Damn! — hope this turns out legible. Easier things to do than trying to write Pitman shorthand while floating weightless in dark, scared to death, sole illumination furnished by flashlight wedged between hull braces, hand gripping pen encased in bulky EMU glove and possessing every reason to shake.
Never been so terrified in whole short, violence-prone life. Still not afraid of death per se — though if guessed wrong (as well may have, with limited data on which forced to make decision) impending demise promises to be painful enough to satisfy fantasies of even most demanding masochist.
No; fear based upon possibility might have guessed even wronger; in which case probably won’t be physically painful at all: Instead will have several hours in which to dwell on consequences sure to befall family, friends — all my people.
Would accept eternity of physical torture to keep that from happening.
Yes, Posterity, it’s me again: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster, adventuress, aviatrix, heroine at large — would-be Plucky Girl Savior Of Our People — at your service.
So what’s nice girl like me doing in place like this? Kind of thought that might be next question. Sweating, that’s what — and trembling like leaf.
Plus working feverishly to complete account of past four days in wan hope that at least this record will survive next few hours; alert hominem community to continuing existence of implacable threat to species’ very survival.
Modest enough ambition; and from cursory inspection of problem, odds slightly encouraging, given precautions now in works: Shall encase completed volume inside one EMU; place that inside another, stick that inside third. With thermostats turned down all the way, triple insulation should keep paper below magic 451-degree mark.
And EMU sandwich better protect volume; because if gets anywhere near that hot, as probably will, record inherits sole responsibility for passing on warning — Your Obedient Servant will have been parboiled in own juices long since.
(Don’t like to think about that part — but important thing is this record must reach Teacher…!)
Suspect am rambling. Partially deliberate, partially self-indulgent: First, good therapy — trying to reestablish semblance of control over writing hand; reduce shaking to point where penmanship legible to someone besides own (probably, by then, dearly departed) self. And does seem to be working. Somewhat. Spastic scribbles clearing up perceptibly as necessary concentration on task blanks out distraction of surroundings, past horrific events, future possibly worse ones; pothooks starting to look purposeful again.
Self-indulgence therapeutic, too, Fair idea how much time remains before fate determined. Need to keep psyche occupied between now, then. Sure to lose control otherwise. And last thing need up here is screaming, arm-flapping, hysterical crazy. Particularly when crazy is self.
Okay, shaking under control now. Mostly. On with show:
Wakened at 3:30 A. M., morning of launch, by Gayle, obviously trying not to cry. Felt sorry for her; pretended not to notice, engaged her in idle conversation, avoiding The Subject. Took advantage of opportunity for final luxurious hot shower — with Nathan Hale stripped of amenities, would be last opportunity. Very last…
Pushed bleak awareness of impending doom into remote corner of mind; sternly told stay there, shut up; went to breakfast/farewell party. Harris Gilbert, Mission Commander, and Kyril Svetlanov, Russian bomb expert, both there already, together with everyone who could be spared from countdown duties.
My breakfast consisted of medium-rare filet; fluffy scrambled eggs on toast; pancakes with maple syrup; orange juice, milk; huge slab of rich, moist chocolate cake with thick, dark, almost-bitter chocolate icing. Wonderful…!
Not exactly USDA-recommended breakfast menu for 11-year-old girl, granted. But weight-saving considerations precluded taking much in way of food on mission; big last meal important — plus was, symbolically at least, Last Meal in other sense as well, so damn well ate what I wanted.
(Curiously, knowledge of approaching death affects appetite only during first couple days after notification; loses effect thereafter. Had no difficulty stuffing face to repletion.)
But then came farewells from those able to attend. That was difficult. Teacher, emotions under most tenuous control, made short speech; expressed gratitude of entire hominem community; assured us would not be forgotten. He shook men’s hands, embraced briefly. Then hugged me long, hard, our tears mingling; kissed lips gently — left room abruptly.
Others lined up along route to launch complex. Got hugged, cried on en passant by people hadn’t even met yet. Finally found ourselves strapped to seats atop Nathan Hale, beginning crew-participation phase of countdown.
All three wore spacesuits (very latest models; theoretically Van-Allen-radiation-proof [as if mattered!]) to preclude pressure drop imperiling mission — this was one shuttle flight that had to continue, regardless what minor glitches might arise.
Both men wore standard-issue EMUs. But mine product of heroic postproduction reengineering of smallest available size: Had to fit through 9-by-14 detonator access hatch inside bomb, plus still leave room for own four-foot-ten-inch frame. And does. Just.
Rigid aluminum upper-torso frame on which shoulder constant-velocity joints mount leaves precious little room for secondary sexual characteristics. But fortunately (narrowly circumstance-limited usage!) am not stunning example of physically precocious 11-year-old girl; assets compressed, but not uncomfortably so. Likewise with hip/fanny development: Were another half-inch of me, doubt could stuff into corresponding lower-torso/hips CV-joint attachment frame.
My portable life-support-system package not physically mounted on suit’s back as with other two’s suits, and as have been since shuttles’ introduction. AA engineers debated whether easier, more reliable, to reconfigure PLSS components into 8.5 by 13.5 package or detach from suit, couple with lines long enough to allow me to reach detonator while PLSS remains outside; settled on latter.
Helmet solution classic example of back-alley mechanics’ triumph over engineering sophistication: Excised broad strip from spherical one-piece Lexan bubble; rejoined edges by drilling bunch of tiny holes along edges, slipping edges into slots in narrow, bent-H-shaped strap fashioned from titanium. Tightening myriad small bolts compresses H’s legs together, forcing gaskets against Lexan, forming strong joint, positive seal. Resultant helmet normal size laterally; much shallower fore-and-aft: With occipital hair firmly pressed against rear, nose has about one inch clearance at front. Don’t know how they regained circular shape at neck for attachment to upper-torso sealing ring, but did.
Waist sealing ring, on other hand, doesn’t even pretend to be round. Sealing involves assembling, tightening bunches of bolts, washers, wing-nuts; compressing ring halves together. Lots more complicated than other suits.
Well, launch proved every bit as thrilling as advertised. Countdown smooth, no Holds; managed to perform own assignments without irreversible error…
And then LCD clock was flashing last few seconds:
“…main engine start,” I puffed, restrained from bouncing up and down in chair by harness; “…two, one, zero…!”
Half wondered, during training, whether concentration on rapid-fire copilot duties might keep me too busy to experience, enjoy excitement of launch. But not to worry — missed nothing: Adrenaline surged through veins; palms grew damp, breath rapid; heartbeat pounded inside skull until drowned out by wondrous, swelling, all-encompassing roar which took form, grew until pervaded entire universe, seemingly unto my very bones.
And then: “…solid booster ignition — LIFT-OFF…!” I shouted, voice cracking with excitement.
And we did — though disgraced myself by squealing, “Wow…! Wow…! We’re boldly going…!” as gee forces drove me back into seat cushions.
Momentarily wished Terry could be here; would love rush, acceleration, sensation of power throbbing in very air — could almost feel baby brother’s toenails gripping shoulder as bobbed head, yelled approval.
Caught briefest glimpse of Harris’s private superior smile before voice of Ground Control dragged attention back to task at hand: “Nathan Hale, you’re clear of tower. All engines look good.”
“Roger,” I replied, trying to sound as if did this sort of thing every day (not easy while in throes of ultimate fantasy-gratification); “instituting roll.”
My instruments, CRTs, etc., continued to show optimum readings as we reached, exceeded Mach One. Control announced computer-instituted main engine throttle-back (earlier, deeper than usual, due to combination of doubled SRB thrust and to need protect now-vulnerable, easily melted aluminum skin) — redundantly, far as I was concerned: Reduction in gees quite perceptible.
Max-Q arrived on schedule; engines throttled up to 100 percent; I informed Control. SRB separation came about one minute later; gee forces abated slightly. But a few minutes thereafter computer again throttled back main engines to avoid exceeding three gees as fuel load lightened.
After running external tank dry on schedule (resultant mixture-imbalance flame-out totaled main engines [Harris cringed, but reuse not contemplated in mission profile — and needed every drop]), we fired up orbital maneuvering system. Some time later Harris announced we had sufficient delta-V to reach geosynchronous orbit; shut down OMS. Everything had worked like clockwork.
We took care of final housekeeping details necessary to put Hale on hold for next three days; assumed belly-sunward attitude to keep heat off cargo bay fuel tank, opened bay doors…
And finally had time to breathe. Shed EMUs with relief. Grouped around windows, admiring beauty of Earth Seen From Orbit, pointing out familiar landmarks. Chatted animatedly a while thereafter, rehashing launch, generally unwinding from intense concentration involved.
Hard to say just when pendulum started back. But presently noticed three of us drifting around cabin, trying not to meet each other’s eyes. And could have cut silence with shovel.
Understandable, of course: Letdown following excitement of launch, coupled with knowledge that we had absolutely nothing to do during three days would take Hale to complete long outward parabola, together with trying not to think about what would happen within single day following mission’s completion, combined to lay pall on company.
All well on way toward satisfying wallow in melancholy by time Harris recognized own symptoms, those of others; roused himself sufficiently to call halt: “This will never do, people. I don’t like what’s happening here. If we keep this up for three days, we’ll all be in catatonic withdrawal when the time comes to do our jobs.”
Kyril blinked, looked around momentarily as if startled. Felt much same way myself. But, tending more toward assertiveness (i.e., spoiled brattiness) than gentle Russian, fought for my right to become zombie; snarled, “Leave me alone. I don’t feel like company right now.”
“Neither do I,” Harris replied sternly. “But I’m going to have it — and so are you.”
Harris doesn’t have to raise voice to make point; has Command Presence: lot like Daddy in that respect.
Already snapping out of incipient depression before properly finished resenting intrusion. Performed quick self-inventory; found Commander right as usual. Apologized for rude tone. Harris accepted with grace.
We turned to find Kyril grinning at us. “Shucks…” he teased; “chumps again, just when things getting engrossable. Was processed to grieve for absenting of popmaize and fellow random numerologist with whom to collate speculatings. Mutiny’s outcome providing abstruse handihatting. Absence of gravity outsetting size to broadness extant, but thinking my trove still on Commander.”
Corners of Harris’s mouth twitched; fixed me with penetrating eye, shook head imperceptibly. “Just don’t bet too much ‘trove’ on me,” he advised. “I’m getting too old to mix it up with anyone as young and flexible as Candy.”
Kyril’s grin broadened; appreciated self-deprecating humor: As if little girl could pose a challenge to tough old ex-Marine.
(But exchange left me regarding Harris with bemusement. Suddenly realized that, while no one had ever said anything to me on subject, neither had anyone ever mentioned my martial-arts ranking in Kyril’s presence. Russian obviously still in dark about nature of my strength — equally obvious: Harris preferred to keep it that way; apparently my capabilities Top Secret for time being where Russian concerned. Attitude seemed extreme, but respected unspoken wishes; kept own counsel.)
“There, that’s better,” Harris approved. “Everybody’s smiling again. Now the question is: How do we stay this way for three days? We couldn’t bring a damned thing to occupy our hands and minds — not even a pack of cards. So how do we stay interested and alert and avoid getting lost in terminal introspection?”
Kyril’s face lit up like kid’s at Christmas. “ ‘Terminal,’ you are saying? How about we programming BFS computer’s unused memory to do video gaming on CRT? Is being lots of capacity.”
Harris looked thoughtful; could see him mentally reviewing backup flight-system software interfaces for boobytraps potentially affecting mission. Then face brightened. “Good idea. I’ll block off a couple of files to keep us out of trouble; then we can start writing the programs.
“Only” — eyes danced at prospect — “instead of emulating just another video game, let’s write an interactive orbital-mechanics simulator for Candy — that’s more fun than Space Invaders.” Kyril rubbed hands in agreement. Both fell to.
Took them better part of first day to write, debug program. Kept me in stitches whole time with gleeful deadpan technical sophistry, arguing nonstop about respective programming skills, techniques, etc. Was like watching Laurelovich Hardy Olde Tyme Comedy.
But finally complete; proud creators placed me before terminal, explained keyboard basics — then sat back to watch (laughing fool heads off, offering contradictory advice), as attempted to master deceptively simple-appearing, diabolic complexities of orbital relationships.
CRT display consisted of two-dimensional representation of orbital problem: Small circle in middle represented planet, gravitational source; two objects circled primary, one oblong, one triangular. Hypothetical shuttle orbited close-in, at high speed; target satellite, located two-thirds of way to screen’s edge, moved much more slowly. Shuttle’s fuel status presented in lower right-hand corner; figures updated continuously as power used, whether reaction control system (attitude control) or thrust. Control inputs (vector, feet-per-second; whether RCS, OMS) displayed at lower left.
Object of game was orbital rendezvous, docking. Operator keyed in delta-V changes, trying to alter vehicle’s orbit, effect rendezvous. Once orbits very closely matched, screen shifted to large-scale display; enabled close-in maneuvering, docking.
But quickly discovered orbital mechanics ain’t easy — in fact, ran out of fuel 13 times back-to-back before discovering basic principle by accident: Farther out the orbit, slower the orbital speed (everybody knows that) — but to overtake target ahead in same orbit, necessary to slow vehicle! Speeding up forces you out into wider, slower orbit — never catch up. Reducing delta-V drops you into lower, faster orbit. Short burn necessary to circularize new orbit. After overtaking target on inside track, add delta-V, which moves you back out into wider, slower orbit; then circularize again.
Only after positions, orbits, practically identical do maneuvering inputs produce results compatible with reasonable expectations.
Took me 26 tries to achieve docking. And wasn’t until then that I noticed how quiet cabin had become; realized teasing, needling, good-natured, boyish laughter had died out quite some time back. Looked up to meet Harris’s gaze.
“Ordinarily,” he observed wryly, “I let my students learn how incredible they are from someone else. However, these are rather special circumstances.
“Candy…” Harris paused, shaking head slowly, “…you’re making me look bad! I’m not going to tell you how many tries it took me to manage my first rendezvous and docking on a simulator like this — and I didn’t have to figure out the theory first…!”
Kyril’s grin was ear-to-ear. “You sure you not Russian…?” he prodded. “I knowing you not looking Russian, but…”
“But now I’m going back into the software,” interrupted Harris firmly, “and I’m going to install the antisatellite-missile launching program.”
“Oh, that’s being a really toughie,” approved Kyril. Turned to Harris: “Trying again?”
Harris shook head. “Uh-uh, I’m not betting against her again. I didn’t get where I am today by repeating mistakes…” Paused, looked around cockpit; then grinned ruefully. “Let me rephrase that.”
Too late by then for additional computer horseplay; time for bed. Time also to nibble at unsatisfyingly small store of high-protein, high-energy foods which, together with Tang (ick), comprised total nutrient inventory.
Then time to perform other necessary function — truly distasteful business: God obviously had gravity in mind when designed Man’s bowels.
(And have I mentioned? Tidy, odor-free, NASA-designed unisex waste-collection system deemed excess weight; removal, viewed with cold practicality, no more than passing annoyance for those involved — inconvenience over in few days anyway. Meanwhile, am paying price for bladder-dumping logistics less conveniently arranged than males’: Wearing my old friend, Foley catheter. Again. For “rest of my life.” Whee.)
Close of long, exciting day. Experienced no trouble going straight to sleep; tied myself down with blanket, muttered posthypnotic trigger phrase, dropped right off.
Woke in middle of night just long enough to realize: Adults’ slapstick enthusiasm, while surely mutually therapeutic, intended primarily for my benefit; Harris, Kyril spending all that energy to keep me from getting depressed. Discovery gave me warm, cozy, “loved” feeling, even though neither in hugging range at moment. Good boys, I thought drowsily; good stock — hoped passed on lots of genes while had chance, before getting mixed up in this. Knew Harris had three grown daughters; didn’t know about Kyril.
Snickered sleepily to self: If only little bit older, would see to it they both died smiling.
And resolved to devote equal energy to keeping them cheered up as well: Who knows — might set up loop effect, positive feedback, mutual reinforcement. Be good for all of us.
Second day much like first, but slept later.
Earth visibly smaller; still heartstoppingly beautiful.
Harris, Kyril juiced up orbital-mechanics game as promised. Took me bulk of morning to score first hit. But success did me no good; once I got hang of it, they turned up wick still further by equipping target with antiantisatellite-missile missiles, plus dodging ability. Didn’t score again that day.
But did notice C-rations even less filling.
And some things do not improve with practice: Found self hoping Heaven boasts gravity, sit-down commodes.
Third day repeat of second.
Crew’s spirits held up well.
Scored intermittently during morning on orbital-mechanics game; didn’t miss once during early afternoon, so boys put heads together to complicate things further. Wouldn’t say what had in mind. Could hardly wait; wasn’t video-game addict before, but this was challenging.
Hunger on way to becoming serious annoyance. (And became necessary to watch boys carefully to verify eating own rightful portions; both had this sweetly distressing tendency to want to treat me as Damsel In Distress. Caught them working shell-game variant to see I got lion’s share.)
Still hated lack of toilet facilities; though output dwindling in proportion to intake — plus C-rations probably low on residue.
Nathan Hale arrived at rendezvous point on fourth day at 4:57 A. M. (Pacific Time Zone), just seven hours before bomb scheduled to start down, which meant up at 3:30 (again!). But did get to eat up bulk of remaining C-rations on waking (“Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow…” etc.).
Warming up ship’s systems, preparing for OMS burn to circularize orbit, took about an hour. OMS burn short, sweet; start, stop, both on money.
Harris looked up as OMS shut down. Glared out windshield, face suddenly hard. “All right, let’s find the bastard,” he grated.
Activated pulse radar. Antenna covered 90-degree cone straight ahead, centered on ship’s axis. Screen lit, remained blank.
Harris rotated ship on RCS thrusters to bring new section of sky into focus. Radar pulsed — and bingo!
Harris took careful range, bearing readings. Recorded figures, shut off radar with emphatic snap.
Smile wreathed face as unstrapped, pushed away from controls. “If you’ve got to do it for the last time,” he breathed, “it sure feels good to do it right! We’re just six miles behind it. Our orbit is so nearly identical that I can’t read the difference. We’re well within MMU range. Let’s go get that mother before something goes wrong.”
Kyril unstrapped, drifted free. “Is it visible from here?” he asked.
Harris unshipped expedition’s sole pair of binoculars, pulled himself to windshield, peered in appropriate direction. “Yes, it’s clearly visible through these,” he replied. “Very low albedo; must be almost jet black. Wonder if the color’s paint or that new material. Ominous-looking beast…”
Unstrapped myself at that point. Started to push gently away from seat; changed mind, but hand slipped — found self hanging immobile, out of reach of everything. Smiled as realized had just committed science fiction’s favorite neophyte’s standard error. Glanced up to let boys tease me about it. And…
Blood froze in veins.
Suddenly everything happening in slow motion.
Eyes focused on Kyril, just drifting past, knife in hand.
Was perhaps two-tenths of second during which could have latched on, torn into him with everything have ever learned about fighting; ample time for even modestly-skilled karate student to save day…
But couldn’t move! Could only hang there, mouth open, futilely trying to draw breath, scream warning, as reflexes warred within body.
Had been drilling for weeks with modified kata, sparring routine, working to eliminate lethal responses. But my system acquired intact from Teacher: his own — balanced, efficient; painstakingly developed by generations of greatest Masters over centuries; weaknesses long since discovered, rooted out. Now learned penalty for tampering…
Conflicting responses held me immobile during fraction of second it took Kyril to glide out of reach, plunge weapon under Harris’s left scapula. Commander went limp so quickly, doubt even felt it.
Then managed scream: “Kyril — NO…!”
Russian turned quickly, bloody knife still in hand; motion sent tiny quivering scarlet globules drifting across cabin to squish wetly against bulkhead.
Our eyes met; his contained wild look. No more than six feet separated us. Kyril firmly anchored to command seat with empty hand, both legs; poised to spring. I hung midair, out of reach of every handhold, turning almost imperceptibly about longitudinal axis — already sideways to him; soon would be completely backward to expected attack. Flailed arms, legs, trying to check, reverse spin — added tumble component instead.
Tactical situation growing less promising by the moment.
On point of triggering hysterical strength, turning job over to combat computer with instructions to give it best shot once Kyril within reach, when sanity returned to Russian’s eyes. He glanced at knife, shuddered, flung it from him.
Felt surge of relief. But didn’t lower guard.
Kyril smiled ruefully at me; then looked away quickly, shook head as if in pain. Shocked to realize sparkling beads drifting outward tears. More where those came from; Kyril dabbed at them absently. “Your General Sherman was right, Candy.” He sighed. “ ‘War is hell.’ I hated doing that.”
He drew limp form downward, settled it in left seat, secured harness almost tenderly. “Hale was his last command; this is where he belongs,” he explained, voice unsteady.
He turned back to me. “I wish there had been some way I could have kept you from seeing that,” he continued, still speaking with difficulty. “I know that you were very close to him. But Harris was a good marine, an experienced old campaigner. I knew that I would be lucky to catch him with his guard down even once. I had to strike the moment the opportunity presented.
“Now” — Kyril turned back to instruments — “I don’t think that it lies within the realm of reasonable possibility that a radio message sent from here would be heard by anyone listening at Vandenberg; that’s clear on the other side of the world, after all. However…” tore open communications panel fascia; extracted circuit boards, gazed at them thoughtfully, then deliberately began breaking them into small pieces, “…I cannot take the chance. And fanatic though I am, I do not want to have to kill you in cold blood…
“I said earlier that I wished I could have met you after you grew up. I meant it. I still mean it. I have never met a woman of any age whom I hold in higher esteem. Our children are educated from birth to understand, as I do, that we exist only to discharge our guardianship; that to sacrifice one’s life in that endeavor is the sacred duty and privilege of every one of us — yet I doubt whether any one of them, at a comparable age, would have volunteered as you did. I do not exaggerate when I say that I was more stunned than McDivott when you stepped forward.”
Kyril turned back from ruined radio. “There, that takes care of that. We both know that I could never watch you every second; this way I don’t have to — nor do I have to kill you. There is no possible way for you to warn your friends.”
Only then did situation’s gravity sink in: Responsibility for mission’s success, failure, now rested solely with me — no advice, no help, no backup. Survival of all but tiny handful of my people hung in balance (and earthquakes meant chances slim even for group in shelters); would be decided by my actions during next few minutes. Never in short, busy life have I felt so totally alone, inadequate, helpless.
Forced attention back to here/now. Realized Kyril speaking flawless, accent-free English; conclusion sent goosebumps up, down spine: To play rôle so convincingly, over so long a timespan; to get past AAs’ drug-assisted hypnotic interrogation; to deceive Teacher, Peter, all those AAs — even muscle-reading Gayle — Kyril good at job. Faced first-class opponent.
Now understood why Harris kept lid on my karate skills. And grateful. Opponent still in dark, thanks to him; thought of me as ordinary child, apart from freakish strength. Experienced old campaigner, indeed — crafty: After working with him all this time, old marine still mistrusted smiling Russian’s sincerity; held back final trump card — me.
Sure hoped Harris knew his business; awful lot riding on outcome — and now would be really bad time to learn was given to excess optimism regarding associates’ talents, capabilities. Intended to do very best, of course; but wouldn’t have bet penny on own chances at that moment.
But even as thoughts raced — searching for solution, weighing alternatives, evaluating risks — was already laying groundwork for whatever action might decide on: Feigned horrified, wide-eyed helplessness (didn’t take that much feigning!); encouraged tears to come (damned nuisance in free-fall, too; stayed right where formed, pooling, growing deeper; interfered dreadfully with vision); plus began wailing in heartbroken tones.
“Bu-but why, Kyril?” I blubbered, swiping ineffectually at eyes. “This is crazy. Your people are all blown up. What good will it do to kill everybody now? What are you accomplishing? It’s meanness for meanness’ sake. It’s dumb — it’s just being a Dog-In-The-Manger. It’s — Kyril! Don’t ignore me…!”
“I am not ignoring you.” Response came in unexpected whisper. Looked more closely. Russian in midst of deep-breathing exercise, apparently fighting for emotional control. “I would never ignore you. But becoming a hero of the people is not without cost. Just how much cost I had not realized. I had accepted death for myself. But Harris was the best friend I had among your people. He was brave, intelligent — ‘noble’ is not too strong an adjective.
“He would have made a great Khranitel,” Kyril finished mournfully. Suddenly he added, “No, Candy, my people are not all dead.”
Heart skipped beat. “What…?” I blurted; “how could anybody…”
“None of us died in the holocaust. Many of our subordinates did; but it was necessary to leak their locations to create a convincing illusion of our total annihilation. It seemed poor strategy to have you genetically superior hominems aware that we survived your retaliation.”
“ ‘You genetically superior hominems’?” I parroted, not believing ears. “But — aren’t you a hominem, too? What are you then? Who are you people…?”
“No, I’m not one of you Homo post hominems,” Kyril continued obligingly. “None of the Khraniteli are. Your people subjected me to a remarkable variety of tests in their efforts to prove or disprove the sincerity of my defection, but that one never occurred to them. Fortunately I was able to remain healthy and they never suspected.
“Because of my regard for you, I will tell you who we are and how matters have come to this sorry state. It can do no harm now.
“We are a small, meticulously screened, rigorously trained group of true humans — Homo sapiens, rightful owners of this planet. We discovered you and yours even before Dr. McDivott did. We studied you thoroughly. We learned your strengths, your weaknesses — we learned your genetic imperative…”
Voice grew resonant; took on edge. “And we decided that we did not want to be replaced. Homo sapiens is a mighty race. We are not as easily brushed aside as was Neanderthal by Cro-Magnon.”
“But we wouldn’t…”
Kyril cut off protest almost midsyllable: “Not from malice,” he said sternly; “nor by force. You wouldn’t have to; you breed true: Sapiens/hominem breedings produce only hominem offspring; we have proven it. In a few generations you would have replaced us completely.
“So within the framework of the Bratstvo, but unknown to them, we formed the Khraniteli, the ‘Guardians,’ in English: a secret society within a secret society, dedicated to the preservation of true humans. Naturally, given the genetic realities of the situation, the only means of doing that was, and is, to eliminate you before you eliminated us.
“The Bratstvo, at the time we infiltrated and took over its direction, was working efficiently toward eventual world domination for ideological reasons, a goal with which we were in complete accord. But it was only a beginning; we encouraged their natural impulses and broadened the scope of their thinking. It didn’t take too much psychology to bring them around to believing that they had invented for themselves the idea of starting over, unopposed, on an otherwise uninhabited planet.
“There were quite a few hominems in the Bratstvo already — though none ever realized that they were different from the rest of us. All were first-generation hominems, raised by human parents unaware of their potential. All were angry, disturbed antisocials, the type your people have labeled ‘classic AB sociopaths.’
“But they were brilliant, so we put them to work in areas where their brilliance would be most effective. That new alloy that your scientists are so fascinated with was developed by our hominems. They were also responsible for most of the breakthroughs that led to the final design and construction of the vehicle which houses the strontium warhead.”
Kyril smiled coldly. “They thought that what they were building was the ultimate ideological housecleaning tool. They never knew that they were creating the means of their own species’ destruction. Naturally, we stationed them in locations known to your intelligence people during the attack. American missiles solved the problem for us.
“We were amazed at how many of you there proved to be after the plague eliminated all extraneous humans. Our studies suggested nothing like the figures that McDivott’s group extrapolated, which seem to have been borne out by experience. But no matter; isolated hominems around the world are not a problem: Even if a few somehow manage to get under cover in time to avoid fatal overdoses at the outset, strontium-90 fallout is patient. It takes planning and preparation to survive two centuries underground; only we and McDivott’s people are ready.
“We knew that he and his organization would come through the attack and plague intact — I was amused to learn that he hadn’t known he was a hominem himself. So we leaked enough details about the strontium bomb’s existence, and what it would take to stop it, to guarantee that he would have no choice but to try to launch a shuttle. We knew that he would have to gather every single member of his group there to accomplish it.
“I was planted on them both to keep an eye on their progress as well as to make myself an indispensable part of the mission. I was quite taken aback, upon being admitted into their organization, to learn that they had acquired far more information through their own efforts than we had leaked. Which meant that I had to watch my step; I had no idea how much they might know in addition. So I played absolutely straight, relying upon being able to stop the mission at the very last moment, as I have done.
“Now, there were only three facilities in the entire world equipped to launch an expedition of this type. The one in Russia, of course, is gone; that left the two in America. I anticipated that they would use the Vandenberg facility; being a military base, it is more completely, independently equipped than Cape Canaveral. And I was right. But it made no difference: In either case the outcome would have been the same.
“You see, the Murray Fracture Zone is not the target. It never has been. The warhead is less powerful than McDivott was given to think; but even so, if it exploded there, the resultant quakes would reduce much of the Earth’s crust to rubble. That would be too sweeping a remedy even for us — though it would have been a satisfying revenge, had that really been our intention. No; we would not destroy the Earth’s surface; we need it for ourselves.
“The bomb is targeted to impact about 25 miles due west of Point Arguello. The crust is thicker there. The explosion will generate earthquakes, massive ones; but it won’t ruin the planet, not permanently anyway — at least not our part. We’ll ride it out; our shelters are constructed of the new alloy — yards thick.
“However, Vandenberg lies inside the fireball, within the radius of total destruction. McDivott’s group will still be there, to the last man. They will be eliminated at a single stroke; they literally will never know what hit them.
“There never has been a cancellation signal, by the way; only a retargeting signal, in case it might have been necessary to shift impact to, say 25 miles out in the Gulf Stream, just off Kennedy. That was false information, deliberately leaked to confuse the issue. The bomb cannot be stopped other than by physically boarding and disarming it. Preventing that from happening was my mission. It was not difficult.
“Now, I am sure that you must hate me at this moment more than you have ever hated anyone in your life, and I don’t blame you. But I want you to know that meeting you has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. I wish that you were human. Even though you are not, I salute you.”
And, so help me, actually did salute.
But Kyril wrong: Didn’t hate him. Didn’t hate anybody — didn’t have time for peripheral distractions. (Maybe would hate him later.) But for now, had job to do: suddenly expanded, desperately important job — this changed everything…!
Disarming bomb no longer adequate solution. Still necessary, yes — vitally! But Khraniteli would just try again, using different approach; probably succeed next time around — hominems didn’t even know threat existed; would get no warning!
Simply had to warn my people! — that was mission’s primary goal now! Disarming bomb, then dying nobly, exercise in futility unless got word back in process.
Had no choice. Simply must. And would.
Somehow.
But Kyril between me and next step — whatever might prove to be. Had to do something about that. First. Immediately.
Debate over options took only seconds; limited, as practical matter, to single course of action. Hoped acting skills up to challenge.
Responded to Kyril’s explanation, salute, with total flood: surely most abjectly pitiable performance since Bambi calling for Mother in forest fire. Covered face in hands (peeked between fingers, gauging effect), curled into fetal position. Sobbed as if world coming to end — which, unless managed to do something about it, pretty well summed things up!
(Now, awfully fond of Kyril — before — and Russian well aware of feelings. Likewise, as top-level Khranitel operative, held probably justifiably high opinion of own physical prowess. Unlikely to fear assault from 11-year-old. Plus was awfully fond of me, too. Finally, was very well educated; certain to have read same child-psychology theories I did: knew abusee usually turns to abuser for comfort once attack over. [Irrational? I’ll say. Own approach would be to wait until adult asleep, take baseball bat — stop; getting sidetracked.] Point is that dependent child normally turns to nearest adult of whom is fond for comfort regardless what atrocities said adult may have just committed.)
Looked up through tears, held out arms, wailed, “Oh, Kyril…!”
He bought it: Expression softened; propelled himself across cabin, catching me gently in passing.
Redoubled weeping, threw arms around neck, buried face in shoulder. He sighed unhappily, put arms around me, held close, patted clumsily on back, murmured soothing noises. Didn’t notice legs closing around waist until too late. If at all.
Snuffled, bubbled, then wiped eyes with right hand; which brought forearm across beneath Russian’s chin, left still around neck.
Whispered hysterical-strength tap trigger, closed trap in single motion: Legs tightened about torso, ankles locked. Left hand seized back of head, left side; right hand closed on chin, right side of face; both in unbreakable grip. Kyril barely had time to register surprise before I…
…TWISTED!
Don’t know how might have made out against Russian in fair fight — particularly in free-fall. As top Khranitel agent, probably one of very best. But will never know: Hysterical strength rotated head beyond vertebrae’s yield limit in briefest fraction of second. If live to be 100, will never forget that noise.
Body convulsed momentarily; subsided gradually to consistency of Jell-O. Maintained grip until, pressing ear to chest, heard heart sounds slow, stop. Then released, shrugged free of corpse’s embrace, pushed off for wall. Landed, took firm grip on handhold; watched as body drifted across cabin in slow-motion sprawling tumble.
Realized, then, at least part of solicitude impelling Kyril to strap Harris into command chair was elementary tidiness: Would be in way constantly otherwise under weightless conditions. Jumped across cabin, grabbed body by belt, propelled toward copilot’s chair, secured with harness.
Then looked purposefully around at surroundings. Over which now held undisputed sway.
Would have been easy to let emotions go: Had just killed someone of whom had become very, very fond. Had watched him kill someone else of whom had become very, very fond. Was more alone than anyone in human history — nearest human at least 22,300 miles away. And own lifespan now measured in hours…
Yes, would have been very easy to let go. But couldn’t afford luxury. Bomb departing from orbit less than half day hence; must be disarmed first. Much work remained undone in preparation — plus still didn’t know how was going to get message back to earth…
Well, logical first step in solving any problem is inventory of available assets: Familiarity with gear confined to that intrinsic to own once-limited responsibilities; surely Harris, Kyril brought along equipment relating to their jobs. Spent solid hour scouring Hale’s entire pressurized demesnes; confident would turn up something to solve, or suggest solution to, communications dilemma.
But didn’t.
Boys brought even fewer personal articles than self (my toothbrush no less likely to figure in solution than theirs). Mission equipment limited to three adult-size EMUs, four MMUs (one spare of each), single toolbox, two plug-in briefcase terminals. None of which triggered spontaneous inspiration.
Returned to cockpit, growing more worried by moment. Debated briefly returning after disarming bomb, attempting OMS retroburn to drop Hale from geosynchronous orbit. Perhaps could jury-rig heliograph-type device from shiny interior panel, flash warning to hominems as passed over California (pretty good at Morse; only member of scout troop to qualify for merit badge). Pretty sure could get RCS, OMS running (tried to memorize Harris’s duties as thoroughly as own during endless simulator run-throughs).
But gave that up moment saw fuel gauges: Could drop from geosynchronous orbit with remaining fuel, but not far; be lucky to achieve even shallow parabola. Plus initial progress very slow; Hale would be ghost ship by time got around to far side of globe: Life-support due to run out barely 18 hours hence; even without boys’ added consumption, no chance still alive by then to send signal.
Worrying in earnest now. Unless managed to get word back, Khraniteli surely successful in wiping hominems off face of Earth, sooner or later.
But how…? Here I sat (okay, floated), stranded in orbit — in fuel-depleted ship stripped of exterior insulation, aerodynamic controls, landing gear — everything necessary to get down. All of which immaterial: Even were everything in 100-percent flightworthy condition, most unlikely that 15-plus hours in ultralight qualified me to power up, accomplish solo reentry, landing — in single most complicated vehicle ever assembled by H. sapiens…!
But always have had this tendency to keep beating head against wall when situation hopeless — even more so when obviously hopeless. Just not the giving-up kind. Mind kept dodging, weaving, bobbing, looking for solution. Didn’t discard any idea without scrutinizing thoroughly first. Not even silliest conjecture dismissed out of hand; retained long enough to see how looked in conjunction with all the rest.
Got so bad, even started wondering whether bomb’s computer, lasers, would hold still for slow, close approach by Hale on RCS thrusters. Certainly enough fuel in bomb for reentry, after all. If somehow could transfer fuel from bomb to Hale, maybe could extend retroburn long enough to put me over California before life-support ran out. Knew would get only one shot at signaling, of course; be days before Hale returned to perigee again.
Hominems better be looking!
Only, how does one go about transferring monomethyl hydrazine and nitrogen tetroxide in quantity from one vehicle to another in vacuum? Without proper high-pressure equipment…
Doesn’t, of course. Scratch another idea.
Scratch Hale, really: “All the King’s horses and all the King’s men” couldn’t prepare shuttle for reentry without full resources of Space Transportation System crew, facilities. Simply no way lightened, stripped — gutted — ship could survive plunge into atmosphere as result of anything I could do.
Pity bomb carrier not designed for cargo, I thought wryly. Could just -
Blinding flash. Soundless concussion. Universe bucked, rocked, shuddered.
Of course!
(Suddenly felt very stupid.)
The bomb…! Mounted in vehicle eminently capable of reentry; already programmed, equipped — scheduled, in fact — to do just that, commencing in less than six hours. So what if not designed for cargo; ample structural dead space around warhead; same dead space through which would be crawling when entered to disarm.
No reason couldn’t leave message in there…!
Except that missile presently targeted for impact some 25 miles offshore; to deliver message would be necessary to reprogram computer’s ballistics software (disarming warhead first).
Well… during one of those rare quiet moments during otherwise hectic week at Vandenberg, noticed yellowish paperback titled IFR Supplement of the United States. Contained longitude, latitude, time zones, etc., plus other pertinent data, for almost every airport on North American continent. Thumbed through; spotted couple familiar names. One was Vandenberg; remember it well — together with coordinates: 34 degrees 44 minutes north longitude, 120 degrees 35 minutes west latitude. Not launch facility, of course; nearby Air Force base.
Further, despite fact that mission profile (assuming everything went as scheduled) called for straightforward ballistics software wipe, reloading with AAs’ bomb-disposal program, did avail self of opportunity to scroll through Russians’ software during programming portion of training. Distinctly recall seeing submenu titled Ballistika, inside which was fill-in-blanks subsubmenu headed Koordinaty Prizemleniya, with words Dolgota, Shirina, followed by two strings of numbers.
Now, according to my crash-course, bush-league knowledge of Russian, Ballistika translates loosely into “ballistics”; Koordinaty Prizemleniya into “coordinates of touchdown”; Dolgota, Shirina, into “longitude,” “latitude.” If subsequent numbers really longitude, latitude, retargeting probably involves no more than straightforward substitution. Probably.
AAs surely still there; could hardly miss descent — so few objects arrive these days on huge multiple parachutes. AAs would swarm over bomb like ants at picnic; first hurrying to ascertain warhead disarmed; then scientists gleaning data guaranteed to keep them happy, busy for next ten years. Somebody would find message taped to detonator-chamber bulkhead. Bound to.
Longer deliberated question, better idea sounded: Surely offered best odds on getting warning delivered.
(AAs probably not thrilled to have all that plutonium on hand, but would cope — and scientists would go quietly mad studying breakthroughs, etc., embodied in reentry package structure, warhead itself. Plus knowledge gained would stand them in good stead during upcoming war against Khraniteli — of whose existence, intentions, now would be warned.)
Turned thoughts to safeguarding message. No idea how well Khraniteli protected computer, warhead, detonator, from reentry heat, but probably get pretty warm in there (forget taping to bulkhead). Well, surely easier to keep paper below mythic 451-degree flash point than to protect human, with far lower performance envelope. Could wrap message in EMU — maybe two EMUs, with PLSS thermostats turned down all the way. Three extra EMUs on hand now that Harris, Kyril had no need. Plus own spare -
Oh…! Realization came as almost physical shock.
(Stupidity getting to be habit.)
For solid week had been psyching self up to die. Had accepted necessity, inevitability.
But maybe didn’t have to…
Could ride down in bomb!
Have no clear memory of next few minutes. Suspect intensity of relief exceeded capacity for rational appreciation. Vaguely remember bounding around cabin, ricocheting off walls, ceiling, floor; shrieking, crying, laughing like mad thing. Next event of which have firm recollection is crouching on Kyril’s lap, gripping flight suit lapels, shaking him violently (albeit ineffectually, in zero gee), screaming into dead face, “We’ll beat you yet, you cold-blooded, censored son of a bowdlerized, unprintably expurgated deletion! We’ll wipe you out to the last man, woman, and grub! We’ll…”
(Had come long way from Candy Smith-Foster of yore — firmly resolved never to kill again.)
Didn’t so much regain control as run down. Spewed rage, hate, frustration at uncaring corpse until gone, leaving me limp, trembling, teary-eyed.
At which point coherent, thoughts again intruded. Unpleasant coherent thoughts. Whole string of unpleasant coherent thoughts which totaled even less pleasant sum: Chances for living through reentry slim to nonexistent. At best.
Odds steeper for own person than those facing message: For instance, had no idea what sort of gee forces might encounter en route. Missile’s cargo included computer, detonator mechanism, warhead, etc.; all potentially delicate, sensitive. But vehicle powered for ten gees — at what point did Khranitel engineers draw line, say, “Anything above this level is excessive stress”? Unanswerable question, of course. But likely well beyond what own designer considered acceptable.
In addition, original plans called for water landing. Own destination dry land. Unyielding dry land. Probably quite a bump.
However, above concern nowhere near as scary as reentry-heat question: Prospect of slowly burning to death not something can just shrug off.
Have seen it done.
(And will never forget: Two days after tenth birthday was riding in car with Daddy, returning from Oshkosh after TV show on which Daddy appeared as guest physician. Observed car accident on lonely stretch of highway around midnight: Drunk in Corvette wandered off road, bashed tree. Old Corvette; equipped with competition gas tank-36 gallons. Ruptured on impact, flooding interior with flaming contents. Victim staggered out, blazing from head to foot. Daddy doused with own car’s extinguisher. But victim already 80-percent third-degree case. Daddy ordered me to stay in car, call for help on CB. Did not want me to see burn damage close-up. But soon realized needed more hands; had to involve me. Will never forget that man: Charred, cracked skin. Cooked meat bleeding through raw, inches-wide, exploded deep blisters. Dangling flesh. Incinerated tissue. Scorched bones showing through barbecued muscles. High, thin, nonstop screaming. The smell.)
Now, if descent profile anything like NASA’s, dive from atmospheric interface at 400,000 feet to slowing below mach two at 60-, 70,000 feet takes about 15 minutes. Heat build-up inside vehicle progressive, implacable: Grows steadily hotter, hotter, hotter still, until imperceptible threshold crossed; discomfort suddenly becomes agony; blisters form, crisp, pop; tissues roast, char; own superheated greasy cooking smoke inside EMU sears lungs.
Quarter hour under those conditions could be very long time indeed…
No. Decision whether to risk burning to death not casually made.
Horsefeathers! — chopped off self-flagellation impatiently; issue never in doubt for second: While chance remained, no matter how slim, would go for it. Am constitutionally incapable of giving up.
Well, now that foolishness over, done with, were steps could take to improve chances; preparations above, beyond those necessary for originally planned bomb-disarming, -disposal EVA. And time to get to work regardless; just five hours to bomb’s scheduled deorbit burn.
Fell to, assembled gear in airlock: all three adult-size EMUs, both of mine; all four MMUs, both terminals, toolbox, etc. Strung everything together with wire (plenty available from communications panel); would tie into snug bundle once outside.
Retrieved binoculars from Harris’s dead hand; employed to scan darkness beyond cockpit windows. Bomb not easy visual target; but presently made out tiny, indistinct, deeper black spot against jet sky. Hale’s longitudinal axis still lined up on it.
Okay, knew bomb ahead of us in same orbit. Using shuttle, Earth, bomb as references, was oriented as to orbital plane, direction. Knew which way had to go — critical, because at first would be unable to resolve destination with naked eye, and binoculars useless while wearing helmet (though intended to take outside, have look-see; maybe helpful after all [try never to burn bridges unnecessarily, prematurely]).
Donning EMU took good half hour (mine more trouble than most, due to endless array of tiny bolts, washers, wing nuts holding waist sealing ring halves together), but finally checklist complete: suit airtight; PLSS operational, secured by straps to back, life-support lines neatly coiled at waist.
(Folded sleeping-station blanket into makeshift, multi-layered cushion; taped to inside of helmet at rear. Hoped would distribute pressure of head’s contact against Lexan bubble during anticipated heavy gees. Pad’s bulk left barely room for nose in front. Looked forward to accumulating many greasy nose prints before day over.)
Herded gear into airlock; closed, sealed inner door. Dumped air, opened outer hatch, exited gingerly, moving one handhold at a time, drawing equipment behind me with wire attached to utility belt.
Glanced at complicated watch on EMU’s wrist: Three and quarter hours remained before bomb commenced descent, according to countdown timer. My PLSS standard issue; good for seven hours with full-sized astronaut; hard to say how much own lesser consumption might affect duration.
(Likewise hard to say how long descent will take. Totally dependent upon how much straight-down acceleration incorporated in reentry program. If employs descent profile called for upon detection of approaching missiles, should be on ground roughly two hours after deorbit burn. But couldn’t know that. And if exceeds four, five hours, won’t matter much. Certainly not to me.)
Did best to ignore urgency, surroundings, scenery; focused on job at hand: Moved deliberately along hull’s upper rim, at cargo-bay door hinge, paralleling huge extra fuel tank. Paused at rear end of bay. Gathered equipment into bundle with additional wire loop; secured to belt in front on both sides.
Then backed into first MMU, shrugged between armrests, secured latches. Closed EMU glove around right-hand control handle. Ignored inner conviction that long fall awaited. Took deep breath, let go left hand; placed on control handle.
Now. Bomb six miles ahead. Distance sufficient to involve orbital mechanics.
Sure wished Harris alive; navigation during “quick hop” across to bomb amongst his mission specialties.
Not mine.
Knew theory, of course: Drop into lower, faster orbit, circularize; reverse procedure upon arriving in bomb’s vicinity. Did it bunches of times on boys’ home-grown video game on way out.
But fundamental difference exists between understanding theoretical principle on intellectual level and believing it at core of tightly knotted stomach. Performing operation with computer terminal push buttons, watching results on CRT, does not prepare one for hanging in real space, lining up real thrust axis, then really accelerating out into limitless void on course leading, obviously, away from destination.
Every instinct shrieked “Madness!” Took every ounce of willpower to force hands to operate controls.
MMUs powered by compressed nitrogen; charge sufficient to impart roughly 66-feet-per-second total velocity change to normal-sized astronaut before poohing out. That translates to accelerating to about 45 miles an hour. Once. Or boosting to 22 miles an hour, then stopping. Also once. Own mass slightly more than one-third that of normal astronaut. However, extra gear probably more than made up difference.
Aligned thrust axis with right hand, applied power with left. Drifted toward rear, between wing, vertical stabilizer.
Looked around as cleared ship’s stern. And froze, transfixed. Not even mortal anxiety over impending intraorbital transit, consequences of failure, could prevent first unimpaired sight of Earth, heavens, from filling spirit with awe, joy, reverence. Much of planet dark from this perspective; but suddenly realized was at imminent risk of going blind again due to thickening lens of tears forming over eyes — with no means of wiping them away inside EMU.
Which reminded me: Not out there to enjoy sights — life of every hominem on pearlescent bowling ball dependent on me. Had no business wasting time rubbernecking; had work to do.
Blinked eyes furiously; shook head to clear vision. Twisted MMU’s tail.
Consumed about half fuel load during initial retrosquirt. Then coasted five minutes, watching Hale slowly dwindle. Inexpressibly relieved to note gradual shift in apparent attitude: Had left shuttle’s RCS attitude control on automatic; apparently really was dropping into faster orbit.
Reversed thrust at end of five minutes; used up balance of fuel on circularization (I hoped!) maneuver. Released MMU, pushed gently away. Untangled second from bundle, latched into place, rested hands on controls.
Then waited.
Waited while Hale’s aspect changed from distant rear view to more distant belly view to even more distant nose view, steadily foreshortening in ever more remote distance.
Tried to estimate speed from changing relationship between self, shuttle; couldn’t. So played with numbers in head: If relative velocity 15 miles per hour faster than shuttle/bomb train overhead, could expect to cover distance in something like 15-20 minutes. Wished had had better idea how far below original orbit was riding, but couldn’t tell that either. Estimating astronomical distances freehand slippery business.
Meanwhile, scanned heavens intently for dark spot that would indicate bomb’s location. Could still make out Hale well enough to use as pointer; knew where target supposed to be — but couldn’t find it.
Tried binoculars without success: Eyepieces’ distance from eyes hindrance but not major problem; merely reduced field of view; worked fine otherwise.
But couldn’t identify bomb.
Then had inspiration: Looked back at Hale; tried to get handle on distance by comparing relative size of shuttle with bomb as seen through binoculars from shuttle.
By that yardstick, seemed should be closing in on target. Decided had no choice but to act on assumption; add back delta-V, see if Gods Smiled.
About to implement when struck by doubt: Total package now massed less by one MMU. Wondered what effect reduction might have on response to thrust. Then realized would have opportunity to compensate with circularization shot, assuming bomb somewhere in vicinity. Deferred worry until then.
Looked back at Hale through binoculars, lined up thrust axis with direction of travel, consumed half fuel reserve in replacing delta-V.
Then waited again, looking desperately where bomb ought to be. And still wasn’t.
Getting really, no-foolin’ worried by this time. Orbital juggling performed as Harris taught me; bomb should have been in sight.
Waited another five minutes; circularized orbit again, using all but last whiff of nitrogen. Then looked around with earnestness not unmixed with, distinct from, panic…
And there it was (I’ll be damned!) no more than couple hundred yards away!
Resumed breathing.
And, in retrospect, diagnosed problem: Vehicle dead black, nonreflective; visible only through occultation under best of conditions. Spot over which hung on Earth’s equator approaching sunrise line; bomb almost between me, Sol; background glare obscured.
Then took first good look at bomb: huge thing — carbon copy of Hale; lacked only cockpit, cargo bay doors, etc. But where shuttle essentially friendly looking, bomb not (visceral reaction; don’t ask why). Harris correct: ominous-looking beast. Hung in void looking like modern Charon’s ferry.
Used up last puff of nitrogen from current MMU; kicked loose, mounted third. Lined up thrust axis on bomb, used five percent of remaining reaction mass accelerating. Two-mile-per-hour approach speed ample: Still two and a half hours to bomb’s departure; no point losing head, rushing. Would feel foolish during final seconds if, when so close to success, lost head, hurried; built up too much speed, split helmet on hull.
Braked to relative stop only yards from nose. Then realized hadn’t faintest idea where on monster access hatch actually located — training involved only cutaway sectional mock-up; drawings studied encompassed only specifics of own job. Engineering logic suggested had to be somewhere near bow, of course. Just matter of jetting around, finding it.
But now learned how limited MMU skills really were. Operation heretofore limited to straight-line thrusting; examining bomb carrier involved full range of maneuvering operations: yaw, pitch, twist, start, stop — and damned thing insisted on doing what I told it to do instead of what I wanted it to do. Frustrating in extreme.
Finally managed to stabilize self. Checked MMU status: about 50 percent gone; mostly wasted curing pilot-induced tumbling. Transferred to final MMU, left equipment bundle parked against what would be belly on Hale; set out to reconnoiter solo — maneuvering much more easily.
Drifted gently back along starboard side to wing’s leading edge without encountering hatch. Checked motion; moved toward topsides, headed back toward nose. Still nothing.
Eventually found hatch almost exactly where Hale’s crew hatch located: short distance up from belly, back from nose on portside.
Returned for equipment; maneuvered cautiously, with only occasional miscue, back to hatch.
Studied locking mechanism. Appeared similar to that on drawings, mock-up. Operation proved identical.
But not easiest gismo to operate under weightless conditions: Breathing pretty hard, faceplate partially fogged, by time got it open.
Parked MMU; secured with wire tie to latch handle. Drew self, equipment in through opening. Switched on flashlight.
Looking around produced sense of déjà vu: What could see of interior corresponded perfectly to training aids.
Headed for inner shell access hatch. Wriggled amongst, between structural pieces without difficulty (one aspect of task made easier by zero gee). Located, unlatched, swung open.
Wedged toolbox in convenient angle between trusses adjacent to hatch. Unstrapped PLSS from back, squirmed through 9-by-14-inch opening, trailing life-support lines.
Drew PLSS close to hatch; pulled entire coil of life-support lines through with me. Reached back, retrieved toolbox.
Maneuvered through complex of structural members to detonator, carefully paying out lines en route, watching for, avoiding, tendency to kink.
Studied exterior components; verified everything as represented on drawings, mock-up. Opened toolbox, set to work.
Actual warhead defusing anticlimactic. After week of intensive training amidst ever-mounting tension, operation proved simplicity itself: Snipped wires in correct order, undid four bolts, removed one plate; planted feet on bulkhead on either side of detonator, gripped shaft firmly; triggered hysterical strength, pulled, twisted, pulled again. Ta-dah.
Retained grip as shaft slid free; preferred not having 150 pounds of high-explosive bouncing around inside closed compartment with me.
Hour and half remained before deorbit burn.
Returned to hatch, carefully gathering life-support lines as retraced route amongst structural members. Brought toolbox, detonator shaft.
Squeezed back through hatch, resecured. Remounted PLSS on EMU back; coiled lines neatly, resecured to belt.
First act upon returning to outer hatch: Pitched detonator shaft into space. Hard.
Then reeled in MMU; snuggled between armrests, closed latches. With briefcase terminals tied to belt in front, set off for electrical umbilicus hatch, some 15 feet forward.
Prevailed upon MMU to halt inches away after brief, seesaw discussion. Got hatch open without difficulty. Scrutinized multiple-prong socket, identified computer port.
Unshipped briefcase, opened (keyboard in one half, LCD display in other). Unfolded solar-cell array, positioned in direct sunlight. Deployed extension arms; snapped into appropriate EMU belt/shoulder fastenings to hold terminal in proper waist-level typing position.
Flipped main switch to on; waited while baby mainframe disk spun up to operating speed, read/write head deployed. Queried system as to state of health, spirits; received affirmative reply (bulky EMU gloves no advantage on standard keyboard).
Unwound coaxial cable from pouch at belt; inserted plug firmly into port, wiggled. Felt click as seated even through gloves. Plugged other end into terminal.
Offered cheery “good morning” to IVN. (no kidding; acronym derived from actual Russian name [three guesses how pronounced]); waited, holding breath.
And waited.
(Not complaining about delay, mind you; understood IVN pretty busy with deorbit countdown, sundry prereentry chores. Probably didn’t have lots of time to spare for small-talk.)
After about two minutes (during which debated wisdom of repeating access demand, but didn’t for fear duplicate commands might confuse issue) IVN welcomed me in. Greeted appearance of primary menu with heartfelt relief.
(And unspoken prayer of thanks to Whomever arranged for Khraniteli to incorporate stolen American disk-operating-system virtually intact, retaining logically daisy-chained menus-within-menus-within-menus software format. Child could operate [child thanks You!].)
Selected Ballistika. Waited some more.
Just how much of IVN’s capacity tied up in countdown activities increasingly apparent: Took almost four minutes to locate, display submenu. Took another three minutes to pull out Koordinaty Prizemlenia fill-in-blanks programming display.
Thought hard for moment, confirmed Vandenberg’s figures in head; plugged in numbers, reached for execute key…
Stopped dead — horrified at how close had come to falling into trap.
Have known all along bomb intended for water landing. But to me, “water landing” conjures up images of old Mercury, Gemini, Apollo capsules splashing down in Pacific on parachutes. Assumption settled in quickly, took hold. Not even sight of winged behemoth penetrated hell-bent fixation, set off warning bells.
Obviously this vehicle designed for conventional shuttle-style approach: high-speed glide to flare-out, touchdown. Builders clearly intended vehicle’s 120-ton momentum (multiplied by 200-plus-mile-per-hour touchdown velocity), together with new alloy’s incredible strength, to add up to can’t-miss, unmanned, midocean landing technique — rain or shine: Would punch through storm waves, if necessary, as if not there, deceleration remaining within design limits (at ten gees, after all, takes only one second to stop from Hale’s 215-mile-per-hour touchdown speed).
But Vandenberg not ocean. Dry-land Air Force base. Set into, amongst craggy coastal hills. Almost low mountains.
Now, Khraniteli copied almost everything else about NASA shuttles while designing, constructing bomb-carrier; probably copied good stuff from Terminal Area Energy Management system as well: IVN undoubtedly programmed to come in high, hot; feel for ground with radar altimeter; set up approach pattern, glide-slope calculated to touch down on precise point called for in Koordinaty Prizemleniya order blank.
But coordinates in IFR Supplement usually for given airfield’s geographic center. Maybe high-speed touchdown (in whatever direction) at 34 degrees 44 minutes north longitude, 120 degrees 35 minutes west latitude, would place me middle of lovely, wide, two-, three-mile-long runway, with lots of room to dissipate speed…
Or maybe not — and doubt new material strong enough to withstand dissipating speed in mountainside (or if so, not apt to matter much to me; would be thin red film on forward bulkhead).
Realization came very close to triggering total panic as wondered what else had overlooked. But time growing steadily shorter; watch showed little better than hour remaining before deorbit burn.
Clamped down, blocked out emotions; refused to permit access to transaction. Forced brain to think — constructively; not wordless, nonstop, fearful keening that lurked just beyond fraying edges of control.
Willed mind’s eye to recall, display tattered yellowish IFR Supplement. Mentally opened cover, began thumbing through, looking for familiar names, as had last week. Remembered seeing Oshkosh, Colorado Springs, Los Angeles, Chicago…
Edwards Air Force Base…!
Of course — original shuttle landing site! Perfect: miles and miles of flat, unobstructed desert in every direction…
If only could recall coordinates. Hadn’t specifically noted at time; would have to reconstruct page from memory of peripheral observation.
Ought to be possible: Always have had good memory; almost eidetic at times. True, occasionally lose names, places, details, appointments, etc.; but only temporarily — have always been able to retrieve when necessary. Just matter of time…
Of which didn’t have any! frantic little voice shrieked inside head.
Bore down instantly, cut off emotional outburst; focused total attention on completing picture in head. Knew details in there somewhere, had to be; just matter of digging out — dig…!
I dug. And suddenly numbers stood out from page. Quickly, before doubts could blur outlines, copied figures into Koordinaty Prizemlenia menu: 34 degrees 54 minutes north longitude, 117 degrees 52 minutes west latitude.
Paused briefly; mentally tried for close-up to confirm. Nothing happened. Apparently best could do.
Okay. Took deep breath, stiffened resolve, pushed execute. IVN mulled instructions for endless minutes; finally responded with Peremena Prinyata (change accepted).
MMU operation while returning to hatch appreciably less smooth than on way out: Shaking hands, near emotional collapse, serious impediments to efficient operation.
But final details remained undone before deorbit burn. Among which, closing hatch — never intended to be operated from inside (naturally enough). Cycled exterior latch handle several times, peeking around edge, studying workings of bits, pieces on inside. Functions seemed obvious enough; didn’t think getting closed, locked, would pose insurmountable problem. So pulled self in through opening.
Turned back, gave MMU hearty push; likewise with terminals — suspected would have trouble enough without large, heavy, unyielding objects bouncing around interior with me at Moment of Truth.
Swung hatch shut; employed tools (retained toolbox; would need during next several minutes) to secure latch. Then adjourned to preselected passenger area: lateral bulkhead just aft of warhead chamber, as near to hull’s central axis as could find suitably flat surface close to struts, braces, trusses.
Brought along cushions, harnesses from Hale’s three remaining seats (had to disturb Harris, Kyril, briefly to remove). Cushions consist of several pieces per chair. Combined (sticking together with tape) into full-length, double-thick mattress; taped firmly to bulkhead between two stiffeners.
Combined various harness, toolbox components to construct semblance of body restraint over top of makeshift acceleration couch; anchored to structural members. Final product unlikely to pass FAA inspection; attachment strength not even close to that inherent in strap material itself. But harness created for limited purpose of keeping me from being dislodged from cushions by intermittent lateral RCS jostling during periods of major gees. If still conscious after reentry, can attempt to reposition self against forward bulkhead before touchdown.
If not…
Well, won’t have to worry about it then, will I.
Employed still more tape, wire, to tie four spare EMUs in place.
Toolbox disposal final chore: Once couch assembled, wormed across to infamous inner-shell access hatch, opened, pushed toolbox through, resecured.
Then unfastened PLSS from back; secured to adjacent bulkhead truss. Positioned self against couch. Fastened straps with trembling hands, lay head against intra-helmet pad, placed helmet firmly against cushions.
Glance at watch showed three minutes to deorbit burn — nothing like cutting it close…!
Closed eyes, breathed deeply, triggered relaxation sequence. Mentally reviewed physical condition: better than expected after events of day, including tapping hysterical strength twice (but only briefly; twisting Kyril’s neck over in hundredths of second, detonator shaft came out easily).
Hanging within web of straps, helmet touching cushions which in turn contacted bulkhead, became aware of activity within structure: thumps, clicks, beeps; taut, powerful humming; occasional muted bang accompanied by barely perceptible shove as RCS thrusters completed final preburn alignment. Background sounds conveyed impression of enormous, humorless, very hungry beast gathering to spring.
Countdown timer showed 57 seconds to go. Placed arms carefully under straps at sides. Began breathing deeply, rapidly as possible; wanted to hyperventilate, carry oxygen surplus into deorbit burn: No idea if breathing possible under ten gees.
Counted off seconds in head. Discovered internal clock needs adjustment: Heard APUs (or whatever Khraniteli call theirs) start up at minus 30 seconds; then detected heavy vibration, deep rumble at about minus 15 as main engines fired, built up to operating pressure…
And suddenly very glad hyperventilated: Had time for single final inhalation as gees mounted; then could not breathe. Or move. Or do anything else beyond wishing ghastly, crushing pressure would end.
Experimentally tried to move finger. Any finger. Could. Just. Didn’t try to move anything else.
Terrible ride seemed endless: Pressure, noise, vibration went on and on and on and…
Suddenly floated up against straps as compression of cushions, own tissues, released. Deorbit burn over…!
But quickly squelched rising jubilation: Gee forces least of worries.
And had work to do — most vital work of all: writing this record. Spent roughly last hour and quarter scribbling feverishly by light of now-dying flashlight, hurrying to finish before bomb completes dive, arrives at cometary orbit’s perigee where main engines cut in again.
Dragging heels at ten gees chops 320 feet per second from velocity each second. That’s 19,200 feet, three and a half miles per second, slower per minute. To stop ship entirely, drop into atmosphere without reentry-heat problems, would require braking for roughly minute and half. Very much doubt will happen that way.
However, preparations made (to extent possible): My spare EMU already inside Kyril’s EMU’s lower torso, lacking only helmet. Kyril’s unit’s lower torso already in spare adult EMU’s lower torso. Both adult suits’ upper torsos already assembled: helmets, gloves, etc.
Life-support lines from my spare’s remote PLSS lead in through small slits in adult torsos. Stripped PLSS from Kyril’s EMU: Of no benefit inside outer suit; any heat it extracts from interior only has to be removed second time by outer suit’s PLSS.
After final braking, before atmospheric contact, will place record inside my spare, install helmet; assemble Kyril’s around it, uninflated; then assemble adult spare around both. Pretty squishy, but fits (already tried it for practice).
Once record tucked inside innermost EMU, all three buttoned up, appropriate PLSSs activated, record should be safe (safe as anything likely to be under circumstances).
For own protection, have already donned Harris’s EMU over mine, helmet included. Lack only outer gloves, work of seconds (hard enough to write through one pair). Am ready to close up, grit teeth, at moment’s notice.
But perhaps better call halt, for moment anyway, compose self for engine braking. Getting caught unawares, with arm unsupported over body in writing position, could result in broken bones. Or worse.
Probably have few more comments after final burn — not because expect to have anything important to say, but helps keep mind from dwelling on atmospheric braking side effects.
Damned Khraniteli double-crossed me! Have to hurry now, Posterity — was no engine braking prior to reentry…!
(Or perhaps my fault? Could attempted retargeting have screwed up software?)
Whatever — was already wondering if braking sequence might be overdue, whether something amiss, when perceived first hint of returning gravity; detected faintest, shrill whining sound transmitted through hull, cushions, helmet — already entering upper atmosphere…!
Sure wish could ride out reentry inside inner shell with computer, detonator, other tender components; but adult suit won’t fit through hatch, and have no way of securing remote PLSS reliably. Would be in bad way if started bouncing around out here; could wreck internal workings, sever lines.
Damn… better hurry — starting to get warm in here!
Please, God — don’t let me burn…!