Good morning to you, asshole.
Bleeker turned and waved at one of the ubiquitous TV cameras.
The SimSup said, ‘I just want to review the basic parameters of the sim with you, before you start. Now, you know this isn’t an integrated sim.’ Meaning they weren’t hooked up to Mission Control. ‘This is just a preliminary trial of the checklist we’re going to have to use, when we fit out the workshop in orbit. Okay, let’s proceed.’
The divers nodded to Jones, and they guided him closer to the Apollo mockup. It was just an open cone, fitted to the Docking Adapter. The simulation was supposed to start at the moment at which the crew were moving into the workshop to configure it for habitation.
Their first job was to dismantle the docking assembly in Apollo’s nose and open up the tunnel to the workshop. This part, at least, should go smoothly, because this sort of docking was standard operating practice on the Moon missions.
Jones heard Bleeker’s breath scratching as he hauled at the heavy docking probe assembly. ‘Take it easy, kid. We’re being paid by the hour.’
Bleeker laughed, and his posture relaxed a little.
When they had the probe assembly loose, Bleeker passed it to a diver.
Bleeker moved ahead of Jones into the Multiple Docking Adapter. The Adapter was a tight tunnel, lined with lockers. All the equipment for living quarters, clothes, food, experiments and the rest was stored in these lockers during the launch; when they’d fitted out the hydrogen tank for habitation, Jones and Bleeker would have to come back here, unpack the lockers, and move this equipment into the tank.
Bleeker passed on, into the hydrogen tank itself.
The metal walls of the tank opened out around him. It was pitch dark, and Jones had the feeling that he was following Bleeker into a huge, forbidding metal cave. ‘Hold up, Adam; let’s throw a little light on the situation here.’ Jones unclipped a portable light from his belt and fixed it to the fireman’s pole that passed along the axis of the tank.
The lamp sent glimmering light through the water along the length of the tank, to a wall at the far end that bulged inward toward him. This was the bulkhead between the hydrogen tank and the booster’s lox tank beyond. Helium pressurization spheres clung to the walls like big silver warts. Handrails and poles looped across the metal cave, and folded-up partitions and other bits of kit were stowed neatly against the walls of the tank. Too neatly. I wonder what those poor schmuckos will find when they meet this bird in real life, in orbit.
The Skylabs were just lash-ups, really, improvisation. But they would give NASA experience it needed of orbital operations and long-duration flights, before the real space station cans started flying later.
‘Okay, guys,’ the SimSup said. ‘As you know, in orbit the first job would be to check that the propellant lines are properly blocked. Today, we want you to skip over that and proceed straight to the assembly of the floor.’
‘We’ve read the checklist,’ Jones growled. ‘Come on, pal.’ He shimmied along the fireman’s pole, deeper into the tank.
Bleeker and Jones manhandled packs of floor panels away from their stowage against the tank walls. Their job was to fit a floor of aluminum grid across the width of the tank, maybe two-thirds of the way along its length. Putting the panels together would be like assembling a jigsaw puzzle, working their way in to the tank’s axis.
The two men worked their way around the perimeter of the tank. It was simple work, but slow, clumsy and tiring; Jones found it hard to grip tools with his suited hands, and the water resisted every motion.
Divers had followed them into the tank. One of them had brought in an underwater TV camera, and was filming them.
The SimSup tried to cheer them up. ‘We appreciate your help here, guys. We’re well aware that you two are slated for other missions, and probably won’t even be the ones to carry this out for real anyway …’
I sure as hell hope not, Jones thought.
Chuck Jones was supposed to be going to the Moon. He was backup commander on Apollo 15, which, according to the basic framework of crew rotation, would give him his own mission three shots later, on Apollo 18.
But Congress had cut NASA’s budget for Fiscal 1971, making it the leanest budget for nine years. And Nixon still hadn’t responded to the Space Task Group’s proposals for the future shape of the space program, although the word was he was now leaning toward a Mars program of some kind, under Kennedy’s relentless public pressure.
Anyhow, NASA was going to need Saturn Vs to launch its Skylabs and space station modules and NERVA test flights. So, NASA was going to have to conserve Saturn V launches. The remaining lunar expeditions, Apollos 14 through to 20, were going to be stretched out to six-monthly intervals …
There were rumors in the Office that the later flights might be cut altogether.
Jones had flown in space. Once.
He’d finished three orbits of Earth on the second orbital Mercury flight, following John Glenn. It had been a picnic. He’d enjoyed the feeling of microgravity, being able to yaw the little capsule about so that the glowing Earth sailed every which way past his tiny window.
But he used up too much of his hydrogen peroxide maneuvering fuel, playing around in orbit.
By the time he got to the retro-sequence, nobody was sure if he had enough fuel to set the capsule at the right angle to reenter. He might have burned up, having wasted all his fuel playing around in orbit. Well, he hadn’t; he’d overshot his splashdown point by two hundred fifty miles, but he was picked up within a couple of hours by choppers from the carrier.
Jones had been content with his adventure. But the NASA hierarchy were less than pleased with him. He might have augured in: killed himself by playing around.
Officially Jones stayed on the roster, for assignment to a later flight. But there was a certain distance, now, between Jones and the rest of the Astronaut Office. Deke Slayton, the chief astronaut, had dropped heavy hints that he might want to drop out of the program altogether.
But Jones, mad as hell, had flatly refused. He’d wanted to prove the astronauts really were aviators. He knew he’d done well; he knew he’d done better than Glenn, even, as far as he was concerned.
So he was going to stay on as an astronaut, and he was going to go to the goddamn Moon. In the meantime, to keep in the program, he accepted a job with Slayton and Alan Shepard – another of the original astronauts, also grounded, in his case for an ear condition – in the Astronaut Office.
Jones had served in there for eight whole years: scheduling and training, working on sims and mission profiles. Eight years.
Now enough bigwigs had moved out of NASA, it seemed, for his indiscretion to be forgotten, and he was back on flight status.
But if the Moon flights got cut, so did he. He’d probably be too damn old for Mars.
Jones didn’t want to go to the Moon for the thrill of exploration. For him it wasn’t the destination that counted but the journey: a mission that offered the most challenging flying test anyone could devise.
The Skylabs just weren’t going to offer that. He had no wish for his career to climax in a low-Earth-orbiting trash can, where the job would be to endure, just logging days, boring a hole in the sky.
He really would hate to miss out on the Moon.
Jones hauled at floor bolts with a vigor that alarmed the surgeons who were monitoring his vital signs.
When the floor was completed, the SimSup congratulated them. ‘Okay, boys; we’ll take a break and refurbish before the next session. Come out through the Docking Adapter.’
Preceded by the divers, Bleeker made his way through the cramped Adapter and toward the brightly lit water beyond.
‘Now you, Chuck,’ the SimSup said.
Jones made his way into the shadowy Adapter; the lockers clustered about, restricting his movement. He was illuminated by the tank lights behind him, and the free blue water of the facility ahead of him.
When he was well inside the Adapter, the exit t
o the Apollo mockup slammed shut.
Jones pulled up short. He wrapped his gloved palms around the hatch lever. It wouldn’t give.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Jones.’ The SimSup voice was terse now. ‘You’ve suffered a multiple failure. Your Command Module is disabled; you can’t return to it; you can’t get it loose of the docking port. The power in the workshop cluster is about to fail. What do you do? Go.’
Now the lights failed. He was left floating in pitch darkness. Even the tank lights had gone out.
‘What kind of asshole game is this? …’
He took a breath, and calmed himself down. SimSups were famous for throwing crap like this at you. He had to find an answer to this, and fast; he could yell at them later.
He knew the theory. If Skylab astronauts couldn’t get home, a new Apollo would be sent up from the Cape. But if the disabled Apollo was jammed to the docking port, what use would that be?
In the pitch darkness, he was starting to forget which way up he was.
These fucking sims.
He tried to concentrate; he pictured the Adapter as he’d seen it just before the ‘failure’: the useless docking port before him; the access tunnel back to the workshop behind him.
He suffered a surge of panic. He reached out at random; his gloved hands clattered against lockers and handholds. The space here was too big, he realized suddenly; that was what was disorienting him. If he were safely tucked up in Mercury –
Take it easy. You’re not in any danger. You can always back out into the tank. The divers are still there.
Yeah, he thought sourly. But if I do that I’ll have fucked up. The Grand Old Man of the Astronaut Office. Put him in a swimming bath for two minutes, and he screws the pooch.
In fact, he thought, I’m already screwing up by taking so long. How many seconds? Half a minute? There must be something obvious I’m meant to do; something I’m missing. Think, damn it. If the docking port is blocked, then how –
Then it came to him. The Docking Adapter had two docking ports. Bleeker had got out through the axial port; but there was also a radial port, stuck to the side of the Adapter for just such a purpose as this.
He reached down, and found the port on his first try; it was jammed, but it gave after a couple of tugs.
Bleeker clapped Jones on the shoulder; the impact was deadened by layers of suit fabric. ‘What were you doing in there, pops, having a shave? Next time, make sure you’ve studied the manual.’
‘Asshole,’ Jones growled. ‘You were in on that, weren’t you?’
‘Just another Monday, Chuck. Don’t take it personal.’
Fucking engineers. Fucking smart-ass rookies.
With the help of the divers, they swam clumsily to the side of the facility.
Tuesday, April 14, 1970
Manned Spacecraft Center, Houston
According to Fred Michaels’s antique vest-pocket watch, it was a little after a quarter to two. He’d been watching the time compulsively, he realized.
Tim Josephson oiled up to him. ‘Mr Agronski is here to see you, sir. He’s waiting in your office.’
‘That’s Doctor Agronski, damn it.’
‘Sorry. Shall I tell him you’ll meet him over there?’
Michaels, resenting the intrusion, turned away rather than answer. He looked through the glass, at the three rows of flight controllers.
Seen from the Viewing Room here at the back of the MOCR – Mission Operations Control Room, pronounced to rhyme with ‘poker,’ and known as ‘Mission Control’ to the world – there was no obvious drama. But the controllers looked pretty crumpled, with ties loosened or discarded, shirts creased, and the operations desks were strewn with coffee cups, manuals and scribbled notes.
He could see Joe Muldoon wandering about at the back of the MOCR. Nine months after his own lunar flight, Muldoon had just finished a six-hour stint as capcom to Jim Lovell and his Apollo 13 crew, but he showed no desire to leave; in fact, he knew that Muldoon was intending to head on over now to Building 5, where other off-duty astronauts were running continual simulations of the improvised procedures the Apollo 13 crew would have to adopt to get home.
Already seventeen hours had passed since 13 had started to fall apart; Michaels wondered how many of the controllers had got a minute’s sleep since.
Josephson coughed. The aide was a slim, prematurely balding young man, with a PhD in some discipline or other. You needed a PhD to make the coffee, here at MSC. ‘Sir, Dr Agronski –’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
Leon Agronski worked on President Nixon’s Science Advisory Committee, with special responsibility for the space program, and all its expensive evils. Michaels knew why Agronski was here: to thrash out ‘options’ for NASA’s budget for FY1971 and beyond, before any formal submission by the White House.
More cuts.
Michaels was an Associate Administrator with responsibility for Manned Spaceflight, a direct report of Thomas Paine, NASA’s Administrator. It had broken Michaels’s heart when Paine had gone public back in February to announce the cuts to Skylab, even some terminations at NASA.
‘You know,’ he mused, ‘maybe, if we can pull this off, this Apollo 13 thing, it will bring us back together, just a little. If we can remember how it feels to have worked like this, today, then maybe we’ll be able to achieve great things again …’
Josephson had been avoiding his eyes; now he confronted Michaels, a little more boldly. ‘Fred, I know you’re upset. But the wheels don’t stop turning. And Dr Agronski has flown out from Washington to catch you.’
Michaels grunted. Josephson was right, of course. The wheels never stopped turning.
And maybe, just maybe, he could use this mess to his advantage. He felt his mood lighten a little.
‘All right, let’s go see him,’ he said. ‘But not in some goddamn bureaucratic office block. Call him over here – ask him to come to the lunar surface back room.’ Another thought struck him. ‘Oh – and, Tim –’
‘Sir?’
‘Ask Joe Muldoon to join us, would you?’
The back room would have been used as the center of operations for the moonwalks. Its walls were covered with crew checklists, and with Orbiter and Apollo photographs of the landing area – called Fra Mauro, a place in the lunar uplands: the first ambitious, scientifically interesting site they’d planned to land. Now, it was deserted.
When Michaels arrived, Muldoon and Agronski were sitting at a large walnut desk in the center of the room. Agronski, thin to the point of sharpness, was leafing through some notes from his briefcase; Muldoon was hollow-eyed with fatigue, and he had folded his big, powerful hands on the desk top. He glared impatiently at Michaels. Josephson fussed around, pouring coffees.
Michaels pulled out a chair, and accepted a coffee. Then Josephson withdrew, leaving the three of them alone.
Michaels introduced Muldoon to Agronski. ‘Leon, Joe here is on the backup crew for Apollo 14, and then should command his own mission, on 17. Joe, you’re here at my invitation. To help remind us what this damn thing is all about.’
Here is the second American on the Moon, Agronski, you thin-lipped asshole, Michaels thought. Here he is! Large as life, and twice as brave! A living symbol! Show a little respect!
In the dazzle of the room’s strip lights, Michaels couldn’t see Agronski’s eyes behind his thin-rimmed glasses.
Joe Muldoon was glaring back at Michaels. Muldoon’s look, those blue eyes hard under that balding prow of a skull, said it all; he was thinking that Michaels was a paper-pushing prick who shouldn’t be wasting Muldoon’s time on a day like this. Not when he – Muldoon – could be in Building 5 or the MOCR with the other guys; not when he might be able to come up with something to save the crew out there –
Christ, Michaels thought suddenly. Maybe I’ve miscalculated. If Muldoon blows his stack here, this could turn into a hundred-kilowatt disaster. He shot an imploring look at Muldoon.
Agronski hand
ed Michaels a document from his case. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel Muldoon; I wasn’t expecting you to be here. I brought only two copies.’
Muldoon turned that bald-eagle glare on the science adviser, who seemed oblivious.
The document was a photostat, stapled together, covered in pencil notes, and with the Presidential seal on the first page.
‘This is the statement President Nixon was drafting, to make in March,’ Agronski said. ‘A formal response to the Space Task Group report. But he withdrew it. I want you to see this draft, Fred, to understand the way the thoughts of the Administration are heading.’
Michaels scanned the statement.
… Over the last decade, the principal goal of our nation’s space program has been the Moon … I believe these accomplishments should help us gain a new perspective of our space program … We must define new goals which make sense for the seventies. We must build on the successes of the past, always reaching out for new achievements. But we must also recognize that many critical problems here on this planet make high priority demands on our attention and our resources. By no means should we allow our space program to stagnate. But – with the entire future and the entire universe before us – we should not try to do everything at once. Our approach to space must continue to be bold, but it must also be balanced …
Christ, Michaels thought. We’re in trouble.
He read on. Economies everywhere. One rationalization after another. No money for more lunar flights beyond Apollo 20. The space station projects cut back to little more than Skylab. All decisions on later stuff, beyond Apollo and Skylab, deferred: that is, canned.
The feasibility studies on the Space Shuttle seemed spared, but even that was only because Nixon perceived the Shuttle as saving the bottom line: We should work to reduce substantially the cost of space operations … As we build for the longer range future, we must devise less costly and less complicated ways of transporting payloads into space …
Michaels put the paper down. So Nixon thinks we can cost-cut our way to Mars.
Voyage Page 7
