A faint glint finally caught his eye, not quite where he expected, and chalked it up to using offset vision to spot it. But the polished metal of Austral Clipper’s dorsal hull was unmistakable, dazzling in fresh light as it silently emerged from night side. There she is. Still dozens of miles away, it briefly flashed like a beacon suspended in the darkness before receding into the background.
“Tally ho,” Poole called down from the cupola while lifting a pair of binoculars. “Big sucker, too,” he said, not hiding his lingering doubts. “You sure we’ll be able to hold on to her?” he asked his crewmate.
“Yah,” Becker replied. “The docking collar can handle the torque. That is no concern.”
“You’re leaving something out.”
“The plane’s exhaust nozzles are the unknown,” he said dispassionately. “If they can’t carry the load, the ship could…detach when we connect the arm.”
“The structures team in Houston had a good look at the specs,” Poole said. “No one held anything back, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I am always concerned by the unknown, Simon. We can predict loads, but we cannot know how the total system will behave outside of specifications,” he observed. “Not until it happens.”
He was right, of course. “You’re always full of good news, Max,” Poole said as he surveyed the station from within his ring of windows. Above him, their delicate solar panels extended over a hundred meters in either direction. If anything went screwy in close, they’d almost certainly be damaged.
“Houston, CDR,” he called into his headset. “We’re ready here. Just make sure those boys bring her in nice and steady.”
…
Austral Clipper
They fell towards the station tail-first, one wing pointed toward Earth as they approached from slightly below. They would not be able to actually see their target until they were almost on top of it. “Why is it we seem destined to back up into everything?” Tom asked in mock frustration.
“It’s called ‘anti-normal’ direction, if I recall,” Ryan said. Once the approach burn was finished, they would yaw around 90 degrees and match rates relative to the station.
That drew a laugh. “Anti-normal?” he said. “That’s an apt enough description. Heck of way to join up a formation.”
“It messed with me a little in the sims,” Ryan agreed. He was dressed out in one of the emergency pressure suits; the only items left were his helmet, gloves, and life-support pack. “It’s like skidding through a turn on ice. We should be able to view the station coming up on our left,” he said, tapping the windshield, “once the ATV shuts down. The idea is to maintain a nice, steady yaw rate and come out of it right at cutoff.”
“You ready to do this?” Tom asked with concern. “We’re putting an awful lot on your shoulders here.”
The younger pilot thought about that for the first time. “Guess I’m just being task-oriented, skipper, but it makes sense. I’ve been through the rendezvous and docking sims, might as well be flying this leg.”
“And the spacewalk?”
“Always wanted to,” he said. “Sounds like the pros are going to do most of the work. We’re just along for the ride. Customer service for the passengers.”
“Station-keeping shouldn’t be that hard once we’re in proximity,” Tom said. “Everything sounds intuitive once we’re parked there.”
“Except for the fore-and-aft part being backwards,” Ryan said skeptically.
“Ship gets bigger, push the paddle forward,” Tom recited, tapping their jury-rigged translation controls. Each was marked with permanent ink over some duct tape they’d scrounged from the supply bin. “Ship gets smaller, push it aft.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to do much,” Ryan said. “Once they grab the ATV with that robot arm, we’ll be rock solid if the nozzle holds,” he said.
“Let’s not think about what happens if it doesn’t.”
…
Houston
“FIDO, can you confirm their status after that last burn?” Audrey wondered impatiently. Something hadn’t jibed with her own mental math.
It was the second time she’d asked, but he knew the combination of little sleep and even less control over the combined vehicles was beginning to wear her down. “Good burn, no residuals that can’t be managed during final approach. They’re still within delta-v budget, Aud.”
“And their ETA?”
“Three hours, six minutes…two more orbits,” he said.
“CapCom,” she asked next. “I need to know if Poole concurs with our final plan for accommodations and rations.”
“That’s confirmed, Flight,” the station communicator replied. “Everyone’s on two-thirds rations until the Progress supply ship arrives next week. Our visitors are going to be set up in the empty logistics module.”
“Copy that. Thanks,” she said, and removed her headset. “You’ve got it for now,” she said to her assistant director. “I’ve got to call Denver.”
…
Denver
“Denver’s on, this is Charlie Grant. Penny Stratton is with me,” he announced into a conference speaker phone.
“Houston’s here. Dr. Abbot, the center director, is also attending,” Audrey answered.
Penny rolled her eyes and shot Charlie a knowing look. Tool, she mouthed.
Grant waved her off. “Not now,” he whispered. “We have to keep these people happy.”
“Then let’s throw him a clown party,” she retorted. “Maybe they can compare makeup.”
Grant nearly choked on his coffee, gulping it back as he smacked the ‘mute’ button. “Not now, Penny! Focus already!”
She smiled and crossed her arms, not giving an inch. “I’m perfectly focused. Thinking of Don Abbot in a clown wig puts me in exactly the right frame of mind. You just need some rest, dear.”
He buried his head in his hands, giving up on making her behave. The harder he tried, the worse she would be. “Okay, okay…let’s just see how this goes first,” he said, reaching back for the phone.
“I’m sorry Denver, we lost you for a moment there,” Audrey said innocently. “We were about to pass on the latest intercept numbers,” she offered, bringing them to the point.
“Yeah, Charlie spilled his coffee on the phone again,” Penny lied. “We’re back in business now.”
“So they’re still looking good for the final approach burn?” Grant asked with evident relief. He’d had even less sleep than Audrey this week.
“That’s affirmative,” she said. “Residuals are minor enough for us to manage during final. I’m more worried about your guy’s ability to handle station-keeping.”
She wasn’t wrong to be concerned. They had two sharp pilots up there, and it was beyond lucky that Ryan Hunter had some time in the Houston simulators some years earlier. But that was a different spacecraft, built for the purpose unlike what they were flying now. “We’ll just have to manage that when they get there, Aud,” Penny interjected. “The approach attitude will give you some comfort factor there, won’t it?”
“It will,” she allowed. “We’re going to be sending you wave-off criteria to use if things get squirrely. But there’ll be a black zone once they’re in close, where the ATV thrusters can’t fire without damaging the station. They’ll have to be right on the numbers and just let it coast in.”
“You just have that ATV bring them in on-speed, and our guys will make sure they’re lined up nice and pretty.”
“What assurances can you give us that your crew isn’t dangerously fatigued?” Abbot interjected.
Grant reluctantly had to concede the point. They were both more worried about their friend’s judgment being impaired than anything else. “You have none, Don,” Penny finally answered for them. “They’ve been up there almost four days and I don’t have to tell you what kind of stress they’re under. The pilots agreed to start rotating rest periods, but let’s be honest. My guess is they’re not getting very much.”
“I see,” was his curt reply.
“Are you proposing any changes to the plan?” she asked.
Audrey cut in. “Negative, negative. We are on schedule for final approach and rendezvous in four hours,” she said. “We also have some updates on food rations and sleeping arrangements until the new crew capsule arrives next month.”
Grant hit the mute button again. “Penny, can you please handle the logistics? You were right earlier—I need to get some rest before we start prox ops.”
“Will do. And I promise to behave with The Donald,” she reassured him. “But he’s still a tool,” she finished with a conspiratorial whisper.
Grant rolled his eyes and made for the door, not prepared to argue her point.
56
Austral Clipper
As Ryan made his way back toward the cargo deck, he found Wade floating outside the closed pressure hatch. He’d been expecting to find him prepping Marcy for their spacewalk. “What’s going on?”
“She’s having trouble with her suit,” he grumbled. “Won’t let me in.”
Ryan was bewildered only for a moment. “You’re kidding—no, never mind, of course you’re not,” he said with a sigh. “Let me guess…thermal garment?”
“You got it. The long johns must make her butt look big,” he deadpanned.
“All right, ease up,” Ryan said. “How’s Magrath, by the way?”
“Your makeshift holding cell was a lot bigger than he counted on,” Wade said. “He’s pissed, but calm.” The scotch that Marcy had helpfully liberated from the galley had helped that situation quite a bit.
“Do me a favor and check on him again,” Ryan said. “I’ll see what I can do for our reluctant astronaut.” He began working the lock on the cargo hatch.
“Don’t come in here!” came a shout from the other side as he cracked the door open.
“Marcy, it’s me,” he called gently. “I sort of need to get in there.”
“Not until I get dressed, you don’t!”
Oh brother. Now is not the time for modesty. “Need any help?” he asked cheerfully, hoping that didn’t come out sounding like he thought it did.
“In your dreams, buster!” she retorted.
Yep, that’s pretty much how it sounded.
“Seriously, we need to get suited up…like now,” he said. “You’re having trouble with the long johns, aren’t you?”
A muffled curse confirmed his suspicion. “All right, come on in,” she finally said in exasperation.
Ryan floated through the hatchway and pulled the pressurized door shut. The bay was empty except for an orange spacesuit suspended inside of an open closet. He found Marcy tumbling away as she struggled into the snug temperature-control garment. Half of it was bundled awkwardly around her knees.
“Not a word!” she snapped, righting herself against a handhold.
He held up his hands in self-defense and averted his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“That was four words!”
“Look,” he sighed. “I know you’re embarrassed. These things are hard to put on in zero-g. It’s nothing like ground school. Wade had to help me with my own suit.”
“It’s even worse on us girls,” she argued. “I didn’t wear the right…well… foundations.”
He was perplexed. “Say again? I’m not following you.”
She became more frustrated. “I really don’t want to explain myself, Ryan,” she said coldly as she pulled herself behind the open closet door. “You probably wouldn’t remember it from training. We girls are supposed to wear sports bras in case we have to get into one of these things in flight.”
Like right now, he thought. Suddenly catching her hint, he tried not to laugh. “Let me guess…”
“Underwire!” she exclaimed, losing her grip and floating into full view. “I was in a hurry and forgot to pack…” she trailed off, scrambling back behind the door. “You get the idea.”
“Oh boy,” he sighed. “They’d cause trouble with all that coolant tubing, all right. If any of that hardware popped loose…” he mused seriously, and she cut him off.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.” Marcy was famously modest as he’d learned during the brief time they’d been dating.
“You’ve got to admit it’s pretty funny. But you’ve also got to lose the girly stuff and put this suit on,” he said seriously.
She didn’t respond.
“You still trust me, right?”
She pursed her lips in reflection. For all his bravado, he’d always behaved as a gentleman whenever they’d gone out together. “Of course I do,” she finally conceded. “But if you tell anybody, I’ll clobber you.”
“Deal. Come on, let’s do this,” he said, securing his boots to Velcro strips alongside her. “I’ll hold you steady and keep my eyes shut while you take care of business.”
…
ISS
“Polaris, Station. Looks like you might be out of position,” Poole called to them as he waved through the big windows. Outside, the Clipper silently glided toward them as if on rails. It was hard to judge positioning with such an unfamiliar spacecraft, but something didn’t seem right. “Just now picking you up on LIDAR,” he added, referring to the laser range-finder alongside the docking port.
“We copy, Station,” Tom replied. “I’m not touching a doggone thing until somebody tells us to.”
“Don’t worry, Polaris,” Poole said. “Just keep relative attitude right where it is for now.” He stuck his head down into the control block. “That thing’s getting awfully big, awfully fast.”
Gerard was standing by on the ATV remote and the manipulator arm. “LIDAR won’t lock,” he said. “Approach vector’s off and their closing rate is too fast.”
…
Houston
Audrey projected calm, but was tempted to fly out of her chair. “FIDO?”
“Stand by,” he replied brusquely. At this point, the combined vehicles should have slowed to a crawl.
He dropped off their comm loop for an uncharacteristically long time. It appeared he was having an animated conversation with the flight dynamics backroom. When he came back on, his voice seethed with frustration. “Flight, FIDO. They…we…screwed the pooch.”
I knew it, she thought, and waved him up to her station. He tore off his headset and strode up from The Trench, the front row of mission control populated by flight dynamics, navigation and guidance engineers. Selected for their mathematical prowess, they were at the apex of what was already the top of the Geek Pyramid. He leaned against her console, head down, fully aware that all eyes in the room were on him.
“What happened, Rich?”
He kept looking down and fiddled with his nametag, a nervous habit. “Aud, I’m not going to point fingers. There’s no time.”
“But…” she prompted.
“ESA blew it,” he said. “Bad. Their mass calculations were way off.”
She closed her eyes, not saying a word. He continued.
“It took us a few minutes to figure it out, but it looks like they fouled up the pounds-to-kilos conversion.”
“How?” she asked. “We gave it to them in kilos. There was nothing to convert.”
“Precisely,” he said. “I think they were too clever by half. Someone in the back room started playing around with conversions out to different decimal places. With where that vehicle ended up, it looks like they didn’t trust our numbers.”
She cursed. “Swell. So they backed up to what they thought was the original value, and then did it their way?”
“Bingo. That thing weighs a lot more than they planned for.”
“That explains a lot,” she said. Poole being unable to get a visual on time, the bad approach vector, high closing rate…it hadn’t slowed down enough, and the errors would have propagated, becoming more pronounced over the intervening distance. “Well, it’ll make for a lively debrief when this is all over. Do we have time to fix this before they’re in the bla
ckout zone?”
“They’re almost in prox-ops B,” he said, which meant the ships were closing in on 100 meters from each other. “I don’t think so, Aud.”
She turned and picked up the phone, calling Denver. “Charlie? We’ve got some problems.”
57
Austral Clipper
“Polaris, Station; we have solid LIDAR lock now. Need you to reduce closure rate and shift your approach vector,” they heard Simon call. “Please confirm you can adjust, over.”
“Somebody’s getting worried,” Ryan observed as their target loomed ever larger in the window. Even through the static, they immediately noticed his welcoming tone had turned deadly serious.
“I can’t blame them—our combined mass is north of a hundred thousand pounds and we’re headed straight for them. There’s plenty of time left to make for a really bad day.”
“We’ve already had enough of those,” Ryan said. “My fun meter is pegged, thanks very much.”
“We’re going to have to turn it tail-first again, aren’t we?” Tom asked, then answered the radio call. “Station, we copy. How much delta?”
“Two meters per second,” the reply came. “Think you can manage that?”
Ryan covered his microphone boom. “Sounds like we don’t have a choice, skipper. Can you do it?”
Tom frowned. “We’ll find out. At least I don’t have to use those cobbled-up translation paddles,” he said. “Almost like they intended for us to come in sideways.”
“You’re welcome,” Penny interjected over the company frequency.
“Good thing I wasn’t talking trash about you,” he said, embarrassed that he’d left the voice-activated switch on again.
“It’s nothing,” she said, “but this is serious, guys. They just figured out that ESA got a little too creative with their math. Your approach vector’s off and you’re closing too fast.”
“Wonderful,” Tom said, this time making sure the hot mic was off. “Any advice?” he finally asked.
Perigee Page 21
