Jen fits a snoopy hat over my head, ensuring the speakers in the earpiece are well positioned, and gently takes up the slack on the chin strap. She adjusts the microphone by my lips even though it’s fine where it is.
She says, “Just a walk in the park, babe.”
I nod. Hedy already has her helmet on. The faceplate and sun visor are both open. A few locks of hair sit on her forehead, having slipped out from beneath her snoopy cap. Lisa teases them, fussing with them. Hedy whispers something, but I miss what’s said. They kiss. Hedy tries to hide her tears, but they end up rolling down Lisa’s cheeks.
I’m seated, with Jen standing before me. She raises a helmet over my head, lowering it slowly and locking it in place.
“Thanks.”
It’s hard to look her in the eye. I want to look away, but I force myself to make eye contact. Jen reaches inside my helmet, taking my face with both hands, and leans in, kissing me. Her lips quiver as tears fall.
“You be careful.”
“I will.”
Reluctantly, Lisa and Jen leave the airlock, closing the hatch behind them. Oxygen hisses through the vents. Hedy and I sit opposite each other. I lean forward, with my elbows resting on my knees, steeling myself for what’s to come. My stomach turns. It’s sickening to leave my wife behind. I wring my hands, feeling the thick material and rubber pads in my gloves, trying to distract myself.
“We’re doing the right thing.”
I look up at Hedy. “Then why do I feel like shit?”
“Because you care.”
“Bring on the robots.”
Hedy fakes a laugh. “You’re all right, Anderson.”
“You too, Washington.”
To anyone listening, our banter sounds relaxed, but we’re no longer referring to each other using our first names. In orbit, it’ll be surnames, so we’re getting into the game early.
The radio crackles softly as we wait for our bodies to acclimatize to breathing pure oxygen as the air pressure steadily drops.
“We’ve got TAV from Houston.”
Over the past six hours, there’s been a constant stream of Text-Audio-Video, but mainly text due to the bandwidth constraints. Houston waited until it had formal confirmation of our decision then began streaming us everything it had to assist with mission planning. Lisa’s calculations were refined. Several contingency options were put in place for Shepard should various emergencies arise. We were briefed on technical aspects of the Huŏxīng Wu including hatch design and rudimentary controls for electrical power, and how to activate fuel pumps and atmospheric filters. There’s been no further communication from the taikonauts, but the Huŏxīng Wu is still passing suit telemetry so they’re alive. Seems their radio is down.
“Someone wants to talk to you guys.”
A woman’s voice speaks with unmistakable conviction—US President Cathy Jamison.
“Good afternoon. Thank you for coming at such short notice. I have a few comments to make about the US mission on Mars, and then will open the floor for questions.
“As we reach for the stars, we cannot forget who we are and where we came from. On this small planet, we’re divided into nations, but when viewed from the vast expanse of space, there’s just one world—and one dominant intelligent species—Homo sapiens.”
I was expecting the audio to be addressed to us personally, but apparently we’re listening to a television broadcast.
“We always knew our first steps on another world came with the risk of heartache and loss. We hoped for the best, but steeled ourselves for the worst. Exploration demands we face our own mortality, and we have.”
There’s rustling in the background. She must be standing at a podium, shuffling papers, speaking to an audience. The microphone picks up background noises, murmurs, subtle movements.
“In the early hours of this morning, tragedy struck, but not on Mars, not at Shepard base. High above the red planet, a Chinese spacecraft was conducting an orbital rendezvous with Phobos, one of the moons of Mars, when disaster struck.
“An electrical short caused an explosion, disabling the Chinese craft and killing two taikonauts. Details are sketchy. As of this point in time, several hours after the event, we are aware of two survivors stranded in orbit around the tiny moon. Their craft is crippled. Their life-support is failing.
“As President of the United States of America, in consultation with the European Space Agency, I authorized NASA to develop a rescue mission in consultation with the Chinese Government and the astronauts on station at Shepard base.
“Ultimately, the final decision on whether to conduct this mission lies with the astronauts themselves. After consulting with Commander Scott Barnes, the decision was made to split the crew. With Captain Hedy Washington and Mission Specialist Cory Anderson undertaking an emergency rescue flight to rendezvous with the Chinese Huŏxīng Wu.
“This afternoon, they will launch into Martian orbit and attempt to dock with the stricken craft. Their options are limited. Reentering the Martian atmosphere is not possible, so the Orion will rendezvous with the Chinese craft in orbit around Phobos and then return to Earth, leaving Commander Scott Barnes, Specialist Sue Barnes, Dr. Jeniffer Anderson and Specialist Lisa Washington stranded on Mars, awaiting a resupply mission.
“The courage of everyone involved in this rescue typifies the American spirit—no, our collective human spirit. Whatever happens, we are one, unified in our attempt to save our fellow explorers from this small planet circling a modest star on the outer spiral arm of a galaxy containing hundreds of billions of other stars.
“To the astronauts from both countries—Chinese and American—I say, God bless and God speed.”
Questions erupt from the audience, but the recording ends. Whereas for a moment I felt as though I was back on Earth, I suddenly find myself in a tiny metal airlock again.
Hedy holds out her gloved hand in the shape of a fist. Gently, I punch at her knuckles.
“Let’s do this.”
“Hell, yeah.”
What’s space exploration without a little misplaced bravado? We could die up there, but right now, it’s camaraderie that counts. Homo sapiens have thrived for hundreds of thousands of years, but not because of our speed or ferocity, not through fangs or claws, but by banding together—society has allowed our species to survive untold adversity. The grasslands of the savannah may have been replaced with the frozen rocky wastelands of Mars, but human nature is still the same. When we’re not fighting each other, we fight for life.
Within the airlock, a large green light turns red. That’s the signal for us to close our helmets and start the flow of oxygen within our suits. We’ve been sitting here at a reduced pressure and on pure oxygen for long enough, now the airlock is going to purge the air and equalize with outside. I slide my visor down, locking it in place.
Hedy locks her visor, speaking over the radio as she asks, “What are we going to call her?”
“Her?”
“Our rescue craft. She needs a name.”
I think for a moment. My mind rushes to a variety of options, most of them frivolous terms popularized by science fiction movies, but I settle on “Redstone.”
From behind a thin curved sheet of glass, Hedy smiles. “I like it.”
Redstone was the rocket that launched Alan Shepard on his historic suborbital flight, and given the color of Mars and the samples we’re carrying home, it’s entirely appropriate.
Hedy gets to her feet, walking to the outer hatch. “Thanks for having us, Shepard. This is the crew of the Redstone requesting permission to depart.”
I can hear my wife’s heart breaking as she replies, “Redstone, you are clear for departure. God speed.”
The outer hatch opens and we step into the payload bay. Purple lights bathe us, followed by the searing heat of infrared lamps.
As we step down into the dust, I feel a sense of loss. The helmet of my spacesuit naturally restricts my view, and I feel robbed of the moment. I turn ba
ck, taking one last look at the entrance to Shepard, buried beneath a dome made from regolith. I take in the oval shape of the module, the sheet metal lining the airlock, the lights around the entrance, the aluminum stairs that flex with each step, the rivets lining the panels, the array of UV lamps used during the sterilization process, and the hatch leading into the base. Never again.
Hedy pauses just a few feet away. She turns slowly. From the perplexed look on her face, she’s wondering if something’s wrong, but then the realization sinks in and she too soaks in the moment. Neither of us say anything. We simply turn and walk away, kicking with our boots and skimming over the rocks in the low gravity.
Outside, it’s dark. A handful of stars break through the dust haze hanging over the plateau. The MRV is located several hundred yards away. Lights glow from the cockpit. Lisa’s already powered up the vehicle and is undertaking preflight checks.
The ground is patchy. Dark sand. Broken bedrock. Loose gravel. Low buttes. Worn crater rims. Crumbling sandstone. Distant hills. It seems fitting that our last walk on Mars takes almost twenty minutes. It’s cathartic, allowing us to move beyond nostalgia. By the time we arrive at the Redstone, we’re ready to leave.
Whereas rockets on Earth are several hundred feet tall, the low gravity and thin atmosphere on Mars means ours is stubby, needing just enough fuel to reach the interplanetary stage awaiting us in orbit. The climb to the cabin is no more than forty feet. Climbing in a suit is slow, not because of the weight of our backpacks but because every set of rungs requires switching carabiners as a safety measure. Hedy goes first.
The range of motion within my spacesuit means it’s impossible for me to look up without leaning well back, something that’s not advisable. I focus on a steady rhythm, making sure I stay well below Hedy’s boots. Within a few minutes, I reach the hatch. Hedy’s already inside. The craft looks lonely with only one other astronaut. Four empty couches sit below the cockpit seats assigned to the commander and pilot.
I take one last look out of the hatch. Even though Mars has two moons, Deimos is only overhead once every thirty hours, while Phobos is visible several times a day. Neither reflects much sunlight, leaving Mars looking like a moonless night somewhere in Nevada. A red beacon flashes from on top of Shepard base. I wave, not that anyone would be able to see me, and then pull the hatch closed, winding the lock in place.
Hedy sits on the right in the commander’s chair while I climb up into the pilot’s seat. The term pilot is a misnomer. In reality, Hedy’s flying the Redstone. Well, technically, it’s under computer control, but she’s in command. Ever since the Apollo era, the position of pilot has been to assist and support the commander. Buzz Aldrin was the pilot on the Eagle, but Neil Armstrong landed the craft.
“Flushing the atmosphere.”
“Copy that.” I fasten my five-point harness, cinching the belt so I’m held firmly in place.
“Shepard, Redstone. We are secure and reviewing flight logs. Fuel load is good. Running on internal power. Life support is green. Internal pressure is building. Atmospheric scrubbers are running.”
Hedy’s not telling them anything they don’t already know, but it’s good to confirm everyone’s on the same page.
“We are in position and ready for departure in T-minus thirty minutes.”
“Copy that, Redstone. We have you on track for a launch scheduled at T-minus thirty.”
There’s nothing to do now other than wait. Given how tight the straps are over our shoulders, there’s no way either of us can turn to face each other. Our helmets cut off any periphery vision, meaning all we can do is stare out the small windscreen at the sky or look at metrics drifting by on the digital control panel. Our internal lighting is red, not because we’re on Mars, but rather as a safety measure while conducting a night launch. Should the power fail and we need to evacuate in a hurry, we need to make sure we’ve got good night vision. It means we get a great view of the stars. The only way I know Hedy’s even there is occasionally I see her gloved hand reach out and punch one of the touch screens with stubby gloved fingers.
A green light appears on the digital console. We’ve achieved internal pressure and a breathable atmosphere. I reach up and release the catch on my inner visor. There’s a slight pressure difference, and I feel my eardrums compress a little. A gentle yawn and I’ve equalized. Hedy raises her visor as well. We’ll remain suited up with our helmets donned until we’re in orbit, but this is home now. Although the capsule was built for six, with four seats arranged below us, there’s still not a lot of room in here. It’s not claustrophobic, but it ain’t an RV either. As the craft is conical in shape, there’s more room in the storage bay below us, but up here I can reach out and touch the thin hull of the craft.
“Redstone, Shepard. We have incoming TAV from Houston recommending a general hold while they run further analysis on the signals coming from the Huŏxīng Wu.”
Hedy replies on our behalf. “Any idea on the duration?”
“They’re saying ninety minutes for the next orbital insertion window.”
I punch the quick release in the center of my chest and my harness pops open. I’m not going anywhere, but damned if I’m sitting here for the next hour and a half heavily strapped in. Might as well get comfortable.
I turn off my external coms and say, “Surprised?”
Hedy releases her belt and turns to face me, rocking on her shoulder.
“Nope. If anything, I thought a delay would come sooner. NASA isn’t in a rush to lose its only lifeboat on Mars. Nice political speeches notwithstanding, they won’t give the green light to launch until they’re absolutely convinced this is going to work.”
I look at the instrumentation panel, noting that Hedy’s also on internal coms and not transmitting.
“You think they’re still alive?”
“I have my doubts, but then when is anything certain?”
I grin. “Hey, we’re sitting on what? A million pounds of propellant? Makes for one helluva bonfire if things go wrong.”
“Sure does.”
It’s funny, but Hedy and I have never been that close, and yet here we are, both prepared to give our lives for complete strangers—astronauts from another country, another culture.
We’ve known each other for almost a decade, but Hedy and Lisa were always professional. Business first. For them, there was too much at stake. One tiny slip up and there was no shortage of conservative politicians, pundits and preachers ready to call for their removal from the program. Lesbians were simply too big a target to let slip. I can’t imagine being under that level of scrutiny, where even the most banal acts were second-guessed by complete strangers. Why all the hate? I don’t get it. There are plenty of things I don’t like, but so what? I’m no fan of baseball. To me, it’s like watching paint dry, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to protest outside a stadium or demand it be removed from sports broadcasts. Seriously, some people need to get a life.
Each of the couples had a backup team shadowing them, something I always found a little unnerving—break a leg, get caught in a bar hanging out with the wrong crowd, snap at someone while under pressure—any number of minor infractions could have cost any of us our berth on the outbound Copernicus flight and our place within Shepard, but at least we didn’t have entire swaths of society trying to undermine us. I can’t believe what Hedy and Lisa went through to prove something that should have been demonstrated entirely by their ability and experience alone.
Scott and Sue would hang out with Jen and I after training sessions, sinking a few Buds on Saturday night with a couple of flight controllers, catching up for a movie and stuff. Hedy and Lisa would never rest. They’d be running the numbers again, testing one more scenario, or reviewing system logs before the next test run. As it was, I’d never have more than a few beers and a bowl of nachos, but Hedy and Lisa would only ever take a break to discuss the latest print outs.
I remember Super Bowl Sunday a couple of months before we launched.
We were in Houston and had the day off. There was a party in Mission Control, with live streaming to the team at Armstrong Base on the edge of the Mare Tranquillitatis where the back-up team was trying out the techniques we’d use for exploring Mars. They projected the game on the wall of a collapsed lava tube, watching it from the warm cabin of their plush lunar rover. Back then, we thought we’d get an enclosed rover up here as well, but it proved too heavy and way too expensive.
Hedy and Lisa were there for the game. They were friendly. Made small talk about stats they’d clearly memorized that morning. Pretended to get excited about grown men throwing pigskins at each other. Asked questions that suggested they’d never watched a game before. To be fair, I’m more interested in basketball and struggle to see the subtleties like a mask grab or holding penalties, but it surprised me to see how hard they had to try to fit in. It wasn’t that they weren’t accepted, or that they had to meet our definition of fun, but I’m sure there were a dozen other things they’d rather be doing on a rare day off. I never made that kind of effort for them. But right now, that’s something I can fix.
“What was the turning point for you?”
Hedy looks at me confused.
“What got you to Mars? I’m wondering how a young girl growing up in the suburbs of Pittsburgh ends up on the other side of the solar system.”
She smiles. It’s genuine. Her face lights up. Crazy how just a little interest in someone is enough to warm their heart.
“My dad was an accountant. He played in a jazz band most weekends. Friday, Saturday nights. Sunday afternoons.”
“And you wondered, just how far do I have to go to escape this madness, right?”
She laughs. “Something like that.”
“And?”
“My mom? She worked in a diner.”
I’m intrigued. Neither profession screams science, let alone astrophysics or interplanetary exploration.
Losing Mars Page 10
