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  He harangued the bank manager for the best part of thirty minutes, eventually shouting abuse and storming out in front of a queue of baffled customers. He went straight to a rogue lender, knowing that although they would extort large sums of interest from him, they would give him what he needed. “You want us to help you,” said Kate Cornish, proprietor of Cornish Financial Services in the heart of London. She locked her fingers together in a ball and rested her chin on top, leaning forward. “Tell me why.”

  “You’ll be investing in me as I’ll be investing in a project,” he began with confidence. “The project will be televised around the world and I’ll become famous overnight. Have you ever dated anyone famous?”

  She didn’t look impressed.

  Matthews explained the space balloon project to her and went through each stage of the operation. “Through publicity, we will make an absolute fortune and making the repayments will be a cinch.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that our investment will make you a wealthy man?” With a face like stone, she made calculations and made a decision. “Alright, a sum of your choice at sixty percent interest.”

  Matthews shook on it, then signed on it.

  The date was set. The setting St. Ives in Cornwall. In the meantime, Matthews ensured that he made consistent monthly payments on time while Sutcliffe put the money into effect. He had hired a man named Keith Burch to design the balloon and Matthews was none too happy that the designer was joining them on the space flight. He lacked flight experience and had no need to be there. Burch had blackmailed his way in, refusing to build the balloon unless he joined the crew. Sutcliffe said he was looking for a fourth crew member and was going to advertise for someone fit, experienced in ballooning and proficient with cameras and technology.

  “Don’t bother, I have just the person,” said Matthews. He introduced his cousin, Claris Faraday, and then they were four.

  In June, as the handpicked crew of Fable-1 prepared to write a new chapter in aviation history, the small launch window waned when bad weather prevented the launch. High winds had ruptured the polyethylene material and forced them to postpone. They had to wait another year. The second time round, the weather had been ideal; glorious sunshine and no wind. As the final few hours to liftoff counted down, with the Fable-1 helium balloon set up and partly inflated, more disappointment rocked the crew. The balloon was leaking. At first, Matthews and Sutcliffe thought the main valve had come open by mistake. Perhaps someone had tripped it. As it turned out, the balloon had torn at the seam. The following year, the weather had been peculiar and unfavourable cloud cover posed the risk of tons of ice forming on the balloon, jeopardising their safety, delaying them day after day until the weather window vanished altogether.

  Matthews had been failing to make repayments on his loan as of late and Kate Cornish was sending collectors to remind him of his mounting debt, making threats as a tool for intimidation. Matthews turned to drugs; amphetamines during the day and strong sleeping pills at night, only feeling right when under their angelic spells. It took away all the stress and all the problems associated with debt. That day, when two collectors turned up at his home and forced their way in, he’d just stepped out of the shower and had put on a t-shirt when a tight hand whipped around his neck and shoved him into the wall.

  “The money?” the thug growled, his lips drawn back revealing his sharp teeth.

  “I need a little more…time,” he managed. “We…we launch the balloon next month. Gimme four weeks, I’ll have it…for you.”

  While one of the hooligans smashed up his house, the other reached inside his pocket and Matthews looked down at a Bowie knife with an eight-inch broad blade pointing at his belly.

  In the bathroom at the Moorland Links Hotel, as he stood opposite the short man whose hand was poised at his pocket, Matthews realised his life was in danger. His face turned to a veil of horror. Never had he seen the man before, he would have remembered him. But he surely represented Cornish Financial Services. Was there a blade in his pocket? A pistol?

  “No, I’m not Simon Matthews,” he lied in a desperate attempt to spare his life. “You must have me mixed up with someone else.”

  Matthews reached into his own jacket pocket where he had a concealed weapon of his own, an antique Black Prince dagger. If he could just reach it in time, he could defend himself.

  The man persisted. “It’s you.”

  “Look, I said I would get you the fucking money.”

  Matthews watched the man pull out a silver weapon, realising that he had hold of a dictaphone. The reporter stood confused. “I just wanna ask you a few questions about the flight.”

  Matthews went from panic to surprise, then relief to anger. “Get out of here, man.”

  As the reporter walked out, cursing under his breath, Matthews waited for his pulse to settle, his entire body trembling. Once calm, he made his way to the Chandelier Ballroom where Brad Sutcliffe, Claris Faraday, Keith Burch and Jen Hennessey awaited his late arrival.

  Chapter 6

  The lights in the Chandelier Ballroom dimmed smoothly while rolling cameras followed the crew of Fable-1 out onto the stage, TV lights illuminating their profiles. Loud, unsettling applause and the whir of cameras erupted from the surplus of over one hundred journalists.

  On the soundproofed wall behind the stage was a large screen dissolving a collection of images into one another at five-second intervals. Images included the NASA Insignia, Fable-1 printed in white letters set against a burgundy rectangle of background and an artist’s sketch of the balloon at target altitude with a background of black infinite space. When the crew took their seats, the Fable-1 logo filled the screen and there it stayed. Taking the centre chair, Brad Sutcliffe looked into the audience at a number of faceless human silhouettes while Simon Matthews and Keith Burch claimed seats on his right, Jen Hennessey and Claris Faraday to his left.

  “Good afternoon,” Sutcliffe began, adjusting the table-mounted microphone to reach his mouth.

  Sutcliffe and Matthews had jointly decided against a litany of presentations with follow-up discussions because they’d taken that approach for the past three years and the media was becoming increasingly bored with it.

  Not one to dither, Sutcliffe got straight into it. “I’m sure you’re all hoping for a story this year. Believe me, you’re not the only ones.”

  When the laughter faded, he touched on a more serious note. “Things are quite different this year. As you may have heard, NASA is involved with the project. A lot more time and money has been invested and, all things considered, we’re in much better shape than in previous years.”

  A reporter chewing on a wad of gum rose slowly to his feet and aimed a finger at Hennessey. “Who’s the new pretty addition and what’s her phone number?”

  There were a few sordid whistles from the crowd. Hennessey’s comely figure had attracted a lot of attention. Sutcliffe glanced at the American, expecting her to blush. She didn’t and her face was a picture of concentration. The reporter, despite his impertinence, had posed a good question. Who was she? Sutcliffe had only found out about her ten months earlier and he had only met her ten minutes ago. Although she represented the company that had salvaged the project from early retirement, it had occurred to him that the highly acclaimed research institute she worked for was planning to steal the limelight.

  Ten months ago, Will Thorndike had contacted Sutcliffe to inform him that NASA Headquarters had agreed to subsidise the balloon mission into space to promote space projects and to encourage people around the world, not just within the US, to take part in science and astronomy projects. Prolonged failure had dulled their determination to fulfil the flight, but NASA had changed that. Then Sutcliffe and his crew had been persuaded – Sutcliffe would call it blackmailed – to launch a scientific experiment on NASA’s behalf while in the stratosphere. Clearly NASA was looking to share the headlines in the news.

  Sutcliffe had arrived at F1 Mission Control Base to meet wi
th Thorndike, a broad-shouldered man with tidy, greyish hair and a square jaw. He was dressed in a grey suit and was brandishing a gold cigarette.

  Sutcliffe approached from behind. “Mr Thorndike?”

  Thorndike swivelled, exhaling a breath of smoke that curved around his face and disintegrated in the breeze.

  “Ah, Brad,” the American responded in a broad, Texan accent. He shook Sutcliffe’s hand with a firm grip. “I’m a very busy man, so let’s get straight down to business, shall we?”

  “Okay, why don’t we–”

  “Let’s talk inside,” Thorndike interrupted. “Goddamn freezing out here, last thing I need is pneumonia, or frigging frostbite.”

  Sutcliffe’s smile was humourless. NASA had poured a stack of US dollars into the project and he wanted the money to stay there. He showed the Texan into the workshop below the Flight Control Room where the balloon was kept and where they would not be interrupted.

  “You know, our aim is to expand opportunities for Americans, and the British of course, and whoever else for that matter, to learn about and participate in NASA’s aeronautics and space programs by supporting and enhancing science, engineering, and assisting in research,” Thorndike explained. “We aim to integrate research with education to help build a diverse, scientifically literate workforce that isn’t only citizenry, but well-organised science and technology.”

  Thorndike walked a few paces, bent down and picked up a discarded ratchet, tossed it up in the air and caught it by the handle. Then did it again.

  “Fair enough,” Sutcliffe replied, flapping his hand across his face to clear the smoke Thorndike had trailed. “We have every int–”

  “My point is…” he interrupted, “this mission of yours to the edge of space must succeed. And I emphasise the word must. Failure is bad for our reputation. Do you catch my drift?”

  “I do, but I assure you that we have no intention of failing.”

  Sutcliffe noticed his words coming out quickly, determined not to be cut short again. “We’ve put a lot of time and effort into this project, have faith in us. We won’t let NASA down, I promise you that.”

  With his hands behind his back now, Thorndike strode a few paces and turned sharply, the cigarette clamped in his lips, smoke fogging over his face. “I don’t think you’re quite catching my drift, Brad. What do you know of Chandra?”

  “Chandra? I have no idea what Chand–”

  “Chandra is a telescope that we have been using in astronomy. It reads different regions of the X-ray spectrum. The first Chandra revolutionised low-energy X-ray observation and we’re hoping to do that once again in the high energy region. But Chandra is very expensive to run. The new prototype is fifty times more sensitive than previous versions, much smaller and less costly than the first Chandra and it will fill in the blanks where Chandra missed. We call it Chandra II, or Chandra Junior.”

  Mixed with articulated opinions, Sutcliffe went to voice one of them, but stopped himself.

  Speaking slowly, Thorndike went on. “When the balloon carrying the X-ray telescope is released into the stratosphere, an aluminium master cylinder polished very smooth and electroplated with shiny nickel will start the collection process. When the rod cools, the nickel pops off as an extremely thin, perfectly smooth mirror shell. Their extremely smooth inner surfaces reflect X-rays at shallow angles and focus the rays onto a teeny detector. The most focussed high-energy X-ray images ever seen before are the final result. In a nutshell, Brad, Chandra II is a telescope that will study the spectrum of space. This telescope will be released from your balloon when you reach your target altitude and it’s vital to NASA’s research. So you see, now, why this mission cannot fail.”

  Sutcliffe didn’t have the first idea about astronomy and being suddenly accountable for an expensive telescope without experience disgruntled him. “Like I said, we have no intention of failing.”

  Thorndike bounced his head in acknowledgment. “That’s very pleasing to hear.”

  “Of course, we’ll need training with Chandra II so we know exactly how to handle it. The gondola on the balloon may need to be modified to accommodate it. We’ll need to assess its size and weight and work out exactly how we are going to administer the tool.”

  “Firstly, it’s not a tool, Brad. It is a highly advanced X-ray observatory worth multi-millions of dollars.” Thorndike looked irritated. “Secondly, nobody from your crew will be responsible for Chandra II. One of our top NASA research pilots will accompany you on your mission.”

  “Meaning no disrespect, Mr Thorndike, he may be a successful NASA pilot, but how many balloons has he–”

  “She, not he, has over one thousand hours of flight experience. She is well-trained and vastly skilled. I assure you, she comes highly recommended.”

  A camera flash seared Sutcliffe’s eyes and left a white smudge on his vision. When it passed, he gestured the question to the American. “I will let Miss Hennessey explain who she is. Jen?”

  “I’m here to oversee the successful launch of Chandra II.”

  The same reporter shrugged. “Sorry, love, I don’t know what Chandra II is.”

  She went into details of her role and responsibility, explaining that part of the mission centred on the launch of NASA’s X-ray telescope, Chandra II. As a condition of investment, NASA had requested use of the balloon to release the new telescope as part of a new experiment in monitoring the heated beams licking at black holes and supernova remnants. When she finished speaking, several hands shot into the air. The press wanted to know more about Chandra II. They wanted to know how much it was costing NASA and why they hadn’t manufactured a helium balloon of their own. Why NASA were supporting a project of that kind, given the fact that the company liked to do things alone. Back to the Fable-1 project, reporters particularly speculated on the failure two years ago when, just hours before the launch, the seam tore open. They noted that if the balloon couldn’t withstand the placidness of land, it wouldn’t cope with the hostile regions of the upper atmosphere.

  Matthews pointed to a bald man sitting near the front of the stage. “This is your fourth attempt in as many years. What makes you so sure you will be successful this time?”

  “We’re not. But we have learnt from our mistakes. Two years ago, everything had been going to plan but, as you know, we had to cancel at the last minute because of a twist in the envelope. As a result, the seam split because the helium came under immense pressure. Although we managed to fix it, we had problems getting more helium and consequently we lost the opportunity because of low pressure in the atmosphere. And that really pissed me off.”

  Some of the crowd found Matthews funny. Others attacked him with hardhearted questions. “What about three years ago?” another reporter called out, somewhere to the right. “Explain that.”

  “Again, we had technical difficulties,” he replied.

  “You mean the balloon material split again?”

  Matthews shuffled his feet in agitation. “There was a rupture, not in the seam, but in the envelope itself and the balloon deflated. I think it’s fair to say that we’ve been pretty unlucky. Last year, we were on the verge of giving up altogether when NASA contacted us with this sponsorship proposal. With NASA’s financial help and professional input, we’re ready for the challenge, more than we’ve ever been. All we need now is a good weather forecast.”

  “What will the environment up there be like and are you prepared if something goes wrong?” another reporter yelled from the back of the room.

  Sutcliffe took that one. “We’ll be approximately twenty five miles above the Earth’s surface, above ninety nine percent of the Earth’s atmosphere where pressure is one hundred and fifty times less than at sea level, literally on top of the sky,” he explained. “The stratosphere air temperatures remain relatively constant until we reach the target altitude where it gradually increases to reach a maximum temperature of around minus four or five degrees Centigrade in a virtually airless atmosphere. The low ai
r pressure is enough to make blood boil instantly. Four years ago, the Russians supplied us with pressurised spacesuits and kindly assisted us with our training. NASA has injected money, which has gone into building a stronger, safer balloon. If there’s a problem with the balloon after launch, we’ll detach the gondola from the envelope and parachute back to Earth. We’ll also be equipped with reserve parachutes attached to our spacesuits in the unlikely event we need to abandon the gondola. Otherwise, we’re prepared for every eventuality we may encounter, as we have been in previous years.”

  “What happens if the helium in the balloon expands too much when you’re high up in space? Won’t the balloon pop?”

  “The balloon is designed to leak so it maintains equilibrium with the outside air. Otherwise, yes, the pressure build-up would explode the balloon.”

  Both Claris Faraday and Keith Burch were infinitely more com-fortable speaking publicly with only a handful of media. Before a large crowd, they equally succumbed to nervousness and were worried about saying the wrong thing. That was why they’d both been relieved when Sutcliffe and Matthews had offered to do all the talking. Faraday had avoided any discussion about her involvement so far, but she knew it was only a matter of time before that changed. Sutcliffe and Matthews were co-captains communicating progress to Ground Control and Matthews was the flight expert. Burch would monitor navigation and GPS tracking and he was the balloon’s craftsman and Hennessey was NASA’s responsibility.

  “Miss Faraday,” a reporter called out. Camera lights blasted on her and the heat made her sweat. Slowing her breathing to slow her thumping heart, she braced herself while the man stood up. “Is your role to be the same as last year, with the cameras?”

  Throat dry, she coughed to clear it, her fist covering her mouth, then pulled up her cardigan sleeves. “It is, yes, although…when we reach an altitude of about fifty to sixty thousand feet, where we can’t be seen from the ground, I’ll be setting off black smoke bombs to indicate our position.”