Skyfall

12

“I think it is time we got back into the bunks and strapped in,” Patrick said. “I know it's a drag, but in ten minutes the hold may end.”

“And how many times have you said that before?” Ely asked.

“Too many. Buckles and straps, Ely.”

The four acceleration couches were arranged two by two on the deck of the crew compartment. Each was designed and custom built to fit one of the astronauts, to give the maximum support and protection during the acceleration. Ely sat on the edge of his, a thin book clasped in his fingers. Patrick stood over him and waited in silence. Finally the physicist sighed dramatically and swung his legs up; Patrick helped him with the holddown straps.

Coretta's couch was next to his and faced a bank of instrumentation. She was already strapped in and studying the dials. These displayed duplicates of the biosensor information being fed continuously to Mission Control. Each of the astronauts was wired with pickups that passed on vital readings such as blood pressure, pulse, respiration, body temperature, all of the human biological measurements that had to be monitored, watched closely to ensure that the astronauts could stay alive in space.

With the four in the inner compartment secured, Patrick went through the hatch in the wall. Of course wall, ceiling and deck only had meaning when they were on Earth. Once in orbit and weightless the terms would become meaningless. The walls and ceiling of this compartment were covered with instruments and lockers for food and equipment, some of it impossible to reach now, all of it accessible soon when they could simply float in any direction.

Prometheus itself, the only part of this immense spacecraft that would go into orbit, was divided into four sections. In the nose was the payload, thirteen hundred tons of generator, reflector and transmitter, the reason for everything else. At the other end of Prometheus, over two hundred feet away, was the nuclear engine with its fuel supply of U-235, the engine that would lift them up into their final orbit. Above the engine was the biological shield, twenty-five tons of barrier to keep the radiation from the crew when the engine went into operation. Above the biological shield, also acting as a barrier to radiation, was the immense bulk of the liquid hydrogen for the engine, a tank over a hundred feet long.

Sandwiched between the payload before and the hydrogen tank behind was the crew module, the thinnest slice of the great length of the spacecraft. It was divided unevenly into two compartments. The larger, inner one took up over two-thirds of the space. This was the Crew Compartment where the four non-piloting members of the crew had their couches, where all the food and extra equipment was stored. An inner wall with a sealing hatch separated it from the Flight Deck. Here were the couches for the two pilots, all of the flight instrumentation, the windows, periscopes and TV connections that enabled them to look out and guide the ponderous vessel. But they were blind now, the TV cameras sealed into takeoff position while the shroud that protected them and the payload from the atmospheric friction of takeoff, hid any direct view. Nadya was in her co-pilot’s position and talking to Mission Control.

“He's here now, Flax,” she said. “He'll be able to talk to you as soon as he plugs in.”

“Any results?” Patrick asked her, dropping onto the couch and reaching for the headset.

“Negative. The President won't be able to talk to you.”

“What about Polyarni?”

“The same answer. Launch Control put me through, but he's involved in a conference with your President.”

“They don't want to go on record for keeping this flight going.” He threw the radio switch. “You there, Flax?”

“Roger. About your talk with the President. I had his First Assistant, but the President is in conference by phone with Premier Polyarni and cannot talk to you now, but he will as soon as he can.”

“Flax. Is this conversation being taped?”

“Of course.”

“Then I want to speak for the record.”

“It's been a long hold, Patrick, and you must be tired. Why don't you…”

“Negative. For the record.”

“I have been talking to the doctors here, Patrick. Your pulse and heartbeat show a good deal of stress. They suggest you attempt to rest, sleep if you can, your copilot will take over.”

“Knock it off, will you please. Flax. I'm the Commander and what I say is of some interest. If not now — for the record later.”

“Sure, Patrick. Just trying…”

“I know what you're trying. What I'm trying to do is get some facts on record. We are almost two hours into what is called an unsafe period in the flight plan you have in front of you….”

“Just an estimate.”

“Shut up. I'm saying something, not having a discussion. All the indications are that as this unsafe period progresses the condition of the ship deteriorates so that the mission should be aborted. Early estimates were that after a half an hour into the unsafe period the mission should be canceled. As Commander of this mission I ask why that has not been done?”

“Decision-making is still progressing at all levels. “

“I didn't ask that. I want to know why the recommended procedure has been ignored and why are we still on hold despite earlier decisions to abort at this point?”

“Observations indicate the earlier estimates possibly to be too pessimistic.”

“Give me those results, if you please.”

There was a mutter of voices at the other end then Flax was back on, relief obvious in his voice. “Launch Control wants to get through to you. The hold is terminated. Countdown continuing at zero minus twelve minutes. “

Patrick opened his mouth to protest — then closed it and flicked off the mike switch instead. He turned to Nadya. “We can still abort the mission. I can do it as a pilot's decision, but it would carry more weight if you agreed.”

“I know.” She spoke very quietly. “Is that what you want?”

“I don't know. What I do know is that we are heading for trouble if we take off now, possibly big trouble. But if we abort…”

“The entire Prometheus Project might be scratched. Is that what you are thinking?”

“Something like that. It cost a bundle and people are beginning to complain, and more and more pressure groups are jumping on the bandwagon. But that's not a problem you have in your country.”

“We have it, but not in the same way. The Politbureau is the Politbureau. One night there will be a meeting — next morning Polyarni will be Minister for State Pig Farming, and Prometheus will be dead at the same moment. So what do we do?”

''We're risking our lives if we go on now.”

“We risked our lives when we joined this project. I think — what do you say it in English? — the game is worthy of the candle.”

Patrick looked at her in silence for a long moment, nodding his head grimly. “I've always thought the game was worth the candle. But this is different. If we take off now we risk destroying everything.”

“If we stay we have the equal risk.”

“Come in Prometheus.” Kletenik's voice sounded in their ears. “At zero minus nine minutes how are the levels on your ADP?”

Patrick was searching Nadya's eyes for an answer to his question. But she had answered it already. She wanted to go ahead. And who was he to disagree? His superiors, the heads of the government wanted to proceed. He could go against their judgment and stop the whole thing now. Ruin his career, perhaps kill the entire Prometheus Project. It was a lot of responsibility to bear. He turned on his microphone.

“APO in the green. What are your readings on fueling?”

Flax was running with sweat, slumped in his chair like a sack of potatoes. He could not slide down any further but he felt the tension drain from his limbs when he heard Patrick's words. The mission was on. There was danger still, but nothing that the programs and he and the computers could not handle. He was going to ride it all the way. The program would come up with the answers and the pilots would throw the switches — but it was his mission the instant they took off. Let them space walk and get dosed with radiation and have their parades. They were welcome to it. But none of them could take his place here in Mission Control, the spider in the middle of all the webs, the interface between man and machine that kept them all working. One piece had weakened and caused the hold, a bit of machinery, and he had put it right. Another piece, a human one, had acted up, but that had been put right too. Five minutes more and…

“Hold at zero minus five,” a voice at Launch Control said, almost shattering him like a sudden blow with an ax. “I have a red light on sustainer propulsion. It's the lox pogo damper pressurization.”

“And it seems we have another hold, ladies and gentlemen, at exactly five minutes before blast-off, and I assure you that no one is happy about this one at all. The tension is so great here at Ground Control that you can almost feel it in the air. I'm turning you over now to Bill White in the crowd in the viewing stand for a report on the reactions there. Bill.”

On millions of TV sets all around the world the scene changed suddenly, from the hectic order of Ground Control to the viewing stand five miles from the takeoff site. From here Prometheus looked like a child's toy on the horizon with nothing to give an indication of its true size. Yet there had been much discussion over siting the stands as close as this, since they would still be in danger if there were an explosion at takeoff. But any further away and there would be no point in having viewing stands at all. In the end the decision had been one more compromise; limited-size stands for what might be called the second-rate notables. Expendable notables. If a few journalists and ageing generals and politicians went up in flames they would not be missed in the general horror and destruction. Of course the reality of this decision had only been discussed at the very high levels and a number of elderly gentlemen were pleasantly surprised to find their names on an invitation list. In the foreground between the spectators and the distant spaceship was the familiar lined face of Bill White. As he spoke the image of the distant Prometheus was covered by a superimposed telescopic version.

“The tension here in the viewing stand is exactly like that at Ground Control and Mission Control as you can well imagine. It must be the same all round the world wherever people are watching this incredible event taking place. Here in Baikonur it is already late afternoon, over two hours past the scheduled time for takeoff. And now, only seconds away, we have another hold. We can only imagine how the men and women, the astronauts in their giant craft, must feel. They are professionals and trained for their work but it still must be unbearable. I don't think anyone would want to take their places. They are doing magnificently and the entire world appreciates their courage. Now, Harry Saunders at Ground Control. Any changes yet, Harry?”

“We're exactly the same here, and in Prometheus which you can see on your screens there.” The image changed, filling the screen with Prometheus, zooming to her flight cabin, then panning down the length of her great boosters, steaming vents. Harry Saunders grabbed up his notes as soon as the camera was off him. The holds had been so long that he was running out of things to say, people to interview. He wished the damn thing would take off or blow up. His voice was beginning to go. He frantically searched his scribbled notes while his voice calmly described the Leviathan of space. Detailed description, he hadn't done that one lately. He found the right figures.

“We still have difficulty in realizing how big Prometheus is. When you say as high as a forty-storey building or as heavy as a battleship, some feeling is conveyed. But not the combined complexity of its construction, for this spaceship is really seven separate machines in one. This program is being transmitted on radio as well as television, and you lucky TV viewers must realize how impossible to visualize it must be for someone, say, in a small Asian village who has only seen a few simple machines in his lifetime. Perhaps the easiest way to understand its construction is to hold out your hand with fingers straight, then bring all the fingers together until they touch and make a circle. These fingers are the boosters, each one a completely separate rocket with its own fuel, pumps, motors, everything. Now if you take a pen with its cap on and, cap in your other hand, push it down between your fingers you will have some idea of the construction of Prometheus. The fingers and the pen, called the core body, are all the same. Complete rocket ships in their own rights. The cap is he payload, Prometheus, the part of the ship that will go into orbit high above Earth. And stay there forever.

“At takeoff all the boosters fire, as does the core body. Their fuel is the most powerful in the universe, hydrogen and oxygen, and it will be gulped and burned at the rate of fourteen thousand gallons a second. Yet this complex machine will not only burn fuel at that tremendous rate, but will transfer fuel from the outer boosters into the core body. This will be pumped in as fast as the core body burns its own fuel so that finally, when the boosters are empty and fall away, the core body will have a complete load of fuel. With the boosters gone the core body will burn to insert Prometheus into low orbit, then it will drop away as well, its job well done. At that point Prometheus will fire its own nuclear engine to push itself higher and higher into the correct orbit. Complex, yes, but still practical, for these Lenin-5 boosters have had a number of successful missions lifting larger and larger payloads into space. Also. . wait, a minute, yes, my countdown clock's moving again! The hold's over. Let's hope it's the final hold so I return you to Ground Control…”

“Two minutes,” Patrick said, “and this is it. The countdown now is automatic and locked in. They can't stop us.” He turned on the ship's intercom. “Crew compartment, are you secure?”

“In position,” Coretta said. “No changes, bio monitors functioning and all readings within predicted parameters.”

“Which means no one has died of boredom or fright yet,” Patrick said. “Roger. You can listen in but I won't have time to talk to you until after booster shutdown. This is it crew — we're on the way!”

“One minute fifteen seconds and counting.”

The computer was running the entire operation now, issuing instructions to men and machines, opening and closing switches — and counting down towards zero and lift-off.

“Minus eleven seconds and counting.”

“Minus ten.”

“Minus nine.”

A throb, more vibration than sound, swept through the towering metal structure as the engines ignited. Their flames shot down into the pit below and boiled out as smoke and steam at the sides. Second by second their thrust level rose until at zero the hold-down clamps would release.

“Three… two… one… zero!”

At full thrust the engines generated a fraction more lift than the immense weight of Prometheus. The clamps pulled free and flames wrapped the umbilical tower. Now the ground shook with the intensity of the rockets and the air roared and crackled with unbelievable sound.

Slowly, infinitely slowly, only ten feet in the first second, the towering cluster of rockets rose into the air.

“We have lift-off!”

Noise. Vibration. Thunder. Patrick found himself thrown back and forth against the restraint of his strap as the vectoring engines swiveled in their mounts to keep their course vertical. The first six seconds were critical, until they passed the umbilical tower and their speed built up. At lift-off the digital timer began to operate, its numbers flicking from 00:00:00 to 00:00:01, ticking off the seconds steadily to measure GET, the Ground Elapsed Time.

00:00:04. The G forces; the gravity that pushed them down into their couches was beginning to build.

00:00:06 First danger past. All instruments reading in the green.

Second by second the thrust increased until it reached 4.5G then 5G where it held firm. Five gravities pressing them down into their couches, standing on their chests and making breathing difficult. They had all learned how to breathe under high G in the centrifuge. Never breathe out all the way or it will be almost impossible to fill your lungs again. Keep your lungs full at all times, just letting out short breaths and breathing right in again.

Pressure and acceleration. Speed. The engines gulped sixty tons of fuel a second and pushed the great structure on, faster and faster.

“You are GO, Prometheus,” Launch Control said, the words tinny in Patrick's ear. The G forces pressed on his eyes, bringing about the condition of tunnel vision; he could only see directly in front of him. Turning his head was an effort,

but he had to do it to read all the instruments.

“All in the green.”

“Stand by for staging at oh-one-thirty. We are turning you over now to Mission Control.”

“Roger.”

The Gs stood on their chests as the GET digits clicked over. Although the vibration and the pressure seemed to go on forever, the first-stage blasting took just a minute and a half. At the instant the GET read 00:01:30 the engines cut off and they were weightless. Patrick switched his microphone to intercom.

“That's the first stage shutting down. We'll be in free fall for a few minutes now so it is a good chance for your stomachs to get used to the sensation. I'll warn you before the second stage fires. Right now the boosters are pumping their reserves of fuel and oxygen into the core vehicle below us. Then they'll release…” A quick shudder passed through the ship. “There they go. I'll see if I can get a picture for you. The TV is for Mission Control but I'll be able to relay it to your screens.”

There were TV cameras set into the hull, protected and obscured up until now by the bulk of the boosters. Patrick located the activating switches, three among the hundreds he had to operate, and flicked them on. At first there was just darkness — then a sudden flame. He angled the camera towards it and focused on one of the small engines that was pushing the booster away from them. As it grew smaller the surface of the Earth appeared behind it.

“It is Russia — there is Lake Baikal!” Nadya called out.

“And a second booster there,” Patrick said. “I'm switching to camera two and panning. We should see all five of them. Are you receiving, Mission Control?”

“Six by six, Prometheus, a great picture.”

One by one the boosters swam into view, dark cylinders against the hazy blue of the world below, dwindling as they dropped behind. Each of them was monitored from Ground Control in Baikonur so that the individual orbits could be controlled separately, for the success of the Prometheus Project depended upon bringing down the boosters intact. They were stable both nose up, as they had been when they left the Earth, and engines down as they returned. The plug nozzle of the rocket engine acted as an ablative shield to slow the booster and keep it pointed in the right direction. As the machine approached the Earth the engine would be fired, fuel had been left for this, to bring the booster in for a soft landing on the Russian steppe. One by one the boosters would come down to be picked up and brought back to Baikonur for the next step in the sequence. Prometheus Two. One by one the cargo to build and expand the solar generators would be lifted up until the great task was completed with Prometheus Fifty. But the project would be in operation long before that, sending electricity back to a world starved for power.

They hoped. They were still far from their final orbit of 22,300 miles above the surface. At this point in the takeoff, although they were far above the Earth and in free fall, they were still bound to it by the invisible ties of gravity. Prometheus was like an artillery shell fired high into the sky, to arch up and up to the summit of its climb. Then to drop back to Earth. The multiple boosters had lifted them high and fast — but not to escape velocity, the speed of a body sent off the Earth that would permit it to leave the gravitational pull never to return.

“Shroud jettisoned and ready for core burn,” Patrick said, his eyes on the GET numbers. “It will be about a two-and-a-half-minute burn to get us into a higher orbit. Here it comes…”

The core vehicle had one-sixth of the original thrust on lift-off, but it was still immensely powerful. The Gs built up more slowly, but build they did until once more 5Gs pushed hard upon them. Then, for the first time, the controlled progression of events changed. A sudden shuddering gripped the ship, building up, shaking everything hard — then stopped.

“I have pogoing,” Patrick said, sharply.

“Under control, pogo pressurization restored.”

As quickly as it had come the shaking ended, and did not return. All of them aboard the ship relaxed for they knew that the very worst was behind them. The three of them who were new to space were veterans now. They had survived takeoff, the moment of ignition when they had thought the unthinkable, riding in a cabin on top of the greatest chemical bomb ever constructed by mankind. The energy locked there had been expended to take them into space. It could have exploded instead. With this behind them they relaxed unknowingly. Coretta and the flight surgeons on Earth noted it in their readouts of pulse and blood pressure and were aware of what had happened. Even though they were hard at work in Mission

Control they had relaxed as well; there were more smiles than frowns. Flax had the victory cigar out and was chewing on it still unlit.

All was going according to plan.

“Shutdown,” Patrick said quietly as the engines cut off. “How is our orbit now, Mission Control?”

“Four balls, Prometheus. We have a one in the last digit, just one away from five balls. “

A good orbit with a.00001 error from the ideal predicted orbit. Patrick stretched and unlocked his belt, talking to the crew.

“We are coasting now but please do not leave your couches. I am coming down for eyeball contact.”

He pushed away from the couch and floated towards the bulkhead. “I'm going to cheer up the troops, Nadya, will you take the con?”

“Nyet prahblem, vas ponyal.”

As the opening of the hatch swam towards him, Patrick grabbed the edge to brake his motion. His feet came up slowly and brushed the wall, slowing his body to a stop. Head first he pulled himself in, floating towards the couches.

“A most dramatic entry, Commander,” Coretta said, fighting the urge to draw aside as he floated headfirst towards her. “When do we get to try that?”

“As soon as we're in final orbit. How is everything here?”

He bent his arms as he floated to her couch, slowing and stopping. He tested her straps. She nodded and smiled.

“I'm fine now — but what was that shaking around about?”

“The pogoing?”

“If that's what you call it. Like a pogo stick?”

“That's right. As the tank empties pressure waves in the fuel line will sometimes surge backwards and forwards and cause the engines to set up a motion something like” a pogo stick. There are pressurization and systems dampers to stop it.”

“It was shaking the fillings out of my teeth.”

“Everyone else all right?” Patrick asked, looking around.

There was a moment's hesitation, then Gregor spoke slowly.

“I regret the free fall, the shaking, caught me by surprise. I had… my stomach… a small accident.” He was almost blushing. “But there is the plastic bag, it is all right now.”

“Happens to all of us,” Patrick said. “Hazard of the profession. Are you over it?”

“Yes, finished. I am most sorry.”

“Don't be. When we are back on solid ground I'll tell you some real good Air Force whoopsie stories.”

“Spare us now, will you, Patrick.” Ely spoke above the top edge of his book, a novel with a title in French.

“Of course. Here's the situation.” They were listening closely now, even Ely. “We're about a hundred and thirty kilometers high and still climbing. Our boosters are gone but the core vehicle still has fuel. It will fire one more time for orbit insertion before staging. After this, as soon as Mission Control is happy about the orbit, the core vehicle will be detached and we will be on our own. That will be when Ely does his thing.”

“An honest job at last,” Ely said. “I'm tired of being a passenger and look forward to the moment when Dr. Bron and his magic atomic rocket engine have a chance to perform. Though small, and without the kiloton thrust of the monsters we have dropped behind us, it is true-blue and with a heart of gold and will puff and toot and lift us up into the perfect orbit in the ideal position.”

“May it do just that. Any questions? Colonel?”

“When do we eat?”

“A good question. With all the holds we had I'm feeling hungry myself. I'd say break out the food packs now if I thought we had time. You have the tubes there so drink some lemonade if you want to keep the hunger pangs away. As soon as we get into the low orbit we'll eat. Then Ely can get to work on his engine.”

Patrick pulled himself back up into the flight cabin and buckled in once again. “How's our time?” he asked.

“About three minutes to firing,” Nadya said, looking at the GET.

“Good. I'll take it.”

Flipping up the safety lid, Patrick held his finger over the engine firing button. The computer counted down on the GET and, at the precise second, he pressed down just in case the signal from the computer did not activate it precisely.

The pumps whirred, the engine fired.

It worked at full thrust for exactly three seconds. Then it exploded.