Chapter 2
Low Earth Orbit
Approximately 400 Kilometers above Southern Russia
International Space Station
Tuesday
2:07 a.m. Coordinated Universal Time
“Hey, there is Siberia, Allison.” Dr. Peter Solmonov waved to the Earth below as it passed underneath. Allison laughed and waved as well. “I used to live there, you know.”
“I seem to recall you mentioning that about ninety minutes ago, Peter,” United States Space Force Major Allison Simms replied. “Our next orbit will be farther east so you’ll have to wait a while to tell me again.”
“You should be right over it now,” Royal Canadian Navy captain Teri Yancy, their Canadian mission commander, interrupted their conversation.
“Uh, roger that, Teri.” Allison backed off on the jets from her extra-vehicular activity suit. The manuals called the suit a Simplified Aid for EVA Rescue Extravehicular Mobility Unit, but the astronauts called it either a SAFER EMU or simply a “jetpack.”
“I can see gas venting.” Peter stopped his jetpack thrusters and tethered himself close to the leak. Then he reached up and took Allison’s tether as she closed the distance. “It is bigger than we thought. I am not so sure it was just a micrometeorite.”
“Yeah, from the looks of it, I’d say we hit some debris the size of a washer or small bolt.” Allison reached to her belt level harness and detached the long pack there. “This is gonna be at least a Type II patch, boss.”
“You’re going to have to get to it from there because it is behind a bulkhead in here. No way to get to it,” Commander Yancy told them.
“Allison, I’ll take the prep kit. You prepare the gun.” Peter reached toward her to take the patch kit package from her.
“Type II.”
“Yes, at least,” he agreed with her.
“Mission Control, you copy that? Type II fix up here,” Yancy repeated.
“Roger that, ISS. Go for Type II repair.”
“Looks like it went clean through the outer hull into the multilayer insulation and kept on going. We’re still venting, it appears. That would explain the overtaxed environmental systems alerts,” Solmonov said without attempting to look up at Allison. She watched him out of the corner of her eyes as she prepared the patch injector gun.
“Yes, I see. Prepare the cover plate while I prep the gun.”
“Copy that, Major. Prepping the Type II cover plate.”
The patch kit was the latest version developed in Huntsville, Alabama, by some graduate students at the local university and one of the many aerospace and defense firms there. Versions of the kit had been deployed since the very first module of the International Space Station was launched into orbit, but the kit had evolved dramatically over the years—and so had the space station, for that matter. The modern-era patch gun looked more like a fancy caulking gun crossed with a ray gun from old science fiction movies than it did anything else. In cases where the damage wasn’t all the way through the hull, forcing the environmental system to work overtime, the robot “Dextre III” could be slid into place to fix the damage. But with an extremely critical commodity, oxygen, leaking out into space, astronauts and cosmonauts were the quickest repair approach. And the human component of the crew had yet to completely trust a robot to keep their precious oxygen in place when it didn’t breathe. The robot was only motivated by software, whereas the humans, well, they were motivated by something much more imperative. Besides, it took hours to place the robot where it would need to be for such repairs. By then, the amount of oxygen leaked would be critical.
“Cover plate is ready, Allison.” Peter carefully pressed the ten-centimeter-diameter clear spaceglass plate over the venting hole.
The plate had an aerospace-rated 7075-T6 tempered aluminum ring on the outer circumference, about three times thicker than the spaceglass. Once Peter pressed it against the hull of the space station it looked like a raised glass portal one might see on a naval vessel—but there was one slight difference. The portal-looking fixture also had a nipple valve located on the aluminum ring. The nipple was there to attach the glue gun to, but not until the cover plate was bolted down.
“Plate is in a good position, yes?” Peter asked her.
“Yes.” She used the glue gun to fill the first pilot hole on the ring with the space adhesive. “Preparing screw gun for hole one.”
Allison let the glue gun dangle from its tether and then pulled the screw gun from the magnetic mount on her hip. She tapped the screw-load button on the side and then placed the tip of the space-rated sheet-metal screw into the pilot hole on the aluminum ring. She held the gun in place carefully as it started spinning the screw. She could feel it bite into the outer hull surface of the space station and then the torque limiter on the screw gun stopped the spinning. The adhesive expanded around the screwhead and then hardened quickly. There was no time for dilly-dallying around with that adhesive.
“Preparing hole two…” she said.
“Plate is secure, Peter.” Finally, the cover plate was secured with screws to the ISS and Dr. Solmonov could take his hands off. There were still safety straps in place. Astronaut hands were a tertiary safety protocol.
“Great, Allison, I was beginning to grow tired.” He laughed. “Ready to remove the fill cover, yes?”
“Yes.” Allison waited as he pulled the tab that would activate the fill valve. She realized that she had nodded inside the helmet, but at the angle Peter was from her it was unlikely he saw the gesture.
“Valve is active,” Peter stated.
“Roger that.” Allison snapped the end of the glue gun onto the valve’s nipple fitting, applying pressure with her right hand until it locked into place with a good solid clicking feel—there was no sound. She then used her left hand on the threaded fastener and turned the locking ring to hold the glue gun in place on the nipple fitting. She twisted the fitting, as the manual said to “hand tight,” which she had done many times. Once the gun was snapped tight to the nipple she then triggered the locking mechanism that would keep it from being blown loose from overpressure.
“Is Type II patch plate nipple securely fastened to the glue gun assembly, Allison?” Peter asked, reading from the checklist that was up on both of their helmet visor heads-up displays.
“Glue gun connected, sealed ‘hand tight,’ and locked.”
“Check. Proceed with glue injection.”
“Here we go.”
Allison squeezed the trigger of the gun, releasing the gas pressure from the canister of stored accelerant into the piston that forced the glue from the disposable tube. The bluish-white glue began to fill the volume underneath the cover plate with pressure greater than the outgassing and leaking air. She held the trigger until the red light turned green, indicating that an overpressure was forcing the sealant into the bulkhead hole. The indicator began blinking green and the glue stopped flowing into the patch volume.
“Patch volume filled.”
“Prepare for glue gun assembly detachment,” Peter read aloud.
“Disconnecting the gun. Hole appears to be patched. How does it look from inside?” she asked over the comm line.
“Copy that, Allison,” Commander Yancy replied. “The gauge has stopped spinning. Looks like that did it.”
“Great. What next?”
“That’s it, you two. Dextre can handle the rest for today. Besides, you need to get inside and finish your sleep cycles. We’ll have to get up early and prep for docking. We’ve got that space tourist tagging along behind us that’s been waiting to dock since the repair procedure started.”
“Tourists,” Allison grunted with disdain. “Peter, I believe your people would sell tickets to Armageddon.”
“Not sure what you mean, Allison; space tourism helps keep us all in jobs.” From his tone of voice, Allison could tell he didn’t get the humor.
“Sarcasm, Peter.”
“Ah, Americans and sarcasm,” he said. Allison could imagine the shrug he was making inside his suit. “And, that isn’t such a bad idea. I’m sure we could charge very much for front row seats to the end of times. Maybe the view of Armageddon from space would be a premium ticket?”
“Yeah, but then where would you spend the money?”
“Pesky details. You Americans are always concerned with such details.”
* * *
“Soyuz, you are go for docking procedure,” Commander Yancy announced over the interlink between the ISS and the manned space capsule a few thousand meters below them.
“Copy that, Alpha. Go for docking procedure.” The thick Russian accent from the cosmonaut was unmistakable.
“LIDAR and Image Automated Guidance Systems are handing off, now, now, now.” Yancy said.
“LIAGS handoff is in the green, approaching now.”
* * *
Allison floated motionlessly watching the screen in front of her as the Soyuz capsule connected itself to the ISS. The Russian cosmonauts had been doing that for more than three decades and had become quite good at it. Well, she knew that nowadays the procedure was ninety-nine percent automated and controlled by a computer, but nevertheless, it was still always an impressive and exciting procedure to watch. She could only imagine what it must have been like for the first astronauts in the previous century flying the craft and docking them by hand. That had to be an adrenaline rush.
She could feel the module clanking into place with the Docking and Storage Module just beneath the Control Module and then she could feel the hatches opening and the valves regulating and equalizing the pressures between the vehicle and the station.
“You coming, comrade?” Solmonov nudged her as he floated by. Calling her “comrade” had been a running joke of theirs for the more than two months that they’d been on board together. The two of them had trained together both in Houston and in Kazakhstan. They had known each other for years.
“I’m right behind you, cowboy.” She pushed off her console to give her momentum in the direction of the Control Module.
“Always fun to see the newcomers,” Solmonov said over his shoulder at her as they made their way to the opening of the hatch into the Docking and Storage Module in the Russian part of the space station. It took them several more minutes to equalize the air lock, remove the SAFER EMUs and stow them, and then ingress into the normal interior of the ISS for the second time in the past seven hours. Following the initial patch procedure, they had cycled back in and finished a few hours of their sleep cycles. By the time they were awakened there was a scheduled electrical repair on one of the Russian solar panels. That EVA had taken the better part of the morning before the trailing cosmonauts could approach and dock.
Once the repair had been completed and Solmonov and Simms had locked back in, their approach began. Allison and Peter then had to remove and stow the jetpacks and suits, remove the liquid cooling garments, get dressed, and then head down to the docking module. By the time they got there, Yancy was already greeting the new crew of two and the one space tourist.
“I’m Mission Commander Teri Yancy—people usually just call me ‘Teri’ or ‘Yance’ or I’ll also answer to ‘Commander.’” She smiled while shaking the new crew members’ hands one by one as they floated through the hatch into the Control Module. “Aha, this is Dr. Peter Solmonov and Major Allison Simms.”
“Greetings,” Solmonov said while making the Vulcan hand gesture for “live long and prosper.”
“Don’t mind him. Not only is he a total cliché, he’s also a big nerd.” Allison held out a hand to shake with the first person who passed the commander.
The Soyuz commander and pilot introduced his crew. Of course, they all knew who was coming and what their jobs would be, but tradition was to make introductions to the commander of the station upon entry.
“Pilot-Cosmonaut Vasiliy Nolvany, Russian Federation. Nice to meet you, Major Simms. Allow me to introduce U.S. Space Force Captain Ramy Alexander.” He paused and then motioned to a man wearing some sort of active glasses that were clearly holding his attention. Allison recognized the billionaire from social media and news vids.
“And this is Dr. Karl van der Schwab of Austria. I’m not sure you’d say he’s a space tourist, more like a space entrepreneur with some interesting experiments he plans to oversee and consult on. Plus, he’s the partner-owner of the Davidson-Schwab Inflatable Hotel Module attached to Node 3, which I’m most certain you already know.”
“Can someone please show us our personal spaces, please?” Dr. Schwab asked. “I’m anxious to see my hotel room.”
“Captain Alexander.” Major Simms returned the salute to her fellow service member. “Great to have another Guardian up here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Unless we’re on open channels with command, ‘Allison’ is fine.”
“Understood, Major—uh, Allison. I’m Tom.”
“Tom?”
“My middle name, ma’am. My father’s name was Ramy and to avoid the confusion or being called ‘Little Ramy’ or ‘Junior’ I’ve gone by my middle name, Thomas or Tom, all my life,” the USSF captain explained. “I explained this to Vasiliy, but you know Russians and their rank formalities.”
“No, probably just Vasiliy messing with you. He was captain on my first international mission and almost everything to him was done with designs on a future joke or humor. Just his personality, I guess. Very well, then. Just think, after this mission you’re likely to be Major Tom. How about that?” Allison grinned, showing pride in her humor.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that one, Major.” He grimaced at her.
“Right. Maybe I should have ordered you to laugh. Rank does have its privileges.” Her smile quickly faded to a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “Let’s just get y’all situated and moved in. Shall we?”