There are hundreds of switches and dials before me. I establish a rhythm. My eyes bounce between the guidance system, the altimeter, the orientation of the craft, the fuel level, and velocity. It’s a technological dance, a two-step shuffle that helps me understand where I am and where I’m heading. The notion of racing blindly over the Lunar surface without any of the autonomous tech from my day is terrifying, but I keep my mind focused.
“Thirty thousand feet,” I say, followed by, “Velocity is two thousand feet per second.”
Fast. Too damn fast. At this rate, I’m going to be a black smudge on the open plain.
My breathing is shallow. I remind myself, it’s all about reaching zero at the same time. Zero altitude, zero fall rate, and zero sideways velocity. Once those coincide, I’m down. The danger is in reaching zero at different times, and particularly if that zero is my fuel tank.
“Throttling up,” I say, temporarily taking control from the computer. The antiquated needle within the gauge rises as the thrust increases. My heart threatens to explode out of my chest. You’re too high, Jess. Hold your nerve. Easy. Don’t blow this. Don’t burn through your fuel. Trust the descent program. I’ve got to leave it alone and let it do its thing, but I can’t.
“Landing radar to position two,” I say, trying to distract my nerves. I need to stay on task. “Guidance enabled. Switching radar to low scale.”
“Copy that, Juliet,” is the reply from Mission Control. “We have you coming in high and long. Over.”
“Copy,” I reply.
In the most polite way possible, they’re telling me not to panic. They want me to let this baby drop like a stone and save my fuel. The problem is, I’m starting to see the tip of distant mountains as the LEM pitches over. The jagged edge of craters on the highlands isn’t helping. I feel as though I’m much lower than I am. I’ve got to fly by instruments and not by sight. This was a helluva lot easier in the simulator.
At these speeds and with this unnatural terrain, my eyesight is deceiving. It’s difficult to trust a bunch of gauges that have never actually operated in space. It’s been two hundred and fifty thousand years since anyone’s attempted this. What if there’s a malfunction or a faulty reading? I feel as though I’m betraying myself by watching the instruments instead of looking at the approach out the window.
“Eggs and Pings agree closely,” I say.
AGS, or Eggs as it’s pronounced, is the Abort Guidance System. Pings or PGNS is the Primary Guidance and Navigation System.
Mission Control says, “Altitude’s a little high.”
Yeah. I got that. You’re not helping, I want to say, but I’m quiet. I need to remain focused. I’m fighting my nerves. At first, I thought it was me shaking, but it’s not. Juliet is swaying, rocking from side to side.
“Okay. You don’t see that in the simulator.”
“Say again, Juliet.”
“Ah, I’ve got the horizon low out the window. It’s in motion, rocking back and forth like a seesaw. I think I’ve got fuel sloshing around in the tanks. It’s causing Juliet to sway… Increasing thrust to stabilize the motion… Working with the attitude controls.”
“Copy that,” is the reply. As frustrating as it is, there’s nothing they can say or do to help. Someone down there is madly making a note to install baffles in the fuel tanks for the next flight.
“I’m getting a little fluctuation in the AC voltage,” I say. I’m nervous. The idea of losing electrical power during descent is alarming. If that happens, my controls will die and I’ll plummet to the surface with the grace of an asteroid.
“Roger,” is the reply. Great. Just bloody great. To be fair, what can they do from hundreds of thousands of miles away?
“Looking good to us,” Mission Control says as though they can read my thoughts. “You’re still looking good.”
Against my instincts, I switch back to programmed descent. Damn, I hope the guys down there didn’t miss a decimal point or something else that’ll see me slam into the surface.
“Altitude light is out,” I say, concerned that my landing radar is faulty. “Delta-H is minus 2,900.”
I’m seeing a significant discrepancy between my altitude as picked up by my radar and the Primary Guidance and Navigation System. They should be identical. They were identical just minutes ago. What the hell?
Altitude is a bitch on the Moon. Visibility is deceiving. As craters overlay crater upon crater, it’s difficult to eyeball the altitude. This isn’t like Earth, where cars, buildings, rivers, and trees can all provide a rough estimate of height. A bunch of craters can look roughly the same from a thousand feet as they do from ten thousand feet. A difference of almost three thousand feet in instrument readings is horrifying.
I’d rather all these measurements were in meters, but Victory didn’t want too many changes in the Lunar Module. She wanted to keep it close to that used by the Apollo astronauts to avoid confusion with the manuals they recovered. For her, the landing was too important to tamper with. Unfortunately, that leaves me with two sets of measurements bouncing around within my skull.
“Roger, we copy.”
“I’ve got Earth straight out the front window,” I say, seeing a beautiful blue marble hanging there in the darkness. White clouds swirl across the azure seas. Immediately below the tiny blue marble is a barren, lifeless mountain range rising from the Moon.
“Throttle down,” comes over the radio exactly as the program automatically begins to reduce thrust.
“Throttle down on time,” I say in reply. “Eggs and Pings look real close.”
As Juliet descends lower toward the Moon, the guidance systems and landing radar come into agreement, which is a relief. I need to know I can trust the readings.
“Thirty seconds to P64,” says Mission Control.
“Copy that,” I say, preparing to start program 64 for the final phase of the descent. “Go for landing. 3,000 feet.”
Mission Control confirms my status with, “We are Go.”
Damn. This is it. We’ve passed the last test threshold. From here, it’s the lunar surface or bust.
“I’m at two thousand feet and have an angle of 47 degrees,” I say. I’m looking at a scale etched onto the window, showing me roughly where the guidance computer is bringing me into land.
Seconds later, I say, “35 degrees. 750 feet. Coming down at 26 feet per second.”
To my mind, my vertical velocity is still too damn high. Even with the main engine firing, I’m falling like a stone being tossed off a bridge. At this rate, I’ll crash in a little under 30 seconds, but I remind myself, I’m not in free fall. I’ve got to trust the program running the engine to continue to cushion my motion. It’s programmed for a smooth landing. All zeroes all at once.
My heart is beating in my throat.
“700 down at 21… 600 down at 19… 500 down at 30…”
My fall rate isn’t consistent.
Oh, the curse of nice round numbers. At an altitude of five hundred feet and falling at thirty feet per second, I’m fifteen seconds away from going splat. Breathe, Jess. The engine is firing. Juliet is still bleeding off my momentum.
I can’t stand it any longer. I take manual control. I should trust the computer the whole way in, but I can’t. I increase the thrust.
“400 down at 9,” is a much more sedate descent, although it means I’m rapidly burning through my fuel.
“350 down at 4.”
Mission Control says, “You’re pegged on horizontal velocity.” This is good news as it means I’m able to come straight down without worrying about my sideways motion any more. One of my metrics is at zero. Now all I need to do is get the other two there before I run out of fuel. I’m watching my velocity and altitude like a hawk.
“300 down at 3.”
Flying the Lunar Module is like piloting a brick. The problem with momentum is that change is hampered by inertia. I’m still too high to land. My descent is too damn slow. Three hundred divided by three is a lazy
one hundred seconds until touchdown. Sure, it sounds leisurely, but I’m racing through my fuel at a horrific rate. I’ve slowed too soon.
“Watch your fuel,” comes over the radio. The problem is, I’m watching too many things at once. I’m struggling with which should be given priority—altitude, velocity, fuel, angle of approach. There’s a reason NASA had two people in these flimsy metal boxes.
I peer out the window. I can’t help myself. It’s not that I doubt the landing radar, but that I feel compelled to get visual confirmation. As all systems are in agreement, I know it’s accurate, but I want to be down. I want to have already landed.
“I’ve got a shadow out there,” I say. A dark blob undulates over the rocky ground, moving toward me as I descend.
I ease off the throttle, but I feel frustrated. I can’t reduce my thrust by more than a whisker or the mass of the spacecraft could plummet. Gravity is a bitch. Being this low, it’s a balancing act. I have no margin for error. For better or for worse, I’m committed to dumping fuel into the engine. Now is the time for a gentle touch.
Boulders litter the ground. Some of them are as big as houses, forcing me to drift forward. I need to clear the area.
“250 down at 3 and 19 forward.”
Easy. Just the slightest change seems to translate into large movements.
“100 feet. Down at 3.5.”
I’m looking for somewhere to land, with my eyes bouncing between the instruments and the window.
“Drifting sideways at 10.”
“We have you low on fuel,” Mission Control says. “Standby on Bingo.”
Bingo is the call for an abort. They want me to punch the red button that will initiate separation of the landing legs and an emergency return-to-orbit. The ascent stage is designed for immediate ignition. The prospect of explosive guillotines cutting through the wiring beneath my feet doesn’t exactly thrill me. Given the way the flaring on the Saturn failed to separate, I have my doubts. A partial abort could leave me with an unstable craft low to the surface.
I try not to look at the abort buttons. There are two of them. They’re big and fat and cumbersome. They’re designed for thick gloved fingers stabbing at them in an emergency. Yellow and black stripes surround them, warning of their fiery nature.
The first, marked abort, does exactly what it says on the box. Push that and the computer will switch to P70. The main engine will fire on full thrust to get me back into orbit, but without at least quarter of a tank of fuel, that’s not a viable option.
The other button is marked abort stage. This is the one that’ll leave a stain in my flight diaper. There’s something inherently unsettling about a spacecraft being cut in two while in flight, but there’s plenty of fuel in the ascent stage if needed. The problem is, if anything goes wrong with that complex, automated process, I’m dead.
“70 feet… 60 feet… 50.”
I’m feeling good. I can see the Lunar surface being stirred up by the engines.
“Kicking up dust.”
To my horror, as I look down, trying to see directly beneath Juliet, I spot a huge dark shadow. The windows on the Lunar Module allow me to see in front of the spacecraft. It’s only now I realize I’ve drifted over the edge of a deep crater. The sides are smooth and worn, giving the appearance of flat ground, but the growing shade on the edge of my vision reveals a steep slope. I use the reaction controls to turn and get a better view. Goddamn it! Land on an angle and I might not be able to take off again.
“Coming down over a depression. I need to clear it before setting down.”
“We have you out of fuel,” Mission Control says. “Put her down. Land now.”
I look at the needle on the fuel gauge. It’s flat at the bottom of the tank.
“40 feet,” I say, nudging the vehicle sideways, trying to reach the flat plain beyond the vast crater.
“Juliet, you are Bingo! I say again, Bingo! Bingo!”
I’m too damn low. If I were to conduct a staged abort now, I’d probably crash before everything kicked in.
“Just about there,” I say, seeing the spot I’m aiming for drifting beneath me. “35 feet and down at one.”
Suddenly, there’s silence. I was expecting the engine to cut out slowly and allow me to drift gently to the lunar surface, but it dies in a heartbeat. With no thrust, I’m at the mercy of the Moon’s gravity. I’m too low to abort. If I were to try, I’d crash before separation was complete. The Moon drags me in. I can feel my heart rising in my throat as I accelerate toward the surface.
I hold onto the railing on the side of the cabin as the dusty rocks rush up, slamming into the underside of the Lunar Module. The legs of the craft bend under the impact. Metal crumples. The engine bell strikes a boulder beneath the craft, sending a shudder through the cabin. The module shakes, leaning awkwardly to one side. My boots slide on the floor.
“I’m down. I’m down. Juliet is down,” I say, but there’s no reply.
Contact
I’m exhausted.
Physically, mentally and emotionally, I feel drained.
“Mission Control, this is Juliet at Cognitum Base. Come in. Over.”
There’s no response. I peer out the window at the dusty plain. Earth is high above, barely visible if I lean forward.
“Going slew on the antenna,” I say, manually taking control of the electric motor that determines the direction of the dish. I crane my neck. I can’t see the antenna, but I know roughly where it is on the module and its general orientation. I try to eyeball the alignment and get it pointing back at Earth.
“Mission Control. Cognitum Base. Come in. Over.”
Nothing. I may have to suit up and go outside to figure out the correct angle. I jimmy with the controls, trying to find Earth.
“Mission Control. Cog—”
A familiar voice comes across the radio waves.
“Jess, we thought we’d lost you. We lost contact and feared the worst.”
This is the first time since our launch that Victory has taken to the radio. Like all good leaders, she’s been desperate to trust those under her. She’s left them to do their jobs and guide us to the Moon, but even she couldn’t resist cutting in on the channel.
“I’m down,” I say. “I’ve crashed on the edge of a depression—an ancient crater. Just couldn’t see the damn thing until the last moment.”
The regular CapCom comes back on the radio, taking over from Victory.
“Juliet, Mission Control. We have you down in the Mare Cognitum.”
“Copy that,” I say. “I have come down long on the edge of the Oceanus Procellarum. I could see Copernicus to my north-east as I descended. I think I’m almost fifty miles downrange.”
There’s silence for a few seconds. I know what they’re discussing. My position outside the target ellipse makes this mission a scrub. I’m too far from the nearest alien dome.
Our ability to land on the Moon is severely constrained by our archaic technology. Using a free-return trajectory is good from the perspective that it offers astronauts a lifeline, but it’s lousy for planning. It means there’s only a narrow band near the Moon’s equator that’s accessible to us. As most of the alien structures are in the north, this site was selected as, even if I landed slightly long, I’d be less than a few miles from a dome. Fifty miles, though, might as well be fifty thousand. I don’t think the mission planners considered a lunar rover. They probably don’t even realize such a machine existed in the original Apollo program. Even with a rover, fifty miles is out of range.
“What’s your status, Cognitum?”
“Juliet came down hard. I’ve damaged at least one of the legs. I think the descent engine hit the lunar regolith. Batteries are good. Internal pressure is low. I suspect the impact may have distorted the shape of the module, causing a leak around one of the seals. The craft has come down on a slope and is sitting on an angle of roughly twenty degrees.”
“Copy that. We are receiving telemetry and will review.”
“Copy that.”
My heart sinks. I was expecting at least a lunar EVA, but they’ve given up on this attempt. They’re cutting their losses. Close, but no cigar. Right now, they just want to get their only experienced lunar astronaut back in one piece. Whether I’ll get another shot at this or just pass my learnings along to the next crew is unknown, but I’ve failed. My nerves got the better of me during the descent and I messed with the trajectory.
I turn off my mic and cry. At first, it’s just a sniff and a few tears, but the pressure gets to me. Within a minute, I’m heaving. Tears stream down my cheeks. My nose is running. Thankfully, the LEM doesn’t have broadcast cameras. I wipe my face with a cloth and compose myself. Regardless of what has happened, this is one hell of an accomplishment given the constraints of the age.
I sit on the ascent engine cover and take a good long drink of reconstituted orange juice. Outside, the Moon is strangely serene. It’s still, almost eerie, but there’s a beauty out there I’ve never appreciated before. The colors surprise me. Even though I lived in Tranquility Base for a few months, there’s no sense of déjà vu for me being back on the Moon. In that era, I thought of the lunar surface as battleship grey. Back then, we spent most of our time in lava tunnels researching cosmic rays and high-energy particle physics. On those occasions we did go top-side, it was because we were going to some other research center or were on a specific mission. My role was to monitor the long-term biological exposure experiment. I would examine how biofilms and tissue samples were affected by radiation.
The Sun is so bright, the colors appear washed out. The smooth, distant hills are almost entirely white. It’s as though they’re covered in a light smattering of snow or frost. They’re not, but the illusion is convincing. The dust outside is astonishingly fine. It looks more like flour than anything else. The rocks peppering the surface are harsh and jagged, rising out of the finely ground powder. There are streaks of red in an exposed cliff face near the landing site. It reminds me of the layers of ochre in the Painted Desert back on Earth.
Déjà Vu (First Contact) Page 26