by Andrew Mayne
In a split second he'd sized me up and decided that I was okay – that I wasn't going to go run my mouth off about the crazy guy at the airport that took me up in his airplane.
He treated me like an adult when he asked me if I wanted to fly.
Ten minutes after take-off he leaned back and folded his hands behind his head and told me to take the controls, just like that.
Where I'd been trusting him not to kill me in the air or try to grab my dick, he just sat back and said, "She's yours now," putting his life in my hands.
That was the first time I felt like a pilot. That was the first time I was a pilot.
I was nervous and scared, but that was just a small dull roar, like the sound of the shower running in another room. Yeah, I was aware of my anxiety, but it didn't affect me one bit.
I knew all the gauges and levers and switches from my simulators. But I didn't know the gut rolling feeling when you changed your pitch or brought the plane into a steep curve.
Where others feel motion sickness, for me it was like finding out I had a new sense.
I wasn't a pilot just because I had the balls or the stupidity to say "Yes." I was a pilot because in that moment it felt right.
Once a month I'd go fly with Sterner. Afterwards he'd buy me lunch and tell me stories about flying inches over jungle tops, scraping the trees, landing on carriers and crazy stories about his fellow pilots and trainees.
The week after I got accepted into college he died of prostate cancer. At the funeral reception his brother pulled me aside and handed me a cardboard box.
Inside was the windbreaker I met him in and a plastic display containing his Top Gun flight school cap.
The message was clear; wearing the hat was reserved for the men that actually went through that program. But taking care of Sterner's hat was being entrusted to me, his final student – a kid who never had a chance to set foot on a carrier as a pilot – but eagerly dropped his bike on the sidewalk and climbed the fence to ride shotgun with a crazy old man with a death wish.
"Save a beer for me, Sterner," I say, getting ready to hit the parachute release.
15
DROGUE
AS THE ATMOSPHERE slams into the Unicorn, attempting to vibrate me into a jelly coating on the floor and walls of the cabin, I watch my velocity, and get ready to release the small drogue chute designed to help slow me down to a less ridiculous speed.
Astronauts who have been onboard Soyuz and the Unicorn say there's no comparison. When working properly, and not doing what I'm doing, the Unicorn is a much smoother ride down on its retro rockets. While the Soyuz is a controlled crash, that despite two parachutes and a last-second retro rocket assist, manages to hit the ground at twenty miles an hour or more and then bounce back into the air – tricking first-timers into thinking they were on Earth. Nope, they get to relive the impact again a few seconds later.
Despite the first ever Soyuz capsule launch – which after a drogue chute failure turned a heroic cosmonaut into a pancake where only his heel bone was recognizable – the craft, as terrifying as it is to ride – ended up having the best safety record of any manned spacecraft until the new generation of capsules came along.
Up until now, the Unicorn has a perfect safety record, which I'm about to ruin when I die because I'm doing everything you're not supposed to do.
I hit the drogue release and get slammed into my seat hard. I was already pulling close to 4 G's – which I was only able to cope with because of prior training and all the practice sessions I did in a mock-up cockpit with a lead-weighted suit that showed me what it's like to try to press a button when your arm weighs a hundred pounds.
With the release of the drogue, there's a shift in my center of gravity and the Unicorn not only vibrates like a mofo, it starts to fly around and spin like a piñata at a birthday party for hyperactive kids.
My display shows a stabilized image of Guanabara Bay below me as a bright blue pool. I focus on the serene waters while my brain starts to liquify.
The Unicorn gradually settles down a bit. Right now, if the voice on the phone is to be believed, Russian fighters, probably launched from Venezuela or Cuba, are plotting an intercept towards me based on what they think my altitude will be when I release the drogue and deploy the main parachute – bringing me to a more leisurely descent at around twenty miles an hour – instead of the two hundred I'm hitting right now.
Ha ha, suckers. Main parachutes are for losers.
Won't they be surprised when they see me fly past at ten times my expected velocity? Won't we all?
BANG! The Unicorn jostles when I detach the drogue. My body pushes against the seat harness as I hang in mid air like the Wile E. Coyote momentarily forgetting that gravity is a thing.
I'm back in free fall – a much slower free fall than when I hit the atmosphere. I'm going just a mere 170 miles an hour now and not the ludicrous 17,000 when I de-orbited.
Ever see what a Ferrari looks like after it crashes into a concrete wall at 170 miles an hour? A lot like a mural of what a Ferrari would look like it if crashed into a wall at 170 miles an hour.
Komarov, that's his name, Vladimir Komarov, the cosmonaut who got to be the first one to ride and die in a Soyuz – they say he knew it was doomed but went anyway, because refusing would have put Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space and a world hero, in the death seat.
And I'm doing this because? Right, some asshole with a voice disguiser says it's the only way to save my life.
My life...fuck...I watched Peterson die in front of me.
Compartmentalize, David. You have two minutes before you have to pull off the most stupid maneuver of your inevitably short life. Deal with their loss later. Stop yours now.
I put my left hand around the stick and get ready to squeeze the throttle while my right finger hovers near, but not over, the hatch release by my head.
The bay grows bigger and I can see individual crests and the long wakes of boats.
Are the people down there looking up in the sky at this missile shooting towards the water?
Hell, is this on the news? I hit the upper atmosphere long enough ago for this to be a breaking story. I doubt anyone other than the United States and Russia has figured out my trajectory well enough to narrow it down. So that means no news crews waiting to film my death. I think. Good thing, because mom had all her students watch my launch.
Well, I'm sure somebody on the beach with a telephoto lens shooting voyeuristic shots of girls in their string bikinis will manage to capture the end of my life. It won't be a total waste. He'll probably be able to sell the footage to a tabloid site within minutes. Good for him.
I suddenly realize that I'm well below the envelope where a Russian fighter could have fired on me over international waters.
So that's good to know. Either this maneuver worked or Capricorn is full of shit.
The bad news is I have ten seconds to decide whether or not after I squeeze this throttle if I'm going to yank the stick to the side and aim the Unicorn straight over a heavily populated city.
Capricorn said that's the only way I survive.
That sounds really selfish now that I can see individual apartment buildings and beaches filled with people.
He also said if this McGuffin in my pocket falls into wrong hands it could mean lots of people will die.
Okay, technically he implied that. But that was the gist of things.
Cosmonaut Komarov took one for the team. Apparently so did Bennet and Peterson. What about you, David Dixon?
I guess, technically, if I do the safe thing and just use the retro-rockets to land in the water, I'm actually acting selfishly.
What would Bennet and Peterson do?
What would Sterner do?
I start the engines, let the hypergolic propellants mix and light up a tower of fire below me.
I can hear the thunderous roar throughout the cabin.
Every single person on the beaches in Rio has to be seeing this right now. They're going to
hear it in a second as the sound reaches them...
And if you think that's cool folks, wait until you see my next trick...
16
ESCAPE
HOLY CRAP! Is that a fucking helicopter?
Out of nowhere the thing flies in right below me on my landing display while a speedboat bounces across the waves ahead of it. What the fuck? Did they think the bright shiny thing falling from the sky is a goddamn care package?
My finger is already squeezing the throttle by the time I see them. I pray those dumb bastards had the chance to get away before I started the world's largest beachside barbecue.
Worry about them later. I've got one second before the retro rockets reverse my direction and I'm shoved into my seat.
BOOM!!! The hatch above my head blows outward when the explosive bolts fire.
Good to know my right hand is still reacting while I'm rubbernecking.
It's a strange thing when you practice stuff so much your body takes over. That kind of motor learning is what makes the difference between a skilled pilot and a smoking wreck on the ground.
Astronaut and space vehicle training is practicing for every possible contingency until you can literally sleepwalk through them. It's a lot like martial arts. You train until you don't have to think about it anymore.
The roar of the thrusters was loud before – now it's super-fucking thunder through the open hatch. The fuel mix makes a crackling popping sound that reminds me of a bunch of grenades all going off like Chinese firecrackers. And I'm on top of them.
As I fly off at an angle, I rotate the craft over so the hatch is facing the ground and I'm upside down. There's no way in hell I'll be able to get out any other way while the rockets are firing. Even then, it's dicey. The inertia is still going to be intense at the highest point of my arc where I have to jump out.
I'll probably end up tripping and falling towards the storage trunks in the back and die on impact. If I don't, the rocket plume is going to burn me to a crisp anyway.
So no matter what, it really doesn't matter.
I glance down and see the city flying by underneath. It looks rather nice. It hardly seems overrun by monkeys. The Simpsons lied to me.
I spot a stadium directly below and wonder if that's the Maracanã football arena.
If I'd timed things right, I could have just jumped out here and been done with the whole thing.
Well, there's always next time, David.
Speaking of bailouts, I check the altimeter and the fuel gauge. I'm hitting the highest point of my trajectory and can kind of sort of move my arms.
This would be a good time to hop out. If I wait any longer I'm going to be stuck in this can as it smashes into the mountains to the north of Rio.
The computer is all set to keep firing the engine then pop the primary parachute. In theory, sending the Unicorn on a thirty mile trek away from the city – and hopefully anyone looking for me.
Of course, my parachute won't exactly be inconspicuous. Which means I've got to do a last minute chute open to kill my fall. Assuming it can handle the force.
Christ, for all I know, Peterson could have packed her pole dancing class clothes in the backpack instead of a parachute. Won't that be hilarious as they find my cratered body inside a spacesuit next to a bunch of thong underwear?
I unhook my harness and grasp the edge of the seat.
The good news is that pilots have survived Mach 3 bailouts.
The bad news for me is that they were in ejection seats that did all the work.
Thankfully, I'm not going anywhere near that speed. Just a mere 300 miles per hour.
The moment the Unicorn starts to level off I reach up and grab the handrail by the hatch.
FUCK! The incoming wind is so intense it smacks my fist into my helmet.
Stop hitting yourself, David, my older sister taunts.
I try again, this time making a karate chop shape with my hand so it has less resistance. Sensei Mike would be pleased.
I grasp the handle with my left, then do the same with my right. The downward pull of gravity is still less than the inertia pulling me into my seat, but with a little bit of effort on my part, I'm able to get myself into the hatch.
BAM!!! The wind smacks my head against the edge of the hatch.
If I hadn't been wearing this fancy spaceman noggin protector I would have cracked my skull open like an egg. Even with it, I'm seeing stars.
Christ.
Literally, Christ, holy crap, I can see the Christ statue from here! That means I need to bail out now or end up in the mountains.
I stick my head and shoulders all the way through the hatch by standing upside down on the seat.
You know, it's actually kind of beautiful from here.
I pull myself free and fly away from the Unicorn.
FUCK!!!! The exhaust cloud from the rocket exhaust just swallowed me. I see goddamn flames on my visor!
Yeah, this suit is fireproof, but it's not fucking rocket exhaust proof!
Thankfully, I fall away before spontaneously combusting. I reach back and make sure the parachute didn't incinerate.
It's still there. Thank god. Peterson's laundry lives to see another day. I can't wait to tell her...fuck.
Focus, David.
See that big thing coming at you real fast? That's called the ground. While he wants to be best friends and can't wait to meet you, it's important that you play hard to get and ease into it.
First, flatten out my body so I slow down.
Thankfully I've done this dozens of times in a full spacesuit jumping out of an airplane and in one of those vertical wind tunnels at iCosmos.
While this spacesuit is mostly aerodynamically slick plastic and not a wingsuit, spreading your arms out like a flying squirrel still helps.
Okay, I'm flat and can see Mr. Ground coming right at me. Since I forgot to pack an altimeter or look at my altitude on the panel before I jumped out, hell I didn't even count the seconds since I left, I'll have to eyeball this one and treat it like a BASE jump. You know, suicide.
If my goal is to avoid calling attention to myself, then I have to release the chute at the very last second – and pray it has high-tension cords and fabric.
I just watched somebody turn a corner on a moped. A blue Vespa with a dented fender. Yep, I think I'm close enough. There's a nice empty field to shoot for.
I yank the release and the harness pulls into my arms and chest, jerking me upright.
I watch the field fly past my feet as I overshoot it.
Instead of a nice grassy plot, I'm heading for a very rundown block filled with demolished buildings and the largest garbage pile I've ever seen.
Huh, I thought they took care of that problem?
I'll take it up with the mayor later. I need to make sure I don't get impaled onto some metal rebar as I...
17
IMPACT
SLAM INTO THE DAMN GROUND! Oomph! I hit a mountain of trash and go face first into a pile of broken bottles, beer cans and please, God, not dirty diapers.
A cliff of garbage collapses over me. Something scratches my ear inside the helmet, but I'm too winded to move. I just need a second...
The harness pulls at me. Crap. The parachute. There's not much point to making a discreet landing if you've got a massive white billowing flag catching the wind, telling the world where you are.
I claw myself free. I'm thankful that I have a suit on and don't have to smell this place – well at least not until my onboard air supply quits in about three minutes.
I make my way through garbage bags, newspapers, and a goddamn broken sink until I see daylight. In digging myself free I manage to get the parachute cords all twisted around me.
I make it to my feet and unravel them, then start pulling the chute in to hide it before helicopters fly by or whatever they do in Brazil when they see a man in a spacesuit leap from his spaceship.
Spaceship....
I look up and see an arc of white smoke s
tretching across the sky like a rainbow made of dirty cotton.
In the distance, way over the mountain top, I can see the Unicorn at the end of the smoke, its thrusters still burning, followed by the echo of a dull roar. What's the count now? 227 seconds?
And it stops. There's one final puff of smoke as the last of the fuel spurts out. It's tiny from here, but I can make out the details well enough.
Three...two...please let the main chute deploy...one...
There it is, a bright orange canopy blossoming from the nose of the ship. It begins a slow descent to the earth and vanishes out of view behind the large green mountain standing between us.
Please don't land on an orphanage.
With any luck, it'll fall in a hard-to-get-to remote area and my pursuers, either real or imagined, will find the empty craft with its popped hatch and deduce I made a run for it – and I'm now totally living off the land in the monkey-infested jungle with my awesome survival skills.
In a spacesuit.
Right.
I'm the guy that can't eat a chalupa if there's no verde sauce.
The alternative to the chute opening is they find a wreck on the ground with no busted-up David Dixon and deduce right away that I bailed out somewhere between there and the bay.
Nothing I can do about that now. If I can avoid being seen, and find something less conspicuous than a quarter-million dollar spacesuit to wear, I can try to get to the football stadium and unload the McGuffin on someone more responsible.
No problem, I'm only in a foreign country surrounded by people who speak a language I don't understand.
Stealth is going to be my only way to survive.
I reel in the parachute as it balloons in the wind and get a quick glimpse beneath the canopy of a pair of legs.
There goes being unseen.
When I grasp the fabric and start packing the chute into a small package, I find myself staring at three pairs of eyes watching me in rapt fascination.
A little girl in a dirty dress, maybe eight years old, is standing next to two smaller boys wearing equally dirty pairs of shorts and nothing else. They're all staring at me.