Perigee

by Patrick Chiles

  “Drag from the ATV?”

  “Yep,” she said. “It’s going to be close now. Dispatch is looking at locations in British Columbia, maybe even Seattle.”

  “That’ll be a sight,” Grant said caustically. “Assuming they still have control. Better light up Anchorage center. Let’s clear the roads.”

  …

  Austral Clipper

  Familiar pink and yellow tendrils danced across the windshield as atmosphere and gravity asserted themselves once again. The Clipper was buffeted by the rapidly-building slipstream of plasma; Ryan thought he could feel a roughness through the pitch sensors from what were surely destroyed controls in back. They were now fully enveloped in a sheet of glowing plasma and ionized air, cut off from anyone on the ground.

  “It’s actually quite captivating,” Wade observed. “But then I look at the temperature gauges.”

  “Sometimes it’s best to just not think about that stuff,” Ryan said as checked the system diagnostics. “Skin’s getting hot back around the body flaps and elevons,” he said. “Number two—right side—is trashed.”

  He dared to lightly manipulate the controls just enough to get a sense of their effectiveness. “Mushy…she’s trying to roll into the bad side,” he said. The autopilot was compensating by commanding the ship to roll away from the area of disrupted lift in an effort to keep the plane level.

  “Don’t get too pushy, man. Let the computers do the work for now.”

  Frustrated, he lightened his grip and trimmed the autopilot to ignore at least some of the rolling moment. Wade was right, of course. “I’m getting worried about those landing gear doors, too,” Ryan said. “The wells are really heating up.”

  “We’re just along for the ride now, aren’t we?”

  “Afraid so. Here’s to good luck and providence.”

  Ryan couldn’t see a thing through the fiery air outside, and the plane shook more as a low rumble began to surround them. He looked up to the hasty silicon patch job they’d done around the emergency hatch. They’d been most concerned about that, but he now wondered if it was the least of their worries.

  At least it’ll be quick if that thing gives out.

  83

  Denver

  “They’re in blackout, Charlie.”

  “Peak heating?” he asked.

  “Checking,” she said, holding him off. “Eighteen hundred C was the last we saw before blackout. Project they’ll exceed our max prediction by two hundred degrees.” They believed it could likely handle worse loads, but hadn’t wanted to try. “Wheel well temperatures were climbing at a pretty fast clip right before blackout,” she reported gravely.

  “Bring up the IR feed from Houston, please,” Grant said to one of the dispatchers.

  One corner of the wall screen was soon filled with a grainy black-and-white image from a NASA camera tracking Austral Clipper as it began re-entry. It was faintly outlined, turning light and shining white in those sections experiencing the worst heating. The broad nose and clipped wings were bright white, as expected, but a ragged trace also showed across the tail.

  “Those are the elevon seals,” Frank Kirby said. The landing gear doors were perceptibly brightening as well. Were they just too far outside tolerance, left over from closing up after their launch from Denver last week? Just a quarter-inch hanging out in the hypersonic slipstream would do it, after all.

  “Slow down the video,” Penny barked. She stared intently at the wing extensions, searching for any hot spots forming along their leading edges.

  “Torching?” Hammond asked, realizing what she sought had also been the first indication of trouble in the gruesome Columbia re-entry crash years ago. Superheated gas entering through a crack in the wing leading edge had acted like a plasma torch, cutting through the wing structure and blazing into a landing gear well. They had watched the heating sensors trip in Houston, but no one connected the dots in time. By then it wouldn’t have made any difference, anyway.

  Penny closed her eyes, hoping for the best. “We’ll just have to wait and see,” she finally sighed. Then and now, their fate was sealed regardless.

  …

  Houston

  Audrey was looking at the same thing on their monitors. Though she didn’t know the Clippers well, isolated hot spots were to be assiduously avoided as a general rule. She reached behind her desk for the outside phone and punched the speed-dial for Denver.

  “Go ahead Houston,” Penny answered tersely.

  “What do you think they lost up there?”

  “Crew reported failures in the starboard elevon servos, right after temperature sensors failed in the same location. That simultaneously occurred when actuators failed on the number two nozzle vanes.”

  “How much control authority will they lose?” she asked, not venturing a guess as to what other damage might occur from the rapidly-building heat.

  “The inboard controls are primary during high-speed flight. They’ll have to use the outboards, so it’ll limit turn radius and pitch authority until they get down to about 300 knots.”

  “If nothing else melts off,” Audrey said, finishing the thought. She shot a cautious glance at the infrared video, looking for more concentrated heating. “I wouldn’t count on that center body flap either.”

  “Agreed,” she said. “It’s a good bet that seal was damaged as well, or trailing debris from those vanes are causing hot spots,” she paused. “But I’m getting worried about the main gear doors, Aud. Crew reported increased roll inputs from the autopilot just before blackout.”

  She closed her eyes. God, no. Not again. Just as her friend was doing in Denver, Audrey intently studied the IR image for any sign of uneven heating along the leading edges. If gases were torching inside of that plane, it would all be over with soon enough.

  “Okay Penny. We’ll keep an eye on it here too,” was all she could offer. “How’s your tracking, FIDO?”

  He was pulling double duty, monitoring both the space station and their ad-hoc re-entry vehicle. “Got ‘em, Flight,” he said, pointing at the wall screen. “Predicted position’s correct. They’re over the North Pacific, passing one-fifty West. Should be out of blackout in another minute.”

  84

  Denver

  “501, Denver; over.” Penny called. The frequency had been silent for nearly three minutes. “501, Denver; please respond.”

  “Houston’s FIDO expects them out of blackout soon,” Grant said.

  Penny repeated her calls to the plane. Frank Kirby kept rewinding the infrared video from Houston, trying to tease out any warning signs from the grainy images.

  Just then, there was crackle of static just as their screens came alive with fresh telemetry.

  “Denver, 501. We’re taking the exit ramp at two hundred thousand feet. I’m at Mach twelve and my hair’s on fire. How copy?”

  The center erupted in cheers and controllers leapt from their seats. Apparently everyone was listening instead of paying attention to their own flights, but Hammond let it slide. “Settle down,” he said. “We’re not there yet. Charlie, how’s trajectory?”

  He held a hand up. “Checking now, hold on.”

  “That was a wild ride,” Ryan’s voice broke in. “But I think we’ll be a little short. Aerodynamic controls are real mushy, too.”

  “He’s right,” Penny answered. “We can forget Edwards. Moses Lake isn’t going to work either.”

  “Options?”

  “Vancouver, Canada,” Grant offered. “Otherwise Juneau or Sitka.”

  “Not good places to dead-stick a landing,” Kirby advised them. Both were surrounded by mountains with notoriously difficult approaches to short runways. “And the long runway’s closed at Vancouver. How’s Seattle?” he asked.

  “They can make that,” Grant said. “Runway 16-Left is almost twelve thousand feet.”

  “That’s it then,” Hammond decided. “Penny, advise them to plan on landing at SEA.”

  …

  Austral Clipp
er

  “Understand Seattle,” Wade replied to the direction from Denver. “You catch that, Ryan?”

  “Sure did,” he said as they flew a wide S-turn along the Alaskan panhandle, slowly bleeding off speed. Sonic booms echoed across the mountainous coastline below them. “But it’s wishful thinking.”

  “Did I say you’re always full of good news?”

  “Just calling it like I see it. That ATV tore the hell out of our back end, and the exposed surfaces melted for sure. I’ve got zip for roll authority except the outboard spoilers…she keeps trying to turn into the damaged side,” he grunted, correcting against a sudden roll. “And look at those main wheel temps,” he said, pointing to a display just above the gear handle. “We blew the fuse plugs somewhere back there when the gear wells heated up.”

  “Great,” Wade said. “So no landing gear?”

  “Nope, but there’s a lot of ocean down there,” Ryan said, peering down at the coastline slipping by beneath them. “Put your water wings on.”

  85

  Denver

  “They’re ditching, Arthur. Ryan confirmed the fuse plugs blew inside the wells.” Like any other aircraft, the wheels contained inserts that would melt away to release pressure before an overheated tire could explode.

  “Figured as much,” he said. “They’re lucky it didn’t tear the doors off at those pressures.”

  “Trajectory still points to the Seattle area,” Penny said. “I really don’t see what else they can do. Extending west toward the ocean is a bad move. Rough seas. He’s thinking of ditching it in the straits between Victoria and Oak Harbor.”

  “Oh brother,” Kirby sighed. “This is going to be a real show.”

  “Can’t blame him, Frank,” she replied. “I’d do the same thing—lots of open water with tiny little waves.”

  “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” they suddenly heard over the emergency frequency.

  …

  A shrill alarm sounded as another red light flashed on the caution panel.

  “What was that?”

  “Fire warning!” Ryan shouted, and reached for his suit umbilical. He tore it from the socket and shut off the master oxygen feed. “Get your suit on internal O2!”

  Wade suspected it came from the melted control surfaces in back and nervously looked around for any signs of smoke. “We’re clean up here. Is that what I think it is?”

  “Probably the flap seals. Looks like we’re on fire back there.”

  “I suddenly feel a lot better about setting this down in water.”

  …

  Thin cirrus clouds spread high above the coastal mountains of British Columbia and Washington. Between them, the immense Strait of Juan de Fuca glimmered calmly in the afternoon sun, dotted with container ships steaming up and down the seaway.

  A sharp boom-boom ruptured the tranquil vista, rumbling across the water as a dark, delta-winged shape suddenly burst from the overcast. It began a snaking turn, trailing smoke as it approached the water, finally swooping around in a broad arc to head west, back up the strait and into the wind.

  “Maybe we should’ve called the harbormaster?” Wade said nervously as Ryan kept the steadily growing bay centered in the windshield. He was concerned about the line of ships ahead as they grew bigger by the second.

  “We’re subsonic. Throw out the canards,” Ryan said, hoping those wings hadn’t somehow melted into the nose.

  Wade hesitated, searching the unfamiliar panel for the right control.

  “There,” Ryan said, hurriedly pointing at a white paddle. Wade thumbed it upward, and the two small wings unfolded from their slots. “There we go,” he said, feeling the extra lift. He gently pushed down as the nose pitched up in response to the air slipping across them.

  “I’ll need altitude and speed callouts from here on. Give me altitude in tens once we get below a hundred feet.”

  The Olympic Mountains slipped past on their left. Silent and imposing, they were now well below its mist-shrouded peaks. The water seemed to reach out for them as they glided steadily downward, Ryan easing the nose back to bleed off airspeed. He wanted to be as slow as possible without dropping out the sky entirely. Water could appear deceptively forgiving, but at over one hundred fifty knots it would only be slightly more resilient than dirt.

  “Okay, I’ve done this before, at least,” Wade said as he pressed his face against the side window, gauging the seas. “Winds north-northwest, seas look to be about three feet,” he guessed. “Not bad.”

  “We’ll see,” Ryan said tensely. “Got to hit this just right.”

  “Has this ever actually worked?” Wade asked, again looking over his shoulder for any telltale wisps of smoke.

  “Not something they ever got around to in flight test,” he said quickly. “You’ll just have to rely on my superior piloting skills.”

  “Quit trying to impress me with your rapier wit,” Wade replied nervously. The waves were close now. “Just don’t drown us.”

  The spaceplane whistled as it sliced through the air, approaching the water below as slowly as they dared without stalling into a crash. The wind slipping across its broad lifting-body surface was the only sound.

  Lumbering, ocean-going ships began turning away. Ryan gently tweaked the yoke and rudders, making small adjustments to align them with the swells and avoid the big container vessels. Wade was amused by one cruise ship, its decks crowded with retirees headed for Alaska excitedly gesturing at what must have been a remarkable sight.

  “We’re putting on a real show,” he said. “Sixty feet, one-forty knots. Thirty feet…twenty.” They were dropping fast now.

  Before he could make the next callout, a wave caught their tail just aft of the inlet ramps. The sudden drag caught Ryan by surprise, and he fought the urge to overcorrect. Hold it steady, he told himself. Just pick a point and aim straight for it.

  Hopping over another swell, the big inlet ramps sliced into the water again and pulled against the Clipper as if they’d opened a drag chute, its blunt nose finally settling down into the water with a soggy smack. The sudden stop threw both men hard against their straps.

  They sat there in silent disbelief, waiting for the sea to come rushing in any minute from some unknown crack in the hull. They both stared cautiously at the emergency escape hatch above their heads as the nose occasionally dipped beneath a swell.

  But the water never came. The plane bobbed serenely…absurdly, he thought, as if it were perfectly natural for a spaceplane to be floating among cruise liners and cargo ships.

  They erupted in shouts and laughter, punching each other hard on the arms. They rushed to unlock their helmets and cavalierly tossed them to the deck behind.

  “Splashdown!” Ryan exclaimed. “Denver, this is 501, how copy?”

  …

  Penny’s voice sounded a full octave higher in her excitement. “We see you, Ryan. You guys were all over the news down here, we watched the whole thing. How’s she holding up?”

  They rocked gently atop the waves, and could hear water lapping at the hull just beyond the windshield. The fire alarm had blessedly silenced itself; maybe the water had solved their problem.

  “We’re not taking on water, if that’s what you mean,” he answered. “We’re going to open the emergency egress, though. Some fresh air would be nice right now.”

  “Go right ahead, gents. Looks like a nice day out there.”

  Grabbing the crash axe, Ryan reached for the emergency hatch and began chipping away at the repair caulk they had borrowed from the space station. It had been the most likely source of the leak that killed Tom, and could have done the same to them in even worse fashion had it breached during re-entry.

  “Aw, screw it,” he said, tiring of the manual labor: “fire in the hole!” He yanked hard on a recessed yellow handle, and the hatch went sailing into the air with a bang. Cool air wafted in, laden with the scent of seawater. Through the opening they could hear the blasts of ship’s horns hailing them and a thrum of he
licopters overhead.

  Ryan helped Wade up through the small opening, then clambered out of the hatch and waved at the approaching flotilla as a Coast Guard launch swept ahead. They each unzipped their pressure suits and lay atop the Clipper as it bobbed along gentle waves. Clouds of steam billowed up from the rear of the plane.

  “Now what?” Wade asked, taking a deep breath.

  “Enjoy the view,” Ryan said, as the roar of an approaching helicopter grew louder. He stood tiredly, waving the orange garment over his head. “Any ditching you can swim away from is a good one.”

  EPILOGUE

  Denver, Colorado

  January

  Audrey Wilkes turned over the brand new Polaris ID badge in her hand, and contemplated the events that had brought her here. Waiting for her escort to arrive, she sat on a plush sofa in the reception area and pulled the collar of a new winter jacket close about her neck. The unfamiliar chill was hard to shake off. It’s what, seventy in Houston today?

  Before long, Arthur Hammond emerged. He appeared just as she’d seen him on the news: stocky but powerful, with a shock of hair and a meticulously knotted tie. “Audrey Wilkes…welcome aboard!” he said happily, and cast an amused stare at her wardrobe.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Always enjoy seeing you crackers acclimate to the weather out here,” he laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s Colorado—it’ll probably be in the eighties next week.”

  “Just glad to be here and gainfully employed,” she said, gathering up her purse and laptop bag. “Where to first?” she asked. “New-hire brainwashing…I mean, orientation?”

  “Not quite,” he said. “We’ll get to that later. We’ve got some business first. I talked you up to some people so you’d better behave yourself. They think you’re some kind of genius rocket scientist.”

  “I prefer to stay anonymous and therefore exceed everyone’s low expectations,” she quipped.