2
Denver
“One minute to Acquisition of Signal.”
Audrey rubbed tired eyes with the heel of one hand. “Understood,” she said, stifling a yawn. “AOS in one. Keep an eye on their residuals.” If the braking burn wasn’t spot on, they’d have to waste propellant correcting the orbit later. She didn’t expect that to be any more necessary than it had been to remind her team about it in the first place. It was amazing how much better they got at this stuff when the vehicles weren't expendable, a lesson only partially learned by her former colleagues in Houston.
Thirty seconds. Her status board lit up as each controller checked in: gray boxes from guidance, environmental, propulsion all quickly turned green.
What about comm? She wondered.
Ten seconds.
And there was comm, checking in after a short delay in pinging the network of relay satellites.
Board is green, all systems go.
Time.
“Shepard, Denver; comm check.” Her comm tech was answered by the same empty hiss of background static they’d tuned out for the past hour.
“Shepard, this is flight control,” he repeated, this time with a more authoritative timbre. “Please acknowledge.” Despite the two second delay between radio signals bouncing back from the Moon, the crew always answered on the first hail if they didn’t beat her team to it. It was often a contest to see who could time it better. While no less hazardous than any other point in the journey, radio blackout on the far side had a way of mercilessly highlighting their isolation.
Comm was unusually strident on the third call. “Shepard, Denver; please respond. Over.”
Audrey shot an anxious glance at the mission clock: AOS plus twenty, and it felt like a lifetime. They could tolerate a little slop in their numbers, maybe a second or two. Nowhere near this much. “Nav, what’s their telemetry telling you?”
The navigation and guidance tech answered immediately. “A big fat nothing, Aud. Our screens are dead. They’re just looping the last data set.”
A chill shot through her as if someone had torn away a warm blanket during a deep sleep. Audrey sucked in her breath and closed her eyes before methodically pushing away from the console. She was painfully aware of the need to project absolute calm in spite of the cry welling up inside her: Where’s our spacecraft?
. . .
An early riser by habit, Arthur Hammond was still surprised that the control center was calling at this hour. Not that he ever really shut himself off: a laptop tucked away in the alcove of their master bedroom was continuously linked to the company network with the status of their entire route system. His wife insisted that he at least keep the thing turned away from their bed with the screen off.
“Hammond,” he whispered gruffly. A call at this time of night was rarely good news.
“Good. You’re up.” If there’d been any sleep left in him, the worried hitch in Audrey’s voice wrenched him free of it. “I’m calling to report an overdue spacecraft. Shepard entered radio blackout as planned at 1142 Zulu,” she said with a forced efficiency that only amplified his dread. “Planned signal acquisition at 1243Z was unsuccessful. We have no comm with the crew and no telemetry from Shepard.”
“I understand.” Hammond settled back onto the bed, scratching his words out. “And there’ve been no mayday calls on the guard frequency?” Not that the fledgling Space Guard could offer much help; they were still confined to low Earth orbit, mostly clearing debris hazards with drone satellites.
“Nothing, and we’ve pinged the relay sats twice,” she said. “The network’s fine, there’s just nothing on it. The comm techs are combing through their logs for anything that might explain this, but so far they’ve got nothing.”
“Except for a hole in space where our Cycler should be,” he sighed. There was a telling silence as Audrey hesitated to take the next step.
“That’s affirmative,” she said, choking on the words. “We have to declare a missing vessel.”
He knew it was coming, but…damn. “Then I concur. Activate the emergency response plans and I’ll notify the Feds.”
“Thank you, Art.” There was relief in her voice; he’d just saved her from a flood of unwelcome distractions. “I’m also going to make some calls to our friends in Houston…at least the ones who’ll still talk to us,” she offered. “Maybe they can find something with a Lidar sweep.”
“Good thinking.” A laser-ranging scan worked much like radar but was more precise over long distances, provided they knew where to look. “We’re not going to just sit on our thumbs and let this play out,” he said, as much a command as it was a query.
“Way ahead of you. The midnight flight planners are already working out high energy trajectories to send Grissom up there.”
“What’s your plan, Aud?”
“Let you know as soon as I come up with one, boss.”
. . .
Penny Stratton awoke with a start when the buzzing telephone landed on her stomach.
"We really need to move that thing to your side of the bed,” her husband grumbled. Joe could be a little testy when the company called this early.
“Wuss,” she yawned, and thumbed the receiver. “Go ahead,” she grunted, hoping that made her sound fully awake. It wouldn’t do for the chief pilot to sound groggy, even if it was just a scheduler reporting another crew trying to get out of a trip. She really hated the games they played when contracts were up for negotiation...
If only it were that mundane.
“Missing?” Penny fell back into the pillows, massaging her temples. “Have you called Charlie? Okay...I’m on the way.” She set the phone on the bed and lay still, lost in thought. Silently praying. For what, she didn’t yet know. Part of her brain registered Joe’s voice asking what’s wrong but she might as well have been underwater.
She looked down to find herself robotically twirling a strand of loose hair. Joe always said it was the signal that something was bothering her. If he only knew. It had been what, five years since the last major incident? She shuddered at the memory of it and of the good friend they had lost.
She finally slid out of bed and padded into the bathroom without a word, heading straight for the shower without bothering to turn on a light. She emerged soon after in jeans and a sweater, blonde hair pulled back into her customary loose ponytail. Her emergency “go bag” was slung over one shoulder: a sixty-liter backpack filled with the essentials she’d need for a short notice trip to unpredictable locations. The apologetic look she gave her husband conveyed more than words could: this was really bad, and he shouldn’t expect to see her for a few days.
Joe lifted a curtain to peek outside. An early spring snowfall had begun while they were asleep. “I’ll put some coffee on,” he said groggily, and headed for the kitchen.
. . .
The control center was quiet when Penny arrived thirty minutes later. Still early, activity would swell in another hour or so when the morning shift arrived and would really start jumping when word got out about the missing Cycler. Crisis response teams would be crowding the War Room and they were sure to be set upon by people from all over the company.
She brushed the snow from her hair and made a beeline for the Emergency Operations Center in the far corner. A guard had already been posted at the entrance, which meant the situation was about as grave as expected. Peeking through the frosted glass door, she made out several figures huddled over a network terminal. She nodded a silent greeting at the guard, swept her badge over the latch, and stepped inside.
Audrey was briefing a handful of executives. It was amazing how quickly they could show up when there was a hint of blood in the water. Once Hammond arrived, Aud could at least count on him to keep them off of her back. For the time being, it was her job to mollify them.
“...it’s been over an hour since the expected acquisition of signal,” Audrey was explaining. “That’s long enough to have completed another orbit.”
“Assuming that’s where they are,” one somnolent reed of a man yawned. “How certain can you be?”
She half expected Aud to tear the poor guy’s head off. “Certain enough to drag all of you in here at four a.m.,” she explained coolly. “This is as serious as it gets. Best case is that they’ve had a total radio failure, including telemetry.”
“And the worst case?”
Audrey knew more about cislunar orbital mechanics and spacecraft operations than anyone in the company, but too many of the suits wouldn’t listen to anyone who didn’t hold the title pilot. Penny used that opening to step in. “There’s actually a couple of worst cases,” she interjected. “Either they burned too long, which means they slowed down too much and crashed into the surface, or they didn’t burn long enough and have been shot out into deep space. In which case we’d certainly be hearing from them. Pick your poison.” She turned to Audrey. “Did I miss anything?”
“I think they’ve heard enough bad news for now,” Audrey said. “Any other questions?”
Penny’s lecture had the desired effect: there were none.
. . .
SS Shepard
Simon thought his arm felt pretty good until he tried to actually do anything with it; then it hurt like hell. Just gingerly lifting it to check the time sent shooting pains clear through his shoulder. Clenching his teeth, he unzipped his flight suit with his other hand and slipped the injured arm inside. Better, if only a little. At least it wasn’t flopping around freely anymore.
He pushed away for the other end of the compartment and its first aid kit. Inside, he found a sling and inflatable splints. It also held a fair amount of painkillers, everything from ibuprofen to something that looked like it could put down a horse. Probably best to stay away from that one for now.
He pulled the splint over his arm and opened its self-inflating valve. The sleeve expanded slowly, exerting some welcome uniform pressure around his forearm. He slipped it into the sling and drew it tight against his body with a relieved sigh; it began to feel halfway normal again. Immobility might be inconvenient, but it sure felt good.
Simon closed his eyes and floated against the sidewall, clearing his head. What the hell had just happened in the last two hours?
Everything had really gone down the crapper in the first two minutes. He peered through the inner hatch’s tiny porthole: emergency LEDs still illuminated the tunnel, the end of which was now open to empty space. Not long ago it had been safely docked to the flight module, Snoopy I. No light at the end of this tunnel.
Now that’s a lovely metaphor. You should be a friggin’ poet.
Now that he was freed from the distraction of constant pain, he took another look around. The airlock was only a couple of meters across in any direction, just big enough for two people in full EVA suits. It resembled the inside of a dive chamber – essentially what it was – made of brushed aluminum and composites painted gloss white. A half-dozen LEDs produced a cool bluish tint, the only contrast coming from the touchscreen set in a panel by the tunnel door.
It was a claustrophobic’s nightmare, and his only shelter for the next couple of weeks. Any longer and it would become something else…
No time for that. He shut the thought out of his mind and continued his inspection.
Emergency rations. Ten liters of water. A flashlight. An EVA suit, with repair kit for said suit. A patch kit for the hab – too late, bubba – with a few basic tools. Extra CO2 filters. The intercom panel…
Intercom. If someone were on the other side of that wall it might be useful. Now it just taunted him. It sure would be nice to push a button and talk to somebody. As it was, it could only communicate with the suit radio. So he could talk to himself from the other side of the room. Whoop-dee-doo.
He reached down into his hip pocket and found his tablet. About two-thirds of a charge left, a full day’s use if he wasn’t stupid about it...so no movies to pass the time. He secured it to one of several Velcro strips along the bulkhead and tapped the icon for Big Al’s wiring diagrams. Time to get to work.