Perigee

by Patrick Chiles

  “Are you the captain?”

  Ryan pirouetted in midair to face him. “No sir. I’m the first officer, Ryan Hunter.”

  He’d have preferred to buttonhole the man in charge, but at this point any pilot would do. “You understand that I’m negotiating a lease for one of these, correct?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I don’t make a purchase like that without performing some due diligence myself,” he said, jerking a thumb towards the cockpit. “Can’t just leave everything up to Wade. I’ve become as familiar with this plane as any layman could. Do we understand each other?”

  Marcy shot him a nervous glance, and Ryan waved her down. “I think we get it, Mr. Magrath.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that we’re going awfully bloody fast. Care to explain?”

  Ryan pursed his lips, apparently considering his options. There was really only one.

  “Then you have some idea that we’re not in a normal condition,” he said, and explained what had just transpired. “Our flight controllers and engineers are working out contingency plans right now. For the time being, we’re taking a full inventory of supplies. That includes air, food and water.”

  Magrath felt his cheeks flush and fought to remain calm. “We’re in orbit then,” he fumed. Showing displeasure was the easiest way to mask fear, he’d learned long ago. “And between the two of you, no one could figure out a way to keep that from happening?”

  That was the end of any quiet. His two traveling companions, a man and woman, scrambled to unbuckle and began chaotically swimming in their direction.

  “Orbit…what does that mean?” the woman asked. “We’re going around the Moon or something? Can you even do that?”

  “No, of course not...” Ryan tried to explain before she cut him off.

  “Is the air going to run out? Is that it?”

  “Not before we freeze to death,” the man said.

  As Ryan tried to calm them down, Magrath saw the flight attendant reach behind him to push what appeared to be an alarm. There was no sound, but it must have been some kind of panic button. Within seconds, Tom came out of the cockpit, literally flying to meet them in back. He steadied himself between the rows of seats, notably placing his body between the group and the cockpit. Wade followed right behind, clumsily trying to maneuver down the overhead hand rails.

  It wasn’t long before they realized there was no one actually flying the plane. “I need everyone to settle down,” Tom said firmly, taking advantage of their surprise.

  “Who’s in control, then?” the woman asked. “Wade, what’s going on?”

  “It’s best to let him explain that, Whitney. I’m just along for the ride like everybody else.”

  “I won’t try to fool you,” Tom said. “We had some malfunctions during boost. The engines wouldn’t shut down until we exhausted our fuel. And we’re light enough that the extra fuel we carried was sufficient to put us into orbit.”

  She began shaking. “No no no no…” she stammered as Wade reached out to her. “Stay calm,” he said. “Deep breaths, okay?”

  She nodded silently, biting her lip.

  “Wade’s right,” Tom said. “We should have several days worth of air and water and a lot of food stored back here.”

  “Should have?” Magrath glowered. “And will that be enough?” he spat. “What are our options, captain?” He uttered the title with unambiguous cynicism.

  Tom gestured for Magrath to follow him back towards the flight deck, leaving Ryan to speak with the other passengers. Before he could begin to pepper him with questions, Tom held a hand up for silence. It didn’t appear he would be easily intimidated.

  “We need to understand a few things, Mr. Magrath. First is that we’re all in this together. We’re breathing the same air and drinking the same water. That’s going to become more important as each day passes.”

  “Each day?” he said. “How long should we expect to be up here?”

  “Our control staff in Denver is working on that. Right now, our job is to take a full inventory of supplies and life support. And we’re checking every system to figure out exactly how much power we have available. We’ll be shutting down more lights and some other things very soon to conserve it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Magrath protested. “You’d leave us here to freeze in the dark?”

  “That’s precisely what we’re trying to avoid.”

  “Let’s get something straight,” he said. “I chartered this plane and therefore have a say in the matter. I’ll not have it turned into some dank meat locker.”

  Tom drew a breath. “You’re correct. You have exclusive use of this plane for the purpose intended. I’d say we’re somewhat beyond that now, so here’s your role,” he explained while pointing to the other passengers. “You’re their boss, and they’re here because you brought them along. I need you to keep being their boss, so don’t just go around scaring the crap out of them. There’s enough to worry about right now without you trying to intimidate people.” He paused. “And as long as we’re up here, I’m in charge of this plane. Are we clear?”

  “As crystal,” Magrath grumbled. He considered protesting, but the captain’s glare made it clear that if it came to it, he wouldn’t hesitate to restrain him for however long they were up here.

  23

  Denver

  “Good God, Arthur. You say they’re stranded up there?”

  “I didn’t say that, Leo,” Hammond replied calmly. “I said they’re in orbit.”

  “Your optimism is commendable, but I fail to see the difference,” Leo Taggart said with mild surprise as he fiddled with his cufflinks. Distant city lights glowed faintly beyond his office window. Unlike Hammond, his tie was still meticulously knotted despite the late hour. “But you know the physics better than I.”

  “The controllers are still crunching numbers. But without a second burn it’s going to decay and come down sooner, not later.”

  “Yes, I should think so…in pieces,” Taggart answered sharply. “But you’re the rocket scientist, Arthur. You’re the best one to explain this to the public. You kept me here because I’m a good bean counter, remember?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Hammond said. “But I am going to need you to manage affairs and keep the press at bay while I deal with the Feds. FAA and NTSB are already nipping at our heels.” Their predicament was already getting far too much interest from government regulators, and he’d already had one testy exchange with a safety inspector. This isn’t an accident yet, he’d nearly shouted. The damned bird is still up there.

  “Then help me to understand before I throw myself upon their tender mercies. What do you mean by ‘eccentric’?”

  “That means it’s elliptical, something other than circular. It ends up being a math problem, with the answer always falling between one and zero. They’re pretty close to one.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “Depends,” Hammond said. “Normally, you’d do a second burn at the desired apogee to circularize the orbit.”

  “Normal doesn’t sound like the operative word here. This is going to be incredibly bad for us, Arthur.”

  His mind being with the crew and passengers, Hammond didn’t pick up on Taggart’s less altruistic concerns. “There’s a way that could help them. Flying an ellipse means that each time they reach perigee, they’re exposed to more of the atmosphere. I’m talking really thin, individual molecules. But over time, it will eventually slow them down enough to re-enter.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Isn’t re-entry at orbital speed a lot different from what we normally do?”

  “Yes, but we’re not assuming the worst yet. The ship’s mostly empty and we built it with very robust TPS for all that zooming around,” he said, referring to the Thermal Protection System which coated the plane’s most vulnerable surfaces. “Remember, to certify it for carrying passengers it had to be tested to 150 percent of design load.”

  Taggart s
eemed satisfied enough to change the subject. “Are you handling all this all right?” he said, and offered a drink. “You know we’ll have to put our best faces on for the media.”

  Hammond stretched and groaned. “Yeah, I’m good. You know how much I look forward to dealing with the press.”

  “They’ll be all over us, I’m afraid.”

  “Can’t say that I blame them. But I still don’t have to enjoy it. No matter how precise you try to be,” he said, “they still find a way to screw it all up.”

  “Don’t worry, Arthur. I’ll take care of them.”

  “How do you mean ‘take care’ of them?” he asked with mock suspicion. “Sicilian Mafia style?”

  “No, no,” Taggart laughed. “You know I meant the briefings. The spin, all that stuff you hate. Let me run interference while you deal with the Feds and your whiz kids down in flight control.”

  Hammond realized he was probably right. “I don’t know how you do it, Leo. Those people drive me nuts.”

  Taggart smiled. “It’s actually not that hard once you understand the personalities,” he said. “They tend to be passionate. And passionate men are easily manipulated—you only need to learn how to play to their desires.”

  “Point taken,” Hammond said, though the idea left him cold. His engineer’s mind naturally reduced problems to those things which were practical, measurable. “But if this gets as ugly as I expect, we’ll have to discuss that Mafia thing too.”

  …

  Tucked away in a corner of the control center was a small meeting space, a frosted-glass entry door the only view to the outside world. The controllers called it the War Room.

  The company’s emergency command post had been set up to deal with crises like plane crashes or hijackings. In many ways, it was a miniature control center—one side of the room was dominated by a projection screen, before it sat a cluster of workstations identical to those out on the main floor so that complete control of any flight could be transferred here.

  Penny stood before a conference table in one corner of the room. Assembled around it were people from across over the company with different areas of expertise, an ad-hoc crisis management team although the current dilemma didn’t fit into any category of emergency they had ever prepared for. It was still an evolving, dynamic situation, not a disaster to be somehow stage-managed.

  Not yet, if she could help it.

  The group was dominated by crestfallen, morose faces. Their collective mood seemed resigned to defeat, fearing their friends and colleagues were almost certainly doomed. If there were to be any hope of bringing those people home, she had to pull this group back from the brink quickly.

  She stood quietly with crossed arms, sizing them up for several more minutes until they seemed more receptive. “You guys ever hear of a Tiger Team?”

  Her question was met with blank stares. Only an older engineer they’d picked up from Lockheed signaled any recognition.

  “It’s an old NASA term,” she finally explained. “Whenever something had really gone down the crapper, we’d pull together the system experts and lock them in a room until they solved the problem.” She turned to the big screen to show a map of Earth wrapped in the familiar overlapping sine waves of an orbit. A white triangle traced along one of them. It was Austral Clipper, just now passing over California.

  She turned back to face the team. “That’s what we’ve got here, people. One of our birds is stuck up there and we have no idea how to get her down yet. I don’t have to tell you this is nothing like any in-flight emergency anyone here’s ever handled.”

  Surveying the group she found their eyes fixed on her, calm and focused. Good. They’re not scope-locked. Just as dangerous here as in orbit, it would be far too easy for desperation to set in and ignite a disastrous cycle. As soon as that happened, they would stop thinking and start giving up.

  “So, for you liberal-arts majors who blew off physics in college,” she said tartly, “just because they’re in orbit doesn’t mean they’re stuck.” Pointing out the critical values on screen, she went on. “Apogee is about 500 nautical miles, perigee is 100, give or take a few.” Moving to a dry-erase board, Penny drew a circle with an egg-shaped ellipse around it to represent their orbit. “Maybe we can work that in their favor.”

  “How’s that?” one of the technicians asked.

  Charlie answered now. “Mostly because it was one long burn. In something like a satellite launch, they’d do a second burn to circularize at the desired apogee and stabilize the orbit.”

  “You said ‘mostly’,” another prompted. “What else is there?”

  He thought for a minute. “By pulsing the RCS jets, Tom flattened out the trajectory just enough to keep them up there a while,” he answered, and immediately wished he’d qualified that remark better. The room erupted in contentious cross-talk.

  “Whoa!” the technician exclaimed. “Are you saying they wouldn’t be in orbit if he’d just left it alone?”

  “What did he think he was doing?” piped up a maintenance controller. “So he tried to fly it back down and screwed the pooch good, huh?”

  Just then, Penny noticed they had unconsciously segregated themselves by specialties. This wasn’t some disaster movie full of young engineers brimming over with bright ideas. This place was, at its heart, still an airline—a few had spaceflight backgrounds, but most didn’t. All of the operations and maintenance people—the trench workers—were seated on one side of the table and responsible for most of the buzz. The eggheads from engineering and aerodynamics were all sitting quietly on the other side, lab scientists patiently awaiting more data.

  She waved them down. “All right, settle down everyone. We’ve all seen crisis situations before. We aren’t going to help anybody up there by second-guessing the crew. Right now we collect information, analyze it, and figure out their options. Turn over every rock, question every assumption.”

  “But what about that orbit?” pressed the maintenance tech. “From what Charlie just said, the pilots could’ve let it go and they’d be on the ground by now.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Penny said, “but fair enough...I need to educate some of you guys on the basics. But make no mistake—we don’t have time for rock throwing. Got it?”

  The man tipped his head, accepting her rebuke.

  She began drawing more circles. “You guys all know the difference between suborbital and orbital. It’s mostly about speed, right?”

  She drew a large parabola now, curving away from the circle representing Earth and then steeply back down to it. “Almost—and that’s relative to the surface, okay? They can reach orbital velocity going straight up, so to speak, but they’ll just come right back down at the same angle…” she said, emphatically drawing a large X on the circle. “Splat.”

  “That’s exactly what they avoided by using the reaction-control jets. If they’d continued at the same climb angle, they’d have burnt to a crisp on the downhill side. The plane wouldn’t survive a ballistic re-entry at that angle. Tom knew exactly what he was doing.”

  “So it wasn’t as simple as just trying to fly it back down into the atmosphere?” another asked. It was the assumption they’d made at the time.

  “Remember, this is the guy who ran the flight tests on these machines. He’s no dummy. He knows the RCS jets wouldn’t have enough impulse to work sideways against the main engines at full power. Their only chance was to get into some kind of screwball orbit and hope it decayed into a controlled re-entry. He was buying time.”

  One of the engineers finally voiced concern. “But it still wasn’t meant to re-enter at orbital speeds, Penny.”

  “True. But for now, here’s what I want you guys thinking about,” she said, turning back to the board. “Our first problem is consumables. Figure out how much air, water, food and power they have on board, and how far they can stretch it. Then figure out what’s waiting to sneak up and bite them in the ass. Out-gassing, cold-soak effects…that kind of stuff.
The longer they can stretch life support, the more time we have to find solutions. And time is everything right now,” she declared with a heavy swipe across the board.

  Another engineer spoke up. “The environmental systems group has already been working on that,” he said. “Right now they estimate at least four days of life support, and it can probably be stretched to five depending on other variables. The low passenger count helps, of course.”

  Penny had figured as much. She noticed Charlie staring at the floor, chewing a thumbnail and lost in thought. Her own expression gave away nothing, though her heart sank as she thought about the predictions they’d worked up just prior to coming in here.

  “That’s a good start,” she said through a forced smile. But they’re going to be up there for at least a month.

  PART TWO

  Cruise

  24

  Castle Rock, Colorado

  One day earlier

  Tom was working downstairs when his personal cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number at first and suspiciously lifted it to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Tom? Ryan Hunter. Where the heck are you?”

  “In my basement, tying lures and forgetting about airplanes. You know…the important stuff. What’s going on?”

  “Frank Kirby’s on the warpath. They need us to ferry a bird to Frankfurt and bring the live trip back tonight. Said scheduling couldn’t find you.”

  He screwed his eyes shut in chagrin. He’d been enjoying a rare rest period at home, perhaps a bit too much for his own good. He’d left his company phone in his coat upstairs and forgot that Elise usually kept the ringer on their house line turned down low. And he’d made it a point to not let the company have his personal number…a man had to have some measure of privacy in this business, but it was never good to find yourself on the Chief Pilot’s bad side.