Shanghaied to the Moon Page 6

  Through the rear windows, the capsule is visible at the end of the docking tunnel: a round lollipop on a stick, not much bigger than the golf cart. Behind it I can see the curving top of the mystery canister and the silvered spheres of the fuel and oxygen tanks poking out of the doorless cargo bay.

  There’s a slight jolt, and a sharp sound, like a firecracker. The shuttle lurches, then abruptly steadies when the spacer fires a stabilizer. The capsule shoots away in a puff of gas. It plunges into the atmosphere on a tight arc. Orange fire trails from it, burning away its outer shell until the internal pressure bursts it apart like a popped balloon. A thousand sparkling streamers drift toward the clouds. There go my 3-Vid goggles. I run my finger over the empty clip on my belt.

  “A moment of silence for the deceased.”

  Now what’s he talking about? I twist to face him. He’s in the seat on the right, adjusting controls. The flight systems are all there and sparkling like new. That’s a relief!

  “Just did you a big favor, kid. It’s not easy to evade TIA, but being dead helps.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’ll be on the news tonight. Crazy old spacer out for a last joyride, didn’t quite achieve orbital velocity in an ancient piece of crap. Sad. Since the cameras show you going with me, you’re dead, too.”

  “You almost killed us for real!”

  His mouth sets flat. Spoiled his fun, mentioning that. Didn’t cheer me up any, either. “Strap in.”

  “You never asked me if I wanted to come.”

  “I gave you your chance. I told you to get lost.”

  “I needed your help.”

  “And I’m giving it to you!” He faces forward, slaps down a toggle. “We can discuss the finer moral points later. Right now, I need a clear head to get us safely out of orbit. So stop your whining and obey my orders.”

  I don’t move from my hold on the ceiling grip. “If you leave orbit like you dock, we haven’t got a chance!”

  He stops working. Without looking at me, he says in a quiet voice, “Your feelings were in control in that capsule, kid, not your head. That’s bad news.”

  “We’re talking about you!”

  “You’ve got to master your feelings. Find a separate place for them. A box in your mind. Box in your heart.” He traces the square frame of the keyboard on the center console between the seats. “It’s the way to stay alive out here.”

  “So something got out of your box in the capsule?” I’m not dense. He’s admitting his mistake, even as he lays these words of wisdom on me. “And now it’s back in, right? I can just relax and enjoy the trip?”

  He turns his head, stares with those ice-blue eyes. “You’ve got spunk. I like that.”

  He reaches for a thick book clamped to the right bulkhead. He sails it at me. I catch it and start to drift toward the rear wall from absorbing its energy. Quickly, I grab for the hand strap to anchor myself.

  Spreading the book open in midair, I see that it’s the preignition checklist for the main rocket motors. The thick plastic-covered pages are reassuring. If there’s one thing I learned studying the first Moon missions, it’s that astronauts spend a lot of time reading from checklists—long, boring lists—over and over again. They never complain. One switch in the wrong position might mean disaster. Even today, with many more automated systems, there are certain things a pilot wants to be sure of for himself.

  “Another thing that keeps you alive is going by the book. That’s easier with a copilot. How about it, kid?”

  Copilot?

  The empty chair next to him is identical to the pilot’s seat. The joystick. The controls. They’re connected to real thrusters. Real rockets. With the book, I can keep an eye on him. Watch for mistakes.

  A little push and my feet drift over the computer terminal between the two seats. A touch on the button-studded ceiling brings my rump down into the chair. I cinch the harness buckle.

  He doesn’t exactly smile, but he does say kind of friendly, “Welcome aboard.”

  The three big monitors on the flight console display numbers and course plots. One reads TRANSLUNAR INJECTION and shows a free-return trajectory used by the Apollo Moon missions.

  “You’re not going to go that way, are you?”

  “You recognize the course?” He sounds impressed.

  “Yeah, the Apollo missions used it. The Saturn V could barely lift the Apollo stack into orbit, let alone carry enough fuel for a powered run. But there must be enough fuel in our tank to go the faster routes.”

  “Looks can be deceiving, kid. That tank’s big, but its not full. And only one rocket motor works.”

  I should’ve guessed. “So, how long is it going to take us?”

  “If I can get full power from that motor, I’ll be able to flatten the trajectory enough to get us there in two days.”

  I can’t believe it! I’m going to be stuck practically elbow to elbow with this guy for two days? That’s long enough to have to use the toilet, and sleep, and for muscles to start going flabby. Then I see the bright side.

  “But that’s so slow. Won’t they be able to track us?” It comes out like a question, but it’s pure hope.

  “Space is big, kid, really, really big. You know how hard it would be to find a ship this small?”

  He’s so smug, but is he really smart enough to pull it off? He must’ve made a mistake, something Mark might get suspicious of, especially once the Counselor tells him about the ad. That’s it!

  “What about the ad? They just have to watch for a ship coming from Earth.”

  “We’re not coming from Earth.”

  “What are you talking about? We’re in orbit around Earth right now!”

  “The guy putting up the money for this trip has a few friends at Space Command. They’ve fixed it so the best anyone might see is a radar shadow … a ghost ship … just right for a pair of dead men, huh?”

  So someone else is involved in this mission. And they want to keep everything secret.

  “We’re not going to call Mark, are we?”

  He shakes his head. “Now you’re catching on.”

  I finally understand how it is. Nothing I want matters. I’m being shanghaied to the moon, just like thousands of men and boys in the past who got kidnapped to crew sailing ships.

  He faces the controls. “Start reading at number seventy-five in the sequence.”

  “I could be six feet tall and read checklists. Why are you bringing me with you?”

  “Like I said. Left something important on the Moon a long time ago. You’re going to help me get it back.”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s no time to explain now. Read to me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Suit yourself.” He keeps setting switches.

  I get more and more nervous, watching. What if he’s making mistakes? If I’ve got to go, at least I want to get out of orbit alive! “What’s the next item?”

  “Eighty-four,” he says.

  I flip the pages and scan until I find the right place. Call out, “Eighty-four. Switch D on.”

  “Check.”

  “Eighty-five. System seven on.” We fall into a rhythm, like a chant. He stays half a beat ahead of me. He knows the settings by heart. I’m nothing more than backstage help, like a prompter in a play. He’s different than he was in the capsule. No trouble with the buttons. No complaints from the computer. But he’s not faced with a crisis. There’s no pressure. No need for quick decisions or lightning reflexes.

  “One hundred twenty: fuel tank A valve to on.”

  “Check.”

  Monotonous stuff. Our voices drone on, bringing an echo of other voices with that special quality only heard between astronauts and mission control. Steady voices full of letters and numbers recited in the cool monotone of professionals.

  I feel as if I’ve done this before.

  “One hundred seventy, intermix heater switch D to on.”

  “Check.”

&nbs
p; But of course, in a way, I have. In simulators. In the hundreds of 3-Vids I’ve watched. There are always scenes just like this. Even in my dreams.

  “Two hundred: igniter switches to on.” And yet, the echo shadowing our voices seems different, almost like the start of a squiggly.

  “Check.”

  “Two hundred four: lock ignition circuit into NavComp.”

  He runs a systems check of the NavComp. That’s the master computer in charge of integrating every aspect of the flight plan. The NavComp’s most important job is to coordinate the maneuvering thrusters to keep the ship on course no matter what else is happening.

  “Check.”

  My fingers slip turning the last plastic page. That unwelcome feeling of nausea starts in my stomach. Scared. Plain and simple. I want to go to the Moon, but not with this old spacer in this old tub. As long as we’re in orbit, I have some options. He could drop me off at Olympus Space Station. I might be able to get a message to Dad and Mark before they hear the news.

  “Lose your tongue?” There’s challenge in his voice. He knows I’m scared. Why shouldn’t I be? He hasn’t even told me his name, let alone what this mission is all about!

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to go.”

  “You want to be a pilot, don’t you? This is the way. What other kid can get his hands on the controls of a real shuttle, huh?”

  “I haven’t touched the controls!”

  “Long journey ahead. It’ll happen.” He completes the checklist without my help. “Lean back.”

  The big green digits on the countdown clock light up.

  10-9-8-

  The instruments come alive as the FlightComp makes the final check—last chance to scrub if anything is wrong.

  5-4-

  Strong vibrations as the turbo pumps kick on. I clench my right hand into a fist. Clamp my jaw in expectation …

  2-1-

  IGNITION

  The power of the rocket motor slams through the ancient frame. Metal creaks and strains as the thrust builds. A support strut moans right next to my ear. The invisible hand of acceleration squeezes my chest again. I sink deeper into the padded seat. My hand isn’t hurting. I’m going to be okay this time.

  I glance sideways. His eyes are closed and his cheeks are all scrunched up. Looks like he’s in pain, then I realize he’s grinning with the same moronic joy I felt flying through middeck.

  I want that! Close my eyes. Pretend. A real spaceship! Heading for the stars! The cockpit of a sporty Comet Catcher …

  Impossible. New rattles and bangs shiver the hull and grow louder every second. Sounds like I have my ear against a pipe and a hundred maniacs are hammering on it. The ship is going to fall apart! Need that space suit. Need it to stop!

  IGNITION PLUS 40.

  Halfway through the burn. The thrust piles on, like shovelfuls of sand. The green numbers fade. A darkness spreads behind my eyes. A sense of danger. Of something nightmarish. I don’t want to go there. I mustn’t.

  I feel another scream starting to build. It’s got nothing to do with pain this time. It’s pure scared trying to get out. I can’t disgrace myself again. I jam a fist to my mouth, bite down on a finger.

  Just when I think I can’t hold the scream back any longer, the acceleration ceases. The blackness flies away, taking the fear with it. The center monitor tells us:

  IGNITION PLUS 81

  VELOCITY CONSTANT

  TRANSLUNAR INJECTION COMPLETED

  Nick of time. Never thought I’d be such a wimp.

  8

  MISSION TIME

  T plus 02:01:08

  THE soft click of keys draws my attention. The old spacer asks for a status report. In front of me, #3 monitor shows all systems green. Kind of amazing, considering the sounds this tub made.

  He says, “Old Glory’s no Valadium Thruster, but she’ll get us there.”

  This derelict doesn’t even come close to the power of the Lance Ramjet. I’m ashamed to think how I boasted to him about wanting to feel those engines. I barely got through this burn. A stinking space shuttle …

  Maybe it’s just the situation, this whole day. Got me rattled. Wasn’t he worried about shock?

  “Old Glory? Didn’t they call the flag that once?”

  “Who says I named her for the flag? Maybe it’s for when she rode fire from Earth. Maybe it’s for me. Lot of old glory around here, kid.”

  “Lot of old, that’s for sure.”

  Bing bing bing.

  The alarm sounds gentle, so you aren’t scared to death, but both of us freeze for a heartbeat.

  Then he’s all head motions, searching the consoles for a red light. Me, too, but most of the lights don’t mean anything to me.

  Bing bing bing.

  “There!” He jabs the flashing red button and a 3-D graphic of the shuttle—complete with wing holes—flickers onto #1 monitor in front of him. The graph shows the hull surfaces, shaded to indicate temperature differences. Frosty purple underside. Yellows, reds, and white—superhot!—topside.

  Something’s really wrong! The hull should be a uniform temperature; orange all over.

  Bing bing bing.

  He toggles on #2 monitor in the center of the console. It displays the temperature map for the cargo bay. The tanks are white as blank paper, superheated. I yell, “They’re gonna blow!”

  He grabs the joystick, jerks it hard, kicking the shuttle over. With an easy flick and twist of his wrist, he counteracts the roll so the underside stays pointed sunward. Never saw that kind of skill in the capsule.

  Bing bing bing.

  A crackling noise, like dry pine twigs burning, filters inside from the hull. The yellows and reds cool quickly into orange, shading to grays. The purple warms toward orange. The tanks are still white-hot; still in the danger zone.

  Bing bing bing.

  Neither of us breathes. The silvery insulation is our enemy now, trapping the heat inside the tanks. If the heat doesn’t bleed off quickly enough, if the fuel gasifies, we’ll be blown to atoms.

  A blush of red appears on the tanks as the temperature continues to cool, spreads slowly over the spheres. Time seems to pass slowly, like watching a tomato ripen, but really only a few seconds pass before the alarm stops.

  “You forgot to spin us!” In space, you have to spin a ship for even heating, like a chicken in a rotisserie. The first astronauts called it the barbecue roll. Basic stuff.

  “Not me—this!” His arm jabs upward, smacks the corner of the NavComp in the ceiling between us. The most important computer on the ship and it screwed up! “It should have rolled us automatically.”

  We were nearly killed by a computer glitch!

  The brushed aluminum faceplate shows only green lights, glowing and pulsing in a normal rhythm as if to say, “Me? Nothing wrong with me.” But something is wrong with it, to have skipped such an important maneuver in the flight plan.

  He runs a diagnostic. The NavComp says everything’s fine. We can’t trust the diagnostic. I remind him, “It passed during the preflight check, too.”

  “I remember.” He sounds a lot less upset than he should be. “Old Glory’s a planet hugger, kid. Some spacers get sloppy when help is just over the horizon at a space station.”

  “We’re nowhere near a space station now! Turn back!”

  He looks at me like I just cut a fart. “Tell me you know better than that.”

  U-turns in space aren’t easy to do. You need special ships and a lot of spare fuel. When the oxygen tank blew on Apollo 13, they had to ride it out all the way to the Moon. That’s our level of technology in this old rust bucket.

  “Then what do we do?”

  “Run some better diagnostics. Watch the NavComp like a hawk to make sure it doesn’t skip any more commands in the flight plan.” He turns back to the controls.

  “Well, look at that.” He points to #1 monitor. It displays our projected course and an estimated time of arrival of 44:21:08. Even during the crisis, the NavComp was bus
y calculating the results of the translunar injection burn. “It can’t be too screwed up. Shaved nearly four hours off our ETA.”

  “If we can believe it,” I mutter.

  He purses his lips. “That’s a point. I’ll verify soon as I spin this baby.”

  The tanks show orange now. He works the joystick and the display shuttle slowly tilts perpendicular to our line of flight. The same thing is happening to the real one, but there’s no sense of motion inside. Sunlight flares into flight deck, hot and bright. A thruster belches. The shuttle begins to spin on its long axis from nose to rocket cones. The sunlight winks out. Earth passes across our view, the swift flicker of a bluebird through the marsh grasses. Sunlight gushes, blinding.

  “Pull your shades.” He draws the ones on his side, then hits a button that closes the rear window shutters. I close my shades. The rapid strobe of light and dark would drive you crazy. “I’m behind schedule, so sit quiet and let me work.”

  “What did you bring me for, if you just want me to sit here?”

  “Keep interrupting me and you’ll never find out.” He unfolds a star chart and spreads it in the air between us like a curtain. When he takes his hands away, it hangs there as if tacked to the air. Keys click, but I can’t see what he’s doing.

  Sitting quiet isn’t easy. There’s this electricity in me. I want to tear that chart to pieces. Make him take me home.

  Forcing myself to stay still makes me aware of a good reason to get moving. I unsnap the harness.

  He peels aside an edge of the chart. “Where you going?”

  “To pee.” A small flick of my toe on the deck and an elbow jab against the cushions set me drifting into the small, open space behind the seats.

  “Hey!” He grabs my ankle.

  I kick, crinkling the chart, but can’t get free. Chin tucked against my chest, I look back along the length of my floating body at him. “What?”

  “On my ship, you ask permission to leave your post.”

  “Like in school? Raise my hand to go to the bathroom?”

  “No game, kid.” The circle of his fingers tightens around my ankle. “There’s only one captain. One man giving orders. Understand?”