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Mostly Harmless
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SEP-010, Chapter 14
Jamie Cunningham removed her bluetooth earset from her head, letting it float in the cabin. She set her hand on the commander's seat, closing her eyes in a confused state of shock . . . and mild panic.
The words lingered through her head -- modulated by the radio, it still rang clearly: Mission Control had received her preliminary report on Brian Adkinson's condition, and they were understandably upset. It wasn't unusual for astronauts to have a case of spontaneous eruption their first few days up . . . but this development was considered serious on both sides, and she clamped her eyes further shut as she considered the ramifications.
Mission Control had made it absolutely clear: Whatever was going on with Adkinson (and neither she, nor the white-coats dirt-side knew exactly what was going on; Svetlana was still working on figuring that one out) was disruptive in the least, which meant as the ship's pilot, she now carried responsibility as 'acting commander' until either the end of the mission, or Adkinson became well enough to work; whichever came first.
It was the way things were done in the military, but she was no soldier -- or fighter pilot, or sailor, for that matter. She was a civilian to the core, and--
Svetlana Zaytseva cleared her throat: the only sound she made as she floated into the compartment, and Jamie opened her eyes, pursed her lips, held her breath, and turned to face her.
"He will be fine for right now," Svetlana announced, and Jamie let out her breath in a sharp exhalation. Her eyes immediately narrowed. He's going to be fine? She thought sharply. But he--
"I have my suspicions and my doubts, but I think we need to get him into a hospital at our earliest convenience," Svetlana continued. "Whatever he has going on will wait for that."
Jamie stared at her. Just how the hell was she expecting to do that? They hadn't accomplished their orbital insertion yet -- there was still a couple of hours yet before they'd have to rig the ship for that -- and Svetlana was talking about dumping people off already.
"I do not know yet how we will manage this," Svetlana continued, as if she was reading Jamie's thoughts. "Soyuz cannot do this; our R-7's can get a capsule up to orbit, but there isn't enough reaction mass, or powerful enough engines to match whatever orbit we will be getting. I can only imagine we will have very high apogee once we are in."
"I don't think a Dragon could do it, either," Jamie finally mumbled. "They stopped upgrading them after their COTS duties proved more profitable, and they're not much more maneuverable than a Soyuz."
Svetlana nodded. "We may have to press for a rendezvous with the International Space Station."
Jamie blinked. "Do you know what kind of math is involved there?"
It was Svetlana's turn to blink. "What are you talking about?"
"Our equatorial inclination has to match precisely," Jamie counted on her fingers as she explained, "our timing has to be perfect . . . we have to be able to match velocities with the station from a trans-lunar orbit and have the requisite reaction mass to dock . . ."
"So you are saying it might be difficult."
Jamie thrust her head forward slightly as her eyes widened in response to Svetlana's deadpan assertation. She probed Svetlana's eyes, not sure whether the woman in front of her was being serious or not. There was something twinkling behind those eyes, Jamie decided, and she smiled slightly.
"In space, everything is difficult," Jamie replied. She turned to a side panel and called up an orbital information readout on the multifunction display. It took a moment for the information she requested . . . but when she got it, she swore tartly.
"What is the matter?" Svetlana said.
"Our relative inclination's more than sixty degrees off," Jamie said sullenly. "Do we trade being able to lower our orbit for aligining our planes?" She shook her head and sighed. Their orbit was scheduled to transit the Tropic of Capricorn from the 'southwest', and transit northeast all the way past the Tropic of Cancer before arcing back southward. The International Space Station held the same orbit, drew the same line in space around the Earth -- only the problem was, they were completely out of phase with the station.
"Well, I guess the ISS is out," Jamie grated.
* * *
"Come in. Sit."
Edward Foulkes gestured to the chair in front of him, and Greg Williams dutifully entered the room and sat.
"You wanted to see me, Ed?" Williams prompted.
"Yes. I'm shaking up the wings a little. I want you to pack; you're heading to California tonight."
Foulkes smiled at Williams, as a stunned look crossed the pilot's eyes.
"May I ask why?" Williams finally said.
"Payton has informed me that Constitution is going to be coming in completely out of phase with the International Space Station. Moreover, even if they could somehow align planes, they won't have enough fuel to dock successfully. We're going to have them leave their orbit as is. You're going to sit in on Davis and Ciotti and help them get Enterprise up and running."
This time, Williams' eyes dilated fully in amazement.
"It's ready to go?" He blurted.
Foulkes nodded slowly. There was a hard light in his eyes. Something that immediately put Williams off, and he cocked his head curiously.
"There's a secondary mission to all of this," Foulkes said lowly. "Adkinson is sick. We estimate he's caught something up there . . . or maybe there was something he had dirtside that didn't show up on the medical battery. He's unable to command."
Williams opened his mouth to say something, and then caught himself up short. If Adkinson was out of action, that meant Cunningham had to take his place. He knew enough about the woman to know that in spite of her inherent sarcasm, she was serious about what she did . . . but also grossly inexperienced. It wasn't as if she was a ticking time bomb of complete idiocy -- anyone who sat in the pilot's seat deserved to be there -- it was more the matter of Cunningham's not being the first choice of anyone to be up there in that kind of situation.
"I'm going up there," He snarled resolutely.
"I just said that," Foulkes pointed out.
"I know," Williams snapped. "Jesus, I--"
"It's alright," Foulkes soothed as he held up a halting hand. "Frankly, I don't know what it is about Adkinson, his flight crew, or the entire friggin' class, but it seems every time I put him up there, he's got to have some sort of disaster follow him around."
Williams snickered, and Foulkes swiveled his eyes to glower at him. "Don't get me wrong," Foulkes continued sarcastically, "These mini-disasters have been great for the press, and for NASA's public image. Hell, we haven't had a media event like this since 1970."
"Yeah. I wasn't around," Williams quipped.
"I know," Foulkes said. "Listen. When you get up to Constitution, I want you to do a damage assessment yourself. We're sending up a spare thermal protection plate to install on that bird, but if she's too damaged, we're going to have to abandon it for the time being."
"Abandon it?" Williams said. The word fell on his tongue like bile, and Foulkes nodded grimly.
"You've got more pilot time on that bird than anyone else right now, and I know you know her systems cold," Foulkes said. "I'm putting you in charge of that decision; you'll be the one in the best position to see that through. If you can repair her, do it. If you can't, then you get them off that ship and back dirtside sooner than that. Can you do that for me?"
"I can," Williams conceded with a nod. "Just one question."
"Shoot."
"What happened with that other space agency? That civilian one?"
"SpaceX is out of the picture right now; even if they could flight-ready a Falcon Nine and a Dragon capsule in the next couple of days, their equipment can't reach the orbit we're projecting Constitution is going to assume. There's too many question marks for safety, and Enterprise is looking like our only shot for this."
"I see," Williams said.
"Are you ready to go?" Foulkes said. It sounded like more of a statement than a question, and Williams nodded.
"I'll let you know when I'm in Cali," Williams said.
"Good. Now get out of here. I've got some phone calls to make."
As Williams left the room and shut the door behind him, Edward Foulkes glowered at his desk. He felt very much jerked around, and as he glanced at the tiled ceiling, he found himself wondering how the hell he was going to pull all of this off. There was a lot of money on a collision course for the Earth . . . only an hour out by his estimate. Moreover, there was the human element. Five people, undoubtedly scared out of their wits and completely unable to do anything about it.
The phone rang, and he picked up the receiver sharply.
"Foulkes?" He answered.
* * *
The timer ticked down.
Jamie Cunningham eased herself in her seat and cast a glance to her left. Brian Adkinson strapped himself deliberately into his seat, and glanced back with a wink.
She pursed her lips into a charitable smile. She had enough time to talk with him about the maneuver; all she had to do was angle Constitution for the burn. It would be very much like a deorbit burn; the nose would be pointed retrograde, and Constitution would be on her 'side' relative to the horizon. She already saw to it her perigee -- the lowest point of her orbit, and the point of convergence between her orbit and the Earth -- was raised to two hundred fifty nautical miles above the surface. That was high enough to avoid possibly striking the International Space Station (her eyes glimmered darkly as she considered that possibility), and keep her orbit above the majority of 'space trash' that was endlessly floating around the thermosphere.
That left her apogee adjustment, which would be a long burn. This was supposed to have been taken care of by a series of aerobraking maneuvers -- using the hull of the ship as a giant skid in the upper atmosphere to shave off all of the speed she had developed on her way back from the moon.
It was no longer a physics problem; it was a technological problem. Jamie Cunningham had already seen first-hand evidence the hydrogen burning engines were not impervious to overuse; the first series of engines racked behind her were the original engines from her inaugural flight two years ago. They had performed admirably on each flight, been checked out thoroughly . . . and one of them had finally given up the ghost, causing a cascade shutdown on launch.
She could not afford that to happen. This was an all-or-nothing proposal; the kind of operating NASA absolutely hated to embark upon, and she knew it. Her heart knew it, too. She felt it pounding in her chest. If the engines fired, she'd exhaust most of her fuel, but she'd be in a stable orbit and they could move on to step 2. If they didn't fire, she'd end up in interstellar space and quite possibly dead.
If the engines found it within themselves to actually explode . . .
"Relax."
The voice came from her left, and she jerked her head around to look. Brian Adkinson stared at her. His face was leeched of all humor, and his eyes blazed their way into hers. The authority he radiated . . . actually frightened her, and she swallowed hard.
"You can do this," He intoned. "Focus on that. Focus on the next step. Let everything else come later. You can do this."
She stared at him a moment longer.
"You know this spaceship is controlled by your heart rate, right?" He said. She blinked.
"The faster your heart rate goes, the more intense the situation is, and the more likely you are to make mistakes. Keep that heart rate down. Remember to breathe. Always remember to breathe."
Jamie had never thought of it that way, and the sudden introspection did something witchy with her. Her face softened, and a small smile crept across her lips.
"Yeah," She mumbled, "I can do this."
Adkinson smiled widely. "She's all yours, Commander," He said. "I'm just here to watch."
She checked her multifunction display, and triggered the ship intercom.
"Listen up, ladies and gentleman," She said evenly. "Forty-five seconds to burn. Return seat backs and tray tables to their full upright position, stow all loose articles, and prepare to place your heads between your legs and kiss your bums goodbye, because we're about to initiate our orbit stabilization burn."
* * *
Jamie Cunningham removed her bluetooth earset from her head, letting it float in the cabin. She set her hand on the commander's seat, closing her eyes in a confused state of shock . . . and mild panic.
The words lingered through her head -- modulated by the radio, it still rang clearly: Mission Control had received her preliminary report on Brian Adkinson's condition, and they were understandably upset. It wasn't unusual for astronauts to have a case of spontaneous eruption their first few days up . . . but this development was considered serious on both sides, and she clamped her eyes further shut as she considered the ramifications.
Mission Control had made it absolutely clear: Whatever was going on with Adkinson (and neither she, nor the white-coats dirt-side knew exactly what was going on; Svetlana was still working on figuring that one out) was disruptive in the least, which meant as the ship's pilot, she now carried responsibility as 'acting commander' until either the end of the mission, or Adkinson became well enough to work; whichever came first.
It was the way things were done in the military, but she was no soldier -- or fighter pilot, or sailor, for that matter. She was a civilian to the core, and--
Svetlana Zaytseva cleared her throat: the only sound she made as she floated into the compartment, and Jamie opened her eyes, pursed her lips, held her breath, and turned to face her.
"He will be fine for right now," Svetlana announced, and Jamie let out her breath in a sharp exhalation. Her eyes immediately narrowed. He's going to be fine? She thought sharply. But he--
"I have my suspicions and my doubts, but I think we need to get him into a hospital at our earliest convenience," Svetlana continued. "Whatever he has going on will wait for that."
Jamie stared at her. Just how the hell was she expecting to do that? They hadn't accomplished their orbital insertion yet -- there was still a couple of hours yet before they'd have to rig the ship for that -- and Svetlana was talking about dumping people off already.
"I do not know yet how we will manage this," Svetlana continued, as if she was reading Jamie's thoughts. "Soyuz cannot do this; our R-7's can get a capsule up to orbit, but there isn't enough reaction mass, or powerful enough engines to match whatever orbit we will be getting. I can only imagine we will have very high apogee once we are in."
"I don't think a Dragon could do it, either," Jamie finally mumbled. "They stopped upgrading them after their COTS duties proved more profitable, and they're not much more maneuverable than a Soyuz."
Svetlana nodded. "We may have to press for a rendezvous with the International Space Station."
Jamie blinked. "Do you know what kind of math is involved there?"
It was Svetlana's turn to blink. "What are you talking about?"
"Our equatorial inclination has to match precisely," Jamie counted on her fingers as she explained, "our timing has to be perfect . . . we have to be able to match velocities with the station from a trans-lunar orbit and have the requisite reaction mass to dock . . ."
"So you are saying it might be difficult."
Jamie thrust her head forward slightly as her eyes widened in response to Svetlana's deadpan assertation. She probed Svetlana's eyes, not sure whether the woman in front of her was being serious or not. There was something twinkling behind those eyes, Jamie decided, and she smiled slightly.
"In space, everything is difficult," Jamie replied. She turned to a side panel and called up an orbital information readout on the multifunction display. It took a moment for the information she requested . . . but when she got it, she swore tartly.
"What is the matter?" Svetlana said.
"Our relative inclination's more than sixty degrees off," Jamie said sullenly. "Do we trade being able to lower our orbit for aligining our planes?" She shook her head and sighed. Their orbit was scheduled to transit the Tropic of Capricorn from the 'southwest', and transit northeast all the way past the Tropic of Cancer before arcing back southward. The International Space Station held the same orbit, drew the same line in space around the Earth -- only the problem was, they were completely out of phase with the station.
"Well, I guess the ISS is out," Jamie grated.
* * *
"Come in. Sit."
Edward Foulkes gestured to the chair in front of him, and Greg Williams dutifully entered the room and sat.
"You wanted to see me, Ed?" Williams prompted.
"Yes. I'm shaking up the wings a little. I want you to pack; you're heading to California tonight."
Foulkes smiled at Williams, as a stunned look crossed the pilot's eyes.
"May I ask why?" Williams finally said.
"Payton has informed me that Constitution is going to be coming in completely out of phase with the International Space Station. Moreover, even if they could somehow align planes, they won't have enough fuel to dock successfully. We're going to have them leave their orbit as is. You're going to sit in on Davis and Ciotti and help them get Enterprise up and running."
This time, Williams' eyes dilated fully in amazement.
"It's ready to go?" He blurted.
Foulkes nodded slowly. There was a hard light in his eyes. Something that immediately put Williams off, and he cocked his head curiously.
"There's a secondary mission to all of this," Foulkes said lowly. "Adkinson is sick. We estimate he's caught something up there . . . or maybe there was something he had dirtside that didn't show up on the medical battery. He's unable to command."
Williams opened his mouth to say something, and then caught himself up short. If Adkinson was out of action, that meant Cunningham had to take his place. He knew enough about the woman to know that in spite of her inherent sarcasm, she was serious about what she did . . . but also grossly inexperienced. It wasn't as if she was a ticking time bomb of complete idiocy -- anyone who sat in the pilot's seat deserved to be there -- it was more the matter of Cunningham's not being the first choice of anyone to be up there in that kind of situation.
"I'm going up there," He snarled resolutely.
"I just said that," Foulkes pointed out.
"I know," Williams snapped. "Jesus, I--"
"It's alright," Foulkes soothed as he held up a halting hand. "Frankly, I don't know what it is about Adkinson, his flight crew, or the entire friggin' class, but it seems every time I put him up there, he's got to have some sort of disaster follow him around."
Williams snickered, and Foulkes swiveled his eyes to glower at him. "Don't get me wrong," Foulkes continued sarcastically, "These mini-disasters have been great for the press, and for NASA's public image. Hell, we haven't had a media event like this since 1970."
"Yeah. I wasn't around," Williams quipped.
"I know," Foulkes said. "Listen. When you get up to Constitution, I want you to do a damage assessment yourself. We're sending up a spare thermal protection plate to install on that bird, but if she's too damaged, we're going to have to abandon it for the time being."
"Abandon it?" Williams said. The word fell on his tongue like bile, and Foulkes nodded grimly.
"You've got more pilot time on that bird than anyone else right now, and I know you know her systems cold," Foulkes said. "I'm putting you in charge of that decision; you'll be the one in the best position to see that through. If you can repair her, do it. If you can't, then you get them off that ship and back dirtside sooner than that. Can you do that for me?"
"I can," Williams conceded with a nod. "Just one question."
"Shoot."
"What happened with that other space agency? That civilian one?"
"SpaceX is out of the picture right now; even if they could flight-ready a Falcon Nine and a Dragon capsule in the next couple of days, their equipment can't reach the orbit we're projecting Constitution is going to assume. There's too many question marks for safety, and Enterprise is looking like our only shot for this."
"I see," Williams said.
"Are you ready to go?" Foulkes said. It sounded like more of a statement than a question, and Williams nodded.
"I'll let you know when I'm in Cali," Williams said.
"Good. Now get out of here. I've got some phone calls to make."
As Williams left the room and shut the door behind him, Edward Foulkes glowered at his desk. He felt very much jerked around, and as he glanced at the tiled ceiling, he found himself wondering how the hell he was going to pull all of this off. There was a lot of money on a collision course for the Earth . . . only an hour out by his estimate. Moreover, there was the human element. Five people, undoubtedly scared out of their wits and completely unable to do anything about it.
The phone rang, and he picked up the receiver sharply.
"Foulkes?" He answered.
* * *
The timer ticked down.
Jamie Cunningham eased herself in her seat and cast a glance to her left. Brian Adkinson strapped himself deliberately into his seat, and glanced back with a wink.
She pursed her lips into a charitable smile. She had enough time to talk with him about the maneuver; all she had to do was angle Constitution for the burn. It would be very much like a deorbit burn; the nose would be pointed retrograde, and Constitution would be on her 'side' relative to the horizon. She already saw to it her perigee -- the lowest point of her orbit, and the point of convergence between her orbit and the Earth -- was raised to two hundred fifty nautical miles above the surface. That was high enough to avoid possibly striking the International Space Station (her eyes glimmered darkly as she considered that possibility), and keep her orbit above the majority of 'space trash' that was endlessly floating around the thermosphere.
That left her apogee adjustment, which would be a long burn. This was supposed to have been taken care of by a series of aerobraking maneuvers -- using the hull of the ship as a giant skid in the upper atmosphere to shave off all of the speed she had developed on her way back from the moon.
It was no longer a physics problem; it was a technological problem. Jamie Cunningham had already seen first-hand evidence the hydrogen burning engines were not impervious to overuse; the first series of engines racked behind her were the original engines from her inaugural flight two years ago. They had performed admirably on each flight, been checked out thoroughly . . . and one of them had finally given up the ghost, causing a cascade shutdown on launch.
She could not afford that to happen. This was an all-or-nothing proposal; the kind of operating NASA absolutely hated to embark upon, and she knew it. Her heart knew it, too. She felt it pounding in her chest. If the engines fired, she'd exhaust most of her fuel, but she'd be in a stable orbit and they could move on to step 2. If they didn't fire, she'd end up in interstellar space and quite possibly dead.
If the engines found it within themselves to actually explode . . .
"Relax."
The voice came from her left, and she jerked her head around to look. Brian Adkinson stared at her. His face was leeched of all humor, and his eyes blazed their way into hers. The authority he radiated . . . actually frightened her, and she swallowed hard.
"You can do this," He intoned. "Focus on that. Focus on the next step. Let everything else come later. You can do this."
She stared at him a moment longer.
"You know this spaceship is controlled by your heart rate, right?" He said. She blinked.
"The faster your heart rate goes, the more intense the situation is, and the more likely you are to make mistakes. Keep that heart rate down. Remember to breathe. Always remember to breathe."
Jamie had never thought of it that way, and the sudden introspection did something witchy with her. Her face softened, and a small smile crept across her lips.
"Yeah," She mumbled, "I can do this."
Adkinson smiled widely. "She's all yours, Commander," He said. "I'm just here to watch."
She checked her multifunction display, and triggered the ship intercom.
"Listen up, ladies and gentleman," She said evenly. "Forty-five seconds to burn. Return seat backs and tray tables to their full upright position, stow all loose articles, and prepare to place your heads between your legs and kiss your bums goodbye, because we're about to initiate our orbit stabilization burn."
* * *
I think both the ground and rolling-stock elements are starting to come together. Nobody seems to be pulling their hair out yet, and if they wanted to, they are already bald anyway, so what's the difference?
