by Bonnie Doran
“Hon, it’s so good to hear your voice. We’ve missed you so much.” His mom sniffled.
“How’s Dad?” Chet was really scoring points on subtlety.
“Not good.” A muffled sob escaped her.
He hung his head. Hearing her words made the truth real. “Do you think he could—he would—speak to me?” He forced the words out of his mouth, fearing what the answer would be.
“Yes, of course. Hold on—”
“Mom, I’m…I’m sorry. For everything. For blowing up at you years ago, for turning my back on you, for everything.”
“I forgave you a long time ago. And I love you, honey. That has never changed.” Her words choked through tears. “Are you coming? To see Dad in case he…?”
“I don’t think so. I’m on a cruise.”
“Oh, how lovely—”
“Sorry to interrupt, but I’d really like to talk to Dad.”
“Of course. Here you are.”
Chet heard whispers in the background then a weak voice answered. “Son?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” Chet cursed his mother for giving him the lump in his throat. She always brought out the emotion in him.
“Are you all right?” His dad sounded wrung out.
“Well, yeah, I guess. But you aren’t.”
“Truer words were never spoken.” His father’s wheeze rattled through the handset.
The words punched Chet in the gut. It was one thing to read an Internet report about his father’s health, and quite another to hear Dad gasping on the other end. But he seemed so calm about it, like he was reading a weather forecast.
“You have HIV.”
“Yes, that—uh—complicates things.”
Chet bolted to his feet and paced like a caged tiger. He glanced at his dove origami that now perched on the floor, and his resolve rose. Just do it.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Will you forgive me?” Chet’s stomach tensed for the expected rejection. Mom was one thing, but Dad had suffered the full force of Chet’s anger. How could he expect his father to erase twenty years of hatred with such simple words?
“I forgave you a long time ago, son.”
Chet’s gut eased its grip on his Beef Wellington dinner. He blurted the next words before his nerve vaporized. “I don’t mean just for how I’ve treated you and Mom. For what I did.”
The faint voice on the other end sighed. “I deserved it. Deserved your contempt.”
Chet couldn’t think of any way to say it except as bald truth. “I mean, will you forgive me for making you sick? What if this flu kills you? Would you forgive me for killing you?”
“What are you talking about?”
He swallowed past the golf ball lodged in his throat. “That flu you have? I infected you. I sprayed it on the luncheon napkins during the Denver seminar.”
His father gasped.
Chet exhaled. There. He’d said it. He hoped it would make him feel better, but guilt still screamed in his brain. “Dad?”
“I’m here, Chet.”
“I…I…I don’t know what to do.”
His father paused, apparently struggling for breath. “Ask…God’s forgiveness.”
“He and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”
“Neither were we.”
“OK.” The word left Chet’s mouth with half a dozen questions chasing it.
“And, Chet?”
“Uh-huh.” He squirmed, certain of what he’d hear next.
“Contact…the authorities,” Dad rasped.
Chet closed his eyes. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that. But there’s something I need to do first. I need to contact Hildi.”
His father listened to all his hopes for a vaccine, hopes that rested in Hildi knowing information Chet had. He’d forgotten how, even as a little boy, his father had been a good listener. After keeping rage and fear lately in equal proportions, he needed that.
“Promise me you’ll do it, son.”
Chet swallowed. He took his promises seriously. “I will.”
“I’m proud of you.”
Proud? Chet knew he’d blubber if he tried to respond.
“We’ll pray.”
Chet had run out of things to say. He’d never been in a position of saying good-bye to someone who was dying.
“Good-bye, then. I…love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, son.”
Chet switched off his phone. His intestines twisted into tighter knots. The dove origami mocked his lame effort at reconciliation. He should have made a raven, the harbinger of death. He glanced at his briefcase, still containing the vial, and buried his head in his hands.
What have I done?
35
“I” Plus Eleven Days
“Light this candle.” Dan didn’t care whose eardrums he ruptured as he bellowed into the mic. He would have pulled his hair out by now if he could have reached inside his helmet. NASA had delayed the launch for three hours due to adverse weather conditions, and it didn’t look like things would improve at the Cape.
“We can’t, Dan.” Nate’s calm, reasonable voice crackled over the radio from Launch Control at the Cape. “C’mon, you know we can’t launch in a thunderstorm. The winds are just too high.”
“Skip the excuses. We have a crew to rescue.” Shorty had no patience left, either.
Dan shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. He and Shorty lay on their backs to minimize the strain of 2Gs during launch, which didn’t do a thing for them while sitting on Launch Pad 59-A, waiting. And waiting.
Every moment on the ground reduced the only chance for survival for the stranded astronauts on the station. In the last conversation he’d heard in Mission Control, they were panting like they’d just run a marathon. Dan’s mind hovered over the image of Hildi gasping for breath. His breath quickened in empathic response.
Nate talked with someone in the background, maybe the weather guy. Then his voice boomed over the radio. “People, I know this is frustrating, but we have your lives to consider as well.”
Nate’s reasonable tone did little to soothe Dan. He ground his teeth. “Our friends won’t be worth a smashed hen’s egg if we don’t get there in time, to use Joe’s expression.”
“Copy that, Valiant.” More mumbling in the background. Nate returned. “The meteorologist says the winds will calm in about ten minutes. We should be able to resume countdown then. Should be. But we’re not risking your lives unnecessarily.”
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed—” Dan stuffed his exasperation back inside his brain.
Shorty finished the sentence in a softer voice than Dan could manage. “—we’re sitting on top of tons of explosives. Not exactly the safest place to be.”
“Roger.”
Dan and Shorty waited. They checked all systems, but the systems were no different than they’d been the last time. Time ticked by at a snail’s pace. Dan drummed gloved fingers on the armrest.
CAPCOM came back in five minutes. “You’ve got your window, fellas. You are GO for launch.”
Dan and Shorty grinned then Shorty responded, “Roger that.”
“Restart clock.”
The clock had stopped at T minus five minutes. Now it resumed its downward digital trek. Dan heaved a sigh then hurried to finish his part of final preparations before NASA changed its mind. Shorty read from a checklist while Dan confirmed every instrument setting.
Mission Control in Houston was listening in, of course. How many pencils had Steve broken during the delay? Dan smiled at the thought. As soon as Valiant cleared the tower, Houston would take over. He would welcome Pete’s voice.
After ten minutes into the flight, when they officially reached space, Dan would jettison the Launch Abort System. It sat on top of the capsule, ready to rocket Valiant away from disaster if the unthinkable happened. Shorty poised his finger over the control button as protocol dictated.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, igni
tion sequence start—”
Dan steeled himself.
“Three, two, one, zero, lift-off. We have lift-off.”
They whooped as the rocket shuddered. They cleared the tower. Launch Control handed the reins to Houston.
Crack.
Half the instruments blacked out. Altitude and speed displays darkened. Dan flipped all the reset controls while fighting the increasing Gs of launch. “Reset ineffective.”
“Switch to backup.” Shorty’s sharp command held a razor’s edge.
“Backup ineffective.” Dan’s eyes widened as he sought his crewmate’s. Shorty nodded.
They knew what had happened.
Lightning.
36
With Joe and Leonid’s help, Frank and Jasper suited up for EVA. Hildi and Maria were sleeping. Everyone panted due to the buildup of carbon dioxide. The CO2 scrubbers labored overtime to compensate, but it was a losing battle.
Frank hoped for a speedy repair—work that never should have been necessary in the first place. For the nth time, he wished he could reverse the last few days.
He inserted both legs into the pressure suit, an interesting operation in weightlessness. Then came the body of the suit. Joe held it by the collar as Frank pulled his head through and hunted for the sleeves.
“Dad-gum arms.” Joe gritted his teeth. “Stop flailing around.”
Frank tried to grin.
Joe wheezed. “Heard from Mission Control.”
Frank’s fuzzy brain worked out the meaning of the words. “Hope it’s good news. We could use some.”
“Dan and Shorty have launched.” Joe frowned. “Houston’s keeping mighty quiet about it, though. Don’t like it.”
Jasper nodded. Frank just shook his head. He smelled another complication.
Joe zipped the suit, and Frank locked his helmet in place. Frank opened the air valve and gulped a lungful of oxygen-laden air. Relief flooded through him as his head cleared. Guilt prickled him as he pictured the others gasping, but he and Jasper needed full concentration for this job.
He pulled on his gloves, a nightmare for his hands. It took so much force to make them bend around the tools that his hands fatigued before his body.
After a final check, they entered the airlock, reduced the pressure to zero, and floated out. They tethered their suits. Earth sparkled like an exotic jewel, but Frank had no time to admire the view.
Moving in sync as if they’d practiced this maneuver hundreds of times, they pulled toolboxes and the heavy repair piece from the airlock and closed it behind them. The cobbled-together patch moved easily in zero gravity, but stopping it was another story. Weightlessness didn’t suspend Newton’s laws—an object in motion tended to remain in motion.
“Nice and easy, Frank.” Jasper’s reminder was unnecessary as they inched the bulky metal square toward the docking area.
Finally, they reached the port. They guided the piece into place. A perfect fit.
Jasper gave a thumbs-up to Joe, who was videotaping the job from a window. Frank wondered where the odd gesture came from. Roman gladiator fights?
“Roger.” Joe’s usual banter must be lying on the deck, too oxygen-deprived to reach the mic.
As Frank worked with Jasper to bolt the patch in place, he fought to keep his tether out of the way. The thing was a nuisance but kept him from floating into space. He glanced at the station’s antennas, daring him to test the resiliency of his thin EVA suit on their protrusions.
Frank returned to his obsession. My fault. Every dent and scrape on the docking ring stared at him in silent accusation.
He cringed at the thought of facing the media and the formal NASA inquiry. The best he could hope for was the Gus Grissom treatment. Gus should have had a hero’s welcome but instead was blamed for blowing the hatch early after splashdown, causing the Mercury capsule to sink. NASA later cleared him, but he ran the gauntlet of an outraged public. At least he regained a little dignity until the Apollo 1 fire ended his life.
Frank had destroyed the mission and killed Larry. The crisis he’d caused threatened all their lives with asphyxiation. Assuming they survived, his career and reputation were over. He would be court-martialed, stripped of rank, possibly imprisoned. His roiling emotions conjured up all sorts of ramifications. The scenarios that assaulted him would not, could not happen.
The blackness of space squeezed him in a steel fist. An idea germinated. He could redeem himself.
They secured the last of the metal to the docking ring. Frank stared at the toolbox’s contents and grabbed an instrument. Jasper gave him an awkward high five and floated toward the airlock. Frank hung behind.
With Jasper’s back turned, Frank detached his tether. He felt calm, focused. He held the sharp knife against his suit and pushed off. One slash…
Vise-like fingers closed around his boot.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Jasper’s stern voice crackled as he clung to Frank’s ankle with both hands.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Frank’s words lashed out. “With me gone, you’ll have one less body using up air.”
“Are you insane?”
Frank kicked at Jasper’s grip. Jasper held on, his tether taut. Their bodies swung in a dangerous version of the children’s game of whip. Jasper’s momentum flung him toward the station’s welcoming antennas.
Frank gulped. One more inch and Jasper would be a dead man.
Jasper reeled himself in. He jammed a boot under one of the handholds. Grunting, he hauled Frank into the airlock and pried the knife from his hand. “Of all the selfish, idiotic stunts…“
Frank’s body went limp. “At least I could have died a hero.”
“Hero? Hero?” Jasper slammed him against an airlock wall. “You fool! You nearly killed us both. And for what? So you could make some grand gesture? So we could have another corpse orbiting Earth?” The man was spitting nails.
Shock silenced Frank’s protests. He had never seen Jasper so angry.
Jasper’s eyes blazed. “We all risk our necks out here. How dare you give up now.” He took a deep breath and softened his expression. “We need you, Frank.”
Jasper sealed the outside hatch. Frank deflated in defeat. “Let me go.”
His fellow astronaut launched into a pep talk. Frank swallowed hard as the specter of causing Jasper’s death loomed over him. Finally, he listened.
“Dan and Shorty are busting their backsides to rescue us, so don’t be getting all hopeless. And as for your ‘ruined career’ mantra, forget it. We’ll back you to the edge of space if we have to.”
Frank saw no condemnation in Jasper’s eyes—only the determination of a bobcat snarling at enemies.
Jasper patted Frank’s shoulder. “C’mon, hotshot. Let’s go in.”
Frank sniffled, wishing he had a tissue to blow his nose. Impossible in a pressure suit. He smiled, but a lead brick still weighed down his thoughts.
He followed Jasper through the connecting airlock. The other astronauts stared in silence as Joe helped remove his suit. Then everyone dropped their gaze and avoided his eyes.
Mortification slunk into his brain. They’d heard everything. They’d seen his futile attempt to kill himself. Mission Control, too, and probably anyone who owned a television set. Frank kicked off the suit’s legs, floated to the commode, and closed the curtain, the only private place on the station. No one disturbed him.
Dinner was a somber affair, even with the successful EVA and the anticipated arrival of Valiant. Tension tainted the room. Frank picked at his food. Finally, he mumbled an apology and turned in. He popped a sleeping pill, wanting dreamless oblivion. Instead, Hildi followed him. Just what I need. Another lecture.
“Frank, all of us have the utmost respect for you.” She floated near his sleeping bag, more angel than astronaut. “The docking accident wasn’t your fault. Larry’s death was a tragedy, but you can’t wallow in self-blame. It’s time to forgive yourself.”
“How?” His ton
e was flat, lifeless.
“Ask God.”
Her words echoed her father’s and every sermon he’d ever heard. His anger boiled. “God.” Frank flung the word in her face like a curse. “You realize we’re all going to die, don’t you? Where will God be then?”
“Waiting to welcome you home.” Hildi left the comment hanging and pulled herself out of the room.
Frank stewed in his own juices. First Jasper’s lecture, then Hildi’s meddling. Could his comrades—to use Leonid’s expression—really be that loyal to him? Maybe, not that he deserved it. He’d seen fierce compassion in Jasper’s eyes and calm assurance in Hildi’s. He breathed the thin air, as thin as his hope for redemption. But he did have hope. His relentless self-blame had lessened just a little. Inexplicable.
Unless God had something to do with it.
He forced his rusty-hinged door of prayer to grind open. Finally, he whispered, “God, help me to forgive myself, because I’m no use to anyone here if I keep moping around. Forgive me for being so self-centered. And such an idiot. That’s all I have to say.”
Sleep trickled in.
37
Worth sagged in his bed as the doctor told him the grim truth.
Dr. Stephens tried to sugarcoat it, of course. Worth finally asked him to stop sweetening the bitter news.
The doctor took a deep breath. “Your pneumonia is worsening in spite of several antibiotics. As a result, your oxygen levels have steadily decreased. Your latest cardio readout shows an irregular heartbeat. Your compromised immune system is unable to fight off the virus.” He paused as if hesitant to say the words.
Worth mustered the energy to speak. “I’m dying,” he wheezed.
Dr. Stephens nodded. “That’s my prognosis.” He shuffled his feet then met Worth’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Worth. There’s nothing more I can do except make you comfortable.” The doctor made a notation on the chart at the foot of the bed and left.
Worth wasn’t surprised. At the moment, he didn’t feel too bad. But his condition was starting to mess with his prayer life. His brain felt muddled, and every breath was an effort.