by Marty Steere
Cartwright checked his timer and confirmed that the command module had cleared the horizon.
“Concord to Lexington,” he said, “do you read me Steve?”
“Loud and clear,” Dayton replied in his Maine accent. “Are you back at the module?”
“I am,” Cartwright said. Then he amended, “We are.”
When he’d had the chance to re-connect with Dayton, Cartwright had informed the man about the events that had transpired on the moon’s surface. Dayton had been appropriately shocked. Since being briefed, Dayton had completed numerous orbits, and he obviously had a lot of time to think while on the far side of the moon, because each time he’d emerged after the first several passes, he’d cooked up increasingly more fanciful theories regarding the motives and participants behind the whole thing. Finally, the two astronauts had come to the realization that they didn’t know what was going on, and they’d concluded that the best they could do was rendezvous and get home. There, to use a phrase Gale had earlier employed, everything would be sorted out.
“Are you ready to go through the checklist?” Cartwright asked.
“Affirmative.”
In the absence of a lunar module pilot, the role Gale had filled, Cartwright had asked Dayton to retrieve his copy of the ascent pre-launch protocol, and the two now started through the tedious process of verifying that all systems were ready for the lift off. As Dayton read each item, Cartwright manually verified the applicable readouts and set the appropriate switches.
They were nearing the end of the list, and, thus far, everything had checked out.
“Ascent helium, tank one,” Dayton called out.
Cartwright toggled the switch and froze. “Negative,” he said, after a moment.
“Did you say ‘negative’?”
“I did,” Cartwright replied, cycling the switch on and off. “Zero pressure.”
There was a long silence. Cartwright guessed Dayton was consulting the manual. Finally, Dayton said, “Ok, check ascent helium, tank two.”
Cartwright toggled that switch and got the same result. He took a deep breath. “We have a problem, Steve.”
Dayton didn’t immediately reply. They both knew the seriousness of this news. The ascent engine on the lunar module was fueled by a hypergolic mixture of propellant and oxidizer, Aerozine 50 and nitrogen tetroxide, respectively. When the two materials were brought into contact, they ignited spontaneously, providing the thrust needed to push the ascent stage of the module off the lunar surface. Earlier in the checklist, Cartwright and Dayton had confirmed that there was plenty of propellant and oxidizer contained in the storage tanks of the module. The problem was, without something to force the two together, the fuel was useless. The transferring agent the module relied on was helium.
And Cartwright had just determined that there was, apparently, no helium onboard.
That wasn’t logical. As bizarre as the whole thing with Gale had been, Cartwright couldn’t imagine that helium had not been loaded onto the ascent stage of the lunar module and that the two of them had, in effect, been sent on a one-way mission. If that had been the case, he thought, why would Gale have gone to the efforts he did after completing his tasks at the Soviet base? The man had certainly been expecting to live. And, to do so, the ascent engine would have had to function.
No, Cartwright told himself, something else was wrong. Think, Bob.
And, after a long moment, a thought did occur to him. As soon as it did, he wished it hadn’t.
“Steve, I may know what the problem is. Or at least the root of the problem.” He checked his timer. He was about to lose Dayton anyway. “I’ve got to go outside again. I’ll check back in with you when you re-emerge.”
“Ok,” Dayton replied. Cartwright could hear the anxiety in the man’s voice. It matched his own.
Cartwright once again positioned the helmet on Kruchinkin and repressurized the man’s suit. The cosmonaut stirred briefly, then returned to a fitful sleep. When Cartwright had his own suit pressurized, he dumped the cabin atmosphere, eased out the front hatch and clambered back down the stairs. He made his way around the module to the rear, where the pale, broken body of Gale lay in the gray dust, naked but for the soiled fecal containment subsystem around his midsection that looked vaguely like an adult diaper. Cartwright stared at the corpse for several seconds. It looked forlorn and pathetic. He felt no sympathy.
He positioned himself near Gale’s body and looked up. It took only a couple of seconds to see it. Just to the side of the aft equipment bay, below a cluster of reaction control thrusters, there was a small hole in one of the panels.
Just great, he thought. Now he knew where the bullet that Gale had intended for him had gone. It had apparently entered a compartment on the side of the module that housed a series of tanks containing oxygen, propellant, oxidizer and, of course, helium.
When Gale had fired the weapon, Cartwright had believed he’d escaped death. Perhaps, he realized now, he had simply postponed it.
To know the extent of the damage, he needed to check inside the compartment the bullet had entered. That compartment, however, sat well above the lunar surface, a good twelve to fifteen feet higher than where he now stood. There was no good way to access it from here. He considered the problem for a minute. Then he returned to the front of the module, stopping at the rover to retrieve a tool kit. He climbed back up into the crew compartment. Kruchinkin, he could see through the clear shield on the man’s helmet, was awake, but apparently too exhausted to do anything but follow him with his eyes.
When they’d returned from the Soviet base, Cartwright had stowed the tethers that had most recently served to bind the suit he’d removed from Gale. He now pulled them out again, running them one at a time through his hands, gauging their respective lengths. He selected one he thought would work and clipped an end to the metallic buckle at his waist. Then he threaded the other end of the line through a loop on the tool kit he’d brought from the rover, pulling the kit close to him. He gathered up the balance of the tether and shoved it into the utility pocket at his thigh.
He reached up, unlatched the overhead hatch, and opened it. Planting a foot on the engine cover, he pushed himself up, forcing his way through the narrow opening. This one was smaller than the forward egress hatch, and he experienced a moment of panic when he thought he might get stuck. But he was able to wriggle his way through, and he emerged into the small circular area at the top of the vessel that would, if they were ever able to get back to the command service module, serve as a short tunnel to the command capsule.
Taking a seat on the top of the module, Cartwright withdrew the tether and attached the clip at the other end of the line to a small utility bar inset along the side of the access tunnel. He checked to make sure the line was holding at both ends, then swung his legs up and over the edge, rotating his body so that he was facing the module, and he slowly lowered himself down the side of the structure. He’d had to estimate the length for the tether, but it wound up being just about perfect. At full extension, he was able to reach down and plant his boots on one of the support members at the top of the descent stage. Using the tether to steady himself, he stood upright, facing one of the side panels to the compartment into which the bullet had been fired.
When he had himself situated, he pulled from the tool kit a socket wrench, the end of which he positioned over the nearest of the fasteners holding the panel to the side of the module, and he worked the fastener loose, allowing the small piece to fall free and drop slowly to the lunar surface below. He repeated the process with the other five fasteners, and, when the last of them came away, he also allowed the panel to drift to the ground. Then he worked his way over to the rear of the compartment he’d just exposed.
The bullet Gale had fired had pierced the aft helium tank near its base and had passed clean through. It had just missed a small container of liquid oxygen that sat between the two helium tanks and had embedded itself in the side of the second tank. The firs
t tank, he knew, would have drained immediately. It looked like the second may have taken longer to discharge, but he feared that it too was probably empty. In that case, he and Kruchinkin were dead men. But he had no idea how to determine what was left in the tank or, more importantly, what to do about it.
A sudden movement to his side made his heart jump. Then he realized that Kruchinkin had somehow managed to follow him out of the docking hatch and was in the process of lowering himself down to his side. When the cosmonaut reached him, Cartwright could see the man wincing inside his helmet. After a moment, though, Kruchinkin found a foothold, turned and looked at him.
“Is problem, yes?” he asked, his voice in Cartwright’s earpiece still extraordinarily weak.
“Yes,” Cartwright said, simply, pointing to the bullet that had flattened itself against the second tank. Kruchinkin squinted, then blinked. After a moment, he raised his head and studied the other contents of the compartment, then returned his attention to the damaged tank. He reached in slowly and ran his hand across a device attached to the top of both helium tanks.
“Pneumatic control assembly,” he said softly, apparently by way of explanation. With two fingers, he slightly rotated a threaded piece protruding from the side of the device. Then he pointed to the bullet. “Tank is not yet empty. You have patch for space suit?”
Cartwright nodded. The kit was still in his utility pocket.
“We patch now,” Kruchinkin said. “Quickly.”
Of course. Cartwright kicked himself for not thinking of it. With a newfound sense of hope, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the small kit. He selected one of the patch sets, tearing open the first half and withdrawing the clean strip of gauze that it contained. He reached in and rubbed the area around which the bullet had come to rest, wiping away the accumulated dust and debris. Then he tore open the second half and withdrew the actual patch, quickly placing the dull adhesive side against the tank and pressing it into place with the heel of his gloved hand. When he pulled his hand back, the patch had sealed over the spot, conforming to the shape of the spent bullet embedded in the side of the tank.
Kruchinkin had continued to study the layout of the compartment. He now turned his head toward Cartwright and said faintly, “Is very little left in tank. Maybe thirty seconds.” He winced. “Maybe less.” A cough caused him to grimace, and he shut his eyes for a moment before opening them and refocusing on Cartwright.
“Maybe less,” he repeated.
Cartwright was doing quick calculations. An ascent burn took seven minutes. The standard profile called for the module to rise straight up from the lunar surface for about twelve seconds, before being taken through a pitch program that would eventually elevate the craft to 50,000 feet, at which point it would enter a coasting transfer orbit in preparation for rendezvous with the command module. The adjustments necessary to bring the module into proper course alignment would normally be performed by the reaction control system, consisting of the various thrusters located in clusters around the vessel.
If all they had was thirty seconds worth of burn, give or take a little, they’d never be able to achieve an orbit. About the best they could do would be to shoot themselves straight up, high enough off the surface to, in theory, allow the command module to drop down and grab them quickly before they lost upward momentum and began the long, deadly descent to the surface. It would take incredible skill to perform such a recovery. But, if there was any pilot who could do it, Cartwright knew, it was Steve Dayton. The big question was could they get high enough if all they had was thirty seconds?
Maybe less.
Pointing to a valve in the line that extended up from the pneumatic control assembly, Kruchinkin said, “We must bypass thrusters. Otherwise, helium is wasted filling line to thruster fuel cells. Must sacrifice control for altitude.”
It made sense. Cartwright nodded.
Kruchinkin reached in and rotated the valve shut. Then he looked at Cartwright with a pained expression. “Is best we can do.”
#
Steve Dayton floated back to his seat in the command module, scanning, as he did, the readouts from the large instrument panel arrayed before him. He’d spent the last hour inputting data and crunching numbers on his computer. He was as ready as he would ever be.
He knew this craft like the back of his hand, having spent the better part of the last four years learning her abilities. And limitations. She wasn’t exactly a jet fighter, and he missed the visceral feedback - and thrill - that came from throwing an F4 Phantom around in the sky while flying on the edge. But he’d come to appreciate what she could do. More importantly, he felt confident that he could maneuver her wherever needed to couple with the lunar module. Just as long as they could get the darn module far enough off the surface.
The limiting altitude on emergency rescue of a lunar module was officially 30,000 feet. Dayton was prepared to go lower if that’s what it took to save Bob Cartwright.
He’d known Cartwright for several years, and he liked the man. A lot. He wasn’t alone.
Cartwright, Dayton knew, had risen quickly in the astronaut ranks, becoming the youngest by far to command an Apollo mission. His quiet, serious demeanor, while inspiring confidence, could be intimidating for those who hadn’t yet gotten to know him. But, when they did, they learned that Cartwright had a keen sense of humor. And, though he didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve, those emotions ran deep and true. He was a born leader, a man who took loyalty to those in his command seriously, and who in turn inspired a profound loyalty from them.
No, Dayton thought, if saving Cartwright meant going below the hard deck, he’d go below.
Well below.
Dayton had used the thrusters located along the side of the command module to drop his orbit down to 50,000 feet. The module was now oriented so that it directly faced the surface of the moon, and Dayton could see the mountains and craters as they passed majestically by the rendezvous window in front of him.
On numerous prior passes over the Sea of Crises, Dayton had tried, unsuccessfully, to spot Concord’s landing site using the command module’s 28-power sextant. He wanted to be able to pick up the lunar module visually as soon as possible as it began its rise from the surface, and he’d hoped to identify landmarks that would assist him in doing so. Of course, on those prior passes, he’d been sixty-nine miles up. This was a whole different perspective.
He checked the timer. Just under three minutes to launch.
Cartwright’s voice sounded in his earpiece. “Concord to Lexington, do you read me Steve?”
“Roger. Loud and clear.”
“Ok,” Cartwright said, “before I light this candle, I want to go over a couple of things.”
“Shoot.”
“First, if we don’t get the full burn.” Cartwright stopped suddenly, as if contemplating the ramifications. Then he continued, “If we don’t get the full burn, you will not drop below 30,000. Are we clear on that?”
Dayton hesitated before replying, “Clear.”
Dayton did another quick scan of his thruster settings. He’d programmed in a sequence that would take him straight down toward the lunar surface if the module’s engine cut out early. All he would need to do is hit the master switch to engage the thrusters in his pre-programmed sequence. His plan, should it become necessary, was to duck down, snatch the vessel, then immediately reverse thrusters to pull himself back into orbit. The move would be not unlike those of the terns and gulls he’d watched growing up on the coast of Maine. Instead of a small fish, though, he would be pulling back up with him a much more precious cargo. And, despite the admonition from Cartwright, he would go as low as necessary to do it. He saw no purpose to be served, though, in making the point, so he kept it to himself.
“Second,” Cartwright continued, “if we don’t make this rendezvous, you will not hesitate to take the command module out of lunar orbit and get yourself home. When you do, I don’t want you telling anyone at NASA you know what happene
d here on the surface. I don’t know who all is involved in this, but I have to assume for now that the entire Administration has been compromised. You tell them you have no idea what happened down here. During the first EVA, you lost all communication, and it was never restored. The module never left the surface. Then you take all of this straight to the Navy brass. Or Air Force,” he added, apparently remembering belatedly the arm of the service to which Dayton belonged. “Get this out in the open. Do not let the bastards get away with it.”
The notion of returning to Earth without Cartwright was inconceivable to Dayton. How could he possibly do that? But he knew better than to argue with his commander.
“I understand,” Dayton said. “But,” he added, “we’ll do it together.”
Cartwright didn’t respond immediately. Finally, he said, “Roger that.”
They had run the calculations and concluded that a thirty-second burn would be optimal for bringing the module up to Dayton’s current altitude before losing momentum. They certainly didn’t want to overshoot, so Cartwright would be poised to shut down the rocket when - if - they hit thirty seconds. First, though, they’d have to be able to start the engine. Dayton consulted the elapsed time. Thirty seconds to launch. Showtime.
“All right,” said Cartwright, “I’m going to pressurize the line.”
Dayton took in a sharp breath. This was the acid test. If there was no pressure in the line, it was all over. The module would never leave the surface of the moon. He held the breath.
“And we have pressure,” Cartwright announced, as casually as if it were a routine checklist item.
Dayton expelled the breath. So far, so good. Still, would the engine ignite? And, if it did, how long would it burn?
Again, without a hint there was anything out of the ordinary going on, Cartwright called out, “Standing by to start time on the burn. We will have ignition in three, two, one.”
Time seemed to stand still.