First Landing

by Robert Zubrin

  This time Gibbs’ smile was not merely condescending, but almost sadistic. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, but rest assured that they have sufficient influence to make sure I don’t end up like that poor lunatic Holloway.”

  As the others stared at him in outraged amazement, Gibbs turned to leave the room. “Well, so long,” he said with amusement. “Work hard, little people. Just think, if you’re successful and get the crew home, you’ll make Colonel Townsend a very rich man. Who knows, he may even send each of you an autographed picture of his new yacht.”

  Gibbs started to stride out. While his back was turned, Mason motioned to Alicia, who picked up a telephone.

  “Darrell,” the Mission Control manager called out.

  Gibbs condescended to turn back a final time. “Yes?”

  “Do you really think those powerful friends will go to the mat for you?”

  “Of course.”

  Mason looked the younger man in the eye. “And why is that?”

  Gibbs answered with the confidence of a teacher explaining the facts of life to a dunce. “Because if they don’t, I’ll implicate them.”

  Tex interjected. “I’ll bet that’s exactly what Oswald thought.”

  “Oswald?” Gibbs appeared slightly confused.

  “Lee Harvey Oswald,” the Texan explained, showing his bad teeth again. “Before your time. I suggest you get yourself some life insurance, son.”

  Gibbs paled. He made for the door, but was stopped by two big security guards who appeared in the doorway.

  Mason smiled. “I think, though, that you’ll get a chance to do a little more talking than Oswald did.”

  As the guards handcuffed the Special Assistant, Mason picked up his console phone. He held Gibbs’ cellular in front of Tex.

  “Now we find the man on the grassy knoll,” the manager said dryly.

  CHAPTER 24

  CAPRI CHASMA

  OCT. 31, 2012

  UNAWARE OF THEIR near-rendevous with death, the pair in the Homeward Bound ERV soundly slept the night away. Townsend’s wristwatch alarm awakened them at the edge of dawn the following morning. The two explorers would need the maximum time for their difficult trek out of the canyon.

  After a quick breakfast, he and McGee made final preparations for the hike out of Valles Marineris. They subjected every piece of their gear to a final checkout. The colonel wrapped the computer card in soft packing material, after which he placed the wrapping in a plastic container and stuffed it into McGee’s pack. The two men then zipped into their Marsuits.

  Townsend turned to his companion. “Ready for the hard part, Professor?”

  “You realize, Colonel, that once we start climbing, there’s no turning back and there’s no stopping. We can’t survive a night outside in our suits. We make it all the way back to the rover, or we die.”

  Townsend snapped his helmet into position. “Roger, let’s go.” Through his helmet, his words sounded oddly distorted, but his resolve was unmistakable. McGee donned his helmet as well; then they strapped on their packs and cycled out of the ERV airlock. Townsend reached up to secure the outer hatch before joining McGee at the foot of the ladder.

  McGee gave the Homeward Bound one fond farewell glance, and they were off.

  It was about seven A.M., local time, but they set out at a rapid clip, knowing the climb would take longer than the descent, and that being caught in cliff shadows at sunset meant certain death.

  At a forced march, they managed to reach the base of the first major ascent before noon. Along the cliffside hung the last line they had rappelled down the day before. Both men stared up at the endlessly tall wall of rock. The thin wind blew fine dust, and the rope swayed gently.

  We’ve made good time, McGee thought. If the weather doesn’t get any worse, we might make it out. A big “if.”

  McGee tested the line with a strong tug. “Ready, Colonel? There’s no turning back after this.”

  Townsend gave a grim nod behind his helmet, and they began to climb. The two men reached the top of the first rope, then started scrambling across a boulder field. As they climbed the second rope, a wind blew ever more fiercely. Without pausing, they continued the ascent, climbing, trudging, bouldering, scrambling.

  Finally, in the late afternoon, they reached the last rope. The wind, which had been only troublesome at the start of the climb, now blew out of control, picking up scouring dust and howling in the vanishingly thin atmosphere. The sky darkened with dust, obscuring the sunset in the west. McGee noticed the air temperature growing colder by the minute, and despite the thinness of the air, the hurricane-speed winds were delivering a horrible chill. He looked up the rope at the sheer cliff that extended high above them until it disappeared into the murk.

  Townsend seemed exhausted. “Not the best climbing weather,” he said. There was a distinct shiver in his voice.

  McGee heard that shiver and knew what it meant. The colonel’s not going to make it. Age and lack of proper technique had taken their toll. The older man was clearly played out. With a little rest he might have had a chance, but neither of them had any time to rest.

  McGee made the offer anyway. “Want to try waiting it out?”

  There was a momentary pause. “No. Only an hour of daylight left. We’ve got to go. Now.”

  The voice of courage, McGee thought. If we wait, we both get to live a few hours, until the night gently takes us. If we go, I have a fighting chance—but he will fall.

  Do not go gentle into that good night.

  McGee mentally saluted the colonel and started up the rope. The wild motions of the swaying line made the climb a nightmare. More than once, he crashed into a rocky outcropping that revealed its existence too late as it loomed up unexpectedly. He hauled himself up the line like a madman; he knew he couldn’t take this treatment for long.

  Suddenly there was no cliff face above him, only a ledge at face level. He scrambled over it and lay panting on the ground. It had taken six minutes of sheer hell, but he’d reached the rim of the endless canyon.

  Now, how to get Townsend up? McGee had hoped to be able to haul the man up on the rope. But on the climb up he’d noted that the line was badly frayed. It was now too likely that a moving cord would scrape itself to pieces on some rock, and the colonel would drop to his death. No, climbing was the commander’s only chance. He stood up and turned his Marsuit radio to maximum. “Colonel, I’m at the top. It’s not too far. Go for it.”

  At the base of the final cliff, Townsend shivered in the howling gale. While waiting for McGee to climb, he had taken a short but necessary rest, but every muscle in his body felt sprained. He heard the professor’s encouraging summons to ascend, but was realistic enough to know that he just didn’t have it left within him. But he knew he couldn’t stay where he was, either. It was getting darker and colder by the minute. To remain here meant death. To ascend meant death. Retreat was impossible.

  From his belt pouch Townsend took out a picture, to gaze one last time at his beautiful wife and two fine little boys. I’m sorry, Karen, I thought I could make it. Mike, Petey, I wish I’d gotten to see you grow. A tear welled in his eye. He glanced up the rappelling line, now flailing crazily in the growing darkness.

  “Colonel, you can do it!” McGee called, the feigned optimism in his voice all too obvious.

  Townsend grabbed the line. “Okay, I’m coming.” He looked one more time at his sons. Remember me, boys. Remember how I lived and how I died. A man never gives up.

  Townsend pulled on the line and began to haul himself upward, finding hidden reserves of strength somewhere inside. He had not thought himself capable of climbing at all, but he pulled his body upward more with strength of will than the strength of his arms. Incredibly, he ascended more than halfway, lifted by force of spirit—then his luck ran out.

  Three-fourths of the way up, an enormous gust crashed him into a rocky outcrop on the cliff face. In the violence of the blow, he lost his grip on the line, whi
ch disappeared into the inky darkness, leaving him stranded with one smashed arm and the other clutching weakly to the outcrop itself.

  Up at the canyon rim, McGee saw the line go slack and knew that something had gone dreadfully wrong. He yelled into his radio, “Colonel! Are you okay?”

  For several seconds, he heard nothing but static. Then a faint answer came back. “I think my arm’s broken. I’m on an outcrop.”

  McGee stared into the swirling maelstrom below. He couldn’t see the frayed line, or the ledge, or the man. But the colonel had kept climbing for quite a while. He could be close.

  “Can you see anything?” McGee shouted. “What’s near you?”

  “Only this outcrop.” Townsend’s answer was barely audible above the radio static caused by the swirling dust. “It looks like a bird’s beak.”

  The beak. McGee had noticed it too. It was only fifty meters down. Fifty impossible meters through gale-blasted freezing darkness. A rescue attempt under these conditions would be insanely reckless. He couldn’t possibly do it.

  “Hold on, I think I can get you.”

  “McGee, no!” Townsend’s voice carried a kind of panic. “You’ve got the computer card. Go back to the ship.”

  The salvaged card would make the ERV flyable, it could let them all get back to Earth. But who would fly the ship? Gwen? Maybe. But can I leave him here?

  “I’m coming down,” McGee said. He grabbed the rope and prepared to start his descent.

  “No. Go back! That’s an order!”

  McGee hesitated. His mind flashed back to their recent departure from the Beagle. He saw Rebecca looking him in the eye, tenderly telling him to take care. McGee stopped at the edge of the dropoff, then peered down into the swirling dust, concentrating. As if in a vision, he thought he saw Townsend clinging to his outcropping.

  “Screw your orders, Colonel,” the historian muttered; he grabbed the line and went over the side.

  McGee swung wildly in the wind as he slid down the line. He let himself fall a few meters at a time, securing himself after the twentieth drop. He’s got to be around here somewhere. McGee peered through the dimness in all directions. He switched on his suit lamp to make himself visible. “Colonel, where are you?”

  “Over here, below and to your left.”

  McGee swiveled his head and searched in the indicated direction. At first he saw nothing but swirling dust, but then the beam fell on his target. Townsend clung grimly to the rocky beak with one arm; the other hung limp. He was five meters below and ten to one side.

  “I see you, Colonel! Hold on.”

  McGee kicked out against the cliff wall to make some horizontal progress, but the wind slammed him back against a different rock protrusion. Fortunately, he managed to swing around and let his legs take the blow, and used the energy of impact to kick out even harder in the correct direction. For several more swings McGee bounced back and forth among various outcroppings, when suddenly he landed on Townsend’s rock.

  He secured himself by wrapping his legs about it from above. Quickly he reached down and looped a line beneath the commander’s armpits, then clamped its end fast to his belt.

  Townsend’s voice was groggy with pain. “McGee, you’re a goddamn anarchist. Wouldn’t last a day in the Air Force!”

  “I know, sir. Now shut up while I rescue you.”

  He removed Townsend’s pack and threw it into the howling abyss below. Then he fastened another cable through the harness on the back of Townsend’s Marsuit and attached it to his own harness, thereby adding the colonel to the load of his own backpack.

  “Well, here goes.”

  McGee grabbed the thrumming rope and began the ascent through the storm. The winds blew him every which way, banging him against nearby outcroppings. With Townsend’s additional weight, the going was very hard. But they ascended, one meter at a time.

  McGee’s arms ached, already strained by overexertion and bruised by impacts. This is impossible, he thought. No it isn’t. I’m lifting triple my mass . . . but this is Mars. I’m just hauling my own weight. It’s only hard because of fatigue. His brain tried to exhort his body. You can do it. You can do it. . . .

  Arm over arm he went, using his feet to fend off slamming blows as the riotous winds repeatedly attempted to smash him into the cliff. Suddenly the wind slammed him sideways into an outcrop, and he was caught off guard. The shock of the impact was so great that he lost his grip on the rope. He fell into the dark, and Townsend fell with him.

  The wind slapped the rope sharply against his suit, like a whip. The line bounced off, but McGee reached out and made one last desperate grab. He caught the rope, but the shock of jerking his fall to a stop nearly pulled his arm out of its socket. He loosened his grip, and the line ran through his gloved palm. Then somehow he managed to close his hands again, enough to stop the fall. In four terrifying seconds the two men had fallen nearly twenty meters.

  They hung together on the strained rope, swinging crazily in the blackness of the storm-darkened night. The colonel was limp and silent, not struggling, not moving at all. McGee was in intense pain; that last grab at the rope had ripped muscles in his left arm.

  The temperature outside was minus 70° centigrade, and convection from the roaring winds delivered a brutal chilling signal that cut mercilessly through the high-grade insulation of the Marsuit. A veteran of McKinley and Everest, McGee had always considered himself tough against cold—but this was too much. He began to shiver uncontrollably.

  With his strength ebbing and the outside cold increasing, McGee knew he had only minutes left. Climb. His arms were not strong enough, but he still had strength in his legs. If only he could use them. Climb!

  Or else they would both die.

  The wind swung him around toward the cliff face again, and he saw his chance. He brought his feet around, restraining his instincts to fend off the rock, and instead used the impact to try to run up the cliff. It almost worked.

  For a second as his legs compressed to take the blow, then expanded again, the dominant acceleration vector on the two men was horizontal, with the downward pointing gravity of Mars creating a moderate apparent uphill slope. But as soon as the expansion was over, McGee lost all traction and he began to fall again. He stopped the fall by quickly hauling in the slack in the line.

  They had made three meters.

  The wind banged him sideways into the cliff, but somehow he held the line, repositioned his feet, and during impact made another several meters’ progress in his bizarre run up the side of the cliff. He could not see the top, could not think about how far he had left to climb. He repeated the impact-and-scramble again and again, more times than he could count.

  And suddenly found himself on the canyon rim.

  Swiftly, McGee crawled over the ledge and dragged himself and the limp colonel into a wind-sheltered nook created by several large rocks. He unloaded Townsend off his back like a sack of potatoes, then collapsed beside him. The wind howled around the rocks, but not within them, and without its help, the cold mercifully lost some of its punch. The Marsuit’s electrical heaters began to gain ground, and within a few minutes the returning warmth allowed McGee to become functional again.

  Scraping a few more threads of energy from his body, he turned to examine the colonel. Though uncommunicative, at least he was still breathing. McGee propped up his companion, and rubbed the man vigorously.

  Gradually, Townsend came to. He blinked at McGee. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  Feeling his sore arm and aching body, McGee could only nod in agreement. “I know.”

  Townsend smiled. “But I’m sure glad you did.”

  The two men looked at each other, exchanging complete recognition.

  “Thanks, McGee. You’re a real super guy.”

  The colonel extended his hand, and McGee clasped it. “This may be a little late, but I’m glad to have you aboard, Professor.”

  Peering upward, McGee saw a star. The sky was clearing; the wind
s were letting up. “Colonel, can you walk? The rover’s not far, but we have to get there.”

  “I think so.”

  He helped Townsend to his feet. Steadying each other, the two hobbled up the slope, painstakingly trudging the remaining two hundred meters to the rover. Ahead, a blue-white light shone near the horizon. It was Earth.

  The historian’s body had taken a terrible beating. But, despite all the aches and sprains and bruises, as he trudged through the Martian night with the computer card in his pack and Townsend by his side, McGee felt about as good as a man could feel.

  OPHIR PLANUM

  NOV. 1, 2012 17:20 MLT

  When the rover arrived back at the Hab the next afternoon, Gwen was working outside. She ran after the vehicle, taking large steps in the low gravity, but McGee and Townsend did not slow the vehicle. They pulled up near the Beagle before she reached them.

  Full of questions, Gwen followed the two men into the airlock. She could see immediately that they were both exhausted to the point of numbness. Townsend fumbled with the ladder, having difficulty moving for even such a simple task. Lending a hand, she wordlessly guided the commander inside and helped him to remove his helmet.

  Followed closely by Luke, Rebecca came rushing down from the upper deck. “What happened?”

  McGee pulled the computer card from his pack and unwrapped it for all to see. The faces of Luke and Rebecca lit up, but Gwen felt a mixture of emotions. She examined the computer card closely. “Does it check out green?”

  “A-OK.” Townsend started to take off his Marsuit, but stopped in mid-motion, grimacing from the pain.

  “Colonel, you’re hurt,” Rebecca said, pushing forward.

  “Nothing much. Just a broken arm.”

  Gingerly, the doctor zipped off his suit and with professional fingers probed around his arm. “Let me have a look at that in the lab.”

  McGee managed to get out of his Marsuit, in the process making his own injuries apparent. Gwen noticed his bruises, the haggard look on his face. “Hey, the professor’s hurt too.”