"That'll be the day," replied Townsend. "Hold on tight, we're going in."
Oh brother, here we go, thought Gwen, wincing. Where do they find guys like this? She watched the nav readouts as Townsend did everything he could to control altitude. Looking out the window, she could see the blinding light of the trail of ionized gas as the ship streaked like a fireball across the Martian sky. Their target was the landing radar transponder aboard the ERV near the north edge of the Valles Marineris—the greatest canyon in the solar system, deeper than the Grand Canyon and as long as the entire United States. If they didn't make it there, the crew would be hopelessly stranded.
Then the blazing plasma trail was gone. Gwen stared at the unearthly landscape rising on both sides as the ship streaked between mountains and through the canyon.
"SEA LEVEL," the computer announced neutrally—an odd phrase for a desert planet that had lost its lakes and rivers many millions of years ago. "ONE KILOMETER BELOW SEA LEVEL. TWO KILOMETERS BELOW SEA LEVEL."
Gwen's heart pounded with growing hope. "You're in the groove, Colonel. We're way below the surrounding terrain, right in the axis of the canyon. You've got one chance to pull out of this dive, sir, so make it good."
"Roger that." Townsend pulled the stick back into a climb.
Suddenly, in the rapidly approaching distance, Gwen spotted the tiny ERV glinting silver-red in the sunlight, the only man-made object on the alien surface. "Target in sight."
Townsend steered toward it, but he had sacrificed too much velocity just to fly the ship. Gwen waited for the inevitable order. "Pop the chutes."
She slapped her hand down on the control, releasing the drogue and main parachutes in sequence. When the main opened, a sudden shock slammed her against her seat; then all was strangely quiet except for a rocking motion as the ship swayed at the end of the chute's risers.
"Release aeroshield."
Gwen obeyed without comment, knowing they were about to discover the answer to a key question: Do we have enough altitude to land, or do we smash? She regarded the control readout. "Too low," she whispered. Townsend nodded grimly.
Momentarily possessed by a bit of black humor, Gwen activated the ship's annunciator. "Attention all passengers. Prepare for crash landing. Free champagne if we make it down alive. Thank you for flying Beagle Airlines."
"Thank you, stewardess." Townsend laughed.
Gwen looked at the altimeter, all business again. "Time to cast off the main chute."
"No, we keep it. This is going to be a sails-and-engines job."
Or a wing-and-a-prayer job, Gwen thought.
"Arm landing rockets. Arm orbital maneuvering system."
She flipped switches. "Landing rockets armed. OMS armed."
"Arm emergency backups."
More switches. "Backups armed."
"Disengage all engine safety throttle limiters."
"Engine safety throttle limiters disen—What?" The order made no sense. The throttle limiters were a feedback control circuit to reduce propellant flow if the thermocouples detected engine overheating. They shouldn't be switched off. And couldn't be.
"I said, disengage the throttle limiter safety system! Can you do it?"
"Yes, sir." If he needed thrust, she'd give him thrust, but...
The computer continued its emotionless recitation. "TWELVE SECONDS TO IMPACT, TEN, NINE..."
There was one way to do it quickly. Gwen reached for Old Faithful, the sheath knife attached to her boot, and pried open her control panel. Which were the right connections? No time for subtlety. She grabbed a clump of wires and ripped them loose with a hard, two-handed tug. "Throttle limiters disengaged."
"Roger," said Townsend. "Firing."
He slammed his hands on the control panel to fire all landing rockets and emergency backups; then his hands danced across the OMS controls as he fired the ship's own orbital maneuvering system as well. The Hab module shuddered with the shotgun bang of the rocket systems kicking in. Seconds later, they rode through a massive jarring as the landing gear hit the ground.
Then everything was quiet.
Gwen turned around to look first at the mission commander, then at the crew. Everyone appeared glazed or in shock. Luke had lost teeth, and blood was streaming from his mouth and nose. McGee was clenching his jaw, rubbing an aching shoulder; Gwen looked quickly away from him, remembering what he had done.
Rebecca Sherman stared wide-eyed out the window, coughing quietly.
Gwen staggered over to her. At first she could see little in the thick, stirred-up dust, but then the view cleared to reveal the Martian landscape—with the vital ERV standing not a hundred yards away. She exchanged a glance of wonder with the doctor.
Before she could say anything, her thoughts were interrupted by the crackle of the radio. "Beagle, this is Houston Control. Please report on your post-aerocapture orbital status." Due to the long transmission lag, NASA was way behind the times. "We'll need to discuss a number of items before we give the final go-ahead for your commitment to land. Please prepare a detailed report on the status of..."
Gwen saw Colonel Townsend pick up his mike. This should be interesting.
"Houston Control, this is Mars Base One. The Beagle has landed."
A ragged cheer erupted from McGee and Luke. Gwen took another look out the window. It was true, it was there, right there, the ERV Retriever, their ticket home. From somewhere came an uncanny sound.
It took a second for Gwen to realize that the strange sound echoing through the Hab module was her own voice, a rebel yell, the first and loudest ever heard on Mars.
MISSION CONTROL, JOHNSON SPACE CENTER
OCT. 26, 2011 14:55 CST
Townsend's message had just come through to Philip Mason, the Chief of Mission Operations at Johnson Space Center. A somewhat overstuffed African-American manager who dressed impeccably in tailored suits and silk ties, Mason was confused to the point of hysteria. He looked around at the other staff members, as if they knew more than he did.
"What does he mean, he landed? That's not scheduled for another three days." He gestured to Craig Holloway, the young brown-clad ecogoth computer whiz, who in his own way typified the diverse workforce of the new NASA. "Craig, get that flyboy asshole to stop horsing around and give us his precise orbital elements so we can work out a nav sequence. By the book. And tell him to snap to it. We're going to have to go over a lot of things before anybody commits to a landing."
Al Rollins looked up from his console. Young as Holloway, but with close-cropped hair, white shirt, and pocket protector, Rollins was a more classic nerd. "Chief, we've got imaging telemetry coming in from the Beagle."
That sounded reassuring. "Put it on the main viewscreen." Mason self-consciously straightened his tie and picked up his microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen of the press, we have live pictures from the Beagle, which has now completed its aerocapture maneuver into a precisely targeted low Mars orbit." He smiled with proud confidence.
The viewscreen cleared to show a stark Martian landscape with a dusty Earth Return Vehicle in the near distance. As the Chief of Mission Operations stared in disbelief, he felt all the eyes in the room on him.
"Holy shit, I don't believe it!" he mumbled. "That flyboy asshole really is on Mars."
For one crisp moment, utter silence filled the room; then pandemonium erupted. Control operators jumped up on their desks and cheered, while those reporters who had not had the sense to smuggle their cellulars past JSC security shoved each other aside in a mad rush to the bank of available telephones. Mason felt his own spirits begin to rise. He was about to join in the cheering himself, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.