When they reach launch pad 39B, Rhonda’s first out. She strides across the rust-stained concrete, past the flame trench, towards the imposing, grey-steel Fixed Service Structure that’s topped by a towering lightning mast. The rest follow.
Judd looks up and takes in Atlantis, sitting proud on the crawler. It shimmers, moves, comes alive as the crew’s outsized shadows play across it, thrown by the high-wattage arc lights that illuminate the pad after dusk. For all the shuttle’s failings and frailties, when he gets close to one he can’t help but marvel at the damn thing. His workplace tonight is the White Room, connected to the spacecraft at the end of the crew access arm. It’s a long, narrow compartment where the astronauts make final adjustments before entering Atlantis.
Judd approaches the elevator that will transport them to the crew access arm. Everyone is already inside, facing out, and he sees there’s nowhere for him to stand — except in front of Rhonda. He instinctively pauses midstep then realises that looks a bit awkward and walks on. For a moment he thinks about engineering a turn and backing into the elevator so he doesn’t have to face her, but quickly recognises that’ll look even stranger than the midstep pause from a moment ago so he enters the elevator normally and takes up a position in front of her.
They study each other. There’s nowhere else to look. He searches her eyes, the bluest of blue. In that moment he remembers why he loves her — because she believes she can do anything. Then he remembers why he sometimes doesn’t — because that belief is something he no longer possesses. He’s envious she has the career he so wants, that she can live her dream while he waits back on Earth. Is that jealousy the reason she left? He never wanted it to show but sometimes it slipped out. He wasn’t proud of it.
He opens his mouth to speak, but she shakes her head, mouths ‘not now.’ Is that a flicker of warmth he sees? A sign of rapprochement? He wants it to be, hopes that after this test, or her mission, they can somehow, someway, repair this imperfect relationship.
The door slides shut and the elevator rises towards the crew access arm and Atlantis above.
9
Kobi ‘Tam’ O’Shea tips his delta wing into a steep turn and finally loses sight of Henri, Dirk, Nico and Cobbin.
One hundred metres to the left, the Japanese-Irishman sees Gerald Sanchez, his partner for this evening. Tam glances at the swamp below. He knows it’s infested with alligators, recalls reading something about alligator attacks usually happening in waist-deep water — or maybe that was sharks. Either way, he must be careful when he touches down.
Tam tips into a dive and the swamp rushes up to meet him. His eyes flick to the GPS unit. The green arrow has been replaced by a white X. He’s on top of his target. He pulls his hands from the wing controllers and pulls a lever on the wing’s leading edge. The wing separates from the frame attached to his back and he freefalls. His right hand grabs the cord at his chest and yanks hard. The chute zips from its pack, licks the air like a dragon’s tongue, then explodes open, seizes the air, stops him dead.
He takes control of the black ram-air chute and works the control lines. The carbon-fibre wing dangles below, connected via a strap to the frame on his back. To the left he sees Gerald’s silhouette. Chute open, he’s slightly higher and 200 metres away.
Tam pinpoints the only patch of grass in the vicinity, 20 metres square, lighter in tone than the surrounding brush. He works the control lines, hooks into a tight dive, feathers the chute then drops to the ground.
The tall grass pads the landing. In a flash he’s up and out of the chute’s harness and wing frame. The helmet’s off next. The gloves are too thick to work with so he peels them off, pulls out a P7 Lenser torch in the same motion, clicks it on.
He finds the carbon-fibre wing with the beam. Sequestered inside the wing’s hollow structure are the tools he’ll need tonight. He picks it up…
‘Christ!’ The pain in his right hand is bright and hot. He shines the torch, finds two bloodied puncture wounds on his thumb, then plays the beam across the ground to find what’s responsible. A thin tail slides over the wing then disappears into the grass. He recognises the markings. It has many names. Cottonmouth. Viper. Water moccasin. Call it what you will, only one thing matters: it’s an extremely venomous snake. He can’t believe it. After worrying about alligators on the way down he gets bitten by a snake as soon as he lands.
He hopes it wasn’t a cottonmouth. They aren’t the only snakes in this area, he knows that much. Water snakes look just like their cottonmouthed cousins but aren’t venomous. Failing that, he hopes that if it was a cottonmouth then the bite was dry and no venom was injected. Then he realises two things. He’s doing a lot of hoping and the bite’s not feeling so great. It’s swelling fast and the pain is intense. ‘Shit!’ He doesn’t have time for snake bite.
He needs to get it wrapped. Now. Tam carries a basic first-aid kit but Gerald will need to apply the pressure bandage that slows the toxin. Beyond that, professional medical assistance will have to wait.
Leaves thrash and branches crack behind him. It’s Gerald, touching down, a little off course but close enough. Tam turns to the sound, aims the torch at the scrub. He can’t see anything through the dense foliage. He glances at the GPS unit on his chest. They have just under sixteen minutes to complete their mission.
He sets off towards his partner but doesn’t rush. That’ll just increase his heart rate, accelerate the poison’s journey through his system. He moves deliberately but quickly, the carbon-fibre wing under his left arm, the torch held lightly in the bitten right hand. ‘Gerald?’ No answer.
Tam pushes through the scrub, plays the torch’s beam across the tangled vegetation. Leaves rustle above. Tam points the torch up. The beam splashes over Gerald. He’s hung up, high in a pine tree, his eyes wide open in a surprised expression.
‘You won’t believe what happened —’ Tam stops and looks closer. A branch has impaled Gerald through the chest. No wonder he looks surprised. His right foot twitches, kicks a branch, then stops. Suddenly getting bitten by a cottonmouth feels like the deal of the century.
Nausea sweeps over Tam. He doesn’t know if it’s the snake’s toxin working its dark magic or the dreadful realisation that his partner is dead and he must complete tonight’s mission on his own. Whatever the reason, he bends over and throws up.
He hasn’t got time to hurl, or cut down Gerald either. He must get moving or this whole exercise will be for nothing. He straightens and wipes his mouth. His body aches, his skin’s clammy and his legs are weak. He ignores it and studies the GPS unit on his chest. The green arrow points to the north-east. He has thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds to complete the mission. He moves quickly, tries to push the dreadful image of his dead partner from his mind.
One minute later the white X on the GPS unit tells him he’s standing right on top it. He plays the flashlight’s beam across the leaf-strewn ground, searches for it —
There. A square outline. He places the wing on the ground and kneels, scrabbles at the square with the fingers of his unbitten hand, pulls away leaves and dirt, hits steel. It’s a grate, one metre square, made of thick steel forged in a lattice design. He flips the wing over, unlatches a compartment door, grabs the long plastic cylinder velcroed inside. He unscrews one end, slips out two grappling hooks, positions himself over the grate, slides the hooks into the lattice and pulls up.
‘Jesus H!’ It’s as heavy as a truck. That’s why two men were sent to move it! He pulls again, uses everything he’s got. The grate scrapes on the cement surround, slowly clears the hole. He lets go of the hooks and it thumps to the dirt. Light-headed, he sucks air as he looks down the air shaft. It disappears into darkness.