Now, they had instrumentation, and a simulation. All they had to do was get the information to the ERVs.
***
Falling fast in the hungry grip of the mother planet, the first Lisa Daniels knew about this frantic effort was a broken transmission in the minutes before they hit the atmosphere.
“. . . - SOC to—” crackle “—aniels. Comm—” grck “—der Daniels. Over”
“Commander Daniels here. You are coming in broken. Over.”
krrce...wheeeee “—try Interface.” snap...bzzzz “—over.”
“Entry Interface in one minute. Entry Interface in one minute.”
“One zz. .nute, roger. Out.”
“Daniels to Pruett. Sounds like someone's trying to talk to us. EI, thirty seconds.”
“We're two minutes behind you. We'll try to raise them. Good luck. Shweeeeeeeeeee...” Lisa rapidly spun the volume down.
“Looks like we're hitting the atmosphere, Celine. Blow the shields. Incidentally, someone tried to call us. Pruett's working on it.” Then the shaking began.
***
The reentry was so filled with sound, violent shaking, and stark fear, that neither Celine nor John could quite clearly recall it later. The ERV did not have windows, so Celine and John flew using instruments. As they blasted down through Entry Interface, they only had the sketchiest of data for guidance. Later, assuming they survived the meteoritic reentry phase, ground controllers would help keep them in the proper trajectory. Like the Space Shuttles of a century before, the ERVs were big aluminum rocks that were going to land somewhere. It was up to Celine in ERV Reinhart and Eddie in ERV Pruett to make sure everyone could walk away from this one.
***
The decaying orbit of the ERVs had carried them beyond the orbit of the Chaffee and beyond the range of its radios. Roque was now truly alone, the last man in orbit around the Earth.
He turned to the last bottle of Muscat and lovingly worked the cork out of the bottle. Fetching a clean beaker from the locker, he shook out a globe of the fragrant wine and watched it wobble into the beaker. Left alone, faint tidal forces would settle the wine into the beaker, but Roque didn't have that long. He sipped a mouthful from the oscillating ball of rich amber fluid.
“UNSOC to Commander Daniels,” muttered the radio. Roque, surprised, turned up the volume. “Come in, Commander Daniels, over.” Roque chuckled at the anachronism. Nobody said 'over' in UNSOC. Then he realized that he did not hear the automatic 'beep' that normally signaled the end of transmission.
crrrk “—here.” shwee “—ing in brok—” kkkkshhhhhhh “—Over.”
“One minute to Entry Interface,” said UNSOC. “Entry Interface in one minute. Over.” It sounded like Fred Palowicz on the radio. But how?
Swheee “—nute. Entry Interface in—” zzz snap
Roque waited until it was clear that the ERVs were deep in reentry. Glancing out the window, he saw something that made his skin crawl. Rapidly aiming one of the station cameras on the sight, he keyed the radio.
“Roque to UNSOC. Visual on two reentry trails.”
“Roger, Chaffee. Roque, it was an honor knowing you.” The voice was somber, but professional. “Your sacrifice will not be forgotten.”
“Fred, you better take care of Lisa, and everyone else.”
“We're working on it, Roque. Godspeed.”
“Thanks, Fred. Say hello to Gus and a kiss for Gayatri. Roque Zacarías, listening, out.” They were killing themselves down there trying to bring the ERVs home. He refused to remind them of the doomed spaceman circling above their heads.
The reentry occupied a portion of his mind. He had one final orbit before the big stuff would likely punch through the walls of the Station. Ninety minutes to live, more or less. He patted the lock of Lynn's hair in its bag. He would be with her soon.
He carefully sipped more of the Muscat from the ball drifting in the air. It was a real shame that he couldn't swirl it in a thin crystal goblet. Still, it was a symphony of taste on his tongue compared to the usual UNSOC rations. Perhaps letting it air would make it too overwhelming. He sat back and thought of the España of his youth.
The reentry trails had dissipated, and Roque reported that fact to Fred. The sleds should be out of communications blackout by now.
“UNSOC, UNSOC, this is Commander Daniels aboard the ERV Reinhart. Come in, UNSOC.”
Roque smiled. It was all over, almost. The impacts of the Moon debris on the Chaffee stopped as it moved out of the debris plume. Another hour or so before he was back in the thick of it. Roque selected his favorite music and queued it for play. As soon as the sleds landed, he would fill the Chaffee with the sounds of the land of his birth.
He replenished the ball of Muscat. It was a shame to drink a wine so quickly, he mused. But the next pass would be his doom and it was a worse shame to let it be lost to space. Another sip of the ball and he was once again in the land of rolling hills and endless vineyards under the warm Iberian sun.
Entry Interface
ERV Jim Pruett, June 17 2082, 1610 hrs. Entry Interface
Franz Steinman was crammed in on the lousy bench seats of the ERV Jim Pruett next to Olaf Skjornsen. Normally, Olaf was a good sort of guy. Sure, he was a bit chunky, but he could pull his weight and then some. To the spacehands formerly of Space Station Chaffee, that was a valuable commodity indeed.
Right now, though, he steadily, if silently, cursed the large man next to him. Olaf once again bent forward to retch into the mercifully opaque plastic bags that were stuffed into every crevice. Distant patters and the occasional large bang sounded as bits of the Moon continued to hit the aluminum plates still shielding the delicate heat resistant tiles.
“Make sure you tie them shut when you're done, Meatball.” He groused. “I don't want to have to be hosing this thing out when we get down.”
Olaf grimaced, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You think they're going to make us clean these things out? Nah. First thing they'll do is whisk us off to the hospital. Just think, Head, hot and cold running nurses and we'll be heroes. Ladies love a hero.”
“Stop calling me Head. You know I hate that name.”
“Stop with the Meatball and you have a deal.”
“Fine.” Franz was a man of action, and he hated enforced passivity. And it showed in his bickering, his impatience. He longed to be up and about, doing things. Each loud bang caused the crew to jump.
“Here I am, tied down, helpless,” groused Franz.
“You think they like it better up front?” asked Olaf, just before another wave of nausea hit him.
Franz cursed and turned away.
The scene across the aisle was not much better, much less up and down the vehicle. About half of the crew was making use of the bags, and the other half was beginning to look like they wanted to.
“Listen up, back there. We're going to blow the shields when we get to Entry Interface. There's going to be a large bang, but don't be worried.” The voice of Eddie Zanger sounded smooth and professional over the jury-rigged loudspeaker. “Seems everyone on the ground is going nuts trying to help us. Just sit back and relax.”
“Bring your tray tables to the upright and locked position.” Some wag just ahead of Franz joked. “That furnace-like glow you see out the windows is only our wings burning off. . .urp!” His monologue came to an abrupt halt as a meaty hand crushed his right shoulder.
“Dude, save it for the comedy circuit, will ya?” ground Franz's voice in his ear. “I got enough problems.”
Up front, Panjar turned to Eddie and asked, “Why do they call it Entry Interface, anyway? Sounds silly.”
Eddie, busy checking his rudimentary instruments, replied absently, “Entry into the Earth's atmosphere, for one. The atmosphere extends upward for thousands of miles, only it gets incredibly thin. They had to define something, so it was the point at which some parameter was hit. For us, we're using one hundredth of a gee of deceleration. It's the Interface between atmospher
e and free space.”
Panjar was patting the console in front of him. “That's good. Jimmy will get us through.”
Eddie looked at him oddly. “Earlier today, you were calling this Tweedledee.”
“But that was before he was christened. You can't confuse the poor things by calling them something they're not. Right, Jimmy?” He continued patting the bulkhead in front of him.
Over on the Reinhart, John was considerably less sanguine about their prospects. He knew just as much about the risks and dangers as Panjar, he just didn't share his subordinate's cheery optimism. Besides, he was two minutes ahead and deeper in the reentry phase of flight.
Outside, the thin upper reaches of the atmosphere were suddenly shoved violently out of the way by the passages of the Reinhart and Pruett. The bellies of these vehicles hammered through the atmosphere, shoving the atoms of gas out of the way fifty times faster than they could move on their own. Shock waves formed at every surface bend on the vehicles. Air, thrown to the side in nanoseconds, compressed and heated until it glowed from the energy of their passage.
The bellies of the vehicles, where Roque's exquisitely formed tiles were so carefully positioned, glowed in return. The silica structure of the tiles was so heat resistant, though, that little of the heat was transferred to the interior. Conditions inside were approaching critical for human life. The people on the Reinhart were stuck in a broiler made from Lunar aluminium.
“Good thing these boxes don't have windows,” John grunted, struggling to overcome the mounting forces of reentry. “Nothing like seeing the white-hot plasma shooting past to make you feel all better.”
“You're a real joy to have around, John,” replied Celine, seated beside him in the pilot's seat.
“I'd say the same, but I don't want to go to HR,” he replied. “Sucks when you can't honestly compliment someone anymore.”
Celine took a couple of sipping breaths, fighting the deceleration. “You know, I think you –ugh– honestly mean that, –mmph–, John. See –huhh– if you can do –guh– something about the –guh– heat.”
John looked over the board, and adjusted a control. “More LOX going –uuuh– through the floor heat –woohuh– exchanger now.”
John's piloting skills were rusty; he was more useful as her assistant. He kept touch with ground controllers, the FAA, and the Pruett. Celine appreciated his calm competence with the flight computer, enabling her to concentrate on flying the unwieldy vehicle. John's hands were sure and steady on the controls when she had to perform other tasks. They meshed so well, it was almost unbelievable that this was the first time they had flown together, as well as the first time they had flown one of the ERVs.
She caught herself wondering what his hands would feel like as they held her. She chided herself for unprofessional thoughts. Still, given what he had said or suspected about Tyra, Celine would not be surprised if divorce was not in his immediate future.
He looked at her shapely hands lightly gripping the flight control stick, and stiffened at the thoughts wandering around his brain. It must have showed on his face. Celine turned to look at him, and slightly stroked the stick a couple of times.
She gasped out a chuckle despite the heavy drag deceleration was putting on her body, but was instantly contrite. “I'm sorry, John. I shouldn't tease you like that. You've been too good a friend to treat this way.”
Despite the noise and shaking, John had time to wonder. A friend? If so, I must be the only one she's allowed herself to have. Amazing.
***
Throughout the Reinhart, the shaking and roaring of their passage through the upper parts of the atmosphere were taking their toll on the crew. Those already weakened by radiation sickness simply passed out. Others surrendered to the insistent nausea, but were too weak to find the plastic bags. A steady, low cursing filled the passenger space as the crew worked out their feelings. Somewhere, a low prayer was heard as one crewman believed the end was near.
As the Reinhart and, two minutes later, the Pruett, punched holes in the sky, their speed dropped from the thirty thousand kilometers per hour down to thirteen thousand. As their speed lessened, the air around them was blasted less and, as a result, glowed less. Soon, it was too slow to generate any plasma, and communications were restored.
“UNSOC, UNSOC, this is Commander Daniels aboard the ERV Reinhart. Come in, UNSOC.”
A scratchy, static-filled voice replied. “UNSOC CAPCOM A here, Reinhart.” The rest was washed out in static.
“Say again, UNSOC, you are coming in broken.”
“CAPCOM A, Reinhart. Request status.”
“I read you 3 by 2. Reinhart is through blackout, Pruett to follow in two minutes. We have a load of sick people here.”
“Copy Reinhart. What are your flight parameters?”
“Comms improving. We are at 250k, Mach 10, 240 miles from touchdown off New Jersey.” Lisa thought for a second. “You should already know this.”
“Subby's powered off the Control Room. We're backdooring him through a TDRS Ground Station.”
Lisa smiled. Fred could always find a way.
“We have no tracking, but we're trying to get the US Space Alliance vets up and running at JSC in Houston. Hang in there.”
“Wilco, and thanks, Fred.”
“Anytime, Lisa. Gayatri is running a Potemkin operation to keep Subby happy. Gus and his team are coordinating Houston. We've got the whole Eastern Seaboard ready for you, wherever you touch down.”
“Fred, that must have taken hours.”
“More than you know. Gus has been running around the clock.” Fred paused. “Uh, you sure about that ocean landing?”
Lisa laughed. “Make sure the cameras are on this one. It will be spectacular. Call me again when Houston is ready.”
“Roger, Lisa. CAPCOM, listening, out.”
***
“Who's our terminal guidance specialist, Celine?” asked Lisa Daniels.
“Lois McClain.”
“The one they call 'SuperGirl'?”
“The very one.” Lisa looked at her checklist and pointed. John ran through the WALDO systems checklist.
“It's the damndest thing. She doesn't appear to have any problem with nausea, either,” said Lisa.
“There's always time for that, Ma'am.”
“It's what, another ten minutes until we need her?” Lisa had a copy of the flight timeline on her commpad, but she never relied on a single data source.
“At least, Commander. Don't worry, it's right here on my checklist.”
***
On the Pruett, the transition out of blackout was just as welcome, the contact with the ground just as satisfying. Panjar assured Eddie that Franz would be equally able to execute his part of the mission.
“Franz, just how are we going to land? We're not going to skip over the water like a flat rock, are we?” Alice, with uncanny skill, had managed to get a seat behind the imposing spacehand.
Franz turned to her with a huge grin and exclaimed, “I can't tell you yet. It's going to be epic!”
Alice was not mollified. “Retrorockets? No, there doesn't seem to be enough tankage. How did we have retrorockets for the deorbit burn, anyway?”
“Ah, that I can answer. We cannibalized the Mooncan retrorockets, fuel and LOX. We put a whole bunch of them on each sled. McCrary thought it up.” Franz's voice started getting thick. “He. . .he was a hell of a guy.”
Alice patted his arm and sat back.
***
“Reinhart, this is CAPCOM. Houston is on the line. Please hold.” There came an amazing set of tones, and the muffled sound of a phone being held against something.
“Reinhart, Reinhart, this is Houston. How do you read? Over.”
Over? Oh, right. No automatic beeps to signal the end of transmission.
“2 by 2. How are you doing this? Over.”
“From what I understand, there are two phones being held against each other, and a third being taped against a microphone.
What the hell, it's working. Over.”
“What do you have for us? Over.”
“We have your vector mirrored in our sim software, and the old shuttle and X-38 ideal paths plotted in. You should execute some roll-reversal movements soon in order to spill some energy before touchdown. Over.”
“Where do you have us landing? We want somewhere like the Jersey Shore, where a boat can come out and get to us easily. Over.”
“Our thoughts, too. We were thinking of the Hudson River, but that is just too congested and narrow. Over.”
“No kidding. This sim software. I didn't know JSC kept any of that around. What are you using? Over.”
“Uh. Remember that Shuttle Lander from thirty years ago? Over.”
“You mean that video game I played as a kid? You're kidding, right? Over.”
“No, Reinhart. I worked on that game after my NASA days. Used a lot of the same code we used for the shuttles in it. It's as accurate as we need. You'll be fine. Over.”
“I can't believe this,” muttered Lisa to herself. “Relying on a thirty-year-old video game.”
“Houston, can we fly up to New York and circle there, dispersing energy? Over.”
“You can, but that will play hob with all the air traffic. Over.”
“Get on the horn to the FAA. We're just a big aluminum rock anyway. In fifteen minutes, we're going to be landing somewhere. Over.”
“Already done. They’re trying to lock down NY airspace. Patch me through to the pilot. Over.”
For the next ten minutes, the old hands in Houston coaxed the Reinhart and the Pruett to near New York and set them circling just offshore. From Coast Guard installations in the area, Fast Attack cutters and patrol boats massed for the moment of truth. Whether they’d act as tugs or be racing to pick survivors out of the debris of a wrecked ship was anybody’s guess.
***
Roque monitored the descent of the sleds from the battered Chaffee. He laughed out loud when the CAPCOMs revealed that they were using the Shuttle Landing video game to assist in their flight path. He sat up a bit straighter as the terminal phase approached.
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