Station Breaker

3 Moving Target

It was a textbook launch, just like the simulator — except for the part where I'm worried my commanding officer is going to whip a gun out at any moment and shoot my brains out.

The Gs were more than I've experienced for a sustained period, but I've done enough gut-churning flight maneuvers to not be bothered. The real stomach twister happens a few minutes after we reach orbit.

Launching to a space station is like trying to throw a baseball through a specific window of a bullet train as it flies past — if the train was going 17,000 miles an hour.

You don't aim for the target. Instead, you calculate where it will be at a specific time, then try to intercept it. Launch windows are measured in half seconds for this kind of thing. You don't use a map, so much as a spreadsheet.

While we were sitting on the launchpad for three hours, the US/iCosmos flew overhead twice.

If you've ever been out in the middle of the desert on a moonless night and seen the tiny speck of a low earth orbit satellite or space station whiz across the sky, that's what we're trying to intercept. It's not even over the horizon when the launch computer fires the rocket.

The launch computer controls everything.

Joining up with a space station involves two other computers besides our own: There's the one at mission control in Nashville, watching everything and making sure tracking and telemetry jibe. Then there's the one controlling our destination, the US/iCosmos station, doing things like adjusting the pitch of the solar panels every few minutes so the station will encounter less drag as it reaches the closest point to the atmosphere in its orbit and controlling the tiny little thrusters that move the station out of the path of space debris.

The station's biggest concern is fast-moving objects hurtling towards it — which is exactly what our space capsule is doing.

At 17,000 miles an hour, a 1 % margin of error in velocity means slamming into the station at the same speed as a race car at full throttle — enough force to destroy the structure.

Before we even get close, we have to reach a parallel orbit matching its velocity.

This is made all the more tricky because spacecraft, even the fancy iCosmos Unicorn capsules, don't have a lot of fuel to burn.

It's not like the Millennium Falcon where you can just have Chewbacca take you to orbit on a whim and dodge incoming TIE-Fighters without worrying about fuel consumption.

A little spreadsheet is keeping track of fuel, velocity, distance to target and has lots of little triggers to tell us when we need to take a different course of action.

All of this is automatic for the most part. Commander Bennet's job and mine is to watch our big flatscreen displays and keep an eye out for any flashing warnings.

At some point in a normal launch ground control will let him use the joystick to bring us closer to the station before the automatic docking computer takes over. This is really just giving a monkey something to press so he feels he achieved something.

The iCosmos ships have done this kind of thing hundreds of times without anyone at the controls. But when there's human cargo, in this case Dr. Peterson, you want pilots onboard for when all the computers don't agree and letting the ship burn up over the Pacific Ocean isn't an option.

Fifteen minutes after launch I get a flashing box on my console saying there's a problem with our trajectory.

"Commander, I'm getting a warning about our projected path."

"I'm on it. Nashville, this is Unicorn 22, I'm getting a warning that our intended destination is unavailable. Over."

"Unicorn 22, hold steady while we check on this. Over."

I flip through a few screens and realize the US/iC station is sending us a "do not proceed any closer" signal. This would be from the computer system that watches out for any fast moving threats.

"Unicorn 22, we just heard from the US/iC that they experienced a solar flare that knocked out their inbound telemetry sensor. They're going to try a reboot. Continue your orbit until otherwise noted. Over."

"A solar flare?" I check through all my readouts and can't find anything from the Helios satellite. "There's nothing about it."

"Dixon, are you planning on arguing with their computer?" says Bennet. "Which is preferable? They're right or that their computer made a mistake?"

"Good point." I shut up.

I pull up the reentry profiles. If we can't dock with the US/iC then we'll have to return to Earth. Like trying to catch the station, reentry is equally complicated.

If we miss the window, we could find ourselves in the Pacific thousands of miles away from the nearest rescue, or worse, in hostile territory.

Ideally, we hit the window at the right time and come back down over Canaveral where we use the landing rockets to bring us down to the pad — which could mean I'm home in time to grab dinner at Outback Steakhouse and get to sleep in my own bed.

The alternative is a prison cell in North Korea or burning to death in the upper atmosphere.

"Reentry profiles loaded, Commander."

"Hold your horses, Dixon. Let's see what the folks at Nashville have to say."

"Are you that bored of space already?" asks Peterson from the seat behind me.

She's joking, but there's something cold in her voice, like it was forced. She can't be scared, can she?

"Unicorn 22, this is Nashville. We just spoke to the US/iC commander and she says they think there may be a sensor alignment issue and they won't know until they do a space walk. And even then it could be days. Please load up the reentry profiles and we'll tell you when to proceed. Over."

"Affirmative, Nashville. Doing a systems check now. Over," says Bennet. "Dixon, what's our ETA to a Canaveral window?"

I'd already done the math. "In 34 minutes we'll need to start our reentry burn."

He nods then starts going through screens on his console. Out of the corner of my eye I see him digging through directories of all the onboard sensors. I'd never seen him do that in the simulator — but we've never been in this kind of situation before.

"Nashville, this is Unicorn 22. It looks like we've got our own sensor issue on our heat shield. Over."

Suddenly a bright red box starts flashing on my console telling me there's a heat shield malfunction.

I start to flip through sensor readouts and scan for anything that looks out of line and then my screen goes blank.

Confused, I turn to Bennet. "I've lost my display."

He relays this back to Earth. "Nashville, this is Unicorn 22. My co-pilot appears to have lost his display. I'm giving Dr. Peterson redundant controls. Over."

"Roger that, Unicorn 22. We'd suggest a reset, but if you're experiencing a shield sensor issue, we advise against that. Over."

"Affirmative, Nashville."

I reach out to touch my display, to see if it was just a video issue. Bennet stops me with a sharp look. "Dixon, keep your hands off it. Peterson and I have this."

"I have control," says Peterson. "Checking heat shield sensors. Nashville, I can confirm we have a sensor problem of our own. We'd need to make visual confirmation to verify. Over."

"Unicorn 22, please stand by. Over."

It's amazing how calm everyone can be when you just realize you've been fucked by the universe.

The US/iC can't let us dock and we just found out we might burn to death on reentry.

Making things worse is the fact that I think Bennet intentionally shut me out of my screen so Peterson could have access.

First the gun. Now this.

Something is not right, but I keep my mouth shut.