“Should be pretty much instant,” Jack answered. “Watney entered the hack earlier today, and we confirmed it worked. We updated Pathfinder’s OS without any problems. We sent the rover patch, which Pathfinder rebroadcast. Once Watney executes the patch and reboots the rover, we should get a connection.”
“Jesus what a complicated process,” Venkat said.
“Try updating a Linux server some time,” Jack said.
After a moment of silence, Tim said “You know he was telling a joke, right? That was supposed to be funny.”
“Oh,” said Venkat. “I’m a physics guy, not a computer guy.”
“He’s not funny to computer guys either.”
“You’re a very unpleasant man, Tim,” Jack said.
“System’s online,” said Tim.
“What?”
“It’s online. FYI.”
“Holy crap!” Jack said.
“It worked!” Venkat announced to the room.
[11:18]JPL: Mark, this is Venkat Kapoor. We’ve been watching you since Sol 49. The whole world’s been rooting for you. Amazing job, getting Pathfinder. We’re working on rescue plans. JPL is adjusting Ares 4’s MDV to do a short overland flight. They’ll pick you up, then take you with them to Schiaparelli. We’re putting together a supply mission to keep you fed till Ares 4 arrives.
[11:29]WATNEY: Glad to hear it. Really looking forward to not dying. I want to make it clear it wasn’t the crew’s fault. Side question: What did they say when they found out I was alive? Also, “Hi, mom!”
[11:41]JPL: Tell us about your “crops”. We estimated your food packs would last until Sol 400 at 3/4 ration per meal. Will your crops affect that number? As to your question: We haven’t told the crew you’re alive yet. We wanted them to concentrate on their own mission.
[11:52]WATNEY: The crops are potatoes, grown from the ones we were supposed to prepare on Thanksgiving. They’re doing great, but the available farmland isn’t enough for sustainability. I’ll run out food around Sol 900. Also: Tell the crew I’m alive! What the fuck is wrong with you?
[12:04]JPL: We’ll get botanists in to ask detailed questions and double-check your work. Your life is at stake, so we want to be sure. Sol 900 is great news. It’ll give us a lot more time to get the supply mission together. Also, please watch your language. Everything you type is being broadcast live all over the world.
[12:15]WATNEY: Look! A pair of boobs! -> (.Y.)
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Teddy said in to the phone. “I appreciate the call, and I’ll pass your congratulations on to the whole organization.”
Hanging up, he saw Mitch Henderson in the doorway.
“This a good time?” Mitch asked.
“Come in, Mitch,” Teddy said. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” Mitch said, sitting in a fine leather couch. “Good day today!”
“Yes, it was,” Teddy agreed. “Another step closer to getting Watney back alive.”
“Yeah, about that,” said Mitch. “You probably know why I’m here.”
“I can take a guess,” said Teddy. “You want to tell the crew Watney’s alive.”
“Yes,” Mitch said.
“And you’re bringing this up with me while Venkat is in Pasadena, so he can’t argue the other side.”
“I shouldn’t have to clear this with you or Venkat or anyone else. I’m the flight director. It should have been my call from the beginning, but you two stepped in and overrode me. Ignoring all that, we agreed we’d tell them when there was hope. And now there’s hope. We’ve got communication, we have a plan for rescue in the works, and his farm buys us enough time to get him supplies.”
“Ok, tell them.” Teddy said.
Mitch paused. “Just like that?”
“I knew you’d be here sooner or later, so I already thought it through and decided. Go ahead and tell them.”
Mitch stood up. “All right. Thanks,” he said as he left the office.
Teddy swiveled in his chair and looked out his windows to the night sky. He pondered the faint, red dot amongst the stars. “Hang in there Watney,” he said to no one. “We’re coming.”
Chapter 12
Watney slept peacefully in his bunk. He shifted slightly as some pleasant dream put a smile on his face. The previous day had been particularly labor-intensive, so he slept deeper and better than he had in a long time.
“Good morning crew!” Lewis called out. “It’s a brand new day! Up and at ‘em!”
Watney added his voice to a chorus of groans.
“Come on,” Lewis prodded, “no bitching. You got 40 minutes more sleep than you would’ve on Earth.”
Martinez was first out of his bunk. An Air-Force man, he could match Lewis’s Navy schedule with ease. “Morning, Commander,” he said crisply.
Johanssen sat up, but made no further move toward the harsh world outside her blankets. A career software-engineer, mornings were never her forte.
Vogel slowly lumbered from his bunk, checking his watch. He wordlessly pulled on his jumpsuit, smoothing out what wrinkles he could. He sighed inwardly at the grimy feeling of another day without a shower.
Watney turned away from the noise, hugging a pillow to his head. “Noisy people go away,” he mumbled.
“Beck!” Martinez called out, shaking the mission’s doctor. “Rise and shine, bud!”
“Yeah, ok,” Beck said blearily.
Johanssen fell out of her bunk, then remained on the floor.
Pulling the pillow from Watney’s hands, Lewis said “Let’s move, Watney! Uncle Sam paid $100,000 for every second we’ll be here.”
“Bad woman take pillow,” Watney groaned, unwilling to open his eyes.
“Back on Earth, I’ve tipped 200-pound men out of their bunks. Want to see what I can do in 0.4g?”
“No, not really,” Watney said, sitting up.
Having rousted the troops, Lewis sat at the comm station to check overnight messages from Houston.
Watney shuffled to the ration cupboard and grabbed a breakfast at random.
“Hand me an ‘eggs’, will ya,” Martinez said.
“You can tell the difference?” Watney said, passing Martinez a pack.
“Not really,” Martinez said.
“Beck, what’ll you have?” Watney continued.
“Don’t care,” Beck said. “Give me whatever.”
Watney tossed a pack to him.
“Vogel, your usual sausages?”
“Ja, please,” Vogel responded.
“You know you’re a stereotype, right?”
“I am comfortable with that,” Vogel replied, taking the proffered breakfast.
“Hey Sunshine,” Watney called to Johanssen. “Eating breakfast today?”
“Mnrrn,” Johanssen grunted.
“Pretty sure that’s a no,” Watney guessed.
The crew ate in silence. Johanssen eventually trudged to the ration cupboard and got a coffee packet. Clumsily adding hot water, she sipped it until wakefulness crept in.
“Mission updates from Houston,” Lewis said. “Satellites show a storm coming, but we can do surface ops before it gets here. Vogel, Martinez, you’ll be with me outside. Johanssen, you’re stuck tracking weather reports. Watney, your soil experiments are bumped up to today. Beck, run the samples from yesterday’s EVA through the spectrometer.”
“Should you really go out with a storm on the way?” Beck asked.
“Houston authorized it,” Lewis said.
“Seems needlessly dangerous.”
“Coming to Mars was needlessly dangerous,” Lewis said. “What’s your point?”
Beck shrugged. “Just be careful.”
Three figures looked eastward. Their bulky EVA suits rendered them nearly identical. Only the European Union flag on Vogel’s shoulder distinguished him from Lewis and Martinez, who donned the Stars and Stripes.
The darkness to the east undulated and flickered in the rays of the rising sun.
“The storm.” Vogel said in his accented English. “It is closer than Houston reported.”
“We’ve got time,” Lewis said. “Focus on the task at hand. This EVA’s all about chemical analysis. Vogel, you’re the chemist, so you’re in charge of what we dig up.”
“Ja,” Vogel said. “Please dig 30 centimeters and get soil samples. At least 100 grams each. Very important is 30 centimeters down.”
“Will do.” Lewis said. “Stay within 100 meters of the Hab,” she added.
“Mm,” Vogel said.
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Martinez.
They split up. Greatly improved since the days of Apollo, Ares EVA suits allowed much more freedom of motion. Digging, bending over, and bagging samples were trivial tasks.
After a time, Lewis asked “How many samples do you need?”
“Seven each, perhaps?”
“That’s fine,” Lewis confirmed. “I’ve got four so far.”
“Five here,” Martinez said. “Of course, we can’t expect the Navy to keep up with the Air Force, now can we?”
“So that’s how you want to play it?” Lewis said.
“Just call ‘em as I see ‘em Commander.”
“Johanssen here,” came the sysop’s voice over the radio. “Houston’s upgraded the storm to ‘severe’. It’s going to be here in 15 minutes.”
“Back to base,” Lewis said.
The Hab shook in the roaring wind as the astronauts huddled in the center. All six of donned their EVA suits in case of a breach. Johanssen watched her laptop while the rest watched her.
“Sustained winds over 100kph now,” she said. “Gusting to 125.”
“Jesus, we’re gonna end up in Oz,” Watney said. “What’s the abort windspeed?”
“Technically 150kph,” Martinez said. “Any more than that and the MAV’s in danger of tipping.”
“Any predictions on the storm track?” Lewis asked.
“This is the edge of it,” Johanssen said, staring at her screen. “It’s gonna get worse before it gets better.”
The Hab canvas rippled under the brutal assault as the internal supports bent and shivered with each gust. The cacophony grew louder by the minute.
“All right,” Lewis said. “Prep for abort. We’ll go to the MAV and hope for the best. If the wind gets too high, we’ll launch.”
Leaving the Hab in pairs, they grouped up outside airlock 1. The driving wind and sand battered them, but they were able to stay on their feet.
“Visibility is almost zero,” Lewis said. “If you get lost, home in on my suit’s telemetry. The wind’s gonna be rougher away from the Hab, so be ready.”
Pressing through the gale, they stumbled toward the MAV.
“Hey,” Watney panted, “Maybe we could shore up the MAV. Make tipping less likely.”
“How?” Lewis huffed.
“We could use cables from the solar farm as guy lines.” He wheezed for a few moments, then continued. “The rovers could be anchors. The trick would be getting the line around the-“
Flying wreckage slammed Watney, carrying him off in to the wind.
“Watney!” Johanssen exclaimed.
“What happened?” Lewis said.
“Something hit him!” Johanssen reported.
“Watney, report,” Lewis said.
No reply.
“Watney, report,” Lewis repeated.
Again, she was met with silence.
“He’s offline,” Johanssen reported. “I don’t know where he is!”
“Commander,” Beck said, “Before we lost telemetry, his decompression alarm went off!”
“Shit!” Lewis exclaimed. “Johanssen where did you last see him?”
“He was right in front of me and then he was gone,” she said. “He flew off due west.”
“Ok,” Lewis said. “Martinez, get to the MAV and prep for launch. Everyone else, home in on Johanssen.”
“Doctor Beck,” Vogel said as he stumbled through the storm, “How long can a person survive decompression?”
“Less than a minute,” Beck said, emotion choking his voice.
“I can’t see anything,” Johanssen said as the crew crowded around her.
“Line up and walk west,” Lewis commanded. “Small steps. He’s probably prone; we don’t want to step over him.”
Staying in sight of one another, they trudged through the chaos.
Martinez fell in to the MAV airlock and forced it closed against the wind. Once it pressurized he quickly doffed his suit. Climbing the ladder to the crew compartment, he slid in to the pilot’s couch and booted the system.
Grabbing the emergency-launch checklist with one hand, he flicked switches rapidly with the other. One by one, the systems reported flight-ready status. As they came online, he noted one in particular.
“Commander,” he radioed, “The MAV’s got a 7 degree tilt. It’ll tip at 12.3.”
“Copy that,” Lewis said.
“Johanssen,” Beck said, looking at his arm computer, “Watney’s bio-monitor sent something before going offline. My computer just says ‘Bad Packet.’”
“I have it, too,” Johanssen said. “It didn’t finish transmitting. Some data’s missing and there’s no checksum. Gimme a sec.”
“Commander,” Martinez said. “Message from Houston. We’re officially scrubbed. The storm’s definitely gonna be too rough.”
“Copy,” Lewis said.
“They sent that four and a half minutes ago,” Martinez continued, “while looking at satellite data from nine minutes ago.”
“Understood,” Lewis said. “Continue prepping for launch.”
“Copy,” Martinez said.
“Beck,” Johanssen said. “I have the raw packet. It’s plaintext: BP 0, PR 0, TP 36.2. That’s as far as it got.”
“Copy,” Beck said morosely. “Blood pressure 0, pulse rate 0, temperature normal.”
The channel fell silent for some time. They continued pressing forward, shuffling through the sandstorm, hoping for a miracle.
“Temperature normal?” Lewis said, a hint of hope in her voice.
“It takes a while for the-“ Beck stammered. “It takes a while to cool.”
“Commander,” Martinez said. “Tilting at 10.5 degrees now, with gusts pushing it to 11.”
“Copy,” Lewis said. “Are you at pilot-release?”
“Affirmative,” Martinez replied. “I can launch any time.”
“If it tips, can you launch before it falls completely over?”
“Uh,” Martinez said, not expecting the question. “Yes Ma’am. I’d take manual control and go full throttle. Then I’d nose up and return to pre-programmed ascent.”
“Copy that,” Lewis said. “Everyone home in on Martinez’s suit. That’ll get you to the MAV airlock. Get in and prep for launch.”
“What about you, Commander?” Beck asked.
“I’m searching a little more. Get moving. And Martinez, if you start to tip, launch.”
“You really think I’ll leave you behind?” Martinez said.
“I just ordered you to,” Lewis replied. “You three, get to the ship.”
They reluctantly obeyed Lewis’s order, and made their way toward the MAV. The punishing wind fought them every step of the way.
Unable to see the ground, Lewis shuffled forward. Remembering something, she reached to her back and got a pair of rock-drill bits. She had added the 1-meter bits to her equipment that morning, anticipating geological sampling later in the day. Holding one in each hand, she dragged them along the ground as she walked.
After 20 meters, she turned around and walked the opposite direction. Walking a straight line proved to be impossible. Not only did she lack visual references, the endless wind pushed her off course. The sheer volume of attacking sand buried her feet with each step. Grunting, she pressed on.
Beck, Johanssen, and Vogel squeezed in to the MAV airlock. Designed for two, it could be used by three in emergencies. As it equalized, Lewis’s voice came over the radio.
“Johanssen,” she said. “Would the rover IR camera do any good?”
“Negative,” Johanssen replied. “IR can’t get through sand any better than visible light.”
“What’s she thinking?” Beck asked after removing his helmet. “She’s a geologist. She knows IR can’t get through a sandstorm.”
“She is grasping,” Vogel said, opening the inner door. “We must get to the couches. Please hurry.”
“I don’t feel good about this,” Beck said.
“Neither do I, Doctor,” said Vogel, climbing the ladder. “But the Commander has given us orders. Insubordination will not help.”
“Commander,” Martinez radioed, “We’re tilting 11.6 degrees. One good gust and we’re tipping.”
“What about the proximity radar?” Lewis said, “Could it detect Watney’s suit?”
“No way,” Martinez said. “It’s made to see Hermes in orbit, not the metal in a single space suit.”
“Give it a try,” Lewis said.
“Commander,” said Beck, putting on a headset as he slid in to his acceleration couch. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but Watn-… Mark’s dead.”
“Copy,” Lewis said. “Martinez, try the radar.”