The urge to turn around and look at the rear cabin wall obsesses him. He struggles against the seat belt to turn around far enough, gripping the back of the command chair, his focus snapping to the unbroken surface of the back wall.
There is, of course, no door.
That fact triggers a buzzing disbelief and panic which crashes over him like an emotional tsunami. He feels tears on his face as the images before him begin to compress into a tunnel, and then to a single point of light, just before everything goes dark.
ASA MISSION CONTROL, MOJAVE, CALIFORNIA, 12:45 P.M. PACIFIC
Richard DiFazio takes the news from Arleigh quietly. Most of the controllers have left their stations since the realization dawned that there would be no more information on the video monitors. They stand in small groups now, scattered around the room, grim and tense as they wait for something to be relayed from cameras and sensors they don’t have, the frustration compounded by their having no sources of their own.
The CEO of American Space Adventures quietly returns to the conference room and lifts a receiver, punching in the number he’d considered calling earlier, an international number he guards carefully in his PDA. The male voice answers in Russian and switches adroitly to English with a cheery greeting which changes to a serious tone at the news of Intrepid’s dilemma.
“And, of course, it will be a balmy day in the Bering Strait before our good friend Geoffrey is willing to help, no?”
“You’ve got that right. But you’ve got a resupply mission coming up in two weeks, correct?”
“What you’re thinking is not possible without money, Richard, and maybe not even then.”
“But you’ll try?”
There is a long pause and a weary sigh.
“Can your people last for eight days?”
“No.”
“Then you’re asking the impossible, regardless of money. Launching inside of eight days from now would be suicide.”
“They’re damaged up there, Vasily. Our astronaut…you’ve met him, by the way…Bill Campbell.”
“Yes, I have, but it doesn’t change the reality of what we can do.”
“They were hit by something, they’ve lost all comm, and apparently he can’t get the engine to light to kick him out of orbit. He’s flown through three chances we know he’d take.”
There’s a long stretch of silence and the two wait each other out, Vasily giving in first. “I already knew of this, Richard. John Kent called me and our people have been monitoring, too. But even if we could get there, you have no docking collars, no compatible hatches, and only one space suit. We can’t tow him back home.”
“We have an airlock. We can stuff a spare suit inside the lock. Bill gets the passenger ready and out, then takes the spare suit and comes out himself.”
“Perhaps. But it takes eight days, Richard. I’m sorry. Maybe NASA can move faster.”
“I’m begging, Vasily.”
“Don’t beg, my friend. It isn’t becoming. Unlike Shear, we would help if we could. But you knew the risks when you started your business, and we all warned you about rescues.”
ABOARD INTREPID, 12:45 P.M. Pacific
Consciousness returns slowly. Dreamlike, fuzzy images of an upside-down cabin slowly coalesce until Kip realizes he’s floating in zero gravity around the ceiling, upside down in relation to the cabin floor. How long he’s been out he isn’t sure. He’s never blacked out before, except for one time as a kid when a larger classmate bounced an impressively large rock off his head in the school yard.
It’s the same scene, the same nightmare he’d left. Bill’s body, the absence of an escape door, the hiss of the air conditioning, the plastic and antiseptic smell of the interior. Everything.
He reaches out tentatively and grasps the back of the command chair, working his body into it again, facing forward. He feels foolish and exhausted. They had explained that the cabin pressure in orbit would be the equivalent of a ten-thousand-foot altitude and that too much physical exertion would net light-headedness. That must have been it.
I moved too fast and blacked out from lack of oxygen.
That’s better than the alternative explanation. No way could he have just fainted.
Kip clicks the seat belt on again and looks at the clock. He’s only been out a short time and nearly eighty minutes remain to the next retrofire point—the end of Orbit 4. He tries to pump himself up with the idea that he can try to fire the engine yet again, but he knows he’s deluding himself. For some reason the Eagles’ “Hotel California” suddenly begins playing in his head, the haunting lyrics and one phrase in particular sending a shiver up his spine.
You can check out any time you like,
But you can never leave!
He lets himself sink into the bizarre images it paints in his mind as he shivers, unwilling to believe he’s hit the wall with no more options, and equally unwilling to delude himself that there are some. His anger returns, but this time there’s no energy left for hitting or throwing or yelling. He sits, doing a slow burn, searching for someone to blame and coming up empty.
About as productive as blaming God! he thinks, his mind still ricocheting off a dozen possible solutions, each one of which evaporates into little more than wishful thinking.
And suddenly there is nothing left but reality, and it feels like a black hole in his soul, sucking everything that remains of him into another dimension. He sees movement in one of the side windows and looks, realizing the image is his, startled by the mirrorlike reflection of the fear in his eyes.
And the guilt! The overwhelming, crushing guilt that he’s done exactly what Sharon tried to prevent. He’s killed his children’s father, her husband. He’s walked stupidly into the abyss.
He feels tears again cascading on his face and he buries his head in his hands, eyes closed, body shaking, wishing, praying, begging for deliverance as the silent, anguished cry of “No!” fills his mind. He rocks back and forth in agony until he’s stunned enough and tired enough to escape into the blessed release of a numbed sleep.
Chapter 13
ASA MAINTENANCE CONTROL, MOJAVE, CALIFORNIA,
MAY 17, 12:58 P.M. PACIFIC
On any normal day the sight of Richard DiFazio walking into ASA’s maintenance office would be routine, but his sudden bursting through Mark Burgess’s office door just now catches everyone by surprise. The director of maintenance turns with a shocked expression as the CEO motions him to a corner office and pulls the door closed behind them.
“We have no choice, Mark. You’ve got to get Venture ready to fly by tomorrow, day after tomorrow at the latest.”
The veteran maintenance chief is shaking his head. “Didn’t I make it clear enough on the phone? Richard, the landing gear is damaged and the wing spar is cracked. We could easily lose her and anyone aboard if we tried to fly. Going up and especially coming down.”
“What are the chances of that?”
“Well, hell, I don’t know! All I can be sure of is that she’s dangerously weakened.”
“Percentages, dammit!”
“I don’t know, okay? Maybe a fifty percent chance. Maybe better.”
“Fifty or better of surviving?”
“Yes. Or a fifty percent chance of the wing falling off. No one’s going to be stupid enough to fly her like that.”
“I already have two volunteers.”
“Richard, she can’t fly.”
“This isn’t FAA rules. She’s experimental. This is a cutting-edge space program.”
“The hell it is! This is supposed to be a space line with high reliability, and it has been up to now. Dammit, Richard, we’ve talked about this very contingency.”
“Yeah, but it was just theoretical then. This is real.”
“She can’t fly, Richard.”
“Bullshit. If I have to, I’ll fire your ass and find someone to get her ready.”
He regrets the words as soon as he’s said them. He knows he’s gone too far, but the frustra
tion is driving him to play the “Damn the torpedoes, full-speed ahead” card.
Mark Burgess, however, is too experienced and principled to be bullied like some green lieutenant. His arms are crossed, his jaw set, his head shaking slowly. “Go ahead. Violate everything you promised.”
“What did I promise?”
“To never, ever attempt to overrule my department’s judgment on flight readiness. We’ve learned the lessons of Challenger and Columbia even if you haven’t.”
Richard sighs. He’s cornered, and the defeated slump of his shoulders uncrosses Burgess’s arms.
“Look, Richard, I want this as much as you, but I can’t let you compound a disaster. We lose Venture and Intrepid, we lose the company, at least for a long time. No spacecraft, no spaceflights.”
“How bad is she, really? Venture, I mean.”
“You mean is there any hope of a fast repair?”
Richard nods.
“These are composite materials, laminated sheets with glue. But we’re already reexamining our conclusions. I’ve a team crawling all over her right now.”
“Good.”
“Keep in mind this is not a metal bird. I can’t just rivet a doubler in place like we could with aluminum.”
“Try, Mark. For God’s sake, try something.”
“I’m not planning to just sit here drinking lattes. But you have to accept that the chances she could be ready to fly this week are near zero.”
“Then Bill’s chances are the same.”
“You don’t know that. So he missed a deorbit burn. He may make it on the next one.”
“And if he doesn’t, he has enough air for the two of them for maybe…”
“Three days, tops. Yeah, I know. We build the scrubbers, remember?”
The two of them stare at each other in pain before Richard DiFazio flails the air with his right hand and turns to the door.
“I’m sorry, Mark. Do your best.”
“We will. We are,” Mark says to the back of the departing chairman.
THE WASHINGTON POST, WASHINGTON, D.C.,
2:30 P.M. PACIFIC/5:30 P.M. EASTERN
Her instincts are on high alert as the aerospace reporter for the Washington Post punches off the latest call from ASA, her headset relieving the need to juggle a receiver as she sits at her desk. The questions ASA are sidestepping are key, and she’s traveled the arc from passing interest in a rumor of trouble to being convinced that the occupants of ASA’s private spacecraft are in danger. She’s already wasted a volley of calls on bad numbers and uncooperative “sources,” and now, she decides, it’s time for a minute of deep-think. The story—whatever the story really is—will break any second on cable networks or online services, or even on the AP wires. Someone is about to scoop her if she doesn’t get this figured out right now.
So what do I have? Two people aboard that craft, a stable orbit, no telemetry, and no communication. Could she be lying to me about the stable orbit? Could it already have burned up or something?
No, she decides. Ross is a pro, in the game for the long haul. She wouldn’t cite NASA as a source unless it was a valid claim. NASA saw them with a very long lens still in orbit.
But what’s really wrong? Is communications loss the extent of it, like she wants me to think?
There’s something scratching at the back of her mind and the veteran reporter twirls a pencil and looks around the newsroom to let her thoughts coalesce. Her eyes sweep past a large clock, doing visual busywork and taking in the quiet intensity of the other reporters working away on a planet full of stories.
And all she’s got is suspicion and a ticking clock.
Her patience at an end, she snaps back, wondering if she’s dredged up any answers.
Clock. Timeline. When did they launch?
She dives back into the Internet and checks the launch time listed on ASA’s Web site, looking for the planned length of the flight and finding nothing. She Googles and selects a hit from one of the first such flights nearly a year ago, paging down through endless verbiage until the right phrase catches her eyes.
“Each flight is planned for four orbits of approximately ninety minutes each,” DiFazio said. “That’s enough time to not only get a lifelong feel for zero gravity, but to drink in the most spectacular view anyone will ever see in his or her life. We deorbit at the end of the fourth circuit after six hours.”
Six hours.
She checks her note on the time they dropped the spacecraft from the mothership.
Eight A.M. Pacific Daylight. And it’s 2:30 P.M. out there now. That’s over six hours.
The reporter sits back hard, eyes wide, recalculating lest she screw up the math, then leaps to her feet to chase down her editor. Her head is swimming.
My God, they’re stuck up there!
NASA HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.,
2:30 P.M. PACIFIC/5:30 P.M. EASTERN
Geoff Shear stands behind his desk looking out the window at the Capitol and waiting for his secretary to connect a call to Houston. He’s quite capable of lifting his own receiver and punching the single button that connects him to the operator at Johnson, but he has little respect for leaders who drop the trappings of power to be just one of the boys. Like Jimmy Cornpone Carter and his silly “jes’ folks” act of carrying his own hang-up bag to and from the White House when Shear was a White House aide. He’d been disgusted to find out the suit bag was usually empty.
“John Kent is on line one, sir,” a female voice announces over the archaic wood-boxed intercom he insists on maintaining on his desk.
“Thank you.”
“Kent?”
“Mr. Administrator?”
“Well, that’s right. I thought maybe you’d forgotten my title.”
“I have my moments of wishful thinking, Geoff.”
“And I have my moments of distasteful leadership duty.”
“Meaning?”
“Let me see how I can put this delicately, Colonel Kent. How’s this? Your mutinous ass is fired. Clear enough for you? You’ve had no authority to start planning a mission, and this is the last straw with your insubordinate running of that office. I’ve warned you before.”
There is a disgusted sigh from Houston loud enough to echo through the speaker. “You can’t fire me without a lot of congressional fallout, Geoff. Or is this just a little autoerotic exercise?”
“Clean out your desk, throw your crap in a box, and be out of the front door in precisely twenty minutes or I’ll have you arrested. Your security clearance has just been canceled and you have no authority to be in a secure area.”
“Cute, Geoffrey. Juvenile, but cute. You know I’ll simply walk out the front door, make two calls, and walk back in.”
“Well, go ahead and try. But you’ve been running around behind my back all day against my direct orders, trying to waste a few hundred million of the taxpayers’ hard-earned dollars on a foolish mission I have not and will not authorize.”
“So you hate DiFazio.”
“I spend no time thinking about that huckster.”
“That’s still one of our guys up there. A NASA guy.”
“You mean Bill Campbell? I’m not just concerned about Campbell, I’m worried about the safety of both of those men, but I warned DiFazio very clearly we do not have the resources to mount a rescue if they get in trouble.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Your problem, Kent, is pure insubordination. Either in government or business that’s pretty much enough to justify firing anyone up to and including Jesus.”
“Well, Geoff, you didn’t even have the courtesy to answer my question when we had our little conference this morning. I had no idea you were prohibiting a quick feasibility check. So there was no direct order.”
“I e-mailed you an hour later that you were not to attempt to construct or research a rescue mission unless I gave you direct approval.”
“Sorry. Never got it. You should have called.”
The sound of voi
ces in the background from Houston are already interrupting Kent, and Shear can hear him being apologized to by security.
“Some of our very embarrassed friends from security are here, Geoff, to do your dirty work. Sorry we can’t talk further. Oh, by the way,” Kent adds, his voice steady and a chuckle in his tone. “If, somehow, you make this stick, be sure to watch the Washington Post and ABC’s 20/20 in a few weeks. You’ll find it all very interesting. I would strongly suggest early retirement.”
“Time to write your book, Kent.” Shear punches the line off and sits, pulling the receiver to him as he flips through a small notebook for the first of a half dozen congressional leaders he’ll have to call before Kent can get to them. The ranks of the John Kent fan club on the Hill are extensive, and he’ll be forced to rehire the smart-ass astronaut in a day or two. But those two days will make all the difference in derailing any half-assed attempts to light an emotional bonfire and accelerate the launch schedule at the expense of safety, which has to be the prime concern. With only two shuttles left and the entire program hanging in the balance, he cannot be sentimental.
Chapter 14
HEADQUARTERS, NORTH AMERICAN AEROSPACE
DEFENSE COMMAND, COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO,
MAY 17, 2:35 P.M. PACIFIC/3:35 P.M. MOUNTAIN
Christopher Risen looks at himself in the mirror of his private bathroom, wondering why his father is staring back. He doesn’t feel more than two thirds of his fifty-two years, but the perfectly shined four stars on his Air Force uniform would never adorn the shoulders of someone in his thirties.
He sighs as he buttons the coat, wondering for the millionth time if he should have tried to get into test pilot school right out of F-15s instead of taking the fast-burner track to the Pentagon, and now CINCNORAD, his official title, Commander in Chief of the North American Aerospace Defense Command. Back then the path to being an astronaut seemed to wind through Houston. Lately, the dawn of private spaceflight had shifted the possibilities, and now this.
Orbit Page 9
