Zero-G

by Alton Gansky

  Tuck laughed. He doubted his father said anything like that, but he appreciated Rick’s efforts to keep his spirits up.

  “Understood, Houston. I’ll try not to get dead.”

  “You had better come back alive. You know what your wife will do to me if you don’t.”

  A moan came over the headset. Tuck turned his head to see Jess raise a hand to her temple.

  Another moan.

  “Houston, Atlantis, I think Jess is coming to.”

  A pause. “Understood.”

  “My head. What’s wrong with my head?” Jess’s words trickled out. She whimpered.

  “Jess. Are you with me? Jess?”

  “The pain. My head is splitting open.” She tilted her head back and opened her eyes. Blinked. Blinked again. “What . . . Oh, no. Oh, no.” She reached for the control stick.

  Tuck shot an arm across the center panel and grabbed her shoulder. “Don’t move, Jess. Don’t touch anything. We’re on autoland.”

  “Autoland? But . . . My head . . . Can’t think. My heart is trying to escape.”

  “Just sit still. The pain goes away with time.”

  “I don’t understand.” She turned to him. Her eyes widened so much Tuck thought they’d fall from her head. She raised an arm and studied it for a moment, then returned her frightened gaze to Tuck. “Why are you in your LES? Where’s mine?” She looked out the window, then at the monitors before her. “This isn’t right. What’s happening?”

  “Jess, listen to me.”

  She snapped her gaze over her shoulder. “Seat positions are wrong. We can’t reenter with seats in on-orbit configuration.”

  “Jess. Settle down. You’ve been drugged. The whole crew has. We’re on emergency autoland headed to White Sands. Everything is under control. Just sit back.”

  “But my LES. No one but you is wearing an LES. Why, Tuck? Why only you?”

  She teetered on hysteria, something foreign to Jess, who seldom showed any emotion beyond humor. The drugs in her system were playing havoc with her reason.

  “Pull yourself together, Jess. That’s an order.”

  “Mach twenty-five point two and three hundred forty thousand feet.”

  Jess straightened, started to speak, then closed her mouth, jaw tensed like a clamp.

  “Now listen. Our SAS patches were faulty. You’ve been out for hours. Me too. I came around a couple of hours ago. MCC decided on an emergency autoland. My reflexes made docking with ISS too risky.”

  “I should be in an LES. That’s procedure now. Ever since Challenger.”

  “I know, Jess. I know. But you don’t need an LES. Earlier crews didn’t use them.”

  “Gs, what about the Gs? I don’t have my anti-G suit on.”

  “We’re on autoland, Jess. Remember that. Autoland. The autopilot will take us in as always, and Houston will take us the rest of the way. If you pass out, it’s all right. I’m here, and MCC knows what it’s doing.”

  Tears ran from her eyes. “My head hurts so much.”

  “I know. I thought mine was going to explode.”

  “Patches?” She felt her neck. “Mine is gone.”

  “I removed them.”

  “The others? Are they still out?”

  Tuck hesitated, then answered. “Yes. Still out. There’ll be doctors at White Sands.”

  “You know they only land you at White Sands if they expect you to break apart on the runway.”

  “That’s not true, Jess.”

  “It is true.”

  Tuck looked at the readouts. Maybe he could keep her mind engaged. “Mach twenty-four point eight . . . two hundred forty thousand feet.”

  “We’re heating up.” Jess looked through the overhead ports. “I can see the plasma ribbon.” She stared at it. “So pretty.”

  As the air around Atlantis heated to extreme temperatures, superheat stripped ions from the air, creating slithering snakes of light. They flashed and flickered, bathing the flight deck with flashbulb bursts of light.

  “Entering first bank.” Tuck kept his voice calm and low. The computers tilted the Shuttle into the first of several seventy-five-degree banking maneuvers meant to extend the distance the craft would fly before reaching the landing area in New Mexico.

  Tuck’s greatest desire was to take control of the craft, but to do so would mean disaster. Forty-five miles above the surface and speeds that most people couldn’t fathom made human control impossible. The nose-up attitude prevented anyone from seeing a runway; that, and the runway waited several thousand miles away. Their lives were in the hands of silicon chips and wires, in accelerometers and computers.

  “Mach twenty-two; two hundred twenty thousand feet. Pulling a half-G.”

  “We see the same thing.”

  “We’re still with Rick?” Jess asked.

  “I doubt dynamite would get him out of his chair. Heaven help anyone who tries to move him.”

  “Dieter still Flight?”

  “Same crew.”

  “This all happened in one shift?”

  “At least your brain is still working. I guess I’m no longer the smartest astronaut on board.”

  “Were you ever?”

  “Ah, that’s the Jess I know and love.”

  “Tuck?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t see. I’m blind.”

  Tuck’s head snapped around. Jess looked straight ahead. “I thought you said you could see the plasma ribbon outside.”

  She nodded. “Everything went black after that. My headache has decreased. You know what that means?”

  “I said it would go away.”

  “Not that fast, Commander. Something has given way in my head. I’ve popped an artery or something.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I think the plasma lights may be the last thing I ever see.”

  “Negative. The docs will fix you up.”

  She moved her head from side to side. “I don’t think so, Tuck. We’re going to pull two Gs before we’re wheels down. That can’t be good for bleeding in the head.”

  “You don’t know that you’re stroking.”

  “Makes sense, Commander. Makes sense.”

  Tuck thought he heard slurring. “Houston, Atlantis.”

  “Go ahead, Atlantis.”

  “Jess is . . . Jess says she’s blind.”

  Several moments passed. “Atlantis. Surgeon says the medical folk at White Sands will be notified.”

  “That’s it?” Tuck said. “That’s the best they can do?”

  “Of coorse it iz, ’mander. Nothin’ you . . . can dooo.”

  Jess’s speech indicated a stroke. A new avalanche of despondency crashed on Tuck. Jess could die in the chair with him strapped down and watching.

  The cabin was quiet, the ride smooth. Tuck knew that the deeper in the atmosphere they descended, the louder things would become. Right now, he couldn’t hear a whisper that would betray their great speed.

  “Count usss . . . down, ’mander. I don wan to miss . . . thing . . .”

  Tears streaked his face.

  “Will do, Jess. Will do.” Tuck’s voice betrayed his emotion. “Mach twenty; two hundred eight thousand feet; twelve hundred miles out.

  “Mach eighteen; two hundred thousand feet; feeling one G.

  “Mach fifteen point four; one-and-a-half Gs.”

  Atlantis began to shudder and wind noise worked its way through the hull.

  “Speed brakes deploying. Ten minutes to landing.

  “Mach five.”

  It was time to deploy the air-data probes, and Tuck reached for the switch, then stopped. The probes were already activated and feeding refined information to the guidance system. Tuck had to remind himself again that he was just a passenger, that he had to keep his hands to himself — something no commander ever had to do.

  “You still with me, Jess?”

  “Yef. ’Till her.”

  “Hang on, kid. Don’t leave me. That’s an order. You s
tay with me. Got that?”

  “Yef, ’mander.” Her head tilted to the side, her neck no longer able to hold the weight of it.

  Let her live, God. Let her live. Husband and kids at home. Please, let her live.

  Wind noise continued to increase as Atlantis plunged through the thick atmosphere. It sounded like an outof-control train.

  “Mach three point five; one hundred thousand feet.”

  The nose of the craft lowered as the speed decreased, improving Tuck’s vision.

  “I’ve got the runway in sight. Did you hear that, Jess. We’re almost there.”

  No response.

  “Jess. Jess. Talk to me.”

  Nothing.

  “Mach one point zero; forty-nine thousand feet.”

  Atlantis shivered as shock waves that had been trailing the craft overtook it.

  “Two hundred ninety-five knots; eight hundred feet . . . five hundred feet . . . two hundred ninety knots . . . four hundred feet . . . landing gear is down.” Don’t leave me, Jess. I’ve lost too many. I can’t lose another.

  “Fifty feet . . . forty . . . two hundred thirty knots . . . ten feet . . . touch down two hundred knots.”

  Tuck could imagine the chute deploying behind them to slow the speeding craft. He removed his glove, reached across the center console, and placed his fingers over Jess’s wrist hoping to feel a pulse.

  He found none.

  Atlantis’s forward movement stopped.

  “Wheel stop.”

  “Wheel stop.”

  “I need help in here. I need it now.”

  Tuck released his restraints and moved to Jess. He tried several times to find a pulse but came up empty. He moved to Russ and repeated the action. No pulse there either.

  He stepped to Jess again and released her harness, then pulled her from the seat.

  In the cramped space of the flight deck, Commander Benjamin Tucker began CPR — praying between every breath forced into Jess’s mouth and every compression made on her chest.

  “One, two, three, four.” Please, God . . .

  FIVE

  ONE YEAR LATER

  Tuck banked the Corsair F4U into a sixty-degree left turn rounding the Marine Air Station in San Diego. The WWII bird responded like a dream, the G-forces pressing him in his seat. The Pratt & Whiney R – 2800 engine roared as he goosed the throttle, increasing speed in the turn and aligning the nose of the plane with the center of the runway. Below, thousands of eyes gazed at him as he put the gull-wing fighter through its paces.

  At the moment, Tuck gave little thought to the crowd and even less thought to the events of the past year. He was doing the thing he loved most, flying at the edge of the envelope, pushing the sixty-year-old aircraft to its limits.

  Applying more power, Tuck pulled the plane into a steep climb, its engine singing with the strain. The Corsair had a distinctive sound. The Japanese called it “Whistling Death.”

  The deep blue of the sky replaced the distant hills Tuck had seen a moment before the plane began a steep climb, its propeller clawing at the sky, pulling against thinning air.

  Higher. Higher.

  Tuck fixed his gaze on the canvas of blue before him and his mind added miles and miles of altitude. If only he could keep climbing, keep stretching until the blue of the sky dissolved to black and the Earth receded into a huge blue ball. If only . . .

  But one did not toy with gravity. The powerful pistons pounded out all the energy they could but the plane slowed its climb, reaching its maximum altitude.

  “A little more, baby. Just a little more.”

  Tuck had no idea of his altitude and he didn’t care. Aircraft like these were flown more by feel than instruments. The Corsair began to vibrate with the strain.

  “Come on, sweetheart. This is what you were built for. A couple hundred feet more.”

  The creators of the Corsair had designed it for speed. During the war, pilots learned a new technique for finishing a dogfight: run. The manual instructed pilots in trouble to apply full power, climb, and head home. Nothing else in the air could catch it.

  Then the jet age arrived and craft like the Corsair yielded to a new era. Still they served in World War II with distinction and made themselves known in the Korean Conflict. Now the plane was an oddity, a gull-winged used-to-be that once knew courage, strength, purpose, and glory.

  An important used-to-be.

  Just like Tuck.

  Before the engine stalled, Tuck rolled the plane and started a dive that drew goose bumps over every square inch of his skin. Blue sky was now behind him, Mira-mar Marine Air Station below. He could see the crowds gathered for the annual air show, each a lover of aircraft or related to an enthusiast.

  Tuck pulled back on the stick to flatten his descent. He was about to give the audience a sense of what it was like to be the object of a strafing run.

  His air speed climbed so quickly that he could use the hands of the altimeter gauge as a fan. It was hyperbole, but the image made Tuck smile. Something he didn’t do often anymore.

  From the pilot’s perspective, the ground rose at shocking speed, but Tuck knew he was the one moving fast.

  Fifty feet above the runway, Tuck pulled the Corsair flat and raced the length of the concrete strip. From the corner of his eye, he saw the crowd raise hands and pump fists in the air. He almost wished he could see it himself.

  As he reached the end of the runway, he took the plane high again, but this time just enough to allow a safe turnaround.

  His part of the show had come to an end and a vague depression — a constant companion over the last thirteen months — invaded him again.

  Reality returned.

  Tuck despised reality.

  He had been warned by the NASA docs — specifically, the NASA shrinks — that depression was likely. They told him of the deep melancholy felt by Apollo astronauts after returning from the Moon. They knew they’d never top the experience. Everything else would be second rate.

  Of course Tuck’s gloominess didn’t stem from a great achievement he could never do again; it came from a massive failure. No matter how many times investigations declared him guiltless, no matter how often the world treated him as a hero — he knew the truth.

  He and he alone survived the Atlantis mission. The rest of his crew rested in the ground. Dead.

  The landing gear lowered smoothly and Tuck brought the blue beast down gently on the runway. His speed reduced quickly and he began the zigzag taxi maneuver every Corsair pilot learned. On the ground, the steep angle of the plane from nose to tail prevented the pilot from seeing forward. The long cowling also limited vision. Tuck moved left then right, left then right, taking sightings out the side of the cockpit.

  A Marine stood to the side and guided Tuck to his place on the tarmac with hand signals.

  Tuck killed the engine and exited the craft. He did so with a confidence and bearing that fit a fighter pilot/ astronaut. A year ago, that confidence and bearing had been real.

  “Spit-shine spectacular, Commander.” The crewman stepped forward and shook Tuck’s hand. He looked too young to be a Marine. Of course, they all looked too young to him now. “If you’re up to it, there’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

  “I’m not in the mood, Sergeant. I’d rather catch a cup of coffee.”

  “I don’t think he’s here as part of the audience.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice, even though no one stood close enough to overhear. “It’s Ted Roos.”

  Tuck blinked. “Am I supposed to know the name?”

  “Well, yeah . . . I’m mean, yes, sir. Ted Roos created The Cube and New York Underground.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  The man looked puzzled. “He’s the hottest game designer on the planet.”

  “Game? Video games?”

  “Exactly, sir. The Cube sold a bajillion copies, and New York Underground is the best shooter game ever created.”

  “Did Mr. Game Fantastic say what he wanted
?”

  “No, sir. Just so you know. He’s mega-rich. Got more money than God.”

  “I doubt that. Where is he?”

  “He’s on the other side of the barrier by the flight line.”

  “Thanks. Take care of my baby.” Tuck patted the wing.

  “She’s in good hands, Commander. Listen. Do you think you can get his autograph for me?”

  “No.”

  Tuck walked away. .

  Tuck didn’t know what he expected, but Ted Roos wasn’t it. He wore his I-just-crawled-out-of-bed hair proudly, and his chin hadn’t seen a razor for several days. He stood five-eight, and bore maybe 165 pounds on a straight frame. His eyes were a blue that looked like they wanted to be green but couldn’t pull it off. There was, however, a detectable intelligence behind those eyes.

  “You Ted Roos?”

  “That’s me, Commander.”

  Tuck ducked under the nylon ribbon that formed the barricade. He was surprised to find Roos here. It was off-limits to the public. “This area is limited to support personnel, Mr. Roos.”

  “I’m not here as a spectator, Commander. I’m here with a proposition.”

  “Doesn’t explain how you got here.”

  “I know people, Commander. I have money. I have connections. No big whoop.”

  “No big whoop, eh? What kind of proposition?”

  “Business.”

  “I already have all the business I need.”

  Roos smiled in a way that made Tuck think he was the butt of an unspoken joke.

  “Something funny, Mr. Roos?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t mean to offend, Commander. I just know the business you’re in and I don’t imagine you find it all that satisfying.”

  “I’m not sure you know that much about me.”

  Again, a smile. “I’ve arranged a room where we can talk. Shall we go there?”

  Tuck’s first inclination was to walk away, but something about Roos hooked him. He was young, maybe early thirties, but he had the confidence of an older, more experienced man. “Lead the way.”

  The room Roos mentioned was a conference space with a battered table and chairs in the center. Someone had shut the thick Venetian blinds. Another man rose from his seat when they entered. Roos gave a nod and the man departed. He left a laptop computer on the table.