Siege of Lightning

by R. J. Pineiro

  * * *

  An hour later, tied to a line unreeling from an electrically powered winch under his direct control, Kessler reached the orbiter’s underside, where Strakelov and Tereshkova were already hard at work stuffing sections of the Soyuz spacecraft’s loose thermal insulation sheets into the six-inch-deep holes left by the missing tiles. Kessler briefly shifted his gaze up toward Mir. The Soyuz craft was coupled to the Kvant-1 module. He noticed the “petal-like” protuberances of loose thermal insulation. Strakelov had merely clipped a few sheets off and hauled them over to Lightning.

  Strakelov worked in the aft section of the underside, Tereshkova on the front. Without a reliable backpack system, Kessler felt a bit like a fifth wheel. It didn’t mean that he hadn’t contributed to Lightning’s rehabilitation. He had just spent the past thirty minutes stowing the Ku-band antenna and working inside Lightning’s cargo bay disengaging the actuator motors that controlled the opening and closing of the sixty-foot-long doors.

  He approached Tereshkova, who had just finished stuffing several thermal insulation sheets into a six-by-six-inch hole. She had cut the thin insulation layers with a set of sheet-metal cutters in squares roughly the size of the tiles. She had then stacked the sheets four inches thick into the hole, and was now filling in the last inch with the epoxy foam from Lightning’s tile repair kit, trimming the excess so that the epoxy did not alter Lightning’s aerodynamics.

  “Anything I can do to help?” he asked through his voice-activated headset.

  Tereshkova turned her head and slowly shook it. “Nyet, Mikhail. We’re almost finished here. Are the actuator motors disengaged?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Have you talked to your people?”

  “Yes. They weren’t too happy with the idea, but went along with it under the circumstances. We need to get CJ back down right away.”

  “There!” she said triumphantly as she squeezed the last of the epoxy foam over the last “Russian-made” tile.

  “That’s it?”

  “There were only thirteen tiles missing. Once we figured out the best way to repair them, it didn’t take long.” She pointed at Strakelov, who floated in their direction. “See?” Nikolai Aleksandrovich is finished, too.”

  Strakelov approached them and pointed to his watch and then to the open payload bay doors. Lightning had less than an hour left before it would pass over the specific point in space where the primary RCS thrusters had to be used to slow the orbiter down to re-enter the atmosphere in order to reach Edwards safely.

  Kessler held on to Tereshkova’s Ikar as she propelled herself up Lightning’s side. Kessler floated into the payload bay, where he strapped himself to one side and grabbed the woven line that was connected to the edge of the opposite side’s door. With the actuator motors disengaged, there was nothing that prevented the sixteen-hundred-pound doors from swinging freely on their shear hinges. He pulled on the woven line as hard as he could, and managed to move the large open door toward him by a few feet. He kept the tension and watched as Strakelov and Tereshkova positioned themselves over the doors, clipped lines to the edge, and slowly thrust themselves away to put tension on the lines. Kessler heard Strakelov’s voice. Although Kessler’s Russian was severely limited, he knew enough to realize Strakelov was counting down. He readied himself to pull even harder.

  “Pyaht…chetyret…tree…dvah…odin…tepyer!”

  As Kessler pulled on the woven line, both Strakelov and Tereshkova fired their thrusters. The large door slowly pivoted on its hinges, came down toward Kessler, and stopped as it met Lightning’s fuselage.

  “Good job! One down, guys,” he reported.

  Five minutes later the second door was also closed, leaving Kessler inside the payload bay. He then floated toward the air lock. He reached it a minute later, closed the hatch behind him, pressurized the compartment, and quickly eased himself out of the bulky suit. He opened the crew compartment and briefly checked on Jones, who was safely strapped to the horizontal sleeping station and was breathing from a Russian portable oxygen unit. Tereshkova had brought in two oxygen cylinders in addition to the unit Jones was using. She had used the first cylinder to bring the oxygen level inside Lightning into the normal range. The second cylinder was backup.

  Kessler floated toward the flight deck, where he spotted Tereshkova and Strakelov through the front windowpanes. He reached for the radio. “I’m not sure how to say thanks, my friends.”

  “It is spasibo, Mikhail.”

  Kessler smiled. “Spasibo, Valentina and Nikolai Aleksandrovich.”

  “Get down safely and send us a postcard from California,” Valentina responded as she waved. Nikolai waved as well. Then they turned around and jettisoned toward their station. Kessler floated toward the aft crew section and stared through the upper panes at his new friends. With all his military and NASA training he’d never expected something like this to happen. It was a shame that the world might never learn of what had gone on up here. Only a handful of people would know that on that day both countries had made history. They had crossed self-imposed political and cultural barriers to achieve a common goal.

  Kessler verified the payload bay doors’ automatic latching mechanism had engaged and secured the doors. Talk-back lights on the control panel confirmed proper engagement. He activated the second oxygen supply cylinder and eyed the oxygen level. It was barely nominal. He thought about grabbing the small portable oxygen canister in the aft section, but decided against it. The second cylinder should keep the oxygen level out of the critical zone.

  He strapped himself into the flight seat and switched frequencies.

  “Houston? Lightning. Do you read?”

  “Loud and clear, Lightning. Jesus, Michael! What took you so long? You had us worried,” Hunter’s voice said through the overhead speakers.

  “Payload bay doors closed and secured. Missing tiles repaired as best we could. I’m coming in.”

  “Ah, roger, Lightning. We have worked out a new course for you. It’s gonna take you a little longer to deorbit, but you’ll cut down the heat by twenty percent.”

  “How much is a little longer, Houston? I’m not sure how long Jones is going to last.”

  “Just ten or fifteen minutes extra, Lightning. Besides, since you’re using the RCS engines to deorbit instead of the OMS engines, your burn time just went up from two minutes to five.”

  “Roger. I can live with that.”

  “Deorbit burn in three minutes, Lightning.”

  “Roger. Changing profile.” Kessler fired the side verniers for two seconds. The small thrusters came alive providing twenty-five pounds of thrust each. It was enough to turn Lightning slowly tail-first. He fired the opposite verniers the moment he’d achieved a 180-degree turn. Then he fired the nose and tail verniers and turned Lightning upside down.

  “Two minutes to deorbit burn.”

  “Roger, Lightning. Looking good.”

  Kessler forced himself to relax. He glanced at the Mission Timer digital display on the instrument panel. One minute, thirty seconds.

  “Lightning, Houston.”

  “Go ahead, Houston.”

  “This is gonna sound crazy but there appears to be an object moving in your direction. Same orbit, relative speed three hundred feet per second.”

  Kessler frowned. “What are you guys talking about?’

  “Jesus. It just fired! Speed seven hundred feet per second. Thirty nautical miles south, fifteen miles downrange. Time to impact ninety seconds.”

  “Houston, what in the hell is going on? Are you sure that’s not Mir?”

  “Absolutely, Lightning. We’re still tracking the Russians. Can’t tell what it is! Good heavens! It just accelerated again. Eleven hundred feet per second. It’s going to ram right into you! Time to impact forty seconds…thirty-five…thirty…use your thrusters, Michael! Quick!”

/>   Kessler exhaled and reached down for the Reaction Control System primary thrusters. He knew the implications of burning early. When traveling over twenty thousand miles per hour, a one-second mistake translated into coming out over five miles off target after re-entry. He checked the timer. He was still a minute away from the deorbit window, but only twenty seconds from becoming a permanent orbital wreck. Since Lightning was flying tail-first, Kessler scanned the rear. He looked in all directions. Nothing.

  He waited. Ten seconds…nine…eight…now!

  He threw the switches and the highly pressurized helium pushed the hydrazine from the right OMS tank through a maze of pipes down to the four primary RCS thrusters. Propellant met liquid oxygen in a hypergolic reaction, unleashing a combined thrust of 1740 pounds. Kessler sank into his seat from the mild two Gs that resulted.

  “Six seconds to impact…five…four…Oh, my God! Look at that thing!” Kessler shouted as the tiny point in space rapidly grew. He snapped his head back as the enormous satellite zoomed past him. It was gone just as suddenly as it had appeared. “Son of a bitch! It missed. It was a damned satellite!”

  “Say again, Lightning?”

  “I said it was a satellite. It just blasted across my field of view less than a hundred feet away!”

  “Looks like it’s moving away, Lightning. Continue deorbit burn.”

  “Roger. One minute, thirty seconds. Helium level down to twenty percent. Hydrazine at fifteen percent.”

  “Helium and hydrazine levels confirmed. Two minutes to switch.”

  “Roger,” Kessler acknowledged. The GPCs would automatically switch from the nearly exhausted OMS tanks to the smaller RCS tanks. Kessler’s eyes shifted back and forth between the propellant levels and the Mission Timer. All seemed nominal, yet he could feel his heartbeat reaching a climax.

  “Twenty seconds, Lightning. Fifteen…ten…five…two…switch!”

  Kessler closed his eyes and held his breath. A malfunction now would be fatal. The GPCs completed the multi-valve operation in a millisecond, making the transition transparent to the RCS thrusters.

  “Switch confirmed, Houston. RCS thrusters now operating out of their own tanks. Helium and hydrazine levels nominal. Mark four minutes.”

  “Roger, Lightning. You’re looking good.”

  Kessler slowly exhaled. “Almost there, Houston.”

  “Mach thirty, Lightning.”

  “Speed confirmed.”

  “Lightning, Houston. Warning. The…is slowin…down. Repeat, the…llite is…ing…hig…er.”

  “Houston, Lightning. You’re breaking up. Say again. Repeat your last.”

  Static.

  Kessler understood. With his low orbit, he had already slowed down enough that the ionized air surrounding his spacecraft had become dense enough to prevent communications.

  Hunter was warning him about something slowing down. Could it be the satellite? He checked the Mission Timer. Four minutes, thirty seconds. Kessler counted down the last few seconds. The GPCs turned off the RCS jets.

  Kessler fired the verniers to flip the orbiter so that its underside would be exposed during re-entry. In doing so, Lightning faced forward in anticipation of its atmospheric glide after re-entry. Kessler saw the satellite. It had slowed down and was coming back. This time its speed was slower than before, but definitely along a collision course.

  Damn! It’s almost like a fucking missile!

  Kessler checked his speed. Mach twenty-four and dropping. The light vibrations he felt on the control stick told him air molecules had begun to strike the underside. He pulled back the stick and kept his eyes trained on the incoming satellite. Without a copilot he had no way of knowing the exact range and time to impact.

  Kessler was back piloting an F-14D Tomcat with an incoming missile. His eyes followed it as it arched toward him. He waited. With the cool professionalism he had learned in months of training and tempered in actual combat, Kessler waited for his chance.

  It’s only one missile, he decided, thinking of the time he’d had two or three locked on his tail. The missile got closer and closer. There was no chaff or electronic countermeasures to help him. This was one-on-one. Man against machine.

  Kessler narrowed his eyes as his fingers caressed the control stick directly connected to the RCS thrusters. For a brief second the missile appeared suspended in mid-space. No motion was apparent. Kessler saw it through the pinkish glow that appeared at the bottom of the front windowpanes. Just a few more seconds. The missile was close. Too close.

  “All right, let’s see what this bird can do,” he whispered. In a swift move, he threw the control stick forward and to the side. The appropriate RCS thrusters came alive, forcing the orbiter into a steep left bank and dive. The satellite disappeared from his field of view. He waited. No impact.

  Suddenly he felt the cabin temperature quickly rising. He had nearly flipped the orbiter to avoid the collision, but in the process had exposed Lightning’s upper fuselage tiles to a heat much greater than that for which they were designed. With both hands he centered the stick, forcing Lightning back into level flight, and struggled to pull the nose up. The maneuver had left him with a fifteen-degree angle of re-entry instead of the required thirty-five. Again, he was exposing the white thermal tiles of the upper forward fuselage to temperatures reaching two thousand degrees.

  Perspiration rolled down his face and neck as the cabin temperature rose above one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. He pulled back hard as his eyes remained glued to the attitude indicator.

  Twenty-three degrees…twenty-five.

  The bright orange glow that had engulfed not only the front thermal glass panes but also the sides and upper panes began to fade into a light pink.

  Twenty-eight…thirty.

  Kessler eyed the interior temperature. Ninety-eight degrees. He kept up the pressure as the vibrations spiraled toward a climax. Completely focused on his task, Kessler briefly scanned the windowpanes and then turned back to the attitude indicator. Thirty-five degrees and holding. Mach eighteen. Kessler checked the timer. He had another ten minutes of this.

  His mind went through the possibility of the satellite coming back again, but unless it had some level of thermal protection it wouldn’t last long. On the other hand, the satellite was very large. It had a lot of mass to burn during re-entry. Kessler had two options: continue on his existing path and risk a rear collision if the satellite had not totally burned up yet, or decrease his angle of re-entry to accelerate and maybe buy himself a few extra seconds at the risk of exposing Lightning’s white tiles again. One exposure he felt certain the tiles could take, but two or three? He checked the timer. Nine minutes left. He decided to gamble it and kept the orbiter at the safe re-entry angle.

  Kessler glanced backward through the rearview panes, checking for any abnormalities in the payload bay. No light shone in the payload bay area. That only meant one thing. There hadn’t been a burn-through yet. The Russian bandage was still holding.

  Six minutes. Kessler felt he was asphyxiating. The air inside Lightning seemed thick, heavy. He didn’t understand why. Tereshkova had provided them with enough oxygen to reach Earth safely. Is there an oxygen leak somewhere? Maybe caused by all the explosions?

  Vibrations remained at an all-time high. Kessler kept a solid grip on the stick and his eyes on the attitude indicator. Thirty-five degrees. Speed 9.5 mach.

  Kessler checked the oxygen level. It had dropped below normal. Why? What’s happening? It didn’t matter at that point. He couldn’t do anything about it anyway. He couldn’t leave the control stick. Sweat ran into his eyes and he blinked rapidly, forcing them to remain focused on the attitude indicator. The angle had to be maintained at all cost. He had reached maximum re-entry temperature. Any disturbance in his flight path would most likely result in Lightning’s immediate disintegration.

  Just as slowly as they
had begun, the vibrations faded away, and so did the orange glow alongside the bottom of the front panes. Kessler’s lips pursed suspiciously. He still had three minutes left. Why had he already broken through? It was too early. Something had gone wrong. He double-checked the angle of entry. It had been a steady thirty-five degrees for most…Oh, Jesus. For twenty or so seconds he had lowered the nose as much as fifteen degrees to avoid collision with the satellite. That was it! Damn.

  His heartbeat increased in anticipation of what he would see. He hoped to see land, but as the noise went away and he shot below 150,000 feet at 4.5 Mach, all he could see was the ocean.

  “Houston, Lightning here.”

  “Lightning, we’re tracking you four hundred miles off course. What in the hell happened up there?”

  “Had a close encounter with a suicidal satellite.”

  “Say again, Lightning?”

  “I’ll tell you guys later.”

  “Stand by, Lightning. We’re plotting a new approach solution.”

  “Roger, but make it fast, Houston. Oxygen level is getting too low.” Kessler eyed the altimeter. It showed 140,000 feet at 4.3 Mach. He inhaled deeply several times. The low oxygen level began to take its toll. He felt light-headed. Kessler shook his head vigorously and fought to remain in control. He now wished he had that portable oxygen unit in the aft crew station, but lacking a co-pilot, he couldn’t afford to let go of the stick for even a second.

  “No problem, Lightning. Avoid the S-turns. New heading zero-eight-zero. Maintain current angle of descent. At that speed you should see the coast any second now.” The S-turns were used to bleed speed after reentering the atmosphere.

  “Houston, oxygen level…in critical. Need to switch to autopilot…as soon as possible.”

  “Stand by, Lightning.”

  Kessler was now breathing heavily through his mouth. His limbs began to tingle. He knew he could lose consciousness in less than a minute unless he reached for that oxygen unit.

  “Lightning, there may not be enough juice left for the autopilot servo-motors.”