Defcon One (1989)

by Joe Weber

  Howard, eyes bloodshot and baggy, responded slowly to the request.

  Doctor Hays told me they expect to have the problem solved inside of two hours. Actually, an hour and forty-five minutes from now.' Howard leaned back, not really focusing on Chambers.

  Ms. Blaylocke, Chambers continued, it is the considered opinion of the Joint Chiefs that you, or your designate from this staff, be on board the airborne command post until we downgrade to DEFCON-Three.

  The E-Four, as you well know, has nonjammable communications.

  Chambers spread his hands on the table, fingers outstretched.

  We believe, in the event of a full-scale Soviet preemptive strike, that someone from the White House should be in the airborne command post.There simply won't be time to transport a staff member, or yourself, ma'am, if the Soviets push the button.

  Blaylocke, hands clasped together on the table, did not respond immediately. The room remained quiet while the vice president pondered the recommendation.

  Admiral, I believe it is my duty to remain in the White House until the president is physically in this room.

  Blaylocke, poised and radiating confidence, paused a moment and continued. It is my opinion. Admiral, that General Ridenour, being Air Force, should be the on-site commander in the command post.

  Everyone nodded in agreement, except Cliff Howard, before Chambers spoke. Any problem with that. Milt?

  None whatsoever. Admiral. I'll be on board within the hour.

  Ridenour rose from his seat, reached down for his cover and attache case, then faced the vice president. By your leave, ma'am.

  Blaylocke rose from her seat and offered her hand. Good luck, General.

  Ridenour had just departed the White House Situation Room when an aide rushed in and conferred with the CIA director.

  The members of the staff stared curiously. The news at first brightened Corbin, then saddened the director. Corbin addressed the group.

  We have heard from the agents. Central communications received the message approximately seven minutes ago. Seems they are alive, but the rendezvous point has been changed. We're not sure why. Corbin coughed into his fist. It's only a matter of fifteen or twenty kilometers.

  Blaylocke didn't understand. Was there some kind of trouble after the initial problem in Moscow?

  Apparently so, Corbin responded, then cleared his throat.

  We don't know. The signal just arrived, so it will take some tim

  How will the pilots find them in the darkness so far from the prearranged rendezvous, Ted? Blaylocke was relentless.

  Corbin, showing a trace of irritation, responded in a caustic manner.

  Wickham, our senior agent, has a low-powered automatic direction finder for the crews to home on. He also has a limited-distance UHF radio to communicate with the rescue pilots.

  The transmitter will reach, from the ground, up to twenty miles.

  Thank you, Blaylocke replied without emotion. I know you will keep us updated.

  Chapter Twelve.

  COLUMBIA The unscheduled extravehicular activity (EVA) had set the satellite deployment mission hours behind time.

  Preparation for an EVA had to begin at least two and a half hours ahead of time. The flight deck of the shuttle, with a cabin atmosphere of 79 percent nitrogen and 21 percent oxygen, at a pressure of 14.7 psi (pounds per square inch), was the same atmosphere as on earth.

  The space suits had to be pressurized with pure oxygen at 4.1 psi. The lower pressure was sufficient to sustain life; however, there was one major problem. If an astronaut went directly from the oxygen-nitrogen cabin atmosphere into the pure-oxygen, reduced-pressure environment of the space suit, nitrogen gas dissolved in the blood would bubble out.

  The nitrogen gas bubbles, which would collect in the astronaut's joints, would cause a condition known as dysbarism, or more commonly, the bends.

  The bends, at the least, would be painful. The condition, as the shuttle's crew knew, could cripple or kill the astronauts.

  Doctor Tran and Alan Cressottie had breathed pure oxygen for over two hours before donning their suits. Two hours provided sufficient time to rid the body of all traceable nitrogen.

  Crawford was becoming anxious about the lost time. NASA was growing more nervous by the minute.

  Columbia. Houston.

  The mission commander answered, irritated by the constant intrusions.

  Go, Houston.

  We've lost video. What's the status?

  Crawford, the archetypal fighter pilot, was growing even more exasperated with the NASA controllers.

  Houston, Crawford asked in a pleasant manner, are we on closed audio?

  That's affirm, Columbia, replied the controller, without inflection.

  Good. Crawford waited a second, then continued. I wish to explain to you that we are not playing gin rummy up here. We're working on the problem as quickly and safely as possible.

  Long pause.

  Roger, Columbia. The voice had become more friendly, showing a thread of emotion. Understand.

  Absolute quiet followed for the next three minutes.

  Houston, Columbia, Crawford radioed. Doctor Tran is ready to enter the airlock.

  Roger. Copy entering the airlock. We have video again.

  The airlock, a small cylindrical chamber, allowed the astronauts to perform an EVA without depressurizing the entire crew compartment.

  Doctor Tran checked the airlock's life-support system, gave a thumbs up signal to his fellow crew members, and closed the entry hatch behind him.

  Cressottie had suited also, as a backup, but did not enter the airlock.

  ' Houston, Minh is donning his maneuvering unit and pressurizing the airlock, Crawford reported, waiting for the astronaut to check in via radio.

  Roger, Columbia. Looks good.

  Tran waited for the pressure to reach 0.2 psi, then checked in by radio.

  Ready for EVA. Good pressure in here.

  Copy, Minh. Cleared, Crawford looked out the viewing port, and good luck.

  Thanks, Skipper.

  Tran opened the outer hatch and floated effortlessly into the cargo bay.He used his maneuvering unit to propel himself toward the aft section of the bay. Tran could clearly see the satellite from his vantage point.

  Houston, I see our problem, the astronaut reported as he slowly floated toward the satellite.

  Can the package be salvaged? the mission controller asked in a worried voice.

  Let me get a closer look, Tran radioed as he moved to a position directly over the satellite.

  Looks as if the tracking and data relay antenna is twisted, Tran reported as he circled above the high-gain antenna. Houston, the antenna is broken. It's actually twisted in half.

  Copy, Columbia, the controller paused, conferring with a NASA engineer. Stand by.

  Roger, Tran replied, breathing deeply.

  Tran continued his inspection of the missile tracking satellite.

  He could see no other apparent damage. The satellite pallet had shifted, probably during the launch sequence, and pressed the antenna against the aft bulkhead of the cargo bay. That action had caused the package to jam under the ridge of the cargo bay doors.

  Columbia, Houston. Can you effect a repair that will allow the satellite to function?

  Another pause followed.

  At least until we can provide a replacement antenna?

  Houston, I'm skeptical, Tran replied, looking closely at the bent antenna, but I'll give it a try.

  Crawford and his crew watched Doctor Tran as he worked on the antenna.

  Six minutes. Seven minutes. NASA staff members grew impatient again, pressure flowing down from the top. Doctor Hays, absently massaging his chin, was standing next to the mission communicator.

  Columbia, Houston, Rex Hays radioed, talking on his own headset.

  Any luck?

  Not yet, Tran answered, working under duress. I'm going to have to splice the antenna. It may take a few minutes ... it's bent ninet
y degrees.

  Roger, Hays replied in an irritated voice.

  Crawford spoke to the payload specialist. Minh, if it looks unsalvageable to you, let's forget the job.

  Skipper, I don't believe this is going to work, but I'd like to lash the antenna together. Take a shot...

  Okay, Minh. Use your judgement. No pressure, Crawford replied as he watched the physicist work on the satellite.

  Roger, Tran replied, breathing deeply.

  Without warning, a brilliant flash stunned the astronauts, partially blinding them for a second.

  WHAT THE HELL!!

  Everyone instinctively flinched as they tried to adjust their minds to what was happening.

  SNAP!! Flash!

  Another bright light, like the flash of sunlight off a mirror, shocked the crew.

  LOOK!!

  Crawford and Cressottie reacted at the same instant, leaping back to the aft viewing port, blinking their eyes to clear the dots floating before their pupils.

  Oh, God ... No... Crawford said, emotion and pain tearing his guts out. He could feel the visceral impact of the sight in front of him.

  All the crew members crowded the two viewing windows.

  They could not believe their eyes when they surveyed the carnage in the cargo bay.

  Doctor Minh Tran had disappeared. Literally disappeared in the jumble of pieces gently floating away from the orbiter.

  Part of the vertical stabilizer was missing, along with a section of the right cargo door. Debris covered the cargo bay from the midsection aft to the damaged tail.

  Houston! Columbia! We've been hit by something, Crawford radioed, staring at the annunciator panel. It was lighted like a Christmas tree.We've got an emergency!

  Copy, Columbia. State your emergency. The voice seemed removed from the extreme situation.

  Shit, we've been hit by something! I don't know what it was... just a huge flash.

  Crawford was still in shock, along with his crew staring in disbelief at the wreckage in the cargo bay.

  Columbia, do you have cabin integrity? asked the hollow voice, strained with anxiety.

  Yeah, we seem to ... at the moment. Crawford looked at the cabin environmental gauges. Everything looked normal.

  Cabin pressure holding, Houston.

  A different voice emitted from Mission Control.

  Columbia, recommend crew don their suits. What is the nature of your emergency?

  Crawford responded, looking aft through the shattered cargo bay.

  Something hit us. I don't know what it was, but it destroyed the aft section of the cargo bay and part of the stabilizer.

  Roger, Columbia. Get Doctor Iran inside the cabin and descend to lower orbit.' We can't, Houston. Crawford's voice cracked.

  What do you mean you can't? Crawford took a deep breath, then replied slowly. We can change to low orbit, but Doctor Iran is dead.

  Oh, no ... You're positive?

  That's affirm, Houston, Crawford responded, tasting bile in his throat.

  Send Alan to retrieve him and descend to lower orbit.

  We're analyzing the data now.

  Crawford swallowed, then breathed deeply and slowly. We can't retrieve Doctor Tran. His body disintegrated. He isn't aboard Columbia.

  Oh, Jesus... the controller replied, then keyed his microphone again. Okay, get down to recovery orbit as soon as practical.

  Roger, Crawford replied, turning to face the crew. Let's suit up and descend before we lo Another blinding flash cut him short.

  OH ... Cressottie said, panic in his voice as he pointed to the annunciator panel. FIRE!

  All eyes turned to the emergency annunciator panel. Two smoke detector panel lights were brightly illuminated, along with a left main gear unsafe light. Two more emergency lights illuminated, glowing intensely, as the crew stared in horror.

  The flightdeck was chaotic as the astronauts scrambled to complete emergency procedures. Colonel Crawford, with the assistance of Ward Culdrew, began donning his space suit.

  Hank Doherty took command of the shuttle and initiated an emergency orbital change. Alan Cressottie, standing behind Doherty, read the emergency checklist to the shuttle pilot during the hasty descent.

  Columbia, Houston, the radio crackled.

  Columbia, Doherty replied, glancing at the array of twinkling lights on the annunciator panel.

  What's your status?

  We have ... ah, we have nominal cabin pressure, and the electrical fires appear to be contained. No primary threat indications at present.

  Roger, Columbia. Stand by.

  Houston, Doherty replied calmly, we do have a major problem with the main hydraulic system.

  What's your problem, Columbia?

  We've lost complete system integrity. Must have ruptured a main line,' Doherty explained, then added, We don't want to use the auxiliary system until we enter the lower atmosphere.

  Copy, Columbia.

  Crawford climbed into his seat, strapped in, then keyed his microphone.

  Houston, we've got another problem. Our left main gear indicates unsafe.

  We're working on the anomalies, Columbia.

  Crawford didn't acknowledge the transmission. He turned to the crew, hesitated momentarily, then spoke quietly and slowly.

  We are in deep kim chi. We have never addressed the problem of ricocheting back into the earth's atmosphere with extensive structural damage, and. God help us, our hydraulically boosted controls shot to shit.

  Columbia, Houston. We've got some valid data for you on the secure net.

  Stand by, Houston, Crawford radioed, switching to the discreet frequency, then addressing his crew on the intercom It'll be like skipping a flat stone across a mill pond. Depend* on how many times we bounce.

  Crawford flipped the secure net switch. Houston, Columbia. Radio check.

  Five by--. Preliminary telemetry indicates you were hit by a particle-beam weapon. We're ready to commence the recovery at this time.

  Well, the Russians have got our number, Crawford replied, watching the deorbit burn count down to one minute.

  We're set.

  Copy, Columbia.

  The flight deck was quiet as Crawford programmed the shuttle for reentry.

  Autopilot to manual, Crawford said to himself, checking the programmed roll, pitch, and yaw axis. All parameters appeared normal.

  You're doing great, Skipper, Doherty said as he watched the number one CRT.

  Yeah ... like building a soup sandwich, Crawford replied, watching the orbiter rotate into the nose-forward, thirty-degree pitch-up attitude.

  Houston, Crawford glanced at the CRT again, we're in entry attitude, ready to do it.

  Copy, Columbia, the mission controller responded.

  Antiskid, Doherty stated.

  On, Crawford replied tersely.

  Nose wheel steering.

  Crawford checked the switch. Off.

  Speedbrake throttle controls.' Full forward, Crawford responded, checking the controls.

  The checklist continued, concluding with the acknowledgement that the functioning emergency hydraulic system was operating normally.

  Houston, entry checklist complete, Crawford reported, then typed in a new set of instructions for the computer to handle. The CRT screen lighted, followed by an acknowledgment beep.

  The mission controller reported the weather. Columbia, the Edwards weather looks good. Ten thousand scattered, forty miles vis, temperature sixty-seven, wind out of the southwest at twelve, gusting to twenty.

  Copy, Houston, Crawford replied as he moved the orbiter's aerodynamic control surfaces to exercise the emergency hydraulic system.

  Hank, this is going to be difficult, Crawford said to the shuttle pilot.

  Yeah, looks like you're struggling a bit.

  They're stiff as hell, Crawford responded, and there isn't any air resistance at this point.' The pilot rolled the controls in the opposite direction, using a considerable amount of force.

  Wait 'til
we blast into the lower atmosphere.

  Yeah, Culdrew replied, take a gorilla to move 'em.

  Crawford entered a code to dump the forward reaction control system propellants overboard, shifting the orbiter's center of gravity for reentry.

  Houston, Crawford radioed, then made another entry into the computer.

  RCS dump completed.

  Copy dump, Houston acknowledged. Our prayers are with you.

  Thanks, Crawford responded.

  Crawford and Doherty checked the entry attitude a fourth time. The ADI showed no roll, no yaw, and the nose-up pitch now indicated thirty-four degrees. The shuttle, although heavily damaged, was in the ideal position for reentry into the earth's lower atmosphere.

  Looks good. Hank, Crawford looked at Doherty. Let's go for it!

  Hit it, boss, the mission pilot replied, watching the instrument panel while he read the checklist.

  Speedbrake-throttle.

  ' Auto, Crawford responded, watching the attitude indicator for the slightest deviation.

  ' Pitch, Doherty continued, monitoring the command pilot's moves.

  Auto, Crawford said as he quickly entered more information into the computer, then watched his CRT for the proper response.

  Yaw and roll, Doherty challenged.

  Auto, Crawford said, as he prepared for atmospheric entry to commence at 400,000 feet.

  Columbia, hurtling through space at 17,000 miles per hour, was absorbing the effects of the more dense atmosphere. The shuttle was rapidly heating from the thermal shock of reentry.

  Houston, Crawford radioed, pulse pounding in his neck, we're at entry interface, ready for LOS.

  Roger, Columbia. Copy ready for loss of signal.

  The shuttle was approaching an altitude of 315,000 feet, traveling at 16,700 miles per hour, when the communications blackout began.

  Columbia was enveloped by ionized particles during deep atmosphere entry.

  Crawford tensely watched the flight instruments. When sensors detected an atmospheric pressure of ten pounds per square foot, the roll thrusters would be turned off. The elevens would then supply roll control, providing the low-pressure emergency hydraulic system could move the flight controls.

  Oh, shit! Crawford exclaimed as the orbiter decelerated to 15,000 miles per hour in the lower, denser atmosphere. I don't like this stiff feeling in the controls.