by Ben Bova
“Have you all had your appendixes removed?” he asked.
The grins faded. The cosmonaut beside him answered, “No. Is not necessary. We do not go to Mars.”
“You’re not going?”
“We are instructors,” Zavgorodny said over his shoulder. “We have already been turned down for the flight mission.”
Jamie wanted to ask why, but he thought better of it. This was not a pleasant topic of conversation.
“Your appendix?” asked the man on his left. He ran a finger across his throat.
Jamie nodded. “They took the stitches out yesterday.” He realized it had actually been Friday in Bethesda and now it was Sunday but it felt like yesterday.
“You are an American Indian?”
“Half Navaho.”
“The other half?”
“Anglo,” said Jamie. He saw that the word meant nothing to the Russians. “White. English.”
The man sitting up front beside Zavgorodny turned to face him. “When they took out your appendix—you had a medicine man with painted face to rattle gourds over you?”
All four of the Russians burst into uproarious laughter. The car swerved on the empty highway, Zavgorodny laughed so hard.
Jamie made himself grin back at them. “No, I had anesthesia, just as you would.”
The Russians chattered among themselves. Jamie got a vision of jokes about Indians, maybe about a red man wanting to go to the red planet. There was no nastiness in it, he felt, just four beer-drinking fliers having some fun with a new acquaintance.
Wish I understood Russian, he said to himself. Wish I knew what these four clowns are up to. Much fun.
Then he remembered that none of these men could even hope to get to Mars anymore. They had been relegated to the role of instructors. I’ve still got a chance to make the mission. Do they hold that against me? Just what in the hell are they planning to do?
Zavgorodny swung the car off the main highway and down a two-lane dirt road that paralleled a tall wire fence. Jamie could see, far in the distance, hangars and planes parked haphazardly. So we really are going to an airport, he realized.
They drove through an unguarded gate and out to a far corner of the sprawling, silent airport where a single small hangar stood all by itself, like an outcast or an afterthought. A high-wing, twin-engine plane sat on squat tricycle landing gear on the concrete apron in front of the hangar. To Jamie it looked like a Russian version of a Twin Otter, a plane he had flown in during his week’s stint in Alaska’s frigid Brooks Range.
“You like to fly?” Zavgorodny asked as they piled out of the car.
Jamie stretched his arms and back, glad to be no longer squeezed into the car’s backseat. It was not even nine o’clock yet, but the sunshine felt hot and good as it baked into his shoulders.
“I enjoy flying,” he said. “I don’t have a pilot’s license, though. I’m not qualified—”
Zavgorodny laughed. “Good thing! We are four pilots. That is three too many.”
The four cosmonauts were already wearing one-piece flight suits of faded, well-worn tan. Jamie had pulled on a white short-sleeved knit shirt and a pair of denims when they had roused him from his hotel bed. He followed the others into the sudden cool darkness of the hangar. It smelled of machine oil and gasoline. Two of the cosmonauts went clattering up a flight of metal stairs to an office perched on the catwalk above.
Zavgorodny beckoned Jamie to a long table where a row of parachute packs sat big and lumpy, with straps spread out like the limp arms of octopi.
“We must all wear parachutes,” Zavgorodny said. “Regulations.”
“To fly in that?” Jamie jabbed a thumb toward the plane.
“Yes. Military plane. Regulations. Must wear chutes.”
Zavgorodny picked up one of the cumbersome chute packs and handed it to Jamie like a laborer passing a sack of cement.
“Where are we flying to?” Jamie asked.
“A surprise,” the Russian said. “You will see.”
“Much fun,” said the other cosmonaut, already buckling the groin straps of his chute.
Much fun for who? Jamie asked silently. But he worked his arms through the shoulder straps of the chute and leaned over to click the groin straps together and pull them tight.
The other two came down the metal steps, boots echoing in the nearly empty hangar. Jamie followed the quartet of cosmonauts out into the baking sunshine toward the plane. A wide metal hatch had been cut into its side. There were no stairs. When he hiked his foot up to the rim of the hatch Jamie’s side twinged with pain. He grabbed the sides of the hatch and pulled himself inside the plane. Without help. Without wincing.
It was like an oven inside. Two rows of bucket seats, bare, unpadded. The two men who had been sitting in the back of the car with Jamie pushed past him and went into the cockpit. The pilot’s and co-pilot’s chairs were thick with padding; they looked comfortable.
Zavgorodny gestured Jamie to the seat directly behind the pilot. He sat himself in the opposite seat and pulled the safety harness across his shoulders and thighs. Jamie did the same, making certain the straps were tight. The parachute pack served as a sort of cushion, but it felt awkward to Jamie: like underwear that had gotten twisted.
One by one, the engines coughed, sputtered, then blasted into life. The plane shook like a palsied old man. As the propellers whirred to invisible blurs, Jamie heard all sorts of rattling noises, as if the plane was going to fall apart at any moment. Something creaked, something moaned horribly. The plane rolled forward.
The two pilots had clamped earphones over their heads, but if they were in contact with the control tower, Jamie could not hear a word they spoke over the roar of the engines and the wind blowing fine sandpapery dust through the cabin. The fourth cosmonaut was sitting behind Jamie. No one had shut the hatch. Twisting around in his seat, Jamie saw that there was no door for the hatch: They were going to fly with it wide open.
The gritty wind roared through as the plane gathered speed down the runway, skidding slightly first one way and then the other.
Awfully long run for a plane this size, Jamie thought. He glanced across at Zavgorodny. The Russian grinned at him.
And then they were off the ground. The sandblasting ended; the wind was clean now. Jamie saw the airport dwindling away out his window, the parked planes and buildings shrinking into toys. The land spread out, brown and dead-dry beneath the cloudless pale blue sky. The engines settled into a rumbling growl; the wind howled so loudly that Jamie had to lean across the aisle and shout into Zavgorodny’s ear:
“So where are we going?”
Zavgorodny shouted back, “To find Muzhestvo.”
“Moo . . . what?”
“Muzhestvo!” the cosmonaut yelled louder.
“Where is it? How far away?”
The Russian laughed. “You will see.”
They climbed steadily for what seemed like an hour. Can’t be more than ten thousand feet, Jamie said to himself. It was difficult to judge vertical distances, but they would have to go on oxygen if they flew much beyond ten thousand feet, he thought. It was getting cold. Jamie wished he had brought his windbreaker. They should have told me, he complained silently. They should have warned me.
The co-pilot looked back over his shoulder, staring directly at Jamie. He grinned, then put a hand over his mouth and hollered, “Hoo-hoo-hoo!” His version of an Indian war whoop. Jamie kept his face expressionless.
Suddenly the plane dipped and skidded leftward. Jamie was slammed against the curving skin of the fuselage and almost banged his head against the window. He stared out at the brown landscape beneath him, wrinkled with hills and a single sparkling lake far below, as the plane seemed to hang on its left wingtip and slowly, slowly revolve.
Then it dove and pulled upward, squeezing Jamie down into his seat. The plane climbed awkwardly, waddling in the air, then flipped over onto its back. Jamie felt all weight leave him; he was hanging by his seat harness but wei
ghed practically nothing. It dived again and weight returned, heavy, crushing, as the plane hurtled toward those brown bare hills, engines screaming, wind whistling through the shaking, rattling cabin.
And then it leveled off, engines purring, everything as normal as a commuter flight.
Zavgorodny was staring at Jamie. The co-pilot glanced back over his shoulder. And Jamie understood. They were ragging him. He was the new kid on the block and they were seeing if they could scare him. Their own little version of the Vomit Comet, Jamie said to himself. See if they can make me turn green or get me to puke. Much fun.
Every tribe has its initiation rites, he realized. He had never been properly initiated as a Navaho; his parents had been too Anglicized to allow it. But these guys are going to make up for that.
Jamie made himself grin at Zavgorodny. “That was fun,” he yelled, hoping that the other three could hear him over the engines and the wind. “I didn’t know you could loop an old crate like this.”
Zavgorodny bobbed his head up and down. “Not recommended. Maybe the wings come off.”
Jamie shrugged inside his seat harness. “What’s next?”
“Muzhestvo.”
They flew peacefully for another quarter-hour or so, no aerobatics, no conversation. Jamie realized they had made one wide circling turn and were starting another. He looked out the window. The ground below was flat and empty, as desolate as Mars except for a single narrow road running straight across the brown barren wasteland.
Zavgorodny unbuckled his safety harness and stood up. He had to crouch slightly because the of the cabin’s low overhead as he stepped out into the aisle and back toward the big, wide, still-open hatch.
Jamie turned in his seat and saw that the other cosmonaut was on his feet, too, and standing at the hatch.
Christ, one lurch of this crate and he’ll go ass over teakettle out the door!
Zavgorodny stood beside the other Russian with one hand firmly gripping a slim metal rod that ran the length of the cabin’s ceiling. They seemed to be chatting, heads close together, nodding as if they were at their favorite bar holding a casual conversation. With ten thousand feet of empty air just one step away.
Zavgorodny beckoned to Jamie with his free hand, gesturing him to come up and join them. Jamie felt a cold knot in his stomach. I don’t want to go over there. I don’t want to.
But he found himself unbuckling the seat harness and walking unsteadily toward the two men near the open hatch. The plane bucked slightly and Jamie grabbed that overhead rod with both fists.
“Parachute range.” Zavgorodny pointed out the hatch. “We make practice jumps here.”
“Today? Now?”
“Yes.”
The other cosmonaut pulled a plastic helmet onto his head. He slid the tinted visor down over his eyes, yelled something in Russian, and jumped out of the plane.
Jamie gripped the overhead rod even tighter.
“Look!” Zavgorodny yelled at him, pointing. “Watch!”
Cautiously Jamie peered through the gaping hatch. The cosmonaut was falling like a stone, arms and legs outstretched, dwindling into a tiny tan dot against the deeper brown of the land so far below.
“Is much fun,” Zavgorodny hollered into Jamie’s ear.
Jamie shivered, not merely from the icy wind slicing through his lightweight shirt.
Zavgorodny pushed a helmet into his hands. Jamie stared at it. The plastic was scratched and pitted, its red and white colors almost completely worn off.
“I’ve never jumped,” he said.
“We know.”
“But I . . .” He wanted to say that he had just had the stitches removed from his side, that he knew you could break both your legs parachute jumping, that there was absolutely no way they were going to get him to step out of this airplane.
Yet he put the helmet on and strapped it tight under his chin.
“Is easy,” Zavgorodny said. “You have done gymnastics. It is on your file. Just land with knees bent and roll over. Easy.”
Jamie was shaking. The helmet felt as if it weighed three hundred pounds. His left hand was wrapped around that overhead rod in a death grip. His right was fumbling along the parachute harness straps, searching blindly for the D-ring that would release the chute.
Zavgorodny looked quite serious now. The plane was banking slightly, tilting them toward the open, yawning hole in the plane’s side. Jamie planted his feet as solidly as he could, glad that he had worn a sturdy pair of boots.
The Russian took Jamie’s searching right hand and placed it on the D-ring. The metal felt cold as death.
“Not to worry,” Zavgorodny shouted, his voice muffled by Jamie’s helmet. “I attach static line to overhead. It opens chute automatically. No problem.”
“Yeah.” Jamie’s voice was shaky. His insides were boiling. He could feel sweat trickling down his ribs even though he felt shivering cold.
“You step out. You count to twenty. Understand? If chute has not opened by then you pull ring. Understand?”
Jamie nodded.
“I will follow behind you. If you die I will bury you.” His grin returned. Jamie felt like puking.
Zavgorodny gave him a probing look. “You want to go back and sit down?”
Every atom in Jamie’s being wanted to answer a fervent, “Hell yes!” But he shook his head and took a hesitant, frightened step toward the open hatch.
The Russian reached up and slid the visor over Jamie’s eyes. “Count to twenty slowly. I will see you on ground in two minutes. Maybe three.”
Jamie swallowed hard and let Zavgorodny position him squarely at the lip of the hatch. The ground looked iron-hard and very, very far below. They were in shadow, the overhead wing was shading them, the propeller too far forward to be any danger. Jamie took that all in with a single wild glance.
A tap on his shoulder. Jamie hesitated a heartbeat, then pushed off with both feet.
Nothing. No motion. No sound except the thrum of wind rushing past. Jamie suddenly felt that he was in a dream, just hanging in emptiness, floating, waiting to wake up safe and somehow disappointed in bed. The plane had disappeared somewhere behind and above him. The ground was miles below, revolving slowly, not getting noticeably closer.
He was spinning, turning lazily as he floated in midair. It was almost pleasant. Fun, nearly. Just hanging in nothingness, separated from the entire world, alone, totally alone and free.
It was as if he had no body, no physical existence at all. Nothing but pure spirit, clean and light as the air itself. He remembered the old legends his grandfather had told him about Navaho heroes who had traveled across the bridge of the rainbow. Must be like this, he thought, high above the world, floating, floating. Like Coyote when he hitched a ride on a comet.
He realized with a heart-stopping lurch that he had forgotten to count. And his hand had come off the D-ring. He fumbled awkwardly, seeing now that the hard baked ground was rushing up to smash him, pulverize him, kill him dead, dead, dead.
A gigantic hand grabbed him and nearly snapped his head off. He twisted in midair as new sounds erupted all around him. Like the snapping of a sail, the parachute unfolded and spread above him, leaving Jamie hanging in the straps, floating gently down toward the barren ground.
His heart was hammering in his ears, yet he felt disappointed. Like a kid who had gone through the terrors of his first roller-coaster ride and now was sad that it had ended. Far down below he could see the tiny figure of a man gathering up a dirty white parachute.
I did it! Jamie thought. I made the jump. He wanted to give out a real Indian victory whoop.
But the sober side of his mind warned: You’ve still got to land without breaking your ankles. Or popping that damned incision.
The ground was really rushing up now. Relax. Bend your knees. Let your legs absorb the shock.
He hit hard, rolled over twice, and then felt the hot wind tugging at his billowing chute. Suddenly Zavgorodny was at his side pulling on the cords
, and the other cosmonaut was wrapping his arms around the chute itself like a man trying to get a ton of wrapping paper back inside a box.
Jamie got to his feet shakily. They helped him wriggle out of the chute harness. The plane circled lazily overhead.
“You did hokay,” Zavgorodny said, smiling broadly now.
“How’d you get down so fast?” Jamie asked.
“I did free-fall, went past you. You didn’t see me? I was like a rocket!”
“Yuri is free-fall champion,” said the other cosmonaut, his arms filled with Jamie’s parachute.
The plane was coming in to land, flaps down, engines coughing. Its wheels hit the ground and kicked up enormous plumes of dust.
“So now we go to Muzhestvo?” Jamie asked Zavgorodny.
The Russian shook his head. “We have found it already. Muzhestvo means in English courage. You have courage, James Waterman. I am glad.”
Jamie took a deep breath. “Me, too.”
“We four,” Zavgorodny said, “we will not go to Mars. But some of our friends will. We will not allow anyone who does not show courage to go to Mars.”
“How can you . . . ?”
“Others test you for knowledge, for health, for working with necessary equipment. We test for courage. No one without courage goes to Mars. It would make danger for our fellow cosmonauts.”
“Muzhestvo,” Jamie said.
Zavgorodny laughed and slapped him on the back and they started walking across the bare dusty ground toward the waiting plane.
Muzhestvo, Jamie repeated to himself. Their version of a sacred ritual. Like a Navaho purifying rite. I’m one of them now. I’ve proved it to them. I’ve proved it to myself.
Jamie Waterman returns to Mars on the second expedition to the red planet, this one financed largely by private investors who expect to see a profitable return on their money. Jamie, with the Navaho part of his mind dead set against the exploitation of this new land, is pitted against Dex Trumball, son of the man who put up most of the expedition’s funding.
This excerpt from Return to Mars shows what it’s like to face one of the planetary-scale dust storms that often sweep across the cold, dry, iron-rust deserts of Mars.