by Bonnie Doran
“They’ll get it back.” Joe cleared his throat. “But Larry—uh, Larry’s body—will float alongside us ’til we update our orbit. Should do that mighty soon. His body’s a danger to the station.”
Hildi winced at the macabre thought. The astronauts stared at the floor, ceiling, anywhere but at each other. The somberness in the station weighted the air.
Everyone went to their assigned cabins. She brooded, trying to think of nothing. Instead, all she could see was Larry hurling Frank into a life-saving trajectory.
Joe’s voice over the intercom jarred her out of her bleak thoughts. “I’d like y’all to mosey over to the main cabin.”
Hildi pulled herself into the crowded common area, noting the red-rimmed eyes on everyone. Frank arrived last.
Joe cleared his throat. He clutched an ancient copy of the Book of Common Prayer in front of his chest like a shield. “Folks, I think we should pay our respects.” He opened the book to an earmarked section. He paused. “That is, if no one objects. I know y’all have different faiths.” His gaze touched each one in turn and settled briefly on Maria, but everyone nodded.
“ISS, Houston. We’re with you.” Steve Walters took the mic as Dan softly sobbed in the background. Hildi’s heart tumbled.
“Uh, I’ll be reading from the Burial of the Dead. It’s meant for burial at sea, but…I think it’s appropriate.” Joe acted as ship’s captain as he read the words, occasionally wiping his nose on his sleeve. “‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord…We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.’”
Hildi glanced at the others, all floating in microgravity and oriented the same direction, heads bowed. The service was more than appropriate for a man who’d sacrificed himself as a career astronaut venturing into the sea of space. She jerked her attention back to Joe’s words.
“‘Lord, let me…let me know my end, and the number of my days…’”
He droned on as the astronauts listened in silence except for a few sniffles. The lump in Hildi’s throat grew into a grapefruit.
Joe stopped. “Y’all, let’s recite the Lord’s Prayer together. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven…‘”
The radio crackled as the people back in Mission Control joined them a beat or two delayed. Frank and Jasper whispered the words while Leonid floundered. Maria floated in respectful silence. Hildi’s voice cracked at every other word.
“Amen.” Joe swallowed. “These, uh, are the last words. ‘We therefore commit his body to the deep…uh…depths of space, looking for the general Resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose second coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, uh…space shall give up its dead; and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in Him shall be changed, and made like unto His glorious body; according to the mighty working whereby He is able to subdue all things unto Himself. Amen.”
The final word echoed in the cabin. Hildi couldn’t choke back her tears. No one else managed it, either. Tiny spheres of salty water escaped and drifted in the weightlessness.
Good-bye, Larry. See you in Heaven.
When Joe finished, he took a deep breath and shifted into a serious mode. Very serious. Hildi tensed. Here it comes.
Joe resumed his station commander’s voice. “I’ve been doing a little calculatin’ on our current inventory. Reconciliation was supposed to re-supply us, but ’course that didn’t happen. We have fifty days left of food and water.” Joe exhaled. “The crucial shortage is oxygen. We lost a lot with the leak. We have fifteen days.”
The station always had a forty-five-day supply. Hildi’s brain tried to comprehend how a routine spaceflight could go so terribly wrong.
When the murmuring faded, Leonid raised his voice. “Russian supply rocket leaves in ten days, da?”
“Doesn’t look good. They’re having ‘technical difficulties’ as they put it. Seems to me they ought to launch anyway, or we could be in a world of hurt.”
“And if they can’t?” Hildi’s stomach rolled.
“Don’t know.”
22
“I” Plus Three Days
Dan released the breath he’d been holding. Joe had repaired the leak without too much trouble. The station commander lost his Texas drawl, a sure sign of stress, but everything seemed under control for the moment. Under control with fifteen days of air left. He thanked God they didn’t have a full crew on ISS. Three more astronauts on board would have stretched the oxygen supply even thinner.
A geeky-looking engineer with a white shirt, pocket protector, and thick glasses burst through the door, a member of ISS monitoring team in the next room.
“What is it, Alex?” Annoyance tinged Steve’s face.
Dan’s stomach nose-dived. Please, Lord. I don’t know how much more I can handle.
“Steve, ISS had an air leak.” The engineer announced his news in a quavering voice.
“We know, Alex. Joe just patched the leak on the station. They’ll do a more permanent repair once we know the whole situation.”
Alex frowned.
Steve gestured to a chair. “We have other issues we need to address. Sit. We need your expertise.”
Apparently mollified, the engineer sat. Dan smiled at him. Geeky, but the best brain around.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Steve stood and took command. His words now would color the White Team’s struggle between sorrow and responsibility. Fifteen men and women, eyes glistening, turned from their consoles.
Steve cleared his throat. “We have six astronauts marooned on ISS, damage to the docking ring, and a capsule that’s tumbling out of control. We need to focus, people.”
Every head nodded.
“Give me the readouts, by the numbers.” Steve sat and pulled a pad of ledger paper toward him, his back rebar straight, a supervisor coordinating a building’s construction. Dan prayed the building wouldn’t collapse on its foundation. He rubbed clammy palms on his pressed slacks.
“Do we know where Reconciliation is now?” Steve jotted notes on a yellow sheet.
The woman at the tracking console swiveled in her chair. Dan noted her red-rimmed eyes and smeared mascara. “Sir, we have an orbit. Well off that of ISS.”
“How is that possible?”
Another controller turned to Steve. “The attitude jets are still firing intermittently on their own. We have no maneuvering capability of the spacecraft at this time. Still working to reestablish telemetry.”
Dan shifted in his seat. Worst possible scenario. Steve scribbled more notes and looked at the controller. “Opinion. Can we regain telemetry?”
“Yes.” The man fidgeted. “I think so.”
Alex the Geek blinked. “Flight, we can do it.”
Steve leaned forward. So did the ground-control engineer, apparently annoyed at the interruption.
Alex stood and paced. “The S-band high-speed comm link is inoperative. The antenna was probably broken off during translation. We can’t engage Remote RCS and maneuver her back to the station. But”—he paused—”we can deorbit her. We can initiate the automated reentry sequence by DTMF over the VHF voice comm, using the backup RCS. It should work.”
Steve looked skeptical. “What if the primary RCS system is still compromised?”
“It’ll work.” Alex bounded over to the engineer’s desk and started pointing at the dials and numbers, talking in a low voice. Finally, the engineer nodded. “He’s right.”
“Do it. I want the spacecraft on Earth and in one piece.” Steve stabbed a finger on his ledger. “Reconciliation is a memorial to our fallen astronaut. It’s also a valuable piece of government property. If we can retrieve her intact, we can find out what happened.” He glanced at Dan. “Valiant is due to launch in three weeks, but of course now it’ll be delayed.”
Dan’s heart sank. There went his next mission and possibly the moon as well. The
NASA guys would be hashing and rehashing the problem for months—years—with or without the capsule.
He dreaded the next question he knew Steve had to ask.
“Have we determined the location of the body?”
A woman swiveled in her chair to face him. She swallowed. Dan admired her control; her voice barely broke. “Sir, he’s in a parallel orbit with the station, thankfully out of view.”
Alex interrupted. “ISS will adjust orbit soon to avoid possible collision.”
“I’ll notify the family.” Steve took a deep breath and continued his relentless assessment of the situation. Dan marveled at the man’s concentration and thanked God he wasn’t sitting in the director’s chair. “How are the vital signs on our astronauts?”
The flight surgeon turned from her console. “I’m showing elevated levels of pulse and blood pressure, but that’s understandable considering the circumstances. Jasper’s vitals barely moved. I’d say they’re in decent shape.”
“Thanks, people. Good job.” Steve leaned back in his chair.
Dan stared at the computer screen as the station’s video camera showed two objects tumbling away. Silent tears and inner rage battled for supremacy. Larry gone?
Space work was dangerous. Everyone knew that. Each mission could become another disaster, and there had been too many of those. He just never expected it to be Larry.
He’d just spoken to him. Larry had been upbeat, facing the emergency with his usual competence. How could he be dead?
Dan swallowed, trying to shake his emotions into a corner of his mind for later processing. He had to concentrate. He couldn’t let grief affect his job as CAPCOM—the voice of calm to a crew in shock.
Everyone in Mission Control had listened while Joe conducted the first memorial service in space. Most stared at their consoles instead of each other.
“An honorable end for any astronaut,” Dan murmured.
Those close by nodded.
He ducked his head. He hadn’t meant to speak aloud.
“You’re right, Dan.” The flight director met his gaze with a ghost of a smile. “But I prefer old age myself.”
Alex collapsed against his chair. Steve’s stare pulled him back to an upright position. “Just how much oxygen do they have left in the tanks?”
“I’ll get back to you.” The man hurried away as if his tail were on fire.
23
“I” Plus Four Days
Chet glanced at the late-afternoon sun reflected on the sea then returned to surfing the Internet in the computer room, looking for news articles about an influenza outbreak. The papers should have reported something by now, unless his tactic of spraying the napkins had failed. He weighed the possibilities. Maybe it was a bit early. If doctors didn’t report flu to the CDC, it would take a while, and hopefully they’d never trace the outbreak to the seminar.
He stretched, grateful he’d recovered so quickly from the cold. He wasn’t contagious any more, but he used the hand sanitizer dispensers often. However, his steward had looked a bit peaked the other day. This morning a fellow from Indonesia had taken his place.
Chet gave up on his flu hunt and typed “Worthington Hildebrandt” into the search box. Google listed a ton of links. The first one sent him to his father’s website. He scanned the information, noting the next seminar had been canceled. Maybe he’d gotten the flu after all. Good. Other sites contained denouncements of dear old Dad as an adulterer. Hear, hear.
One news article caught his eye from the search results page, “Seminar Leader Hospitalized.” Chet frowned. The virus wasn’t that potent. His neck prickled as he clicked on the link.
The controversial pastor-turned-seminar-leader became ill on Tuesday and was admitted to Littleton Hospital’s ICU ward with double pneumonia. His doctor refused comment.
Hmmm. Chet tried another article, this one from one of those sleazy tabloids. Just the usual garbage about his father’s ongoing love affairs, this time with a ninety-two-year-old woman. How anyone believed such trash was beyond him.
The paper’s headline caught his eye. “Flying Saucer Attacks Space Station.” Always alien this, alien that. Wait a minute. Shouldn’t his sister be on the station by now?
Chet started a new search for “Hildi Hildebrandt.” The first result was an article from the Los Angeles Times. “Capsule Crashes: Kills One, Astronauts Stranded.” His jaw dropped.
He read the article in full, stomach knotting. Hildi wasn’t the one killed, and his stomach relaxed a bit. He didn’t know the other astronauts except for Frank. The sleazeball.
Chet had zero tolerance for adulterers, wishing they’d all eternally rot. But Hildi had not only forgiven their father like a good little Christian but had forgiven Frank as well for cheating on her during their engagement. Chet never would forgive either of them. And to think he’d actually liked Frank.
He felt himself being watched. He turned his head and admired the slim, smiling woman who met his eyes. She wore a cruise name badge. “Can I help you with anything? I’m roaming the room and answering questions.”
Chet deleted his search. He’d probably overstayed his welcome on the Internet connection. “I’m done if you’re waiting for this.”
“No, no.” Her laugh was a tinkling bell. “Take as much time as you need.”
Chet faked a concerned frown as he pointed at the minutes remaining on the Internet card he’d purchased from the cruise line. “Wow. I should daydream less often. Guess I should pay more attention when I’m doling out money by the minute.”
“It adds up quickly. Do you need help in increasing your Internet time?”
She was blonde and well dressed. Chet admired her graceful form and sea-gray eyes. Taking a deep breath, he plunged in. “Hi, I’m Chet Hildebrandt.” He stuck out his hand.
She shook it. “Sandy Andrews. Pleased to meet you.” The woman had a firm grip in spite of her wrist splints. She also had short fingernails.
Chet smiled. “You’re a harpist.”
Her mouth quirked upward. “How’d you know?”
“Used to hang around concerts backstage.” He glanced at the splints. “Carpal tunnel?”
“Yeah. Occupational hazard.”
“How’d you wind up in charge of the computer room?”
Her laughter tinkled. “Oh, no. I’m just the relief person. Jeff is the real expert.”
Disappointment clipped Chet’s hopeful wings. “Jeff?” Drat, she’s married.
“Jeff Huth.”
Chet hoped Jeff was just a coworker. He glanced at her left hand. No wedding ring. “Do you play for symphonies or chamber ensembles?”
“I play for both occasionally. I signed up for this gig a few months ago. Pays the bills, plus I see the world.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’d love to hear you play.”
“Well,” she whispered, “I’m playing in Le Pouvre from eight to eleven tonight.”
Le Pouvre was the fancy French restaurant on board. He’d tried to schedule a reservation. His hopes skidded to a halt. “They’re booked tonight. I checked.”
“If you want, you can sit in their lobby and listen. I’m trying to arrange a little recital, but the cruise director hasn’t figured out a time. Keep checking with the daily schedule.”
“I will. I’d like to—”
“Hey. Hellooo.” An overweight woman in an aloha shirt that screamed vacation interrupted them. “If you’re quite through with this touching conversation, I need help with getting my e-mail.” She scowled from a nearby seat as if it was their fault.
Sandy winked at him. “Gotta go,” she whispered, then turned on the charm as she addressed the woman. “I’m so sorry. What seems to be the problem?”
Chet quickly packed up his laptop and left, hiding a grin. He walked up several flights to his stateroom, noting his regular steward was still missing. The Indonesian only said, “Very sick, sir.”
Striding across his room, Chet opened the sliding glass door to his balcony and
stepped outside, enjoying the cool air. The gray, churning sea reflected his worry about Hildi in jeopardy, stuck in space with The Creep. The news piece had mentioned a problem with the air supply, but he never took the reports seriously. Sensationalism was the name of their game.
The breeze glued his pants to his legs. He stepped back into the room and closed the door, convinced the wind had also pulled his hair off his scalp. A quick comb with his fingers yielded only snarls.
He glanced at the clock. Time to dress for one of the formal dinners. He changed into his tux, tamed his hair, fussed a bit with his cufflinks, and was ready. He looked forward to sitting in the mezzanine with a drink and the mellow sounds of a string quartet.
Before he exited, he paused. He pulled his empty suitcase out of the closet, rummaged through its pockets, and found the vial he’d snatched from the CDC. He pulled it out, examined the label, and froze.
This vial didn’t belong in Level 3. It wasn’t the mild flu virus he thought he’d taken. It wasn’t the variant of H1N1 that hit the U.S. in 2010. This was much, much worse.
24
“I” Plus 5 Days
Worth sipped his tea, trying not to cough the hot liquid all over the bed sheets. A nurse’s aide was kind enough to fetch his comfort beverage. He’d steeped it a little too long, but the bitter, scalding brew with lemon and sugar eased the ache in his throat, at least for a moment.
Craning his neck, he glanced at the pulse-ox meter. Temperature up, oxygen down. Still going down, as he expected.
Yesterday evening he’d sent Laura home for some much-needed sleep. She’d protested, of course, but even Annie, his night nurse, had thrown her out. He was too weak to insist himself, a fact he tried to hide, but he couldn’t fool Laura.
“OK, I’m leaving. I can take a not-so-subtle hint.” Her tired smile attested to her drained energy. “I’ll be back in the morning.” She kissed his forehead like he was a fevered child. Her shoulders slumped as she turned and walked out.
