by Homer Hickam
“Virgil. Now, here’s the situation....”
San Jose Airport
Puckett called the Man at the appointed time and reported his success. “What about Columbia ?” the Man asked.
“What does it matter? They’re going to get nothing off the moon. And Medaris is as good as dead.”
“Because you used Farside, we’ve got another problem. The people aboard Columbia know about it. The United States broke international law having it up there. There must be no witnesses. Do you understand?”
“Yes. How about Starbuck and his people? I left them alive.” He snapped his fingers, remembering the HOE team. “Well, most of them, anyway.”
“You can take care of them later. Starbuck won’t talk right away. He’s kept it secret all these years, we think he’ll keep it secret for a little longer.”
Puckett hung up, went out on the tarmac, waved to his pilots to follow him. This time he’d chartered a DC-10, empty except for him as its only passenger. He was headed to Russia, to make sure Ollie Grant was sticking with the program. Although they would not be coming back to earth with fusion energy fuel, the people aboard Columbia were witnesses. They still needed killing. “Let’s go!” he called to the pilots, who gave him the high sign, moved forward into their seats, started to wind up the engines. Puckett collapsed into a first-class passenger seat, cinched his seat belt. “Russia!” He grinned. “Where the vodka is cheap, the girls are blond, and the men in charge know how to deal!” His kind of place.
Taurus-Littrow
Jack finished hauling everything he needed out of the Elsie. The MEC team had devised a way to pump oxygen into his backpack through a port on its service and cooling umbilical. Their commandment always KISS, they had also built external scrubbers and batteries for the backpack. He topped his tanks off with the oxygen reserves from the Elsie, snapped fresh scrubbers and batteries into place, was ready to go. A full oxygen pack gave him six hours. The Elsie’s reserves, if he used them all, would give him two days to explore and then to die, probably out at Shorty.
The next step was to restore communications, to let Virgil and Penny know that at least he had lived long enough to walk on the moon. That was selfish on his part and he knew it. Perhaps if that had been the only reason, he wouldn’t have done it, but he also wanted to hear Penny’s voice. He wanted one last contact with her. That was selfish, too, he realized, but he kept working, unable to be completely and utterly noble in the face of oblivion.
Jack detached the UHF antenna and taped it to the side of the dome so that it aimed skyward. Still hearing nothing, he went inside to check the Elsie’s comm panel. The circuit breakers had all been thrown, probably on impact. He reset them, one by one. As soon as he threw the last one, he heard a crackling in the helmet comm set. When he stuck his head out of the hatch, he heard Penny and her pleas for contact. He switched to the VOX mode, so that all he had to do was speak to automatically transmit. “I’m here, Penny. How do you read?”
Her voice, worried but steady, came back. “Jack! Thank God! Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he responded, “but I’ve had a little problem. Is Virgil listening?”
“No. We have Houston back with us, Jack. Sam Tate is talking to Virgil. He says they want to help.”
Jack inwardly shrugged. He could see no way out of his dilemma but recognized it was still a good thing to have Mission Control on the side of Penny and Virgil. Houston could help Columbia get home. After all, they’d done it for Apollo 13. “Tate’s a good man,” Jack allowed. “But listen to me, High Eagle. I’ve got something to tell you—the Elsie crashed. I think it got hit by something, I don’t know. Anyway, I lost two of my landing spheres and the Elsie is lying on its side and Little Dog is a mess. I’m only about two hundred yards from the Apollo 17 landing site. I’m okay for now.” He paused, trying to decide how much more to tell her, then decided to tell her the whole truth. “I’ve decided to go on out to Shorty....”
He stood on a mound of moondust, listening, hearing only the sound of his own breathing. The next voice he heard was Virgil’s. “Hey, partner, how we doing?”
“I’m fine. How’s Penny?”
“She’s a little upset but she’ll be okay. What can we do about you?”
“Me? Nothing, Virg. How’s the fuel cell situation?”
“Number two is still chugging along. Should last for another day, at least. Number one still looks good.”
“You’d better go. You can’t depend on one fuel cell.”
“Let me talk it over with our lady here.”
“Virgil, would you also check on the voltage the Rover used?”
“Wait one.”
Several volumes of pertinent Apollo 17 data had been brought along on disk. “It had two thirty-six-volt batteries, Jack,” Virgil came back.
“I thought so. Elsie runs on 36 volts, too, and I’ve got spare batteries for her that I won’t need now. I’m going to see if I can jury-rig some power for the Rover, get on out to Shorty. I can at least report on the helium-3 fire beads out there, give the next guy an idea of how to pick it up.”
“You think that thing will run after sitting on the moon for three decades?”
“I’m going to give it a shot.”
“Jack.” It was Penny. “Stay where you are. Save your oxygen. Let us work on it. You don’t need to go to Shorty. I know you’re not going because of the helium-3. Kate’s not there, Jack. Kate is dead. You can’t bring her back.”
Jack felt spiritual, disembodied, caught up in the machinery of fate. He knew what he must do, that all that had occurred was part of some foreshadowed accumulation of events, some sort of fateful curve for which there had to be purposeful result. He had to complete what the gods demanded. “Penny, listen to me. Fire up Big Dog and get out of there.”
“I’m not going to leave you, Jack,” Penny said resolutely. “I love you, you moron!”
Jack wasn’t listening, not really, as he looked into the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of Columbia, to see the man-made star streak past. “I’ve got two days’ worth of air,” he said as much to himself as Penny. “I can’t sit here and watch the earth and the stars go round and round. I have something I have to do, something I was meant to do.”
“Jack Medaris, this is Houston,” Sam broke in. “How do you read?”
Jack looked up, spotted earth. “Loud and clear, Houston. Is that you, Sam?”
“It’s me, Jack. Just wanted to let you know we’re on the job. We’re going to get you home, son. You just hang in there.”
“Oh, sure, Sam.” That was Houston, all right. If there had been a Mission Control for the Titanic, they would have been devising work-arounds from the moment the great liner struck the iceberg. That thought amused Jack as he imagined it:
“Ah, Houston, this is the Titanic, we’ve got a problem. Looks like a twenty-meter tear at the bow by an iceberg spur.”
“Roger, Titanic. We see that. We’re already working on it. A lifeboat count follows and recommended sequential manning. The guys down in the trenches have come up with this plan in the interim. Recommend you have duct tape available....”
Jack carried the Elsie’s oxygen tanks to the Rover and then went inside the dome, brought out the spare battery pack and a toolkit. He followed his tracks back toward Challenger, his mind filled with the final plans for his life.
ON THE JOB IN HOUSTON
SMC
Shirley called the vice president and apprised him of what she had done. “Houston’s abuzz, sir. That’s the only word to describe it. All three shifts have come in and nobody’s going home until the mission is over. Some of the off-shift controllers are sleeping on the floor underneath their consoles, others have moved into the back rooms and are curled up on top of desks. It’s amazing. I think some of them aren’t sleeping at all.”
The veep was silent for a long time. Then, in a shaky, tired voice, he asked, “What are they doing to help Columbia ?”
Shir
ley looked around. “I don’t know, sir. I’m not an engineer. Writing code and debugging software, I heard somebody say. They’re doing whatever it takes, I guess.”
“What about the press down there?”
Shirley looked at the glassed-in press room. It was packed with reporters and cameras. “They’re everywhere!” she exclaimed. “Their vans are surrounding us like tanks lining up to attack. Here’s something else, sir. Did you know SDI had assets around the moon? Well, a man named Starbuck does. I just heard a minute ago he hacked his way in here. Sam Tate—he’s the flight director—talked to him and told me he was for real. He’s been invited to join the effort. Sam told me it was an old project known as Farside and that there’s a communications satellite around the moon. It’s providing us the orbit of Columbia. You won’t believe this, sir, but it’s also transmitting a visual of the lunar surface and Columbia ’s position over it.”
“I see.” Vanderheld’s voice sounded neither surprised or excited, merely sorrowful.
Shirley sought to cheer him up. “Sir, calls are coming in here from around the world. The Japanese, Chinese, Indian, and European space agencies have all volunteered to help us in any way they can.”
“The dream of space is alive, Shirley,” Vanderheld said, finally. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes, sir. That’s good, isn’t it, sir?”
“I don’t know, Shirley. I used to think I did but now I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry this stresses you so much, sir.”
“Shirley,” Vanderheld said, “let me talk to the flight director.”
Sam took the phone. “It’s been the most amazing day, Mr. Vice President,” he said.
“Well, clearly, you’re doing a wonderful job down there, Sam,” Vanderheld said. “What do you think the chances are for Columbia and her crew?”
“That’s hard to say, sir, but we’ve got tiger teams on it around the clock. If there’s anybody can pull this off, it’s Tate’s Turds—pardon the expression, sir.”
Sam heard the veep’s well-known rich, melodious chuckle. “Shirley told me that international space agencies have volunteered their help. Please allow them to do so. I think it would be splendid if all this was seen as an international effort.”
Sam shrugged. “Sure. No problem.”
“I’ve heard on this end from the Russian ambassador. The Russian Space Agency would like to launch a manned spacecraft and rendezvous with Columbia as she comes in, to be there to assist if such is required.”
“I haven’t heard anything from them, sir, but if I do, I’ll see that they get what they need from us. Not that Columbia ’ll need it. If we can get them out of lunar orbit, we’ll have it made, I think.”
“You seem to be quite happy about this, Sam,” the veep said. “Aren’t you still angry over what Medaris did?”
Sam guffawed. “Aw, that ol’ boy ain’t got the sense God gave ducks, Mr. Vice President. But I think I’ll forgive him. Columbia is bringing home the energy source of the future. I figure that’s a pretty damn good thing to do.”
“But at what price, Sam? There will be wars over this.”
“Hell, sir, there’s been wars since the beginning of time. If we start squabbling over the energy on the moon, that’s not a bad reason to start a fight. Let’s go for it, I say.”
Shirley came back on. “We’re going to do this thing, sir. I wish you were here. You’d love it.”
“You’re a brave woman, Shirley,” Vanderheld said. “The bravest I’ve ever known, I think.”
“Thank you, sir. The admiration is mutual, I assure you.”
MONTANA (3)
The Perlman Plant
Perlman and Charlie pushed the last pipe into the gasket fitted into the big red hatch that covered the sand tube. Perlman thanked God that a fusion reactor test project required a completely fitted-out machine shop and a vast plumbing inventory and Charlie knew what to do with them. Overnight he had fabricated his design, adding in Perlman’s own expertise of pumps, hydraulics, and fluid mechanics. The resulting pipe stretched from the reservoir to the hatch. In-line pumps, capable of building thousands of pounds of water pressure in seconds, were in place, and the hatch had been braced with a bridgework of steel beams to take the added pressure.
Perlman inspected some of the attachments and worried over the gaskets. “We’re on the edge of their specs, Charlie. All we can do is hope they hold.”
“If they leak a little, we can live with that, Doc.”
It was at that moment a thunder from above shook the Egg and the cavern. They were starting to blast. It was only a matter of time, hours probably, before they blasted down to the hatch. Perlman looked at Charlie. “Well, Charlie, old boy, I guess it’s time we fought back.”
“I’m on it, Doc.” Charlie grinned. He opened the first valve while Perlman got the pumps going. Then they stood back, listening to the thousands of gallons of water flushing out of the big reservoir and into the pipe. Some of the gaskets leaked but most held, including the one they had worried about most, the one at the hatch. There was a gurgling sound, as if someone had stuck a hose down a gopher hole. In this case it was water going up the hole, into the sand, blasting it from a solid into a slurry with the consistency of quicksand.
“You’re a genius, Charlie,” Perlman said.
“So are you, Doc,” Charlie replied.
Perlman shrugged. He guessed he was. He had, after all, solved the most difficult energy problem known to mankind. “So here we are,” he said, smiling, “just two geniuses standing a hundred feet beneath the Montana prairie waiting for a man on the moon to come to our rescue.”
“That pretty much sums it up, Doc,” Charlie said. “And you know what? If he’s still alive after all these days, I think he’ll make it the rest of the way.”
If he was still alive. Now, there was the question. Perlman looked up toward the gurgling lake forming above him. That was indeed the question. Otherwise, everything else was academic.
THE ROVER
Taurus-Littro
After attaching the new batteries, Jack used a brush from the toolkit to sweep all the dust he could from the electric motors attached to each of the Rover’s wheels. He also rocked the Rover back and forth to break loose any corrosion that might have formed in the wheels or axles. There wasn’t much else he could think of to do—except try the power switch.
He sat down in the port seat and toggled the switch. The gauges registered no change. He tapped them and the needles responded, swinging up into the green. Scarcely believing it, he eased the hand controller forward and the wire wheels dug in, the Rover lurching forward. He kept his eye on the gauges but all stayed in normal range. The Rover had been alternately baked and frozen for decades and all Jack had done was change out the batteries and kick the tires and it was ready to go. Jack had to laugh. Who said the USA couldn’t build a quality vehicle?
Cernan had busted the aft starboard fender and fixed it with a map and duct tape. Then he’d taken the fender as a souvenir with him when he left. Jack fashioned another fender out of a folded map he found beside the Rover, used lots of duct tape, and hoped his fix would work. The Rover kept trundling forward and no spray of dust was hitting Jack in the back. His map fender seemed to be holding. He kept the controller eased back, not wanting to put any more stress on old fuses than was needed. He estimated it would take him six hours to travel down the path of Apollo 17 ’s second EVA, to Shorty.
Jack had brought along water and food. A drink port in his helmet allowed him to suck liquids, his food in the form of soups laced with vitamins. His most immediate problem was the need for sleep. Already groggy with fatigue, he knew he would have to rest soon or risk making possibly deadly mistakes.
Cernan and Schmitt had made stops along their journey to the North Massif, parking and hiking to interesting geological features. At the base of the mountain Jack found a parking spot and boot prints that led off to a huge boulder. It was then Jack realize
d his mistake. He had followed the track of EVA-3 to what was designated Station 6 on the maps. At the end of the tracks were two huge craggy boulders butted up against one another. Schmitt and Cernan had spent a lot of time at the site. Jack realized he hadn’t made a disastrous miscalculation. He had enough air to backtrack to Shorty. The only problem was he doubted if he could stay awake long enough to do it.
He circled the boulders, noting where the astronauts had sampled, the scars on the rocks as fresh as if they had just been made. He spotted a scooplike device, one of the tools Cernan and Schmitt had used to pick up small rocks. The prongs were bent, probably the reason why it had been discarded. He walked around into the shadow of the biggest boulder and took in the view, the mounds of the Sculptured Hills off to his left, and the hulking South Massif across the cratered plain. The Challenger Lem and his Elsie were only about two miles away and in plain sight.
Jack chose the regolith in the shadow of the big boulder for his bed, calling and telling whoever was listening his plan.
Columbia was behind the moon. Houston answered. “We copy, Jack,” Sam told him. “You want us to wake you?”
“Negative.”
“Roger that. By the way, we’re still working the rescue plan. Want to hear what we’re thinking about?”
Jack smiled grimly, certain that whatever Tate was coming up with was about as useful as the rescue plan he had imagined for the Titanic. This was a done deal. “Thanks, Sam,” he said tiredly, “but I’ll pass. I want to keep my mind on things here.”
“If you stayed in one place, it would make it easier for us,” Sam replied gently.
Penny broke in, Columbia apparently just coming around the rim. “Jack, there really are some things happening. We’ve been loading software for the last hour—”
Jack interrupted her. “You still here? Virgil, I thought I asked you to take off.”
“Virgil’s busy working to save your butt, Medaris!” Penny came back. “Be advised we’re not leaving the moon without you!”
Jack sighed, wearily shook his head. “Whatever you say, Penny. Let me get some sleep now, okay?”