Body convulsed momentarily; subsided gradually to consistency of Jell-O. Maintained grip until, pressing ear to chest, heard heart sounds slow, stop. Then released, shrugged free of corpse’s embrace, pushed off for wall. Landed, took firm grip on handhold; watched as body drifted across cabin in slow-motion sprawling tumble.
Realized, then, at least part of solicitude impelling Kyril to strap Harris into command chair was elementary tidiness: Would be in way constantly otherwise under weightless conditions. Jumped across cabin, grabbed body by belt, propelled toward copilot’s chair, secured with harness.
Then looked purposefully around at surroundings. Over which now held undisputed sway.
Would have been easy to let emotions go: Had just killed someone of whom had become very, very fond. Had watched him kill someone else of whom had become very, very fond. Was more alone than anyone in human history — nearest human at least 22,300 miles away. And own lifespan now measured in hours…
Yes, would have been very easy to let go. But couldn’t afford luxury. Bomb departing from orbit less than half day hence; must be disarmed first. Much work remained undone in preparation — plus still didn’t know how was going to get message back to earth…
Well, logical first step in solving any problem is inventory of available assets: Familiarity with gear confined to that intrinsic to own once-limited responsibilities; surely Harris, Kyril brought along equipment relating to their jobs. Spent solid hour scouring Hale’s entire pressurized demesnes; confident would turn up something to solve, or suggest solution to, communications dilemma.
But didn’t.
Boys brought even fewer personal articles than self (my toothbrush no less likely to figure in solution than theirs). Mission equipment limited to three adult-size EMUs, four MMUs (one spare of each), single toolbox, two plug-in briefcase terminals. None of which triggered spontaneous inspiration.
Returned to cockpit, growing more worried by moment. Debated briefly returning after disarming bomb, attempting OMS retroburn to drop Hale from geosynchronous orbit. Perhaps could jury-rig heliograph-type device from shiny interior panel, flash warning to hominems as passed over California (pretty good at Morse; only member of scout troop to qualify for merit badge). Pretty sure could get RCS, OMS running (tried to memorize Harris’s duties as thoroughly as own during endless simulator run-throughs).
But gave that up moment saw fuel gauges: Could drop from geosynchronous orbit with remaining fuel, but not far; be lucky to achieve even shallow parabola. Plus initial progress very slow; Hale would be ghost ship by time got around to far side of globe: Life-support due to run out barely 18 hours hence; even without boys’ added consumption, no chance still alive by then to send signal.
Worrying in earnest now. Unless managed to get word back, Khraniteli surely successful in wiping hominems off face of Earth, sooner or later.
But how…? Here I sat (okay, floated), stranded in orbit — in fuel-depleted ship stripped of exterior insulation, aerodynamic controls, landing gear — everything necessary to get down. All of which immateriaclass="underline" Even were everything in 100-percent flightworthy condition, most unlikely that 15-plus hours in ultralight qualified me to power up, accomplish solo reentry, landing — in single most complicated vehicle ever assembled by H. sapiens…!
But always have had this tendency to keep beating head against wall when situation hopeless — even more so when obviously hopeless. Just not the giving-up kind. Mind kept dodging, weaving, bobbing, looking for solution. Didn’t discard any idea without scrutinizing thoroughly first. Not even silliest conjecture dismissed out of hand; retained long enough to see how looked in conjunction with all the rest.
Got so bad, even started wondering whether bomb’s computer, lasers, would hold still for slow, close approach by Hale on RCS thrusters. Certainly enough fuel in bomb for reentry, after all. If somehow could transfer fuel from bomb to Hale, maybe could extend retroburn long enough to put me over California before life-support ran out. Knew would get only one shot at signaling, of course; be days before Hale returned to perigee again.
Hominems better be looking!
Only, how does one go about transferring monomethyl hydrazine and nitrogen tetroxide in quantity from one vehicle to another in vacuum? Without proper high-pressure equipment…
Doesn’t, of course. Scratch another idea.
Scratch Hale, really: “All the King’s horses and all the King’s men” couldn’t prepare shuttle for reentry without full resources of Space Transportation System crew, facilities. Simply no way lightened, stripped — gutted — ship could survive plunge into atmosphere as result of anything I could do.
Pity bomb carrier not designed for cargo, I thought wryly. Could just -
Blinding flash. Soundless concussion. Universe bucked, rocked, shuddered.
Of course!
(Suddenly felt very stupid.)
The bomb…! Mounted in vehicle eminently capable of reentry; already programmed, equipped — scheduled, in fact — to do just that, commencing in less than six hours. So what if not designed for cargo; ample structural dead space around warhead; same dead space through which would be crawling when entered to disarm.
No reason couldn’t leave message in there…!
Except that missile presently targeted for impact some 25 miles offshore; to deliver message would be necessary to reprogram computer’s ballistics software (disarming warhead first).
Well… during one of those rare quiet moments during otherwise hectic week at Vandenberg, noticed yellowish paperback titled IFR Supplement of the United States. Contained longitude, latitude, time zones, etc., plus other pertinent data, for almost every airport on North American continent. Thumbed through; spotted couple familiar names. One was Vandenberg; remember it well — together with coordinates: 34 degrees 44 minutes north longitude, 120 degrees 35 minutes west latitude. Not launch facility, of course; nearby Air Force base.
Further, despite fact that mission profile (assuming everything went as scheduled) called for straightforward ballistics software wipe, reloading with AAs’ bomb-disposal program, did avail self of opportunity to scroll through Russians’ software during programming portion of training. Distinctly recall seeing submenu titled Ballistika, inside which was fill-in-blanks subsubmenu headed Koordinaty Prizemleniya, with words Dolgota, Shirina, followed by two strings of numbers.
Now, according to my crash-course, bush-league knowledge of Russian, Ballistika translates loosely into “ballistics”; Koordinaty Prizemleniya into “coordinates of touchdown”; Dolgota, Shirina, into “longitude,” “latitude.” If subsequent numbers really longitude, latitude, retargeting probably involves no more than straightforward substitution. Probably.
AAs surely still there; could hardly miss descent — so few objects arrive these days on huge multiple parachutes. AAs would swarm over bomb like ants at picnic; first hurrying to ascertain warhead disarmed; then scientists gleaning data guaranteed to keep them happy, busy for next ten years. Somebody would find message taped to detonator-chamber bulkhead. Bound to.
Longer deliberated question, better idea sounded: Surely offered best odds on getting warning delivered.
(AAs probably not thrilled to have all that plutonium on hand, but would cope — and scientists would go quietly mad studying breakthroughs, etc., embodied in reentry package structure, warhead itself. Plus knowledge gained would stand them in good stead during upcoming war against Khraniteli — of whose existence, intentions, now would be warned.)