An original story of science eventuality in the 21st Century

By BenRG

The author makes no claim to ownership of any of the legal corporations and entities described in this story. While many of the characters and organisations described in this story are based on real people and organisations, they are here used in an entirely fictional context. No offence or breach of copyright or trademark is intended.

After the tragic loss of the Space Shuttle Columbia in early 2003, it seems as though the era of manned space flight may be coming to an end. But is this necessarily the case?

Many people have forgotten the X-Prize, a $10 million prize on offer for the first privately-constructed reusable sub-orbital space craft. Dozens of teams from around the world, including one from the United Kingdom, are competing. The goal of the contestants is not simply to win this prize, but to open up the so-called 'final frontier' to the ordinary man and woman. To truly usher in the space age. And now, 100 years after Orville Wright first soared over the sands of Kitty Hawk beach, the dream is about to become a reality…

The X-Prize Foundation's web-site is at

Visit Starchaser Industries, the UK's own entry to the competition at

Some of the technical details used in this story may be inaccurate. However, it is only a reflection of reality. I'm sure that the results of the real X-Prize competition will be far more interesting.

Dr. Steve Bennett, the founder of Starchaser Industries and the designer of the winning entry of the X-Prize, sat in his jump-seat in the pressurised capsule of the Thunderbird spacecraft. Behind him, over four-hundred tonnes of liquid oxygen and kerosene fuel were awaiting the spark from the igniters on the Starchaser Churchill-8 rocket engines to lift his brainchild away from the world of his birth. He shifted uncomfortably, remembering the words of the reporter he had spoken to yesterday as he walked off from their impromptu interview. "Whether you believe him to be a lunatic or a prophet, there goes a very brave man."

Next to Bennett sat Wing Captain Andrew 'Andy' Montrose (RAF, retired), the man who had piloted Thunderbird on its' prize-winning first two flights. Andy flexed his hands before taking the two control sticks once again. Montrose was a brilliant pilot and, he was honest enough to admit, enough of a daredevil to relish taking an amateur-designed and built spaceship on a 20-minute flight up to the edge of space twice within the space of a month. However, despite the risks entailed, Thunderbird's first missions were little more than the hop of a flea compared to what they were about to do. Andy was nervous, but not afraid. He had been working with Steve for three years now. The man the British press called 'The Rocket Man' might be an eccentric, but he was also an accomplished engineer and a visionary.

Behind Bennett and Montrose sat the man who, more than anyone except Bennett himself, had made this moment possible. Sir Richard Branson, entrepreneur, businessman, media personality and millionaire, restrained his impatience and churning fear so well that no one could see it. The tycoon founder of Virgin Enterprises had already flown in one of Bennett' creations, the Thunderbird's identical twin sister ship, the Fireball, on a recent repeat of the flight that won the X-Prize. However this was different, very different.

The fourth seat in the SUV-sized cockpit of the Thunderbird was taken by a young woman and was different from the others, surrounded as it was with cameras and other broadcast equipment. She knew that the success or failure of the next few hours of her life would determine whether her career would ascend to the stars with Bennett, or whether it (possibly quite literally) would go down in flames. Jenny Anderson, aviation correspondent for BBC South waited silently for the decision on her fate.

"Thunderbird, this is Starchaser Launch Control," a voice crackled over all four voyagers' headsets. "We are recommencing countdown at T-minus ninety seconds."

"Launch control, Thunderbird, roger that," Andy said tightly.

Beneath the 75-foot long Thunderbird spacecraft, the 95-foot long Starchaser-5 reusable liquid-fuelled rocket came to life, its' computers instructing gas-propelled turbo-impellers to accelerate to their operating speeds. Valves opened and cryogenic fluids began to flow towards seven combustion chambers.

"T-minus sixty seconds and counting. Turbo-impellers operating normally. Fuel valves open."

"T-minus fifty seconds. Thunderbird on-board computer reports that it has full control of launch sequence. Starchaser on-board computer is accepting commands from the Thunderbird main processors."

"T-minus forty seconds. All systems remain 'go' at this time. Starchaser engines have completed vectoring tests. Combustion chamber cooling is now 'active'. All launch pad systems are operating normally."

"T-minus thirty seconds. Range Safety Officer reports that all rescue and safety vehicles are standing by. Thunderbird escape pod reports that the auto-escape sequence is ready for execution, however all systems onboard Thunderbird and Starchaser -5 remain nominal at this time."

"T-minus fifteen seconds… fourteen… thirteen… twelve… eleven… ten… nine… eight… seven… Ignition sequence start…"

The dawn hush of the New Forest in Hampshire, England was suddenly broken by an ear-splitting roar as seven Churchill-8 engines ignited and quickly built up to their maximum-rated thrust of eighty metric tonnes per engine. Flocks of pheasant, rooks, starlings and other birds took to wing, startled by the sudden deafening roar and the sudden shaking of the ground which was recorded on seismometers as far afield as America's east coast.

"Five… four… three… two… one… Lift off!" There was no sense of motion beyond the bone-rattling vibration imparted by approximately 560 metric tonnes of thrust. On Thunderbird's control consoles, several displays altered to show that the spacecraft was in motion. Jenny looked out of the porthole beside her seat and realised that the ground was beginning to fall away, slowly at first, but faster and faster. "Thunderbird, you have cleared the tower at 0645 hours, British Summer Time. God speed to you all, friends."

The shuddering privately-built spacecraft, nestled atop its' reusable launch vehicle, rose into the hazy blue skies of a British summer morning, seemingly riding on a blindingly-intense point of white flame from its' seven engines. After clearing the launch tower, the silver-and-black spacecraft rolled so that the crew was 'head down' towards the horizon as the ship began to curve south-eastwards. The five Churchill-8 engines powered down to ¾ of their maximum thrust as the ship approached Mach 1, the invisible wall in the sky that had claimed so many lives before Chuck Yeager rode a not-dissimilar creature of steel and fire through and beyond.

Inside Thunderbird, Jenny, the neophyte of the crew, groaned as the acceleration built mercilessly up to three times normal gravity. The weight of her pressure suit was beginning to feel like she had put on a steel armoured breast plate instead of ten-layers of plastic and fabric. "Max-Q," Steve yelled over the roar of the engines. Then, amazingly the cockpit fell silent. The engines were still firing, the weight of acceleration and the shuddering of the spacecraft proved that. But apart from the groans of steel, titanium and aluminium under strain, there was a sudden silence. Thunderbird had broken the sound barrier.

"We read you go for throttle-up, Thunderbird," the launch controller signalled.

"Roger, throttle up," Bennett replied. Already way ahead of its' human passengers, Thunderbird's computer had sent a signal to the Starchaser-5, increasing the power of the seven engines to 105% thrust, their maximum possible power setting.

With the increase of engine power, acceleration increased to 4G or four times Earth normal gravity. Even the experienced rocket-travellers had to grit their teeth and concentrate on forcing their improbably heavy rib-cages to continue to expand and let them breathe. Outside the spacecraft's windows, the sky had suddenly changed colour, deepening from a pale, hazy blue to a deep indigo shade. Suddenly, the whole spacecraft rang like a bell and jerked, hard. Jenny gasped.

Branson managed to turn his head to smile at the reporter in his usual devil-may-care way. "Booster separation," he managed to grunt out. "Don't worry, Jenny. We'd be panicking a lot more if something was wrong."

Outside, as Branson had assured the nervous reporter riding alongside him, the four 'outrigger' engine pods shut down and were blown clear of the sleek duralinium arrow of the Starchaser-5/Thunderbird stack. The four rockets would parachute into the English Channel and would be recovered for re-use on future flights. Meanwhile, the spacecraft continued to climb, following the path taken just two months ago by the smaller Starchaser-4/Endeavour robot spacecraft, which tested the flight control software for this flight.

The Thunderbird was now arching over at an angle of over thirty degrees. Outside the windows, the sky had turned black and the curved surface of the earth was shrouded by the blue glow of the atmosphere. Steve Bennett's brainchild had already gone higher than it had ever been before.

On its' own, Thunderbird was capable of carrying three or four people and a modest amount of cargo up to an altitude of sixty miles. If properly managed, this flight path could carry it across the Atlantic Ocean in just ten minutes (and that was one of the reasons for the interest in the project from Richard Branson, who owned an airline amongst other things). However, in this new configuration, the small spacecraft was capable of much more.

"Thunderbird, Launch Control," the launch controller signalled. "Stand by for staging."

"Hold on, folks," Andy called out. "I hear that this bit can be a little rough."

When the Starchaser-5 booster's three Churchill-8 engines cut off, the stack dropped from 4G acceleration to free-fall in about half a second. Consequently, the entire spacecraft expanded about three feet in length due to inertia. The crew was slammed forwards against their restraints, eliciting several cries of discomfort. Far behind them, automatic devices cut the Thunderbird loose from its' launch vehicle. Cold gas retro thrusters pushed the 75-foot long re-usable spacecraft away from the rocket (which would shortly parachute into the English Channel for re-use, like the wrap-around booster rockets).

Bennett watched the engine status panel in between his and Andy's jump-seats and watched as lights flickered and flashed, signalling the expected changes in his brainchild's status. There was a faint whine of turbo-impellers followed, only five seconds after the separation from the Starchaser-5, by a crash of sound as the Thunderbird's single Churchill-8 engine ignited. The sudden surge of acceleration drove everyone back hard into their seats, eliciting another groan from Jenny, who was realising that the Space Mountain ride at Disney World Paris was nothing compared to the real thing.

To the young reporter, it seemed like hours passed before she heard Bennett call out the words that she had been longing to hear. "MEKO! Launch Control, we have main engine cut off!" In fact, it has been just a few seconds short of ten minutes since the Thunderbird had left the launch pad. As the shuddering of the engine burn stopped, Jenny felt her stomach somersault inside her. She seemed to be falling out-of-control and had to closer her eyes to fight off a wave of dizziness.

"Roger that, Thunderbird," the launch controller replied. In the background, the crew could hear the cheers from the control room technicians who had worked so long and so hard for this moment for so many years.

Since the 1990s, Starchaser Industries had been pursuing the goal of cheap commercial space access. It had been a decidedly difficult and dangerous road to travel. Bennett had been derided as a madman, an adventurer and even as a fool, whose quest would inevitably end in his death and the ruination of the dream of non-governmental spaceflight. Now, since the first flight of the Thunderbird, some two years ago, the detractors had fallen strangely silent. Even NASA, long contemptuous of the 'hobby rocket' crowd, had been forced to sit up and take notice as four X-Prize teams, one after the other, demonstrated the viability of their respective designs.

"We are calculating your flight-path now," the launch controller continued. "However, at this time, you appear stable at an altitude of 193 nautical miles. All shipboard systems seem nominal at this time, and you are 'go' for the planned nine orbits!"

Now, at last, the space age had begun.

~*~*~*~

"It was just an hour after dawn when the Thunderbird left its' launch pad on what promised to be its' most challenging and dangerous flight yet. Brief 'tourist' flights to the edge of space and the recent demonstration flight over the Atlantic Ocean were simple enough, in retrospect. However, not even the most optimistic commentator had anticipated that amateur… no, rather, commercial orbital spaceflight could become a reality so very soon.

"However, as I sit in by the window, watching the world roll beneath me, the stars above shining with a brilliance that few have ever seen, I realise that these commentators were wrong. Given the vision and sufficient determination, anything is possible. This is Jenny Anderson, for BBC News, in orbit aboard the Thunderbird spacecraft."

"Thank you, my dear, for those flattering words," Steve Bennett called over his shoulder.

Despite her professionalism, Jenny blushed slightly. As odd as it was for a reporter, she wasn't interested as much in fame as she was about being there to tell the stories that mattered. Well, she had achieved that today. In Britain, her report had just gone out live on the BBC's One O'clock News programme and, no doubt, within a few hours her words would be being repeated both in print and on Television all over the world.

"So, am I still a 'publicity-seeking glory-hound', Ms. Anderson?" Anyone who didn't know Sir Richard Branson would certainly have been offended by his question. However, his tone and the mischievous schoolboy-like twinkle in the man's eyes forbade offence. He was just being himself.

Jenny refused to be intimidated by one of Britain's most famous businessmen. "Oh yes, I do," she replied, making Andy snort in laughter as he checked the re-entry program again. "But that doesn't make you any less a visionary for providing financial backing for this programme."

"That isn't all I'm going to provide," the man declared. "Now the technology has been proven in this manner, I'm sure that I can convince the board to agree with my suggestion."

Jenny raised an eyebrow. "Oh, what else are you planning?" she asked.

"You can find out at the press conference like everyone else," the bearded entrepreneur replied, the twinkle back in his eye.

Jenny shook her head and turned back to her porthole. With the two rear seats in the cockpit folded away, there was enough room inside the small spacecraft to manoeuvre about and enjoy free-fall. There was even enough room to perform simple experiments (or so Bennett had declared proudly) and the ship had external experiment racks in its' sides to carry sensing instruments into space. Thunderbird wasn't just a way of proving a point, it was a prototype of a genuinely useful commercial spacecraft.

Jenny might be a journalist through and through, but she really couldn't care less about the commercial and political consequences of the flight right now. She was far too busy staring at the Earth through the portholes, watching clouds and seeing thunderstorms, hurricanes and even mountain ranges from above. No sight was the same as any other. "And He saw all the things He had made and, look! They were very good," Jenny quoted to herself.

"What?" Steve Bennett seemed a bit surprised at hearing a Biblical quote from the normally-businesslike reporter.

Jenny shook her head. "Nothing," she said. "I was… It was nothing."

Bennett shrugged. He wasn't going to harass a fare-paying customer if she decided that she didn't want to bear her soul to him. "We'd better get the rear seats re-assembled," he declared. "This is our last full orbit."

~*~*~*~

Re-entry is probably the single most dangerous part of the process of space flight. Flying into a planetary atmosphere at a speed at least ten times greater than that of a speeding bullet is an astonishingly foolhardy thing to do unless you absolutely have to. Friction heats any object that does so to a point where it is hotter than the surface of the sun. Furthermore, powerful aerodynamic forces can turn even the slightest error in flight-path or damage to the hull into a lethal flaw (as, sadly, the crew of the Columbia learnt to their cost).

Thunderbird's basic cross-section was triangular, with the flat base pointing down along its' flight-path. The spacecraft's main landing gear was in the side points, while the parasail parachute that served as its' atmospheric lifting surface was in the top point. The bottom of the ship was not flat, however, but slightly curved, reducing the aerodynamic stresses as the ship came in bottom-first towards the atmosphere. Combined with the act of folding the lower two of the spacecraft's three tail fins upwards, this gave the Thunderbird a certain degree of aerodynamic lift and, thus, the ability to steer through the atmosphere.

The thirty-second de-orbit burn from the spacecraft's main engine had brought Jenny rudely back to reality. Although the Thunderbird had survived several re-entries before today, they had been relatively benign experiences after short sub-orbital 'hops'. This was the real thing, a ten-minute inferno where one mistake spelt a horrifying death as the ship broke apart around you.

As the privately-built spacecraft encountered the atmosphere, friction between spacecraft and air stripped the individual atoms atmospheric gasses of their electron shells. This meant that the ship was quickly surrounded by a blazing shell of plasma and ionised gas. Communication with the ground was impossible and the radar sensors that determined altitude were useless. All that stood between the Thunderbird and destruction were the skills of Andy Montrose (as well as hundreds of hours of simulated re-entries, of course). All that was visible through the window were orange-yellow flames

Far below, airline pilots and the crews on ships crossing the Atlantic Ocean all saw the blindingly-bright white star dragging a trail of white smoke as it passed overhead. Although the Thunderbird had entered the atmosphere over Newfoundland, entering the atmosphere meant that the crew could now change their heading to a more easterly direction, crossing the Atlantic at several times the speed of sound, back towards Great Britain.

Finally, high over Ireland, the Thunderbird's velocity dropped below 1,000 miles an hour and the shell of plasma dissipated. The privately-operated spacecraft now resembled a ballistic missile, streaking over the Irish Sea towards a still-invisible point on the British south coast. "Starchaser Landing Control, this is Thunderbird, how do you read me?" Bennett signalled over the radio.

"Thunderbird, this is Landing Control," replied a welcome voice. "We have just received word from the RAF that they are tracking you. You are at an altitude of 45,112 feet and crossing the Welsh coast ten miles north of Milford Haven. You are still twenty minutes from arrival at New Forest Spaceport."

Bennett turned to a suspiciously-pale Jenny and smiled reassuringly. "See, wasn't so bad was it?" The young woman opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Even Richard was uncommonly pale and quiet.

Automatic systems opened the airbrakes on the Thunderbird's hull, in between each of its' three tail fins. The ship began to shudder as it started decelerating ever more rapidly. As its' airspeed passed 600 knots, a 12-foot diameter drogue parachute popped out of its' container on the upper tail fin. The 'chute did not deploy just yet, but its' drag further increased the rate of the deceleration of the spacecraft. Finally, as Thunderbird passed over the town of Salisbury, Steve Bennett turned to the least-experienced of his passengers. "You'd better hang on, this is nasty," he declared.

About 150 feet behind the cockpit, electronic cutters opened the drogue 'chute's canopy and it imparted a surge of deceleration to the spacecraft. Thunderbird's airspeed dropped dramatically from 350 knots to just 120 knots in less than five seconds. The nose pitched down sharply. Jenny gasped in fear, even though she had been expecting this to happen. After all, it was all part of the plan.

Midway along the spacecraft's spine a hatch popped open and the 105-foot wide parasail unfurled into the air. Even though it was made of fabric, the vast parachute was the aerodynamic equivalent of a wing. Using electric motors to change the lengths of its' various guy ropes, Andy was now flying an aircraft, quite capable of extremely tight and precise manoeuvres.

If you had been outdoors that day in the small Hampshire market town of Brockenhurst, you would have seen the increasingly-familiar needle-shaped spacecraft fly overhead with the stately grace of a kite, suspended beneath its' huge parasail (which some wit had decorated with the wings of a bird of prey).

At the town's south-eastern corner lay a former RAF aerodrome, one whose function until recently had been so secret that it had no name and appeared on no map (ludicrous, as it was clearly visible from space). Now, the base was in private hands. Re-christened 'New Forest Spaceport', it was the new home of Starchaser Industries (after its' move south from its' original home in Cheshire) from where it performed its' increasingly-profitable satellite launch business and from where Thunderbird and Fireball continued to prove the case for non-governmental space travel.

For Jenny, the strangest part of the flight was now taking place. After the speed and violence of its' pyrotechnic launch, Thunderbird's approach to its' home base was anticlimactically slow and graceful. The maximum speed the vehicle attained while under its' parasail was only 120 knots, and it was travelling a lot slower than that right now. She heard the traffic controller at the base's control tower pass onto Andy and Steve the weather conditions and assign a runway for landing.

Drifting along at just 65 knots, Thunderbird crossed the base perimeter and turned slowly to a sharply south-south-eastern heading. As it turned, the vehicle's tricycle landing gear dropped out of their wells. With an almost paradoxical delicacy and control, the vehicle landed mid-way along the spaceport's Runway 7-5. Andy touched the brakes and the spacecraft trundled to a halt after rolling for just 140 yards. The parasail collapsed over Thunderbird's midsection like a shroud as the landing support vehicles (as well as several cars owned by various press agencies) raced to greet it.

Within just ten minutes, Andy, Steve, Richard and Jenny were stepping off the Thunderbird onto the tarmac.

As they walked to the van that would carry them to the press briefing room in the administration block, Andy Montrose turned to his employer and spoke in his usual, laconic manner. "So, Boss, what's next?"

Steve Bennett, the designer of the first privately-constructed Earth-orbiting spacecraft, smiled at his pilot and his friend. "Watch this space, Andy," he said. "Watch this space…"

This was a work of fiction. However, Steve Bennett, Starchaser Industries, the X-Prize and the Thunderbird spacecraft are all a reality. We will see the events of this story, or something very like it, happen in less than a decade. A new frontier is opening up above our heads. Are you ready for the changes that this will bring?

~*~*~*~

Phew! Thank you for reading my little brain-bug. This has been floating around in my head for a year or so now. I have got a few more chapters that I could write that answers the question "what's next" (based on an even older brain-bug of mine). But do you want to see it?

There is only one way for me to find out. Press the 'review' button and let me know what you think of this story.