by Ward, Steve
Both DROIDs exploded simultaneously scattering a huge debris field in the reverse path of the decelerating ICBM. Will it be enough? she wondered. In any case, they were out of resources and had done all they could do. She flew the shuttle clear and wiped the sweat off her forehead. “Damn, somebody needs to crank up the air conditioning. Michael. . .radar. . .what do you see?”
“Big cloud, but the target appears intact.”
Michael put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Nice work Commander. I’ll tell the guys at JSC to quit calling you Stick. From now on it’s Christina the Space Warrior; you earned it.”
“Space Warrior, huh? Yeah,” she agreed, “it’s a little long, but I like it. Stick sucks.”
“DefCom 4, this is Big Daddy. What the hell’s goin’ on up there?”
“Gotcha Big Daddy,” she piped in. “Sorry for the delay; we were quite the busy beavers. Looks questionable. Video shows we put a large sand burst right in its path, but we only have one radar return. No way to assess damage until reentry. That bad boy is heading right down the shoot. God only knows where.”
“Roger DefCom 4, we’ll call Beijing and check their radar imagery.” After a short delay, he said, “Target has been notified, and all stations monitoring reentry. Good work Commander, that’s a lot more than we thought you could do. Now we just have to pray to God those MIRVs don’t make it to the ground.”
Christina prayed for the countless innocent lives that laid in the balance. She also prayed no more ICBMs would be launched. Those Russians are insane. What if China counters? She shuddered at the prospects but had other business to handle.
“Mission Control, we’re moving to a hundred mile orbit, over. We had a debris strike on the first engagement and need to get out there and take a look-see.”
“How bad was it Commander?” Udahl asked.
“Don’t know. We got a pretty good jolt; I expect some damage.”
“DefCom 4, this is Big Daddy, you are dismissed from the battlefield. All other DefComs, stay alert.” Pace came back on the air. “Wait a minute, what’s that? Standby one. . .All DefComs hear this. We have confirmation; that second Russian bird disappeared from radar. Yep, that’s it! Target vaporized on reentry!” he screamed with excitement. “Good shooting, Defcom 4. All other DefComs, stay at the ready in case they try it again.”
A virtual roar went up in New Hope. All four crew members were doing high-fives and weightless summersaults. Christina was bursting with pride, and Michael almost tackled her in a bear hug. Against slim odds they had engaged two ICBMs with untested, experimental DROIDs and had taken them out. Thousands, if not millions of lives were saved.
My God, she thought, what are the implications? It’s a whole new age in space warfare. She had a throbbing headache, and her ears were buzzing, but at that moment, she was overcome by euphoria. It didn’t take long for her to come back to reality. What about that debris strike?
After two death-defying hours of intercontinental, nuclear warfare, the war was over almost as fast as it started, and she was proud of her crew and their contribution. It was time to relax, and the four astronauts decided to celebrate by breaking out the best meal on board: fish sticks, mashed green peas, orange Jell-O and baby carrots. They looked at each other in disgust. Somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate for conquering heroes.
“Pity we don’t have any champagne,” Michael said.
“Damn, this crap sucks!” Christina complained with a chuckle. “Where’s the filet mignon?”
Chapter Twenty-One
While Michael prepared for his EVA, Christina mulled over the physics of reentry and the Law of Conservation of Energy. Her standard astronaut lecture, the one she had given time and time again to high school and college students, rambled through her mind.
Reentry is serious business. NASA has lost astronauts on both the ascent and the descent. Both are equally dangerous. Energy is neither created nor destroyed, it can only be transformed. One of the most difficult aspects of space travel has always been reentering the Earth’s atmosphere. The wings on a commercial jetliner get piping hot as they travel through the air at 500 knots. You might only imagine what would happen at 20,000 knots. All of the energy involved in the massive, controlled explosion that lifts the astronauts into orbit has to be completely dissipated on the way back down. Common logic says what goes up must come down, but few realize the energy involved in both processes is exactly the same.
Seven-million pounds of thrust accelerate the orbiter to escape velocity, that’s Mach 26 or twenty-six times the speed of sound. When Chuck Yeager first broke the sound barrier at 767 mph in a tiny rocket-plane, it was a dramatic achievement, but just a baby step toward space travel. The experimental rockets flown in his later years went up to Mach 3 climbing to twenty miles, just high enough to see the curvature of the earth. But going to the Moon or achieving orbits of 200 to 300 miles is another thing altogether.
When space travel was first envisioned, back in days of Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon, Hollywood pictured a spaceship with reverse thrusters. Simply point the thrusters in the opposite direction and gently ease the spaceship back onto its launching pad. For the New Hope to land that way, its massive rockets would have to be more than twice the size.
Back in the ‘60s, when the moon launch was first considered, ingenious designers came up with a solution. The energy used for ascent would be dissipated on the return by sacrificing a portion of the spacecraft itself, a “reentry shield.” Where large meteors completely vaporize in the atmosphere, a material had to be found capable of only partially vaporizing on descent. The atmosphere would put on the breaks and slow the astronauts to a point where parachutes could be deployed. Both Mercury and Apollo programs proved the concept by designing reentry capsules which could maintain stability while partially burning off the outer layers of one surface with atmospheric friction.
The material chosen for those early ablation shields was fiberglass bonded with a phenolic resin. Ablative protection functioned by lifting hot gases away from the outer wall. Ablation caused the material to char, melt, and vaporize, blocking convective and catalytic heat flux from the vehicle and protecting the astronauts.
The problem with ablation shields is, they can only be used once. The thermal protection system for New Hope is much more sophisticated. Two decades of research and engineering resulted in wondrous new materials. Over twenty-thousand reusable tiles made of reinforced carbon-carbon and coated silica ceramics protect the interior of the spacecraft from the 2,300 degree heat of reentry.
Tiles, Christina thought, tiles. As she worried about the violent jolt they experienced from debris, she contemplated the importance of those tiles. Are they damaged? she wondered. We’ll soon find out. Her mind wandered into the mathematics of thermo-dynamics and energy transfer when a familiar voice brought her back to the conscious world.
“Commander? Commander. . .do you read me? Over!” Michael almost shouted.
She shook her head to clear the cobwebs and said, “Uh. . .oh yeah, sorry Michael, loud and clear, over. How me?”
“What ya doin’ in there, takin’ a nap?”
“No, no, just reviewing reentry procedures. What do you see?”
“Okay, I’m underneath, maneuvering. Port wing. . .bottom and leading edge look clean.” There was a long pause, and then he came back, “Starboard, clean also. Not a scratch.”
“Great news, Michael, how ‘bout the belly?” she asked.
“Standby.” Another pregnant pause had the whole crew holding its collective breath. “Uh, wait one. . .we got somethin’ up front, just behind the nose. Holy shit!”
“What is it, Michael?” she gasped.
“There’s a gouge almost a meter long. . .at least two tiles completely missing. Looks like that debris did a job on us. Can’t believe it didn’t penetrate the skin.”
“Copy that, two tiles missing.” Her stomach leapt into her throat, but she tried to sound calm. The ill-fated shuttle, Columbia, flew
through her brain. As good as a death sentence, missing tiles. She took a deep breath and relayed the message to Udahl.
He responded calmly, “Commander we need more details, can you get us some video?”
Michael turned on his camera and said, “Okay, here you go, take a look for yourself.”
“Michael, can we fix it?” Christina asked with crossed fingers.
“Uh. . .not sure. . .looks pretty bad. Guess we’re going to get a chance at that repair kit.” He cleared his throat and shifted tone, “Why sure, Commander, no problem. We can fix it right up. I’ll swing around the bird and look for any more damage, then I’ll be headin’ in.”
“Roger, please be careful.”
It took almost an hour for him to wrap up the inspection. Udahl had him stick his gloved fingers in the damaged areas to try and estimate the size of the voids.
Christina asked Udahl about their options and learned the bad news. Any chance of rescue exceeded the envelope provided by their limited supply of fuel and oxygen. Because of all the maneuvering to attack ICBMs, they didn’t have enough fuel to make it to the space station. And, of course, Russian transports were out of the question. The U.S. was down to its last shuttle. Looks like we’re on our own. She sucked in a big breath and steeled her grit.
There was only one tiny glimmer for New Hope: a long considered, but never tested, rework of tiles in orbit. She and her two crew members frantically went through the procedures as they waited on Michael’s return. Ever since the Columbia disaster in 2003, NASA engineers had provided a kit, capable of replacing a few tiles by stacking in small, carbon bricks. It also included adhesives that could fill large cracks. Of course, no one knew if such a repair would survive the extreme heat and vibration of reentry, but it was their only option.
The problems of nuclear war faded away as Christina fought her own war against the hazards of space. They had a chance, but it was a slim one. That afternoon all four astronauts suited up and spent six hours underneath the giant spaceship working on repairs.
“Make ‘em pretty now,” she said. It was a sad attempt at humor. “Just think, we can always get a job at a body-shop.”
“How about a used car dealer?” Michael chuckled.
All highly motivated, no one complained about the long, sweaty task. It was a simple choice: either fix the tiles or die.
* * *
For the second time in 48 hours, it was “come to Jesus” time for Christina Matthews. They had done their very best to repair the shield, and the re-entry procedure was just minutes away. Although the two military specialists were somewhat clueless, Christina and Michael knew what they were up against. Before they put on their helmets, he put his hand to her face and looked at her with sad eyes.
“Christina, before we hit the brakes, I just want you to know how much I. . .”
“You don’t have to say it, I will. . .I love you too.”
“Well, just in case something goes. . .”
“Don’t say it. . .it’s bad luck. Nothing is going to go wrong. Do you hear me?”
“But. . .”
“Shut up, Michael. We’re gonna make it. I know we are. Now put on your helmet, and let’s get busy.”
Even with the protection of undamaged tiles, reentry was a violent proposition. If the patchwork bricks gave way under the enormous pressure of reentry plasma, they were toast. Just as they crossed over the western border of China and hurtled out over the Pacific Ocean, Christina made the call.
“Mission Control, this is New Hope. All buckled down here and setting up for reentry.”
“Roger,” Udahl replied with his usual tone of tranquility. “The boys down here like your quilting job, Commander. Don’t worry, the engineers say it’ll work.”
“That’s comforting,” she replied, “but they don’t have to ride this rattle-trap.”
In its standard, inverted attitude, nose forward, the reverse thrusters necessary for shuttle reentry were pointing in the wrong direction. The first procedure was to flip the spaceship over for the burn, then back for reentry.
“Flipper burn on my mark. . .three, two, one, mark.” She fired the tiny thrusters to pitch the aft end of the ship all the way over the top. She watched her situation display and aligned the crosshairs. “Ass forward and on the mark. Look ma, we’re flying backwards,” she joked, trying not to sound the way she really felt, scared shitless!
“Roger, Commander. T-minus-five minutes to reentry burn.”
“Standing by. . .ready for burn.”
“T-minus-one minute. . .five, four, three, two one, burn!”
She flipped the switch to fire the rockets and felt a jolt. In order to reenter the earth’s atmosphere, all they had to do was cut 1% off the spaceship’s momentum. “A-okay, ground, a perfect twenty-two second burn. We’re headin’ home.”
As the shuttle sped backwards at 17,740 mph, trimming the velocity by only 200 mph dropped them out of orbit.
“Commander, looks good on this end. You can roll her back for reentry, and God’s speed.”
“Rolling 180. Yaw thrusters active. Yippee, comin’ around like a carnival ride. Aaah,” Christina sighed. “I like this attitude much better; feels more like a real airplane. We’re on line and pitching forward. Locked on nominal descent angle.”
Achieving a shuttle descent angle of exactly 40 degrees was critical. Any less and the shuttle would fly long without hope of landing at Cape Canaveral. Any more than 40 degrees and they would be reduced to ashes.
Michael made his report from the co-pilot seat, “All systems green, clock rolling, six-niner minutes to touchdown. Hey Udahl, would y’all please put on the coffee?” he chuckled.
“Regular or decaf?”
As New Hope entered the thin, upper layers of atmosphere, a pressure wave began to develop on its leading edges. A superheated shroud of incandescent plasma formed as the air molecules ripped apart, and their component atoms ionized. Plasma, sometimes called the fourth state of matter, began to envelop the shuttle in a brilliant corona known as St. Elmo’s fire. It was always something to watch. Unfortunately, this time it was more than a glow. Christina was sure she could see chips breaking off the shield like a Roman candle on the 4th of July.
“Losin’ material,” she reported. “C’mon baby, hold together a few more minutes.”
There was a high frequency vibration which she hadn’t felt before, and sweat beaded on her brow. She knew it was at this point that a hole in the leading edge of Columbia’s left wing began to glow with disastrous results. Plasma heating burned a concave section into Columbia’s wing, increased the drag and turned the doomed shuttle sideways. It was just a matter of seconds before the entire structure came apart like a hundred meteors cast down on east Texas. Those unfortunate astronauts didn’t feel a thing. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Christina thought. She monitored her attitude as the vibration increased, and the ionization cloud glowed outside her window. She tried not to think what the hot plasma was doing to their patchwork. So far so good, she thought. It was a long twenty minutes, and the vibrations were intense, but they were still in one piece.
“Range 2,000 miles, altitude 50. A lot of shaking now, getting some aerodynamic control. Computer banking for the first braking-turn. Twenty minutes to touchdown, plasma very bright now, and we g-o-o-ot the sha-a-akes.” She knew they could hear her voice cracking, because it rang out clearly through her own headset. She sounded like a truck driver’s CB voice on a rough road. “Breaker 19, breaker 19, get those cameras ready, we’re comin’ in. See any smokies down there? Come back.” She envisioned the control room at JSC and knew all the ground personnel were crossing fingers, gnawing cigars, and holding their breaths.
“Relax, Commander. . .made in the shade,” Udahl hummed.
“Easy for you to say. This is some galloping po-o-ony.” She looked toward Michael, but he was a blur. Unlike early space capsules, New Hope never lost communications on descent, and both cockpit voice and telemetry were monitored all th
e way down by Mission Control.
“Commander, snap to; you need to check your situation display. You’re some five degrees off course, error growing.”
She had her hands full. A few minutes later she transmitted in a shrill voice, “We’re hypersonic, Mach 8, rapidly decelerating, twenty miles altitude, and this baby’s trying to slip away from the computer. Skin temp 2000C, that’s 300 over nominal. Seven minutes out. Standby one, gonna have to override, we’re losin’ it. Okay, I got the controls, maneuvering at Mach 4 and pitching forward into our last braking turn. Give me a second. . .coming around, okay, got her back on trajectory, controls responding, but they’re sluggish,” she complained. “Michael, you need to help me with this, can’t seem to get enough backpressure on the stick.”
