The Accidental Explorer

by George Deeb

  He felt a change in the ship. Something very subtle, and tried to understand what the controller was saying. He should have been paying closer attention, but guessed that the sparklers - the radial outward firing ignitors - had been lit. Everyone on the outside would be seeing a steady flow of hot sparks being emitted under the engine nozzles. His muscles tensed at the thought.

  “Tien”, came the voice from the speakers in Travellor's helmet. He didn't speak Afrikaans but he understood enough to know that the ten second countdown had started.

  “Nege”, said the voice.

  “Here we go gentlemen.” said Travellor to his teammates.

  “All instruments and systems are normal.” said Antonio “Tonio” Vargas. Tonio was the man in charge of instruments and systems on their “little space car” as he called it.

  “Agt”, said the voice.

  “Is that nine or eight?” asked Little Petey Eallyn.

  Little Petey was, of course, the tallest, largest, and strongest member of the crew. He never minded being called Little Petey – rather, he wore the name as a badge of respect. He was right. Little Petey was a very sharp and capable person. He was one that Travellor would have personally picked for the mission – if he had had any say in the matter.

  “Sewe”, said the voice.

  Travellor looked at the instruments and systems he was responsible for during the journey. All looked normal.

  “Ses”, said the voice.

  “That's six.” said Travellor. “Pucker up!”

  “I've changed my mind.” said Dal Yimka. “I'd like to go home now, please.”

  There was a collective laugh at his comments. Yimka was the Structural Engineer on the team. Anything that needed to be built or designed was his job.

  “Vyf”

  “Five!” said “JJ” Jonathan Jennings, with some obvious nervousness in his voice. He was the Electrical Engineer on the crew, with expertise in several fields.

  There was a new noise now, but Travellor couldn't identify it – like something was moving, or flowing.

  “Count it down for us, JJ.” said Travellor.

  “Vier”, said the voice.

  “Four” said JJ.

  “Drie”

  “Three” said JJ.

  “Twee”

  “Two” said JJ.

  The noise level suddenly shot up, and everything vibrated. The engines had ignited.

  “Een”, said the now barely audible voice.

  “ONE!...” yelled JJ, trying to overcome the sound of the roaring engines, but no one heard him.

  Except for the primal fear inducing vibration, the effect on their bodies was not instantaneous, but it came on fast enough to be scary. Starting as a pressure building on their bodies, the G-force from acceleration quickly deprived the crew of the ability to control their head or limbs. They were plastered to their seats, and their skin felt like it was trying to pull off of their bones. They had been trained for this, but when you know the raging thing underneath you is a real Delta 4 rocket pushing out almost inconceivable amounts of force, it changes your psychological outlook a little. A distorted and muffled “OH SHIT!” came over the intercom.

  Travellor looked at the speed indicator which was mounted directly in front of him. At the beginning he was able to follow the changing numbers as they increased, but soon they were changing too fast for him to read any but the first two digits. The rate of acceleration was incredible, and with every passing second it seemed to be increasing until he wondered if it would ever stabilize. In his mind he pictured looking at the rocket from the outside and watching it disintegrate from all the forces on it. He forced that thought away, refusing to accept the possibility, and instead thought of coming home to see his niece. Then he wondered if he would ever get the chance to hug her again.

  5

  Farber-Chatwell listened to the launch controllers and technicians in the OTB. He listened to their calm voices as they monitored the launch, and relayed information to each other. It was a perfect performance by the Delta 4 rocket. In front of him he saw the telemetry being received by the 361 technicians. Crew life signs were normal for this phase of the flight. They were all breathing rapidly, and physical stress levels were increasing, but this was all normal for the circumstances. Farber-Chatwell realized he was feeling a little exuberant and happy. It was finally happening. After years and years of preparation and planning, the day was finally here. If everything continued to go well, the people in that ship would go down in American history as pioneering heroes. When the world later found out what they had done it would be the greatest international upset in recorded history. But that thought was for later. There was still much to be done.

  In a short while the rocket would expend all of its fuel and would continue to travel away from the planet. Telemetry from it would cease, and everyone would consider the launch a success. Data would be compiled and stored, and eventually the OTB would start preparing for its next customer. What the OTB wasn't aware of was that when the X37 fired its engines, and separated from the Delta 4, the equal and opposite push against the rocket would eventually send it back into the earth's atmosphere. If everything went as planned, the rocket would break up and land in the ocean, hopefully unobserved. At the end of the day Farber-Chatwell would be in the South African headquarters of 361, looking at coded transmissions from the X37 as it continued on its way to the destination. There was reason for Farber-Chatwell to feel happy. He thought that he might even pat himself on the back when he was alone.

  Chapter 6

  Trailblazer

  1

  From: OP361MBC

  To: OP361EBC

  MISSION STATUS UPDATE

  19FEB2007

  Ransen

  Hope you are well

  Sad news

  I am writing this to you directly as it is my position to shoulder the responsibility of this tragedy.

  Two days ago, on the morning of 17 February, we successfully launched mission Trailblazer. All equipment functioned as expected. At our operational headquarters in SA we monitored the automated telemetry transmissions, which arrived every fifteen minutes. Boost faze could not have gone better. We were all happy and tired, as we monitored the mission.

  Everything went well for the first sixteen hours and twenty minutes of the mission. The ship was fifty three minutes away from destination. It was at that point that we did not receive the next programmed transmission. With all the variables involved we were not overly worried that communication with the ship was not one hundred percent reliable. Ten minutes later we received a partial transmission. The data was incomplete, and we assumed that transmission was being interfered with by some outside influence. It took some time for our team to decode the damaged data. From the information we were able salvage from that partial transmission, we determined the ship had lost atmosphere, and biometric data indicated at least one crewman had abnormal physiological responses. Fifteen minutes later we received another signal which was undecipherable. No other transmissions have been received to date.

  I am truly sorry to report that the ship is now considered lost with all souls on board. God help and take them all. They were the bravest of souls. They died trying to protect their country and families.

  We are presently analyzing data from all of our monitoring stations in an effort to determine what happened.

  A final report will be issued when completed.

  I intend to make it my job to inform all of the crew's families in person. I can do no less. I will wait until after the expected return date of the X37 before performing this sorrowful task.

  After we close the file on this we will have to confer about our next step. You have this short time to think about it.

  Hope you and yours are all safe.

  With great sorrow,

  OP361MBC

  Ramsdel's hand dropped to his side, still holding the printout of the mission update. His mouth was dry, and his body felt as if it were made of lead. He w
as in shock. He wanted to read the report again, just to convince himself it said what he knew it did, but he couldn't seem to raise his hand. His head fell back against the back of the chair, and he had trouble catching his breath.

  He had met some of the men on that crew. He considered a couple of them friends. '...and I was instrumental in their deaths.' he thought. 'That's stupid,' he quickly chided himself, 'someone had to go... was going to go. They all knew the risks. WE all knew the risks.'. It didn't matter how he tried to justify it to himself, no matter how true what he told himself was. He still felt partially responsible. Ramsdel wondered why he was reacting this way. He had known other people who were killed while performing their jobs. He had buried some of them. But he had never felt like this before. He thought about it for some time. Finally he realized this was the first time anyone had died while under his direct command - his and Farber-Chatwell's. He had never been in this position before. Before this he was the one under the command of someone else. He either failed or succeeded, lived or died, but never responsible for sending people on the mission.

  Ramsdel didn't know how long he sat like that, in his office. It seemed like hours, but looking at the clock told him it hadn't been. He felt drained of energy. He wanted to talk to someone about it, but there was no one he could confide in. There was a room full of people outside his office, and he couldn't talk to any of them about this.

  2

  Ramsdel had canceled his schedule for the rest of the day, and went home. His house had a big, airy, well lit living room with large windows that let lots of sunlight in. He sat on the couch with a glass of wine. It wouldn't take much - he wasn't a drinker. The occasional beer or glass of wine was all he ever had. His total yearly alcohol consumption was maybe a six pack of beer and a bottle of wine. Some years not even that much, and some years maybe a little more depending on family gatherings and celebrations. The small glass of wine he was drinking would relax him without affecting his thinking, and that's the condition he wanted to be in. He was having an internal battle. He had known the risks of the mission – everybody had. He knew there was a risk of this specific outcome occurring, but like everyone else, as soon as the thought had entered his mind he had unconsciously pushed it away. Now it was reality. Now it had happened. Now, the Trailblazer crew were all dead – even before they had a chance to start their mission. That was the factor that bothered him the most. It was one thing to accept the risk and lose while working toward your goal. It was a waste never to have had the chance to try. It was sad, tragic and unfair – it was life. Life was a lottery that required no ticket. Whether you wanted to or not, you were playing it.

  Ramsdel's chest still felt heavy. It seemed to him that he had to put extra effort to pull air into his lungs. He remembered meeting each of the lost men and the one woman. He remembered reading their dossiers. He remembered which ones had a family. His eyes would start to tear and then just dry up, over and over again. He made a mental note to read their files again, and to take a close look at the pictures of their wives – widows – and children. There was one thing that 361 could do – would do. Those families would receive ongoing financial benefits, and schooling for the children would be completely paid for. He would arrange all of that as soon as Farber-Chatwell's investigation was concluded.

  As Ramsdel got up to go to the kitchen, another thought entered his mind. Could the bodies be retrieved so that the families could bury them? That would be the first thing he would look into tomorrow. 'Damn, I'm tired.' he thought. It was still early in the afternoon. It would be useless to go to bed. Suddenly his spine straightened as if someone had strapped a brace around his torso, and a realization entered his mind. Now it would begin again. No matter how great the loss or tragedy, no matter the effect on the families, the mission still exists. It would go on – it would be completed.

  3

  Erica Aimsler looked at the neon clock that hung on her bedroom wall. It was ten in the evening. She had been working on her school project for over three hours now. It was way beyond the time her uncle, Anthony Travellor, would have normally Skyped her. He had told her that for the next few months he may be out of touch, but also that there was a possibility he might be able to call. She clung to that possibility. It had now been three weeks since she last heard from him, and each week without any contact made her sadder than before. She was being ridiculous and she knew it, but for as long as she could remember in her young life she had been in contact with her uncle at least once a week. Even though he had told her he would not be able to contact her, it still depressed her. It had been just a few weeks since his last call – how was she going to be able to handle a few months – or longer? Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her open bedroom door.

  “Popcorn and a movie!” said her aunt Jennifer. “The boys got to pick tonight, so I hope you're in the mood for blood and gore.”

  'Blood and gore without doubt.' Erika thought. Her cousins Robert and Ernst (“Call me Earnest”) loved any movie that scared and disgusted the viewer, and there was no shortage of those. They were also the ones whose eyes were widest, and who jumped back the farthest at the scary parts. Next week was her turn to choose, and she already knew what she wanted. Her uncle Tony had introduced her to Sherlock Holmes movies with Basil Rathbone in the role. He thought Rathbones' portrayal of the character was one of the best ever done. She had seen a complete works collection at the store, and she was going to buy it. All of those movies were in black and white, which added a stronger air of mystery to the stories. Mostly, the movies reminded Erika of spending time with her uncle. If he hadn't called her by next week, she would be in need of that feeling. She closed her books and got off the bed. That was enough homework for one night.

  “Ernst is not going to sleep well again, after another one of those movies.” Erika said.

  “Did he come to sleep with you last time?” asked aunt Jen, as she put her arm around her niece's shoulders.

  “Yep.” Erika giggled at the memory.

  “You're his hero, you know? He used to come to our room, but now he sees you as his protector.”

  “I don't mind.” said Erika. “The bed is big enough. But his feet are ice cubes!”

  “I know.” laughed aunt Jen. “Your uncle and I would make him put socks on, if he wanted to sleep with us.”

  “Why didn't I think of that.” Erika said, as she put her arm around her aunt's waist. “At least he brings his own pillow with him – give him credit for that.”

  They went down the staircase, and to the family room. The great smell of freshly popped corn filled the air.

  “Wait 'till you see this one scene!” said Ernst excitedly, to Erika. “This one guy, he's torn apart, and blood goes everywhere! It spurts out his neck and...”

  'Socks.' thought Erika. 'Remember socks.'

  Chapter 7

  Remembering Nevil Maskelyne

  “It is an experience common to all men to find that, on any special occasion, such as the production of a magical effect for the first time in public, everything that can go wrong will go wrong...”

  1

  Anthony Travellor watched the destination timer counting down. It would be less than an hour to landing. 'We made it!' he thought. 'We're practically there.' He almost couldn't believe it. He knew the flight was a big risk – Hell, the whole mission was one big risk. But it was the flight phase that bothered him the most. It was because they were practically imprisoned in the ship. They couldn't move around – they could barely get out of their bunks – and that was the factor that bothered him most. He considered the ship to be little more than a sardine can with engines – and they were the sardines. Everything and everyone was packed tightly inside. He had gone over the calculations many times – they all had. The mission envelope was at best marginal. This was just slightly better – very slightly better – than a suicide mission. Everyone knew it. But they all felt that what they could accomplish, if successful, was worth the risk. It was the scariest
thing he had ever done.

  He felt his jaw relax, and realized how tense he had been. But they were almost there, and this phase of the mission would soon be over. He was breathing easily he realized. That was good. The carbon dioxide scavenging system was working as designed, removing the CO2 they were exhaling, and adding enough oxygen to the air for all of them to breathe. Once they left the ship they would be breathing from a similar system built into their space suits. It was bulky and heavy, but the weight wouldn't be a problem on the moon. He started breathing deeper – might as well take advantage of the free air. There was no preparation to complete for landing, since the ship was completely automated. They would just lay back and go for the ride - and Travellor hated that! You cant' be in control when you have no control. He was used to having control – at least a little. When you are literally risking your life, you want some control. 'But the risk is almost over.' he thought. 'Once we're down, I can relax.' He moved his hand slightly to reach the auxiliary panel within his reach, and pressed the SYSTEM TEST button. He knew everything was operating correctly, but what the hell! The techs had given him a system diagnostic function and he was going to use it. Hell – he was going to punch it every ten minutes until they landed, for no other reason than it would make him feel good to see the series of indicators all turn green.