“We can’t just leave them up there to die. What happened to the application of maritime law in space and all that bullshit? Render assistance to those in distress?”
Scott says, “Not possible.”
“We can’t just sit by and do nothing.”
Sue is defiant. “This is not the time to get sentimental. Think about it. If Armstrong and Aldrin were stuck on the Moon, Collins would have left them there.”
“Would he?” I’m not convinced. “Collins would have stayed until the last possible moment. He had no way to help, but he wouldn’t have abandoned them—not while there was still hope.”
Scott settles the argument. “It’s not a good comparison. The Command Module had far more resources than the Lunar Module, so Collins would have never faced that decision. Armstrong and Aldrin would have died long before he ran low on juice and was forced to leave.”
I’m not finished. I feel offended by Sue. I’ve got to have the last word. “If he could have, if the CM had the ability to help, he would have at least tried. I have no doubt about that.”
Sue shakes her head in disagreement.
I look around at the rest of the crew. “But this—this is different. We have the ability to help.” I point at the thick wall lining the module, gesturing to what lies roughly five hundred yards away from our base. “We’ve got a perfectly good spacecraft sitting out there.”
Sue isn’t taking this lying down. “There are no flight plans for a Phobos rendezvous. No fuel load modeling. No contingency scenarios. Even if we could reach them, we’d never make it back to Earth. Our inflight resource management plans are designed for six people, not eight. We’d suffocate long before we reached the deep space observatory in lunar orbit, let alone Earth. We might as well flap our wings and try to fly.”
Lisa’s upset. She hangs her head. “If we could, we would.” And yet I sense doubt in her voice. There’s something about her motion, something in her body language that betrays her thoughts. She stares at the tabletop computer, but not at anything on the screen itself. It’s almost as though she’s staring through the glass at the LEDs and circuit boards driving the display. She breathes deeply. Hedy takes her hand. The interplay between them doesn’t go unnoticed by Jen.
“What is it?”
Lisa squeezes Hedy’s fingers. For a moment, her knuckles go white. She raises her head, wiping tears from her eyes. “There is one possibility.”
I’m confused. Why is she crying?
Hedy’s silent, which is surprising since she’s technically second-in-command and is normally outspoken. As far as partners go, Lisa’s the quiet one. Hedy’s boisterous. But not today.
“But someone has to stay.”
That gets Scott’s attention. “You’re thinking of splitting the mission? No. That’s not happening. That is not an option.”
“Wait a minute.” I want to hear more. Round table, and all that crap. Scott and Hedy might be in command, but all our lives are in the balance, not just the taikonauts.
Lisa wipes her eyes. Her hands are shaking. Her lightning quick mind has already run through all the various scenarios and arrived at the only logical conclusion. There’s a sense of resignation in her voice. It’s as though she’s playing chess and has seen all possible outcomes, realizing checkmate is inevitable within a few moves.
“There were contingency plans drawn up for an early, partial evac. NASA foresaw a circumstance where a medical emergency might necessitate splitting the crew.”
Susan is stone faced. “This isn’t a medical emergency—not our emergency.” She’s already picked up on the implications of what’s being suggested and she doesn’t like it.
Lisa continues. “The Huŏxīng Wu has a crew of four. At least two of them are dead.”
Scott interrupts. “So you’re thinking the MRV launches with a few of us, conducts a rendezvous with the Huŏxīng Wu and takes the survivors back to Earth.”
She nods, but I still don’t understand why she’s crying.
Jen does. “Shit.”
It’s not often Jen swears, but she’s done the math as well. Seeing her reaction causes the realization to hit me. If the crew splits, it’s not difficult to figure out who draws the short straws. Scott can’t fly with a broken leg, so Hedy would take command of the rescue.
There’s no way either Scott or Houston would allow Lisa on that flight. The remaining crew would be stuck on Mars for at least two years until orbits align and a second ship can be dispatched from Earth to get them. Food, water and oxygen are no problem. With fewer mouths to feed, production could drop and there would still be enough to go around. The biggest risk to Shepard is mechanical or electronic failure, and Lisa’s the only one with enough experience to extend the life of what would quickly become a shrinking pool of spare parts.
Then there’s Jen. The risk of medical emergencies arising will have her grounded as well. Without a crystal ball, there’s no way of knowing if someone’s going to suffer a burst appendix. Shepard can’t afford to lose its surgeon.
The only crew members that could make the flight are Hedy, Sue and me—splitting the couples right down the middle. I sum up what everyone’s thinking.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.” Lisa looks at me through tear stained eyes.
“They know. They have to know.” Hedy has ice in her veins. “NASA would have run the sums, looked at all the options. They would have arrived at the same conclusion, but they’re not going to tell us what to do. They knew we had to arrive at this conclusion for ourselves. It has to be our decision.”
Scott nods, adding, “So, do we lose Mars?”
“Or our humanity?” I say, completing his thought.
Hedy is as white as a sheet.
“If NASA wants us to go…” Lisa’s voice trails off. She seems to realize the folly of her statement. NASA doesn’t want us to do anything we’re not comfortable undertaking ourselves. NASA isn’t going to volunteer anyone.
“Hedy’s right. They’re waiting on us.” I rub the stubble on my chin. “It’s impossible to hold a conversation at a distance of over a hundred million miles, so they’re not even going to try. We can’t debate the pros and cons with them, so it’s our call. They’re not going to tell us what to do. They want us to decide.”
Sue says, “It’s important to understand—we don’t have to do anything. This isn’t a simulation run. There are no do-overs. It’s a variation. A major deviation. There’s no modeling covering this kind of scenario. No procedures. No support structures. No abort plans. No guarantees.”
I hear what she’s saying but I can’t stomach the alternative. “We can’t leave them up there to die.”
“I’m not going.”
Those three words leave me stunned.
Sue repeats them. It’s almost as though she has to confirm what she said for everyone, including herself. “I’m not.”
“Honey.” Scott rests his hand on her arm. She pulls away.
“This is madness. We are in no position to help. Even if they’re alive, they could be dead by the time we reach them.”
Scott hangs his head, looking down at some meaningless set of numbers on the desktop screen. “What if it was us?”
“But it’s not.”
“But it was. Just a few weeks ago, it was me lying at the bottom of a cliff.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
Sue has tears in the corner of her eyes. “We—We—If we launch the MRV, we lose our ride home. You can’t fly. You’d be stuck here. If something happens... If something goes wrong, you could die.”
Hedy starts to respond but thinks better of it. My eyes meet hers then Lisa’s. There’s an unspoken sense of understanding shared between us. We all knew the risks when we signed up for Mars, but for Sue, that risk is no longer theoretical. She stood on the edge of an alien landscape fearing the worst, thinking her husband was going to die. There’s no reasoning with her. Fear has scarred her mind.
Jen tugs lightl
y at my arm, speaking softly. “Can I talk to you?”
Hedy and Lisa retreat to the airlock, talking quietly with each other. Jen and I leave Scott and Sue at the table, walking into the corridor between the laboratories. Jen turns her back on the others, which seems somewhat profound. This is between us. No one else. She rests her arms on my chest, taking the wings of my collared shirt in her hands and pulling them tight.
“Please. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to be the hero.”
I lower my head, unable to meet her eyes.
“I know you.” Jen twists her head, looking up at me, wanting to catch my gaze. “I understand you.” She sniffs, holding back tears. “You want to do what’s right. And that’s wonderful. That’s what I love about you. But Sue’s right. This isn’t straightforward. This is complex. There’s so much that could go wrong. Up there. Down here. I—I don’t know that I could go through this alone.”
I look over her shoulder. Scott and Sue are seated at the table, leaning into each other, touching foreheads and talking softly. Hedy and Lisa are sitting on the workbench, holding hands, speaking in barely a whisper.
“I have to go. If I don’t, if I stayed, part of me would die along with those taikonauts… I’m sorry. I just can’t. I can’t sit by and do nothing.”
“I know.” Jen wipes tears from her eyes. She breathes deeply, steeling herself. I take her by the shoulders.
“You’re not losing me. I’m just heading home a little before you. That’s all. We’ll be together again. I’ll be waiting for you in Hawaii, I promise. As soon as you splash down, we’ll party in Waikiki.”
She sniffs.
“Think of it this way, I’ll have plenty of time to work on that kitchen extension.”
She looks at me with tears flooding her eyes. “And a pool. After Mars, I want water. Lots of water. Everywhere. A bird bath. A pond with goldfish. A swimming pool and a spa pool.”
“Of course.”
She laughs, punching me playfully on the chest. Her bottom lip quivers. I kiss her gently on the forehead and pull her close, holding her tight. Jen wraps her arms around me. As much as I’d love to stand there forever, it’s time to move on. The moment ends and we both know it. Jen relaxes. She turns and we walk back to join the others.
Hedy looks at me and, with barely any motion, nods. I reply in kind. Nothing needs to be said. Sue’s eyes are bloodshot. Scott speaks on her behalf.
“We’ll get the core samples loaded for the trip home.”
Lisa is focused. She’s already accepted what’s happening and is shifting gears. Any emotion she feels are hidden deep beneath the surface. “Don’t pack too much.” At first, I’m tempted to think she’s joking, although if she is, it’s not funny. She explains her thinking. “Orbital inclination change.” Nope, that didn’t help.
She sits at the table, working with the touchscreen computer. “Phobos orbits barely one degree off the equator, but here at Shepard we’re almost twenty degrees away. It’s a bit like being in either Hawaii or Fiji and needing to get to Ecuador. We’re close, closer than say Alaska, but not that close.”
“And that’s bad?” Hedy asks.
“It’s expensive. Costs a lot of fuel. This is where it gets nasty.” Her fingers ripple over a virtual keyboard on the glass surface. She brings up an image of Mars with two rings wrapped around it, representing two different orbits. One is almost exactly around the equator, but a considerable way from the planet. The other is on an angle and, on this scale, looks like it’s on the verge of hugging the surface.
“We’ve got two options. The MRV is lightweight. It’s essentially a modified Orion. Easy to maneuver but low on fuel. It was only ever intended to get you into orbit so you could rendezvous with the Schiaparelli service module for the return to Earth.
“Then there’s the Schiaparelli. It’s already circling on roughly the same orbital plane you’ll launch on. Link up with that, and you’ve got plenty of fuel, but you’re driving an eighteen wheeler instead of a sports car. Around Phobos, that could get dicey. Things could get… interesting. Gravity wells are nasty ways to burn through fuel.”
Somehow, I suspect what Lisa finds interesting is actually terrifying. She looks at a seemingly meaningless run of numbers scrolling down the screen as though she’s reading a fortune cookie.
“Yeah, you’re definitely going to have to rendezvous with the service module. No other way. The Orion simply doesn’t have enough fuel for an inclination change and multiple altitude changes. As it is, you’ll be running on fumes by the time you reach Earth. Remember, it’s not just about reaching Earth. You’ve got to be able to stop when you get there. Use too much fuel here and you’ll sail past back there.”
“And the worst case scenario?”
“You go splat.”
I’m beginning to see Sue’s point—there’s no certainty. At every step, there are unknowns. Complexity breeds disasters.
Hedy is thinking along the same lines. Without saying anything, she looks up at me, looking to see if my enthusiasm has cooled. She’d go alone if she had to. Damn. She’s got ice in her veins. I swallow the lump in my throat, meeting her eyes and pursing my lips. This isn’t a game. Seemingly trivial decisions now could cost us our lives in the next few hours, days or even months.
Lisa says, “We need to get at least some samples back to Earth, but be selective. No more than a couple of hundred pounds. Most of it will have to wait.”
She focuses on the plot outlining our orbit. A vast curve wraps around the red planet on an angle. After launching, we need to chase down the service module. The Schiaparelli looks like a headless rocket. There’s a large bell-shaped engine, a long mid-stage containing life-support and fuel, and a blunt front end awaiting the conical shape of the Orion to crown the vessel. Solar panels provide electricity, unfolding like dragonfly wings on either side of the craft.
Lisa examines each phase as we watch. The Orion will reach an initial orbit around 500 km. It then has to climb through a series of burns to join the Schiaparelli at an altitude of 2,000 km. From there, we’ll need more burns to bring the craft through a bunch of wild hula hoop like motions wrapping around the planet, changing the angle of the orbit into a more sedate circular shape above the equator. Then there’s the altitude change to reach Phobos at almost 6,000 kilometers above the surface. Yeah, anything but simple.
Lisa runs her hands through her hair. “It’s about finding the most fuel efficient approach.”
From what I can see, it’ll take the best part of a day to reach the tiny moon. By then, we could be collecting four corpses. Either way, by that point, we’ve lost Mars. We’ll return with just a fraction of the promised samples, arriving six months early, abandoning three astronauts on the surface, and forcing NASA to burn through hundreds of billions of dollars and sideline future missions to get the original crew back. Is it worth it? Fuck, I hate this shit. There’s no right answer. No simple decision. Just a whole bunch of chaos. Is all this worth the lives of two strangers we may not even save? They’re not even Americans. Would they do the same for us? Does that even matter?
Hedy’s quiet. She rests her hand on Lisa’s shoulder, peering at the orbits, probably consumed by the very same thoughts but not wanting to verbalize them. Lisa is methodical. There’s no doubt in her mind. If they’d let her, she’d go. She’d risk it. It must tear at her heart that Hedy’s abandoning her, but she’s a consummate professional. I admire her ability to remain focused and resolved. I’m struggling with the uncertainty.
“First available launch window is in six hours. I’ll get NASA to validate my calculations.”
Flight
Lisa and Jen help us suit up in the airlock.
There’s no shame in space. Hedy and I strip down, tacitly facing in slightly different directions to provide each other with a modicum of privacy even though there is none to be found. After slipping on an adult diaper, I put on a pair of cotton long-johns designed to wick sweat away from my body so
it doesn’t pool as a fluid in any one spot. The long-johns have padding on the shoulders and wherever metal joints or aluminum rings sit within the suit to prevent chafing and bruising. Once the long-johns are in place and comfortable, I don a liquid-cooled ventilation garment. Wearing so much equipment means we get hot quickly. Tubes run cold water around the outside of my body to draw away the heat. Space is counterintuitive. There’s a difference of 400 degrees between the sunlight and shadows, but cooling is a bigger problem than cooking out there as the human body is a little furnace.
I step into the bulky trousers, which include the boots. Right about now, I’m starting to feel like the Michelin Man. I bend, stepping under the stiff upper torso mounted on the wall rack, and feed my arms and head through the suit. Jen is particularly vigorous in locking me within the suit, pulling down on the upper torso and twisting the waist band, forcing the aluminum rings together. She sniffs, struggling to hold back tears.
“Text me every day.”
“I will.”
Hedy and I are wearing dedicated spacesuits, unlike the lightweight surface suits we normally don. These are designed for the harsh vacuum of space. The sleeve ends in the middle of my forearm. Jen hands me some cotton gloves before she slides my thick outer-gloves on, gliding the machined aluminum collar in place and making sure the locking ring is held firmly in place. Both her and Lisa know time is running out. There are only a handful of steps left, and subconsciously, they both slow under the guise of precision.
Spacesuits are bulky, ridiculously bulky. In high school, I loved playing football. There’s something about putting on boots, shoulder pads and a helmet that made me feel like one of the knights of old. Hand me a lance and the reins of a horse. For the first year or so, collisions were like playing human pinball. Damn, it was fun. As I got older, though, and the other kids figured out how to run hard, the need for padding became apparent. A spacesuit, though, is like being wrapped in cotton wool. It’s as though the NFL doubled, or perhaps tripled the protection for athletes. The fabric wrapped around my arms, shoulders and torso leave me feeling like I’m in a zorb ball—one of those inflated plastic balls that roll down a hill. NASA takes protecting its astronauts seriously, and there’s layer upon layer, each with a specific purpose, each designed to keep me alive.
Losing Mars Page 9
