(Had come long way from Candy Smith-Foster of yore — firmly resolved never to kill again.)
Didn’t so much regain control as run down. Spewed rage, hate, frustration at uncaring corpse until gone, leaving me limp, trembling, teary-eyed.
At which point coherent, thoughts again intruded. Unpleasant coherent thoughts. Whole string of unpleasant coherent thoughts which totaled even less pleasant sum: Chances for living through reentry slim to nonexistent. At best.
Odds steeper for own person than those facing message: For instance, had no idea what sort of gee forces might encounter en route. Missile’s cargo included computer, detonator mechanism, warhead, etc.; all potentially delicate, sensitive. But vehicle powered for ten gees — at what point did Khranitel engineers draw line, say, “Anything above this level is excessive stress”? Unanswerable question, of course. But likely well beyond what own designer considered acceptable.
In addition, original plans called for water landing. Own destination dry land. Unyielding dry land. Probably quite a bump.
However, above concern nowhere near as scary as reentry-heat question: Prospect of slowly burning to death not something can just shrug off.
Have seen it done.
(And will never forget: Two days after tenth birthday was riding in car with Daddy, returning from Oshkosh after TV show on which Daddy appeared as guest physician. Observed car accident on lonely stretch of highway around midnight: Drunk in Corvette wandered off road, bashed tree. Old Corvette; equipped with competition gas tank-36 gallons. Ruptured on impact, flooding interior with flaming contents. Victim staggered out, blazing from head to foot. Daddy doused with own car’s extinguisher. But victim already 80-percent third-degree case. Daddy ordered me to stay in car, call for help on CB. Did not want me to see burn damage close-up. But soon realized needed more hands; had to involve me. Will never forget that man: Charred, cracked skin. Cooked meat bleeding through raw, inches-wide, exploded deep blisters. Dangling flesh. Incinerated tissue. Scorched bones showing through barbecued muscles. High, thin, nonstop screaming. The smell.)
Now, if descent profile anything like NASA’s, dive from atmospheric interface at 400,000 feet to slowing below mach two at 60-, 70,000 feet takes about 15 minutes. Heat build-up inside vehicle progressive, implacable: Grows steadily hotter, hotter, hotter still, until imperceptible threshold crossed; discomfort suddenly becomes agony; blisters form, crisp, pop; tissues roast, char; own superheated greasy cooking smoke inside EMU sears lungs.
Quarter hour under those conditions could be very long time indeed…
No. Decision whether to risk burning to death not casually made.
Horsefeathers! — chopped off self-flagellation impatiently; issue never in doubt for second: While chance remained, no matter how slim, would go for it. Am constitutionally incapable of giving up.
Well, now that foolishness over, done with, were steps could take to improve chances; preparations above, beyond those necessary for originally planned bomb-disarming, -disposal EVA. And time to get to work regardless; just five hours to bomb’s scheduled deorbit burn.
Fell to, assembled gear in airlock: all three adult-size EMUs, both of mine; all four MMUs, both terminals, toolbox, etc. Strung everything together with wire (plenty available from communications panel); would tie into snug bundle once outside.
Retrieved binoculars from Harris’s dead hand; employed to scan darkness beyond cockpit windows. Bomb not easy visual target; but presently made out tiny, indistinct, deeper black spot against jet sky. Hale’s longitudinal axis still lined up on it.
Okay, knew bomb ahead of us in same orbit. Using shuttle, Earth, bomb as references, was oriented as to orbital plane, direction. Knew which way had to go — critical, because at first would be unable to resolve destination with naked eye, and binoculars useless while wearing helmet (though intended to take outside, have look-see; maybe helpful after all [try never to burn bridges unnecessarily, prematurely]).
Donning EMU took good half hour (mine more trouble than most, due to endless array of tiny bolts, washers, wing nuts holding waist sealing ring halves together), but finally checklist complete: suit airtight; PLSS operational, secured by straps to back, life-support lines neatly coiled at waist.
(Folded sleeping-station blanket into makeshift, multi-layered cushion; taped to inside of helmet at rear. Hoped would distribute pressure of head’s contact against Lexan bubble during anticipated heavy gees. Pad’s bulk left barely room for nose in front. Looked forward to accumulating many greasy nose prints before day over.)
Herded gear into airlock; closed, sealed inner door. Dumped air, opened outer hatch, exited gingerly, moving one handhold at a time, drawing equipment behind me with wire attached to utility belt.
Glanced at complicated watch on EMU’s wrist: Three and quarter hours remained before bomb commenced descent, according to countdown timer. My PLSS standard issue; good for seven hours with full-sized astronaut; hard to say how much own lesser consumption might affect duration.
(Likewise hard to say how long descent will take. Totally dependent upon how much straight-down acceleration incorporated in reentry program. If employs descent profile called for upon detection of approaching missiles, should be on ground roughly two hours after deorbit burn. But couldn’t know that. And if exceeds four, five hours, won’t matter much. Certainly not to me.)
Did best to ignore urgency, surroundings, scenery; focused on job at hand: Moved deliberately along hull’s upper rim, at cargo-bay door hinge, paralleling huge extra fuel tank. Paused at rear end of bay. Gathered equipment into bundle with additional wire loop; secured to belt in front on both sides.
Then backed into first MMU, shrugged between armrests, secured latches. Closed EMU glove around right-hand control handle. Ignored inner conviction that long fall awaited. Took deep breath, let go left hand; placed on control handle.
Now. Bomb six miles ahead. Distance sufficient to involve orbital mechanics.
Sure wished Harris alive; navigation during “quick hop” across to bomb amongst his mission specialties.
Not mine.
Knew theory, of course: Drop into lower, faster orbit, circularize; reverse procedure upon arriving in bomb’s vicinity. Did it bunches of times on boys’ home-grown video game on way out.
But fundamental difference exists between understanding theoretical principle on intellectual level and believing it at core of tightly knotted stomach. Performing operation with computer terminal push buttons, watching results on CRT, does not prepare one for hanging in real space, lining up real thrust axis, then really accelerating out into limitless void on course leading, obviously, away from destination.
Every instinct shrieked “Madness!” Took every ounce of willpower to force hands to operate controls.
MMUs powered by compressed nitrogen; charge sufficient to impart roughly 66-feet-per-second total velocity change to normal-sized astronaut before poohing out. That translates to accelerating to about 45 miles an hour. Once. Or boosting to 22 miles an hour, then stopping. Also once. Own mass slightly more than one-third that of normal astronaut. However, extra gear probably more than made up difference.
Aligned thrust axis with right hand, applied power with left. Drifted toward rear, between wing, vertical stabilizer.
Looked around as cleared ship’s stern. And froze, transfixed. Not even mortal anxiety over impending intraorbital transit, consequences of failure, could prevent first unimpaired sight of Earth, heavens, from filling spirit with awe, joy, reverence. Much of planet dark from this perspective; but suddenly realized was at imminent risk of going blind again due to thickening lens of tears forming over eyes — with no means of wiping them away inside EMU.
Which reminded me: Not out there to enjoy sights — life of every hominem on pearlescent bowling ball dependent on me. Had no business wasting time rubbernecking; had work to do.
Blinked eyes furiously; shook head to clear vision. Twisted MMU’s tail.
Consumed abo
ut half fuel load during initial retrosquirt. Then coasted five minutes, watching Hale slowly dwindle. Inexpressibly relieved to note gradual shift in apparent attitude: Had left shuttle’s RCS attitude control on automatic; apparently really was dropping into faster orbit.
Reversed thrust at end of five minutes; used up balance of fuel on circularization (I hoped!) maneuver. Released MMU, pushed gently away. Untangled second from bundle, latched into place, rested hands on controls.
Then waited.
Waited while Hale’s aspect changed from distant rear view to more distant belly view to even more distant nose view, steadily foreshortening in ever more remote distance.
Tried to estimate speed from changing relationship between self, shuttle; couldn’t. So played with numbers in head: If relative velocity 15 miles per hour faster than shuttle/bomb train overhead, could expect to cover distance in something like 15-20 minutes. Wished had had better idea how far below original orbit was riding, but couldn’t tell that either. Estimating astronomical distances freehand slippery business.
Meanwhile, scanned heavens intently for dark spot that would indicate bomb’s location. Could still make out Hale well enough to use as pointer; knew where target supposed to be — but couldn’t find it.
Tried binoculars without success: Eyepieces’ distance from eyes hindrance but not major problem; merely reduced field of view; worked fine otherwise.
But couldn’t identify bomb.
Then had inspiration: Looked back at Hale; tried to get handle on distance by comparing relative size of shuttle with bomb as seen through binoculars from shuttle.
By that yardstick, seemed should be closing in on target. Decided had no choice but to act on assumption; add back delta-V, see if Gods Smiled.
About to implement when struck by doubt: Total package now massed less by one MMU. Wondered what effect reduction might have on response to thrust. Then realized would have opportunity to compensate with circularization shot, assuming bomb somewhere in vicinity. Deferred worry until then.
Looked back at Hale through binoculars, lined up thrust axis with direction of travel, consumed half fuel reserve in replacing delta-V.
Then waited again, looking desperately where bomb ought to be. And still wasn’t.
Getting really, no-foolin’ worried by this time. Orbital juggling performed as Harris taught me; bomb should have been in sight.
Waited another five minutes; circularized orbit again, using all but last whiff of nitrogen. Then looked around with earnestness not unmixed with, distinct from, panic…
And there it was (I’ll be damned!) no more than couple hundred yards away!
Resumed breathing.
And, in retrospect, diagnosed problem: Vehicle dead black, nonreflective; visible only through occultation under best of conditions. Spot over which hung on Earth’s equator approaching sunrise line; bomb almost between me, Sol; background glare obscured.
Then took first good look at bomb: huge thing — carbon copy of Hale; lacked only cockpit, cargo bay doors, etc. But where shuttle essentially friendly looking, bomb not (visceral reaction; don’t ask why). Harris correct: ominous-looking beast. Hung in void looking like modern Charon’s ferry.
Used up last puff of nitrogen from current MMU; kicked loose, mounted third. Lined up thrust axis on bomb, used five percent of remaining reaction mass accelerating. Two-mile-per-hour approach speed ample: Still two and a half hours to bomb’s departure; no point losing head, rushing. Would feel foolish during final seconds if, when so close to success, lost head, hurried; built up too much speed, split helmet on hull.
Braked to relative stop only yards from nose. Then realized hadn’t faintest idea where on monster access hatch actually located — training involved only cutaway sectional mock-up; drawings studied encompassed only specifics of own job. Engineering logic suggested had to be somewhere near bow, of course. Just matter of jetting around, finding it.
But now learned how limited MMU skills really were. Operation heretofore limited to straight-line thrusting; examining bomb carrier involved full range of maneuvering operations: yaw, pitch, twist, start, stop — and damned thing insisted on doing what I told it to do instead of what I wanted it to do. Frustrating in extreme.
Finally managed to stabilize self. Checked MMU status: about 50 percent gone; mostly wasted curing pilot-induced tumbling. Transferred to final MMU, left equipment bundle parked against what would be belly on Hale; set out to reconnoiter solo — maneuvering much more easily.
Drifted gently back along starboard side to wing’s leading edge without encountering hatch. Checked motion; moved toward topsides, headed back toward nose. Still nothing.
Eventually found hatch almost exactly where Hale’s crew hatch located: short distance up from belly, back from nose on portside.
Returned for equipment; maneuvered cautiously, with only occasional miscue, back to hatch.
Studied locking mechanism. Appeared similar to that on drawings, mock-up. Operation proved identical.
But not easiest gismo to operate under weightless conditions: Breathing pretty hard, faceplate partially fogged, by time got it open.
Parked MMU; secured with wire tie to latch handle. Drew self, equipment in through opening. Switched on flashlight.
Looking around produced sense of déjà vu: What could see of interior corresponded perfectly to training aids.
Headed for inner shell access hatch. Wriggled amongst, between structural pieces without difficulty (one aspect of task made easier by zero gee). Located, unlatched, swung open.
Wedged toolbox in convenient angle between trusses adjacent to hatch. Unstrapped PLSS from back, squirmed through 9-by-14-inch opening, trailing life-support lines.
Drew PLSS close to hatch; pulled entire coil of life-support lines through with me. Reached back, retrieved toolbox.
Maneuvered through complex of structural members to detonator, carefully paying out lines en route, watching for, avoiding, tendency to kink.
Studied exterior components; verified everything as represented on drawings, mock-up. Opened toolbox, set to work.
Actual warhead defusing anticlimactic. After week of intensive training amidst ever-mounting tension, operation proved simplicity itself: Snipped wires in correct order, undid four bolts, removed one plate; planted feet on bulkhead on either side of detonator, gripped shaft firmly; triggered hysterical strength, pulled, twisted, pulled again. Ta-dah.
Retained grip as shaft slid free; preferred not having 150 pounds of high-explosive bouncing around inside closed compartment with me.
Hour and half remained before deorbit burn.
Returned to hatch, carefully gathering life-support lines as retraced route amongst structural members. Brought toolbox, detonator shaft.
Squeezed back through hatch, resecured. Remounted PLSS on EMU back; coiled lines neatly, resecured to belt.
First act upon returning to outer hatch: Pitched detonator shaft into space. Hard.
Then reeled in MMU; snuggled between armrests, closed latches. With briefcase terminals tied to belt in front, set off for electrical umbilicus hatch, some 15 feet forward.
Prevailed upon MMU to halt inches away after brief, seesaw discussion. Got hatch open without difficulty. Scrutinized multiple-prong socket, identified computer port.
Unshipped briefcase, opened (keyboard in one half, LCD display in other). Unfolded solar-cell array, positioned in direct sunlight. Deployed extension arms; snapped into appropriate EMU belt/shoulder fastenings to hold terminal in proper waist-level typing position.
Flipped main switch to on; waited while baby mainframe disk spun up to operating speed, read/write head deployed. Queried system as to state of health, spirits; received affirmative reply (bulky EMU gloves no advantage on standard keyboard).
Unwound coaxial cable from pouch at belt; inserted plug firmly into port, wiggled. Felt click as seated even through gloves. Plugged other end into terminal.
Offered cheery “good morning” to IV
N. (no kidding; acronym derived from actual Russian name [three guesses how pronounced]); waited, holding breath.
And waited.
(Not complaining about delay, mind you; understood IVN pretty busy with deorbit countdown, sundry prereentry chores. Probably didn’t have lots of time to spare for small-talk.)
After about two minutes (during which debated wisdom of repeating access demand, but didn’t for fear duplicate commands might confuse issue) IVN welcomed me in. Greeted appearance of primary menu with heartfelt relief.
(And unspoken prayer of thanks to Whomever arranged for Khraniteli to incorporate stolen American disk-operating-system virtually intact, retaining logically daisy-chained menus-within-menus-within-menus software format. Child could operate [child thanks You!].)
Selected Ballistika. Waited some more.
Just how much of IVN’s capacity tied up in countdown activities increasingly apparent: Took almost four minutes to locate, display submenu. Took another three minutes to pull out Koordinaty Prizemlenia fill-in-blanks programming display.
Thought hard for moment, confirmed Vandenberg’s figures in head; plugged in numbers, reached for execute key…
Stopped dead — horrified at how close had come to falling into trap.
Have known all along bomb intended for water landing. But to me, “water landing” conjures up images of old Mercury, Gemini, Apollo capsules splashing down in Pacific on parachutes. Assumption settled in quickly, took hold. Not even sight of winged behemoth penetrated hell-bent fixation, set off warning bells.
Obviously this vehicle designed for conventional shuttle-style approach: high-speed glide to flare-out, touchdown. Builders clearly intended vehicle’s 120-ton momentum (multiplied by 200-plus-mile-per-hour touchdown velocity), together with new alloy’s incredible strength, to add up to can’t-miss, unmanned, midocean landing technique — rain or shine: Would punch through storm waves, if necessary, as if not there, deceleration remaining within design limits (at ten gees, after all, takes only one second to stop from Hale’s 215-mile-per-hour touchdown speed).
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