I suddenly realize that I'm well below the envelope where a Russian fighter could have fired on me over international waters.
So that's good to know. Either this maneuver worked or Capricorn is full of shit.
The bad news is I have ten seconds to decide whether or not after I squeeze this throttle if I'm going to yank the stick to the side and aim the Unicorn straight over a heavily populated city.
Capricorn said that's the only way I survive.
That sounds really selfish now that I can see individual apartment buildings and beaches filled with people.
He also said if this McGuffin in my pocket falls into wrong hands it could mean lots of people will die.
Okay, technically he implied that. But that was the gist of things.
Cosmonaut Komarov took one for the team. Apparently so did Bennet and Peterson. What about you, David Dixon?
I guess, technically, if I do the safe thing and just use the retro-rockets to land in the water, I'm actually acting selfishly.
What would Bennet and Peterson do?
What would Sterner do?
I start the engines, let the hypergolic propellants mix and light up a tower of fire below me.
I can hear the thunderous roar throughout the cabin.
Every single person on the beaches in Rio has to be seeing this right now. They're going to hear it in a second as the sound reaches them…
And if you think that's cool folks, wait until you see my next trick…
16
Escape
Holy crap! Is that a fucking helicopter?
Out of nowhere the thing flies in right below me on my landing display while a speedboat bounces across the waves ahead of it. What the fuck? Did they think the bright shiny thing falling from the sky is a goddamn care package?
My finger is already squeezing the throttle by the time I see them. I pray those dumb bastards had the chance to get away before I started the world's largest beachside barbecue.
Worry about them later. I've got one second before the retro rockets reverse my direction and I'm shoved into my seat.
BOOM!!! The hatch above my head blows outward when the explosive bolts fire.
Good to know my right hand is still reacting while I'm rubbernecking.
It's a strange thing when you practice stuff so much your body takes over. That kind of motor learning is what makes the difference between a skilled pilot and a smoking wreck on the ground.
Astronaut and space vehicle training is practicing for every possible contingency until you can literally sleepwalk through them. It's a lot like martial arts. You train until you don't have to think about it anymore.
The roar of the thrusters was loud before — now it's super-fucking thunder through the open hatch. The fuel mix makes a crackling popping sound that reminds me of a bunch of grenades all going off like Chinese firecrackers. And I'm on top of them.
As I fly off at an angle, I rotate the craft over so the hatch is facing the ground and I'm upside down. There's no way in hell I'll be able to get out any other way while the rockets are firing. Even then, it's dicey. The inertia is still going to be intense at the highest point of my arc where I have to jump out.
I'll probably end up tripping and falling towards the storage trunks in the back and die on impact. If I don't, the rocket plume is going to burn me to a crisp anyway.
So no matter what, it really doesn't matter.
I glance down and see the city flying by underneath. It looks rather nice. It hardly seems overrun by monkeys. The Simpsons lied to me.
I spot a stadium directly below and wonder if that's the Maracanã football arena.
If I'd timed things right, I could have just jumped out here and been done with the whole thing.
Well, there's always next time, David.
Speaking of bailouts, I check the altimeter and the fuel gauge. I'm hitting the highest point of my trajectory and can kind of sort of move my arms.
This would be a good time to hop out. If I wait any longer I'm going to be stuck in this can as it smashes into the mountains to the north of Rio.
The computer is all set to keep firing the engine then pop the primary parachute. In theory, sending the Unicorn on a thirty mile trek away from the city — and hopefully anyone looking for me.
Of course, my parachute won't exactly be inconspicuous. Which means I've got to do a last minute chute open to kill my fall. Assuming it can handle the force.
Christ, for all I know, Peterson could have packed her pole dancing class clothes in the backpack instead of a parachute. Won't that be hilarious as they find my cratered body inside a spacesuit next to a bunch of thong underwear?
I unhook my harness and grasp the edge of the seat.
The good news is that pilots have survived Mach 3 bailouts.
The bad news for me is that they were in ejection seats that did all the work.
Thankfully, I'm not going anywhere near that speed. Just a mere 300 miles per hour.
The moment the Unicorn starts to level off I reach up and grab the handrail by the hatch.
FUCK! The incoming wind is so intense it smacks my fist into my helmet.
Stop hitting yourself, David, my older sister taunts.
I try again, this time making a karate chop shape with my hand so it has less resistance. Sensei Mike would be pleased.
I grasp the handle with my left, then do the same with my right. The downward pull of gravity is still less than the inertia pulling me into my seat, but with a little bit of effort on my part, I'm able to get myself into the hatch.
BAM!!! The wind smacks my head against the edge of the hatch.
If I hadn't been wearing this fancy spaceman noggin protector I would have cracked my skull open like an egg. Even with it, I'm seeing stars.
Christ.
Literally, Christ, holy crap, I can see the Christ statue from here! That means I need to bail out now or end up in the mountains.
I stick my head and shoulders all the way through the hatch by standing upside down on the seat.
You know, it's actually kind of beautiful from here.
I pull myself free and fly away from the Unicorn.
FUCK!!!! The exhaust cloud from the rocket exhaust just swallowed me. I see goddamn flames on my visor!
Yeah, this suit is fireproof, but it's not fucking rocket exhaust proof!
Thankfully, I fall away before spontaneously combusting. I reach back and make sure the parachute didn't incinerate.
It's still there. Thank god. Peterson's laundry lives to see another day. I can't wait to tell her… fuck.
Focus, David.
See that big thing coming at you real fast? That's called the ground. While he wants to be best friends and can't wait to meet you, it's important that you play hard to get and ease into it.
First, flatten out my body so I slow down.
Thankfully I've done this dozens of times in a full spacesuit jumping out of an airplane and in one of those vertical wind tunnels at iCosmos.
While this spacesuit is mostly aerodynamically slick plastic and not a wingsuit, spreading your arms out like a flying squirrel still helps.
Okay, I'm flat and can see Mr. Ground coming right at me. Since I forgot to pack an altimeter or look at my altitude on the panel before I jumped out, hell I didn't even count the seconds since I left, I'll have to eyeball this one and treat it like a BASE jump. You know, suicide.
If my goal is to avoid calling attention to myself, then I have to release the chute at the very last second — and pray it has high-tension cords and fabric.
I just watched somebody turn a corner on a moped. A blue Vespa with a dented fender. Yep, I think I'm close enough. There's a nice empty field to shoot for.
I yank the release and the harness pulls into my arms and chest, jerking me upright.