Reentry

by Peter Cawdron

  The design limits of a rocket like the Ariane are around the 10 percent mark, meaning any deviation outside of that could cause the vessel to fly apart. Imagine a car being designed to go fifty miles per hour, but if you exceed fifty-five, there’s a danger the wheels could fly off.

  There’s also a danger one of the stage burns could cut out too soon and leave us in a parabola rather than in orbit, in which case we’d come crashing back down to Earth. If there’s even a partial throttle-back and we can’t reach orbit, there’s no possibility of a contingency abort. First, they don’t know we’re in here. Second, even if they did, we have no reentry capability, so, depending on our height and velocity, we’ll either burn up or go splat. Ah, nothing to worry about—the range officer will probably hit the self-destruct button long before that point anyway.

  Jianyu and I exchange looks but not words. We’re Spam in a can.

  This is a one-way ticket. Mars or bust.

  33

  Magpie

  “Two minutes and counting” comes across the radio. “We have clear skies. The launch window is open. All systems nominal. All stations are go. Mission Control is reporting a green light. After a five-hour delay, we are good for launch.”

  My heart beats madly. I need to pee. Most astronauts get a little loose in the bladder department around a launch. No one wants to admit it, but as we’re normally strapped in up to an hour before lighting the fuse, and nerves get the better of us all, it’s normally a relief to be wearing an adult diaper that can be quietly disposed of in space. In our case, that’s not an option. I try not to think about my bladder, knowing the pressure on it is about to increase significantly once we lift off. I’ll probably wet myself. If Jianyu notices, he won’t care. He’s good like that. He may struggle with the same thing.

  We sit on the deck of the Dragon, positioning ourselves so our arms are locked around the empty shelving, with our knees up in front of us. There’s foam padding on the supports to keep cargo from rattling around. Hopefully, that absorbs some of the shaking.

  I’m tempted to lie flat on my back as that would distribute the pressure more evenly, but it would also mean all points of my body are in contact with the rocket. As tough as it’s going to be to hold on while sitting up, it means my body can flex and sway a little with the pressure and help lessen the stress of the launch. It’s going to be a scary couple of minutes, but I remind myself we’ll be in orbit in less time than it takes to order a pizza.

  “All stations—we are on hold at one minute and fifteen seconds. Repeat. We are on hold.”

  I grimace. I hate launch delays. One tiny sensor picks up on some thermal variation outside of the norm, or there’s an intermittent reading from one of the backup batteries, and we wait. My first launch was delayed for three hours because of a loose nut. That allowed an engine mount to flex slightly under test loads, and so we sat there until someone figured out what needed to be fixed. Spaceflights are about caution rather than bluster. Nothing is urgent. Schedules can always be reset.

  “Come on,” I mumble. “Just light the damn candle.” Not the best attitude when sitting on top of several hundred million dollars’ worth of precision machinery, I know, but still—I’m anxious to get this party started.

  Spewing superheated gases out at temperatures approaching those found in the Sun’s chromosphere is nothing to scoff at. That the various space agencies can do this regularly without turning astronauts into lumps of charcoal is a marvel of engineering. When we do launch, we’ll dump fuel at an astonishing rate, burning through roughly a million pounds in less than ten minutes. Our instructor back in Houston used to joke about measuring fuel in terms of elephants, telling us it takes around a hundred and fifty pachyderms to put us in orbit. The logistics are humbling.

  The radio crackles again. “Attention all stations. We have a general hold in place, with operational command transferring back to Engineering.”

  Not good. They’re shutting down the launch. Bringing Engineering into play can only mean one thing: they want to drain the fuel tanks. I’m not sure why they’ve made this call, but it means our launch is over.

  Damn it all to hell.

  Jianyu points at one of the screens. American soldiers move between the rows of consoles laid out methodically within Mission Control. They have their weapons shouldered, but there’s no doubt about their intent.

  Another screen shows a view of the perimeter fence. Humvees race through the gates.

  “Flight, this is Engineering. I’m not showing a hold. I’m seeing T minus fifty seconds. Can you confirm that a hold is in place? Over.”

  “Engineering. Flight. Confirm hold at T minus one minute and fifteen seconds. You should have a general hold in place on the playbook. We are on hold at pre-launch step 170. Over.”

  “Flight, I am seeing the countdown at T minus thirty-five seconds, with control passing to the onboard computers. Auto-launch sequence has initiated. Repeat, I am not seeing a sequence hold. Over.”

  “Stand by, Engineering.” There’s silence for a moment. On the screen, dust kicks up from several Humvees racing toward the close observation point, a concrete block structure less than five hundred meters from the launchpad. “Engineering, we are showing the clock at one minute and fifteen seconds. A general hold is in effect. The clock has stopped. Repeat. The clock has stopped. Over.”

  “Negative, Flight. I show twenty seconds. Fuel pumps have engaged. Umbilical detached. Hold-down bolts are armed and the Ariane is on internal power. Over.”

  “Jesus.”

  The three large monitors above us divide into twelve different views, although some of these contain digital instrumentation, including depictions of dials and switches.

  We can see the rocket sitting patiently on the launchpad with vapor drifting in the wind. Soldiers race up to the blockhouse. There’s vision of the chaos within Mission Control, and several wide-angle shots, including one from somewhere back in Kourou, looking out over the bay. There’s something strange about that view, something that catches my eye, but I can’t articulate what I’m seeing.

  Seagulls glide on the wind, oblivious to the machinations of aerospace engineers just ten miles away. Out over the ocean, four tiny black dots loom on the horizon. There’s text overlaid on the bottom of the image, subtitles, I guess. I can hear a voice crackle over the radio in the background, but it’s easier to read the words.

  “ESA, Magpie. ESA, Magpie. We are a flight of four U.S. F-22 Raptors over French Guiana, operating under authority from the United Nations Security Council and USJFCOM. ESA, we are in support of U.S. interdiction of your launch facility. Confirm your launch intention. Over.”

  There’s chaos on the radio. From what I can tell, they can’t hear each other. The F-22s are talking with Mission Control on one channel while the various engineering stations are talking on another. Lucifer is combining them to give us the highlights. “Flight, we are at twenty seconds. Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on? There is no hold. Repeat, we are not on hold. The clock is running. Over.”

  Jianyu and I brace, knowing what’s to come. The muscles in my arms and shoulders go rigid, flexing against the shelving, waiting for the rumble from beneath.

  The text on the bottom screen reads:

  “Magpie, ESA. Magpie, ESA. Launch control has transferred to onboard systems. Over.”

  Four tiny black dots scream past the camera looking out across the bay. In barely a second, they go from a hazy blur to the distinct outline of swept wings, dual tail fins, and twin engines roaring past. Vapor forms from the wingtips of the aircraft as they bank. Behind them, shock diamonds appear in their glowing jet exhaust—a series of staggered ghostly apparitions shimmering in gold and blue, stretching out behind the aircraft. These strange, ethereal shapes form a standing wave immediately behind the jets as they thunder through the sky, speaking of raw power being unleashed in anger.

  The F-22 Raptors turn, lining up for the run inland toward the launch site
.

  “ESA, Magpie. We are inbound. Abort. Repeat. Abort. Over.”

  “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . We have main engine start . . . Six . . . five . . . Booster ignition . . . Three . . . two . . . Throttle up. Clamps released. And . . . liftoff.”

  A low rumble shakes the Dragon. The rocket shudders, surging as it rises above the launchpad. Clouds of smoke billow across the ground, enveloping the lightning towers and blocking the view from one of the cameras. Flames scorch the concrete, thrusting the rocket into the air in a blaze of light and heat. In the distance, flocks of birds take flight, lifting from the jungle canopy in unison as the roar of the engines reaches them.

  “We have cleared the tower.”

  From outside, the Ariane is graceful, rising above the land. Within the nose cone, however, the Dragon trembles at the might of the rocket surging into the sky. I’ve been on enough launches to know something’s not right. Normally, the throttle comes up smoothly, easing us into the sky, but the Ariane is shaking with anger. The rocket rumbles with what feels like the continuous breaking of thunder.

  “ESA, Magpie. ESA, Magpie. We are weapons hot. Abort. Repeat. Abort your launch. Over.”

  I’m struggling to hold on to the support strut within the capsule. It’s an illusion, but it feels as though I’m being squashed. Rather than being pushed down, though, my body is being compressed by the acceleration upwards. A low continuous thump resonates through my muscles, shaking my joints. My lips quiver, being dragged down as we race toward the clouds. Normally, we’d be wearing flight suits. Without them, blood pools in my legs and I feel lightheaded. Dots appear before my eyes. I clench my muscles, trying to drive blood away from my extremities to keep my brain oxygenated and remain conscious.

  “Magpie, ESA. Flight does not have range control. Repeat. Flight does not have control. Ariane is airborne. Over.”

  Another voice cuts onto the military band.

  “Magpie, NABE. You are clear to engage. Repeat, engage. Over.”

  “NABE, Magpie. Engaging.”

  I’m not sure what NABE refers to, but either way, it’s not good. The text on the screen is blurred due to the shaking within the capsule, but I can make out NABE—Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, USS Abraham Lincoln. Great, that’s just what we need, a running commentary on the events leading up to our deaths. I’d rather not know.

  A column of smoke rises over the palm trees as we watch the view from a camera located somewhere over Kourou, looking inland. The Ariane climbs high into the atmosphere as four black dots scream in toward the launchpad.

  Flames rage beneath the Ariane, flaring as they dissipate below us, dwarfing the various stages of the rocket and its booster engines, making us look distinctly small at the tip of this mighty spear. Somewhere up there, in the hazy white nose cone of the rocket, we’re holding on with all our might.

  One of the views Lucifer shows us is coming from a camera mounted on the rocket itself, providing a view of the launch facility shrinking into the distance. The rocket twists and tilts slightly as its computerized flight system adjusts the angle of ascent. We’re starting our long, slow curve toward an orbital profile.

  Contrary to popular thinking, orbits aren’t free from gravity; they’re bound by it. Within a few minutes, we’ll be racing around Earth faster than we can fall in toward it. Orbits are crazy. They’re a race against the relentless pull of an entire planet. It’s as though Earth has us on a string and won’t let go, twirling us around and around its head like a child with a toy.

  Below us, the jungle is visible, as is the rugged coastline. Roads appear like thin, straight lines cut into the landscape at various angles. Buildings are little more than Lego bricks. The shot down the length of the rocket reveals the ever-growing exhaust cloud billowing from a raging fire that glows like the sun.

  Four dark shapes enter from the south, racing in toward the launch site and peeling up, chasing after us.

  “NABE, Magpie,” one of the planes announces. “Engaging . . . One away . . . Two away. Over.”

  The view from the control tower, at least a kilometer from the launchpad, shows an F-22 launching two missiles. There’s a flash of light from beneath the wings. The distinct flare of a rocket exhaust cuts through the sky, followed closely by a second trail. Smoke lashes out of the seemingly invisible missiles as they charge up toward us. The planes are flying vertically, opening their afterburners and chasing us into the clouds.

  Lucifer provides us with commentary.

  ::Cannot confirm armament.

  ::F-22 Raptors carry two types of air-to-air missiles.

  ::AIM-9 Sidewinders have a maximum speed of Mach 2.5 or 857 m/s.

  ::AMRAAM air-to-air missile can reach Mach 4 or 1300 m/s.

  “Wonderful,” I mumble over the rumbling within the capsule. “We’ve got Wikipedia on board.” Gallows humor, for sure, but it gets a smile from Jianyu.

  Without a pressure suit, I’m struggling. The Ariane launch is like being caught in a continuous loop on a roller coaster, but instead of racing in with teeth gritted, twisting around and exiting out the other side of the loop-de-loop, the pressure is unrelenting. I keep waiting for release, but it never comes. Every muscle in my body is tense. Fatigue sets in. It’s all I can do to hang on and remain conscious.

  ::Your velocity is 480 m/s and increasing at 32 m/s.

  Thirty-two. What’s thirty-two divided by nine point eight? I can’t think. I should be able to think, and that I can’t frustrates me. Math isn’t hard, except when your teeth feel like they’re about to shatter in your clenched jaws.

  Earth’s gravity equates to accelerating at nine point eight meters per second. If we’re increasing our velocity by thirty-two meters a second, we’re pulling somewhere over three gees but less than four. At four, the Ariane would fly apart, destroyed by the immense resistance from the thick lower atmosphere.

  We’re going to die.

  I’ve never felt this way during a launch. Missiles aside, my body feels as though it’s on the verge of collapse. My heart, lungs, stomach, bowels, and whatever other internal organs I have are aching, being compressed under the immense load. Perhaps a direct hit would be merciful. What if we achieve orbit but we’re incapacitated? It’s an assumption to think we’ll be fine once weightlessness kicks in. High blood pressure can cause kidney failure and liver necrosis. Either of us could suffer a burst blood vessel, leading to a hemorrhagic stroke, resulting in paralysis or death. For Jianyu, having recently undergone surgery, that’s a very real threat. Launching without a flight suit is not smart.

  Gee, Liz. You’re quite the optimist.

  Part of me wonders if the heat-seeking missiles racing toward us are going to lock in on the engine plume and become vaporized by the exhaust, but it’s the shrapnel that causes the real damage. Missiles like these don’t need to hit another aircraft; they just need to get close enough so they can explode like a shotgun. One tiny fragment could bring us down. A single puncture through the thin skin of the rocket, anything larger than a pinprick, and fuel is going to leak onto the engines. Our fuel is under immense pressure. It’ll rupture like a fountain. As soon as that hits our superheated exhaust, it’s the Fourth of July.

  The Ariane throttles up, which is dangerous, pushing the rocket to the limits of its design. The frame shudders, straining under the load. Normally, rockets run at 60–70 percent of their capability within the atmosphere to avoid breaking up under the bow wave of pressure formed by plowing through the thick air sitting low against the planet. Once they’re above the bulk of the atmosphere, they can open up, but not until then. For my first orbital flight, max q, or the maximum pressure sustained by the rocket, occurred twelve kilometers up. Reaching that any sooner, or sustaining it for too long, is to push the engineering design beyond its operating limits. Rockets aren’t forgiving. Push too hard and they’ll go into catastrophic failure quicker than I can blink.

  ::The Raptor has a ceiling of 60 km, but its maximum speed is just und
er MACH 2 or 600 m/s.

  Once we’re in orbit, the Ariane will hit easily ten thousand meters per second, but within Earth’s atmosphere, we’re limited. It’s a bit like an Olympic sprinter running through waist-deep water. It doesn’t matter how fit they are; it’s just not possible to go fast. Best we can hope for this low is a speed of around one to two thousand meters per second. We can outrun the F-22s, and even their missiles, but we need time to reach those kinds of speeds.

  Flashes of light erupt beside and below the Ariane. Missiles explode in our fiery wake. The Raptors are falling behind, appearing smaller from the perspective of the camera strapped to the side of the rocket fuselage.

  “NABE, Magpie. Switching to guns.”

  Lucifer is somewhat childlike in his zeal to inform us about all that’s happening. Personally, I’d rather skip the details. I’d rather simply be alive one moment, cloaked in darkness the next. If we’re going to be hit, I’d rather it was quick, just a fireball tearing me apart faster than my conscious awareness could ever realize. I can’t imagine anything worse than a lingering death plummeting to the ocean below. No, I’ll take the direct hit, as life would be over in less than a heartbeat. I’d be incinerated, but from my perspective, there wouldn’t be any heat or pain, nothing at all. Just light one moment. Eternal silence the next.