Perigee

by Patrick Chiles

  “You’re right,” Ryan said. “But you’d better believe I’ll be keeping a sharper eye on everything else. In the meantime, we need to have a look at that control module.” He picked up the cabin interphone to call Marcy.

  She quickly floated through the entryway. “Yes?”

  “We really need to get a look at the master engine control,” he said, pointing to an access panel behind the center pedestal. “Think you can help?”

  “No problem. Tools are still in storage B, right?” she asked, reaching into a small cabinet by the door.

  “I’m not sure I follow…since when are you a flight mechanic?” Tom asked with surprise.

  “Since never,” she said. “You didn’t know I have an A&P?”

  “Airframe and Powerplant license?” he asked. “No kidding?” After what they’d just learned, it was good to have at least one pleasant surprise.

  “No kidding,” she smiled, and retrieved a small tool bag from the cabinet. “Turning wrenches out in the weather gets old fast. But it’s a useful skill set now and then.”

  “She replaced my car’s water pump last summer,” Ryan explained, not letting on their concerns to her. “What’s not to love about a lady like that?”

  “Just for that, smart guy, you get to hold my feet while I work on these bolts,” she said, gliding past him towards the center pedestal.

  “I learn something new every day,” Tom said. He gave Ryan a worried look as Marcy buried herself inside the access bay. “And some things I like knowing more than others.”

  46

  Austral Clipper

  More power had thankfully been restored as the crew prepared for their new visitors. Unfortunately, heat apparently hadn’t made it on the list of necessary items. More importantly, the Wi-Fi connection was back up. The signal was weak, but at least it was there. Magrath huddled in a blanket over his laptop as it recharged from an open AC jack by his seat. “You’re certain we’ll have bandwidth for long enough?”

  “Far as I can tell,” Wade said. “It’s tied to the data network they’ll need for rendezvous. Can’t imagine them taking it offline anytime soon.” He disapproved of the text on screen, not that he was under any illusions his boss would care. “Pretty harsh words, considering all they’re doing right now. Certain that’s what you want to say?”

  “You’re bloody right it’s what I want to say.”

  Of course it is, Wade thought. Not that he’d ever held back on matters of less importance. He leaned in close and whispered, “This is going to stir up a real hornet’s nest down there, Colin.”

  “As well it should. They’ve buggered things up well enough. How worse could it get? NASA’s coming to the rescue while Hammond’s people sit on their asses in Colorado.”

  Wade knew there was plenty of time for things to get a lot worse. “Colin, nobody knows if this will really work. You need to think about the possible repercussions. We’re all scared to death,” he said, and lowered his voice. “Whitney has some sedatives…”

  That only strengthened his resolve. “Xanax is for housewives,” he sneered. “I prefer Scotch.” Magrath was beyond argument, and his infamous temper had only been made worse by the cold and fatigue. Locking up the booze hadn’t helped.

  Wade knew he couldn’t allow this, consequences be damned. It would create distractions that no one needed, and the old man wasn’t thinking rationally. Anything Magrath didn’t have direct influence over he took for granted as being simple and beneath him. Getting them home alive was someone else’s problem to solve.

  Wade reached for the laptop, but it was already too late. His heart sank as “message sent” flashed on the screen.

  “Something you need this for?” Magrath asked caustically. He might’ve been behaving irrationally, but he was still no fool.

  “Not anymore,” Wade grumbled. They might be willing to unlock the bar after all. We’ll all need a drink once this turd hits the fan.

  …

  Denver

  In both appearance and manner, they couldn’t have been more different. Art Hammond strode purposefully onto the stage, closely followed by Leo Taggart. In comparison to Taggart’s rail-thin stature, Hammond’s stocky boxer’s frame looked almost portly. The harsh lights didn’t help, accentuating the fact that he’d been living in his office for almost three days now. Normally meticulous about his appearance at work, he still wasn’t afraid to lose the tie and roll up his sleeves when the situation demanded it. His wife had brought him a fresh suit, but he’d only taken time to throw the jacket on over his rumpled clothing. Taggart, on the other hand, was turned out in his usual Savile Row finest. He appeared ready for a presser, whereas Hammond just looked ready to get back to work, if not another hour of fitful sleep on the sofa in his office.

  Standing behind a podium festooned with microphones, they faced a teeming throng of reporters under blazing television lights. Hammond raised a hand in a gesture to silence their competing shouts for attention.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ll get to as many of you as we can. First, we’ll brief you on the current status of flight 501.” He paused to clear his throat, and looked to see the PR team had provided them all with information packets on the rescue mission.

  “As you’ve no doubt seen from your briefing material, we are working in concert with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration to rescue the occupants of our stranded Clipper. A European orbital transfer vehicle has undocked from the International Space Station and is on its way as we speak. It will be in position to capture the ship and match orbits with the station early tomorrow morning.”

  “So you’ll be able to recover your crew and passengers from the accident?” one reporter asked.

  “I should not need to repeat our position that while this is a grave situation, the NTSB is not classifying it as an accident. That determination is ultimately up to them, not us. As they are the governing body for making such a serious designation, we’re not about to usurp that authority. And neither should our friends in the press,” Hammond said, his contempt barely concealed. “That’s a distinction reserved for the loss of life or of the spaceplane, neither of which has happened.”

  “Not yet, at least,” the man retorted. “Then what should we call this?”

  “An emergency,” Hammond said plainly. “Same thing we said to the FAA. So far they’re not disagreeing on that point.”

  “That’s not what we’re hearing,” another reporter pressed.

  “Our principal inspector…” Hammond began, and was cut off by the same questioner.

  “There are sources inside FAA and NASA who have questioned the safety of your spaceline for some time now. Doesn’t this prove their case?”

  The kid seemed to be looking for a fight. Hammond cracked his knuckles and leaned into the podium. “Let me be perfectly clear. The FAA inspector assigned to our company has been closely monitoring our response to this situation since the beginning. He is satisfied that we are doing everything within our ability to safely return our crew and passengers.”

  “There are still those within the government who disagree…” the reporter prodded.

  “Exactly who would that be?” Hammond shot back. “Our FAA inspectors don’t have a problem,” he said, ticking off a finger to emphasize each point. “And the certification branch certainly didn’t when they awarded our Clipper 500-series the world’s first passenger spacecraft certificate.”

  “But isn’t Polaris taking advantage of regulatory loopholes by offering scheduled service to paying passengers? Isn’t your parent company, Hammond Aerospace, cutting corners in comparison to the airline manufacturers?”

  Oh brother, Hammond thought. This kid won’t shut up. “If you’re referring to the personal risk waivers that our clients sign when booking flights, that’s a real stretch to call it a ‘loophole’. We’re required to do that because this is all new. It’s not like flying coach to Vegas on brand-X airlines for the weekend. The practices for certifying new airli
ners were established fifty-some years ago, and they’re still evolving.”

  “Then shouldn’t you be held to the same standard?”

  “Maybe,” Hammond allowed, “in another twenty years. Nobody has design specs just laying around on a bookshelf for us to whip out like that,” he said, snapping his fingers for effect. “Standards evolve precisely because we are always learning things along the way.”

  “Which requires the occasional sacrifice of human life, then?” the kid asked smugly. “Isn’t this proof that your spaceplanes should at least meet the same expectations Boeing or Airbus have for their airliners?”

  Before Hammond could cut him off at the knees, Taggart stepped forward. “Young man, aircraft and spacecraft operations are constantly-shifting paradigms. And certification of a new airliner is an unimaginably complex process. That’s why Arthur’s in charge here and I’m not,” he smiled disarmingly. “If one were to apply such a standard to us now, it would be as if you’d expected fully-equipped 747s ten years after the Wright Brothers set down at Kitty Hawk.”

  “It would be safer, at least,” one woman prompted, emboldened by her colleague’s grilling.

  “It would also be prohibitively expensive, to the extent that nothing new could ever be tried. Speaking for myself, we’ve extended Arthur’s credit about as far as I dare,” he said to some laughter.

  “Then if it’s all about money, perhaps spaceflight should remain the government’s responsibility,” she asserted with evident satisfaction. “Would you agree?”

  Hammond appeared eager to pounce on that comment, but Taggart turned to him and raised an eyebrow in caution before answering for them both. “I would not. If that had been the case with aircraft, Orville and Wilbur would still be standing around on the beach while bureaucrats nitpicked over the thread count of their wing fabric.”

  That finally seemed to knock the wind from their sails, if only a bit. With that dust-up apparently settled, an older man stood and waited patiently until Taggart finally pointed to him.

  “Rich Landon, World Traveler magazine,” he said. “As you’re well aware, our publisher, Colin Magrath, is one of the people trapped aboard your spacecraft. He’s recently filed a story from orbit which our magazine just posted in its online edition,” he said, and offered them printouts of the article. “Would either of you care to comment?”

  Hammond’s face darkened as he silently flipped through the pages. Even Taggart appeared visibly agitated. They’d been ambushed.

  “‘Reckless disregard for safety’ is an attention-grabbing lead, wouldn’t you say?”

  47

  Austral Clipper

  “He said what?” Ryan almost shouted into his headset. “Stand by, Denver. We’re retrieving the uplink now.”

  It didn’t take long for the story to appear after they turned on the tablet PC. “Polaris 501: Pride Before the Fall?” Tom read with disgust. “Oh brother…that guy’s like a pet raccoon: what he doesn’t tear up, he craps all over.”

  “Guess I should go retrieve our guests,” Ryan said, pushing off for the doorway.

  “Good idea. Let me know if you need the Taser.”

  “I’ll enjoy using my bare hands more.”

  …

  Magrath appeared outside the cockpit soon after, flanked by Ryan, with Wade in trail. Marcy positioned herself in the galley behind them, glowering.

  Tom’s long silence and stony face conveyed more than words possibly could. Magrath steadied himself against a sidewall, but otherwise appeared unfazed. Wade studiously looked away.

  “Care to explain this?” Tom finally said, flinging the tablet across the cockpit at them. Wade flinched as it ricocheted off of a bulkhead and caught it on the rebound.

  “I think my work speaks for itself,” Magrath said without remorse.

  “It sure as hell doesn’t speak for us,” Ryan spat. “We’re busting our asses to keep this bird going, nursing systems that weren’t meant to run this long—just to hang on until that rescue tug can get here. And you go publish trash like this?”

  “You’ve certainly made your opinions clear enough,” Tom said with a glance at Wade, who turned away in embarrassment. “I’m more interested in knowing how you planned this, because we haven’t had the Wi-Fi up that long. That tells me you’ve been working on it for some time.”

  “Wade informed me the data network would have to stay on until we reach the space station. But don’t blame my people,” Magrath insisted. “They do what I tell them. The words are mine.”

  “We’ve got enough to do up here without you fouling up the works,” Ryan said. “Skipper, I vote for the brig.”

  “We don’t have a ‘brig’,” Tom said patiently.

  “The supply locker in back would do nicely. It’s plenty big enough. He can cool his heels there until we get to the space station. He’ll be the government’s problem after that. I say stuff him.”

  Magrath grew wide-eyed, and looked frantically back and forth between the pilots. He realized they were serious.

  Tom nodded. “He’s right. We can’t afford any more distractions. You understand I have the authority to have you both restrained if I believe you’re a threat to our safety?” he asked.

  “Like hell you will,” Magrath shouted. “You’ve put our lives in danger for no good reason but to stroke your own ego, and I’m the threat?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He pointed a thick finger at Tom. “You heard me,” he hissed. “I had urgent business on the other side of the world, a fact you took advantage of to make a name for yourself. And for what? Who really cares, outside of your own little circle of right-stuff wankers? A regular Buck Rogers, you are.”

  “That’s enough,” Ryan said. “It’s time to cool down.” He could see Tom was fuming, and wasn’t about to let him be forced to defend himself against this absurdity. “We don’t do anything without a boatload of planning. By the time we’ve pushed back from the gate, a good half-dozen people have looked over every detail. We can’t make a move without someone in the company agreeing to it.”

  “All the better,” Magrath said. “A useful tidbit, that one is. It’ll be of great interest to my attorneys. Maybe I’ll end up owning the whole blasted company. Your shares have certainly become cheap enough, even without my lawyers breathing down your necks.”

  “Is that what this is really about?” Tom challenged him, though it was the least of his concerns. “Let’s talk about taking advantage, then. You wouldn’t be using your position and media influence to manipulate our stock, would you?”

  That had hit a nerve. “You insect,” he sneered. “I’m not that clumsy. If I wanted to tank Hammond’s business, there are much better ways of doing it. Ways that a fool like him would never see coming.”

  “Like poorly-sourced hatchet jobs?” Tom asked pointedly.

  Magrath was indignant. “Don’t blame me for your own cock-ups!” he shouted. “You and Hammond’s lackeys got us here, on ships that are too bloody dangerous.” Sweat began to bead up on his bald head and float away. “Do you understand me? We’re not getting out of here! The next rescue will fall on its ass as sure as the first one!” Magrath banged a fist against the sidewall and the force caused him to spin around in the opposite direction, slamming his head into the doorframe and pushing him to his breaking point.

  “You’ve killed us all, you stupid bastard!” Cursing, he pushed off towards Tom and flew clumsily across the flight deck.

  The cramped space erupted into a tangle of thrashing limbs. Ryan reached for the Taser, but it was knocked out of his hands by Magrath’s foot as he careened past. The other foot caught him squarely in the mouth.

  Tom quickly braced himself against his seat. Defending yourself in zero-g was easy if you knew how to use it to your advantage, which Magrath didn’t. With any walls or railing well out of reach, there was no way for him to change direction or stop. Tom ducked, grabbed Magrath by his belt, and pushed him back towards Ryan who was scrambling for the Ta
ser just as Wade snatched it in midair.

  They had no idea which side Wade would take. Ryan hoped his guess would be right: “Don’t touch him! You’ll get it too!” he shouted, as Magrath caromed off the doorframe and out into the galley, grasping at Marcy who deftly somersaulted over him in slow motion.

  He was beginning to get himself under control. Magrath braced against the ceiling and pushed off towards the cockpit once more, finding Wade flying out to meet him with a chunky black device in his outstretched hand. He felt the cold metal prongs press against his sweaty neck and lightning course through his veins.

  Wade struggled to keep clear and not be shocked himself as he held the trigger down. Magrath convulsed and went limp. He floated, unconscious, across the galley.

  Tom drifted through the doorway. “Nice move. He’s not dead, is he?”

  Wade couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “Don’t really care at this point,” he finally said, and handed over the Taser. He turned back to Whitney and Carson in the cabin, who could only gape in amazement at the scene. “This probably means I’m fired once he wakes up.”

  “You’re probably right,” Ryan said, nursing a split lip. “Far as I’m concerned, it looks like you resigned with extreme prejudice.”

  “He’ll get over it. Looks like you got the worst of this.”

  “Occupational hazard,” he sighed. Marcy dabbed at his lip with a cotton swab, and went after trickles of blood as they beaded up and floated away. “This is bad, hon,” she said. “I’m going to have to stitch it.”

  “We need to get that cleaned up fast,” Tom said. “In the meantime, we’ll take Ryan’s advice and give this gentleman private accommodations in the supply locker until we get to the station. Wade, can you help me with him while she keeps Ryan from bleeding all over the place?”

  Wade eyed him cautiously; he’d expected to spend the rest of his time onboard handcuffed to a bulkhead after word of Magrath’s hit piece got out.