Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (153 page)

“I…I'm okay.”

“This is my fifth space walk, and I'm still nervous and excited every time I go out,” Raydon admitted. “But we don't have all day. Let's go.” Without appearing to push or even touch anything, Raydon gently moved away from the spaceplane so he was floating in space several yards away. As Boomer watched, the remote manipulator arm began to move toward him. Raydon reached up, and Ann steered the grapple at the end of the arm precisely into his grasp and towed him toward the cargo module on the station. Moments later he was inside the module, and he motioned for Boomer to follow him.

His stomach was knotted with flocks of butterflies, but he was holding up the show, and the remote manipulator arm was waiting for him. He touched the controls and slowly depressurized the rear cockpit cabin…done. With a finger that he noticed was shaking slightly, he hit the canopy switch…and it motored up. Holy Jesus…he was in space! Not just flying through space, but in space!

“Let's move out, Captain.”

Boomer undid his seat straps, being careful to keep the metal buckles under control as they snaked around him, then pushed himself out of his seat…too hard, and his helmet banged up against the inside of the canopy overhead.

“Easy does it, Captain,” Raydon said. “Use just enough force
to overcome inertia and that's it, and remember you have to counteract inertia on the other side—nothing stops by itself up here. Remember that. Otherwise you'll be making like a pinball all day. Don't even think about moving and you'll find you can move just fine. Keep an eye on your tethers and those locking teeth on the edge of the canopy—rip your suit and your blood will boil away in seconds.”

Slowly, carefully, Boomer eased himself away from the canopy and floated across the sill. Unconsciously he swung his legs out of the cockpit and almost succeeded in spinning himself around like a top. But before he knew it, he was outside the spaceplane, floating between it and the space station. God, he was space walking! He remembered watching videos of the Gemini astronauts doing their spacewalks, stepping outside their tiny capsules to float around at the end of an umbilical cord while millions on Earth watched on TV, and now he was doing it! He looked around and got a hint of vertigo as he saw Earth over two hundred miles below him, and he realized only then that he wasn't floating—he was falling around the Earth at over seventeen thousand miles an hour! It was an absolutely incredible feeling.

“Sightseeing time is over, Captain,” Raydon prompted him. “Let's get going. Ann, bring the arm down.”

But Boomer had other ideas. Without waiting for the remote manipulator arm, Boomer gently pushed against the Black Stallion and propelled himself across the distance between the spaceplane and the open cargo module. Somehow he measured that push just right, because he gently floated through space and glided like a falling leaf directly inside the open module's hatch. Raydon barely had to stop him before the magnets on Boomer's boots engaged and he stood proudly and excitedly on the cargo module's deck.

“Well, well, look at the newbie,” Raydon said. “Thinks he's Buzz Aldrin all of a sudden. Very impressive, rookie.”

“Like he's been space-walking all his life,” Ann said.

“Enough showing off for the ladies, Captain,” Raydon said
with a smile. “Let's get this cargo module ready to dock the Ares cargo stage and to refuel the Black Stallion, and we can get you on your way. After that, we've got a space station to run!”

 

ASHKHABAD, TURKMENISTAN

A FEW DAYS LATER

She was almost home. She could feel her strength increasing with every step she took in the direction of her real homeland.

Azar Assiyeh Qagev waited patiently in her seat in the Turkmenistan Airlines Boeing 737 for the other passengers to deplane. Major Najar sat across the aisle from her watching the departing passengers; Lieutenant Saidi sat beside Azar, appearing to flip through her carry-on bag but was actually scanning the passengers and crew as well for any sign of trouble. Although certainly not required on this airline, but to avoid any complications or undue attention, both Azar and Saidi wore thick medium-colored scarves and plain brown dresses that covered every part of their bodies except for face and hands.

Although Turkmenistan was predominantly Sunni Muslim, and in recent years under new president Jalaluddin Turabi, the former Afghan Taliban fighter who helped defend Turkmenistan from a Russian invasion, Islam was undergoing a resurgence in an attempt by the government to quiet religious unrest, religious expression was still generally not encouraged and anyone flaunting their religious beliefs or customs was viewed with suspicion or sometimes outward aggression. It was a tactical decision to dress conservatively on this flight from Istanbul, Turkey, to the capital of Turkmenistan. According to strict Muslim practices it was not allowed for a man to stare at a woman in public who was not his wife, and Azar and her bodyguards hoped that practice would be followed even in this former Stalinist country.

It had been a long, harrowing trip so far since hijacking the jet chartered by the U.S. State Department. American and Canadian radars along the border had improved markedly since the American Holocaust, and after commandeering the plane and crossing into Canada they were approached immediately by Royal Canadian Air Force patrol jets. Fortunately the jets didn't attack, but instead shadowed them as they flew northward. Major Najar's plan was to land, force the airport to give them fuel, then try to make it to an isolated American airport, refuel again, and try to make it to the Caribbean or Bahamas. But stuck almost directly in the middle of North America, their chance of fighting their way out safely was quickly diminishing.

Finally Azar herself got on the jet's telephone and contacted the Canadian foreign ministry office in Winnipeg, proclaimed they were political refugees, and promised to land the jet there. Upon landing they were immediately placed under arrest. Fortunately the American Department of State only wanted the jet and crew back and didn't want to press charges, so Canadian officials promised they would not prosecute if they left the country immediately.

The three carried two sets of passports, American and Turkish. The Canadian officials confiscated the American passports on behalf of the United States—another condition of release—but allowed the group to use their Turkish passports to exit the country. They purchased Lufthansa airline tickets from Winnipeg to Istanbul. While in Istanbul they received a required letter of introduction from a former Turkmeni consular officer—price, one thousand dollars U.S. for the three of them—then purchased tickets on Turkmenistan Airlines to Ashkhabad.

Thirty grueling hours later after departing Minnesota, they were finally just a few miles from Iran. All they had to do was get safely past Turkmeni customs and immigration, and the Qagev security network would take them across the border. Unfortunately they did not have visas to enter Turkmenistan, and the Turkmeni government disliked foreigners who didn't bother getting visas before trying to enter the country.

Najar tried to steer them toward a customs officer who looked like he might be Muslim, but soon they couldn't hesitate any longer, and they queued up before an agent who unfortunately looked anything but Muslim. “Your papers, please,” the customs officer ordered in Turkmen, holding out his hand without looking up. Najar handed over their passports and letter of introduction. Azar and Saidi had pulled their scarves low, obscuring their faces, and kept their heads bowed.

The customs officer looked at the passports carefully, eyeing Najar suspiciously. “You have no visa to enter Turkmenistan,” he said. When Najar's narrowed eyes told him he didn't understand, the officer switched to Arabic and repeated his statement.

“I was assured I could get a short-term visa here, at the airport,” Najar said.

“Only under very unusual circumstances—very unusual circumstances,” the customs officer said. “Is this an urgent trip or some sort of family emergency?”

“No. Just business.”

“I see.” He scowled, looked past Najar at the two females, then flipped open their passport photo pages and motioned. “Take off the scarves.”

“It is not permitted,” Najar said sternly.

“In your society it is not permitted—here, on my order, it is,” the customs officer said perturbedly. Najar hesitated again. The customs officer closed the passports and shuffled some papers as if getting ready to write a report. “Very well, sir. With all deference to your religious preferences and your women's frail and unassailable femininity, we will send your wife and young daughter to a segregated area where a female officer will continue inprocessing. It should take no longer than…oh, I'd say a few hours, perhaps tomorrow morning, depending on availability of suitable personnel. All of you will have to sleep here in the airport security office's holding cell—along with all the drunks, pickpockets, and other reprobates we catch preying on honest visitors and residents of Turkmenistan. Now tell me, sir, which would you prefer to do?”

Najar sized up the officer, considering whether he should challenge this affrontery, then deciding to relent. He turned and told the females to take off their scarves, and they did.

“I am relieved to see that God has not turned anyone to slabs of salt before my eyes,” the customs officer said dryly. He studied the photos carefully, taking his time, then shaking his head to indicate to the females that they could cover themselves again. “So. You are from Turkey but come from Winnipeg, Canada. What do you do, Mr. Najar?”

“Telecommunications software engineer.”

“What is your business in Turkmenistan?”

“I am to enter discussions to upgrade your country's wireless phone system and provide service to every part of your country.”

“I see. Very impressive, very impressive.” He peered at the letter of introduction. “I assume you deal with the government ministry of energy and industry for this project?”

“No, I would deal with His Honor Matkarim Ashirov, minister of communications,” Najar corrected him, thankful he had taken the time to carefully study his own cover's background. “But we are in negotiations with RuTel for some of their infrastructure and land leases—that is the purpose of my visit. Hopefully we will be meeting with His Honor Ashirov soon afterward.”

“I see,” the customs officer said. But he impaled Najar with an icy stare, held up the letter of introduction with disdain, then said, “But what confuses me, sir, is why you would need to go through this particular person in Istanbul for a letter of introduction when you could have just as easily obtained a visa from the ministry of communications or a letter of introduction from RuTel—if you are indeed working with these agencies? This person in Istanbul is well-known to us as a letter-writing hack—he would give Satan himself a letter of introduction for a thousand dollars. Can you please explain this to me, sir?”

“Of course,” Najar said. “If I would have requested a letter from Mr. Saparov at RuTel, I would be beholden to him, and that is no way to begin any business negotiations. And I have
not spoken to the minister about my deal because it has not been formalized to my shareholders' satisfaction. We wish to go to His Honor Ashirov at the very least as equal partners with RuTel in this venture, preferably as majority partners. So the ministry was not obligated to grant us a visa since we have not been dealing with them at all yet.”

“I see,” the customs officer said. “I do not understand all this business psychology and maneuverings, but what you say makes a certain amount of sense to me.” He stamped something on the letter of introduction. “So you will be meeting with this Mr. Saparov at RuTel soon?”

“After I complete my due diligence and business proposal, I will,” Najar said. “But I wish to be fully prepared before I ask for a meeting. That may take a few days. That is why I requested only a ten-day business visa, with no re-entry privileges.” He withdrew and opened his wallet, letting the customs officer peek inside the billfold, revealing it fat with American dollars and Turkish new lira. “I am prepared to pay the expedited visa fee, in cash—it is four times the normal fee, is it not?” Najar knew the expedited fee was only twice the normal fee—he hoped the extra “incentive” would cause this guy to back off. He undoubtedly had most of this guy's entire annual wages in his wallet right now.

“I see,” the customs officer intoned. He looked through the passports again, imperceptibly nodding his head. “Just so.” He got up from his chair and ordered, “Follow me.” Najar's heart sank.

They were taken into a very small office just behind the service counter. Najar and Saidi could see no surveillance cameras—that was good. There was a long steel table in the center of the room, along with a telephone on a rickety wooden desk and inspection devices such as flashlights and rubber gloves. “Well,” the agent said after he locked the door behind them, “I think we shall have to meet with my supervisor for some additional information. We shall undoubtedly have to speak with Mr. Saparov and someone at the ministry's office to confirm your story.”

“It is no story, sir—it is the truth,” Najar said, trying to remain
calm. “But I will be happy to meet with the unit supervisor here, and I should like to inform the trade and commerce consul at the Turkish embassy of this exchange as well. I think he should be apprised at how unfairly one of its citizens is treated by Turkmenistan customs.”

The customs officer's eyes flared. “Are you threatening me, sir? I assure you, that is most unwise.”

“Please, sir,” Azar said in crude but passable Turkmen, removing her scarf and affixing the customs officer with an imploring, desperate look, “please let my father, mother, and I come into your country.”

“Azar, no…!”

“Look, the China doll speaks!” the customs officer laughed.