friends sharing old war stories than two of the highest ranking military officers from Earth.
“So Jim. I read your file.” The General looked up from pouring more bourbon in his glass and nodded. “How did you come by the name Tiberius?” The General rolled his eyes and sniffed in resignation.
“My parents.”
“Oh really?”
The General acknowledged the comment with a pained smile and continued. “I was born in Iowa.” The General waited for a response. The Admiral looked on, waiting. “My parents were…” The General paused. “They were big fans of old TV shows.”
“And…” The Admiral baited.
“And, they thought it would be ‘the quick’ to name me after one of them since both of my parents were astro-physicists.”
“Tiberius? I’m not familiar with any TV character named that other than Romans.”
“James…” The General slowly, officially pronounced the name. “Tiberius Kirk.” He looked up for the Admiral’s response.
“Not ‘the’ Kirk?”
“The one and the same. Ya see, he was supposed to be born in Iowa.”
“So you had no choice. You had to become a starjockey, didn’t you?”
“I think my parents took the job with Honeywell Aerospace on purpose, so they could be in Iowa.” The General looked up from his bourbon. The Admiral’s eyes were laughing. “Oh, go ahead!” They both laughed at the absurdity of it.
Everything was set in order. The Admiral had already reviewed his personal staff and detachment. Camp Armstrong was set at its highest “bright n’ shiny.” He had personally thanked all of the officers and enlisted that served close to him over that last two years on Lunar One. He had personally signed papers requesting each be allowed the duty assignment of their choice. He lavished them with commendations, special service ribbons befitting their conduct under his command, and recommended command promotions to all of his senior officers. Setting his cap square and his saber securely to his side, the Admiral began the slow measured march to the dais he would share with the General.
At his entrance, his aid-de-camp shouted “Admiral on deck!” All officers and enlisted snapped to attention. The sound of shuffling and motion abruptly stopped as everyone stood-by for the Admiral. The red carpet stretched out before him. His eyes locked on it rather than the faces to his left and right. At this moment, he could feel his emotion rise up. He quickly choked it down. He was the Admiral, d****t! He took each measured step slowly and surely. Too quickly he was crossing the dais to the podium. He turned to the well-dressed, sharp appearing military professionals in front of him. “As you were,” he said into the microphone. There was another few moments of shuffling as the assembled people retook their chairs. His aid handed him his portfolio. He laid it on the podium and opened it. There lay before him his final words as Commander-in-Chief, Lunar One, Camp Armstrong. Bittersweet, he thought.
His speech went too quickly he thought. The General’s took too long. Before he was ready, the Admiral found himself standing in front of this interloper who was taking away what was his. He snapped his salute to the General. The General responded in kind.
“I stand ready to relieve you, sir.”
“Sir, I stand relieved.”
And, it was over. Forty years. Two years in space. Two years riding a desk in preparation. Too many desks. Too short of a time in active operations. Lou, the rock solid scientist sightseer. Mark, the ace #2 seat anyone could have had. Gretchen, the best flight operations officer he had ever worked with. Maku, the technical wizard that loved fly fishing, even during space walks. Yeorgi, the brilliant scientist and medical analyst, chess player, and 0G dart thrower. It was over.
The parade of faces and stops were just a blur. Colonel Gerald R McMurphy led the way and kept everything in order. The photos. The handshakes. The last looks into faces. The last looks down hallways. The last look out the portal that was the observation deck overlooking Camp Armstrong. The last look out the door as the hatch closed forever to Lunar One. The Admiral took his seat. Tightened his straps. Closed his eyes and went to sleep.
More parades. Smiling wife, children, and grandchildren. More handshaking. More pomp and circumstance. More ribbons and medals for an illustrious career. Too many people requesting book deals. Not enough requests for his final words on the Navy, US Military, and international politicking. Then, he found himself sitting in his study looking out his windows to the night sky. Clouds are irritating, he thought. I can’t see the stars! Pushing slightly at the telescope, Mr. Booker walked away from the windows. He absently picked up something to read. Moved to his favorite chair and sat down. He reread the letter for maybe the fiftieth time. His granddaughter Janey had been accepted with top honors to the ESA Academy. He sighed. He felt immense pride and pangs of jealousy at the same time. He would reread it many more times with visions of stars playing through his mind. Finding him asleep in his chair again, his wife would set the letter aside, remove his shoes, and prop up his feet. Later he would wake and join her in their bed, she reminded herself. It was always later, but he always returned to her.
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