by Homer Hickam
“Eight, ten hours,” Penny guessed.
“Eight hours! Dammit! I’ll need him before that!”
“Well, I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
Jack shook his head. “You don’t understand, High Eagle, I need somebody with some mechanical ability.”
Penny squinted. “Medaris, for your information, I changed out the transmission on my BMW.”
“Another talent emerges,” Jack said, sarcastically, “High Eagle the master mechanic!”
“That’s right, Medaris!” Penny shot back. “I thought maybe you noticed I know my way around this shuttle pretty well. And did I mention that I’ve drifted across the Andes in a balloon? And been to the South Pole? Did you think I was just the token female on those expeditions? I ran them, Medaris, fixed things when things got busted.”
Jack raised his hand. Another plan was forming and he needed to get on with it. “Fine, High Eagle. You win. But would you mind collecting up all the used lithium hydroxide canisters?”
“What do you want them for?”
“High Eagle. Please. Just do it, okay?”
“Why? And tell me what’s down on the moon you have to go after?”
“It’s none of your business, High Eagle.”
“You’re a geek and a goon, Medaris.”
They were solidly back to last names.
BATTLE IN SPACE (3)
Farside Control
Farside Control was quiet except for a continuous buzz of conversation from the HOE console. Still wrestling with the defective bus, looking for a way to bring up the propulsion unit, the HOE team worked with the software code, trying this and then that. Starbuck watched them benevolently. Soon, he thought, it wouldn’t matter. Columbia, if not already dead, was shortly going to be history, an artifact circling the moon, an advertisement for SDI for a very long time.
His eyes narrowed as he watched the port virtual panel describe the orbital progression of BEMs XJ-250 and XJ-251. He had ordered BEM Lead to rocket them out to an orbit a mile above the moon, where they could gain an assist from the moon’s gravity to whip them in behind Columbia. The BEMs were to stop only long enough to take one quick look and then plow into the aft portion of the payload bay, to take out what remained of the power pallet, probably destroy the nukes, and maybe even crack open the OMS. That would be the end of Columbia.
BEM Lead switched in the video feed and a view of the distant point of light that was the shuttle came up on both halves of the screen. The BEMs were flying in formation, not more than fifty feet apart. The white point gave way to a fuzzy smear. BEM Lead tried to adjust the focus but that wasn’t the problem. They were approaching a debris field. “Starbuck?”
“I see it. Slow down.”
“Roger.”
“All stop,” Starbuck commanded, and the two BEMs fired their retros and coasted with just intermittent puffs of cold nitrogen until they reached the same velocity as the debris field. From that perspective it appeared they’d stopped, even though the moon kept turning below. It was all relative.
Starbuck watched the BEMs, on automatic, nervously turn this way and then that. The field was apparently confusing them, both by the nature of its spread and also because there were hundreds of relative velocities within it. A quick check of the data stream showed that their sensors were sensing neither heat nor vapor, only minute unidentified velocities that changed by the microsecond. The BEMs couldn’t focus properly. Starbuck pressed his fingers to his temple, rubbing, trying to imagine what exactly his little monsters had encountered.
Columbia
Penny used binoculars to help her see the BEMs. They had stopped, seemed to be sniffing around the debris field.
“They’ve taken the bait,” Medaris said beside her. In the lull between battles he had suited up and gone into the cargo bay and torn apart a dozen used lithium hydroxide air scrubbers and pushed them ahead of Columbia. He had sent along flares and a “space mine.” As he’d explained it to Penny, “First we’re going to bait ’em, then we’re going to kill ’em.”
She had to admire his initiative, especially the construction of the mine. She had held a portable lamp for him while he removed the cover of the T-handle box located forward of the side hatch. Inside were actually two T-handles, one to jettison the side hatch, the other, called a pyro vent valve, to blow a hole into the cargo bay that would depressurize the cabin in case of a shuttle abort during launch or reentry. Jack disassembled the vent valve explosives, recovering a length of what looked like plastic-covered clothesline—primer cord. Jack’s “mine” consisted of the primer cord, a flare from the emergency landing kit, and two electrical squibs taken from the pyro vent valve. He added to that an electrical remote circuit made from one of the radio headsets and two nine-volt batteries to boost the spark. For shrapnel he used an aluminum sample container from the acoustic levitating furnace experiment in the middeck. Inside it he packed in pins and badges from the souvenir kits. Even if the mine did no damage, Jack told her, it would at least create another debris field. Then he taped the flare to the outside of the ALF container and on top of it another wrap of duct tape attaching an aluminized space blanket. It was decoy and destroyer all wrapped up in one, Jack said.
“If it works,” Penny had replied nervously.
“Oh, it’ll work,” Jack assured her, preparing to touch a bare wire to the battery. “As soon as they’re close enough... here they come. Watch this!”
Penny watched as Jack touched the wire to the battery. Then she saw a distant flash of light. One of the BEMs was close enough that apparently it caught a snoutful of STS-98 souvenir pins. It started tumbling. She saw its thrusters fire but the tumble continued.
“I think we hit its nav platform.” Jack laughed. “Gimbals are probably in permanent lock. Look at it. It’s wandering off, shaking its head. One BEM down, one to go.”
Farside Control
Starbuck got a readout. XJ-250 was screaming for help but there was nothing that could be done. It was out of control. XJ-251 reported that it was still healthy, having escaped damage from whatever had caused the blast of light and heat nearby. Starbuck switched to manual mode, to see if he could snake it through the debris. He’d turned Puckett back on too. “You got only one chance now, Starbuck. Ram that son of a bitch!”
That’s what Starbuck meant to do, except he was distracted by the tall boom protruding out of Columbia ’s cargo bay and the white mass attached to the tether coming out of it. He joysticked it past the mass, swooping in close. Might as well have a video record of everything, Starbuck reasoned. Then the view changed. No matter what direction he pointed the joystick, his BEM rotated. It was caught on something. A silky something draped over the eyes of the BEM. Starbuck moved the BEM, the white cloth sliding off the eyes. He recognized the material, figured out the trap. The BEM was tangled in a parachute.
Columbia
Jack gave Penny an admiring glance. It had been her idea to attach a parachute shroud to the ATESS boom as a decoy. She thought it might fool the BEM, make it want to attack the ATESS and not the Elsie. It was just plain luck that it had instead managed to snag the BEM as it passed. “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,” High Eagle said with a laugh.
Farside Control
Starbuck kept trying but the last BEM seemed to be stuck. Medaris called down. “Starbuck, how do you read?”
Starbuck answered, his voice glum. “Lima Charlie. Loud and clear. What now, Medaris? Time for your terrorist demands?”
“We’re not terrorists.” It was the woman who claimed to be High Eagle.
“We have a contract,” Medaris added. “Hasn’t there been anything in the papers about it?”
“The papers have been full of you hijacking the shuttle,” Starbuck said. “Your lawyer got on television and told us about you going to the moon. Some people think you’re a bunch of heroes. I know better.”
“Damn you, Starbuck,” Puckett said. “Stop talking to those bastards. Get
another one of your sci-fi weapons going, and blast them!”
Starbuck looked at the HOE console. The HOE controllers looked back and shrugged. Still no joy. And Starbuck’s last BEM was ensnared. He pondered the situation. There was always something that could be done. He just needed to think it through.
Columbia
Jack studied the BEM through his binoculars. “Reel it in slowly, High Eagle,” he said. “Its movement is causing Columbia to wobble. It needs stabilizing against the boom.”
“Roger that,” she replied crisply. As the tether came in, the BEM slowly rotated. When it was pulled against the boom, its video eyes were looking forward in the bay. She brought the boom down until the BEM was looking directly at them.
Farside Control
Starbuck watched the screen on the wall, saw where the BEM was looking. He peered into the view ports and saw the faces of the people he had been attacking. He assumed the man was Jack Medaris but the other person was definitely Dr. Penny High Eagle. “You join the terrorists, Doc?” he asked.
“Blow them up, Starbuck,” Puckett demanded.
“We’re here on a peaceful mission,” High Eagle said.
“And we have a contract,” Medaris added.
“Hey, cut the crap,” Starbuck said. “I’ve been in the aerospace industry all my life. I know static when I hear it. Now, what the hell’s going on? First of all, do you have a nuke on board?”
“He’ll lie to you,” Puckett said.
“Of course not,” Medaris said. “How could we have carried nuclear weapons on board? You say you’ve been in the industry. Then you know nukes are a little too heavy to just backpack in.”
“Maybe they were already on board,” Starbuck answered.
“Why would we come all the way to the moon to launch nuclear weapons at earth?” Medaris asked. “That would give you three days to figure out how to stop them. We could have launched them from low earth orbit a lot easier.”
Starbuck rocked on his pedestal. Scenarios rolled through his head, stopped, started up again. Puckett kept mumbling. “Just blow them up, just blow them up.”
Starbuck leaned forward. “The word we got was that you were a bunch of loonies who were going to blow up the Apollo sites and then take out some earth targets. Or maybe you wanted to be a long way away from defenses before you started making your demands.”
“What demands?” Medaris questioned, his voice rising. “Have you heard any demands? Until you started attacking us, we had turned off all comm. It doesn’t make sense!”
“All right,” Starbuck said. “What does make sense? You guys took the shuttle, that’s clear. Yeah, I read about your contract in the paper. That’s just a smoke screen for all those ninny liberals who are scared of anything that looks like an official document that might stand up in court. Now, if you’re not up to no good, what the hell are you doing at the moon?”
Jack told him the essential facts about the fusion reactor, helium-3, how the country needed it, if not now, then soon. Starbuck then heard that Puckett had battered down the door and had left the house. To Starbuck that pretty well confirmed he was hearing the truth.
“But why all the secrecy—stealing the shuttle and all that?” Starbuck asked.
“Think about it, Starbuck,” Medaris said. “All the energy the world will ever need, cheap and clean. Now, who do you think might be against that?”
“Yeah.” Starbuck whistled. “It don’t take much imagination. Wait one.” He signaled for someone to take his place. He handed the woman his headset and then went after Puckett. As Starbuck came outside, Puckett’s limo was taking off in a scatter of gravel.
Starbuck returned to his pedestal and keyed his headset. “Cut my BEM loose and I’ll fly shotgun for you as long as my fuel reserves hold out. Sorry about the misunderstanding.”
Columbia
Jack hugged Penny spontaneously. She hugged him back, giving him a surprise kiss on the lips. He held on to her, slowly, deliberately pulled her into an embrace. Their eyes locked and then they kissed again, this time slowly, passionately. She melted into him, clung to him as if without him, she would die. Their kisses were long, passionate, their hands seeking each other, unbuttoning, heedless to where their clothes floated. He marveled once more at her skin. It was like silk. He kissed her neck, worked his way down, lingered there for a moment, her beauty a feast for his eyes. Her breasts floated free, unbound by either clothing or gravity. He kissed them, savored them. It had been so long.... ”I think I hear my heart ringing,” he said breathlessly.
Penny clung to Jack but looked over his shoulder at the controls. “It’s a caution and warning buzzer on fuel cell number two,” she said, nuzzling his cheek. “A main bus undervolt.”
Jack had no choice but to leave Penny to turn off the alarm and the fuel cell. He did it and then considered the situation. If fuel cell number two couldn’t be restarted, Columbia would have only one fuel cell left. And if that one failed, they were all dead. Reluctantly, he pulled out the troubleshooting checklist, to search for a fix if there was one.
Then Paco came out, meowing like he was hungry. Penny went to check on his food delivery system. She gave Jack a sad smile and a pat on his shoulder as she passed. Their moment was over nearly as soon as it began.
CLEAR LAKE
Clear Lake, a suburb of Houston, Texas
It was one of those Houston days the natives called “close,” moisture clinging to the skin and the sun beating down so hard, it actually seemed to have weight. Geraldine Tate led Shirley Grafton into the backyard where Clear Lake lapped against the shore. Sweat streamed down Shirley’s face. She was hot, but she was also nervous. She was taking a lot on herself, even with the vice president’s approval. She considered turning around and running for home.
Tate eyed Shirley with amusement. “Honey, you look like you could use something cool. I got some lemonade in the fridge.”
“No, thanks. Got to get moving.” She wiped her forehead with a tissue. Soaked, it fell apart. Shirley stared at it. “I don’t think there’d be any Houston if air-conditioning hadn’t been invented,” she marveled.
“Aw, we’d manage, one way or the other. Texans don’t give up easy.” She pointed to a distant dot on the lake. “That’s Sam. If you want him, you’ll have to go out and get him.”
Shirley shaded her eyes with her hand. She could barely see the bobbing boat. “How do I do that?”
Tate pointed to a boat tied off on the neighboring dock. “Take that one. The Comptons are out of town. We’re watching it for them. They won’t mind. Here, take my gardening hat. Keep the sun out of your eyes.”
Shirley, not much of a sailor, edged cautiously out onto the lake and then set off for the distant speck that she hoped was Sam Tate. As she neared, she cut her engine too early but at least she drifted to within hailing distance. “Sam? Sam Tate? Is that you?”
Sam didn’t hear her. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t even bothered to bait his hook. He was just sitting there, remembering the glory days, from Thor to Saturn. Shoved aside now, probably forever, he couldn’t help but think of the tough old guys of Apollo-Saturn. He’d heard from some of them over the years, some still nursing the bitterness of working their youth away on a magnificent achievement that had been treated like a dead end by the country, shoved into the history books almost from the moment Neil Armstrong had placed his boot on the regolith of the moon.
Still, he thought, sighing, even though it was true that his newbies were more likely to celebrate a successful mission with sparkling water than cigars (which had been banned, in any case, from Mission Control in 1990), he had gotten to like those kids, like them in his way, that is, which meant snarling and growling at them most of the time while they grinned and ducked their heads over their consoles. But he wondered what the old guys would have done if a pissant like John Lakey had tried to kick them off their consoles. The thought made him smile, despite his doldrums. “God, I miss the old days,” he moaned to himself.
“Sam?”
Sam looked up and was shocked to see a woman wearing what appeared to be his wife’s straw gardening hat struggling with a bass boat that looked suspiciously like his neighbor’s rig. She had gotten a paddle out and was trying to manhandle the boat closer. “Stay there,” Sam said. “I think I’d better come to you.”
Sam fired up the outboard, eased over, and tied off. He climbed into the bass boat. “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you? Is that Geraldine’s hat?”
The woman doffed the hat. “Geraldine was kind,” she said, and then introduced herself. “Sam, I work for the vice president of the United States. He wants you to reopen Mission Control.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s an American spacecraft in orbit around the moon and very soon there’s going to be a landing.” She handed him a manila envelope. “I think they’re going to need help from Houston. If you’ll look at the letter in this envelope, you’ll see that the vice president has authorized you to go back into business.”
Sam looked at Shirley, saw that she was serious, and sat down, his long legs astraddle. He opened the envelope, read over the letter Shirley had prepared and the veep had signed. She had also provided a summary of everything she knew that Medaris was doing and why. After he’d finished, he slowly raised his long face, looked off into the distance, back toward Johnson Space Center. “Gawdalmighty!” he said. It sounded to Shirley like a cheer.
MET 8 DAYS AND COUNTING . . .
PENNY’S CONFESSION
Columbia
In the cockpit, before the vast moonscape, Jack tried to relax by watching the craters and rilles scroll beneath him. Before long he didn’t even notice them. He was thinking of Penny, how it had been so easy to take her into his arms, how good and right it felt. But it couldn’t be right. Kate was so close now, after all these years and miles. He forced himself to think of Huntsville. He needed to remember the test stand on that cold night, how it was, what he was thinking, Kate....
