Perigee

by Patrick Chiles

  “Things are tense enough up here,” Tom continued. “We don’t need anyone making it worse, or none of us have a prayer of getting home. Is that very clear?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, relieved.

  “Glad to hear it. We could use some more help. I need trained eyeballs outside those windows helping to talk me in when the time comes. Think you can handle it?”

  “You trust me?”

  “Wasn’t sure until a few minutes ago,” Tom said. “You handled that pretty well…kept your head on straight. You fly enough to know we can’t afford that kind of horse hockey. And I’m betting you know how important visual cues are in formation.”

  “It’s been a while,” Wade admitted. “But yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “Good. We’re too big for that tug to safely put us in position alongside the station—center of gravity’s going to be way out ahead of it. So I’m going to have to taxi us in to the gate, so to speak. But I won’t be able to see enough from up here in the pointy end. I need an observer back there to help keep me straight.”

  “What about Ryan?” he asked. “He’s your copilot, after all. Or even Marcy.”

  “Can’t,” Tom said. “Both of them are going to be suiting up for a spacewalk at the same time, which I don’t have to tell you is something we’ve never done before. I’m not going to put any more on their shoulders.” He paused. “So, are you on board with this or not?”

  Wade smiled. “You almost make it sound like I have a choice in the matter.”

  48

  Denver

  Hammond tossed his blazer over an office chair and appeared to melt into his sofa. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “Well, that could’ve gone better,” he said in disgust.

  “That’s why I told you to let me handle the press,” Taggart said in a mild rebuke. “You’ve got enough to worry about. That’s your grand vision stuck up there, not mine. You know what makes those planes tick better than anyone.”

  “Not anyone,” Hammond said. “Tom knows things about that machine that I never imagined. That’s how it goes…can’t know what’ll really happen until you get air over the wings.”

  “Business can be the same way,” Taggart offered. “Sometimes the stakes are even higher.”

  “Sometimes,” he allowed. One man’s decisions could affect the livelihood of thousands of people. “But that’s hard to see right now. Thanks for pulling my fat out of the fire back there, by the way. I was just about to tee off on that punk.”

  “Think nothing of it, Arthur. I’m sure there’ll be more ‘opportunities to excel’, as you like to say.”

  Hammond was about to reply when his phone rang, the “hot line” from flight control. He snapped up the receiver. “Go Charlie,” he said tersely.

  Taggart watched calmly, hiding his amusement as Hammond’s eyebrows shot up. “A revolt? They had to Taser him? Good Lord...no, no, they did the right thing. Keep me posted,” he said, and hung up. He dropped his head against the back of the sofa, without uttering a word.

  After a few minutes of silence, Taggart finally prodded him. “Okay Arthur, what’s up?” he asked, though he had his suspicions. Knowing his client, he’d in fact expected this. “You said something about a revolt.”

  “What’s up is your buddy Magrath just lost his damned mind. Gentry and Hunter confronted him with that article, and he didn’t handle it well. It looks like he’d been working on the story for some time and just waited until they turned on the plane’s data network to downlink it.”

  “Sounds like Colin, I’m afraid,” Taggart said. “Sometimes you have to look past those traits for the sake of the business. But you’re correct, that behavior can’t be tolerated in this case.” Though it certainly can be helpful.

  “It gets better,” Hammond growled, reaching for a pot of coffee on the side table. “He blew his stack, launched at Gentry, starting flailing away at everyone else, and finally got Tasered by one of his own people. The flight attendant is putting amateur stitches in Hunter’s lip, and no one’s explained to me yet how a passenger got his hands on the crew’s defensive weapon!”

  “And Colin?”

  “Holed up in aft storage,” he said, to Taggart’s obvious disapproval. “Don’t worry, Leo. It’s plenty big enough. The important thing is we can keep him safe in a room that’s locked from the outside.”

  “I doubt he’ll remain a repeat customer,” Taggart mused sarcastically for Hammond’s benefit. He waved the photocopied magazine article. “And this is surely all over the networks by now. What a mess.”

  “This whole situation has spun into a nightmare, as if it wasn’t bad enough left alone. You know some dork even cooked up a smartphone app to predict where it’ll crash?”

  “Would that be the plane, or the company stock?” Taggart asked, though he was mostly concerned about the latter.

  PART THREE

  Descent

  49

  ISS

  Poole swam into the control module and bounded off a wall towards the ATV console. “Report,” he said tersely. It was a habit left over from his submariner days, but the tone didn’t often sit well with his crewmates.

  Max was still at the console with his feet in stirrups. He didn’t take his eyes off the telemetry except for an occasional glance at the view from the tug’s docking camera. “Range thirty-two kilometers, Z plus one-point-five and descending. Retro burn in twenty seconds.”

  He looked back at the plotting display—their ATV was coming up on the Clipper, and both would converge on the station after another couple of cycles around Earth. The tug’s camera should be able to get a visual on it soon, though at this range the plane would only be a glint of light in the darkness.

  “And Toulouse?”

  “Still under positive control.”

  Which was exactly what Poole expected, of course. He was more worried about those greenhorns out on that spaceliner. They’d only get one chance at this.

  …

  Denver

  Penny was engrossed by the same display that consumed Poole’s attention two hundred miles above, fixed on the ship’s increasingly close proximity. Separation was less than twenty miles and closing rapidly. That seemed like a lot, but their slow-motion mating dance could be dangerously deceptive. Hard experience had taught her that things tended to happen fast up there.

  “Charlie, what’s the ATV’s status?”

  He checked his display of ongoing message exchanges with France. “Just finished their final approach burn. Alignment’s right down the middle...I think. You know this way better than I do.”

  She leaned over his shoulder for a better look. “Nope, you’re right. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  Charlie quickly glanced down at her knee. “Speak for yourself,” he said.

  Her habitual foot-tapping had turned into a full leg tremor during this long wait. She slapped herself across the knee with a decidedly un-ladylike curse. “Sorry.” She leaned into her console and thumbed the microphone switch. “501, Denver. We show the ATV on your six at seventeen clicks, closing at three and decelerating. Need a status check, over.”

  A brief silence, then: “Denver, we’re go up here. Riders are all strapped in, RCS system is up, number two exhaust nozzle is on manual operation and working.”

  “Copy that, guys. You should be seeing that tug soon.”

  “Keeping our eyes open for traffic,” she heard Tom answer. “Doubt the TCAS works very well up here.”

  She chuckled at the inside joke—the Traffic Collision Avoidance System was designed to warn pilots of other planes that might be getting too close for comfort. It was of little use up there.

  “Sounds like they’re not wound up too tight, at least,” Grant said.

  Penny thought for a moment, and realized her oversight. “He’s got a point,” she frowned. “They have transponders on those ATVs, as I recall. Frequencies may be compatible.”

  Grant shared her surprise. “And how’d we miss that o
ne?”

  “Not like we haven’t been burning both ends of the candle lately.”

  Without missing a beat, he was already calling up their link to NASA. “Houston, Polaris Control. By chance you folks have a list of transponder freqs for that thing?”

  …

  Austral Clipper

  Both pilots looked down at their message screens when the alert chimed:

  ATTN 501... WATCH YOUR TCAS. ATV X-PONDER SQUAWKING ON VHF 108.5.

  “Glad to see somebody’s still looking out for us,” Tom observed dryly.

  “I’d say this whole production is evidence of that,” Ryan said. He looked down at the circular display as the tug’s transponder activated. The ATV showed up as a diamond superimposed over the display’s concentric distance rings; it was inside twelve miles now. “There she blows, right on our six.”

  “I’d still feel better about this if we could see the thing first,” Tom grumbled. “I don’t like being snuck up on.”

  “At least this way we’ll see when we’re about to get rear-ended.”

  “So we’ve got that going for us…usually you never know its coming.”

  …

  Houston

  Audrey Wilkes paced behind her console and sipped from her ever-present water bottle. There was little any of them could do right now except watch the feed from France. Everyone was focused on the main screen, trying to tease detail from the video. There wasn’t much to see yet—a fuzzy picture of white crosshairs superimposed over the blackness; Earth’s limb cut a blue semicircle along one corner of the screen.

  Her assistant Flight was on the loop with ESA and relaying information. “Twelve clicks, closing at two. No residuals from that last burn.”

  “We should have them in sight pretty soon, then. Where are they?”

  Answering her question, a glimmering point of light soon appeared near the center of the crosshairs. It pulsed slowly, which was exactly what they expected to see from something leisurely tumbling through space.

  “Tally ho,” she said, and nodded to her assistant. “Let Penny’s gang know it’s time to straighten that thing up.”

  “Roger that,” he said, and switched over to the secure loop they’d hastily arranged with Polaris. “Denver control, this is Houston. We have visual tally on your bird, range twelve kilometers. Have them begin station-keeping.”

  …

  Austral Clipper

  The message chime flashed again on the glare shield as Penny’s voice broke through the radio static. “501, Denver; over.”

  Tom reached up to press the headset to his ear. “Go ahead Penny.”

  “Houston has visual on you, begin station-keeping maneuvers. Straighten up and fly right.”

  Ryan answered. “We’re just waiting around on our ride up here. TCAS shows the tug at one-zero nautical miles, appears to be getting a lot slower.”

  Penny picked up on his concern. “Our feed shows closing at 500 meters per minute, ten-point-eight kilometers to go. I’ll relay closing delta to you in meters from here on.”

  “That would be nice, Denver. Appreciate the backup.”

  “Any time, boys. We have you on their visual, too. Looking pretty up there.”

  “I’m sure we do. Want to trade places?” Tom asked.

  “Negative, 501. Just show me that pilot stuff.”

  “Copy that.” He was too tired and too absorbed with the task at hand to come up with a witty rejoinder. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

  Ryan looked at him with concern. “You okay?”

  “I’m good,” Tom said. “Just tired. Haven’t been sleeping much up here.” He would have given anything for a warm bed to lie in at that moment. They’d both discovered it was remarkably easy to fall asleep in zero-g, but staying asleep had been the hard part.

  “Me neither. After that thing grabs us, I’ll take the next watch. You get some shuteye.”

  “Good idea,” Tom said. The tug would take nearly a full day to gradually shift their orbit to match that of the space station, during which time they’d have little to do. “Do me a favor and keep an eye on things for a minute? I need to clear my head.”

  He took the controls. “Sure thing, skipper.”

  Tom took a deep breath, closed his eyes in silent prayer, and felt something gently tickle his scalp. Rubbing the spot, he felt a slight breeze across his hand. He reached for the air vent above his seat, but it was already twisted shut…which made sense, as that was how he remembered leaving it. He could see Ryan’s vent was closed as well. Scanning the overhead panels, he focused on the emergency escape hatch and could swear he heard a barely audible hiss.

  50

  Denver

  “Sabotage?” the quality control manager stammered in disbelief. “For what purpose? Who would do something like that?”

  Hammond was reclined on his office sofa, appearing comfortable on the outside but in reality he was approaching exhaustion. He turned to the security commander.

  “Tony?”

  Antoine Posey leaned forward in his chair and studiously clasped his hands. Short but muscular, he was measured in every word and action, typical of Special Forces veterans.

  “Most likely it would be someone with a grudge against the company. There’s always the possibility that we have a crackpot on our hands, but not likely. Not based on the amount of forethought that had to go into this. From what you’ve told me, Mr. Hammond, this had to be planned well ahead of time.”

  “And they just waited for the right opportunity?” Hammond asked, completing the thought.

  “Assuming it was an individual actor—yes, I believe so, sir. Someone with deep technical knowledge, plus motive and opportunity. But it would help if we knew exactly which components were tampered with.”

  Doug Davis, the QC manager, was still almost too stunned to speak. But he couldn’t deny the logic - this was an unimaginable situation. It couldn’t have happened just by accident…could it? He lifted a tablet from his briefcase and pulled up Austral Clipper’s history. “I can venture a few guesses, Mr. Hammond.”

  “Art, please. Both of you. We’re going to be working very closely until we get to the bottom of this, gentlemen.”

  “Of course, sir…um, Art. There’s a possibility this was a hard fault, some critical-path component that just rolled over and died.”

  “But you don’t believe that,” Hammond interjected. He’d already looked at that himself, but needed to hear it from an objective source. And he purposefully hadn’t shared the troubling information he’d received from Will Gardner about the nasty surprise he’d found in the Block II model. It was better for these men to reach their own conclusions first.

  Davis paused as he thought through the implications. “No, I don’t,” he finally sighed. “Too many redundant systems involved. If the propellant valve solenoids failed, for example, they should’ve been able to shut off the oxidizer feeds. But they couldn’t, as you pointed out.”

  “Now you know why I brought you guys up here,” Hammond said. “Shuttles were the same way, on purpose. Complex as hell, but it was really just a lot of fancy plumbing.”

  Davis couldn’t escape the logic. As he mentally worked his way through the probable causes, sabotage made more sense. “I see your point. Just off the top of my head, there should’ve been two or three ways to shut those motors down. It’s not rocket science.”

  Hammond smiled at the unintentional pun. “I’m thinking somebody was monkeying around with the FADEC module.”

  “FADEC?” asked Posey. “Sorry, but I’m going to need a dictionary to keep up with this. Remember, I’m just the security guy.”

  “Fair enough,” Hammond said. “It means Full-Authority Digital Engine Control. It keeps the pilots from having to fine-tune too many different systems to optimize power. They push a lever or punch in the desired power setting, and the computers do the rest. It’s been the best way to manage big jet engines for a long time; but this combined-cycle rocket is a whole
new breed of cat. It’s a real juggling act.”

  “So computer-controlled throttles are even more important on these things?”

  “Absolutely,” the QC man answered for Hammond. “Pilots have a tough time hand-flying these birds when they fail.”

  That caught Posey’s attention. “You said ‘when’ they fail? So that’s common?”

  “More than we’d like,” Hammond said, looking to Davis. “What’s the failure rate on those logic boards?”

  “I don’t even have to dig up the stats for that one,” he grumbled, holding up the electronic records. “We’re looking at one in twelve just this year.”

  “I take it that’s high,” Posey said.

  “Oh yeah,” Davis replied. “For a system like this, it’s unacceptable. Sorry Mr. Hammond,” he said, then corrected himself. “Art.”

  Hammond shrugged it off. “Don’t blame me; I wasn’t the dumbass who designed it. We didn’t build those control boards, son.”

  Posey removed a notepad from his suit pocket. “Who did?”

  51

  Austral Clipper

  “Two kilometers, closing at three,” Penny’s steady voice filled their headsets as they waited for contact.

  “Looks about right,” Ryan said, eyeballing the TCAS. “Watch your pitch inputs, something this long will tumble away from you easy.”

  Gentry delicately worked the controls with his fingertips. “I’m still worried about translation,” he said. “Makes me nervous any time we have to jury-rig systems.” On Penny’s advice, they had re-configured the pitch control jets on each end of the ship to fire simultaneously in either direction. Instead of working in opposition to pitch the nose up or down, they would now be able to push the ship forward and backward. They’d need it to keep contact with the tug.

  “The old man sure didn’t have this in mind, did he?” Ryan said. “I’ll check the breakers again if it’ll make you feel better.”