Skyfall

42

GET 33.14

“What do they say about the fuel?” Decosta asked.

“Almost done,” Cooke told him.

“And about time too. This is a very uncomfortable position to lie around in.”

Both pilots were strapped into their seats in the Orbiter flight deck, in normal flying position. But the Orbiter had the dual role of being both space vehicle during takeoff and operation in orbit, then airplane when the time came to land. The two pilots sat in their stations, their seats more like those of an ordinary cockpit than a space vehicle. Perfect for maneuvering and landing, but uncomfortable now since the vehicle was standing on its tail, pointing straight up into the air. Like sitting in a chair that was lying back down on the floor.

“What about the couches?” Decosta said, speaking into the microphone.

“Locking into place now,” the cargo engineer's voice said.

“And the walk-arounds?”

“Stowing them in the airlock….”

“No! Not good enough.” Decosta began pulling at his belt fastening.

“And what do you think you are doing?” Cooke asked.

“Getting the hell down there and putting things right.”

“You're out of your gourd! We've less than twenty minutes to zero, we're into the countdown now. We can't ready for takeoff with you rattling around there.”

“You just might have to. This is not the usual operation.” He was moving as he spoke, climbing about his chair until he hung from the back of it — then dropped the five feet to the rear wall of the aft flight deck, now a floor. “We're not going to have much time up there. I want that gear set up so I can use it instantly without extra farting around.”

He dropped through the interdeck opening into mid deck below.

“If you're not back on time I'm leaving without you,” Cooke called out to his vanishing back.

The bulk of the airlock was like a closet lying on its back next to him. Decosta undogged it and heaved it open. He looked straight down through the airlock and the open outer door beyond at the vast open area of the cargo bay below, its far end a sheer drop of sixty feet. A cherry-picker cage was just beyond the airlock hatch and he stared into the shocked face of the technician there.

“You're not supposed to be here, Captain,” he said.

“Blame my mother, I was premature. Move over.”

Decosta climbed down into the airlock, swung from the edge of the outer hatch — then dropped neatly down in the cage. Trying to ignore the sheer fall beyond. The cage bounced with his sudden weight and they both clutched the rail.

“You're gonna give me a heart attack,” the technician groaned.

“Are these the walk-arounds?” Decosta asked, pointing to the oxygen bottles on the floor of the cage.

“Yes, sir. I was gonna lash them — “

“Forget it, I have a better idea. Drop us down.”

They moved slowly down the length of the bay, between the wide-gaping jaws of the open doors. This great tubular cargo space, sixty feet long and fifteen wide, was usually filled either with cargo or the palletized experiments bolted into place. Or a satellite like the one so recently removed. The only cargo now was a single pallet that was sealed into place just behind the cabin. Four acceleration couches had been roughly welded to it. They were askew, not lined up in a neat row, and the welds were bumpy and uneven. But they were secure and they were in place in time — nothing else counted now.

“Down to the bottom,” Decosta said, pointing. “To the end effector on the end of the manipulator arm.”

The remote manipulator arm ran almost the length of the cargo bay, a jointed tube fifty feet long. It was absurdly thin for its length and the motors in its joints were scarcely able to move its own weight now, because it was designed for operation in space only, in free fall, beyond the reach of gravity. At its far end was a jaw-like mechanism designed to seize the cargo and lift it free. Decosta looked at it, thinking fast, thinking of what the situation would be like in space.

“Hey, Captain,” the technician on the nearby tower wearing earphones and microphone called out. “Major Cooke says you have only fifteen minutes left.”

“I know, I know,” Decosta called back, beginning to sweat now. “Take this thing down to the bottom end of the cargo bay and let's unload the walk-arounds.”

Decosta jumped out onto the circular platform and took the heavy oxygen tanks the technician handed him, placing them in a row at his feet. “Do you have any nylon rope?” he asked.

“Yeah. White and red…”

“Pass me the white.”

As quickly as he could he lashed the walk-arounds side by side to the ring bolts set into the metal. He used a single length of line, weaving it back and forth over the tanks, then securing. A single cut anywhere in the line would free them.

“Knife.”

The technician handed him a heavy pocket knife. He opened the large blade, cut the line — then reached for the end of the red line and passed it quickly through the clasps on each walk-around, tying them together. He climbed back into the cage.

“To the end of the manipulator.”

The cage rose and he let the line reel out behind it.

“You got about eight minutes left!” the communications man called out. “It takes us that long for the final check and to close and dog those doors.”

“Almost done.” He slashed the line off and tied the free end to the end of the manipulator. Then he cut off another short length and used it to tie the knife close beside it, dangling free on a foot of line.

“Hey, that's my knife!” the technician called out.

“It's about to take a trip. Put in a statement of charges. Now get us out of here.”

The cage rose up, higher and higher, until it hovered just under the door to the airlock above. The outer doors of the cargo bay were slowly closing at the same time, Decosta put one foot on the rail of the basket and, with the technician steadying him, managed to reach up and grab the opening. Pulling, and pushing against the groaning man's shoulder with one foot, he worked his way up into the airlock, the door slammed shut and sealed right behind him.

“Get up here!” he heard Cooke shouting. “Christ, we're in the countdown. Two minutes to takeoff. I can't wait.”

“Coming. .” the pilot gasped, closing and sealing the door, climbing hurriedly up the handholds on the wall, grabbing out for the lip of the opening in the floor above. He looked up, gasping, into Cooke's strained face.

“Thirty seconds!” Cooke shouted. “Pumps going, ignition coming up, strap in, damn it — strap in!”

Decosta pulled himself into his chair with the last of his strength, grabbed for the ends of his belt — as the engines fired.

Roaring out streams of flame, the Space Shuttle lifted, moved faster and faster, rising up towards its rendezvous in space.

“The Shuttle is go,” Flax said, his words sounding in the ears of all four aboard Prometheus. “One minute into the burn.”

Patrick had flown the Shuttle more than once so he knew what was happening, knew the sensations of the two men piloting her. The first burn, the big kick by the solid fuel boosters. Three minutes of their firing along with the Orbiter engines as well. Then, one hundred and sixty miles down-range…

“Burn out, separation.”

The two big tubes, empty now, arching away, falling back towards the Atlantic Ocean. Then the snap of their parachutes and the slow drop towards the retrieval ships waiting below. But the Orbiter was still climbing, still sucking the last drops of fuel from the external tank, still not in orbit. Any trouble now and the Orbiter would have to fall back to Earth. They wouldn't make it. What was happening?

“I can't hear you, Orbiter, right, okay now. Roger. External tank jettison.”

Engines still firing as the tank fell away to burn in the thin atmosphere. Still climbing, still aiming for orbit insertion. On the way.

“What's that?” Coretta shouted. “Something burning, outside the ports.”

But even as she spoke the shuddering began, hammering and vibrating.

“Atmosphere impact!” Patrick cried out. “Atmosphere---”

The television program director sat looking at his monitor screen and muttered to himself unhappily. What a choice, what a miserable choice. The Vance Cortwright picture was going out now, as well as his doom-laden voice. That was on monitor two. On one he had a picture of Mission Control, everyone busy as hell at the consoles as they had been for the last god-only-knows how many hours. Without voice, Flax had cut them out again. Forget them, the viewers had seen enough of that picture to use again right now. On three a studio with a science fiction author-space expert, ready to go again with explanations and little models and everything. The director had gotten a lot of mileage out of him, and there would be more to go, but not right now with things maybe breaking. Four was blank now, ready to roll any of the special films they had made. They had just used the Space Shuttle takeoff animation, but with the Shuttle Orbiter up there now that was finished. The director cut in on Cortwright's voice while he thought.

“. . dramatic events of the past hours drawing now to a conclusion. A conclusion still clouded with doubt as Orbiter reaches up into space, hurtling after Prometheus, rushing to catch up. Their engines are shut down now as the final calculations are made, calculations that cannot be off by as much as one-thousandth of one percent. For, at this moment, the two spacecraft are in different orbits, at different heights, moving at different speeds. When Orbiter fires her engines again they should lift her up for the final and dramatic meeting that everyone, all over the world, is waiting for. The gallant crew of Prometheus has worked hard, and some have died, to reach this moment in time and space. How unspeakably cruel it would be if victory, life itself, should be torn away from them at this last minute, for they are reaching the end of their painful journey at last. Approaching their last orbit…”

“Start rolling the Prometheus burning film,” the director said into his mike. As soon as the animated drawing of the ship came on he switched to it with Cortwright's voice over.

“… unbreathable at this altitude, as thin and rarefied as the inside of a light bulb. But at the tremendous speed of five miles a second, eighteen thousand miles an hour, that trace of air will be like a solid wall to Prometheus.” The model's nose began to glow and send off sparks. “Heat it up, burn it, eventually to.

Cortwright stopped talking, his eyes widened, and he pressed the miniature earphone harder against his head. When he spoke again he was excited, fatigue vanished.

“It's happened, my God it's happening at this very instant. Prometheus reported atmosphere impact and then their signal faded. We know that the heated, ionized atmosphere prevents communication, that is all it may be. Or the worst may be upon them at last, the fated moment we have all been dreading may be here. This may be the end. And if it is, we can only say that though these people may die, these brave astronauts, they have not died in vain. Because their efforts have kept this giant in the sky up there until now, until this moment when it is hurtling over the empty wastes of the Pacific Ocean. If it falls now no one below will be hurt, the tragedy of Cottenham New Town will not be repeated….”

“Great, really great,” the director chuckled to himself and rubbed his hands together. “They hit while we had the burning animation on. What really great timing!”

“I don't know” Flax said. “Honest to God I just do not know any thing yet.”

“I understand, Mr. Flax, and I do appreciate your position.” Dillwater could hear the exhaustion, the pain, in the man's voice and knew he could ask no more, push him no farther. “This line will be open and I will be standing by, we will all be standing by, waiting for whatever news you may have. We are all praying it will be good.”

Dillwater slowly hung up the receiver and looked at the circle of watching faces. “Nothing additional is known,” he said.

“They have to know!” President Bandin shouted. “Eight billion dollars worth of equipment and they don't have a clue? Can't they just look up, point a telescope?”

“They are doing everything technically possible. We will know what happens in a matter of minutes.”

Bannerman walked over to stare at the big plotting board, at the red circle that was Prometheus's location on last contact.

“They had better find out something pretty soon. If that thing burns now, it will just knock a hole in the ocean. But if it stays in orbit just a few minutes more it's going to come down right on top of Los Angeles.”

They could not speak. There were no words to convey their feelings as they realized this unthinkable — yet possible — greater tragedy.

“Nothing,” Cooke said. “Nothing yet.” He looked out at space, at the stars, unseeingly.

“They can't burn, not when we're this close,” Decosta said. He opened his belt and kicked up, floating away from his chair. “I'm getting into the pressure suit.”

“We don't know for certain or not if you are going to get a chance to use it.”

“Don't you think I know that?” His voice was bitter, angry. He opened the locker in the rear and hauled the suit out. “It's like knocking on wood. You do it even if you aren't superstitious. I am putting this thing on and I am going to use it, hear?”

“You tell them, tiger.” Cooke tried to be funny, to smile as he spoke, though he had never felt more depressed in his entire life. He pressed the microphone switch, “Orbiter to Mission Control. Have you heard….”

“Nothing,” Flax said. “Sorry Cooke, nothing at all yet. The program is still running and you're due for a burn in about twenty minutes.”

“Roger, Mission Control. Out.”

Flax was beyond all fatigue, beyond all caring. That it should end like this, now, so suddenly with salvation just beyond their grasp. He looked at the GET. Less than an hour from hook-up…

“Something on the wavelength.”

The voice from communication jerked them all about like puppets on a string, to stare at the wall speaker that hissed and roared with interference, to strain to hear if that was a voice behind the electronic waterfall. There were words, barely comprehensible words.

“… in… Control… this… is Prometheus…”