What happens next catches him completely by surprise.
Within seconds of the SPS burn finishing, the command module detaches from the service module. But whether it’s a glitch or part of the program, he has no time to check. Seeing the gamma angle now set at -1 degree, he fires RCS thrusters manually to lift the nose of the capsule. Now the heat shield is hitting the air at the right angle to keep the ship from burning up. He rotates laterally one way and then the other to normalize the lift; the Entry Monitoring System tells him he’s within normal tolerances. He starts to see the air on fire as flames engulf the capsule’s portals. He checks the G-forces readout and watches it hit six gees before the needle starts to fall away. It’s a lower G-force peak than he hit on Earth, but of course he has no way of knowing what sort of atmosphere he’s flying into.
The capsule remains intact through re-entry and the computer alarm sounds when the time comes to fire the main chutes. He waits, counting to ten to be sure. Opening too early would be catastrophic. He takes a deep breath and hits the switch.
He sighs as he watches the chutes open through the portal above his head. For several minutes, all is quiet as he slowly falls to the surface. It occurs to him he has no real idea of where he’s coming down, other than the fact that it’s land and thus bound to be a rough touchdown. The command pod is designed to land on water, but without a US Navy retrieval team that is simply not an option.
It’s a bone-jarringly rough landing. He bashes his head on the side of his flight chair as the capsule starts crashing through a thick forest canopy. When he’s sure he’s stopped, he waits a few more moments before daring to unstrap from his flight chair.
He shifts slightly in order to reach back for the handle to open the hatch. As he does, he feels the capsule moving under him, instantly bringing back that familiar seasick feeling from the last time he was in this position. They were locked inside Apollo 8 for almost an hour after splashdown — he’d been sick as a dog. No water this time, but he obviously hasn’t made it to the ground yet either. The capsule must be hanging in the treetops by its chutes.
He can’t stay in here for long. Who knows how long those chutes will hold. He reaches for the hatch again, hesitating for a fraction of a second to ponder the possibility that the air outside is toxic. Does he want to die in a box or die as the first man on Mars?
Borman grabs the handle and gives it a sharp yank. It flies open with a hiss from the pressurized piston, designed to hold it open for emergency exit — a design imperative from the fatal Apollo 1 fire. Realizing he’s holding his breath, he opens his mouth and feels his diaphragm move as his lungs fill with Martian air. It’s moist, cool… and seemingly fit for consumption. He has no idea how long it would take a toxic atmosphere to choke a human, but his guess is it would happen immediately in most cases. On Venus, the atmosphere is carbon dioxide and sulfuric acid: dense enough to crush you and hot enough to melt lead.
Borman takes in another lungful, breathing deeper this time. The air is fresh. Well oxygenated. A strange sensation hits him. The air prompts an emotional reaction. Relief, obviously, but there is something deeper than that — a sense of homecoming, as if he’s returning to a place he’s been before. It’s not conscious memory, more like an instinct. The sensation isn’t the least unpleasant, but he has no idea what to make of it. The smell of the woods is incredibly aromatic, layered with perfumes and deep spice. It smells good enough to eat.
He swings himself up and peers out the hatch. The capsule starts swinging madly through the air. When he looks down, he sees he’s still a good hundred feet above the ground.
11
He spends the next five minutes surveying his options, before deciding he’ll have to make a leap into the limbs of the tree. The only other option is to sit and wait for the chutes to tear, which may not even happen. But even in Martian gravity, a hundred-foot fall could be enough to kill him.
Only trouble is, the nearest large tree branch is about twenty feet away, and he’s not at all confident he’ll make it that far.
He starts to pull himself out of his spacesuit, wishing he’d had the foresight to do it while he was still in zero gravity. It’s not an easy thing to do in the confines of the capsule. Every sharp movement adds to its pendulum swing, makes him wonder if he’s only hastening the tearing of those chutes. But he has no chance of tree climbing if he keeps it on.
Finally, he manages to strip himself down to his LCG, the space long johns that have cooling pipes running through them. Underneath the LCG, he is wearing shorts and a T-shirt. But he has no shoes. His boots are part of the spacesuit. Mankind’s first step on Mars will be barefoot.
There’s only one way he’ll get himself anywhere close to the nearest tree branch that’s big enough to hold him. He begins to rock the capsule back and forth in an effort to swing close enough to make a leap. He bumps his head on the hatchway more than once, but eventually finds a rhythm and starts to swing further and further. But when he tries to position himself for the leap, he overbalances and nearly falls out. Thankfully the hatch handle is large enough for him to grab at, but his movement throws the capsule into a wild spin. Hanging half out the capsule, he clings to the hatch for dear life. He has to wait for the chaotic swinging to diminish to the point where he is able to climb back inside, and start the process all over again.
Toes still tingling from adrenal shock, he tries smaller movements to get the ship rocking. He leans forward and back continuously. Slowly, the ship starts to move, but it’s not enough to get anywhere close to the tree branch. He scans the cabin for something to use as a lever. But long metal poles aren’t something North American Aviation factored into their design of the Apollo capsule.
Maybe if he had a lunar lander…
Borman shakes his head in disbelief. Part of him wonders if he’s hallucinating; still on Phobos, but away with the fairies because his air is running out.
The sky above him darkens. He glances up to see the monolith still cutting its way through the upper atmosphere like a meteor, burning a long red streak across the cloudless aqua blue sky.
It looks pretty damn real.
He starts rocking more violently back and forth, feeling the momentum and building on it. He has more success this time. It reminds him of being a kid on the swings, moving back and forth to build up speed and height.
He keeps going. He isn’t going to make it all the way to the branch, but he’ll get close enough. He just needs to find a way to project himself out of the capsule, without getting his feet stuck on exit. Still rocking, he gets his feet firmly in place and then baulks twice, unable to bring himself to make the leap. Third time’s the charm.
It’s a clumsy leap, as he feared it would be. He doesn’t quite reach the branch, but he gets close enough to wrap his arms around it. He feels his feet dangling in the air, an impossible drop below him. He pulls himself onto the branch, throwing a leg over and hugging it like a long-lost loved one.
He stays there for a full five minutes, catching his breath and watching the capsule’s swing slowly diminish as he tries to figure out what to do next. He’s facing away from the trunk of the tree. He needs to be near the trunk. He sits up on the branch, slowly swings himself around the other way and worms his way in.