Now that my Chase Plane and its attached MOBE are no longer enclosed in a fairing, we should be picked up easily on radar or possibly by a space telescope. But hopefully we’re not. The vehicle’s conductive skin is in stealth mode, rather much like Ranger when he’s ghosting. We’re supposed to be totally blacked out, not just on radar but visually.
We’re to blend with our surroundings, and mostly that’s going to be the dark vacuum of space. But I can’t say for sure. While there’s much the cameras can pick up, they can’t show me what color I am. I have to infer it from one of many mind-withering codes, and right now our shade of black is RV3, which ART lets me know is raven.
Dick assures me there’s no reason to believe my vehicle is detectable by the normal means. And I don’t like his use of words as I look out the porthole window next to my seat, seeing nothing but complete blackness.
“What about the weather satellite everybody’s looking for?” I remind him as I put on my CUFF. “Imagine all those satellite watchers out there looking for it,” I add but they’re not who I’m worried about.
“We’ve solved that rather simply,” his voice in my earpiece. “It’s been leaked and making the rounds that a very expensive weather satellite didn’t deploy properly, and burned up in the atmosphere along with the fairing, the rocket stages.”
“That might do the trick,” I answer but I’m never reassured when it comes to Neva Rong, and I sure as heck don’t want her knowing what’s really going on.
I remind Dick with all due respect that when he tried the same manipulation after the rocket blew up, there weren’t any takers. No one who matters buys that NASA might have been looking for something important in the debris at Wallops Island or I wouldn’t be in outer space right now. His misinformation didn’t fool anyone.
“Do we have to worry about anyone monitoring my communications with the ground?” I ask. “Because no one’s supposed to be up here. So anybody listening to us would be onto our secret mission.”
“Nothing can be monitored,” Dick reiterates. “I suggest you acclimate yourself to the MOBE, and to floating around. No matter how much they tell you it’s like being neutrally buoyant underwater, it’s not,” and as I release my harness and various straps, I remember Stella saying the same thing, and both of them are right.
Floating in microgravity is nothing like scuba diving or anything else I’ve ever done, I’m finding out the hard way after shoving off a little too vigorously from my seat, knocking my head on the ceiling.
Terrified of kicking my avionics, the control stick or switches, I tuck myself into a ball. Slowly somersaulting out of the cockpit, I float along the ceiling like a PONG.
42
“OKAY, this is ridiculous!” I’m mortified, trying to straighten myself out, moving and knocking about in my skinsuit like a drunken eel.
“The key is to do everything much more slowly than you think you should,” Dick’s voice through speakers now. “The first time I was on Station, I was like a bull in a china shop. It’s a little bit like flying a helicopter . . .”
“It’s not anything like that!”
“What I was about to say, Calli, is very small corrections, feel it, don’t think it,” his voice all around me.
I begin to settle down. Or rather I’m up, still around the ceiling, and swimming with my hands won’t get me anywhere, only makes matters worse. Trying to hold my breath or blow it out to regulate my buoyancy doesn’t work when there’s no gravity or water.
“Use your finger,” Dick says, and for a moment I figure he’s referring to my WAND, my scarred right index finger.
But he’s suggesting I push off and stop with a finger, doesn’t matter which one. Any finger will do, and he goes on to give me a physics primer, and I relax more. I stop struggling and begin floating in place as Dick goes on about mass versus weight, and every force creates an equal and opposing one. The lighter the touch, the better, he lectures me like he always has as I begin to get the knack of it.
I float around a storage area of Nomex storage bags strapped in place, and the galley with its hot-water dispenser and drawers of space straws and drinks. Grabbing a silvery bag of lemon punch, I drink a toast to myself because someone should. I just blasted off in a rocket. I’m in outer space headed to GEO, and if I never did another thing, this might be enough.
Clamping the straw shut so the liquid doesn’t float out, I think about the last time I drank this stuff, when I was handcuffed and tethered. I don’t want to fool with reconstituting spaghetti or beef stew at the moment but wouldn’t mind a simple protein bar. In fact, I take two out of the netting inside a drawer.
Floating to the hatch that connects the PEQUOD to the MOBE, I turn a valve to equalize the pressure. Then I crank the handle, pushing in the metal access door, and I thread my way through the opening, careful not to scrape my back or whack my head again. The MOBE looks familiar because I saw its test model splash down at the Gantry, and I spot the hand- and footrails.
Moving from one to the other, doing as Dick said, I let my fingers do the walking. There’s not much in here, mostly storage space, and I float to the single carbon fiber seat liner just like the one in my Chase Plane. The control stick, the displays and switches, everything mirrors the cockpit I was just sitting in, but there’s no toilet or galley.
There’s very little in the way of creature comforts, the MOBE a combination utility module and getaway car, sort of like having a trailer that’s capable of driving you home after the attached truck breaks down. It takes some finagling for me to get situated, hanging on to a handrail while fishing around with my toes to find the foot loop.
“There, that’s better,” I say to ART, and I pull down my hood, aware that my hair is going to float up like I’ve seen a ghost.
“What can I help you with?” his voice through speakers.
The porthole next to my seat is filled with the empty blackness of space, nothing to see at the moment, and I ask him to give me a quick overview of the MOBE’s capabilities. Besides being an emergency vehicle should something happen to my Chase Plane, what else might be good for me to know?
His dry technical explanation sounds exactly like what Dad would say, and I deduce that what I’m sitting in right now is another version of my Tahoe. The MOBE is equipped with a High Energy Laser that can take out a spaceship. I have a “harpoon” and drone deployment at my disposal for capturing and dragging debris or other objects we might want to lasso or shepherd for some reason.
I can fire short microwave bursts to damage electronics, and that’s what I suspect is happening up here in GEO. The rogue satellite-like object is causing brain damage resulting in mayhem with data. Our flight trajectory is calculated to rendezvous with USA555A, our endangered spy satellite, in exactly 22 minutes, and I decide this would be a fine time to try out the toilet.
The bathroom is nothing more than a broom-closet-size space with a curtain. Inside is a stainless steel bowl with a tank under it that no one wants to empty, and a tube with a cup on the end that you urinate in no matter your anatomy. Everything floats in microgravity, especially things that you don’t want at large, and I hook my toes through a footrail on the floor.
Tugging my zipper down a little way, I can feel my skin relax as it powers off, and it’s a lot easier to pull down around my knees than a wet suit, that’s for sure. The toilet’s not a flushing one, and flowing air sucks the nasties into the tank. Or that’s the hope, and I help myself to the netted bag for toilet paper. Good to go, zipping up my skin again and unhooking my toes, I float back to my chair.
I’m barely in my seat when ART alerts me that we’re beginning a series of rendezvous burns, and he fires the thrusters. I hear them banging like fireworks as we slow down and gain altitude. I maneuver my spaceship through multiple burns, the thrusters
firing and banging.
I can see Earth outside my porthole window, a dazzling blue marble with swirls of slowly moving white clouds. I recognize the reddish orange of the mountains in China, and I guess I know what our satellite’s spying on. Sunlight flares on its solar arrays about the length of a football field away.
The rogue object doesn’t seem to be moving, neither one of us do as we orbit at 17,864 kilometers per hour (11,100 mph).
“What is this thing?” I ask ART. “Can we get a better look?”
I can see it getting closer as he zooms in, and the rogue spacecraft looks like another satellite only with a larger somewhat cylindrical body. Its 4 solar arrays reflect the light of the sun, and I can see a hatch door is open.
“What are we picking up?” I’m liking this less by the second.
“Sensors indicate surveillance and propulsion capabilities,” ART answers. “The vehicle is controlled remotely.”
“Does it know we’re here, and is there reason to think it might be weaponized?” I ask the most important questions.
“Insufficient data. There are no indications of evasive or aggressive maneuvers,” and ART’s no sooner said that when I notice something bizarre.
At first, I think my eyes are playing tricks on me as I watch what looks like a big translucent cone floating this way. I can see it out the porthole but it doesn’t show up in any of the displays.
“Do you see what I’m seeing?” I ask ART, but he doesn’t understand, and I don’t have time to explain.
00:00:00:00:0
THE CONE is coming right at us, traveling in a perfectly straight line that it will follow into infinity if nothing interferes with or stops it.
“It’s evading visual detection but are we picking up its composition?” I ask, using my control stick to toggle through menus.
(C2H4)n, ART shows me in my SPIES, the chemical composition of polyethylene, in other words, plastic. And small amounts of various metals including aluminum, nickel, copper and tungsten, all of it consistent with some sort of energy-emitting weapon, and I’m reminded of the turret on top of my Chase Car.
“Where’s the HEL on this thing?” I’m looking for a menu that might offer the High Energy Laser as an option, and then ART has it in my heads-up display.
I’m feeling slightly frantic as the cone-shaped object gets closer, closer, its round base coming at us like an open mouth. I think of the Tracking and Targeting Locator (TATL) for the weapons systems in my Tahoe, and a spaceship sure as heck ought to have an even better one.
“TATL is engaged but unable to provide all functions,” ART says, giving me a weapons display that’s missing data, and I tell him I also need to see the information in my SPIES.
“I’m going to have to line up the target visually since it’s not showing up on the display,” I exclaim as the plastic cone gets closer, and I go for broke. “Another burn, and make a 10-degree turn. Let’s go eye to eye, and take out both these mothers!”
ART fires up the thrusters again, and the view out my porthole changes, the cone closing in, directly level with us, and I grab the control stick. Remembering what Dick said about a light touch, I take manual control of the HEL, lining it up on the display while watching the cone off my shoulder.
When the weapon is in fire mode, it points where I orient the rear of my vehicle, and it’s not precision shooting, more like a drive-by when I line up the target with my eyes while controlling the stick with my right hand. Closer, closer, the cone will be on top of us in seconds, and I squeeze off two rapid bursts that I can’t hear or see.
“Target destroyed,” ART lets me know, the ruined cone-shaped weapon tumbling by my window.
“One down!” I turn my attention to the satellite-looking spacecraft with its open hatch. “Going eye to eye again,” I point at my eyes, and then at the target, making that gesture again at the same instant a thruster bangs to life, suddenly igniting, reminding me of the darn car alarms and engines gunning.
“CRAP, not again . . . !” I exclaim as I see the Earth speed past my window.
Then it’s back, coming from the opposite direction, faster, and faster, flying by my porthole as I’m pushed toward the wall.
“Turn it off!” I’m yelling at ART the same way I did in the wind tunnel. “We’re in a spin!” as the Earth passes by again and again and again.
“Unable. The thruster is stuck.”
“Why?” and I need to stop yelling because for sure he’ll start yelling back.
“I’m getting an error code for a malfunction,” he almost shouts as I think of what Dick said about glitches.
“Which thruster?” I tone it down as we spiral like a top.
If we don’t do something fast, we’ll burn through our fuel, and gravity will have its way with us.
“Port aft thruster,” ART identifies the culprit.
“Isolate it.”
“Fuel manifold valve for port aft thruster closed,” he tells me because otherwise I wouldn’t know.
The Earth continues zooming past my window every second, and it isn’t easy holding myself in my seat as centrifugal force tries to push me against the side of the spaceship. The only hope of stopping the spin is to counteract it.
“Fire up starboard aft thruster,” as I work the stick, my toes wedged under a foot loop.
Another bang, and the Earth goes by slower . . . and slower . . . and stops.
“Cut thruster. We’ve nullified spin rate. I’m going to hand fly her to target.”
And then I go after the satellite-camouflaged spacecraft with its open port yawning like the maw to hell. Making small corrections with the stick, I change my trajectory just enough to line myself up with the target at the same time, and I realize it’s doing the same thing to me.
It’s sluggishly reorienting, nowhere as nimble as our vessel, and I watch through the glass while keeping a light touch on the stick. Lining up the target in the heads-up weapons display exactly where I want it, I squeeze the trigger. I can’t see or hear the laser beams, but I know they found their mark, sending the spacecraft into a spin it won’t recover from, its scorched solar arrays whirling like a pinwheel.
ART lets me know that we took out the electrical circuitry, frying everything that matters. There are no transmissions detected, no sign of life.
“Targets disabled,” I push the talk button on the stick.
“Objective accomplished,” Carme’s voice startles me through the speakers.
“A little more enthusiasm would be appreciated,” I reply but I’m smiling from ear to ear.
“You find any aliens?”
“Not yet. Just a cheap plastic microwave gun shaped like a traffic cone.”
“I never had a doubt,” and now it’s Mom on the feed.
“That’s my girl,” Dad sounds as pleased as punch.
“A 9 out of 10,” Conn pays me back for what I said about his piloting.
“Why did you take away a point?” I reply, playing his flirty game.
“To give you something to look forward to.”
“Lex is fine,” Mom again. “I knew you’d be wondering. You’re a worrier just like me.”
“Mission accomplished so far,” Dick announces.
“What do you mean, so far?” sliding my toes out of the foot loop, I float out of my seat, flying like a superhero through the MOBE.
“A few housekeeping matters for you to take care of, and then we’re bringing you home,” his voice follows me as I make my way through the hatch, returning to my Chase Plane.
“Such as?” I inquire, and it would be nice if he could say good job or way to go or something.
“Debris management for one thing,” it’s Conn talking again, and I grab a handrail n
ear the galley, thinking now might be a good time for real food.
Almost real food, and I unzip the lid of a white Nomex bag Velcroed and bungee corded to the galley’s ceiling. Inside the fire-retardant storage container are all sorts of things to eat, held in place with netting so they don’t float away. Macaroni and cheese, Italian vegetables, beef stew, fajitas, spicy Cajun rice and sausage.
“. . . Assuming the rogue spacecraft is Neva Rong’s, we need to get detailed images of it and our damaged spy satellite, USA555A . . . ,” Conn is saying.
Deciding on spaghetti, I rehydrate it by inserting the hot water dispenser’s needle into a port at the top of the bag. I ask ART how to open the package, and he directs me to another Nomex container that has blunt-tipped scissors attached to a tether and inside netting.
“. . . We need to capture any data we can before removing the damaged objects from GEO,” Conn goes through my upcoming chores as I place a rubber-lined trash bag inside a white vinyl pouch that I bungee cord to the siding.
“How is it?” Dick asks as I squeeze spaghetti into my mouth.
“How’s what?”
“How’s the food?” and it’s easy to forget there are cameras everywhere.
“Not bad at all,” I reply honestly. “Of course, the spacecraft was Neva’s, that’s if you ask me. The weapon, the microwave gun, is disposable like a 3-D printed pistol, sort of. And I’m guessing it’s single fire, deployed to brain damage a satellite with a microwave punch. Afterward, the plastic cone is space debris that the atomic gases will deteriorate eventually.”
“Enjoy lunch, I’ll be back with you a little later,” Dick signs off, and we’re disconnected.
Floating up to the ceiling again, I root around in the netting, thinking the oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar might be good to try next. Another shot of hot water, squishing it around inside the bag, another snip with the scissors, and I float through walls tiled with white storage bags.
Spin (Captain Chase) Page 35
