…
Flight 1302
Well before they reached apogee, Marcy could feel the engines cut back. They’d coast over the top of their parabola all the way through re-entry.
As the engine’s basso rumble trailed off they were suddenly lifted from their seats, a sensation not unlike going over the top of a rollercoaster. The inevitable loose items floated free as well; there were kids aboard and no amount of grown-up admonition could contain the unpredictable curiosity of a small child. Stray video game cards and a handful of colored candy were soon drifting about to the sound of unrestrained giggling.
The flotsam was joined by an antique fountain pen which clearly wasn’t some child’s toy. Searching amongst the passengers, she spotted an older gentleman in a window seat with a wet, blue spot spread across his shirt pocket. She marveled at the sight of him floating in his harness, sound asleep. Some people can snooze through anything, she thought, and carefully clipped it back inside his coat.
…
“Shutdown complete. Engines at flight idle,” Ryan said, slipping the checklist back into his seat pocket.
“Thanks,” Tom sighed as he allowed his hands to float free of the controls, welcoming their renewed buoyancy as he made one last instrument scan. “I think we’re in good shape,” he said, finally allowing a smile. “Cabin secure?”
Ryan glanced down at the signal light from Marcy and nodded. “Cabin secure. Ready to let them out to play?”
“Sure thing,” Tom said, keeping his hands free. “Your plane, though.”
“First Officer’s plane,” Ryan answered while taking the yoke. A muffled bang echoed through the ship as he fired the control jets. Puffs of icy vapor flashed outside as the horizon spun out from beneath them, followed by another bang as he finished rolling the craft upside-down. Earth now filled the cabin windows.
He picked up the interphone handset. “Folks, we’ve completed our rollover to give you all a better view. Our final speed is seven thousand miles per hour and we’ll coast up to a maximum altitude of 220 nautical miles. The seatbelt sign is off, so you’re free to unbuckle and float around for the next ten minutes or so,” he announced. “Welcome to space.”
Tom pushed forward against his harness to take in the view. Earth curved away, strikingly lit as they flew away from the setting sun. Impossibly long shadows traced across the ocean two hundred miles below, the spectacle of an airborne sunset made so much greater by their altitude.
…
In the cabin, freshly liberated passengers clambered for room around the overhead windows and chattered excitedly at the view. Wakes from ships far below could be seen in the clear late-afternoon light, overlaid by the contrails of airliners speeding toward Hawaii. Their white vapor trails appeared incandescent in the low sunlight, and stood in sharp contrast against the azure sea below. Some strained for a glimpse of the Earth’s limb, but from their vantage point it was easier to just look straight down—or up, the distinction really didn’t matter.
As they enjoyed the ride, Marcy kept a close watch for any signs of trouble. In particular, no one could reliably predict who might succumb to space sickness.
It was the price for having so much room to float around, having first revealed itself back during the early space program. When the original Mercury and Gemini astronauts had been crammed into capsules not much bigger than an old phone booth, they had adapted quite well to the unfamiliar environment. But the comparatively roomy Apollo capsules and Space Shuttles had introduced a whole new class of inner-ear affliction. It was random, and did not discriminate—the most experienced space travelers could become violently ill while rookies had a fine time in zero-g.
It seemed to strike around the same time on every flight. Soon enough, she spotted one passenger who had started to look green around the gills. “Sir, are you okay?” she asked, while pulling herself along a ceiling handrail. He appeared young and fit enough, yet looked at her with fearful eyes.
“Not sure,” he croaked, and began frantically fumbling for his seat and the airsick bags stuffed into its pocket. But the poor guy was plainly too far gone, so she deftly whipped out a bag from her hip pocket and placed it over his mouth. She firmly held on to his shoulder to keep him from drifting away, not willing to risk the awful mess it would’ve made had he gotten loose.
“Don’t worry, it happens every flight,” she comforted him. “Sometimes it even gets to us.”
He attempted to speak and turned to her with an anxious look, then darted away as he continued retching loudly into the bag.
…
“Clipper 1302 Heavy, Oakland center; cleared to begin re-entry pitchover as filed. Descend and maintain eight-zero-thousand, contact Salt Lake center when radio communications resume.”
Tom gave them a curt reply. “Copy that; we’ll let you know if we get into trouble.” He was continually amused at the attempts to control their re-entry path, as if there might actually be conflicting traffic on the fiery glide down to eighty thousand feet.
He gently rolled the plane back upright, lifting the nose for re-entry just as the first wisps of plasma formed around it. As it began steadily glowing from the heat, they felt a slight buffet as the craft slipped into the upper reaches of the atmosphere. He could feel the gathering air beneath, like settling a canoe onto a rushing stream.
Gravity tugged much harder against them as they fell back into the atmosphere. Not as fast as coming out of orbit, it was still enough to create a tremendous amount of heat which stripped the oxygen atoms flying past. The ionized air prevented any radio traffic, compounding an already tense time. They were under maximum stress, with minimum control ability, and there was no way for anyone to know how they were doing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain…I trust you all enjoyed our coast over the Pacific. You’ve noticed gravity is pulling you back into your seats, so please try to sit back and enjoy the light show outside during re-entry. We’ll be landing in Denver in about twenty minutes.”
He replaced the intercom and peered outside, trying to pick out details below. As they approached California, Colorado emerged along the horizon. Just beyond were clouds flowing into a deep low-pressure system; a late-fall storm punctuated by columns of towering cumulus. “Looks bumpy down there,” he observed just as the plasma sheath became too bright to see through.
Falling through two hundred thousand feet, they left a glowing trail for miles behind, sparkling against the early evening sky.
4
Denver International Airport
The Austral Clipper cast a faint orange glow along the pavement as it turned off the active runway and headed for the Polaris apron. Ramp crews in service trucks and hydraulic lifters carefully pulled up alongside, as close as they dared for now. It would be several minutes before the plane had cooled down enough for anyone to approach safely. Engines howled as it eased into its parking spot, as if protesting being shut down.
The early evening air was laden with the scent of kerosene fuel. Above the parking gate, a clock counted down the remaining seconds until the plane would be safe to touch. A shrill horn sounded as it reached zero, though all the equipment stalking the plane hardly needed any more reason to pounce. Polaris staked its reputation on speed, and as such every second counted. Its fleet of Global Clippers was the pride of the line, indeed its main reason for existence.
People of means with a need to cross the globe quickly were willing to pay a hefty price for the unique travel experience, and the demand was even greater for urgent freight. As ubiquitous as internet commerce had become, it could never replace “just-in-time” equipment. If people or hardware needed to be halfway around the world by the end of the day, Polaris was the only way to get there.
Most of the time-critical freight had been rolled off of Austral Clipper long before the passengers could make their way into the terminal. A few stragglers were still searching for valuables that had floated away during their zero-gravity transit across the Pacific. Despite numerous
warnings to “please secure all loose items,” someone was always losing a cell phone or piece of jewelry.
Meanwhile, cleaning crews swarmed into the cabin after the other passengers had cleared out, rushing to make it shine like new for the next flight. As they worked, mechanics made their way back and forth between the jetway and cockpit. One harried young technician scrambled out the door and down an outside ladder towards a nearby maintenance shed, searching for a repair manual.
That some paperwork would never go away seemed to be a universal constant, especially in the airline world.
Tom was filling out their maintenance logbook, describing the problem they’d encountered over the Pacific. Joining him in the cockpit, a large bearded man snatched up the repair guide offered by his assistant as he clambered back up the outboard ladder. Taking one quick glance at the manual, he snapped the cover shut with a satisfied look.
“About what I thought,” Walt Donner grumbled. “Cap’n, we can defer those autothrottles. We’ve seen a lot of bad control logic boards. But if that’s it,” he cautioned, “we have to swap out the whole component and test the entire system. Can’t just change a circuit board on these things. Ain’t like tinkering on your home PC or something.”
Behind them, Ryan and Marcy exchanged pleasantries with a few remaining passengers, discreetly blocking any view of the brewing dispute.
Tom wasn’t much of a tinkerer and didn’t appreciate the analogy. He looked Donner over, trying to judge what the man’s angle might be. “I’d rather not go without them,” he replied firmly. “She’s a beast to hand-fly up there. There was no fuel margin left. If that storm hadn’t blown through, we’d be sitting in Salt Lake right now.”
Not persuaded, Donner opened the manual again. “You can go without them. Minimum Equipment List says dispatch has to give you another fifteen percent contingency fuel,” he offered.
Gentry bristled at that. He knew exactly what the manuals said—he’d helped write the things during flight tests. “That’s an optimistic number, I assure you,” he shot back with a stern look. “Are you seriously trying to talk me out of reporting a mechanical problem?”
Donner stood silently and shuffled his feet. His scuffed boots left behind an unidentifiable black smudge, picked up from somewhere down on the ramp.
Tom was in no mood for argument. “Here’s the deal, Walt: there’s two hours until our next go and I expect this to be cleared. Or you can tell scheduling to bring us another plane,” he said, signing the logbook and firmly pushing it into the technician’s hands.
Donner suddenly realized he needed to shut up. He made an obvious effort to change his expression, displaying an awkward grin. “No worries, Cap’n. We’ll do whatever we can, all right?” he said, and wormed his way out of the cramped cockpit.
Can’t make any of these candy-assed rocket jocks happy, he grumbled to himself, snorting as he brushed past the flight attendant toward his patiently waiting assistant. “C’mon boy, we’ve got work to do,” his tone of voice making it clear that was the last thing he wanted.
Marcy pushed a thick wave of black hair back into place after a difficult search for a lost engagement ring. Saying good-bye to the last passenger, she turned to her companion.
“What’s up his butt?” she asked through smiling teeth.
Ryan gave Donner a studious look as he stalked off. “A broomstick. Sideways,” he finally replied.
“Wishful thinking, dear. You’re just projecting,” she teased, turning back to their supply closet.
“Then go find me a broom so I can stop projecting,” he said, snaking back into the cockpit after giving her a light whack on the rear. “See ya, Marcy.”
Startled, she bumped her head on the doorframe and pitched an empty water bottle at his head. “Please fly us again…not!”
Ryan ducked the projectile and grabbed the repair log, flipping to the fresh gripe sheet. “Sounds like we’re not going to have those throttles back before the next trip,” he observed.
Tom frowned as he collected his gear and tossed the bottle back at his First Officer. “Wouldn’t count on it, smart guy. I talked them into troubleshooting, but Walt didn’t look to be in much of a hurry. Next leg’s yours, by the way,” he said with a devious smile, signaling that Ryan should consider it the junior man’s burden.
“Thought you’d never ask. What’s Hammond always say...’another opportunity to excel’?” he laughed, reaching behind the seat for his own flight bag.
“Just try and keep the cabin crew from strangling you first,” Tom said with a nod in Marcy’s direction. “I don’t have time to train a new copilot.”
…
Stepping onto an open stairway outside, they found the ramp below frenzied with the evening rush. Both men paused to watch the frantic ballet of “push time” playing out before them.
Fuel trucks, tugs, and loading carts scurried between precisely staggered spaceplanes as fluorescent-jacketed directors gestured with light wands in the gathering dusk, guiding more craft into their gates as Denver’s vast airfield sprawled beyond. Across the expanse of concrete, comparatively mundane Boeing and Airbus models jockeyed for their own positions. Only a few hundred yards distant, it seemed decades away, such was the contrast between old and new competing for room.
A familiar, high-pitched howl caught their attention. Covering their ears, they turned to see another Clipper pull into the adjacent parking spot. An elongated wedge of gleaming metal, its clipped delta wings smoothly blended into either side with two rakish vertical tails above. Each was festooned with the blue and white Polaris logo. Smaller canard wings folded into the nose as it came to a stop. In the distance were the distinctive triangular silhouettes of two more Clippers on final approach, their bellies displaying the faint leftover glow from re-entry.
They caught themselves staring—no one in their line of work really ever grew tired of watching other airplanes.
“My wife used to razz me about that all the time,” Tom said. “Told her the day I quit looking is the day I hang this up and get a real job.”
“Finally gave up on that, then?” Ryan teased as he hopped off the last step. “Not long before you cash in, and you still haven’t figured out what to do when you grow up?”
Tom suddenly appeared detached…preoccupied. “Guess I’d better hurry up then,” he said to himself.
Ryan couldn’t hear the reply over the surrounding noise and shrugged it off, figuring that retirement must be looming large in his thoughts.
5
Polaris AeroSpace
Denver
They followed the “yellow brick road”, a safe pathway painted along the pavement that led into the main hub complex. A wide hallway encircled the building, providing some measure of soundproofing for the warren of offices and maintenance areas along the opposite side. Stopping at a door marked CREW OPS, they paused to swipe their ID badges across a digital latch and entered a bustling room, brightly lit and filled with network terminals.
Pilots hovered over nearly every computer, catching up on business or getting a better look at their next trip’s weather. A gaggle of others congregated around a long table, programming updates into their flight manual tablets. The incessant drone of printers, added to the noise of innumerable conversations, made for a clamor that had caused Tom to describe the environment as “brain surgery in a bingo parlor”. He went to locate flight plans for their next trip as Ryan made a beeline for an open terminal.
“Flight 1202?” he asked a clerk.
“Just a sec, please,” a harried young man replied. He took a minute to clear up some item with another crew’s paperwork then looked for Gentry’s.
“Nothing yet,” he said after a fruitless search. “It may be a while. Whole system’s really shot to hell tonight. Most of the northeast is below minimums. Don’t know how much it’ll impact us here yet but a couple of feeders already had to divert. Europe’s not shaping up much better.”
Tom resisted the urge to groan a
loud. Add in their maintenance problem, and no one would have any idea what was going on until nearly the last minute. His crew had already been on duty six hours with another trip still ahead of them. Their next leg to Tokyo could be complicated enough on a good day, which this wasn’t shaping up to be.
That’s why they pay us the big bucks, he thought. “Thanks anyway. Let me know when you hear something from dispatch,” he replied, though he knew the young man would surely forget about them in the rush.
Resigned to waiting, he headed off to find Ryan. As he waded into the crowd of pilots in navy-blue uniforms, a petite woman sidled up alongside wearing the same sleek attire. A short bob of blond hair accented the four gold Captain’s stripes on each shoulder of her jumpsuit.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, big guy,” she said, punching him in the arm. Penny Stratton was fairly new to the company, but her status as a former space shuttle commander had moved her well up the unofficial pecking order. She had quickly earned the respect of the old boy’s club with her piloting skills, iron will, and clean good looks; a combination which threw many would-be competitors off balance.
And she had always enjoyed a natural rapport with Tom. Though not a former astronaut himself, they had traveled many of the same paths over the years before ending up together here.
Genuinely glad to see her, his mood lifted a bit. “Lighten up there, Rocky,” he answered, dramatically nursing the spot where she’d landed a punch.
“Wuss.”
“Cheap shot. Was that your flight that just blocked in?” he asked.
“Actually I’m the staff puke in flight control this week,” she replied with a mock salute. The control center kept a line captain around in case a pilot’s perspective was needed for any problem-solving. “Got time for some chow?” she asked. “Just flew dead-head up from home this morning, and you know how airline food is.”
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