Even NASA will ignore him.
No, he decides, he knows what he’s got to look for now. If he can’t reestablish contact with the ground, then it’s up to him to do the same things Bill would do—throw the same switches he would throw—drop them out of orbit at the appointed time. And there has to be at least some time to figure it out. They haven’t even completed one orbit.
We’re supposed to come down after four orbits. A bit less than six hours from now.
He’s breathing rapidly and he wonders if he’ll deplete all the oxygen if he keeps it up.
But Bill isn’t breathing at all anymore, so he’s got double whatever they’d have had together. In any event there should be enough for six hours.
Also, he thinks, the electrical circuits are still on. The panel’s still functioning. Lights and a heater are keeping him warm.
He looks forward, searching for the point of entry and finds it at last, just below the command window frame and forward, one of the few places something could have come through without exploding the glass and plastic forward window. Whatever it was blew out through the back wall and into the equipment bay behind them, where it either stopped or left the spacecraft. And the automatic layer of sticky sealant has obviously worked. He can hear no hissing, no obvious loss of air pressure.
He worries for just a moment about any other unseen, undetected damage back there, back where the engine and fuel tanks are located. But if there was damage to the fuel, wouldn’t he be dead now? Wouldn’t there at least be flashing red alerts all over the elaborate liquid crystal displays?
They show nothing, and he finds the fuel status selection and does his best to read the fact that as predicted, half the fuel remains and is safe a few feet behind him.
Once again he starts pawing through the checklists, selecting the ones on communication failure and reading carefully down each category, checking circuit breakers when he can find them and changing settings, each time expecting to hear the comforting voice of the controller back in Mojave.
But the headset remains silent.
He’s ignoring the floating remnants of Bill’s spilled blood he hasn’t been able to mop up with a series of tissues—just as he’s forcing himself not to think about having to cover the astronaut’s leaking head with a thin silver, mylar blanket before pulling his body out of the command chair. What was Bill Campbell is now a macabre hooded form tied to the back wall of the small cabin while the capsule’s only living occupant sits in front of the panel searching desperately for a way to talk to the planet below.
And with Sri Lanka and the east coast of India sliding by beneath him, Kip finally exhales and sits back in the assaulted command chair, letting the checklists float listlessly in front of him as he struggles through the cobwebs of his panic and pulls the last curtain of denial aside.
Dear God, I am alone up here. And I’ve got five hours to learn how to get myself back.
Chapter 6
The whine of jet engines filters into the stunned silence of the soundinsulated control room. Smoking has never been permitted here, but several occupants are wishing for an exemption. The level of tension is palpable.
Outside on the ramp, the Lockheed 1011 named Deliverance is returning to her parking spot, one hundred and fifty thousand pounds lighter—her missing appendage now halfway around the planet.
Video and audio feeds carry what’s happening inside the computer-rich mission control room, but the TV images are going only to the Internet and a bank of digital recorders, since no news organizations have requested them. With few exceptions, the world is neither watching nor listening.
Here the response to what at first seemed a momentary communications glitch has become disordered, adrift, the assembled professionals milling around like a troop of actors who’ve run off the end of their script. They stand and look back and forth, consulting their monitors and each other for answers to questions they’re having trouble even phrasing. Ultimately, all eyes migrate to one man.
Arleigh Kerr stands at the flight director’s console, searching the faces of the eighteen men and women arrayed before him for signs of deliverance. A veteran of the same sort of control room at NASA in Houston, his thinning hair and angular features on a six-foot frame are well known in spaceflight circles. An admirer of NASA’s unflappable Deke Slayton, Kerr is working hard now to find a way to stay the calm leader, the man with the answers—but he, too, is floundering.
Intrepid achieved exactly the orbit planned for it, and they all know exactly where the ship is at the moment. What they don’t know is why virtually every communications circuit in the ship could have failed simultaneously.
It’s like someone yanked a plug from the wall up there, he thinks to himself, embarrassed at the simplicity of the simile.
“Arleigh, we’re cued up on the rerun of the last thirty seconds of telemetry,” one of his engineers is saying in his ear.
“You have something?”
“Not sure. You want to punch it up on your monitor?”
He nods before remembering to reply.
“Yeah. Channel Twelve. Got it.”
“Okay, Arleigh, watch parameters forty-eight and ninety-six. I’ve highlighted them. Forty-eight is capsule atmospheric pressure. Ninety-six is internal structure vibration monitor.”
The graphed lines crawl across the screen in routine manner until one second before the communication link ends.
“There, Arleigh. See that? Pressure drop at the same moment we’ve got a loud vibration, like a noise in a multiple of frequencies.”
“I see it,” he says. “But what does it mean?”
“Stand by. We’re coming to you,” the engineer replies, and in a few seconds, four of them are arrayed around the flight director, their faces ashen.
“What? What?” Arleigh demands.
“We think we may have lost a pressure seal. Explosively. Pressure drop, vibration—probably a loud noise—then nothing.”
“But why no radios? Why no telemetry?” Arleigh asks, his irritation leaking into his resolve of steady leadership. “Even if we’ve lost Bill and his passenger, how can a blown seal have knocked out all communications? They don’t need to be… alive… for the telemetry to keep working.”
Glances are exchanged before their eyes return to him.
“The other possibility, Arleigh, is that we collided with something.”
The thought had haunted him.
“Collided with what? We did all the usual NORAD checks before launch and we’re live online with them right now for any space junk updates. There’s nothing out there.”
“That they know about,” one of the men corrects, looking sheepish and bracing for the defensive retort he expects.
But Arleigh feels already defeated. They’ve voiced the ultimate heresy: no routine or noncatastrophic explanation for losing all the comm circuits at once. The lump in his throat is growing.
“We have a handheld Iridium phone up there, right?” Arleigh asks. “We’ve checked it? We’ve called it?”
The Iridium satellite phone has its own battery. For a spacecraft, it’s a low-tech backup that should have worked if Bill Campbell had lost all other means of communicating.