by Chris Keith
More than five thousand people had already congregated on the cliffs of St. Ives to watch the historical event. Some spectators had arrived in the early hours of Sunday morning to snag a prime viewing position. People were camped down on the beach and out to sea was a colony of sailboats, fishing trawlers and speedboats. Boat owners had anchored their machines and were out on deck ready to wave and cheer the Fable-1 team on. On land, fathers attended to their children and mobile vendors tempted tourists with muffins, baps and hot drinks. Meanwhile, police officers in lime yellow jackets watched over the excited masses and everybody was out in good spirits.
Two enormous TV monitors were being fed with live images from cameras scattered about the cliff-top where cameramen had judged the perfect spot to snap footage of the event, giving the spectators an alternative view. At various sections of the gondola, technicians were checking and rechecking the weather instruments onboard Fable-1. The helium balloon had been brought out to a marked area long before sunrise prior to the arrival of spectators. Every inch of the balloon’s fabric had been examined for tears and holes. The enormous, red gondola, which had retractable wheels, had also been thoroughly checked for wear. Larger than most cars, it had been designed to accommodate five seats which encircled the perimeter. In the centre, an enormous chest with access points on all four sides accommodated the solar-wing camera equipment, ten pressurised oxygen tanks and NASA’s new project: a cosmic dust collection device attached to a large, deflated balloon. All apparatus were tied down firmly with straps. Despite its size and sturdiness, the gondola was lightweight and could survive in both air and water, if necessary. The ultra-thin polyethylene envelope attached to the enormous gondola was secured to the ground by steel frames mounted in the earth. Manually activated squibs joined the gondola to the frame.
The momentous cliff-top event ran on a live feed into Sutcliffe’s laptop computer connected to satellite internet. Inside the White Room sitting beside Sutcliffe on the bench were Claris Faraday and Jen Hennessey watching the screen in a pensive silence. The launch was not for another hour, but time was moving fast. The time told seven already, the launch scheduled for eight. The tension in the room was visible.
“It doesn’t look like the world’s largest balloon,” Hennessey commented.
Sutcliffe nodded. “When a story this big is represented through the reductive lens of a camera, the image is always translated less effectively.”
Much to Sutcliffe’s disappointment, the White Room had not been painted in time, as promised, and the presence of paint and a stepladder in the middle of their preparation made the expedition seem a touch unready. That was not the only thing that disgruntled him that morning. Just three weeks earlier, NASA had announced a change of plan in the Chandra project. There was to be no Chandra project. The observatory telescope had ‘malfunctioned’ according to Hennessey, passing on the information from her superiors at NASA. Instead, a new project had been approved. The payload: a cosmic dust collector nicknamed Akroid. Akroid, which would be attached to another balloon, would capture cosmic meteoroids whipping about in the stratosphere. It included several xerogel samples strategically placed to capture microscopic meteoroid particles and would be remote controlled through radio frequencies by operators from NASA. That was all Sutcliffe knew about it. Hennessey and Thorndike and just about everyone else he’d spoken to at NASA were being very secretive about the details.
The sudden, inconvenient change had left him peeved. He had been resentful of the Chandra project but had prudently bitten his tongue. Then his opinion changed when he learnt what Chandra II had to offer and after he’d learnt that Hennessey was as nice as she was good-looking. Now his opinion had changed again because the NASA-Hennessey package was causing more trouble than it was worth and last minute modifications to the gondola to accommodate the new project had caused unnecessary stress and cost.
Sutcliffe shut down the power on his computer, folded down the top, picked up his morning newspaper and read the front page. The headlines were about foreign immigrants in Great Britain, as usual, though the words were not registering in his brain. Just letters in combinations. He was thinking what it would be like as soon as they made their way to the balloon outside. Restless, he discarded the paper on the bench. So much was at stake. They were under a lot of pressure. A lot of pressure.
Around the room, the crew used their own rituals to combat nerves. Matthews sat with his back against the wall tapping his foot on the floor in a rhythm. He looked calm and prepared because he relished the celebrity spotlight. Sutcliffe, on the other hand, hated being recognised; the unsought gazes in the street, the finger-pointing, the nitpicking. He disliked people chatting to him as if they knew about every department of his life when they knew nothing at all. While he appreciated the support of strangers, he didn’t feel comfortable with the constant attention. Beside him, Hennessey and Faraday made conversation. They were discussing the cost of domestic flights and fuel tax, comparing prices in their respective countries. Hennessey was nervous about the launch. She had spent most of her career risking her life for the evolution of flight. That did not shake off the images of the three astronauts who perished in a fire that consumed their Apollo 1 spacecraft while it sat atop its launch pad in 1967, the seven crew of the space shuttle Challenger who died in 1986 when it blew up just seventy three seconds after liftoff, the seven STS-107 shuttle astronauts lost in the 2003 Columbia accident when it broke apart during re-entry. Then there were the research pilots who’d died during flight experiments. They were the unsung American heroes killed by the unpredictable forces of nature and because science failed them. Keith Burch was out in the lobby by the elevator chain-smoking cigarettes like no tomorrow, still insisting that he wasn’t nervous when everyone knew that he was. He lit his third cigarette that morning, telling himself that he would wait until it had been smoked, as a further time-wasting device, before going back in.
“Anyone got the time?” Faraday asked.
Matthews glanced at his Rolex watch. “Quarter past seven.”
Sutcliffe had been partnered with Matthews for almost six years now, but still there were times when he considered the man an enigma. An individual, very quiet about his personal life and he seemed to be a man of layers. On the top layer was a man confident, outspoken and indecorous. The lower layers were comprised of anxiety and paranoia and suspicion.
“Does anyone have any headache tablets?” Hennessey asked.
“In the toilet on the left. You will find all sorts in the cupboard,” said Sutcliffe.
“Thanks.”
Hennessey shut the door and opened the toiletry cupboard where she found an assortment of pills for basic ailments, a box of plasters and something for heartburn. She popped two painkillers in her mouth and sunk them with water from the sink. Closing the cupboard door, she saw tucked into the corner of the mirror a picture of Fable-1 inflated during tests. It greatly impressed her. She sat on the toilet and put her head in her hands thinking about her parents. They had always been proud of her. Would they be proud now? She felt uncommonly on edge and scared and cursed herself for succumbing to nerves. After all, she’d flown in countless aircraft at death-defying speeds. What was a balloon flight in comparison? Perhaps that she didn’t have control over the vessel. Yeah, that was it. Fear God and he will take care of you, she told herself.
Burch stepped back into the room, but only for a moment. He stood anxiously, not knowing what to do with his hands, so he popped another cigarette in his mouth and began patting his pockets for his lighter. An arm came over his shoulder holding one and he dipped the cigarette into the fire, turning to see Matthews the person holding it.
“Cheers,” said Burch. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t,” Matthews said, and walked away.
“Haven’t you smoked enough of those this morning?” Faraday complained. “I hate to imagine the state of your lungs.”
Burch shrugged, brushed off the comment and left
the room. Sutcliffe was admiring the Russian-made spacesuits hanging in the glass display cabinet. Six suits, made to the specific measurements of the five balloonists, one serving as a spare. The suits comprised several layers, which included polyester structural restraint layers with folded and pleated joints and an anti-abrasion outer layer. Worn beneath the suit was a liquid-cooling and ventilation garment – a one-piece mesh suit made of spandex and zippered for front entry. The garment had water-cooling tubes running through it to keep the wearer comfortable during the flight. The extravehicular communicator attached to the upper portion of the primary life support system at the back of the hard upper torso allowed the crew to talk amongst one another.
Burch and Hennessey returned to the White Room at the same time and Sutcliffe instructed the crew to start getting ready. Nobody spoke as they undressed and hung their clothes on the hooks. The first stage involved putting on the one-piece spandex mesh suit, followed by a unit for the lower part of their bodies containing pants, knee and ankle joints, and lower waist. The boots went on before the metal connect ring joined the upper half of the unit. Upon reaching space, the suits would be pressurised at 4.3 pounds per square inch and the gas in the suit would be one hundred percent oxygen, which was twenty percent more than ground level. The suit was also equipped with an in-suit drink bag filled with 1.9 litres of water with a small tube near the mouth. Around their crotches sat an absorbent diaper designed to collect urine and faeces while the crew worked in the stratosphere. The last piece of equipment fitted to the torso was the primary life support system, which included two primary tanks of oxygen pressurised to 850psi and a secondary oxygen tank for backup, giving the crew a total of fifteen hours of oxygen. Also in the primary life support systems were carbon dioxide scrubbers and filters, four and a half kilos of cooling water, a radio, electrical power, ventilating fans and warning systems. Emergency parachute packs overlapped their life support systems. The helmets, with two mounted EVA headlamps on either side for extreme dark places, completed the spacesuit. Before they fitted their helmets on, visors were rubbed with an anti-fog compound to prevent the build-up of condensation.
The door to the White Room opened and one of the technicians, who had finished preparing the balloon, entered to run a check on their spacesuits. He wished the crew a private good luck, shaking their hands individually and then left again. As soon as he was gone the crew double-checked their equipment and that of the person next to them.
Riding the elevator to ground level, the crew exchanged swift handshakes and wishful words before the workshop door opened upward on its runners and exposed the St. Ives cliff-top overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The early morning sun beat down on their faces through their visors as they walked out onto a red carpet leading all the way to the balloon two hundred feet away. Tight security monitored their route along the carpet cordoned off by chain-wire fencing, keeping the audience back. The first thing they saw as they came up the crest of the hill was the enormous envelope of the balloon swaying in a soft breeze, taller than the Eiffel Tower. The blob of helium pumped into the envelope had floated to the top, pulling the balloon tall and thin, making the Fable-1 logo and NASA’s Insignia plastered across the middle indecipherable.
“There she is,” said Sutcliffe, feeling emotional.
There was an impressive turnout. Fears of failure were allayed by the encouraging cheers of the crowd. Throngs of spectators packed either side of the red carpet applauding their daring heroes. Matthews pegged the attendance at somewhere between seven and eight thousand, thereabout. The balloon itself was cordoned off with rope and a handful of officers who strictly marshalled the area. An inundation of media snapping shots from every conceivable angle provided the large TV monitors with live images. A convoy of satellite vans facing the towering balloon was a further indication of just how much of the world’s attention was upon them.
At eight o’clock, the noise from the crowd dissolved into a mumble of individual conversations. The air was pregnant with anticipation, thousands of eyes locked on the five balloonists strapped into seats on the gondola. Onlookers didn’t know a great deal about the five individuals. They were not celebrities. They were five people who had attracted the world’s attention with a wacky idea. Yet, they had style and assurance and were admirably calm. Sutcliffe watched a light breeze make bends in the balloon. Faraday was also staring up at the giant bulk looming over their heads, approximately thirteen hundred feet tall. 1.7 tons of super-thin polyethylene, only twenty microns thick and thinner than a freezer bag, would allow the helium to expand in altitude. The Russian spacesuits kept their bodies warm in the cool morning air. Five hours later the same spacesuits would keep them safe from bombarding cosmic radiation at the fringe of space.
“Mike, can you hear me?” Sutcliffe spoke with a slow, raised voice through his mouthpiece to F1 Mission Control Base.
There was a sputter in the headset. “Loud and clear. Systems all good, weather is great. Whenever you’re ready. Say hello to God for me.”
“I’ll give him your regards.”
The technicians orchestrated the launch by firing the squibs, which separated the gondola from the frames. At the last moment, Sutcliffe caught a glimpse of his son, Martin, near the front of the crowd pointing a camera at the balloon. He’d forgotten all about the stolen camera. He would deal with that later. In the meantime, he gave his son a friendly farewell wave.
The crew held their breaths as the helium balloon jolted off the cliff-top and whisked them into the air as if a force had just picked them off the land. Within a few seconds, the spectators shrank as the balloon rose at a staggering eight hundred feet per minute. From the gondola, they saw that the crowds extended to nearby roads and right across St. Ives Beach. Traffic around the town appeared to be at a standstill. There were thousands of spectators staring up at the cucumber-shaped silhouette shrinking in the sky. Not far away was an oil tanker passing a few miles out from shore.
Before long, the altimeter read thirty thousand feet, the balloon close to crossing the flight path of commercial jumbos. Faraday surmised that they had reached an altitude close to that of Everest in the Himalayas and briefly thought back to the day she’d met Nick Parsons. She wondered what he was doing right now, if he was thinking about her. Was he watching his TV?
Great Britain had become a land of quadrilateral shapes in the greens and browns of farmland and field, dissected only by snaking roads and narrow country lanes.
“It’s incredible,” Faraday remarked.
Matthews nodded. “It’s moments like this that make you realise why you’re alive.”
At sixty thousand feet, a portion of Britain’s coast could be mapped – the outline of southern Wales, the sharp corner of Lands End, the jagged edge of England’s southern coastline and the Isle of Wight, Faraday’s home. Lakes and rivers and streams and ocean glistened under the sun. Then Mike Townsend’s booming voice exploded from their headsets, interrupting the moment. “You’re faring fine, Fable-1. Remember, there may be strong wind currents in the stratosphere. Be cautious. I will contact you again when you reach float altitude.”
“I’m going to release the black smoke identifiers,” said Faraday. At that stage the balloon would look like a mere black mark in an endless blue sky. She located the remote for the smoke cylinders and pressed the button.
Spectators patiently staring up at the sky began pointing at a speck of expanding black shadow. The crew had just released the smoke from their balloon to pinpoint their location. The live images sent waves of admiration and respect across the globe to more than one hundred countries and those not near a television set were able to witness the live transmission over the Internet.
Chapter 9
“Can I pinch a cigarette?” Trev Gable held out his hand, waiting.
Adam Fraser, the Navigation and Controls Systems Engineer, pulled his earphones off his head and laid them on the desk. “Again? One of these days you’ll buy your own.” He sighed and it
seemed to border on a moan. “Suppose you want me to make you tea as well?”
“Cheers, two sugars.”
Gable scuttled out of the Flight Control Room to get some fresh air and some circulation. He’d been working hard analysing data systems. No lunch hour today, just a quick fag break. Lighting the end, he sucked in five consecutive drags, blowing the smoke high into the air. Chatter and noise emanated from the spectators still flooding the cliff-top in their thousands and a youngish couple right in front of him kissed and held hands against the gate to the F1 Mission Control Base. Lucky man, he thought, feeling the downbeat of single life. He’d been single now for way too long. Women just didn’t fancy him. It might have been the unyielding acne on his face or the geeky way he walked. Perhaps his personality didn’t appeal to the modern woman.
Finishing his cigarette, he flicked away the butt and watched it roll through the air and extinguish with a fizz in a puddle.
Returning to the building foyer he saw a fifty-pound note in front of the reception desk. Looking up at the receptionist, who had her head buried in a drawer searching for a stapler, he bent down and picked up the note.
“Finders keepers,” he muttered. Fifty pounds was small change to his fellow colleagues, whoever had been unfortunate enough to drop it. To Gable, it was a small fortune.
Unfortunately, a lack of foresight and discipline had led Gable to debt and he only had best friend, Dell, to blame for it. Dell was his Dimension L600CX computer. Every night he would go home and socialise with his best friend. They would interact for hours, playing games, musing over naked girls, ordering takeaways and leisurely communicating with the world. The computer maestro regarded the Internet as his treasure trove, a tool to make a person more sociable, more knowledgeable, more likeable. His relationship with Dell engulfed every aspect of his life, giving him untold pleasures. And, if used correctly, it would make him rich.