Sea of Crises (26 page)

If all they had was thirty seconds worth of burn, give or take a little, they’d never be able to achieve an orbit. About the best they could do would be to shoot themselves straight up, high enough off the surface to, in theory, allow the command module to drop down and grab them quickly before they lost upward momentum and began the long, deadly descent to the surface. It would take incredible skill to perform such a recovery. But, if there was any pilot who could do it, Cartwright knew, it was Steve Dayton. The big question was could they get high enough if all they had was thirty seconds?

Maybe less.

Pointing to a valve in the line that extended up from the pneumatic control assembly, Kruchinkin said, “We must bypass thrusters. Otherwise, helium is wasted filling line to thruster fuel cells. Must sacrifice control for altitude.”

It made sense. Cartwright nodded.

Kruchinkin reached in and rotated the valve shut. Then he looked at Cartwright with a pained expression. “Is best we can do.”

#

Steve Dayton floated back to his seat in the command module, scanning, as he did, the readouts from the large instrument panel arrayed before him. He’d spent the last hour inputting data and crunching numbers on his computer. He was as ready as he would ever be.

He knew this craft like the back of his hand, having spent the better part of the last four years learning her abilities. And limitations. She wasn’t exactly a jet fighter, and he missed the visceral feedback - and thrill - that came from throwing an F4 Phantom around in the sky while flying on the edge. But he’d come to appreciate what she could do. More importantly, he felt confident that he could maneuver her wherever needed to couple with the lunar module. Just as long as they could get the darn module far enough off the surface.

The limiting altitude on emergency rescue of a lunar module was officially 30,000 feet. Dayton was prepared to go lower if that’s what it took to save Bob Cartwright.

He’d known Cartwright for several years, and he liked the man. A lot. He wasn’t alone.

Cartwright, Dayton knew, had risen quickly in the astronaut ranks, becoming the youngest by far to command an Apollo mission. His quiet, serious demeanor, while inspiring confidence, could be intimidating for those who hadn’t yet gotten to know him. But, when they did, they learned that Cartwright had a keen sense of humor. And, though he didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve, those emotions ran deep and true. He was a born leader, a man who took loyalty to those in his command seriously, and who in turn inspired a profound loyalty from them.

No, Dayton thought, if saving Cartwright meant going below the hard deck, he’d go below.

Well below.

Dayton had used the thrusters located along the side of the command module to drop his orbit down to 50,000 feet. The module was now oriented so that it directly faced the surface of the moon, and Dayton could see the mountains and craters as they passed majestically by the rendezvous window in front of him.

On numerous prior passes over the Sea of Crises, Dayton had tried, unsuccessfully, to spot
Concord’s
landing site using the command module’s 28-power sextant. He wanted to be able to pick up the lunar module visually as soon as possible as it began its rise from the surface, and he’d hoped to identify landmarks that would assist him in doing so. Of course, on those prior passes, he’d been sixty-nine miles up. This was a whole different perspective.

He checked the timer. Just under three minutes to launch.

Cartwright’s voice sounded in his earpiece. “
Concord
to
Lexington
, do you read me Steve?”

“Roger. Loud and clear.”

“Ok,” Cartwright said, “before I light this candle, I want to go over a couple of things.”

“Shoot.”

“First, if we don’t get the full burn.” Cartwright stopped suddenly, as if contemplating the ramifications. Then he continued, “If we don’t get the full burn, you will not drop below 30,000. Are we clear on that?”

Dayton hesitated before replying, “Clear.”

Dayton did another quick scan of his thruster settings. He’d programmed in a sequence that would take him straight down toward the lunar surface if the module’s engine cut out early. All he would need to do is hit the master switch to engage the thrusters in his pre-programmed sequence. His plan, should it become necessary, was to duck down, snatch the vessel, then immediately reverse thrusters to pull himself back into orbit. The move would be not unlike those of the terns and gulls he’d watched growing up on the coast of Maine. Instead of a small fish, though, he would be pulling back up with him a much more precious cargo. And, despite the admonition from Cartwright, he would go as low as necessary to do it. He saw no purpose to be served, though, in making the point, so he kept it to himself.

“Second,” Cartwright continued, “if we don’t make this rendezvous, you will not hesitate to take the command module out of lunar orbit and get yourself home. When you do, I don’t want you telling anyone at NASA you know what happened here on the surface. I don’t know who all is involved in this, but I have to assume for now that the entire Administration has been compromised. You tell them you have no idea what happened down here. During the first EVA, you lost all communication, and it was never restored. The module never left the surface. Then you take all of this straight to the Navy brass. Or Air Force,” he added, apparently remembering belatedly the arm of the service to which Dayton belonged. “Get this out in the open. Do not let the bastards get away with it.”

The notion of returning to Earth without Cartwright was inconceivable to Dayton. How could he possibly do that? But he knew better than to argue with his commander.

“I understand,” Dayton said. “But,” he added, “we’ll do it together.”

Cartwright didn’t respond immediately. Finally, he said, “Roger that.”

They had run the calculations and concluded that a thirty-second burn would be optimal for bringing the module up to Dayton’s current altitude before losing momentum. They certainly didn’t want to overshoot, so Cartwright would be poised to shut down the rocket when - if - they hit thirty seconds. First, though, they’d have to be able to start the engine. Dayton consulted the elapsed time. Thirty seconds to launch. Showtime.

“All right,” said Cartwright, “I’m going to pressurize the line.”

Dayton took in a sharp breath. This was the acid test. If there was no pressure in the line, it was all over. The module would never leave the surface of the moon. He held the breath.

“And we have pressure,” Cartwright announced, as casually as if it were a routine checklist item.

Dayton expelled the breath. So far, so good. Still, would the engine ignite? And, if it did, how long would it burn?

Again, without a hint there was anything out of the ordinary going on, Cartwright called out, “Standing by to start time on the burn. We will have ignition in three, two, one.”

Time seemed to stand still.

“And we have ignition.”

Relief flooded Dayton. In fact, he thought he might finally have detected a bit of emotion in Cartwright’s voice. Beginning a silent count in his head, Dayton peered forward through the rendezvous window, looking for the first sign of the ascending lunar module. Five seconds. He saw nothing but the scarred lunar surface. Ten seconds. Still nothing.

“There’s a slight vibration,” Cartwright announced, “but the engine seems to be firing just fine. We’re getting elevation fast.”

Fifteen seconds. Almost out of the woods.

There. A glint of metal ahead of him and below. The tiny speck that was the lunar module climbing its way up from the surface. A beautiful sight. Dayton knew Cartwright would be looking up through the small window inset above the commander’s station, trying to spot the command module.

Twenty seconds. They were going to make it.

And then Dayton noticed something. He blinked, thinking maybe he was just imagining it.

Twenty-five seconds.

“Standing by to cut engine,” Cartwright said. Then he immediately amended, “No need. Flame out at,” he paused, “twenty-nine point five seconds. How’s that for pegging it?”

Dayton said nothing. He was frantically adjusting the settings on the master thruster sequence, inputting a safe trajectory away from the approaching module. He wondered if Cartwright could see what he’d seen.

“Uh, Steve?” There was a new tension in Cartwright’s voice. He
had
seen it. “We’re coming in way too hot.”

Somehow, they had underestimated the thrust. Like a speeding bullet, the lunar module was on a deadly collision course with the command module, and there was no way to slow it down.

“I’m on it,” Dayton called out, as he set the master arm switch.

“Fire your thrusters now,” Cartwright commanded. “Get out of the way.”

“I can do this,” Dayton said, eyes locked on the approaching module. With a few deft touches to the controller, Dayton adjusted his course, lining his vessel up so that it was more centered in the path of the lunar module.

“I’m not taking a vote,” Cartwright said, his voice firm.

“Seriously…”

“No,” Cartwright interrupted. “We’ll both break apart. It won’t do either of us any good for you to be killed too.”

Both astronauts knew full well that if Dayton were to do what Cartwright was saying and pull the command vessel out of the way, allowing the module to blow by, the small craft would quickly escape the moon’s gravity. At that point, it would be a runaway train headed for the Milky Way. Of course, it wouldn’t get that far. The sun’s gravitational pull would eventually slow, then stop, the progress of the wayward module. Somewhere between Earth and Mars, the craft would ease into a solar orbit. By then, though, the men inside would have been dead for a couple of years.

“I can’t just let that happen,” Dayton said, still working the controller. He could make out the details of the lunar module now, including the little window through which he knew Cartwright was looking back up at him.

“I appreciate it Steve.” There was rare emotion in Cartwright’s voice. “Please look in on the boys for me.” Then the steel returned. “I’m taking the decision out of your hands. This is not a request. This is an order, Major. Fire those thrusters. Now.”

Dayton lifted a hand and held it over the switch that would initiate the master sequence he’d plugged in seconds before. He stared out at the approaching vessel, eyes locked on the small window. God help me, he thought. He hesitated for an instant. Then he flipped the switch and fired the thrusters.

PART THREE

13

When Nate had finished, no one spoke. The large room was quiet, the only sound a soft susurration from the open window as an evening breeze stirred the sheer curtains. In the distance, an owl hooted.

Finally, in a quiet voice Matt asked, “How certain are you of all this? Do you know for sure they weren’t able to rendezvous?”

Nate sighed, then nodded. “It’s a lot of deduction. I could be wrong about any of it. But,” he paused, then added sadly, “I don’t think I am.”

Matt nodded and looked away.

The others stared at the floor or contemplated spots in the distance. The exception, Nate realized after a few seconds, was Patricia Gale. She was looking up at Nate, a stricken expression across her face. She opened her mouth to speak, then froze, her lower lip trembling slightly. “I…” she managed in a weak voice. “I…”

It seemed to rouse the others. As they turned to look at her, she blurted, “I am so sorry.”

Nate started to respond, but before he could speak, she gasped, “My brother killed your father. Oh my god.” Tears welled in her eyes.

“He wasn’t alone,” Peter said immediately. “He had a lot of help. And it’s not your fault, Patricia.”

“But still,” Patricia said, plaintively.

“It’s not your fault,” Peter repeated.

She looked from Peter to Nate. Nate nodded. “He’s right.”

“But,” she protested, the tears now working their way down her pale cheeks, “if I had said something.”

“Stop,” Nate said firmly. “
They
kept you from saying something. It’s
their
fault. Not yours.”

Nate turned to look at Matt. “And you know who they are.”

#

At the dinner table, there was little conversation. It seemed to Nate as though they were all still processing what they’d learned. He noticed, though, that, at various times, surreptitiously, each seemed to be looking to him. For what, he wasn’t sure. Maggie in particular appeared anxious to speak, her emerald eyes searching, questioning. But, she, like the others, kept her thoughts to herself.

Nate’s feelings were a confusing jumble. Of course he was mad. His father’s death had not been the accident he’d always believed. There were people who were responsible for that. And he had no intention of letting them get away with it.

But, for the moment, his thoughts were less on revenge and more on his father’s unfair fate.

Over the past few days, Nate hadn’t been quite as ready as Peter to accept the notion that the capsule that had splashed down thirty-five years ago with three burned bodies was not Apollo 18. He’d questioned whether there might have been a last minute switch of the capsules before launch. That would have explained the anomaly Peter had discovered. But the NASA documents Nate had reviewed today had convinced him that the command module that lifted off from Cape Canaveral had not been the one retrieved from the Pacific Ocean. And, if that weren’t enough, the body count made no sense. If only Steve Dayton had made the return journey, there would have been but one corpse in the capsule, not three.

Nate wasn’t sure how to deal with the knowledge that his father had not died in the inferno of his capsule, as he had always believed. Could the death that had finally taken him as the lunar module drifted in the cold vacuum of space been a better way to go? Would he have preferred knowing the end was nearing? And, would a slow suffocation have been better than a quick but agonizing death by immolation?

Nate asked himself what he would have done in his father’s situation. Would he have waited until the oxygen was depleted, drawing things out as long as possible? Or would he have just opened the hatch and allowed himself to die in the relatively shorter period of time it would have taken for the atmosphere to drain from the module?