“Approaching the rim of the Command Module.”
I’m careful to gather the makeshift tether with me so it doesn’t snag on the RCS system again.
To my surprise, there’s a handhold on one of the radiators up high on the Service Module. I can’t believe it! The damn thing is right below the hatch but on the other side of the bay. Mission Control had me go left instead of right when I came out of the hatch. If I’d gone right, I would have been able to reach this with little if any effort. Anger flashes through my mind. I clench my teeth. Now is not the time for venting. Mission debrief. It’ll be at the top of my list of issues to discuss. Breathe, Jess.
I clamber over the edge of the heat shield and into sight of the hatch on the Command Module. Adrian’s surprised to see me approaching from a different angle. He’s got his visor raised and smiles warmly, waving at me. I’m tempted to say something, but it can wait. For now, we need to dock with Juliet and head on to the Moon. As it is, my Snoopy cap is soaked in sweat.
Adrian retreats inside Romeo. I stand in the hatch, providing an extra set of eyes for him as he lines up the docking probe. He peers through the small front-facing window on the Command Module.
“How are we looking?” he asks. He’s working with the reaction controls, positioning us in front of the docking latch on the Lunar Module.
“Close,” I say.
As the Command Module tapers to a point, we’re well clear of the damaged flaring. “You’ve got about four feet of clearance. The flaring is at two o’clock.”
“Copy that,” Adrian replies. Damn, he’s cool under pressure. He’s flying blind, unable to see the stuck flaring, relying on my words to build a picture. We have the same physical orientation, so terms like left and right, up and down have the same meaning. My eyes never leave the damaged flaring.
“It’s right above me,” I say. “About three feet above my helmet. I could reach it from here.”
I feel a soft nudge from the rim of the hatch as Adrian fires the RCS jets, bringing us closer. He’s cautious. No sudden movements. Advance and pause. Double-check. Advance again.
“And… contact,” he says. “I have capture.”
Mission Control is silent. Like me, they’re probably struggling to remember to breathe.
“Retrieving Juliet.”
I’ve got my gloved hands out, grabbing at the edge of the open hatch in front of me. I can feel the craft backing out. From my perspective, the flaring drifts away, but the Lunar Module is bulky. The walls of the LEM are insanely thin to reduce weight and conserve fuel. If Juliet makes contact with the flaring, her insulation could be torn, or one of her thin walls could be punctured. The farther we draw back, the more nervous I get. Damn, that flaring is close. I’m about to say something when Adrian guides the Command Module down, leaving us moving on an angle. As I’m not expecting the change, I find myself starting to drift out of the hatch and have to pull on the rim to stay where I am. Slowly, we slide down and away from the empty upper stage.
At a distance of about thirty feet, Adrian calls it.
“And we’re clear.”
Personally, I’d have been celebrating after about five feet.
“Copy that,” is the laconic reply from Mission Control. I bet there’s a bunch of people down there celebrating this win. “Proceed to 100 meters separation, and we’ll start the S-IVB burn to send the upper stage into a solar orbit.”
Juliet is so close I could touch her.
I retreat inside the Command Module and close the hatch.
Mission Control says, “Romeo, you are clear to pressurize Juliet and open the internal hatch. We want you to start a BBQ roll to help distribute heat across the craft. Once that’s underway, you have a 10-hour rest period. We have you scheduled for a mid-course correction at 27 hours, but nothing till then. Take some time to relax. Well done.”
Once we’ve pressurized Juliet, we’ll be able to move freely between the two modules. This will extend the amount of space available to us for the next couple of days. For the first time, I relax, feeling confident about the mission.
Juliet
The next two days are spent checking out the Lunar Module.
Adrian floats above me in the hatch as I perform yet another dry-run. I’m going through a simulation I’ve practiced over a hundred times on Earth leading up to our launch. If anything, I’m in danger of becoming numb to the details. Adrian asks dozens of questions. Why did you push that? Which program initiates the descent? What happens during an abort? He already knows the answers, but he’s making sure they’re second nature to me. Adrian even gives me fake altitude/velocity calls, simulating what I’d have to do if I was coming in too fast. He’s protective, which I appreciate. I’d rather he was coming with me.
We pass equigravisphere while in the middle of yet another checklist review. Mission Control acknowledges this invisible milestone with a short congratulations. In practice, nothing changes. We don’t feel anything, but we’re no longer racing away from Earth. Now, we’re falling toward the Moon. We’ve passed from one gravitational sphere of influence into another. As the Command Service Module is flying backward, butt-first toward the Moon, we can’t actually see the lunar surface. All we see is Earth shrinking within the window. Days are evident from the way the shadows move. Earth is small enough I can cover it with my outstretched thumb.
At seventy-six hours mission-elapsed time, we strap in for a six-minute burn to enter Lunar orbit. Adrenalin surges through my veins. I’ve been in space plenty of times, but the prospect of flying a museum-piece down to the surface of the Moon is suddenly real. The last few days have been lazy. We’ve kept ourselves busy, but it’s been relaxed. Now, with the smooth thrust of that massive engine pushing into the small of my back, I’m getting excited. This is happening.
The burn ends and we rush to the windows. We’ve got one more minor burn to conduct to circularize our orbit in about four hours. For now, though, it’s time for sightseeing.
“Oh, she’s close,” I say, getting my first view of the rugged surface.
Low orbits are possible around the Moon. There’s no atmosphere down there, so we can come in close and save fuel on the descent, but I didn’t expect to be this damn close. We’re still roughly a hundred thousand meters above the surface, but it looks as though I could reach out and touch the Moon.
Sunlight plays on the craters, casting long shadows. When we’re overhead, the craters appear round. As we drift on by, the change in angle makes them appear elongated. They go from circles to ovals. As the Moon curves much quicker than Earth, it looks as though the bigger craters are stuck on the side of a steep slope.
Back when I was stationed at Tranquility Base, I flew in solo. I was a replacement for a researcher that fell pregnant and had to return to Earth. Most shuttles leaving the lunar orbital station carried a dozen people, but I came in alone. I pushed a few buttons and the autopilot took me straight in. I had no interest in sightseeing. What was there to see? Yet another crater? Back then, I didn’t appreciate the sheer majesty of the Moon.
Four billion years of astrophysics has been etched into the lunar surface. Each scar tells a story. Vast, ancient craters have been worn smooth over the eons, but not by weathering. There’s been no wind or rain. Asteroids have sandblasted the hills, wearing them smooth. Rocks and dust sprayed out across the surface with each thundering impact. With no atmosphere to slow these fragments, debris came back down like an artillery barrage, causing secondary craters.
Recent impact sites appear sharp and crisp, overlaid across ancient craters. Even the dark mares are pockmarked with craters. Lava once flowed across these regions in vast glowing seas of molten magma. Some impacts have thrown out fresh regolith, scattering streaks of white powder across the surface. One of the hits reminds me of the blast from a shotgun slug. It’s deep and messy, smearing the lunar surface, scattering debris on all angles.
“What is that?” Adrian asks, pointing at worm-like squiggles on the open p
lains.
“Lava tubes,” I say, “We used to build bases inside them.”
As we’re moving into the night side of the Moon, we see lights on the surface. Golden yellow threads link brilliant alien nodes, giving life to the darkness. Tiny red pulses of light rush along these threads at speeds that must equate to thousands of miles an hour. Domes rise above the surface. To my surprise, they’re not built within the craters themselves. Instead, they seem to cross crater walls and crevasses, ignoring the elongated slopes of mountain ranges. It’s as though local geology was meaningless during construction.
“Romeo. Mission Control. You’re about to undergo LOS. Any sign of contact?”
“Negative,” Adrian says. “We can see motion on the surface but nothing in orbit.”
“Copy that.”
Victory had hoped getting into lunar orbit would be enough to provoke our curators into making contact. They must know we’re here.
As it is, the view out our window is limited. There could be an alien spacecraft in front of us and we’d never know it. Our view is blocked by the Service Module as we slide backward in orbit around the Moon. We’re facing the wrong way—on purpose. With Juliet mounted on our nose, our view is restricted to 120 degrees on either side of us. We’re blind in front and behind.
I look out at the massive alien domes. I’ve seen plenty of launches from space. On Earth, at least, there’s an initial upward kick to clear the atmosphere. Then it’s a case of racing sideways before gravity steps in and drags the rocket back down. Even on the Moon, there’s a need to get some altitude to clear mountain ranges, but it’s the sideways velocity that keeps a spacecraft in orbit. In general, higher is better for orbits as it gives you the one resource you can never get back in an emergency—time.
“And we’re in LOS,” Adrian says as the Loss of Signal light comes on. The Moon is now blocking contact with Earth.
For now, we’re on our own. It’s just us and them down there.
As we’re in the shadow of the Moon with our cabin lights lowered, the stars are visible. I’m more interested in the stars than the strange structures on the lunar surface. I’m watching to see if any of the stars appear to be in motion, as that would be a telltale sign we have company in orbit. Depending on the size of the spacecraft, most vessels can be seen out to a distance of about a hundred kilometers. Sunlight reflects nicely off curved surfaces. Spacecraft might look like stars, but if they’re in orbit, they’ll drift against the background of all the other stars and that motion will give them away.
We go through our circularization burn, dropping our orbit lower. It’s only a twenty second burn, but it feels good to be doing something.
Before I go into the Lunar Module and suit up, I empty my bladder and bowels into the closest thing to a toilet I’m going to have for at least the next 48 hours. Adrian is polite as usual, busying himself as I squat at the rear of the capsule, strapped in over a small open seat.
I clean up, dress, and pull myself through the Command Module. Floating through the hatch into the Lunar Module is always a thrill. I touch lightly on the steel fittings, steering myself.
In a few minutes, my fate will rely on yet another build team. My life depends on their ability to decipher ancient schematics. A moment’s inattention several months ago, crossing wires or failing to tighten a connection, could spell disaster for me. If anything goes wrong, I only hope death comes quick. Once I start the descent, there’s no prospect of rescue.
I leave the hatch open for now as the two of us talk through the approach. With the LEM powered up and system checks complete, a couple more orbits have passed. As I’ve only got two small triangular windows, I’ve been staring out at the stars. I haven’t seen Earth, the Moon, or the sprawling alien bases for over an hour. My focus is on the job at hand.
All I can think about is the next step. I need to undock and perform a little orbital ballet. That’ll allow Adrian to conduct a visual investigation/confirmation of the lander. What’s he going to see? He sure as hell isn’t going to see a loose connection in the fuel lines. Oh, he’ll be able to confirm the deployment of the landing legs, but that’s about it. Hey, it’ll be fun, I tell myself. The descent is going to be hell, but taking a twirl, yeah, that’ll be nice and relaxing, a good way to flex the controls.
“Coming up on one hundred hours,” Adrian says, briefly appearing at the hatch. We’ve had the schedule drummed into us. A hundred is a nice round number. I’m not sure why they picked that particular number, but that’s the cue to close the hatch and undock.
“Let’s do this,” I say, offering a thumbs up and a smile.
With the hatch closed, I extend the legs on the lander. They’ve been curled up beneath Juliet since we pulled her out of the upper stage. A tiny light tells me the process is complete, but Adrian will confirm once we’ve separated.
Although I’m looking at a checklist, I’m going through the motions. I’ve learned these actions by rote. My fingers move as though on auto-pilot, punching in the necessary commands as I say, “Undocking.”
I use the Reaction Controls on the Lunar Module to separate the two craft. It feels liberating to ease out to fifty meters. A light touch on the controls brings Juliet to a halt. In reality, both spacecraft are hurtling around the Moon at the same speed, but it feels as though we’re stationary.
“Pitching,” I say.
I rotate the lander. Instead of our hatches aligning, I can now stare out the window at the Command Module. Adrian waves.
“Damn, she’s ugly,” he says as I begin my ballet, slowly conducting a yaw maneuver and turning through 360 degrees before him.
“Don’t you listen to him, Juliet. You’re the most beautiful ship to ever take flight.”
I pat the hull.
Adrian laughs. “You’re looking good.”
“Copy that.”
“Juliet, Mission Control. You are Go for descent to 50,000 meters.”
“Copy that, Mission Control.”
The Command Module looks small from out here. Sunlight reflects off its silver surface. I can just make out Adrian’s face in one of the windows as he says, “You be careful down there.”
“Will do,” I say.
I ease Juliet away from Romeo, watching the radar. Stars drift past the windows. I need two miles separation before engaging the descent engine for a thirty-second de-orbit burn. There’s plenty to do. I align Juliet so her engine is facing forward in the direction of travel. Firing her massive engine is going to slow my sideways motion. With that, I’ll start dropping toward the surface of the Moon, being pulled in by its gravity.
Damn, this is like landing a bullet gently and in one piece.
“Here we go,” I say. “Commencing descent orbit insertion.”
Thirty seconds later, I say, “And we have engine cutoff.”
That’s it. I’m committed. Now it’s just a case of watching as my altitude falls. Once Juliet passes through fifty thousand feet, it’ll be time to start the powered descent.
“Data acquisition is good… Landing radar is on… All systems are online… Confidence is high… Abort guidance is aligned with primary guidance.”
Rather than coming down, Juliet is sliding sideways toward the Moon. She’s racing around the lunar surface in a rapidly descending orbit. At this point, I’m destined to crash several hundred kilometers ahead. If not for the trusty engine beneath my boots and a tank full of gas, I’d go splat. In less than half an hour, I’ll be standing on the lunar surface. Either that or there’ll be another crater down there.
“Juliet, Mission Control. Requesting a yaw maneuver of plus fifteen degrees to improved signal.”
“Copy that,” I reply, using the reaction controls to turn the LEM. I’m trying to align the tiny antenna on top of the spacecraft with a tiny planet I can’t see.
“Juliet, you are looking good at fifty thousand feet. You are Go for powered descent.”
“Copy that. I am Go for powered descent.”
/> Powered Descent
The engine hums at a steady rate beneath my boots, following its descent program. I’m no longer an artificial asteroid rushing in toward the surface of the Moon.
The LEM is aligned so the windows are facing forward and up. Stars. I can see lots of stars. No Earth. No Moon. Just stars.
As Juliet descends and the engine fires, she’ll lose her forward momentum. As that happens, I’ll pitch, tilting the cockpit forward. I should be able to see the lunar surface a minute or so before landing.
Growing up, I knew there was no atmosphere on the Moon. I pictured Neil and Buzz approaching the Sea of Tranquility like a helicopter coming in to land. I thought they came straight down, but the reality was, until the last few minutes, their trajectory was more like that of a cannonball.
Although facing up at the stars seems crazy, it keeps Juliet’s massive descent engine facing forward. This allows me to bleed off my horizontal speed. Just like Neil and Buzz, I need to lose my sideways motion if I’m to land on the lunar surface.
Big numbers have always been meaningless to me. A thousand of this. Five thousand of that. Whatever. For me, I need something tangible. I’ve always been good at math. I do a bit of quick division in my head to settle my nerves. Right now, I’m tearing along, covering roughly twenty football fields a second. Damn, that’s fast. Within the next ten minutes, that’s got to be zero at the same time my altitude is zero—or I’ll go splat! How the hell did Armstrong pull this off all those years ago?
“Ignition,” I say as a vague sense of gravity returns. “Running P63.”
Program 63 manages the braking phase of the landing. The sensation I’m feeling is an illusion caused by the steady deceleration. I can feel my feet pressing against the floor of the module. In reality, it’s the Lunar Module that’s driving up against my boots. The spacecraft is fighting against the gravitational pull of the Moon, but it’s comforting to feel something solid beneath me. With the engine firing, I feel in control.
Déjà Vu (First Contact) Page 25
