Here was the moment of truth. Making nylon from the tarry goo of a carbonaceous chrondite asteroid was straightforward. Spinning the plastic into cloth was much more difficult. From raw cloth to parachutes was an exercise in frustration, but eventually, he got it right. Now he prayed that they would work and not doom his friends to a watery grave.
He went over the sequence in his mind. Any second now, the first chute would fire. A simple ribbon chute, orienting the sled correctly as it provided some deceleration. Next, a drogue chute, larger, would deploy. Its bottom was tied together, or 'reefed', to lessen the braking forces. Twice, the reefing lines would be cut, allowing the chute to open gradually. After a minute under drogue, the main show would begin.
***
The noise of a nearby jet engine worked its way into the Reinhart.
“Houston, do we have an escort? You might have told us. Over.”
“Roger, Reinhart. Jets scrambled out of Norfolk when you passed them. Video coming in now.” There was a sharp intake of breath. “No windows? Over.”
“We couldn't figure out how to get an airtight seal with what we were able to smuggle up. Over.”
“Flying blind. You're braver than I thought. Over.”
“Passing ten kilometers now, Commander. Warn them off,” called Celine from the flight deck.”
“Houston, please tell the escort to move to one quarter mile laterally from our vehicles. We're, ah, going into terminal phase. Over.”
“What is this terminal phase? Over.”
“Just do it! Now!” demanded Lisa, forgetting the “Over.”
“Jets retreating. You have clear air for a quarter mile. Over.”
“Ready, SuperGirl?” asked Lisa, twisting around in her seat to look at her.
Lois 'Supergirl' McClain stood at the middeck area, near where a red X was stenciled on the deck. She flipped a switch on her spaceboots and felt the minute thunk as the boots glued themselves to the steel deck. On her coverall, she spun the dial to maximum. Nothing would move her from that spot, now that the current through her boots' electromagnets was at maximum.
“Ready Ma'am.”
“Celine?” asked Lisa.
“Passing through seven kilometers. Grab hold, SuperGirl. Nosing up.” The Reinhart tilted upwards, ten, fifteen, past twenty degrees. And still it kept tilting. It finally stopped at thirty-five degrees. The Reinhart began rising, but as the angle increased, air spilled over the stubby wings instead of flowing smoothly over them, and the craft suddenly began to sink. Celine was calling off speed figures.
“Three fifty, three hundred knots. Two seventy-five. Two fifty. Two twenty. Releasing drogue.” Celine reached above her head and pulled on a large red handle. With a bang from the top of the Reinhart, a hatch exploded open, releasing a long, dirty-white package that unfolded into a cigar-shaped form that whipped hard in the wind.
“First reef,” she called, and the shape filled out suddenly. A regular round chute showed, with its bottom tightly held together. “Dropping through one seventy-five. Second reef.” Celine flipped a switch next to the overhead red handle, and the chute fully opened to its maximum extent. Celine watched the speed gauge critically. “Stabilizing at one fifty. All yours, SuperGirl!” she called, removing her hands from the controls.
***
Roque followed the ground chatter as the main chute spread its dirty white canopy above the sleds. When he was certain that both sleds were under full canopies, he sat back, content. It was his crowning achievement, the ERVs. From their very frame, through the heat shield, to the innovative parachutes, all had come from his talented hands.
His approaching death now meant very little, he realized. All data from the lab computers had been transmitted to UNSOC, a copy was in Lisa's hands. When man went back into space, he would be using the same methods that Roque had invented. His life was complete.
***
Turning to John, Celine smiled sweetly and said, “Now, what was that you were saying about honest compliments? I'd like to continue that conversation.”
John stared at her, thunderstruck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lois reach up, grab a second red handle, and pull it down with an authoritative yank.
Instantly, the Reinhart was in freefall as the drogue chute was cut free. As it left, it pulled another, far larger parachute out. This one, however, was rectangular in shape, and slid open after a short reefing. Never before in the space program had square, ram-air parachutes been used for returning spacecraft.
“Deploying the camera now,” Celine said, raising a lens over the edge of the hatch. “How's the image, SuperGirl?”
Whooping like a teen on a roller coaster, SuperGirl had her hands on two large waldo handles. She was experimenting, tugging down on one, then the other, making the Reinhart pendulum around the cavorting chute.
“Ah, SuperGirl, remember, we have some sick folks here,” admonished Lisa.
“Just getting the feel, Ma'am.” Breaking into a huge grin, she exclaimed, “This is just like skydiving into a stadium!”
“Just get us near the harbor, dear,” replied Lisa.
The voices on the radio were gabbling with amazement. “Ram-air chutes! Why didn't we ever consider them?” Lisa tuned them out, concentrating on the final run into the harbor. SuperGirl kept whooping as she steered the parachute with deft tugs on the waldo handles.
***
Two minutes and five miles behind, the Pruett was nearing its own deployment. Franz unbuckled and stood up, moved to the red X on the deck, and anchored himself the same way as Lois had. The drogue deployment mirrored the Reinhart. After control was passed to Franz, he looked back at Alice, and smiled. “Ready for your big surprise?”
Pulling his red handle hard, he grasped the waldoes and waited for the camera image. His whoop and SuperGirl's two minutes earlier were amazingly similar. Olaf groaned and reached for another bag.
Alice was delighted.
“Ram chutes?” she asked. Franz nodded happily.
“How wonderful! It's going to be a great ride!”
As the jets circled above, suddenly far too fast for the slowly swaying ERVs, the Coast Guard vessels suddenly revved their engines and began paralleling the flight line of the gently floating ERVs.
Franz was able to make out the Reinhart ahead of him, and called out, “Reinhart in sight.”
“Land beside it, not behind it,” called Eddie. “We don't want to overshoot.”
“Roger. Coast Guard in sight.”
On the Reinhart, SuperGirl was running out of altitude. Celine was calling out figures.
“Five hundred meters. Now four. Forward speed twenty KPH. Now three hundred. Twenty forward. Two hundred. Still twenty forward. One hundred.”
“Kicking up a little dust,” called SuperGirl, as she pulled hard downward with both waldoes, causing the Reinhart to sway forward and tug, hard, against the parachute.
“Flaring, zero forward, fifty meters, thirty, fifteen, ten, blowing chute!” SuperGirl shouted, punching a red button on both waldoes.
With a loud crack, the lanyards of the parachute blew free of the Reinhart. There was an instant of freefall, over before it could be perceived, and the improvised solar shelter, thirty years in the making, splashed down into the choppy waters five miles outside New York Harbor.
Amid the loud cheers inside the vessel, Commander Daniels made one last call to the United Nations Space Operations Command.
“CAPCOM, New York Harbor here. The Ted Reinhart has landed.”
Splashdown
UNSOC Auditoriums A and C, New York City, June 17 2082, 1625 hrs
People in the cafeteria, one floor below the auditoriums, could hear the controllers cheering. Gus and Fred let it go on for a dozen seconds, then calmed them down. “It ain't over until they're all on dry land. We gotta patch them through.” As they worked to cross connect the ERVs with the Coast Guard, a conversation ensued over the TDRS system.
***
Lisa was re
sting for a minute when she started guiltily. For the last two hours, she had not once thought of the lonely man trapped in the Chaffee.
“Chaffee, this is ERV Reinhart. Roque, this is Lisa Daniels, over.”
Roque listened with half an ear as the sleds drifted to a landing in the ocean. He was surprised when he heard his name on the radio.
“Roque here, Lisa.”
“How are you making out, Roque?”
“The Chaffee's been hit pretty bad on our last pass through the plane of the Moon's orbit. I've depressurized most of the station so she doesn't start spinning around when she vents atmosphere. The next orbital pass will likely be it.”
“We're down safe, thanks to you. I will never forget you.” Her voice sounded peculiar, as if she was holding back some great emotion.
“I am glad everything worked,” Roque said gently, as if he was the one to comfort his commander, instead of the other way around.
“It was flawless, Roque. You'd have thought we were dropping ERVs back to Earth every month.” She looked around the interior of the Reinhart, wallowing in the swells of New York Harbor. All this, from the brains and talent of the doomed man on the other end of the circuit.
“Well, we did have decades to think about the problem.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Lisa. “We owe you our lives, you know.”
“I am content, Lisa. Fortunately, I have the last of the Muscat and my memories. I have no regrets, as I have told you. I find that I am somewhat anxious to meet Lynn again. Please don't forget about Lynn's grave.”
“I have your box right here, Roque. Say hello to Lynn for me.”
Roque smiled. “I will, my dear commander. Now, you have people that need your help. To you and all of the other commanders and crew I have known through the years, I thank you for a wonderful life and I wish you the very best of luck in the years ahead. Fare ever well, Commander Lisa Daniels.” Taking a breath, he declared theatrically, “This is Roque Maximiano Zacarías, the last man on board the UN Space Station Roger B. Chaffee, signing off.” He turned off the radio and replaced the microphone in its clip for the last time.
“And to us, the living,” murmured Lisa, but did not finish the quote. She noted a number of crew wiping their eyes. After a moment, she joined them.
***
“CAPCOM, what do we have to do to get a tug around here?”
“We're working on it. But I can see a problem already. What do they hook up to? You're kinda smooth.”
“No problem.” Lisa turned to the pilot's chair. “Celine, better get us ready for tow.”
Celine reached over and flipped off a cover, then depressed a yellow button labeled Dome Eject. With a pop, the hemispherical front of the ERV popped free of the vehicle, revealing an eyebolt. Celine turned to John. “We've got about ten minutes left before the circus begins. Any last words?”
“It's been great serving with you,” he began, before Celine pulled his hand onto her lap.
“That's not what I meant. I know you’re Tyra's, but I wanted to thank you for being my friend up there. I will never forget it.” She held his hand, before tilting her head forward to kiss his palm. “And if Tyra is ever foolish enough to let you go, there's always this,” she said, before taking his index finger and sucking on it for a few seconds.
John groaned with the sensation. “Better stop, Celine. Or I won't be able to stand up. I haven't been groundside in several months.”
“And I haven't in years, John. But I'm just letting you know how much I appreciated you,” she said, releasing his hand. “You know we can't hug or anything, especially when we get out of here, so I just wanted to leave you with that.”
***
Back in UNSOC headquarters, Subramanyan Venderchanergee gazed around him at the ruins of his career. It was plain to see that he had been treacherously undermined by the cowardly Commander, abetted by his own people in the Control Room. He remembered the sharp reports as the ERVs circled out at sea, the sonic booms from their passage rattling the windows of the United Nations building. He gazed out an exterior window, cursing the people in those small, fast-moving dots.
Every infonet channel had live video from the chase planes, with commentary on their daring and preparedness. Imagine, they opined, looking so far ahead as to have lifeboats ready when needed, and fooling the world about them being solar storm shelters. When the parachutes flared, guaranteeing that their landing would be a safe one, Subramanyan waited no longer. Clearly, he would be pilloried for his actions.
Wasting no time, he slid open a panel on his office wall, and descended the ladder concealed inside to the storeroom on the floor below. Quickly changing to a set of grimy coveralls and donning a hat, he became just another workman. His expensive suit and shoes went into an anonymous backpack. A pilfered badge made the quick disguise complete. Although he could never imagine having to use such a ruse, he was nothing if not careful. He would not give the world the satisfaction of the perp-walk or trial. No, he would vanish. The elevator door opened to reveal an empty cab, which remained so until he got to the lobby. From there, he walked out the doors, and out of the world of men.
***
Out in the harbor, a cutter quickly attached a towline to each ERV and began towing them into New York Harbor. As they neared the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, traffic slowly ground to a halt. People leapt out of their cars and crowded the rails to watch as the Reinhart and Pruett passed beneath them. There was another mad scramble as they ran to the other side of the bridge to watch them emerge. The cheering could be heard clearly on the decks of the cutters, and faintly inside the ERVs.
None of this mattered in the least to the people inside. Many were still unconscious from their ordeal during reentry. The able-bodied were quickly separating them out from the rest of the crew and trying to clean them up. The overworked medic on each ERV was triaging them, plugging some into intravenous lines and keeping an eye on the rest.
Lisa, Celine, and Eddie compared notes, with Lisa talking to the Coast Guard. Although New York Harbor made sense from the actual landing requirements, it was going to be an absolute madhouse if they docked anywhere on Manhattan or New Jersey, especially since they had crew with urgent medical needs.
“Ellis Island? That's a great idea,” said Lisa to the Coast Guard commander. “After all, we are immigrating back to Earth. Plenty of area for triage and medevac, too.”
“My thoughts, exactly, Commander. We'll have news helicopters buzzing around, but we can exclude them from landing on the Island.” He paused. “We're taking you all to the hospital anyway. We heard about your radiation problems.”
“Excellent. From the former crew of the Chaffee, thank you for all of your help.”
Under the blaze of the setting sun, the Reinhart and Pruett made their final landings at Ellis Island, where their crews were processed and admitted to New York's finest hospitals.
Roque and Lynn
UNSOC Space Station Roger B. Chaffee, June 17 2082, 1755 hrs
Roque spent his last hour floating in the center of his lab. The lock of Lynn's hair was safely zipped into a pocket of his coveralls. He sipped his wine, and idly depressurized the various compartments of the station. He knew that the station would be punctured; he didn't want the reaction to the escaping atmosphere spinning the Chaffee around.
Roque listened without fear as the hailstorm of debris smashed into the thin skin of the Chaffee. The whistle of escaping air proved that his lab was holed. He sipped the last of the Muscat ball, and fingered the lock of Lynn's hair in his pocket.
It was a small leak. Roque could have patched it, but decided not to. He really didn't want to die from explosive decompression, have his body blown out into open space, or experience the agony as bits of the Moon punched holes into his body. This way, he would slip away from hypoxia before the really horrible stuff happened.
A figure coalesced in the air before him, her hair streaming away towards the hole in the lab's wal
l. She was graceful and smiling and looked quite young.
“Lynn,” Roque breathed. She had come for him at last. She held up her hand to grasp his. Roque smiled. He realized it was probably an anoxic hallucination, but he was well past caring. He let go of the empty wine bottle and grasped her hand. She pulled his teenaged soul from his limp and unresisting body as they flew off, together again at last, into the everlasting dark.
Old Ties, New Strands
New York Presbyterian Hospital, June 20 2082, 1000 hrs.
“That smooth-talking bastard!” cried Lisa Daniels. “He put one over on me!”
Shep stirred from his seat at the foot of her bed at New York's Presbyterian Hospital. “Which bastard is this, love?”
“Roque Zacarías, that's who. I can't believe I let him do this to me.”
“Still in the dark here.” Shep smiled up at her.
“Oh, Shep. Remember the Reinhart and Pruett?”
“I'll never forget them,” he said. “They brought you safely home to me.” He reached up to grasp her hand.
“You say the sweetest things. Well, the Reinhart was named for that spacehand who died about thirty-five years ago.”
“I remember you telling me about him. And the Pruett?”
“Roque asked me to let him name that sled. 'Point of personal privilege', he said.”
“So?” asked Shep, still mystified.
“So I looked up the reference. Jim Pruett was a character in a century-old movie at the dawn of the Space Age. Three men were in one of those old Apollo capsules, which had just shoved away from a space station. Jim Pruett was the commander.”
“Is this history or fiction?”
“Oh, definitely fiction. Well, their retrorockets wouldn't fire, and they couldn't get back to the space station. They were marooned in space, and their oxygen was running out.”
“Couldn't the guys from the station come get them?”
“There were no other guys on the station. Those three were it. The ground crew were frantically trying to get a rescue craft up there when Jim Pruett decided to go outside to fix the engine.”
Riddled Space Page 22
