Orbital

Four Down Under

I look past the nuke strapped to my chest and my feet at the ground below me. It’s one giant desert. I guess you could use that describe much of Australia.

But there’s a whole hell lot of nothing down there.

Last time I made an unscheduled landing I came down in Rio. Good times. Great people — well the ones that weren’t shooting at me.

This time…miles and miles of wasteland. The is Mad Max territory.

It could be worse, David. You could have landed in the ocean. How would you have liked to try dog paddling for days with the nuclear device strapped to your chest then?

Fair point. Australia is looking better and better.

Without any reference landmarks or an altimeter, the ground starts coming at me pretty fast. I’d love to drop the nuke before I touch down so it doesn’t break my jaw, but…um…that would be a bad idea.

With my knees slightly bent, I push the case away and get ready to keep moving forward.

BAM!!!

Touchdown. And I manage to not fall on my ass.

Okay, drop the nuke now and roll up the parachute.

I’d love to cut it free, but I might need it as an emergency shelter. I have no idea how long it’ll take help to reach me out here.

“Ops, I’m down.”

I start pulling at the cords but stop as I feel a searing pain in my side. “AAAAAK!”

I fall to my ass and let the parachute pull at me in the wind. I think that bullet did a little bit more than I realized.

Oh, I can take my helmet off. Why don’t I do that and lay here for a second?

The wind is cold on my sweaty face, but it’s the first time in forever I haven’t smelled the constant scent of burning plastic and my own fear.

I stretch my arms out wide and lay completely flat. It’s not the most comfortable thing to do in a spacesuit, but I’m so sore, it doesn’t matter.

Deep breath. You’re alive — for the time being.

“Ops?”

Nothing. No reply. Wonderful. Either my comm finally ran out of juice or they lost me.

Delightful.

I pull myself back upright, afraid I might pass out. Damn, my side hurts.

I look down and see the yellow plastic plug I’d used to seal up the bullet hole I got from the asshole Russians in our gunfight…in space.

Jesus, David, if you live through this, you’ll never have to pay for another drink again. Even better, I’m already in Australia, where they take that kind of thing seriously.

Okay, so we’re in the middle of the Australian desert, hundreds of miles from civilization. Thousands, if you ask a New Zealander. Now what?

Do I shed my suit and go on a walkabout?

I would, but I’m afraid it’s the only thing keeping my bullet wound in check.

Man, I can’t wait to tell a date how I got that scar…

I try to get up, but the pain is too intense. I start emptying out my pockets. There’s plenty of tools for space stuff. Nothing to fix a space man.

I look up at the sound of a jet engine flying by and spot an F-35 roaring past.

“Over here!” I shout, as if he can hear me over the sound of his turbines. Well, if I don’t make the effort, how will he know the astronaut bleeding to death next to his parachute needs help?

The pilot turns the craft into a wide circle and comes back around.

I wave my arms, just in case he was looking at some other downed astronaut who needs urgent help.

I start to estimate how long it will take for him to get help to me, then remember I have no damn clue how far away the nearest helicopter pad is from here.

But it doesn’t matter…because when the Australian Defense Force sprung for these F-35s, THEY MADE SURE THIS ONE HAD MOTHEREFFING VTOL!!!

The F-35 hovers a hundred yards ahead of me.

Why isn’t he landing?

Oh, because this asshole still has a parachute attached to him and the down thrust will send me across the dry ground like tumbleweed.

I cut that raven-colored silk loose and let it blow away in the wind.

Evidently satisfied, the F-35 comes a little closer then drops down and lands.

I’m eight years old, watching Star Wars for the first time as the dude sets her down, pops his cockpit and steps down his portable ladder.

“Loiks like you goit yoirself ina spot a trouble, mate,” says the pilot in that way all Australians exaggerate their accents the first time they greet you.

“I’ll just wait for the next tour bus. I’m fine.” I try to sit up casually.

“Suit yourself,” he says and turns back around.

“Since you came all this way…”

He turns around grinning until he spots me holding my side where the bullet went through. There’s blood trickling over my fingers.

“Crikey! Let me get my kit!”

He hurries back with his first aid case and drops it beside me then goes to his knees, catching my head as I fall backwards.

“Major Davis at your service. Helicopter is in route and beers are being poured. In the meantime, mind if I have look at that in case it needs urgent attention?”

“Just wash your damn hands,” I reply before passing out.