Robert Zubrin
First Landing
For my daughters, Rachel and Sarah, explorers of the new world
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to acknowledge the assstance of many people who helped in the creation of this book. These include: Jonathan Vos Post, who contributed many valuable ideas to the initial development of the story; Greg Benford and James Cameron, who provided useful advice for the refinement of the plot; Brian Frankie, who provided input on the rock-climbing scenes; and Laurie Fox, Susan Allison, and Kevin Anderson, all of whom helped the author sharpen the final manuscript for publication.
Most of all, I would like to express my thanks to my wife, Maggie, without whose loving support the writing of this novel would have been impossible.
CHAPTER 1
THE BEAGLE WHIRLED silently through the void. Round and round she looped, suspended by centrifugal force at the end of a mile-long tether from her long-expended propulsion stage. Lit by the sun on one side, and an eerie red Marsglow on the other, she looked more like a big tuna can riding on an oversized plate than a daring ship of exploration. But brave explorer she was, and the plate her shield and only protection against the incandescent blast of her imminent Mach 30 entry into Mars' atmosphere. A technological marvel, her inner workings included over ten thousand mission-critical electronic circuits. As she approached her trial by fire, all but one were working perfectly.
ABOARD THE BEAGLE, APPROACHING MARS
OCT. 26, 2011 14:22 CST
"Oh, Houstonnn, we've got a problemmm," Luke Johnson drawled in a Texas accent with a singsong pitch.
Beneath the Beagle's primary electronics console, Major Guenevere Llewellyn overheard the comment and set her mouth in a grim line. He could say that again. She rubbed her hands on her grease-stained NASA flight suit and stared up at a world of wires and fuses, circuit breakers, capacitors, switches, voltages, currents, resistances, temperature readouts on pyro bolts—and a clock with twenty-seven minutes left on it.
As she tinkered furiously, Gwen muttered half to herself and half to her anxious crewmates. "It doesn't make any sense. Why aren't the pyros firing? We've got plenty of power, and three redundant circuits for delivering the ignition spark."
Shortly after launch the better part of a year ago, when Mission Commander Townsend had separated the spacecraft from the upper stage, the burnt-out booster rocket had remained connected to the Beagle by a mile-long tether, dangling like a long counterweight on a string. After firing a small rocket engine on the Hab module, Townsend had set the craft spinning; at the end of its tether, the whirling upper stage produced enough centrifugal force to provide the crew with sufficient artificial gravity for their long journey to Mars.
But if Gwen couldn't disconnect the tether in time, the Beagle's Mach 30 aeroentry would be uncontrollable, and the ship would be burned to a crisp.
Stumped, she tried to think of any malfunction that could have caused the breakdown. "The pyros are a new type, designed to prevent inadvertent ignition by static discharge. Maybe this close to Mars they got too cold, chilled below their ignition temperature. If I shunt over some extra power from the life-support system, that might warm them enough to light."
"Worth a try, but better hurry," Colonel Townsend said. "Do it."
Gwen swiftly threw some relays, switching the surplus LSS power into the pyro prewarmers. In seconds, however, it was obvious that the move would be ineffectual.
The flight mechanic crawled out from beneath the control panel and faced the mission commander. He wasn't going to like what she had to say. "Colonel, there's no choice. I've got to go EVA and pull the manual release."
"Major, no one is going EVA around here until I give the order. That's a last resort. Now try shunting the backup power from the RCS actuators to the pyro ignition system."
Gwen sat down at her control station. She knew it wouldn't work, but arguing with the bomber-jacket-clad ex-fighter jockey would waste precious time. If she made quick work of it, there would still be time for the EVA. Barely.
"Aye, aye, sir." Gwen sat down at her control station.
Townsend gave her a grin and a thumbs up. That's not going to do it, Colonel. Townsend flipped the switch to desafe her board. "Okay, fire on five. Five... four... three... two... one... Do it!"
On Townsend's order, Gwen hit the firing switches. There was no response. Townsend cracked his knuckles in an unconscious admission of stress. She could see he didn't want to let her go EVA, but he'd have to, and soon.
"Colonel, I've got to suit up." Gwen started to rise, but the colonel's hand shoved her back down into her seat.
"At my mark..." Townsend said, "fire again." She could see the sweat on his creased forehead.
Gwen hit the switch. "No go, sir" she reported. Twenty-four minutes.
"All right, shunt all the life-support power to the igniters. Switch to batteries for the lights."
The last alternative to EVA. Gwen's fingers flew over the power regulator controls. "Aye, aye."
The internal lights of the habitation module dimmed. Ruddy Marsshine illuminated the cabin interior.
"Fire!"
Gwen stabbed down on both power switches. No response.
"Try again... Fire!... . Fire!... Goddammit!"
The colonel is losing it, Gwen thought, startled by his uncharacteristic language. Twenty-three minutes left. " Colonel. This isn't going to work." She turned to him, trying to keep her own professional cool. "The only solution is for me to get out on the roof of the Hab module and release the tether manually. Now."
"There isn't time."
"Luke's got a Marsuit all ready. It's the only way."
Townsend drummed his fingers on the control panel while his chief engineer felt precious seconds ticking away. "All right then, Major. There's no time to verify with Houston, and I won't waste time arguing about who's best for the job. It's my prerogative as commander to approve your suggestion. Go for it."
"Yes, sir." Gwen leapt across the cabin toward the spacesuit locker. Big Luke, the mission geologist, had her Marsuit waiting. Marked with her old army helo unit insignia, it was thinner, more flexible, and much easier to don than a standard spacesuit. Designed for field work on the Martian surface, Marsuits were not rated for space. But despite the qualms of the NASA safety mafia, everyone who had ever worked with them knew they were the best choice for fast EVA work as well.
"Don't try to play hero," Townsend warned. "Just stay cool."
Gwen took it on faith that Luke had checked out the suit correctly; there wasn't time to do it herself. Twenty-one minutes.
It took her seconds to strip off the NASA flight suit, revealing an athletic body clad in an Atlanta Braves T-shirt and cutoff blue jeans. The geologist helped her wriggle into the EVA gear, then strapped on an auxiliary cold gas jet pack.
The Marsuit fit like a second skin. "If my pants were as tight as this suit, they'd never let me into church back home," she commented wryly. Luke chuckled as she took the transparent globular helmet from him. "Okay, folks, I think I'll take a little stroll outside."
"By the book, Major," Townsend said.
As she crossed the cabin, Gwen could hear Townsend giving instructions to Luke and Rebecca Sherman, the excessively sophisticated ship's doctor and chief scientist. "I'm going to start programming in emergency maneuvers. You two, take your emergency stations at consoles two and three. As soon as Gwen goes outside, you watch with the multi-cams. If you see anything that looks even the slightest bit odd, I want you to scream. Is that clear?"