Mars Wars - Abyss of Elysium

by Abyss Of Elysium (Lit)

  About this time, Hernandez and Julia Friedman came walking briskly around the corner. Lipton stood stoically, arms folded over his chest, greeting Hernandez and Friedman with an incinerating stare. Peter allowed the group to stop in their positions, assume their fighting ground and let a minute of silence steady the hostility. It also gave him a moment to size up the apparent conflict. Francis understood his method and walked over to him.

  "Figure it out yet?" he asked Peter in a whisper.

  Peter nodded slightly. "Lassiter, who's on your manifest?" Peter asked, probably a little more harshly than he intended.

  "I don't owe you an explanation, Traynor. As far as the law is concerned, you’re an accused felon awaiting trial. How that involves you in the affairs of the community isn’t at all clear to me," Lipton replied coolly, striking his first blow early on.

  "Have it your way, Lassiter," Peter replied, physically turning away from him. "Francis, who's on the list?" Peter repeated.

  "It's quite a list. It looks like we're competing with Chicago O'Hare, actually. There’re more people on it than seats in the lander and Lipton even has a standby list; go figure."

  Peter resisted the immediate urge to laugh, taking a copy of the flight manifest from Francis' hand and reading the names:

  1. P. Traynor NASA UNDER ARREST

  2. F. Linde NASA UNDER ARREST

  3. T. See ESA UNDER ARREST

  4. A. Alcyone NASA UNDER ARREST

  The list continued, with some other names annotated as UNDER ARREST, and eight names highlighted as "standby".

  "Okay, I give up. How is Lipton planning to fly more passengers than seats?" Peter asked. "And what is a standby?"

  "From what I can gather from His Majesty,” Francis replied, “it appears he’s building a paper case for gross insubordination. This official manifest is some kind of proof that all of the hooligans on the list whose comment reads "UNDER ARREST" refused to board the lander as he so ordered, so that qualifies them for a special lower floor in hell."

  "I presume then that the last eight names on this list, labeled "standby" are the most likely actual passengers?"

  "It appears so," Francis replied with an over exaggerated sigh.

  "Then why is this list so radically different from the original manifest?"

  "I’ve decided that those are the official passengers for this expedition to earth," Lipton replied.

  "I thought you weren't talking to me today, Lassiter," Peter replied, slowly fixing his eyes on Lipton.

  Lipton seemed to bite his tongue to keep from snapping back. He apparently thought himself much too polished to engage in a verbal dual with a subordinate.

  "That list is final," he continued. "If none of the lawfully accused will board the lander as so ordered, and my assigned Marine guard is in complicity with mutiny, then I have taken the prerogative to assign those eight other individuals as reflected by the manifest on a standby basis to return to earth. They’re the individuals who have been here the longest and who are next in line to fly home."

  "I see," Peter replied evenly, finally understanding the hidden strategy.

  Notably agitated, Brinker walked over to Peter. "Hiraldo ain't going; that's it," he whispered. "She's my best troop, and I'm not going to allow her to fly out of here where she serves the requirements of the military contingent. As the HMFIC I’m authorized to make that decision! It’s my call and I’m the one who hangs for it, not Lipton!”

  Peter reviewed the list. Hiraldo's name was one of the eight on the bottom of the list, labeled, "standby".

  "Tell her to refuse to fly. Order her not to go! What's the problem here, Brinker?" Peter asked, somewhat agitated at such a simple problem.

  "It ain't that easy. She still thinks Lipton's in charge. She won't risk her career by refusing to obey his orders. If her name is on the list, then she thinks she has to leave. The joke of it is, she doesn't even want to go, while the new man, Tyler, wants out, and he ain't worth a dime to me."

  "Okay," Peter replied, understanding. "How about exchanging Hiraldo's seat with Tyler?"

  "Fine, if you can do it," Brinker replied, casting a doubtful look at Lipton.

  "We're exchanging two names on your list, Lassiter," Peter said bluntly, making his notes on the manifest. "Marine Tyler is swapping seats with Marine Hiraldo. Brinker is lawfully in military command here and he has declared an emergency replacement, position for position. It's his call," Peter said quickly to prevent Lipton from interrupting.

  To Peter’s initial surprise, Lipton instantly agreed. "Very well," he said briskly. Too late, Peter realized, his mistake. He had just acquiesced in spirit to Lipton's manifest.

  "But I do want to add, Lipton, that regardless of who is on this list, committing anyone but the flight crew to this manifest represents a gross lack of judgment," Peter added in a weak and altogether useless attempt to recover.

  "Then why do you add names to the list?" Lipton shot back, playing it out expertly.

  Francis was fed up with Lipton's diversion. "You know as well as we do, Lipton, the chance of any of those people surviving when they reach earth is slim to none. If there has been a nuclear exchange, they can't possibly make it. There’ll be no place to land. They may even be stranded in space, for God's sake!"

  "You've even started to believe your own treachery," Lipton spat back. "And why don't you drop the word "IF"? Your convoluted stories are beginning to sound more bizarre by the hour."

  "Then manifest yourself," Francis demanded. "If you’re convinced that things are so grand, go back and see for yourself. Fly on a ship that is controlled by an untested protocol in direct violation of every procedure in the book. Let’s all see if you have enough guts to prove your theory with your own life!"

  Lipton sighed heavily and closed his eyes as if making a colossal attempt at self control. Then he began to walk slowly away. Francis swung around to face Lipton's form retreating through the door.

  "You're a coward, Lipton! You don't have enough guts to get on the ship yourself!" Francis yelled after him. “Now it’s clear enough that everyone can see it!”

  Peter put his hand on his shoulder. "That's enough, Francis. I think he heard you," Peter said.

  "What are we going to do to stop him?" Francis asked, facing Peter directly. "We can't let these people fly out to their deaths!"

  Peter reached for the C2 and pressed Toon's locater.

  "Toon? Peter here. Did you check the flight protocol?"

  "Yes," Toon's sleepy voice answered. "I couldn't find anything."

  "Can you be more specific?" Peter asked, a feeble question that reflected his complete lack of knowledge about any combination of the debugging process, the flight protocol or the aerodynamic equations that comprised it.

  "I was able to spot the ascent equations and they looked good to me... the data set looked in order... But, Peter, I’m a programmer, not a flight dynamics specialist..." Toon warned weakly. "I couldn't even run it all the way through without a simulation routine, which we don't have."

  "I understand. Goodnight." Switching off the C2, Peter looked to Brinker. "Tell Hiraldo she's off the hook, and have Tyler pack his bags. Francis, draw up a disclaimer statement for the passengers signatures. Have it reflect the explicit conditions they could find on earth and say something about the untested flight protocol. If they sign it, let ‘em go. We can't stop them."

  "What good is a disclaimer going to do?" Brinker asked.

  "It’ll ease our conscience just in case they auger in," Peter answered truthfully, then left to resume what remained of a short and fitful night's rest.

  14

  C1 passed from the night watch to full blown launch preparations exactly at 0500. Although the physical tasks had been initiated a sol and a half before, the psychological pitch did not gear up until the breakfast line started serving at five. The launch window would open on schedule and Commander Cartwright let it be known that his main engines were going to be firing at that moment and not
a single millisecond later.

  The flight crew had spent the night onboard their ship. By 0500, Rat had sent breakfast out to them. The white room had been repaired and the close out crew was preparing the lander for boarding. The ship had been fully fueled overnight and there were no mechanical problems. It appeared increasingly evident that Cartwright was going to get his wish.

  Every evening prior to a departure flight off Mars, a ceremony was held in the dining hall to remember the work accomplished by those leaving and to pass out awards. The awards consisted of certificates and plaques made from fused Martian sand. Since there was no ceremony the evening before, Hernandez stood ready at the departure gate with the plaques and certificates. Lipton had declined to be present, but had dutifully signed each certificate.

  Also present at the departure gate was Julia Freidman, who accompanied Hernandez. Peter, Francis and Brinker stood apart from the milling crowd.

  The eight departing personnel lined up along the tight passageway leading to the airlock. Hernandez, never one for speeches, simply handed each their plaque and certificate with a weak handshake. It was congenial enough, with smiles from and for everyone.

  "Did they sign their disclaimer statements?" Peter asked Brinker.

  "Yes, sir. They wouldn't be standing here if they didn't," he replied. "Hicks said he wasn't going to sign anything and slammed the door in my face; nearly crushed my cigar. Hiraldo proceeded to remove the door so that I could inform Hicks that his seat was going to the first person who signed on the electronic line."

  "And?" Peter asked.

  "He signed. But that boy's not what I'd call a happy camper."

  Peter looked at Hicks, standing in line with his seven other fellow passengers. Hicks had signed on as a colonist, but just never fit in and had decided to leave early on. The fact that not everyone would be happy as a colonist was a calculated reality. Indeed, there had been a 19% drop-out rate among those who came to stay permanently. The colonists accepted this reality and never held it against those who changed their minds. They had never had any significant problems with anyone until Hicks.

  Hicks' attitude was acutely critical toward the other colonists and he had personally been responsible for many of the hard feelings of recent months. Peter was more than glad to see him go.

  As Hernandez reached the end of the line, the passengers turned to enter the air lock for boarding the MATs to the Crippen launch complex. Brinker stepped over to shake U.S. Marine Tyler's hand and wish him the best of luck.

  Hicks, standing behind Tyler, became agitated at the delay. "You wanna to step out of my way, people?" he said.

  Brinker's eyes moved slowly over to him and gave him a look that would just precede quadruple dismemberment. "I’m talking to one of the nation’s finest fighting men, son. Now if you can’t offer us the respect of a few parting moments, I may just have to break your limp wrist. Your choice."

  Hicks became red in the face and quickly looked away from Brinker. He said nothing.

  Brinker handed Tyler a small data wafer. "This is a complete report on what has happened here over the last week. As soon as you regain contact with any higher military authority, please pass it along. Make them sign a hand receipt for it. It’s classified, so don't let it out of your sight."

  Tyler nodded, taking the wafer and sliding it into his wide breast pocket. "Sarge, I'm sorry I let you down," he said in a near whisper.

  "You didn't let me down, Tyler. This whole thing was my decision. Go on back. We need you to deliver that message. Hiraldo needs to stay here; she knows the ropes. You're a good man, Tyler. I'm sorry I didn't have time to teach you how to be the best. But it'll come." Brinker was virtually stuttering. He had no experience or competence at good-byes or anything resembling sentimentality.

  Tyler managed a weak smile, and then turned to cast a murderous glare at Hicks.

  "If this man gives anyone a hard time, you have my permission to stuff him in the airlock and blow his wise-ass out into space," Brinker said, looking purposefully at Hicks.

  "Yes, sir," Tyler replied, popping Brinker a smart salute.

  "Knock that off, Marine. I'm not a commissioned officer; I work for a living," Brinker replied with a half smile, not returning the salute. "Now get out of here and take care of yourself."

  Tyler stepped into the airlock, slamming the door in Hick's face. "It looks like you're going to have to wait, Hicks," Brinker said, turning away and laughing loudly.

  Fifteen minutes later, three MAT's departed for the lander. Peter, Brinker, Hernandez, Francis and Friedman watched the MAT's grow smaller in the distance, all quietly wondering the same thing. Would these be the last humans to depart Mars for earth in their generation? It could well be so, but no one spoke it out loud. In just 90 minutes, the lander would be launching.

  Every eye at BC1 watched the proceedings with rapt fascination. Lift-offs and landings at Crippen had not yet become passé, even though this was the way each one of them had arrived. Yet, this launch was different; somehow intensely interesting and more important than any other. The rumors of the minute had been based on other rumors and no one wanted to miss a single second of this launch.

  Hernandez took his place in the Control Center beside Lipton. Peter, Francis, Ashley and Brinker joined the other colonists in the dining hall where several monitors had been set up to view the procedures on the pad, in the white room and in the Control Center. Of those not watching the affair, the rest were actively involved in the launch effort itself.

  The close out crew buckled the eight passengers into the lander, right on schedule, exactly one hour prior to scheduled lift off. The count down continued to proceed smoothly.

  Lipton sat at the director's control console passively. His appearance was standard Liptonesque: polished and flawless. But he was not acting out his ordinarily presumptuous and imperious control of the launch proceedings. He sat quietly, allowing Hernandez to answer for the director when required.

  The colonists in the dining hall were also subdued. Few comments were made during the final hour of the count, the pressure obviously building toward the final minutes.

  "Minus five minutes and counting," came the voice of the launch director.

  "Auxiliary Power Units one through four are up and running," came the voice of Pilot Sigourney Michner.

  The tension rose another notch. Lipton sat all the way back in his chair, arms folded, facing four monitors. Beside him, Hernandez wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. They had not exchanged a single word.

  "Minus three minutes. All APU's at 105 percent. Aero surfaces powered... verified."

  "You’re go for launch," relayed the launch director.

  From space, Bob Kerry could just see BC1 and Crippen space port through his hand held telescope as a bright, fuzzy dot. The lander would pass ahead of him in orbit. He would eventually catch them in less than three orbits by negotiating both orbital parameters until rendezvous and docking. In just under three and a half hours, they would be speeding away from Mars to solar orbit and a now protracted catch up to the Von Braun.

  "Minus one minute and counting. All fuel tanks pressurized. LOX inner tank, pressurized. We are go for liftoff," Cartwright certified.

  Peter was virtually holding his breath. There had never been a U.S. launch failure of a manned vehicle from another body other than earth. One reason for that was the strict controls over the launch conditions. This lander was about to intentionally violate one of the more basic of those regulations: a secure data link with the massive and powerful earth based computers. Even though there was a significant time lag between the two machines, they were in a state of continual purge and cross checking of data sent ahead, in advance, that the smaller computer on the lander could not handle with as much efficiency. Such coordinated data streaming, albeit long distance and time delayed, ensured that the astronauts received the best computing power of both systems as each cross-checked the other. The multi-channeled earth base information stream was
so powerfully robust, that it operated on hundreds of spaced frequencies all at once so that it could automatically handle launch delays, holds and thousands of other contingencies even while up to 20 light minutes behind.

  "Minus ten seconds..... minus five, four, three, ignition, one, liftoff!"

  The lander spewed red dust over the desert as the vehicle began an immediate ascent. The three main engines flared and blossomed into a clear, blindingly white flower as the ungainly, barely aerodynamic lander rose above the launch structure, making an immediate upside down roll to its left and heading just slightly south. Its mushroom shaped heat shield, fitted like a saddle over its underbelly, seemed to pull it down for a moment, until its guidance computer straightened the ship, per the flight plan. Within minutes, it was but a mere streaking dot in the dark dome of blue-black sky.

  "Plus one minute, Commander," the Flight Director announced. "17 klicks altitude, 19 klicks down range, on the flight path."

  Peter found himself biting his lower lip; something that he had never done before. He and the others were now glued to the image on their monitors provided by the powerful downrange telescopic cameras.

  "Plus one minute, thirty seconds. 22 klicks altitude, 39 klicks downrange."

  The nominal trajectory would carry them into a near circular orbit of 48 kilometers after an engine burn time of six minutes.

  "Plus two minutes. All systems are nominal. Negative return Crippen."

  This meant that the lander could not return in an emergency on its available fuel to the Crippen landing site.

  "Plus three minutes. Negative return."

  The lander had just entered the most dangerous portion of its flight. It now did not have enough fuel to return under power to any point on the planet. If the ship lost its power, it would crash. If anything significant went wrong for the next three minutes, they could not land safely on Mars or make it into orbit.

  Another half minute passed. The collective pulse rates and blood pressures of everyone present raised several notches. Then the unthinkable began.