Expelled

By Clayton Spann

In the summer of 2021 disaster engulfs Earth. At the time fifteen humans are off the planet; Roger Ward is among them. Ward now finds himself tested as never before. Lethal radiation, failing equipment, and looming starvation are the least of his worries. Anne, the love of his life and who he has tricked to bring into orbit, will prove the greatest hazard of all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clayton Spann
• Release date: Oct 20, 2009
• ISBN: 9781102466123

Book preview

Expelled

Clay Spann

Copyright 2009 Clayton Spann

Smashwords Edition

(Expelled is the final volume of the Roger Ward trilogy)

Discover other titles by Clayton Spann at Smashwords.com:

Exchange Rate

The Line of Eyes

Lord Protector*

Restorer of the World*

Day Nine

Two Timed

*Roger Ward Trilogy

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons (except for historical figures), living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To astronauts and cosmonauts,

those daring doers,

past, present, and future.

The proof of gold is fire;

the proof of woman, gold;

the proof of man, a woman.

Ben Franklin

Prolog

April, 2015

Reaching from the grave, they called it. Roger Ward stared at the manila envelope on his desk as if it were a skeletal hand.

That the manila envelope came from Margaret Beaufort he had no doubt. The cramped Gothic penmanship spelling his name and address belonged to no one else. And, as usual, a wad of green and white wax—the livery colors of Tudor—sealed the envelope flap.

He reached for the envelope, then hesitated. His breath shortened as he wondered if this woman were about to inflict more pain on him.

Hopefully she was just giving him more money. Let her, as much as her conscience dictated. Her bequests through the years totaled over five billion dollars, but even in this socialist era the Good Guys needed ever more.

Ward tore open the envelope.

He pulled out a stiff piece of paper, an index card. He had it upside down. He was relived to see she had written only a single sentence, one that probably stated the amount and delivery date of funds.

He had thought the letter last year was her final communication. He had received it a month before her death. Teardrops actually stained the paper. She poured out grief over the recent death of her son Henry VII, sorrow over her own impending end, regret at the anguish she had caused him, and in closing, proclaimed that for years now she considered Ward her second son. He had burned the letter.

Ward turned the index card right side up and read. No money. Instead a ridiculous statement. He snorted a laugh.

You and Anne Hollingsworth Lynn must be off earth on July 10, 2021.

When he eventually turned the card over his amusement died. For the sentence scrawled there yanked the first sentence from the realm of absurdity.

Yes, by all means, go ahead with your interview tomorrow evening.

Part One

Jesus loves me! This I know,

For the Bible tells me so.

Anna Bartlett Warner

1

July 5, 2021

Powered flight ended. In the Soyuz capsule zero gravity prevailed.

Ward did not want to start puking. Both times in the Russian version of the Vomit Comet he had barfed after several cycles of weightlessness.

Can I take the helmet off? he asked.

In the center seat Sergei Lomerov nodded. Da.

Are you feeling alright? asked Anne.

So far, said Ward. How about you?

She smiled. Fantastic.

Ward forced a smile back at the lovely face to the right of Lomerov. Then he released the helmet and it began to float in the cramped confines.

Roger, look. Anne pointed to the starboard porthole. Ward craned his head and could see the curvature of the earth. Below the curve spread a vastness of baby blue. At the edge of the curve lay the translucent film of the atmosphere, and above it ranged the blackest of blacks.

It was hard to believe. After all these years, after all the planning and plotting, he was in space. And now he would see.

With his helmet off Ward felt less cramped, even though—as they had too often reminded them during training—less room existed in the capsule than in a compact car. Thankfully during the two day ride to the Bigelow Space Station they would spend most of their time in the roomier habitation module.

Roger, I think that’s Hawaii.

Da, said Lomerov.

Ward looked over. That was the fiftieth state, all right. Ward wondered if Hawaii would be a safe place. If what was coming was coming.

At least five minutes had passed since the third stage shut down. No sign of nausea. He welcomed that, even though plenty of anxiety still churned in his gut.

That ride up had unnerved him. Ward had been quite aware that each second hundreds of gallons of explosive propellant burned underneath him. He hoped he had hidden his anxiety as the rocket rattled and jolted and the acceleration grew.

Anne had not needed to hide anything. As they soared spaceward she had exclaimed like a kid on a roller coaster. Even the dour Lomerov had caught her enthusiasm, and given her a thumbs up.

She had been like that all through training, too. Nothing fazed her during the arduous fortnight. The Vomit Comet, the 6 g’s in the centrifuge, the underwater EVA simulation, the interminable briefings and medical tests, and—AND—the sexual innuendo from males on the Russian staff.

Ward had hated the innuendo, but he could certainly understand. The looks of some women peaked in their teens, while other women reached maximum allure in their thirties. Anne belonged to the latter category. Her creamy complexion glowed brighter than ever, and dropping three kids had not marred her voluptuous figure one bit. Ward doubted the boys at Star City outside Moscow had seen a more attractive space adventurer, whether astronaut, cosmonaut, or tourist.

Lomerov said something in Russian to mission control. From training Ward knew he was announcing the solar panels had deployed outside the service module. Lomerov received a laconic reply, then a more animated voice—in English—came on. It was a Bigelow Aerospace rep congratulating Ward and Anne on attaining orbit and wishing them an enjoyable ride to the station. Anne replied she was having a wonderful time. Ward said it was all he expected.

For the next couple of hours Lomerov was occupied with system tests and communications with the ground. As per training Ward and Anne stayed quiet so as not to distract him. Instead they looked out the portholes.

Anne’s porthole faced earthward and she remained transfixed by the sights below, even as the Soyuz twice passed into night. Ward faced ink black and the stars. They did not transfix him. He could not remove his focus from the fact that only five days remained. The long countdown was fast approaching its end.

When Lomerov and the ground had decided everything was A Okay, the veteran cosmonaut rose from his seat. He opened the hatch above, then led them into the habitation module.

From a porthole sunshine flooded into the module like a spotlight. The porthole lay between two bulky projections housing equipment and stores. Above one projection purred a small fan, and above the other was the toilet equipment.

As they got out of their pressure suits, Ward eyed the collage of hoses, funnel, vacuum pump and bucket that comprised their outhouse in space. He prayed to God none of them would need to use the bucket. They had been on a low fiber diet the past few days and had their colons voided just this morning. Ward debated not eating a thing until they reached the BSS.

Urination they could probably not avoid. He had practiced with the funnel, while Anne would use a sanitary napkin like pad. Of course that had been in gravity and in private. Ward hoped Lomerov would be polite enough return to the capsule or at least turn his head away when the time came.

Free of their suits, Lomerov handed Anne a headband. He pointed to her hair, the auburn strands of which floated in disarray. Please secure, he said.

Then the Russian broke out refreshments. Now he smiled as he handed Ward and Anne tapered cups containing a clear liquid. The liquid climbed the sides but stayed in even when Ward inadvertently tipped his cup.

Lomerov raised his own cup. "Budem zdorovy."

Ward and Anne parroted the Russian phrase meaning let’s stay healthy, and both downed the shot of vodka—it had to be 100 plus proof—without blanching. Not for nothing had they spent time at Shep’s bar in Star City.

Lomerov then began to open up. They had met the Soyuz pilot only a couple of days ago, at the launch site in Kazakhstan, and the taciturn man had stuck to polite and professional demeanor since. They knew little beyond his having been in the Russian space program a long time.

As a second shot of vodka brought more animation to the cosmonaut, his ice blue eyes fixed more and more on Anne. Ward began to care less that this square faced man with the graying blond hair had actually been on the Mir space station back in the nineties. Or that he had logged an incredible one thousand days in space. Or that he was one of the few men to have spent time on all three stations now in orbit.

Get your beady eyes off my girl, Ward wanted to scream. But of course he couldn’t, as their lives depended on him. Ward would have to settle for knowing the man would not be staying on the BSS; Lomerov would return to the steppes of Kazakhstan with the pair of tourists currently on the station.

The Russian broke out pouches and tins of food. Ward was now hungry, so he ate despite fears of motion sickness. He washed down morsels of fruit and stew with more vodka.

Lomerov continued with tales of his adventures in space. Though still annoyed, Ward found some of it compelling. Lomerov had cheated death several times while in orbit, and once on descent. The wayward descent—caused by a computer glitch—involved 12 g’s, a crash landing, and four months afterward in the hospital.

At last the combination of the vodka, food, and spent adrenaline put Ward near under. Anne was fading, too. Lomerov helped them into their sleeping bags and tied the bags to the bulkhead. Ward drifted quickly into unconsciousness.

Soyuz TMAT-68 arriving, a formal voice announced.

Those were the first words that Ward heard after the airlock door was opened to the BSS. Led by Lomerov, they pushed themselves out of the Soyuz into the starboard module of the station.

In a cavernous cylinder five floating people awaited them. The three men and two women smiled broadly. Ward had no trouble telling which were the space tourists, although everyone was dressed in Lincoln green coveralls emblazoned with the logo of Bigelow Aerospace.

The man on the left and the woman on the right were older and overweight. They also gripped hand bars on the wall, while the three trim corporation employees maintained midair positions with ease. Ward saw all five wore swim like flippers.

Then one of the employees, an Asian male, pulled on a cord. Four chimes rang out.

Welcome, Roger and Anne, said the younger of the two women. She spoke with a French accent and was quite fetching. And welcome back, Sergei. Welcome all to the Bigelow Space Station, the finest accommodation on or off earth.

The five then propelled themselves forward, and hugs and names were exchanged.

Of course, Ward was even more of a novice dealing with zero gravity than the two tourists that he and Anne would replace. He soon found himself foundering in the much larger volume of this module. After one vigorous hug he was drifting away helplessly toward the opposite end.

The French woman effortlessly came after him. Lucette caught up halfway down the cylinder and gave him a winning smile. Roger, you will quickly get used to traversing. She pointed to her flippers. I will teach you myself.

He knew the raven-haired French hottie smiled not just out of professional courtesy. Nor did his wealth have bearing. To everyone except Anne he was Roger Caldwell, just another lottery winner. Lucette’s eager eyes confirmed he still had his looks. So had the eyes of women at Star City.

Ward glanced down the cylinder at Anne. She was watching with an amused smile. As she had at Star City. No need for her to worry; she knew how badly she had him hooked.

Then he noticed Lomerov eyeballing Anne. Ward shrugged it off; the burly Russian would be gone in three hours.

Yes, it was good to know he retained his appeal to the opposite sex. During the six years of exile in the mountains of southern Virginia he wondered if it had expired.

The crew gathered everyone back near the airlock for a toast. This time, with champagne. Ward noticed the bubbles in his tapered cup did not rise, and instead just rolled around in the liquid. After two days of vodka the champagne didn’t have much kick.

The Asian—the American, Sam Wong—nodded at the departing guests. Paul and Denise, it has been a pleasure to have you with us the past ten days. I hope you will take back memories for a lifetime.

They gushed they would. Then Sam announced he had a surprise; Yuri, the third member of the crew, would be returning with them in the Soyuz. Lomerov would stay on the BSS for the current hosting, possibly longer.

Ward almost spit out his champagne. What the fuck was this?

Later, after the tourists left, it was explained. Though hardly to Ward’s satisfaction. Yuri had supposedly pleaded with Lomerov to exchange places. An urgent family matter had supposedly arisen. Mission Control didn’t have a problem with it, since all BSS crew members were trained to pilot the Soyuz for its short journey back to earth.

Ward had wanted to protest. But how could he? He could have pulled rank—his capital kept both Bigelow Aerospace and the Russian space agency Roscosmos afloat—but that would mean revealing his identity. Which could not leak out. Those Iranian assholes could well send up a missile to get him before the 10th.

He told himself he shouldn’t be upset at all. Anne loved him. She sure wouldn’t be giving more than politeness to this graying Ruskie with the yellowed teeth and coarse complexion who spoke fractured English and drank too much and smiled too little. And who had acted with absolute correctness toward him and Anne since meeting.

Yet how correct would Lomerov remain after the 10th? If everything below was thrown into chaos, and them isolated up here? Lomerov might try to claim with his hands what his eyes said he so badly wanted. And the advantage would all be with the veteran, who had skillfully survived in space so long.

The abandon ship drill yanked Ward from his worry. As a siren wailed, Lomerov led Ward and Anne from the starboard module into the center node. A hatch was opened, and the trio hurried into the BSS lifeboat—another Soyuz craft.

In the Soyuz habitation module they donned another set of white pressure suits, then descended into the capsule and strapped into their seats. Bound in his seat Ward had to fight off the same claustrophobia he felt before launch in Kazakhstan. Then the drill ended.

As they pulled off their pressure suits, Ward had a question. The same question he had on the ground. Three out of five onboard could evacuate. What about the other two?

On the ground they had explained the most probable cause for evacuation would be a meteoroid strike that breached the hull. In the thirty-five years since Mir and its descendant stations orbited, only one puncture had occurred, and that caused by a wayward supply vessel. Nevertheless, meteoroids remained the top hazard. Man made space debris could be tracked and dodged. Nature’s little missiles could not.

Ward got pretty much the same answer from Lomerov that he had received on the ground.

Not to worry, said Lomerov. Likely only one module damaged. Other modules survive on own. Sam and Lucy stay in undamaged one until rescue Soyuz comes up.

But Ward decided to worry anyway.

2

Lomerov watched as Lucy helped Anya, then Caldwell, onto the Rotational Gravity Generator. The meter wide track that ran around the circumference of the starboard module had been installed only last fall. It had proved a hit with the tourists. Most of them, that was.

From speakers pulsated the song Spinning Wheel, performed by a last century rock group. Anya had no trouble keeping her balance on the moving blue track. Caldwell stumbled and landed on his back.

Lomerov suppressed a grin. Fortunately for Caldwell only one-sixth g was being generated.

Roger, are you okay? asked Anya.

Caldwell muttered he was. He rose, but only to his hands and knees.

Anya was a natural. She was handling the revolving section of floor as calmly and quickly as she had zero gravity. She would have made a first-rate cosmonaut, Lomerov decided. The fumbling bundle of nerves named Caldwell would have washed out the first week. Most tourists struggled with weightlessness, but Caldwell was turning the struggle into an art form.

It had been hilarious, really, to observe Caldwell this morning as he tried to chase down popcorn. As part of training tourists to maneuver with flippers, the crew released freshly cooked popcorn in the module. The tourists were supposed to use only their mouths and legs to clear the air of the white blizzard. After a few false starts, Anya did great. Caldwell failed miserably and was reduced to a heavily sweating, muttering mess.

The black haired man rose. Now Lucy gripped him by the arm and elbow, as one would a doddering elder. Together they stepped at increasing pace, in direction opposite to RGG spin. Finally they walked fast enough to maintain a stationary position relative to the non rotating part of the module.

Perhaps a couple hours each day on the RGG would shut Caldwell up. In addition to bumbling, he was a complainer. Lomerov knew both tourists had been briefed on the discomforts they might face due to weightlessness. Back pain and clogged sinuses were hard to avoid. The RGG would momentarily alleviate both, along with keeping muscles toned.

With distaste Lomerov had listened as Caldwell let everyone know yesterday and today how much he was suffering. It had bothered Lomerov even more how Anya soothed him. A man did not complain. It was the man who soothed the woman, not the other way around.

Having lapped Caldwell, pony tailed Anya came up from behind and took his other arm. She beamed with joy. She beamed at Caldwell. That made Lomerov want to yell.

Lomerov had not been sure at first. But now he was.

After two days on the BSS it could not be denied. The Americans were lovers. That stabbed, because he increasingly viewed Anya Lynn as under his protection. Of course, each tourist was under his protection. But this was something more.

This warm and playful woman, in just the week since they met at the Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan, she had put an arrow through his heart.

He never had a daughter, and he badly wanted one. With pride and joy he fathered two sons. After that his wife failed to conceive. As the years went by he hungered for a baby girl. He even proposed adoption, but Elena refused.

Lomerov wished Anya could have been the daughter. He would have cherished and pampered her. And she with her sunny spirit would have returned the love in full.

This Roger Caldwell, her lover, resented the attention he was paying Anya. That was not important. Anya did not mind. He would continue with his attention until she said otherwise. And if he were fortunate, before return to earth he might drive a wedge between Anya and Caldwell.

Caldwell did not like that he called her Anya. Lomerov had of course asked her permission before doing so. She had gladly agreed. He took great satisfaction in Caldwell’s stifled anger. Let him choke on it.

The man was a phony, from his hair dyed jet black to his forced bonhomie. Lomerov supposed he saw some of what Anya saw in Caldwell. For his age, the man was attractive and well proportioned, and he was witty. On the other hand, the man had not distinguished himself professionally; his dossier said he held a middling position in the US Department of Labor.

Lomerov knew Caldwell thought him sexually interested in Anya. Not hard to understand why, she possessed splendid curves. Her auburn hair was thick and lustrous. She had wonderful cheekbones and her unlined complexion glowed. And her laugh grabbed the soul. Any man