Perigee

by Patrick Chiles

  Donner stalled briefly for effect, then gave in with a sigh. “Go ahead, I’ll mind the store. Believe me, I know how it is.” In fact, he was counting on it.

  The inspector locked his computer, gratefully snapped up the offered pack, and made for the door. “Owe you one, bro. Back in a few.”

  “Take your time,” Donner said. “No hurry at all.” He was self-aware enough to know that Taggart had softened him up with a smoke, and was satisfied to see he could make the same ploy. The kid was smart to lock down his terminal before leaving. It would have made his task easier, but this was a minor annoyance.

  Now alone, he leaned back in the chair and casually looked up and down the room. Each cabinet was arranged by tail number, so it didn’t take long to find his quarry. 501’s records were about ten feet away, right across from a copy machine, which brought a rare smile to his craggy face. This would be quick work.

  43

  Austral Clipper

  At Tom’s instruction, Ryan had quickly assembled everyone in the forward cabin with Marcy dutifully hovering behind, keeping watch over her charges.

  Each passenger glared at him, silently demanding some glimmer of hope. Time was their enemy now more than ever, practically and psychologically.

  He returned their collective gaze with a disarming smile and casually asked, “How’s everyone doing, considering the circumstances?”

  No one volunteered an answer. Marcy shot a nervous sideways glance at their passengers before Magrath finally spoke up. “How do you think we’re doing? I’m having trouble putting my finger on it, but scared witless comes to mind.”

  “I can’t blame you,” Tom said after a moment. “But I really want to know…any space sickness or claustrophobia?”

  Everyone shook their heads “no”.

  “Good. Now, you all have a right to know exactly what’s going on. And there frankly hasn’t been that much to tell you,” he said. “We train for just about everything, but nothing like this.”

  “That’s plainly obvious,” Magrath retorted. “Now, do you care to tell us how we ended up in this fix?”

  Tom had had quite enough of being grilled by this man, especially considering that whatever arrangements he’d made with Art had surely gone down the tubes. Putting on a good face for the company had been flushed when their engines had decided to go off on a marathon run. “You were along for the ride with the rest of us, sir. ‘Why’ is a question we don’t have the ability to answer up here. But I’m sure it will become a captivating story for one of your media outlets.”

  “Assuming they find my char-broiled laptop wherever we come down. But then, I’d welcome the warmth about now,” he said, nodding towards the nearest row of frosted-over windows.

  “You’ll have plenty of time and resources to get warmed up and finish your business,” Tom assured him. “We’re taking a little side trip.”

  That piqued his interest, and that of his traveling companions. In an utterly unfamiliar environment, none of them knew what to expect anymore.

  “In about seven hours, a transfer vehicle—like a tugboat—from to the European Space Agency is going to rendezvous with us. Their ground controllers in France will match orbits and use the vehicle’s docking collar to secure it to one of our exhaust nozzles,” he said, making the process sound much more routine than it was likely to be. “Once they grab us, it has enough fuel to bring us to the International Space Station.”

  There was relief all around, though Magrath remained decidedly skeptical. It was probably a natural inclination that had led him into the news business to begin with, but it would have to be tamed. They still had a long way to go and much to do.

  “The space station?” Carson asked. “I see how we get there, but not how we get out. We can’t attach…dock, with it…right?”

  “You’re right, we can’t,” Tom said. “But our cargo deck is a separate pressure vessel, so it can be used as an airlock.” He still looked confused. “Think of us as sitting in a big air bottle. The cargo deck is another bottle. See that door in back?” he asked, pointing to a bulky-looking hatch at the rear of the cabin. “It’s sealed off from here as another level of protection for you folks. We can open it up to space so they can bring in equipment to get you all out.”

  “And your crew?” Magrath asked.

  “We have two full pressure suits in the emergency stores locker.”

  “That compartment doesn’t have redundant pressurization like the pax cabin, am I right?” Wade interrupted, recalling his own study of the spaceplane. “Those suits are for your loadmasters in case they need to tend to cargo. If someone was unprotected back there and you had a rapid-d…,” he said, using slang for sudden decompression, “poof. Lungs deflate, skin blisters…all kinds of nasty stuff.”

  “You’re right,” Tom said. “That’s exactly what they’re for.”

  “So then let me get this straight,” Magrath said. “There’s no radiation shielding?” Just keeping its wearer wrapped in a layer of pressurized air wasn’t enough; a real spacesuit had to keep them at a survivable temperature and protected against cosmic radiation.

  “There’s no forecast solar activity. For no longer than this will take, we think they’ll be safe,” Tom explained.

  “You think?”

  “If someone has a better idea, we’d all love to hear it. But right now this looks like the only game in town,” he said. “You won’t be wearing them anyway. Once we get there, Ryan and Marcy will suit up, depressurize the bay, and open the main cargo door. An astronaut is going to spacewalk over with something called Personal Rescue Enclosures,” he said. “The PRE is kind of like a human hamster ball. Each one’s temperature-controlled, radiation-shielded, and carries an hour’s worth of breathable air. They’ll close us up, re-pressurize, and put the four of you in the balls. Once you’re ready, we’ll open back up and herd you out of here on a safety tether. There’ll be a station astronaut on either end of the line.”

  “What about you?” Magrath asked. “How do you get out?”

  The captain’s always the last one off, he thought, but wouldn’t say it. “I have to stay up in the flight deck. The tug won’t be able to control our position on its own…we’re too big. So they’re relying on us for station-keeping until they can grab us with their robot arm.”

  “You didn’t really answer the question, Captain.”

  “Our people figure we can safely manage two depress cycles. After the last cycle, Marcy will get out of her suit once you’re all safely aboard. The station astronauts will bring it back here to help me suit up.”

  “That’ll take a while,” Wade protested. “You’ll be buttoned up here the whole time.”

  “I realize that,” Tom said. “The cabin will be sealed off while I sit here and enjoy the view.”

  Magrath asked the next most obvious question. “How long will we be up there? What’s the plan for getting us home?”

  “Mr. Hammond’s negotiating a deal with SpaceX. They can have a Dragon crew capsule with extra seats ready to send up in about four weeks. That’ll be our ride home.”

  Ryan chimed in for everyone’s benefit. “So we’ll all have a relaxing month or so up here in the finest accommodations Uncle Sam can offer, with our own personal limo service back down. Billionaires still pay big money for that privilege,” he said with a wink in Magrath’s direction. “Think you folks can handle that?”

  His news was rewarded with smiles all around. It was by far the best news any of them had heard in days. Magrath, however, appeared unyielding as ever.

  44

  Denver

  Leo Taggart stood by the wraparound windows in his corner office and watched the distant mountains change colors in the early sunrise. He was a practiced picture of calm. It was important to present the outward appearance of control, even if he was the only man in the room. It ran counter to the inner turmoil he felt; otherwise he’d have been pacing the floor like a nervous cat. There was much to do, with little time to d
o it. But it did no one any good to display stress in a tense situation, him least of all.

  A firm knock on the door interrupted his concentration. Momentarily annoyed, he checked the phone on his desk. Of course, the secretary he shared with Hammond wasn’t in this early, so there was no one to screen or announce visitors. That arrangement would change soon enough. She’d just have to get used to it.

  He had a pretty good idea of who it was, anyway, which was exactly why it paid to always project that in-control image. Ultimately, it was all that separated the leaders from the followers.

  He strode across the room and smoothly opened the big walnut door. His expectation had been correct: “Hello Walter. Come in, please.” Nervously looking over his shoulder, Donner ducked inside. “That was quick…assuming you turned up something?”

  Without a word, Donner handed over a thick manila folder filled with inspection forms.

  He accepted it with a satisfied smile. “Did you have a chance to go through this?”

  “There wasn’t time to go too deep. But it does go back all the way to delivery.”

  Taggart carefully laid the folder on his desk and began flipping through it. “Copious enough. This covers everything done since delivery, you said?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And you got them without accessing the computer records?” It would have been quicker and easily discovered if anyone had bothered to look. That would have been helpful later, but right now it would have been a distraction.

  Donner grew impatient. “Yeah, that’s right. I like paper better anyway.”

  He looked up briefly and smiled again. No doubt, you old dinosaur. “Just checking, Walter. You understand I have to be certain. This isn’t my area of expertise,” he said, waving at the pile of records. “That’s why I needed to bring you into our little circle.”

  “I’m due back for shift turnover in ten minutes,” Donner said expectantly, hoping Taggart would intervene on his behalf. Going home early would’ve been a nice reward.

  “They’ll need to see you back there on time,” he said. “Remember we’re doing this under the radar, but we have to stay above-board at the same time. Otherwise no one will believe us if our findings run counter to the party line.”

  “The other reason you brought me in,” Donner said, finishing the thought.

  “Precisely,” Taggart said, and opened the door for him. “Good day, Walter. And thanks again for your good work. This will help us immensely.”

  Once alone, he closed the door, unclipped his personal cell phone and scrolled through the menu until he found his contact. To an interested observer, it looked innocent enough: “China No. 1” was a real takeout restaurant on his way home, not that he ever went there.

  “It’s me. Records are in hand. Yes…yes, your tracks will be covered.”

  The line went dead, and he snapped the phone closed and tossed it onto the desk. For a man who strove to keep his emotions under wraps, such a minor display of irritation couldn’t have been clearer. Those little pricks are wound up way too tight for their own good.

  …

  Will Gardner was still shaking when he cornered the secretary on her way in, and demanded an immediate meeting with Hammond and Penny Stratton. Now in Hammond’s office, he suddenly felt emotionally exhausted.

  Penny leaned against a wall, arms folded, looking mad as a hornet. “What did you call it…a ‘logic bomb’? So you’re saying some hacker was trying to kill us.”

  “The term ‘hacker’ doesn’t do it justice,” Will said. “This wasn’t some college kid hopped up on Red Bull causing internet mischief. This person had an objective and knew precisely how to screw around with the control code. It was ham-fisted, but it worked.”

  “You’re right, of course,” she reluctantly agreed. “Flight control logic is really esoteric stuff. But back to my point: some SOB wanted us dead.”

  “Sure looks that way,” Hammond said. “Whoever planted this turd blossom probably figured all the evidence would’ve burned up or been scattered to hell and gone.”

  Will remained uncomfortable with the idea, but couldn’t deny it. “That was my first thought. Elegance or stealth didn’t matter. He’d have been in a hurry, and brute force would get the job done. Nothing else makes sense.”

  “Add that to the long list of crap that’s not making sense,” Hammond said, and leaned forward with his most serious fear-of-God look. “Listen closely, both of you. It’s my contention that 501’s mess isn’t an accident either. Sure looks to me like this punk was looking to do something similar with them, but we can’t know without getting our hands on the plane.”

  “So he just refined his techniques on us, then?” Penny asked.

  “It would appear so,” Hammond said. “Keep this to yourselves, okay? I’ve already got people looking into the other mess.”

  “You’re compartmentalizing this?” Penny challenged him. “I’m not a big believer in stove-piping, Art.”

  “Neither am I. But let’s see what kind of independent evidence they turn up before springing this on them. If we’re both right,” he said, pointing at Will, “then we have an extremely dangerous saboteur on our hands and he’s probably inside this building. We can’t risk tipping him off.”

  “Why are you telling us, then?” Will asked. “What makes us any more trustworthy?”

  Penny laughed. “Because we’re the ones who almost got killed up there, genius.”

  Will was deflated. “Good point.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Hammond said. “It’s not every day that you find out you’ve been targeted for assassination.”

  45

  ISS

  Poole floated in the station’s cupola, a small observation deck faceted by trapezoidal windows. In appearance, it was not unlike an airport control tower. Though barely large enough for two people, the view from here was unmatched: you could float carelessly and enjoy spectacular vistas in any direction. He especially enjoyed the view whenever they were in Earth’s night side. Unfettered by sunlight or atmospheric haze, the universe shone like nothing he’d ever seen on Earth, even on the darkest nights at sea.

  For now, he was focused on the European tug pulling away from its docking port about twenty meters away. Down below, he could hear Gerard talking with the European control center. Max Becker was remotely piloting the tug until it was safely away from the Station. Once it was clear, they would hand it off to ESA ground controllers in France who would manage its rendezvous with the Clipper.

  The transfer vehicle wouldn’t have enough propellant to chase that beast down indefinitely. It barely had enough delta-v for this stunt. And they still had to latch onto one of those big rocket nozzles, the only feature that looked halfway compatible and sturdy enough to grab the docking collar. He just hoped they didn’t torque the engines clean out of the airframe.

  There was only one chance to get this right. Otherwise it would be weeks before their orbits would be at a similar conjunction, long after the Clipper’s life support would have run out. If they couldn’t manage a rescue, the next mission would be to collect remains. Poole grimaced at the thought. He wasn’t prepared to turn the ISS into a flying morgue, not on his watch.

  He shielded his eyes against the dazzling glare from the tug’s solar panels. It was about a half-kilometer out and still pulling away as occasional puffs from its control jets sparkled in the unfiltered sunlight. Poole imagined he could hear the thumps of them firing. Once the ship was safely clear of the Station’s own fragile solar wings, its primary engines would begin the long mating dance of shifting orbits to match the stricken spaceliner.

  Spaceliner. Even up here, it was hard to get his head around that moniker. It still sounded too sci-fi.

  A white flash emanated behind the tug as Max fired the main engines. Almost as quickly, Gerard’s voice sounded in his headset: “Posigrade burn…delta-v plus two-five, apogee minus three point four. Standing by for shutdown,” he said in his cl
ipped accent. The European Spacecraft Operations Center was about to take over remote control.

  “Roger that. I still have it in sight, she’s burning good,” he added. “Beautiful ship you guys built there, Gerry.”

  “Merci,” he replied. “She will do well, I believe.”

  She has to, Poole didn’t say. No sense adding any more pressure to the situation.

  …

  Austral Clipper

  “You’re certain this was intentional?” Tom asked as he tried to gauge Ryan’s reaction to the news. “That’s a pretty serious assertion.”

  Ryan covered his microphone boom with a free hand. “Makes sense,” he whispered, coldly objective though the idea made the hair on his neck stand up.

  Penny replied before they could discuss it any further. “That’s become Art’s operating theory and I can’t find any reason to doubt him. Not after that ride we had yesterday.”

  Sabotage. The thought flung him into a conflicting swirl of emotions: shock, anger, fear…perhaps the strongest was dread. If this had happened on purpose, then what else might be hidden within this machine that could be turned against them? Ryan was right—too many interconnected systems had ignored their inputs all at once for it to be a single hard fault. Add Penny’s near-death experience on the Block II plane, and there was really no alternative.

  “The FADEC module is our missing link,” Penny said. “We’ve got to have a look at that component and verify the work on it.”

  “Not sure what we can do yet,” he said, and finished their exchange. “We’ll get back to you…501 out.” He turned to face Ryan and checked the door to make sure no one was within earshot. “That conversation doesn’t leave this cockpit. We’ll absolutely have a panic on our hands if word gets out.”

  Ryan agreed. “This just keeps getting more complicated, doesn’t it? If this is true, then what else could…”

  Tom cut him off. “It’s probably best to not think about that.”