I look up.
“I can see the zipline.” I’m trying to give him hope, but I’m not sure I’m helping.
“Next time . . . ask for an elevator.”
What could have been thirty seconds standing still in one spot is fifteen to twenty minutes of severe cardio-burn. I continue on. My legs are shaking; I can only imagine how it must be for Jai.
Wind gusts bat at us, blowing my hair in front of my face. The sun beats down upon us. Sweat drips from my forehead, stinging my eyes. My palms are clammy, slippery. I’m slowing. Every few feet, I pause, out of energy, wrapping my arms around the brace to rest for a moment before summoning more strength, hoping I don’t slip on the next section.
Slowly, the zipline creeps closer. Finally, it comes level with me.
“I’ve made it,” I call out, looking back at Jianyu who’s fallen even further behind. “Keep going. Not far now.”
The one word I hear caught in the breeze makes me smile.
“Liar.”
I rest, taking a good look at the setup. There are two harnesses clipped onto the zipline, but to get them, I have to walk around the support beams. There are no handholds, so I’ll have to reach up and hold on to the next beam. I start reaching for it and find myself seizing with fear. It’s the height. I’ve never been afraid of heights, but this isn’t fear. It’s self-preservation. It’s the blistering awareness that with one wrong step, I’ll plummet to my death. I feel a tingling sensation beneath the soles of my feet, betraying my false bravado. Yeah, an elevator would have been real nice. I end up talking to myself, trying to summon courage.
“Just one step at a time, Liz. You can do this.”
It takes all my mental energy to reach out and grab at the corner support. As feeble as the makeshift ladder seems, it’s a bastion of safety compared to the rest of the lightning tower. Vertigo teases me, threatening to throw me from the beam.
“Careful.” Jianyu hugs a support strut, catching his breath, still fifteen feet below me.
Letting go of the ladder is scary, but I shuffle my feet along the beam with my arms high above my head, clinging to the upper rail. The wind picks up, and I sway. I have no idea what my heart rate is, but I’m sure it never reached this level even during the thundering moments of my first launch when I was still unsure if the distant rumble was the engines igniting or the fuel tank rupturing and unraveling into an explosion.
Short, quick breaths. In and out.
Keep moving.
I feel exposed. Anyone with a set of binoculars could pick us out and sound the alarm. There are a million things that could go wrong, but all I can do is focus on the task at hand and keep my feet shuffling along a few inches at a time. I reach the far strut, just a few feet from the zipline, and hug it for dear life. My hair blows around my head, whipping around before my eyes.
Jianyu comes level with me and starts across the beam.
“Just don’t look down.” Immediately, his eyes fall and he freezes.
“Why did you say that?” He forces himself to stare straight ahead at the distant jungle, trying to ignore the height.
“Sorry.”
I reach for the first of the zipline harnesses, with my fingers grasping for a thin piece of string holding it in place. I pull at a knot, jerking as I try to unravel the string, hoping I’m not inadvertently tightening it. The wind howls through the tower. I stretch out at arm’s length, using all my reach without leaving the relative safety of the corner post.
Damn, this thing is flimsy. It’s a couple of climbing straps, made from thick webbing that can’t snag or tear. They’re looped over a couple of aluminum carabiners. This is an afterthought. Something a worker might keep as a backup.
The string comes loose and the pulley starts rolling forward toward the rocket. I grab at the harness. My fingers touch the webbing but I’m too far away. I swing for the loose straps, but I’m unsteady, swaying in the wind. It’s tempting to lunge for the harness, but this isn’t the movies. The tiny muscles wrapped around the thin bones in my fingers are no match for the sudden jerk of 160 pounds swinging wildly under the pull of gravity. To jump for the harness would be to plunge two hundred feet to the concrete below.
The pulley glides along the wire, gently whirring as it sails out of reach.
“No!” I yell, grasping at the air as the harness accelerates down the zipline without me. “Nooooo!” I watch, helpless. The pulley races toward the rocket with loose straps flapping in the breeze.
Jianyu works his way along the support beam toward me. I grab the thick wire forming the zipline, wanting to give him some room.
“It’s okay,” he says. “These things are rated for several hundred kilos. It might be uncomfortable, but that one harness can hold us both.” He’s right, but I don’t like our chances. Without the ability to strap into the harness, there’s a real danger one of us could come loose and fall. There’s also the danger of the second pulley colliding with the first at speed and derailing, or getting snagged and entangled. The prospect of dangling several hundred feet up, strung out between a rocket and a lightning tower, isn’t exactly appealing.
“I can reach it.”
Jianyu yells over the wind, “No! What are you doing?” But I’m already undoing my belt, letting it out, and buckling it over the wire to act as an impromptu harness. I swing around, facing the sky, and wrap my legs around the wire, hooking my arms up over the zipline. The belt is a little tight, but it’s leather, so it should hold. At least I have some ability to rest safely as I work my way along the zipline.
“Liz!”
I inch my way out from the tower, working with my arms and legs, hanging beneath the wire, looking up at the clear blue sky and imagining the dark of space beyond. In some ways, this is easier. In my mind, there’s no planet looming beneath me, taunting me, pulling at me, trying to tear me from the zipline.
“Liz, please,” Jai calls out, reaching for his harness.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Get yourself strapped in.” If I arch my back, I can see my harness about forty feet away, hanging idle at the lowest point of the zipline, some ten to fifteen feet from the rocket. The nose cone looks strange upside down, beckoning me closer. The zipline wire is a quarter of an inch thick, being comprised of multiple strands, but even so, it digs into my legs as I take my weight with them, resting after each movement. I don’t want to rely solely on my belt, but rather keep it as a safety harness and only use it as necessary. I tire quickly and that idea doesn’t last long. It’s slow going, pulling myself backwards, but as I’m angling down, I hit a steady pace, focusing on the rocket, ignoring the prospect of falling. Hand over hand, shifting between legs, I continue until I reach the harness. My arms are burning from the buildup of lactic acid, while the blood rushing to my head makes it difficult to concentrate.
“Be careful!”
“Any other suggestions?” A bit of levity helps me avoid freaking out. The wind buffets me, causing me to swing slightly, rocking on the wire.
On reaching the harness, I have a decision to make. Should I release my belt and risk swinging down into the harness or continue on? As much as I’d like to swing around and sit upright to gain some relief from the ache in my legs and the blood rushing to my head, it’s dangerous. Besides, once I’m settled in the harness, I’d have to pull myself onto the rocket anyway, so I don’t gain anything. Instead, I inch onward, pushing the harness ahead of me, ready to grab it should my belt slip. I’m breathing heavily. Sweating. My hands are sore. Blisters form on my palms, but I’m in the shadow of the rocket. I’m close.
So close.
My fingers reach for the anchor point on the side of the rocket cowling. Just a little further. There’s a hatch beside the zipline. I slide backwards a little on the wire as I wrestle with the handle, but it doesn’t give. I’m upside down and frustrated. I have to release my belt from around the wire, as I can’t get any leverage in this position. Jianyu’s saying something, but I’m shutting him out. I�
��m too focused. Mentally, I can’t afford the distraction.
I can do this.
I take my weight with my legs and unclip my belt. As I shift, reaching for the harness, my arm slips and I fall. Gravity threatens to tear my legs from the wire. My arms swing wildly through the air, grabbing for the harness as the belt tumbles below me, drifting with the wind as it falls away from the rocket. Its pace seems lazy, as though the height is immaterial, irrelevant. My falling belt writhes like a snake, flexing and twisting as it tumbles to the concrete.
I slide backwards, but I have the harness. With the muscles in my arms trembling, I seize the pulley and swing my legs down, trying to get them into the straps. I’m floundering like a fish out of water and in danger of losing my grip. My legs sway as I roll away from the rocket, but I get one foot up and inside a harness strap, quickly followed by another. Being able to sit and lean against the main strap gives me the ability to rest and catch my breath. I should have done this in the first place.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m okay!” God, I love obvious questions in times of danger—doesn’t everyone? “I’ll be fine!”
Without looking back at Jianyu, I offer him a quick thumbs-up. There’s a waist strap on the harness, so I secure that and begin pulling myself back to the rocket. I’m exhausted, but being right-side up makes working with the latch easier. It takes a bit of effort, but the hatch opens.
“We’re good. We’re good,” I say, but not nearly loud enough for Jianyu to hear.
To get inside the nose cone, I have to hoist myself up and work my way out of the harness I was just so eager to climb into. My arms are shaking, but I grab at the edge of the cowling and pull myself into the cramped space. My legs dangle on the side of the craft, with the launchpad well over a hundred feet below. The concrete beckons, calling for me. My trembling hands drag me on. With all that remains of my strength, I pull myself inside the nose cone and find myself nestled up against the space capsule.
It’s dark inside the cowling, but I can see the hatch leading into the Dragon. It’s offset slightly, making it difficult to open as it bumps against the outer panel. Getting in there is going to be a tight squeeze.
“Your turn.” I wave for Jianyu to join me. He glides along the wire with ease, pulling himself the last few feet, working hand over hand.
“I think this is how you’re supposed to do it.”
“Yeah, I got that, smartass.”
He grins. I offer my arm and we grab each other by the wrist. He’s exhausted and climbs slowly inside the nose cone. I position myself so Jianyu can squeeze into the Dragon ahead of me. Rather than climbing into the Dragon, he leans headfirst through the hatch, half tumbling into the spacecraft. “Did they teach you that at Sin-Sah?” I ask, referring to CNSA, the Chinese space agency.
He laughs, but I don’t catch his reply over the howl of the wind rushing past the rocket.
32
Contingency Abort
The inside of the rocket cowling is cramped. There’s barely enough room for me to put one foot in front of the other as I squeeze up against the Dragon capsule hidden inside. The cowling will protect the Dragon during launch, separating once we reach orbit.
Before climbing inside the capsule, I reach out of the nose cone, gripping the thin metal cowling for dear life as I lean down and pull the quick-release lever on the anchor point. The zipline falls away, sailing through the air before colliding with the lightning tower. I feel weak, as though gravity could overwhelm me at any moment and drag me to the concrete two hundred feet below. I have to back into the Dragon so I can close the outer hatch on the cowling with one arm, making sure it’s locked firmly in place. Once I’m inside the Dragon, I close that hatch as well, sealing us within the capsule, and try to settle my nerves.
There’s a faint red light above us. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see a control panel but no seats.
Jianyu asks the obvious question, “Where are we supposed to sit?”
“I don’t know.” I reach for the panel. It’s a digital display and kicks to life with a blinding light. Some kind of operating system boots. We watch as a thin line crawls along beneath the image of a winged dragon, indicating the software loading.
“I’m not liking this.” Jianyu uses the light coming from the screen to look around within the capsule.
“It’s a cargo run. A resupply vessel.”
He’s right. “And it’s old.”
By my feet, I make out a sign saying DECK, while on either side of us there are stickers labeled PORT and STBD. The layout within the Dragon is segmented into compartments of equal size—pigeonholes, if pigeons were the size of a carton of wine. Straps hang loose, which is unusual for a vehicle prepped for spaceflight, as there’s a danger of them flapping around, and I get some idea of what has happened. The A.I. switched one vessel for another.
There are no seats, harnesses, or pressure suits, and the cabin is far smaller than the Orion. With shelving on all sides, there’s barely room for the two of us to stand next to each other.
I’m having second thoughts about our grand plan. “This is a museum piece. This isn’t even a second-gen. These are the old crates they used to resupply the International Space Station.”
Jianyu looks at me with disbelief. “Tell me it’s pressurized.”
“I sure hope so, or it’s going to be one helluva short trip.”
The computer finishes booting and a dim LED light comes on overhead, followed by the familiar hum of air circulating.
I fake a smile. “At least we won’t suffocate.”
“So, this is the plan? Lucifer’s going to blast us into space in a UPS delivery truck?”
“I guess.”
“I hope it’s got plenty of fuel.”
I know what he’s getting at. We’re close to the equator, so our orbital inclination will be quite shallow, wrapping around the waist of the planet. We left the Herschel in a high orbit with a rather steep inclination. Getting from one orbital plane to another is going to require a lot of fuel.
I’m trying to remember the exact inclination of the Herschel. The Orion went through several burns before bringing us back. I only hope someone’s done the math or we’re going on a wild ride without any possibility of rendezvous. Lucifer must know this. He’d have calculated any shortfall in a fraction of a second. I only hope his reach extends to adjusting fuel loads or this is going to be a flight to nowhere.
The control panel loads, confirming my suspicion about the capsule. The Dragon is running an old Linux suite with limited functionality. Jianyu was right. If the Orion is the SUV of space travel, the Dragon is a courier van.
This is a postal run.
“Come on, Lucifer. What have you got for us?” I mumble, hoping there’s some redeeming quality to our flight. At a guess, though, simply getting a launch vehicle is a major achievement. Honestly, I would have settled for a Gemini.
Several other screens come to life, dividing into quarters and showing views of the rocket from various angles. Vapor drifts with the wind. A buildup of ice obscures part of the logo in the center of the rocket. A radio sounds through speakers set in the back of the screen.
“We have restoration of the auxiliary fuel pump and are resuming the countdown at T minus five minutes. This is the ESA resupply mission to Aitken Lunar Base.”
The voice isn’t directed at us, but rather it’s coming from a mission controller sitting at a launch station visible on one of the monitors. At a guess, technicians and engineers have been chasing down a phantom error while we made our way onboard.
“Boy, are they in for a surprise,” Jianyu says.
There’s a keyboard set below the main screen, but I dare not interact with it in case someone’s watching the input. I desperately want to talk to Lucifer, but that he’s not already talking to us suggests it’s not safe to talk.
I’m more nervous now than I was when I was hanging upside down from the zipline. “We’re going to do this. We�
��re really going to do this.”
“We are.” Jianyu squeezes my hand. “We should get ready.”
“Ah, yeah.” Although I’m not sure what there is to be done. We’re in a bare-bones spacecraft. Given this isn’t a crewed flight, they’re probably not going to worry about pleasantries like throttle rates. Most of the flights I’ve been on have pulled two gees, but it’s not uncommon for satellite launches to pull between three and four times that of Earth’s gravity, which, since we don’t have any seats or harnesses, is going to be horribly uncomfortable, to say the least. Having an elephant sit on my chest would be pleasant by comparison.
I tap at the touch screen, selecting menu options and looking at the capsule’s operating stats. Most of the metrics are meaningless to me, highlighting things like battery charge, drawdown rates, but there’s main engine fuel and propellant for attitude thrusters, which isn’t a surprise, as any mission going into lunar orbit would need fuel for in-flight maneuvers and docking with the lunar shuttle. What is a concern is the distinctly red light for heat shield placement and another red light for the parachute charge.
Jianyu is as surprised as I am. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
I click a command to refresh the onboard metrics, hoping it’s a glitch, but both red lights remain. Given all these values are visible to Mission Control, this has to be intentional.
“Makes sense. As far as anyone else knows, this is a one-way flight with no crew. Why prep for a reentry that will never happen?”
“They dropped them to save weight?”
“I guess so.” After a deep breath, I add, “We’ll be fine.”
Launches are dangerous, and not just because we’re sitting on top of glorified fireworks. Few people realize just how fine the tolerances are when it comes to space travel. At least 85 percent of our launch weight is fuel—that’s over five times the weight of the empty rocket! An A380 Airbus airplane, by comparison, is around 45 percent. I’ve often wondered what the general public would think if they drove cars with these kinds of ratios. It’s a bit like going grocery shopping in a sixteen-wheel gas tanker, only even that fuel-to-weight ratio is probably down somewhere around the 70 percent mark. During our Mars training, we used to joke around about being launched into space on top of what was essentially a Molotov cocktail—until our instructor pointed out Molotov cocktails only come in at 52 percent fuel/weight ratio.
Reentry Page 25
