by David Palmer
Glanced at complicated watch on EMU's wrist: Three and quarter hours remained before bomb commenced descent, according to countdown timer. My PLSS standard issue; good for seven hours with full-sized astronaut; hard to say how much own lesser consumption might affect duration.
(Likewise hard to say how long descent will take. Totally dependent upon how much straight-down acceleration incorporated in reentry program. If employs descent profile called for upon detection of approaching missiles, should be on ground roughly two hours after deorbit burn. But couldn't know that. And if exceeds four, five hours, won't matter much. Certainly not to me.)
Did best to ignore urgency, surroundings, scenery; focused on job at hand: Moved deliberately along hull's upper rim, at cargo-bay door hinge, paralleling huge extra fuel tank. Paused at rear end of bay. Gathered equipment into bundle with additional wire loop; secured to belt in front on both sides.
Then backed into first MMU, shrugged between armrests, secured latches. Closed EMU glove around right-hand control handle. Ignored inner conviction that long fall awaited. Took deep breath, let go left hand; placed on control handle.
Now. Bomb six miles ahead. Distance sufficient to involve orbital mechanics.
Sure wished Harris alive; navigation during "quick hop" across to bomb amongst his mission specialties.
Not mine.
Knew theory, of course: Drop into lower, faster orbit, circularize; reverse procedure upon arriving in bomb's vicinity. Did it bunches of times on boys' home-grown video game on way out.
But fundamental difference exists between understanding theoretical principle on intellectual level and believing it at core of tightly knotted stomach. Performing operation with computer terminal push buttons, watching results on CRT, does not prepare one for hanging in real space, lining up real thrust axis, then really accelerating out into limitless void on course leading, obviously, away from destination.
Every instinct shrieked "Madness!" Took every ounce of willpower to force hands to operate controls.
MMUs powered by compressed nitrogen; charge sufficient to impart roughly 66-feet-per-second total velocity change to normal-sized astronaut before poohing out. That translates to accelerating to about 45 miles an hour. Once. Or boosting to 22 miles an hour, then stopping. Also once. Own mass slightly more than one-third that of normal astronaut. However, extra gear probably more than made up difference.
Aligned thrust axis with right hand, applied power with left. Drifted toward rear, between wing, vertical stabilizer.
Looked around as cleared ship's stern. And froze, transfixed. Not even mortal anxiety over impending intraorbital transit, consequences of failure, could prevent first unimpaired sight of Earth, heavens, from filling spirit with awe, joy, reverence. Much of planet dark from this perspective; but suddenly realized was at imminent risk of going blind again due to thickening lens of tears forming over eyes—with no means of wiping them away inside EMU.
Which reminded me: Not out there to enjoy sights—life of every hominem on pearlescent bowling ball dependent on me. Had no business wasting time rubbernecking; had work to do.
Blinked eyes furiously; shook head to clear vision. Twisted MMU's tail.
Consumed about half fuel load during initial retrosquirt. Then coasted five minutes, watching Hale slowly dwindle. Inexpressibly relieved to note gradual shift in apparent attitude: Had left shuttle's RCS attitude control on automatic; apparently really was dropping into faster orbit.
Reversed thrust at end of five minutes; used up balance of fuel on circularization (I hoped!) maneuver. Released MMU, pushed gently away. Untangled second from bundle, latched into place, rested hands on controls.
Then waited.
Waited while Hale's aspect changed from distant rear view to more distant belly view to even more distant nose view, steadily foreshortening in ever more remote distance.
Tried to estimate speed from changing relationship between self, shuttle; couldn't. So played with numbers in head: If relative velocity 15 miles per hour faster than shuttle/bomb train overhead, could expect to cover distance in something like 15-20 minutes. Wished had had better idea how far below original orbit was riding, but couldn't tell that either. Estimating astronomical distances freehand slippery business.
Meanwhile, scanned heavens intently for dark spot that would indicate bomb's location. Could still make out Hale well enough to use as pointer; knew where target supposed to be—but couldn't find it.
Tried binoculars without success: Eyepieces' distance from eyes hindrance but not major problem; merely reduced field of view; worked fine otherwise.
But couldn't identify bomb.
Then had inspiration: Looked back at Hale; tried to get handle on distance by comparing relative size of shuttle with bomb as seen through binoculars from shuttle.
By that yardstick, seemed should be closing in on target. Decided had no choice but to act on assumption; add back delta-V, see if Gods Smiled.
About to implement when struck by doubt: Total package now massed less by one MMU. Wondered what effect reduction might have on response to thrust. Then realized would have opportunity to compensate with circularization shot, assuming bomb somewhere in vicinity. Deferred worry until then.
Looked back at Hale through binoculars, lined up thrust axis with direction of travel, consumed half fuel reserve in replacing delta-V.
Then waited again, looking desperately where bomb ought to be. And still wasn't.
Getting really, no-foolin' worried by this time. Orbital juggling performed as Harris taught me; bomb should have been in sight.
Waited another five minutes; circularized orbit again, using all but last whiff of nitrogen. Then looked around with earnestness not unmixed with, distinct from, panic . . . .
And there it was (I'll be damned!) no more than couple hundred yards away!
Resumed breathing.
And, in retrospect, diagnosed problem: Vehicle dead black, nonreflective; visible only through occultation under best of conditions. Spot over which hung on Earth's equator approaching sunrise line; bomb almost between me, Sol; background glare obscured.
Then took first good look at bomb: huge thing—carbon copy of Hale; lacked only cockpit, cargo bay doors, etc. But where shuttle essentially friendly looking, bomb not (visceral reaction; don't ask why). Harris correct: ominous-looking beast. Hung in void looking like modern Charon's ferry.
Used up last puff of nitrogen from current MMU; kicked loose, mounted third. Lined up thrust axis on bomb, used five percent of remaining reaction mass accelerating. Two-mile-per-hour approach speed ample: Still two and a half hours to bomb's departure; no point losing head, rushing. Would feel foolish during final seconds if, when so close to success, lost head, hurried; built up too much speed, split helmet on hull.
Braked to relative stop only yards from nose. Then realized hadn't faintest idea where on monster access hatch actually located—training involved only cutaway sectional mock-up; drawings studied encompassed only specifics of own job. Engineering logic suggested had to be somewhere near bow, of course. Just matter of jetting around, finding it.
But now learned how limited MMU skills really were. Operation heretofore limited to straight-line thrusting; examining bomb carrier involved full range of maneuvering operations: yaw, pitch, twist, start, stop—and damned thing insisted on doing what I told it to do instead of what I wanted it to do. Frustrating in extreme.
Finally managed to stabilize self. Checked MMU status: about 50 percent gone; mostly wasted curing pilot-induced tumbling. Transferred to final MMU, left equipment bundle parked against what would be belly on Hale; set out to reconnoiter solo—maneuvering much more easily.
Drifted gently back along starboard side to wing's leading edge without encountering hatch. Checked motion; moved toward topsides, headed back toward nose. Still nothing.
Eventually found hatch almost exactly where Hale's crew hatch located: short distance up from belly, back from nose on portside.
Studied locking mechanism. Appeared similar to that on drawings, mock-up. Operation proved identical.
But not easiest gismo to operate under weightless conditions: Breathing pretty hard, faceplate partially fogged, by time got it open.
Parked MMU; secured with wire tie to latch handle. Drew self, equipment in through opening. Switched on flashlight.
Looking around produced sense of déjà vu: What could see of interior corresponded perfectly to training aids.
Headed for inner shell access hatch. Wriggled amongst, between structural pieces without difficulty (one aspect of task made easier by zero gee). Located, unlatched, swung open.
Wedged toolbox in convenient angle between trusses adjacent to hatch. Unstrapped PLSS from back, squirmed through 9-by-14-inch opening, trailing life-support lines.
Drew PLSS close to hatch; pulled entire coil of life-support lines through with me. Reached back, retrieved toolbox.
Maneuvered through complex of structural members to detonator, carefully paying out lines en route, watching for, avoiding, tendency to kink.
Studied exterior components; verified everything as represented on drawings, mock-up. Opened toolbox, set to work.
Actual warhead defusing anticlimactic. After week of intensive training amidst ever-mounting tension, operation proved simplicity itself: Snipped wires in correct order, undid four bolts, removed one plate; planted feet on bulkhead on either side of detonator, gripped shaft firmly; triggered hysterical strength, pulled, twisted, pulled again. Ta-dah.
Retained grip as shaft slid free; preferred not having 150 pounds of high-explosive bouncing around inside closed compartment with me.
Hour and half remained before deorbit burn.
Returned to hatch, carefully gathering life-support lines as retraced route amongst structural members. Brought toolbox, detonator shaft.
Squeezed back through hatch, resecured. Remounted PLSS on EMU back; coiled lines neatly, resecured to belt.
First act upon returning to outer hatch: Pitched detonator shaft into space. Hard.
Then reeled in MMU; snuggled between armrests, closed latches. With briefcase terminals tied to belt in front, set off for electrical umbilicus hatch, some 15 feet forward.
Prevailed upon MMU to halt inches away after brief, seesaw discussion. Got hatch open without difficulty. Scrutinized multiple-prong socket, identified computer port.
Unshipped briefcase, opened (keyboard in one half, LCD display in other). Unfolded solar-cell array, positioned in direct sunlight. Deployed extension arms; snapped into appropriate EMU belt/shoulder fastenings to hold terminal in proper waist-level typing position.
Flipped main switch to on; waited while baby mainframe disk spun up to operating speed, read/write head deployed. Queried system as to state of health, spirits; received affirmative reply (bulky EMU gloves no advantage on standard keyboard).
Unwound coaxial cable from pouch at belt; inserted plug firmly into port, wiggled. Felt click as seated even through gloves. Plugged other end into terminal.
Offered cheery "good morning" to IVN. (no kidding; acronym derived from actual Russian name [three guesses how pronounced]); waited, holding breath.
And waited.
(Not complaining about delay, mind you; understood IVN pretty busy with deorbit countdown, sundry prereentry chores. Probably didn't have lots of time to spare for small-talk.)
After about two minutes (during which debated wisdom of repeating access demand, but didn't for fear duplicate commands might confuse issue) IVN welcomed me in. Greeted appearance of primary menu with heartfelt relief.
(And unspoken prayer of thanks to Whomever arranged for Khraniteli to incorporate stolen American disk-operating-system virtually intact, retaining logically daisy-chained menus-within-menus-within-menus software format. Child could operate [child thanks You!].)
Selected Ballistika. Waited some more.
Just how much of IVN's capacity tied up in countdown activities increasingly apparent: Took almost four minutes to locate, display submenu. Took another three minutes to pull out Koordinaty Prizemlenia fill-in-blanks programming display.
Thought hard for moment, confirmed Vandenberg's figures in head; plugged in numbers, reached for execute key . . .
Stopped dead—horrified at how close had come to falling into trap.
Have known all along bomb intended for water landing. But to me, "water landing" conjures up images of old Mercury, Gemini, Apollo capsules splashing down in Pacific on parachutes. Assumption settled in quickly, took hold. Not even sight of winged behemoth penetrated hell-bent fixation, set off warning bells.
Obviously this vehicle designed for conventional shuttle-style approach: high-speed glide to flare-out, touchdown. Builders clearly intended vehicle's 120-ton momentum (multiplied by 200-plus-mile-per-hour touchdown velocity), together with new alloy's incredible strength, to add up to can't-miss, unmanned, midocean landing technique—rain or shine: Would punch through storm waves, if necessary, as if not there, deceleration remaining within design limits (at ten gees, after all, takes only one second to stop from Hale's 215-mile-per-hour touchdown speed).
But Vandenberg not ocean. Dry-land Air Force base. Set into, amongst craggy coastal hills. Almost low mountains.
Now, Khraniteli copied almost everything else about NASA shuttles while designing, constructing bomb-carrier; probably copied good stuff from Terminal Area Energy Management system as well: IVN undoubtedly programmed to come in high, hot; feel for ground with radar altimeter; set up approach pattern, glide-slope calculated to touch down on precise point called for in Koordinaty Prizemleniya order blank.
But coordinates in IFR Supplement usually for given airfield's geographic center. Maybe high-speed touchdown (in whatever direction) at 34 degrees 44 minutes north longitude, 120 degrees 35 minutes west latitude, would place me middle of lovely, wide, two-, three-mile-long runway, with lots of room to dissipate speed . . .
Or maybe not—and doubt new material strong enough to withstand dissipating speed in mountainside (or if so, not apt to matter much to me; would be thin red film on forward bulkhead).
Realization came very close to triggering total panic as wondered what else had overlooked. But time growing steadily shorter; watch showed little better than hour remaining before deorbit burn.
Clamped down, blocked out emotions; refused to permit access to transaction. Forced brain to think—constructively; not wordless, nonstop, fearful keening that lurked just beyond fraying edges of control.
Willed mind's eye to recall, display tattered yellowish IFR Supplement. Mentally opened cover, began thumbing through, looking for familiar names, as had last week. Remembered seeing Oshkosh, Colorado Springs, Los Angeles, Chicago . . .
Edwards Air Force Base . . . !
Of course—original shuttle landing site! Perfect: miles and miles of flat, unobstructed desert in every direction . . .
If only could recall coordinates. Hadn't specifically noted at time; would have to reconstruct page from memory of peripheral observation.
Ought to be possible: Always have had good memory; almost eidetic at times. True, occasionally lose names, places, details, appointments, etc.; but only temporarily—have always been able to retrieve when necessary. Just matter of time . . .
Of which didn't have any! frantic little voice shrieked inside head.
Bore down instantly, cut off emotional outburst; focused total attention on completing picture in head. Knew details in there somewhere, had to be; just matter of digging out—dig. . . !
I dug. And suddenly numbers stood out from page. Quickly, before doubts could blur outlines, copied figures into Koordinaty Prizemlenia menu: 34 degrees 54 minutes north longitude, 117 degrees 52 minutes west latitude.
Paused briefly; mentally tried for close-up to confirm. Nothing happened. Apparently best could do.
Okay. Took deep breat
h, stiffened resolve, pushed execute. IVN mulled instructions for endless minutes; finally responded with Peremena Prinyata (change accepted).
MMU operation while returning to hatch appreciably less smooth than on way out: Shaking hands, near emotional collapse, serious impediments to efficient operation.
But final details remained undone before deorbit burn. Among which, closing hatch—never intended to be operated from inside (naturally enough). Cycled exterior latch handle several times, peeking around edge, studying workings of bits, pieces on inside. Functions seemed obvious enough; didn't think getting closed, locked, would pose insurmountable problem. So pulled self in through opening.
Turned back, gave MMU hearty push; likewise with terminals—suspected would have trouble enough without large, heavy, unyielding objects bouncing around interior with me at Moment of Truth.
Swung hatch shut; employed tools (retained toolbox; would need during next several minutes) to secure latch. Then adjourned to preselected passenger area: lateral bulkhead just aft of warhead chamber, as near to hull's central axis as could find suitably flat surface close to struts, braces, trusses.
Brought along cushions, harnesses from Hale's three remaining seats (had to disturb Harris, Kyril, briefly to remove). Cushions consist of several pieces per chair. Combined (sticking together with tape) into full-length, double‑thick mattress; taped firmly to bulkhead between two stiffeners.
Combined various harness, toolbox components to construct semblance of body restraint over top of makeshift acceleration couch; anchored to structural members. Final product unlikely to pass FAA inspection; attachment strength not even close to that inherent in strap material itself. But harness created for limited purpose of keeping me from being dislodged from cushions by intermittent lateral RCS jostling during periods of major gees. If still conscious after reentry, can attempt to reposition self against forward bulkhead before touchdown.
If not . . .
Well, won't have to worry about it then, will I.