First Landing

by Robert Zubrin

  Alarm klaxons began shrieking, shockingly loud in the Hab cabin.

  “Colonel!” Luke barked from his temporary position as co-pilot in Gwen’s absence. “We’re going in too steep! The aeroshield’s off-center. We’re going to burn!”

  The man was obviously hysterical, but he had a point. The Martian atmosphere was only six-tenths of one percent as thick as Earth’s, but at the Beagle’s tremendous velocity, a too-steep angle of entry would burn them to ashes once their heat-resistant aeroshield gave way. “Calm down, Luke. We still have forty-five seconds.”

  “Colonel, Gwen’s moving in toward the starboard lock,” Dr. Sherman said, keeping her voice level. “If you can hold this orientation just a few more seconds, I think she can make it.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Townsend made a mental note. Dr. Sherman. She has a cool head on her shoulders, that one.

  The ship creaked and shuddered with vibrations as they encountered the first wisps of Mars’ upper ionosphere. Where was Gwen?

  “Only fifteen seconds left! Colonel, you’ve got to—”

  “Shut up, Luke,” Sherman interrupted. “She’s almost—Oh no, now she’s being pushed back by the wind.”

  No time left. Townsend stabbed the port retro, shoving the ship one last time in Gwen’s direction. There was a substantial thump. Gwen, I sure hope you didn’t bounce.

  “She’s in the lock.”

  Townsend smiled, but only for a second. The klaxons were deafening, and every light on the control panel glared red. The vessel shuddered with the impact of substantial atmospheric entry. He grabbed the aero-control stick, and pulled back hard.

  “All right crew, fasten your seat belts, we’re coming about. Time to do some real flying.”

  A sudden lurch told Townsend that he’d been a second too late. All hell broke loose in the cabin as the Beagle convulsed into a wild spin. Townsend caught a momentary glance of several crew members tossed about like rag dolls; then they were gone from his peripheral vision. All that existed for Townsend now were some retros, a stick, and data readouts.

  He fought madly with the controls, but the aeroshield’s angle of attack was all wrong, and the Beagle tumbled in the thickening air.

  Gasping inside the starboard lock, Gwen managed to close the outer door before the riotous spin started. The rotation slammed her back and forth within the lock until she wedged herself between the narrow walls. Christ, we’re out of control!

  If they were going to get out of this alive, the Beagle needed two sets of hands at the controls. Somehow, she had to make it back to the command console. She hit the emergency pressure equalization button and heard the whoosh as cabin air flooded the lock compartment. As her suit flattened with subpressurization, she undogged the inner lock door and pushed her way into the cabin.

  What a mess! Debris was scattered everywhere; one computer monitor had been smashed by a flying object. Dr. Sherman clutched the back of her chair, swinging about as it spun in place, struggling in vain to pull herself into the seat. Luke Johnson sprawled on the floor, holding tight to one of the legs of the galley table. As Gwen watched, a badly bruised Professor McGee staggered into the cabin and bounced off the wall, caromed off a set of science consoles, then crashed fortuitously into his own chair, buckling himself in not ten feet from her, as if that had been his plan all along.

  If that lubber can make it to his station, then so can I.

  Gwen muttered a brief prayer, then scrambled across the deck, only to be hurled back to her starting point by a sudden 3-g force. For a moment the force varied in direction, then settled down to a near-constant vector, directly contrary to her intended path.

  Well, at least Townsend seems to be limiting the tumble—that constant g-force means he’s finally gotten the shield around.

  But that left her with the problem of climbing across the deck inclined against 3 g’s worth of pull. She set her boot magnetos on maximum and tried trudging forward again—no use, not enough traction. She stared across the deck at her control station, impossibly close, impossibly far.

  Now something strange was going on. That idiot egghead McGee began climbing out of his chair, locking eyes with her. Is he crazy? Gwen thought. He’s gone down on the deck, holding the base of his chair. I don’t get it. Jesus, he’s stretching himself across the deck towards me! He’s making himself into a rope ladder. Well, I’ll be! “Okay, Professor!” Gwen shouted through the chaos. “Here I come.”

  She shoved off the airlock outer door, feeling as if she were rolling heavy boulders uphill, and grabbed McGee’s feet and hauled herself forward. She reached an arm up and grabbed his knee, then his belt. As she climbed, Gwen felt a surge of admiration. The man was holding two human bodies steeply sloped against 3 g’s. It had to hurt like hell. “Now don’t let go,” she gasped in a whisper. “If you do, you’ll crush us both when we hit the wall.” Just a few more seconds. Hold on.

  Gwen’s arm reached the shaft of McGee’s chair, and she pulled herself up. “Well done, Professor!” She shot him a smile, then pushed away from his chair to reach her own. She flung herself into her seat and buckled in. Tossing off her helmet, she could smell burnt insulation in the cabin air. “Status, Colonel?”

  “Glad to see you back at your post, Major. We’re under control, but seem to be a bit deeper into the atmosphere than called for in the nominal flight profile.”

  Gwen glanced at the altimeter and recoiled in horror. Twelve kilometers! Way too deep within the atmosphere for aerocapture into a stable orbit. One way or another the ship was going down, and soon.

  “ABORT TO SURFACE, ABORT TO SURFACE,” the navigation computer bleated metallically.

  Gwen checked the local navigation readouts: two thousand kilometers from the primary landing site. She was ready when Townsend hit her with the expected question: “Do we have enough airspeed to make it to the return vehicle?”

  Their ride home, the Earth Return Vehicle, had been launched from Earth a full year and a half before the Beagle lifted off. The ERV had landed in a carefully chosen spot, sitting on its site automatically processing oxygen, water, and rocket fuel from Martian resources. Everything had been carefully planned for the habitation module to touch down nearby, for the crew to go find the nice welcome mat.

  But plans made in comfortable conference rooms didn’t always turn out as expected.

  “Way too much,” Gwen answered quickly. “The only way to slow down in time is to fly low through the canyon and thread the needle. Risky with all this irregular ground, and flying that low won’t give us enough altitude for the chute to land us. Might be safer to abort to the south and hope that the backup ERV can be retargeted for a rescue mission.”

  “That’ll be the day,” replied Townsend. “Hold on tight, we’re going in.”

  Oh brother, here we go, thought Gwen, wincing. Where do they find guys like this? She watched the nav readouts as Townsend did everything he could to control altitude. Looking out the window, she could see the blinding light of the trail of ionized gas as the ship streaked like a fireball across the Martian sky. Their target was the landing radar transponder aboard the ERV near the north edge of the Valles Marineris—the greatest canyon in the solar system, deeper than the Grand Canyon and as long as the entire United States. If they didn’t make it there, the crew would be hopelessly stranded.

  Then the blazing plasma trail was gone. Gwen stared at the unearthly landscape rising on both sides as the ship streaked between mountains and through the canyon.

  “SEA LEVEL,” the computer announced neutrally—an odd phrase for a desert planet that had lost its lakes and rivers many millions of years ago. “ONE KILOMETER BELOW SEA LEVEL. TWO KILOMETERS BELOW SEA LEVEL.”

  Gwen’s heart pounded with growing hope. “You’re in the groove, Colonel. We’re way below the surrounding terrain, right in the axis of the canyon. You’ve got one chance to pull out of this dive, sir, so make it good.”

  “Roger that.” Townsend pulled the stick back into
a climb.

  Suddenly, in the rapidly approaching distance, Gwen spotted the tiny ERV glinting silver-red in the sunlight, the only man-made object on the alien surface. “Target in sight.”

  Townsend steered toward it, but he had sacrificed too much velocity just to fly the ship. Gwen waited for the inevitable order. “Pop the chutes.”

  She slapped her hand down on the control, releasing the drogue and main parachutes in sequence. When the main opened, a sudden shock slammed her against her seat; then all was strangely quiet except for a rocking motion as the ship swayed at the end of the chute’s risers.

  “Release aeroshield.”

  Gwen obeyed without comment, knowing they were about to discover the answer to a key question: Do we have enough altitude to land, or do we smash? She regarded the control readout. “Too low,” she whispered. Townsend nodded grimly.

  Momentarily possessed by a bit of black humor, Gwen activated the ship’s annunciator. “Attention all passengers. Prepare for crash landing. Free champagne if we make it down alive. Thank you for flying Beagle Airlines.”

  “Thank you, stewardess.” Townsend laughed.

  Gwen looked at the altimeter, all business again. “Time to cast off the main chute.”

  “No, we keep it. This is going to be a sails-and-engines job.”

  Or a wing-and-a-prayer job, Gwen thought.

  “Arm landing rockets. Arm orbital maneuvering system.”

  She flipped switches. “Landing rockets armed. OMS armed.”

  “Arm emergency backups.”

  More switches. “Backups armed.”

  “Disengage all engine safety throttle limiters.”

  “Engine safety throttle limiters disen—What?” The order made no sense. The throttle limiters were a feedback control circuit to reduce propellant flow if the thermocouples detected engine overheating. They shouldn’t be switched off. And couldn’t be.

  “I said, disengage the throttle limiter safety system! Can you do it?”

  “Yes, sir.” If he needed thrust, she’d give him thrust, but. . .

  The computer continued its emotionless recitation. “TWELVE SECONDS TO IMPACT, TEN, NINE . . .”

  There was one way to do it quickly. Gwen reached for Old Faithful, the sheath knife attached to her boot, and pried open her control panel. Which were the right connections? No time for subtlety. She grabbed a clump of wires and ripped them loose with a hard, two-handed tug. “Throttle limiters disengaged.”

  “Roger,” said Townsend. “Firing.”

  He slammed his hands on the control panel to fire all landing rockets and emergency backups; then his hands danced across the OMS controls as he fired the ship’s own orbital maneuvering system as well. The Hab module shuddered with the shotgun bang of the rocket systems kicking in. Seconds later, they rode through a massive jarring as the landing gear hit the ground.

  Then everything was quiet.

  Gwen turned around to look first at the mission commander, then at the crew. Everyone appeared glazed or in shock. Luke had lost teeth, and blood was streaming from his mouth and nose. McGee was clenching his jaw, rubbing an aching shoulder; Gwen looked quickly away from him, remembering what he had done.

  Rebecca Sherman stared wide-eyed out the window, coughing quietly.

  Gwen staggered over to her. At first she could see little in the thick, stirred-up dust, but then the view cleared to reveal the Martian landscape—with the vital ERV standing not a hundred yards away. She exchanged a glance of wonder with the doctor.

  Before she could say anything, her thoughts were interrupted by the crackle of the radio. “Beagle, this is Houston Control. Please report on your post-aerocapture orbital status.” Due to the long transmission lag, NASA was way behind the times. “We’ll need to discuss a number of items before we give the final go-ahead for your commitment to land. Please prepare a detailed report on the status of . . .”

  Gwen saw Colonel Townsend pick up his mike. This should be interesting.

  “Houston Control, this is Mars Base One. The Beagle has landed.”

  A ragged cheer erupted from McGee and Luke. Gwen took another look out the window. It was true, it was there, right there, the ERV Retriever, their ticket home. From somewhere came an uncanny sound.

  It took a second for Gwen to realize that the strange sound echoing through the Hab module was her own voice, a rebel yell, the first and loudest ever heard on Mars.

  MISSION CONTROL, JOHNSON SPACE CENTER

  OCT. 26, 2011 14:55 CST

  Townsend’s message had just come through to Philip Mason, the Chief of Mission Operations at Johnson Space Center. A somewhat overstuffed African-American manager who dressed impeccably in tailored suits and silk ties, Mason was confused to the point of hysteria. He looked around at the other staff members, as if they knew more than he did.

  “What does he mean, he landed? That’s not scheduled for another three days.” He gestured to Craig Holloway, the young brown-clad ecogoth computer whiz, who in his own way typified the diverse workforce of the new NASA. “Craig, get that flyboy asshole to stop horsing around and give us his precise orbital elements so we can work out a nav sequence. By the book. And tell him to snap to it. We’re going to have to go over a lot of things before anybody commits to a landing.”

  Al Rollins looked up from his console. Young as Holloway, but with close-cropped hair, white shirt, and pocket protector, Rollins was a more classic nerd. “Chief, we’ve got imaging telemetry coming in from the Beagle.”

  That sounded reassuring. “Put it on the main viewscreen.” Mason self-consciously straightened his tie and picked up his microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, we have live pictures from the Beagle, which has now completed its aerocapture maneuver into a precisely targeted low Mars orbit.” He smiled with proud confidence.

  The viewscreen cleared to show a stark Martian landscape with a dusty Earth Return Vehicle in the near distance. As the Chief of Mission Operations stared in disbelief, he felt all the eyes in the room on him.

  “Holy shit, I don’t believe it!” he mumbled. “That flyboy asshole really is on Mars.”

  For one crisp moment, utter silence filled the room; then pandemonium erupted. Control operators jumped up on their desks and cheered, while those reporters who had not had the sense to smuggle their cellulars past JSC security shoved each other aside in a mad rush to the bank of available telephones. Mason felt his own spirits begin to rise. He was about to join in the cheering himself, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Phil, I’ve got the report from the Beagle.” Tex Logan was the last of the Apollo-era veterans still working in Mission Control. “The premature landing was caused by a failure of the tether pyro release systems. Major Llewellyn was forced to perform an emergency EVA, which upset the flight plan.”

  Mason looked at the old geezer in astonishment. “Complete tether release pyro failure? Are you sure?”

  “Sure as taxes.”

  “But that couldn’t have happened.” That release system was triple redundant, Mason knew, with a ten-to-one over-design on the firing power.

  “Nope.” Tex’s voice became grim and conspiratorial. “Not by itself, anyhow. Think about it.”

  Mason stared at the laconic old-timer, his lined face stern with unspoken implications. Sabotage? The thought was terrifying. Then again, Tex Logan was always coming up with bizarre conspiracy theories.

  The two were joined by Darrell Gibbs, the nattily clad Special Assistant to the White House Science and Security Advisor. “So, gentlemen, what do we have?” the thirty-something politico inquired.

  Mason turned to face the younger man. “Well, Darrell, Tex here thinks that we may be dealing with a case of sabotage.”

  Gibbs raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Gotta be,” Tex insisted. “Either here in Houston, onboard Beagle, or somewhere at the Cape.”

  Gibbs smiled. Like most others in Mission Control, he was also acquainted with the older man�
��s many conspiracy theories. “Tex, be reasonable. Who could possibly want to wreck humanity’s first mission to Mars?”

  “Now let me see,” Tex replied, sliding into his drawl. “There’s the Libyans, the Iranians, the Iraqis, the North Koreans, the Russians, the Chinese, the Europeans, the Japanese, the Mafia, the Colombian drug lords.” He took a breath. “The crew’s enemies, JSC’s enemies, NASA’s enemies, the Administration’s enemies, the Trilateral Commission, the Bilderbergers—”

  “Don’t forget the UN one-worlders,” Gibbs interjected.

  “For sure. Then there’s the Amber Room group, MI-5, the JACKAL, and—”

  “The second shooter on the grassy knoll.” Mason rolled his eyes and chuckled.

  “There was a second shooter on the grassy knoll,” Tex replied stiffly.

  Gibbs put a friendly hand on Tex’s shoulder. “Come on, old boy, lighten up. We’ve just successfully landed on Mars, for crying out loud.”

  The Chief of Mission Operations looked around and brushed a fleck of lint from his suit. NASA personnel from neighboring buildings were pouring into Mission Control. Champagne was flowing, and people were cheering, hugging, dancing on their desks like it was VE Day in Times Square. He’d never seen anything like it, and then it finally started to dawn on him. They’d done it! By God, they’d actually done it! This was the moment he’d worked for all his professional life. Tex was off his rocker. This was a time for celebration!

  Mason grabbed a champagne bottle from Rollins, took a swig, and poured the rest on his head. “Yippee!”

  With amusement, Gibbs watched the transformation of the normally straight-laced administrator.

  But Tex had yet to join in the celebratory spirit. “Here you go, old man—have a beer! They landed safe. That’s all that matters.”

  The Texan accepted a cool Coors from Gibbs and took a sip, but he still didn’t look won over. “Yep. But they’re still a long way from home.”

  CHAPTER 3