Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning

by Ward, Steve

  “Listen up kid. You got three miles of runway and tiles that are good for ten-thousand degrees. Just ease her down on her belly and work that rudder.”

  Of all the situations in the simulator, NASA had never considered landing without gear, because the vehicle wasn’t built for it, and the chance of survival was nil. Come to Jesus, she thought. “All right backseaters, you better hold tight, gonna belly it in.”

  “Can you do that? It’s gonna explode!” Vance screamed again.

  Christina didn’t have time to deal with her, and she was getting damn tired of hearing her whine. “Suck it up, bitch! Mike, I’ve got the VASI lights. We’re a little low, red over white. Airspeed two-five-zero, easing up the nose.”

  “You’re there Stick. Got it made in the shade. You can do it. . .hang tight and keep that nose a comin’.”

  In what seemed like an instant the vehicle slammed to the ground short of the runway in a full stall at 190 knots. She stared down the runway as the shuttle skipped over the threshold like a speedboat over a ramp. There was another huge thud as it slammed back hard on concrete. She pumped the rudder trying to maintain the center line. More screams from the rear as the spacecraft shook so hard the instrument panel blurred. Shit, it’ll never hold!

  They were snaking down the long runway at the speed of a racecar. She imagined the blaze of sparks and fire in their wake. Before it ground to a stop, the vehicle spun around 180, rear first. There was an intense smell of scorched metal and burning rubber in the backwash and smoke seeped into the cabin. The horrible roar of grinding tiles suddenly went silent, and they sat in a deadly haze.

  “Holy bejesus. . .thank you God!” another exclamation from Vance. It was impossible to clap in spacesuits, but they went through the motions of high-fives.

  Christina slumped in her seat; tension drained like the air out of a blown tire. She could see an entire parade of vehicles racing their way. Bolted in a red, hot container full of oxygen, fuel and fumes, she knew they weren’t out of the woods yet. She cleared her throat and spoke over the intercom, “Better get your straps off and be ready to scram before this shit blows. Keep your helmets on, don’t wanna breathe that smoke. When they open the hatch, get the hell out.”

  Like the captain of a sinking ship, she waited in fumes until the crew cleared and Halif’s body was extricated. Sitting in the stillness, she finally had time to think and tears filled stinging eyes. Christina surprised herself as emotions boiled into sobs. No, I didn’t like the bastard, but he was an astronaut, and he “bought the farm” serving his country. Could’ve just as easily been me. She squinted through tears of fierce determination. I don’t know what asshole did this shit, but somebody’s gonna pay!

  Twisting off her helmet, she slid through the access into a cool breeze and bright sunshine. Fire trucks were hosing down the scene with foam. As she walked away from the wreckage, another Furgeson pearl came to mind.

  Any landing you can walk away from is a good one.

  Questioning the wisdom, she turned to survey the shambles of the once proud spacecraft Endeavor, and her mind summed it up: One good landing, one dead astronaut and a few billion dollars down the rat-hole.

  Chapter Two

  Three weeks prior to her big day, Christina Matthews envisioned her first space flight, the historic launch of STS-732. She lay on a pristine beach by the Cay Hotel in George Town, Great Exuma and tried to relax. It was hot and she hated the feeling of sand between her toes, but it was nice to get away from the humdrum of astronaut training. Soaking in the sun with her eyes closed, the squawk of a seagull brought back memories. It had been a fateful seven years since she and her friends had been stranded on that piece of sand in the Bahamas, since hurricane Amy. Visions of burying her best friend, Jessica, in a sandy grave never left her, and the image suddenly put a lump in her throat. She swallowed hard and struggled to force her thoughts back to the positive.

  What a whirlwind, she thought. Can’t believe it was seven years ago.

  The hypnotic swoosh of waves on the beach reminded her of Jessica’s treasure map. It seemed only yesterday when Lazer had flown her and Heather to the Exumas to search for the 1733 galleon, El Capitan. Hearing clairvoyant intonations from her dead friend, Christina had managed to find the mother lode. Diving with a salvage company, they located the wreck which yielded some $600 million in gems and precious metals near a small island under only twenty feet of water. It was Jessica’s dream, she thought, why did she have to die for it? A secret pact had formed an enduring bond between Heather and Christina. They agreed not to disclose their share of the bounty to avoid the obvious burdens of wealth.

  Just when she thought nothing could be better than becoming an overnight millionaire, Christina had been called by Charles Winston Scott, the Director of NASA. He had seen the story of her dramatic island rescue on CBN and asked if she would help organize a Future Astronauts of America program. It started out as a PR stunt to get more young people interested in the space program. As a result of her involvement, she was picked as one of four young scholars to enter astronaut training at the age of twenty-one, a mere babe in the aeronautical woods.

  With the genes of her test pilot dad, her aircraft designer mom and WASP pilot grandmother, Christina excelled in all aspects of aviation. Her doctorial work at Georgia Tech led to a spacecraft robotics system called DROID--dead-reckoning-optoelectronic-intelligent-docking. After years of trauma from the death of her mother and the bloody murder of Jessica, now it seemed almost everything about her life was charmed. Her dreams of being launched into space were about to come true.

  Paid my dues, she thought as she stretched forward and brushed the sand off her feet. Time to reap the rewards: the first young woman in space.

  “Shiii-aaat, how’s it doin’ honey?” Lazer waddled up kicking sand with two, dripping Pena Coladas.

  Christina laughed to herself, Looks like Ichabod Crane in a speedo. “Hey big fella, watch the sand will ya? Thanks for the drink.”

  Years of marriage hadn’t dulled their romance. After their adventure in the Exumas, she had married Lazer and both agreed she should keep her last name. It made sense. With all the publicity, it netted some real advantages including a huge opportunity at NASA. Lazer was a great guy, a super pilot and the love of Christina’s life. She had grown accustomed to his “redneck” sound, and he had supported all her endeavors and helped hone her flying skills.

  Just behind Lazer came the voluptuous Heather Daniels in a tiny, orange bikini and Billy Rogers, now a man. When they were stranded on the island, he had been just fifteen, but his Eagle Scout skills had saved their bacon more than once. After a string of failed relationships, Heather was dating Billy, six years younger.

  Hmmm, twenty-two, Christina mused, seems older to me.

  “Hey y’all, oooeee this sand is sticky,” Heather lifted her sunglasses and squinted in the sun.

  “Heather, did you bring the sun-screen?” Christina stared at her own knees; they were pink and glowing. The afternoon sun was like a blowtorch. She knew better but she loved the feeling of baking in the sun. There was something about the heat, the waves and the ocean that calmed her down. The primordial rhythm of the surf fascinated her. It’s the rhythm of life.

  “Sure did,” Heather turned to Billy and cocked her hips to one side like a fashion model. “Would you get it out of the basket, sugarplum? You’re sooo sweeet.”

  “No problem, if she’ll let me rub it on,” Billy answered with a big grin. He had matured into a handsome man, no longer the chubby teenager they once knew. He stepped over to where Christina was laying face down on a flat recliner with her top untied.

  “Hey! Ain’t no way, that’s my job,” Lazer jumped in, snatching the plastic bottle out of Billy’s hand.

  Lazer was the old man of the group, all of thirty-three. He was a country boy, tall, good looking and a pilot’s pilot. One of the best fighter pilots around, a true Top Gun, he had gone commercial. It was easy for him to move anywhere
Christina wanted to live, because he commuted to Memphis every week and flew the “heavy iron” for Fed Ex. Lazer had only one noticeable shortcoming: the King’s English. After reading about a similar affliction with one of the greatest pilots who had ever lived, Chuck Yeager, Christina had long past quit worrying about it.

  So what? He don’t talk so good, she mused with a chuckle.

  The group “greased up,” as Lazer would say, and stretched out on recliners. It was Christina’s two-week vacation before STS-732. She was excited and yet exhausted from the routine of preparation. Ahhh, so nice to just veg out, she thought as she dozed in the heat. She hadn’t seen Heather for months, and they had a lot of catching up to do. Heather’s life was like a TV reality show, more like a soap opera loaded with relationships and gossip, always entertaining. She’d been through enough guys to man a formidable football team. Heather had a knack for picking losers, and Christina was thrilled she was finally dating a real man, Billy Rogers.

  “Hoooney, you ain’t never gonna cease to amaze me,” Lazer said. “Cain’t believe they ‘bout to let you copilot the Endeavor.”

  “Hardly believe it myself,” Christina chortled, “but I’ve been training for six years, a solid year for this flight. I could fly this mission in my sleep. There’s a well flattened cushion in the simulator sporting my bun prints.”

  “Nice image girl, butt cheeks,” Heather laughed. “Now, how in the world can you fly that big old thing, for God’s sake?” She fanned her gorgeous self, all the southern blonde.

  “Actually, as copilot, it’s not that hard. I won’t have to do much. . .window dressing, really. . .great press for NASA. Not just a female copilot, but a female under the age of thirty in the front seat. That’s a first,” she beamed with pride.

  “Whut about them letters hun?” A pall came over Lazer’s expression.

  “What letters?” Heather asked.

  “I’ve been getting some nasty mail with Arab markers. Seems those bad boys in the Middle East don’t much like accomplished women. They usually refer to me as, ‘That pig eating, infidel whore.’”

  “Especially women who make history,” Billy added his two cents. “They’ll have a hard time keeping this one from their wives and daughters.” He sat up and dusted the sand off his arms and legs. He cracked open the ice-chest, grabbed two cold beers and tossed one to Lazer.

  “Thanks pard.”

  “One of these days those A-Rab women are going to get smart and cut those boys off,” Heather said. “Why don’t they anyway? Why don’t they just cut ‘em off? That’s how American women got the vote. Works every time it’s tried.”

  “You wanna shout that out a little louder?” Christina cringed as she scanned the people nearby.

  “Well, I say let ‘em bunk with their goats for awhile and see how they like it. For God sakes, how can they stand those smelly old desert rats anyway? Billy honey, would you put some sunscreen on my back?”

  “Got it.” Billy climbed on the back of her recliner.

  Heather turned toward, Christina and said, “Don’t you worry about those letters, honey; it’s all part of being famous. So what are those other kids like, the ones who got in the program with you?”

  “They’re okay,” Christina replied. “Let’s see, there’s Charlotte Bensen, she was a Rhodes scholar, PhD in Electrical Engineering. Not a bad pilot either. Cute little brunette and just as sweet as she can be. All business when it comes to flying though. Then there’s Michael Jacobs. I really like him, they call him Twinky ‘cause he’s always eating those nasty things. Michael’s scheduled to fly 7-3-4. Rhani Hussein is the weird one. Keeps to himself. Gotta have one Muslim I guess,” she whispered. “P.C. and all that.”

  After initiating the inquiry, Heather quickly lost interest. It was so much like her. She rarely focused on one subject longer than about ten seconds. “Hey, let’s go dancing tonight. I’m sick of playing Uno and Scrabble, let’s have some fun. Christina, do you think we could get these cheapskates to spend some real dough?”

  “May as well,” Christina laughed, “gotta get back to JSC tomorrow. Want to take me dancing tonight, big boy?” She batted her eyelids and kicked some sand on Lazer.

  “Sho thing, hooney. Do you know how to do the turkey trot?” Lazer gobbled around circles kicking sand. He emptied his can of beer and let out a huge BURP!

  “What do you say?” Christina said as though he was a child.

  “Scuuuse me,” he grinned.

  It was hot for early fall, but of course, it was always hot in Great Exuma. As the conversation faded, Christina reached behind, hooked her top and rolled over. Watching people along the beach, she leaned back and slowly dozed into a deep sleep. Sometime later she was snoring so loud she woke herself up. She looked at her friends, all red as beets.

  “Hey, wake up you idiots! Look like a bunch of freakin’ lobsters. We better get the hell out of here before we all burn to a crisp.”

  * * *

  Damn, we’re running late! Christina was anxious. She stood at the entrance of the hotel guarding their suitcases. A little worried about making it to the airstrip on time, she thought, Surely they won’t leave without me. I’m a friggin’ astronaut for Christ’s sake.

  Lazer ran out to the parking lot to get the rental car.

  It was a beautiful day in the Bahamas. Just after lunch, the sea-breeze felt good on her face. She could smell the salty air and the aroma of flowers growing naturally there. The richness of the islands contrasted with the poverty of its natives. Most lived in shacks, a puzzling irony to the tourists who vacationed there. Understandable, she thought. Surrounded by such awesome beauty, why would anybody want to work?

  She glanced at her watch with a nervous twitch. Across its face came a flash, a brilliant luminance even brighter than the midday sun. She blinked and instinctively turned toward the source.

  Baroooooom! A massive explosion assaulted her ears and knocked her to all fours. In a daze, she could feel a cannon blast of hot air and the sting of her knees scraping across concrete. Lifting her head, she looked toward the parking lot.

  A large mass shot fifty feet up in the sky, flipped over twice and crashed to the ground. Fireballs shot a hundred feet high.

  Whose car? she wondered. My God, there’s someone in it!

  It was a gruesome image of a body in flames, a human torch. Suddenly she recognized the distinctive shape of the Honda CRV. Before her brain began to work, she was pelted with shrapnel from above, car parts and upholstery. No! No! It can’t be! The top of their rental car was gone, vaporized. Lazer, arms flailing in agony and screaming bloody murder, finally slumped forward, silent.

  “Lady are you all right? Lady. . .can you hear me?” A man came running.

  “Nooo!” she screamed.

  People looked like they were yelling at her, but she could only hear mumbles. There were faint sounds like sirens, but she wasn’t sure, her ears buzzed at a high pitch. Fire, brimstone and ash floated down on the scene as she brushed smoking embers off her blouse. Horrible smells filled the air, burning steel, burning rubber and one she didn’t recognize. There was a distinct, pungent odor.

  Oh my God, it hit her like a ton of bricks, burning flesh!

  She wretched and heaved all over the sidewalk. That awful smell, it was the last thing she remembered.

  STS-732 would have to be postponed.

  Chapter Three

  It was al-Qaida. Christina watched the news in utter disbelief. But how?

  The investigation of STS-732 made it almost as clear as it was to the two-hundred-million people who watched the launch on TV. Two missiles had been fired from the Atlantic, some eight miles off shore from Cape Canaveral. All photographed in vivid detail, it was played over and over on CBN worldwide. The handheld heat-seekers could have been launched from a small submarine, a fishing boat or, for that matter, even a raft. Vapor trials were seen behind the ground-to-air missiles that outran the shuttle at 32,000 feet. With deadly accuracy one pierced th
e cockpit sending shrapnel through the body of Commander Steve Halif. The other went through the external fuel tank. The investigation was a mere formality as the infamous terrorist organization had already laid claim just hours after it happened.

  It was reminiscent of 9–11 as CBN showed pictures at various locations in the Middle East of locals dancing in the street celebrating Allah’s great victory against the West. For some it was a sign from God showing the power of Islam. Allah had once again made his presence known on worldwide television. Zealots fired pistols in the air when a brave newsman put a microphone in front of one who spoke English.

  “Those Jewish dogs in America. . .they are doomed. Islam is on the march. Praise be to Allah!”

  For NASA it was a costly attack. The missile impact and no-gear landing had reduced the Endeavor to a pile of rubbish. The agency was left with only one shuttle, New Hope, and all future missions would have to be reconsidered. It would take a decade to produce another space vehicle for manned flights. Most of the agency’s money was being spent preparing for a return to the Moon, and then Mars.