She doesn’t want to be first for glory or kudos. She thinks, as Neil Armstrong did forty years ago, that dealing with fame is a waste of time and energy. No, she wants to be first because she believes that reaching Mars is the single most important challenge facing humankind. She’s convinced humanity needs an event bigger than itself to focus on, to force it to consider the greater universe rather than petty regional issues. She hopes the sheer effort necessary to reach another planet will be that event. And, after careful consideration, she thinks she’s the best person to lead the mission.
Rhonda knows she has the skill set, the leadership qualities and the disposition to do it right. She just has to make sure the powers that be know it too. So that means no mistakes. She can’t let anything divert her attention from the job at hand. Like Judd.
She turns and her eyes find Martie Burnett on the opposite side of the room. The payload specialist for this mission, Martie is a tall southerner with flowing auburn hair and a strong, chiselled face. She looks thirty-five but is actually forty-four. Martie widens her eyes to say ‘hey there’. She’s Rhonda’s best friend in the program and, as Rhonda doesn’t have a life outside the program, that makes her Rhonda’s best friend, full stop. Rhonda hasn’t told Martie about the break up with Judd because she finds the whole thing not-wearing-underpants-when-your-skirt-blows-up embarrassing. The fact that the two women had first bonded by sharing NASA personnel gossip didn’t help matters. She’ll tell Martie once the mission is completed, including the truth about why she left. As annoyed as she was about Judd coming to Thompkins’ home, that wasn’t why she moved out. There was another reason, something that had been playing on her mind for a while —
Stop it. She’s doing it again, thinking about the wrong stuff. She pulls in a deep breath, blinks hard and forces herself to focus on the job she must do tonight.
**
7
Henri grabs the handle and yanks the door open. He leans into the roaring wind and looks down at the slate-grey clouds, illuminated by a three-quarter moon. Through a break he can make out the Atlantic ocean, twinkling 34000 feet below.
The icy wind doesn’t affect him. A matte-black helmet, a head-to-toe triple-layer Nomex suit and thermal gloves keep out the cold. He takes a deep breath from the oxygen mask strapped over his mouth and nose, connected to a canister on his hip. He checks the backlit screen of the small, circular GPS unit attached to his chest. They’re almost in position.
He takes in his team. Dirk and Nico and Cobbin, then further along the fuselage Tam and Gerald, all dressed as he is. He speaks into a microphone located within the oxygen mask. ‘Big Bird, it’s time.’
Big Bird sits at the controls of the Canadian-built Twin Otter aircraft. His response crackles in their helmet headsets: ‘Ready when you are.’
Henri’s eyes flick to the GPS unit. He studies the information that blinks and changes on the screen, then looks at his GMT-Master and waits for the sweep hand to pass twelve, for ten p.m. exactly.
‘Go.’ Henri steps out of the aircraft and the others follow in quick succession. The two-metre-wide, delta-shaped wings strapped to their backs seize the air, wrench them to a horizontal position and catapult them across the sky at 180 kilometres an hour.
They slice across the upper atmosphere, as high as a commercial jetliner on a transatlantic flight, like a cloud of giant bats on their way to a night feeding. The wings’ matte-black colour make them invisible against the night sky while their size and carbon-fibre construction make them invisible to radar detection.
What was the sales pitch? Red Bull gives you wings. Years before, on CNN News, Henri watched the Austrian daredevil Felix Baumgartner, festooned with Red Bull sponsor logos, jump out of an aircraft then fly across the British Channel with one of these delta wings strapped to his back. It was a revelation. The Frenchman stole Felix’s wing idea then spent $300 000 improving it. He needed to go further than the 35 kilometres Felix flew that day, so he redesigned the wing and tested it over the following two years to increase its lift-to-drag ratio. All for tonight.
Henri’s wing hits an air pocket and shudders. The Frenchman looks down at his chest. The GPS unit shows five streams of information, constantly updated. Right now the most important is the large arrow that points in the direction he must travel. When he’s on course it glows green, when he’s off course, it glows red. It’s now red.
His arms are by his side. Each hand holds a handle that operates a hydraulic ram. The ram activates a flap on the corresponding wing’s trailing edge. Twist the handle left to lower the flap, twist it right to raise it. He works the handles and the wing banks right. He glances at the GPS reader and the arrow blinks green.
Two bat-men arc away to the left. Henri watches Tam and Gerald shrink into the distance, knows their duties lie along a different path to his tonight.
**
Big Bird can’t be late. Folded uncomfortably into the tiny cockpit of the Twin Otter, the six foot seven Robby Muller pulls the aircraft into a steep descent.
Robby, or Big Bird to friends and neighbours because of his predilection for yellow T-shirts, guns the twin Pratt & Whitney turboprops. The German needs to get this aircraft on the ground and swap it for something more practical asap. He can’t be late.
**
8
The silver astrovan trundles towards launch pad 39B. It is essentially a pimped-out RV with plenty of room for the five crew members of Atlantis, and the two White Room guys who accompany them in case they need anything. The crew members are easy to recognise, dressed in bright-orange flight suits. Judd, as one of the White Room guys, sports, unsurprisingly, a white jumpsuit.
Martie Burnett sits opposite Rhonda. As payload specialist, Martie is responsible for the transfer of supplies and materials from the shuttle’s cargo bay to the International Space Station using the Canadarm 2, the spacecraft’s $150 million robotic grappling hook. Judd always thought she’d fit right in with the regulars at the salon in Steel Magnolias, swapping down-home truisms and hard-earned love advice with Dolly Parton. The truth is that Martie has a PhD in astrophysics and an IQ of 157, some four points higher than Judd’s.
Judd forces himself to stare at the van’s dark-grey carpet so he doesn’t look at Rhonda. He’d prefer to stare out the window but he can’t because there isn’t one. That’s to give the astronauts privacy and to make sure that if some loon took a pot shot at the van they’d hit bullet-proof Kevlar instead of glass. Given NASA is the perfect canvas for a terrorist organisation or lone gunman to scrawl a statement, it’s always a possibility.
On launch day, with the world’s media in attendance, the astrovan will be escorted to the pad by Kennedy’s own private army, the KSC SWAT team in their black, box-shaped van, while a brace of Jet Rangers swirl and chunter overhead, men toting M-16s hanging from the open doors like life guards searching for sharks. But that’s on launch day. Tonight there’s limited security because it’s an unpublicised test and the budget won’t stretch to anything more.
When they reach launch pad 39B, Rhonda’s first out. She strides across the rust-stained concrete, past the flame trench, towards the imposing, grey-steel Fixed Service Structure that’s topped by a towering lightning mast. The rest follow.
Judd looks up and takes in Atlantis, sitting proud on the crawler. It shimmers, moves, comes alive as the crew’s outsized shadows play across it, thrown by the high-wattage arc lights that illuminate the pad after dusk. For all the shuttle’s failings and frailties, when he gets close to one he can’t help but marvel at the damn thing. His workplace tonight is the White Room, connected to the spacecraft at the end of the crew access arm. It’s a long, narrow compartment where the astronauts make final adjustments before entering Atlantis.
Judd approaches the elevator that will transport them to the crew access arm. Everyone is already inside, facing out, and he sees there’s nowhere for him to stand - except in front of Rhonda. He instinctively pauses midst
ep then realises that looks a bit awkward and walks on. For a moment he thinks about engineering a turn and backing into the elevator so he doesn’t have to face her, but quickly recognises that’ll look even stranger than the midstep pause from a moment ago so he enters the elevator normally and takes up a position in front of her.
They study each other. There’s nowhere else to look. He searches her eyes, the bluest of blue. In that moment he remembers why he loves her - because she believes she can do anything. Then he remembers why he sometimes doesn’t - because that belief is something he no longer possesses. He’s envious she has the career he so wants, that she can live her dream while he waits back on Earth. Is that jealousy the reason she left? He never wanted it to show but sometimes it slipped out. He wasn’t proud of it.
He opens his mouth to speak, but she shakes her head, mouths ‘not now.’ Is that a flicker of warmth he sees? A sign of rapprochement? He wants it to be, hopes that after this test, or her mission, they can somehow, someway, repair this imperfect relationship.
The door slides shut and the elevator rises towards the crew access arm and Atlantis above.
**
9
Kobi ‘Tam’ O’Shea tips his delta wing into a steep turn and finally loses sight of Henri, Dirk, Nico and Cobbin.
One hundred metres to the left, the Japanese-Irishman sees Gerald Sanchez, his partner for this evening. Tam glances at the swamp below. He knows it’s infested with alligators, recalls reading something about alligator attacks usually happening in waist-deep water - or maybe that was sharks. Either way, he must be careful when he touches down.
Tam tips into a dive and the swamp rushes up to meet him. His eyes flick to the GPS unit. The green arrow has been replaced by a white X. He’s on top of his target. He pulls his hands from the wing controllers and pulls a lever on the wing’s leading edge. The wing separates from the frame attached to his back and he freefalls. His right hand grabs the cord at his chest and yanks hard. The chute zips from its pack, licks the air like a dragon’s tongue, then explodes open, seizes the air, stops him dead.
He takes control of the black ram-air chute and works the control lines. The carbon-fibre wing dangles below, connected via a strap to the frame on his back. To the left he sees Gerald’s silhouette. Chute open, he’s slightly higher and 200 metres away.
Tam pinpoints the only patch of grass in the vicinity, 20 metres square, lighter in tone than the surrounding brush. He works the control lines, hooks into a tight dive, feathers the chute then drops to the ground.
The tall grass pads the landing. In a flash he’s up and out of the chute’s harness and wing frame. The helmet’s off next. The gloves are too thick to work with so he peels them off, pulls out a P7 Lenser torch in the same motion, clicks it on.
He finds the carbon-fibre wing with the beam. Sequestered inside the wing’s hollow structure are the tools he’ll need tonight. He picks it up ...
‘Christ!’ The pain in his right hand is bright and hot. He shines the torch, finds two bloodied puncture wounds on his thumb, then plays the beam across the ground to find what’s responsible. A thin tail slides over the wing then disappears into the grass. He recognises the markings. It has many names. Cottonmouth. Viper. Water moccasin. Call it what you will, only one thing matters: it’s an extremely venomous snake. He can’t believe it. After worrying about alligators on the way down he gets bitten by a snake as soon as he lands.
He hopes it wasn’t a cottonmouth. They aren’t the only snakes in this area, he knows that much. Water snakes look just like their cottonmouthed cousins but aren’t venomous. Failing that, he hopes that if it was a cottonmouth then the bite was dry and no venom was injected. Then he realises two things. He’s doing a lot of hoping and the bite’s not feeling so great. It’s swelling fast and the pain is intense. ‘Shit!’ He doesn’t have time for snake bite.
He needs to get it wrapped. Now. Tam carries a basic first-aid kit but Gerald will need to apply the pressure bandage that slows the toxin. Beyond that, professional medical assistance will have to wait.
Leaves thrash and branches crack behind him. It’s Gerald, touching down, a little off course but close enough. Tam turns to the sound, aims the torch at the scrub. He can’t see anything through the dense foliage. He glances at the GPS unit on his chest. They have just under sixteen minutes to complete their mission.
He sets off towards his partner but doesn’t rush. That’ll just increase his heart rate, accelerate the poison’s journey through his system. He moves deliberately but quickly, the carbon-fibre wing under his left arm, the torch held lightly in the bitten right hand. ‘Gerald?’ No answer.
Tam pushes through the scrub, plays the torch’s beam across the tangled vegetation. Leaves rustle above. Tam points the torch up. The beam splashes over Gerald. He’s hung up, high in a pine tree, his eyes wide open in a surprised expression.
‘You won’t believe what happened —’ Tam stops and looks closer. A branch has impaled Gerald through the chest. No wonder he looks surprised. His right foot twitches, kicks a branch, then stops. Suddenly getting bitten by a cottonmouth feels like the deal of the century.
Nausea sweeps over Tam. He doesn’t know if it’s the snake’s toxin working its dark magic or the dreadful realisation that his partner is dead and he must complete tonight’s mission on his own. Whatever the reason, he bends over and throws up.
He hasn’t got time to hurl, or cut down Gerald either. He must get moving or this whole exercise will be for nothing. He straightens and wipes his mouth. His body aches, his skin’s clammy and his legs are weak. He ignores it and studies the GPS unit on his chest. The green arrow points to the north-east. He has thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds to complete the mission. He moves quickly, tries to push the dreadful image of his dead partner from his mind.
One minute later the white X on the GPS unit tells him he’s standing right on top it. He plays the flashlight’s beam across the leaf-strewn ground, searches for it —
There. A square outline. He places the wing on the ground and kneels, scrabbles at the square with the fingers of his unbitten hand, pulls away leaves and dirt, hits steel. It’s a grate, one metre square, made of thick steel forged in a lattice design. He flips the wing over, unlatches a compartment door, grabs the long plastic cylinder velcroed inside. He unscrews one end, slips out two grappling hooks, positions himself over the grate, slides the hooks into the lattice and pulls up.
‘Jesus H!’ It’s as heavy as a truck. That’s why two men were sent to move it! He pulls again, uses everything he’s got. The grate scrapes on the cement surround, slowly clears the hole. He lets go of the hooks and it thumps to the dirt. Light-headed, he sucks air as he looks down the air shaft. It disappears into darkness.
He glances at his GPS unit. Nine minutes, forty-nine seconds. He sits hard, reaches into the wing’s open hatch and grabs another cylinder, opens it and slides out a white, rectangular device. What looks like a school ruler is attached horizontally to the top. A smaller ruler is attached vertically at one end. Fastened at various points over the cylinder are six lipstick-sized cylinders. A canister with a nozzle at one end is fastened to the left side. Tam places the device on the ground. It stands on four wire legs that end in suction-cap feet.
Tam reaches into the wing again, grabs a padded envelope and a smaller box. He unzips the envelope and draws out a MacBook Air. He flips open the laptop and it wakes from sleep. He pulls a Logitech joystick from the box, plugs it into the MacBook’s USB port and squeezes its trigger.
Both rulers on the device spin to life with a shriek. They’re actually rotor blades that turn five hundred times per minute. The little chopper rises a metre off the ground and hovers in place, its fuselage glowing white from a light source within. With the shrill buzz of the rotor blades it resembles a gigantic albino wasp, ready to strike.
Tam moves the joystick. The chopper flies towards the air vent, then lurches past. ‘Come on!’ Tam�
�s trembling hand is vibrating the joystick too much, making it difficult to control. He clenches his hand to tame the shaking then moves the joystick again. The chopper hovers to a position above the air vent. He releases the joystick’s trigger a fraction and the chopper drops into the shaft. He watches it descend. It took him six months to develop but he has less than eight minutes to use it.
Tam’s eyes move to the MacBook’s screen. It’s divided into six separate windows. Each lipstick-sized cylinder attached to the chopper’s exterior is a video camera that transmits live images of its surroundings, the glowing fuselage emitting enough light to illuminate a metre around it. He squeezes the joystick’s trigger and the chopper hovers in place, just above the bottom of the shaft. There’s a thin, rectangular air vent in front of it.
The Japanese-Irishman wipes his forehead with his free hand and drags off a sheet of sweat. His face is blanched white and his body shivers. He grips the joystick hard to stop his hand shaking, then eases it forward. The chopper flies into the vent, has five centimetres clearance on each side.
Velocity Page 7
