Deep Crossing

  By midnight, I had made it through the flight basics portion of the mountain. I found that every time the quit-for-the-night light came on in my head, if I looked out at the simulator it flickered and died. As I pushed back my chair to fetch another cup of coffee, Julia Zeller stuck her head in the door.

  “Still here, Julia?”

  “I could’ve asked you that.”

  “This stuff’s like candy to me.”

  “Very funny, but you may be glad you stayed.”

  “What’s up?”

  “They’re way ahead of schedule. I just got word that inspection will sign off on the master buss panels at 04:00. That means the simulator could be flown to low orbit.”

  “No kidding? Would the Test Director’s staff be here?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Our orders are to support you twenty-four-seven. Besides, if we call those guys, wild horses couldn’t keep them away.”

  “I’ll take a Dramamine, in that case.”

  “You are the funny one, even at midnight, aren’t you?”

  “Thanks, Julia.”

  As she was leaving, a second unexpected face peered in beside her. RJ, in a pewter herringbone shirt, jeans, and work shoes pushed his way in and plunked down in a chair near the door. He bit down on an egg sitter pipe and spoke without removing it. “Got my new badge,” he said and held it up proudly.

  “RJ, you know there’s a smoke detector hovering over us, right?”

  “I was an inspector before this job’s incarnation, remember? It is not lit, nor am I.”

  “Couldn’t sleep or something?”

  “I do not conform to a repetitive twenty-four hour clock. Who made that rule, anyway?”

  “Oh no, I’ve set you off.”

  “A near miss. No harm done.”

  “Have you started your homework?”

  “It’s easy so far. Most of the support systems are standard or updated versions. Old reading for me. I’m cruising on through.”

  “Have you checked out the Griffin’s habitat module? It’s got stuff you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Ah yes, technology. The answer to all men’s prayers. Let me tell you about our synthesized, freeze-dried, time-compacted society, my friend.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “We are going to automate ourselves to the point that we become bulbous beings with stubby little arms and legs, who sit in a holoprogram somewhere living a mental life that is pure fantasy with no connection whatsoever to the outside world. And at some point, we will have finally drained the charge from every last electron in every last molecule of matter, so that suddenly with all of their charge absent all the electrons collapse onto the nuclei, leaving each of us to solidify into a frozen carbonite mass, still alive, staring at one another, wondering what the heck happened.”

  “Whew. You know, some of that may not be completely plausible.”

  “What? Which part?”

  “RJ, have you read the initial mission briefing I sent out?”

  “Yes I have, and to quote one of the greatest philosophers of all time, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”

  “Which one of your obscure gurus was that?”

  “A Dr. Hardy. PHD, University of Laurel.”

  “I don’t know that one. But you did read through it?”

  “Yes, and then I took a moment to embrace the ground.”

  “Speaking of ground, want to go flying?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “04:00. Nobody else is here. You can have the right seat.”

  “Kick the tires and light the fires.”

  All hope of further study abandoned, we escaped the glowering specter of books on my desk and took refuge in the break room where the coffee was still hot and a failing white box on the table contained aging donut fragments.

  “Have you met Danica?”

  “I have not had the pleasure.”

  “Better watch yourself. Apparently she collects man-cards.”

  “Sounds like my kind of woman. Have you made a choice for a second systems engineer?”

  “I’m thinking Wilson Mirtos.”

  “Really? Isn’t he the one…”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s the infamous phrase that brings sobriety to those having achieved intoxication Zen with him?”

  “Now I don’t want any trouble.”

  “That’s the one. Legend has it that should you ever hear him say it, you will know that in the next two or three seconds all hell is going to break loose.”

  As we sipped our coffee, a technician sped by brandishing a bottle of champagne in each hand. He nodded shyly, tucked them in the refrigerator, and headed to the high-bay.

  RJ perked up. “Apparently they take the maiden flight of a simulator system quite seriously around here.”

  “They’ve really busted their butts on this one. Can you blame them?”

  “It is reassuring to see, actually. I love people who care. So tell me, how did old Wilson come to coin that holocaustic phrase anyway?”

  “It’s the teddy bear syndrome. He’s big, but when he’s relaxed he kind of looks like a teddy bear. So, all through college and the academy, and to this day really, the jerks out there that have a few drinks and want to show they can take a big guy, all think he’s a prime candidate. The trouble is, when they start pushing him, he goes through the hulk metamorphose and all that teddy bear bulk suddenly becomes bulging muscle. By that time, the idiots who picked on him realize they’ve made a horrible mistake, but it’s too late to back down. After one particularly memorable bar-clearing, a judge made him go for counseling, and the stupid psychologist taught him to use that phrase to try to defuse situations that were in their final stage. It doesn’t work worth a damn, but since an expensive doctor taught him to use it, he figures it’s always worth a try.”

  “Have you ever joined him in celebration of such a futile antidote?”

  “Oh yeah. The last time, I was just entering a bar to meet him when a punk came crashing out the window next to the entrance. It was three guys against just Wilson, but they were all sleeping or elsewhere by the time I got there. I asked him how come he sent the guy through the window and he said he thought the man wouldn’t be able to cause any more trouble if he was outside.”

  RJ sipped and smiled. “Ah, a truly down-to-earth person. I shall enjoy his company and insight. Let us hope we never hear the phrase.”

  “He’s one hell of an engineer, by the way. You’ll like his dry sense of humor. He injects it into the most serious of situations, once he knows he has a handle on them, even if you do not.”

  “Have you tracked him down with the surprise yet?”

  I opened my mouth to answer but paused at the sight of Terry Costerly walking briskly by in a suit and tie. He tapped in his code and charged into the high-bay without even a glance in our direction.

  RJ smirked. “It’s going to be a party. You’d better not crash the damn thing or these people may hold a funeral.”

  “Don’t worry. I crash better than anybody I know.”

  “Please, don’t remind me.”

  At 03:30, a crowd of a dozen or so engineers, technicians, and inspectors gathered in the simulator Test Control Center affectionately known as the TCC, to witness the buy-off of the final power distribution console. The installation people must have been in a hell of a hurry when they stripped this very large chamber that adjoins both the high-bay and my office. The dingy white walls have shadows of decorations past, and there are scarred floor tiles here and there. My office has a door leading directly into the room though it cannot be used for the stack of equipment piled against it. Observation windows looking out over the high-bay run the full length of the place. Computer console stations, some ill-positioned, line the walls. Stacks of cabling cover the floor behind the consoles and some run directly across the room with floor guards protecting them, a clear sign of how quickly the installation was done. Routing cables under the raised floor had not even been considere
d. Someone had hung a ten-foot banner against the far wall that read ‘TRANQUILITY BASE’, a sardonic tribute to the frantic effort required of the team.

  Within a small crowd of onlookers, an inspector and technician were bent over a table buying off steps on the last installation procedure. Julia Zeller looked on. An assortment of comical remarks punctuated the event, such as “it took you long enough” and “why don’t you just stamp it with our blood,” and “does this mean we’re all laid off now?” There were handshakes and pats on the back, and to my surprise as the jubilation began to subside the entire assemblage turned and stared at me. RJ broke into laughter so hard he spilled his coffee.

  “I’m getting the feeling you guys are ready.”

  Spontaneous laughter broke out. Terry took a seat at the TD station and motioned others to take their place. He swiveled in his chair and looked at me with his professional face. “We don’t have the real star charts yet, so you have to stay orbital. Orbiting targets are all in there, including the agency and private space stations. Where to, Adrian?”

  “Let’s fall back on that ancient wisdom: keep it simple, stupid. How about we hover at twenty for five or ten minutes to see if everything is as it should be, then go sub orbital for one orbit, and on the way down I’d like to do a manual reentry. I wouldn’t want to be known as a Captain Dunsel.”

  Terry nodded to a programmer, and looked back at me. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, would you go ahead and bring up the flight deck, and the flight management computer. It’s a little late to spend time going though the power up and FMC programming. We just want to see if it flies. I’ll take RJ in the right seat, so the weight will be for two.”

  “Got it. And there’s one other important thing I have been holding for you.” He punched in a key code and opened a drawer at his station. From it, he drew out a palm-sized device made up of three glowing tubes each the size of an AA battery, one red, one green, one blue. The glowing tubes looked like fluid in motion. They were connected at the top by a round display bearing three red lights. He handed it over and said, “Believe it or not, these things contain samples of your DNA. The flight deck will be up and running when you get in there, but the controls will not respond or operate until you insert this into the command bus authorization port in the center console. By the way, it’s the key to the real Griffin, too. Yours is the only one with administrator authority. When this key is inserted, the ship will scan for your bio signs continuously. If twenty-four hours pass without seeing your bio signs, the ship will automatically go into standby mode. It will hold its position and current status no matter where it is until it does see your bio signs. You can vary the twenty-four-hour default as necessary. The other pilots will have subordinate keys. If one of those is inserted in place of yours, the pilot will only be allowed to return the ship to the mission start point, nowhere else. If you somehow lose your key, there is an electrode kit in the ship’s science lab that will allow you to program a new one, but you’ll need to stick yourself with three electrodes in three different spots to do it, so you may want to take care of this one. On your personal training log, you can now check the command authorization briefing off as complete.”

  RJ stared silently with a somber, curious expression. I tried my best to look reassuring.

  In the high-bay, we climbed to the simulator and found it suddenly alive with active displays and the subtle sound of ventilation. The cabin was filled with such a complete veil of colored lights it felt like we were inside a Christmas tree. Outside in the real world, the sun was not up, but our simulator windows glowed brightly with sunshine and a view of Space Center buildings. The cockpit air felt cool and electric, and had that new-vehicle smell. We pushed the white, imitation leather seats aside and squeezed into our places. I pulled the glowing keys from my fight suit pocket, slid open the authorization port and inserted them. Immediately the SICAS screen displayed the message, ‘Tarn, A., Commander, Administrative’. The controls on the center console flashed a green greeting and quickly returned to subdued yellow.

  RJ folded down his armrests. “I’ve got just one word for this thing; WOW!”

  “RJ, you’ve got to buckle in or the computer will scold us.”

  “Isn’t that what I’m always saying? Who’s in charge here?” He buckled in, pulled his headset on and adjusted the mike. “Major Tom to Ground Control.”

  “For Pete’s sake.”

  “Who is Pete, anyway, and how did he become a timeless reference? God, the view through these windows really does look like the launch apron outside the SPF building.”

  “I believe the Pete thing is a reference to St. Peter.”

  “Well, let us hope we will not need him.”

  “Your checklist is by your right knee. We do need to go through a few things. Start with environmental and by the way, Terry says if we screw that one up, he will let us pass out before he pumps air into the compartment.”

  “Let us also not incur his wrath, then. Doors are sealed; therefore, no one should fall out. Three air packs are running. Pressure coming up to 8,000, at 4.5 PSI differential.”

  I called up the control surface imagery readout on the SICAS display and did a quick check of the side stick and the rudder pedals. It was a very smooth implementation. Switching to space systems, my side stick fired simulated thrusters on the SICAS display, just as it should.

  “Griffin to TD, all flight deck systems appear active and functional, all SICAS readouts are nominal. It’s great to be back in the office.”

  “TD to Griffin, copy. We concur. There are no flags.”

  “Collision avoidance system is on and set to forward view.”

  “Ah, glad to see you remembered, Adrian. I would intentionally not have reminded you of that one.”

  “No, we are using the checklist, TD.”

  “Oh, okay. I see.”

  “Keying a twenty foot ascent and hover into the gravity repulse system. Radio altimeter online. Space flight management computer has accepted the input. Are you ready, TD?”

  “TD to Griffin, please proceed.”

  “Engaged.”

  We shook briefly in our seats, heard a low-pitched whine, and watched the ground fall away through the window displays in the floor. We climbed upward against the buildings in front of us and felt the simulator pitch and yaw slightly as she went. At twenty feet, the ship paused, but continued to adjust underneath us as it steadied itself at the assigned altitude.

  “Griffin to TD, we have visual in all view ports; thrusters are firing to maintain station-keeping. We have appropriate simulator motion.”

  “TD to Griffin, please hold while we monitor power usage.”

  “Griffin in the hold.”

  RJ reached out and pushed up on the landing gear lever. “Gear up so that we do not melt our tires on the way back down.”

  “Griffin, all nominal in the TCC, you may proceed.”

  “Keying in a GRS apogee of 200 miles and Mach 25 to the orbital maneuvering system with a 2-G constraint.”

  “TD to Griffin, understand you have passengers.”

  RJ took issue. “Hey! I don’t mind positive Gs! It’s only the negative ones that make my damn eyeballs pop out! Besides, how much acceleration can you get out of a simulator, anyway?”

  I watched the blue flight path lines appear on the navigation display as the TD again squelched in over the headset.

  “TD to Griffin, set your Nav display to the M50 coordinate selection. We input a flight path that should put you -5708531 X, 18914656 Y, and 10185790 Z, at main engine cutoff. You’ll be looking for Dakar on the coast of Africa. You are cleared for departure.”

  “Griffin copies. Autothrust engaged. Autopilot C assigned. Flight program …engaged.”

  With the first burst of simulated thrust, we were jerked back in our seats more than I expected as the Griffin nosed up and jumped skyward. The ground below raced by to become Atlantic Ocean, our forward windshields filled with blue sky dotted by patch
es of clouds.

  RJ marveled at the realism. “Wow. I’m still feeling acceleration.”

  “It’s the simulator nosing straight up but using the window displays to fool us into thinking we’re only at a sixty-degree angle. I’ll be damned if I can make my mind not believe it, either.”

  The blue sky began to gray, then morphed into blackness. Stars began to appear as the nose of the spacecraft settled into an orbital attitude. Miles below us, we could see the familiar cloudbanks obscuring the ocean. Ahead, the continent of Africa began to take form in the distant haze.

  “Griffin to TD, the visual is stunning and accurate. Coming up to top of climb.”

  “TD to Griffin, we see you’re TOC here as well. Expect a main engine cutoff in seventeen seconds.”

  We watched the atmosphere pass by below us, and felt a shudder as the main OMS engines cut off. The Griffin’s acceleration gently eased up and an orbital insertion indication appeared on the Nav screen along with an orbit tracking display.

  “Griffin to TD. We are on orbit. All visuals and readouts as expected.”

  “Roger, Griffin, enjoy the ride while we review systems.”

  “It’s quite spectacular, Adrian. The realism, I mean. My brain keeps thinking I must be weightless.”

  “You’re not gonna start puking, are you?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I don’t recall ever having windows in the floor in a spacecraft flight deck before. We’ll get to see Dakar pass by down there. This thing is a luxury vehicle.”

  “We may not think so after the first six months.”

  “Yeah. Are you starting to get your head around that?”

  “I’m still in the excited-to-be-going mode. After a couple weeks I’ll be wondering what the heck I was thinking.”

  “The dirty trick of long space flight.”

  “So is Danica pretty hot, I hope?”

  “You’d better watch yourself around her. She’s a pistol.”

  “All the better. We’ll need some challenge if we’re to retain what sanity we have left.”

  I had seen Earth from the same altitude countless times, yet I could not tell this was a simulation. Scattered stars dimly decorated the haze-lined curvature of the horizon, giving way to the profoundly deep blackness of space and the dense blanket of lights that dwelled there. Above the umbra, the constellations are not so easy to pick out. There are just too many stars competing for the sky. You have to find a couple that are bright enough to be seen from the ground, and then piece them into their named pattern, but it is such a overwhelming sight, you can lose yourself in the effort.

  RJ broke the spell. “Dakar, dead ahead.”

  “Tarn to TD, good displays of the African continent.”

  ‘We see that, Griffin. We’re enjoying it on the monitors.”

  “Coming up on the terminator. We have city lights.”

  “Copy, Griffin. It all looks per spec.”

  RJ and I sat back, relaxed, and let the Griffin sim give us a ride. The time passed so quickly, the call from TD surprised me.

  “Griffin, TD. You can come about anytime you please. Deorbit burn in five minutes for a long manual descent.”

  On the console by my stick control, I punched in the Y-axis, yaw only key and tapped the control stick to the right. The Griffin responded by shifting us in our seats as she turned to face backward. On the attitude screen, I watched the little silhouette of our spacecraft turn on a point, as the turn rate digits scrolled next to it.

  “Wow. It handles like a dream. TD, we are configured for the burn.”

  “Griffin, TD, roger. Your burn will be approximately three minutes with a coast to entry interface. As usual, there is too much space junk on your orbit decay for a vertical descent. You’ll need to maintain three miles per second to stay clear until FL 40K before going to full gravity repulse.”

  “Understand TD. Are there any orbits left that do not have space garbage?” I glanced over at RJ. “We’re seated backwards going roughly 17,000 miles per hour.”

  “Something unsettling about that. Don’t tell me any more.”

  “Yeah, the Mercury and Apollo guys did this in a ball of fire all the way down.”

  “Which proves the early days of space travel were forged, and perhaps that’s not the best word, by crazy people.”

  “Griffin, TD. We’ve sent you up a flight path with top of descent over the mid-Pacific that brings you down to shuttle runway 15. Crosswinds 8 knots from three-one-five degrees. You should not need additional OMS provided energy management is maintained to your onscreen display.”

  “Tarn to TD, Copy. TOD mid-Pacific with a friendly crosswind on the surface.”

  “So you don’t want to pop the wings out and see how she glides?”

  “Not this time, RJ. It’s been a long day. I’d like to be a little more clear-headed for that. Don’t want to embarrass myself. We’ll manually follow the Nav display and glide slope, though. That’ll be enough for this trip.”

  “Okay, and don’t forget to put the gear down.”

  “GUMP.”

  “What?”

  “It’s an ancient acronym. It means fuel pumps on, undercarriages down, mixture rich, and propeller full forward. It’s an old pre landing memory check, probably created by pilots who forgot to put the landing gear down. It’s evolved over the years to be gravity repulse on, undercarriage armed, monitors to reentry, and programming accepted.”

  “Forgetting the landing gear? Could anything be more embarrassing?”

  “Agreed.”

  “TD to Griffin, you should see a sixty second countdown clock for the burn on your Nav display.”

  “We have that, TD. Standing by for the burn.”

  We watched the numbers tick down to zero and felt the Griffin vibrate and push us back in our seats, and for nearly three minutes it felt like we were accelerating. At the end of the burn, the spacecraft settled back, though the world passing below our feet did not appear to have slowed.

  “Griffin, TD, we show a nominal burn. You are cleared for spacecraft reorientation.”

  “Griffin copies.” I tapped at my control stick and jetted her back around to face orbit. The Nav and attitude displays showed a descent rate of 9680 feet per minute.

  RJ shook his head in awe. “Coming up on the west coast. I remain completely impressed by this machine.”

  “Tarn to TD, Attitude display shows gravity repulse coming on line.”

  RJ leaned forward in his seat. “Wow, Adrian. We’re getting a little re-entry glow in the bottom windows.”

  “We are hauling ass, my friend.”

  “TD to Tarn, we show air braking spoilers have deployed.”

  “Griffin copies.”

  “Looks like a beautiful simulated day on that big beach down there,” said RJ.

  As the gravity repulse system came online, a small readout on the SICAS display cautioned, ‘reaction control system manual’. I lightly held the control stick and focused on the flight path and descent map, stealing occasional glances out the window. We burned in over Texas and pushed out over the Gulf of Mexico, setting up for the one hundred and eighty-degree turn that would line us up with runway 15. The descent could have been halted in midair with the OMS engines, and the Griffin lowered to the runway with only the GRS, but translating altitude to airspeed and coming in like an airplane was far more fuel efficient, not to mention a lot more enjoyable.

  We began our turn, banking as though wings were supporting us rather than the gravity repulse system.

  Terry’s voice squelched in, “On at the one-eighty.”

  “On at the one-eighty.”

  “Griffin, TD, how about full stop midway on the runway, hover at twenty, and set down?”

  “Tarn, to TD, will comply.”

  Using the RCS thrusters, we came in over the threshold and slowed to a stop above the runway, then tapped in the descent and park command and watched the hardened black surface come up to meet us. There was a jost
ling of sorts, and the whining down of gyros and power systems as the ship settled and went to standby.

  “Tarn to TD, we’ll leave the shut down to you. We’ll meet you in the TCC.”

  We could hear the celebration in the background as Terry acknowledged. We smiled at each other, unstrapped, and headed for the party.

  The scene in the Test Control Center was comical. A white lab smock was going round and round in one of the ceiling fans. The sound of champagne corks popping echoed from the hallway. People were milling around the room with cake and drinks, laughing and shaking hands. Terry and a few of his people were still at the consoles checking data. An office assistant in a very short tan skirt and a brown silk shirt unbuttoned too low handed us plastic cups filled with champagne. Not paying attention to the correct cup, RJ fumbled and nearly spilled his. As the celebration continued, first-shift people began showing up and joining in. Julia Zeller appeared next to me for a moment, complete with her own drink. She raised it and smiled, and was summarily dragged off by two of her subordinates. Speeches were made, marked by frequent applause, tributes and jokes, and no one seemed to be in any hurry at all to wrap things up. RJ and I gradually made our way to the doors and slipped out.

  “I was supposed to begin systems training in the habitat simulator this morning. Will you give me a note to be excused, Dad?” he said in a hoarse voice as we headed for our rides.

  “I’ll let them know, and I wouldn’t worry. I doubt there’s going to be much training today.”

  Chapter 7