by Mark Anson
In the sudden pause, Clare struggled to breathe; it felt as if a huge weight had landed in her chest. Her eyes filled with tears, blurring the image on the screen.
‘He said for me to tell you how proud he was of you – we’re both proud of course, but he always supported you in your career, in ways I never did.’ Her mother looked down again, put a tissue to her eyes, and then forced herself to look up at the camera. ‘I know how distressed you’ll be when you hear this, how you’ll wish you’d been there, but your father felt very strongly about this, and wanted you to follow your heart, and do what you loved.
‘The officers from USAC have been very kind to us; they’ve helped me to make this message, and to get this news across to you at the right time, when you’re out of hibernation and strong enough to hear it. Your father wasn’t sick for very long, I was with him all the time in hospital, and at the end, and he wasn’t in any pain. He told me say that he loved you very much …’ Her voice faltered.
‘We – we buried him in May, and I’ll take you to see him when you’re back on Earth, which I understand will be soon. They can’t tell me where you are, of course, but I hope that you’re not too far away and that everything is going well. Laura Pankhurst came over and said some very nice things – about you, and about your father. Everyone here has been so – so …’
Her mother’s face quivered, she looked down again, and there was a long pause. Her shoulders moved, and it took her several seconds to get herself back under control again. Eventually, she looked up tearfully at the camera, and said with an effort: ‘Well, my dear, there are so very many things I’d like to say to you, but I need to let you recover from this news before we talk again. They’ve said that because of the circumstances they will let you send me a message as soon as you’re able, but it will be checked before I see it – they said you’d understand. I’ll be waiting, and hopefully it won’t be too long before we can talk properly.
‘Good-bye, my dear. I’m thinking of you.’ Her mother smiled, blinking back the tears, and the lines of her grief showed up clearly on her face as the picture faded.
For several moments, Clare sat in her seat, unable to move. One of her hands shook, and she looked down at it, and the tears dripped off her face. She knew she was in shock; she could feel the grief welling up in her chest, like a dark tide of despair rising to engulf her, but all she could think of was the image of her father on the last call, and her mother’s look of concern as she turned to him. Had they known then? Had he known, inside himself, and concealed it from her?
Her world shrank to a point, and she curled up in the seat, and cried for the loss of her father, and the terrible pain of not being there when it happened. Everything she treasured – her career, being in space, being in command – it was all nothing compared to this. She tried to hold it together, to stop it from consuming her, but she was too weak, too weak, and the grief took her, and there was no holding it back.
She pounded her fist on the medical console, yelling her anger and despair at not being there, and being out here, chasing a rock from the sky. And the worst of it was not being able to do anything, because it was all done, and had been done months ago, and her father was dead and gone from her life, and she hadn’t been there.
It was some minutes before she became aware of anything outside the bubble of protection she had put up around herself, and she heard Collins’s voice on the intercom. With a huge effort, she pulled herself together and sniffed deeply, wiping the tears aside.
‘Yes?’ she managed, her voice shaking.
‘Colonel Randall for you, ma’am.’
‘Put – put him through.’ The words blurted out automatically; she couldn’t think of what else to say.
There was a pause, and then Randall’s voice came from the intercom. He had selected audio only, and spoke slowly, in a kindly tone that she hadn’t heard him use before:
‘Foster, I’ve just been briefed on your news. I’m very sorry to hear of your loss.’
‘Thank – thank you, sir.’
‘I’ve relieved you of all duties for the next two hours, and Collins has command of the ship. I recommend that you let him stay in command for the bomb run.’
She controlled her voice with an effort. ‘That – won’t be necessary sir. I’ll be fine in a little while.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Randall’s voice was sympathetic but firm. ‘Collins is plenty capable. You can sit in the XO’s chair for the rest of the mission. You’ve still got plenty to do. The XO’s as important as the captain on this one.’
‘I’d rather not, sir. This really matters to me. I’ll be fine – I just need some time to …’ her words trailed off as the grief took hold of her again, and her head sagged.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea.’
‘I’ve trained my entire career for this, sir. I can do this blindfolded. I nailed it in both simulations, you know that. And you’re right about Collins, and I’ll have him watching what I’m doing. I won’t let you down.’
Randall considered this for several long seconds before replying.
‘This is against all my better judgement, Foster. If I see any problem, I will have to relieve you at once, do you understand, and it will be in front of everyone. Are you sure you want to risk that?’
Clare realised what that meant. If she was relieved now, out of sight and under Randall’s orders, there would be nothing more said about it. Everyone would know of her loss; they would all agree that it was the right thing to do – there would be other missions, other chances to take. But if he had to transfer command to Collins in the middle of the bomb run, it would be in the full sight of the entire squadron. She would have to endure the humiliation, and potential consequences afterwards.
But she hadn’t come all this way, fought so hard, to scurry for safety when it was offered. All her life she had done what she felt was right, not what was easy. And in a flash, she knew instantly what to do; she saw her father’s face, and she knew what he would have said, and his words gave her strength. She knew what she needed to do.
‘Yes sir. I’ll take that risk. Give me an hour or two to recover, and I’ll be back on duty.’
‘Well, I admire your spirit, Foster. If you pull this off, you’ll be a credit to the Corps.’ He paused, and then seemed to make his mind up. ‘All right. I’ll go along with this. But I won’t hesitate to relieve you if I see anything in your behaviour or actions that concern me. You must pass command to Collins if I say so, and do it immediately, without argument or protest, do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And if you have the slightest doubt in the next two hours that you’re not up to this, I want you to tell me, before we start the run, okay?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Okay.’ Now that the decision was made, Randall’s voice was more encouraging, business-like. ‘There’ll be time for you to grieve later, Foster, and you’re going back to Earth straight afterwards – I’m going to put you on the Las Vegas to Venus and you can transfer to a flight to Earth. You’ll be home before you know it, and I’ll make sure you get some extended leave.’
‘Thank you, sir; I appreciate that.’
‘Right. I’ll let Collins know, and I’ll see you back in the captain’s chair in two hours.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Collins got up from his seat as he saw Clare come up the ladder onto the command deck. Both had put on their spacesuits, ready for the bomb run.
‘Ma’am, I’m sorry to hear—’
Clare held up her hand and shook her head sharply to forestall him. ‘Later.’ With a swish of suit fabric, she went to sit down in the commander’s seat and moved the seat closer to the console, her helmet on her lap. ‘What’s our situation?’ She tucked her ponytail into her suit collar and lowered the helmet over her head, leaving the faceplate open. She didn’t want to look at Collins, to let him see her face.
‘We’re in visual range of target, and the other ships.’ He p
ointed to one of the screens. ‘Ready to stop rotation on your command.’
‘Okay. Are we all squared away here?’ She looked over her shoulder, glancing round the command deck, making sure there was nothing lying around loose that could cause a hazard when they were manoeuvring.
‘I checked a few minutes ago. All secure.’
‘Okay.’ Clare reached back and pulled the seat straps down over her shoulders and locked them in place. Collins put his own helmet on and fastened himself in.
‘Stop rotation. Bring us round to face along the flight path.’
‘Stop rotation, roger.’ Collins punched the change into the ship’s autopilot console, and there was a distant roar of thrusters through the Mesa’s hull as the ship’s end-over-end rotation was slowed. The sensation of gravity ebbed away as the centripetal force faded.
‘Reorient flight deck.’
‘Roger.’ With a whine of electric motors, the section of deck containing their seats and the instrument consoles started to rotate, moving the flight deck from facing outwards, to facing forwards, so that Clare and Collins could look through the sloping front windows of the Mesa.
‘Lighting off. Let’s see where we are.’
Collins turned off the lights on the command deck, so that they sat in darkness, with only the glow of the instruments around them. The stars outside became visible, turning slowly to a halt as the ship’s rotation stopped. High above the Mesa, a bright pinpoint of light marked the location of 2010 TG4. Collins pointed out the Arlington and Las Vegas, smaller points of light ahead and to either side of them. The ships were still so far away that they couldn’t make out their shapes, but they were changing imperceptibly, growing larger with each passing moment as all three ships converged on the target.
Clare glanced at the time to the target. ‘Attack checklist.’
Collins punched up the list on the centre console, and they ran through the items, verifying the settings of all the vital controls for the bomb run. As they completed the final item, Randall’s image flickered into view on the inter-ship channel.
‘Gentlemen, we’re starting our attack run in the next few minutes. We’ve practised this thoroughly, so I’m expecting a textbook approach and delivery. Does anyone have any questions, or concerns?’
Nobody responded, which was as Randall expected. ‘Okay, let’s go do this thing. I’ve confirmed the attack to Deep Space Control. Expect presidential codes in the next two minutes. Arming to be on my command. Good luck everyone.’
As Randall signed off, Clare felt her pulse quickening, as it always did before a bomb run. Once the presidential code was loaded into their nuclear charge, the warhead could be armed with the ship’s command code.
‘Ready for bomb select, captain.’ Collins looked across at Clare, who stared straight ahead.
‘Number three.’ The Mesa carried five nuclear asteroid charges in its bomb rack, below them as they now sat. Clare had chosen the middle one to help preserve the ship’s balance.
‘Number three selected.’ A whine sounded through the hull as the charge was moved into the loading position, in the breech of the bomb cannon. ‘Ready for presidential key.’
Clare glanced at the arming panel. ‘Here it comes.’ There was no fuss or drama; a few moments later the encrypted presidential code, sent on a secure link from Earth, arrived and was authenticated automatically. The arming status for the selected nuclear charge changed from a grey box to an orange one. Now all that Clare had to do was enter her command code, hit ARM, and they would have a live nuclear warhead in the gun breech.
Clare punched up the tactical display and swung the head-up display into her vision, so that she didn’t have to look down at the controls. The lavender line of the Mesa’s flight path disappeared into the distance, intersecting the bright star of the asteroid. Figures and symbols to the left and right showed her the decreasing range and time to the target.
‘Bring the reactor up to twenty percent.’ Although they wouldn’t be using the nuclear engine for the bomb run, they would need full electrical power for the weapons systems.
‘Reactor twenty, roger.’
Clare switched to the telescopic view, and there in front of her was the asteroid, turning silently in space. From this range, it looked more elongated than it had seemed from the early telescopic pictures, and its rotation was more complicated. Its centre was relatively stationary, but the two opposing halves each traced out a conical path, like a dumbbell in space. The fire control computers on board the Arlington would be busily figuring out a solution.
‘Arlington to squadron, starting attack.’ Randall’s clipped tones broke across the cockpit. Ahead and to the left, the slender shape of the Arlington could now be made out, and the Las Vegas to the right. The asteroid had grown to a tiny disk in the blackness of space above them.
Aboard the Arlington, the fire control computers would have selected the optimum aiming point, and be counting down to a firing.
‘Pressurise manoeuvring engines,’ Clare ordered, and Collins punched in the settings on the engine control panel that would open valves to allow the super-cold liquid fuel down to the inlets of the turbopumps, ready for ignition. A faint groan echoed through the ship as the cold fuel rushed down the long pipes, chilling them down.
A piercing crack, like a rifle shot, followed by another, was the first sign of trouble. Clare and Collins were instantly alert.
‘Hey, that’s—’ Collins started to say, but was interrupted by a shout from the Las Vegas:
‘Debris! We’ve got debris!’
‘Shields!’ yelled Clare. She snapped her helmet faceplate down as armoured metal shields started to move down over the forward windows, but there were several more loud cracks as tiny specks of rock smacked into the nose of the ship at huge speeds.
‘It’s the debris field from the impact,’ Clare said, ‘I’m lowering the dozer blade; that should give us some more cover. I’m closing the solar panels as well.’
‘I thought they’d plotted our intercept to avoid any debris,’ Collins said, white-faced, as the heavy blade swung down to protect the front of the ship. A larger piece of debris slammed into the blade, and the ship quivered.
‘Just got that up in time. Looks like they—’
‘Captain, look!’ Collins pointed at one of the telescope displays, trained on the Las Vegas. The larger ship could be made out clearly in the crosshairs; it was tumbling through space, trailing a stream of vapour behind it that sparkled in the sunlight.
‘Shit, they’ve been hit.’ Clare pressed the transmit. ‘Las Vegas, Mesa – do you need assistance?’
There was a burst of noise in reply, then the voice of Captain Garcia came over the radio:
‘Mesa, we’ve taken a hit from debris and we’ve lost attitude control. Attempting to stabilise. We may have to break off—’
There was a bright flash against the side of the Las Vegas as something really big struck home. The side of one of the cryogenic tanks burst open, venting gas into space. The radio transmission ceased abruptly.
Clare froze in horror, and before she could manage to speak, the ruptured tank exploded in a ball of bright orange flame, engulfing the forward half of the interceptor. As the explosion faded, fragments of the structure and the tank could be seen, flying out in all directions.
The crew module and the forward section of the Las Vegas emerged from the expanding cloud of the blast. They were blackened from the explosion, and there was a large gash in the side of the crew module, trailing vapour and debris into space. The ship’s lights went out.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Collins gasped, his eyes riveted to the scene on the display. He stared at Clare, his eyes wide. ‘We’ve got to break off – we need to help them. We’ve got to go back!’
‘No.’ Clare said, bluntly, shaking her head.
‘What do you mean, no? We’ve got to break off!’
‘Pull yourself together,’ Clare said, trying to stop her voice shaking, ‘we’ve got to
make the bomb run on our own.’
As if to underline her last statement, Garcia’s voice came over the radio, his voice faint and laboured; he was speaking on his suit radio:
‘Mesa, we’ve taken serious damage to the crew compartment, we’ve lost all the air and have casualties. You’re on your own. Catch us up when you’re done.’
‘Roger. Good luck captain, hang in there.’ Clare stared straight ahead, trying to put the memory of the scene out of her mind. Randall was on the air immediately:
‘Mesa, you have the primary target. I’ll worry about Garcia. Don’t miss.’
Clare forced herself to focus on the bombing run. Ahead of her now, the Arlington was closing on its target position. On the display screens, the asteroid hanging above them had swelled until it covered a tenth of the sky.
‘Firing in thirty seconds.’
‘How can he stay so calm,’ Collins shot out, ‘we’ve nearly lost one of our ships! How can he—’
‘Snap out of it!’ Clare yelled back at him, her eyes blazing, ‘He doesn’t have a choice, and neither do we! I need you to focus. Garcia and his crew know what to do.’
‘But they need our help! They might not—’
‘They’ll have to look after themselves until we’ve completed the run,’ Clare said flatly. Now I need your help to do this. Are you with me?’
Collins stared back at her.
‘I said, are you with me?’
Collins made an effort, and got control of himself. ‘Yes.’ He nodded, glanced at the controls, then back at Clare. ‘Yes, I’m with you.’
‘Good. Right, I need you to go through the firing checklist.’ Clare closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled, to control her own shock and anger. She rammed the thought to the back of her mind, forced herself to concentrate on the job in hand. There would be time to help the Las Vegas later, but the sight of the ship exploding in front of them and its atmosphere venting into space churned round in her head, fighting for room with the shock of the father’s death. Her hand shook, and she pressed it quickly to the armrest of her seat, so that Collins couldn’t see.
