Skyfall

43

GET 33:34

“There's no more of it,” Coretta said. “The fire, the burning pieces, they're all gone.”

“Five minutes now, at least,” Patrick said. “We're through and into our last orbit.”

“What do you mean?” Coretta asked.

“We were at perigee, the closest part of our orbit to Earth, going past it and moving higher. That's when we hit, grazed the atmosphere. Any more than that and we'd have slowed and burned. Just touched lightly like a skipping stone on water, then away. Now we know almost to the minute how much time we have. At next perigee we go down. A little over an hour.” He fumbled in his darkness to find the mike switch, turned it on. “Mission Control this is Prometheus. I want to talk to Orbiter.”

“Roger, Patrick, Orbiter is listening. “

“How's your bird, Cookey?”

“A — OK and in the green all the way.”

“What's your ETA for hook-up?”

“Just about forty minutes.”

“That'll be fine as long as you get here on time. It will give you about twenty minutes for the approach and exit. Might I suggest you make the approach a good one and get us on the first pass.”

“Suggestion accepted, Pat. I will do my goddamnedest.”

“I know you will, Cookey. Out.”

Nadya waited until the radio connection was broken before she spoke. “Do we have time to repressurize and evacuate this cabin again before hook-up?” she asked.

“Yes, more than enough time,” Patrick said.

“Could we please, my eyes. . there is discomfort, a little pain perhaps.”

“You should have said something — Gregor, pressurize, you know where the controls are.” Patrick groped out through their darkness until his fingers found the other couch, felt along it until he reached her arm, her hand. He held it tightly, realizing that they had forgotten about her and she had not bothered them while they got on with the job. Blind, locked in her pressure suit, uncomplaining.

“I'm sorry,” Patrick said.

“Don't be silly. You have done everything possible for all of us.”

“Pressure,” Gregor said, loosening his helmet and removing it. After the stink of his own body inside the suit even the canned, recycled air of the cabin smelled good. Coretta had her helmet o(f now and was helping Nadya with hers.

“I'm going to put a fresh dressing on and give you a shot,” she said.

“I don't want to sleep.” There was a sharpness in Nadya's voice that had not been there before.

“Don't worry, honey. Just a little one for the pain. And for Patrick too.”

She bent efficiently to her task and Gregor watched her. Her hair was rich and dark, a contrast to his blond curls. And her skin; brown, warm, soft. She was different from anyone he had ever met before. He wanted to bend and kiss her throat, there above the hard neckring of her suit. He did not, did not want to interrupt. Instead he looked up at the numbers clicking over on the GET, then out of the port at the darkness.

“When Coretta is finished we must depressurize. I must go and finish HOOPSNAKE.”

“No!” Coretta gasped out the words, turning about. “We don't have to now, they're coming to get us.”

“That does not alter the fact that this spacecraft must be destroyed completely. For the benefit of the people below.”

“But you heard Mission Control, they think it will hit the ocean---”

“ Think is not good enough. There is just as good a chance it will strike California. I must not allow that chance to be taken.”

“I'm afraid we have no choice,” Patrick said. “We did our best but I don't think you'll be able to finish the job. There's a very good chance that the AMU was carried away, if the debris was as heavy as you say. Without it you won't be able to get back to the engines again.”

“I hadn't thought!” Gregor said. He pushed off, floundered, slammed into the wall by the port, then righted and pressed his face closely against the cold glass. He could see the outside of the hatch. Nothing else.

“It is gone,” he said wearily. “That is the end of it.”

Coretta broke the disposable hypodermic needles in two and pushed them into the waste holder, then went over to him. She had moved too fast, forgetting, and had to grab him as she floated up so she would not hit too hard. She held onto his arms and did not let go.

“Why so sad? We did our best. No one's to blame.”

He gazed at the pilots, at their bandaged faces, a look of pain cut deep into his face. When he spoke it was a soft whisper that only she could hear. “I wanted to do it, it was important. Look at them, there, blinded, perhaps forever. It was my country that did that and I am ashamed. I thought we could, I could, make up for it somehow by putting things right. Destroying Prometheus. Destroying the threat to the world.”

“But you heard the radio. It wasn't the Soviet Union that sent up the bomb. Just one man…”

Gregor smiled crookedly and raised his gloved fingers to her lips.

“You are a child, darogaya, a lovely woman yet a child when you say that. Accidents like that don't happen in my country. It was planned, a scrapegoat was found….”

“It's a scapegoat, not a scrapegoat, and I believe anything you say. But there's nothing you can do about it now — except put it from your mind. If that bus gets here in time we'll be alive and out of it and back in the State of Florida in time for dinner.”

Her dark eyes were wide open, staring into his blue ones, as she leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth. The metal collar rings of their suits clattered together and she had to lean far out so their lips could meet. It could have been funny, two thick figures swaddled in fabric and plastic, holding to each other like shapeless bundles. It could have been funny, but it was not. He kissed her as she did him, eyes open, saying more than words ever could.

“What is the GET?” Patrick asked suddenly.

“34:23,” Coretta answered, drawing back from Gregor and looking up at the numbers.

“Time to depressurize. Helmets on. Take care of that, Gregor, when we're all secured. The Orbiter will be making the final approach now.”

“Prometheus, I have you on electronic ranging and we are closing, “Cooke said.

“We are waiting for you, Orbiter. Our hatch is open and we are standing by.”

“Burn is complete and we're closing at one two oh feet per second.”

“There they are!” Decosta called out as Prometheus swam into view. Cooke nodded, hands busy at the controls.

“We have you in sight now, looks like we're making a high side pass. Your crew module is in the shadow of the payload so I don't know if hatch alignment is in the green.”

“My people here are on the lookout — they see you now. Coming in just fine. Our hatch is about thirty degrees away from earthside your approach.”

“Okay, Pat. I'll lift a bit and roll as we come in. A piece of cake.”

Of course it wasn't. Cooke knew he had to get it right the first time because there could be no second attempt. Right so far. 2,727 feet out, closing at 19.7 feet per second. He hit the forward gas jets. I,370 feet, 9.8 feet per second. The spacecraft grew steadily larger, closer.

“Good thing they are carrying their payload on their nose,” Decosta said. “All burned to hell. Better it than them.” He turned his oxygen on, then put on his helmet. “Radio connection okay?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“I'm getting the doors open, the tanks ready.”

He dived in headfirst through the floor hatch, kicked off the wall and grabbed the dogging handle of the airlock, twisting it, pulling up on the door. Once inside he sealed it behind him and punched the bleed valve. The pressure reading wound down and down until the red evacuation light blinked on. The outer door of the airlock opened easily and just outside it were the door controls. Decosta trained his light on them, switched the selector to open and pressed the activate button. A crack of light appeared, widened, as the curved, sixty-foot-long doors began to swing back. Light poured in and he could see the base of the remote manipulator no more than a yard away. He moved off towards it, seized it, and using it as a guide pushed himself the length of the cavernous hold, to the far end. As he went he permitted himself only one quick glimpse of Prometheus.

It was no more than a hundred yards away and closing smoothly. An immense scarred cylinder in space, two hundred and fifty feet long. The crew module was still in the shadow of the payload but he knew they were there, waiting for him.

“On the way,” he said, grabbing the working end of the manipulator as he came to it. The knife was just where he had left it, floating free at the end of the length of line. He reached out carefully and grabbed the handle, then used the blade to sever the line where he had tied it. An easy steady push sent him floating the last ten feet to the end where the walk-arounds were lashed, to grab the ropes and saw through a length of white nylon, to pull it free loop after loop.

When the tie-down line had been removed and was floating away into space he tied the knife to the red line that held the four tanks together, then retraced his way back to the manipulator controls. Only then did he take the time to look out.

Prometheus was there. No more than fifty, sixty feet away, filling the sky with its bulk. Light glowed in the ports and from the open hatch where he could clearly see the helmets of the crew.

“Ready to go,” Decosta said.

“You're through to Prometheus,” Cooke answered.

“I have you in sight,” Decosta said, pushing an actuator handle forward.

“What do you want us to do?” Patrick asked.

“Here come the walk-abouts, on the end of the arm.”

The long tube of the manipulator rose up and up, pulling along the tanks at the end of their length of line. “I'll try not to bang them into you, but they are swinging around a lot. Grab them when they get close. There is a knife tied out there with them, watch out for it, so you can cut them free.”

In Prometheus they could only wait, grouped by the hatch, two of them watching the welcome sight of the Orbiter as it drew close. It was like a great airplane flying towards them, an illusion destroyed when it rolled slowly until it was drifting topside in their direction. Then jt split down almost its entire length, long doors gaping wide, and the thin shaft of the manipulator was reaching out in their direction, the tanks floating free at the end.

“What's happening?” Patrick said, angry that he had to ask.

“I'm sorry,” Coretta said. “I forgot. There's a long arm coming over with the tanks, they are whipping back and forth, swinging around. They've stopped now---”

“Can you reach them, Prometheus?”

“No.” Gregor reached out as far as he could. “They are still at least two meters away.”

“I'm out all the way,” Decosta said.

“Coming closer,” Cooke answered.

There was a brief spurt of gas on the directional jets and the Orbiter drifted sideways, looming up.

“Enough!” Gregor shouted as the long arm seemed about to impale the ship. White gas spurted into the vacuum and the motion stopped. “I can reach them now. Coretta, hold my feet.”

Gregor leaned far out, floated out farther and farther from the open hatch. Coretta held his ankles in one hand, the edge of the hatch opening in the other, watching, holding her breath, as his fingers reached out towards the bulk of the swinging tanks.

“I have them!”

A swift slice of the blade cut the walk-arounds free and Coretta pulled him and the tanks through the hatch.

“Put yours on first,” Patrick said. “Then disconnect from the cabin oxygen. Then you can attach ours.”

Gregor clipped the tank to his belt, made the hose connection, then severed the link with Prometheus. His hands were steady as he fastened Patrick's tank to him, making the connections with sure movement. Coretta was slower, first her tank, then Nadya's. When she turned around she found there were just three pressure-suited figures in sight.

“Gregor?”

“I am outside, going to the engines. I should have stayed to help but there are only about ten minutes left. I have turned on the hydrogen flow. There will be enough time for you, but I have little to spare.”

“What are you doing?” she shouted, knowing even as she said it what was happening.

“HOOPSNAKE of course. You should be leaving now.”

“Affirmative to that,” Decosta said. “Get your people on the end of the manipulative so I can bring you in.”

“You don't have to do it, Gregor,” Patrick said.

“I know that, thank you, but I must.”

Coretta lifted Nadya, guided her, pushed her to the hatch.

“Open your hand,” Coretta said. “I have the rope in your palm, close quickly, do you feel it?”

“Yes, fine, please help me through the hatch then get Patrick.”

Coretta was doing the same for Patrick, helping him through the opening towards the end of the metal arm where Nadya waited, floating head down with her feet stretching out above. Then Patrick had seized the end effector and she grabbed the metal next to him.

“We're all here, “she said.

“Keep your grip secure, I'm bringing you in.”

As they swung out and away from the hatch Coretta could see Gregor for the first time. He was close to the engines, pulling at the loose plate of shielding he had partially detached before.

“Gregor…” she said, but there were no other words.

“It has been. . very good to serve with you all,” Gregor said, breathing heavily as he struggled with the shielding. “Thank you very much for the opportunity….”

“We have less than five minutes left,” Cooke said, the calmness of his voice more emphatic than any strain.

“We need the light to see by. I'm closing the doors as soon as these people are strapped down,” Decosta said.

“I can move out with the doors open. Let me know as soon as you are all secure.”

The long arm moved slowly, ponderously, bending in the middle now like the great limb of some giant insect. Turning, carrying its human cargo towards the waiting acceleration couches, slowing, slower, stopped. The instant Decosta locked the mechanism he kicked off towards the others.

“One of you can see, I can't tell which, sorry, lash yourself in. I'll secure the other two,” he said.

Coretta groped for the couch and as soon as she moved, Decosta grabbed one of the others, prying at the gloved fingers. “I have someone's hand, let go, I'll take care of you.” He could see the blind, bandaged eyes through the faceplate. The hand opened and he pushed the space-suited figure against the couch, held it there, locked the belt into place. Then the other one. There was still one empty couch.

“I'm getting the arm stowed now so the doors can close,” he said.

“Can you take any acceleration? We've reached zero. Any time now…” Cooke's voice was strained, tight.

“Negative. A few more seconds. Manipulator stored. Doors closing, controls locked in that position, I'm in the lock, door closed.. now!”

Gregor heard their words clearly, broadcast to Prometheus's radio and repeated on the intercom-radio circuit. He had the plate aside at last and he turned his head for a brief instant to look. Flames sprang from the Orbiter's engines, long tongues of it in space. The winged spacecraft began to move.

“Goodbye,” he said, pushing himself inside the shielding, the light before him. If they answered he did not know, because his suit radio did not work in this area. The light moved over the rows of plastic tubing.

“Just as described,” he said aloud. He had read the HOOPSNAKE program many times, had memorized it. “Sever the tubing. With this fine knife supplied by the Shuttle.” He took the knife and sawed through the resistant plastic, cut into it and saw the poisonous granules of uranium isotope inside. “U-235, very deadly.” He smiled when he realized that he was no longer afraid at all. “A remarkable discovery,” he said. “I wish I could tell Colonel Kuznekov about it. Well perhaps I shall, if the Church is right and the Communist Party is wrong. I would like to tell the Colonel that courage is not a unique property of his generation.”

The plastic tubing pulled free easily now. He pulled off the required length as instructed by the program, making sure that the loose end was going through the gap in the shielding. Then he went out after it, pushing it ahead of him, towing it behind as he worked his way around the base of the engine towards the torn-away thrust cone. Droplets of gas, freezing as they emerged, shot out in a steady stream, making a comet's tail behind the ship.

“This could be dangerous now,” he said, working his way around the stream. “It has to be done right, absolutely right the first time.”

As he reached the right spot he looked up, startled, as burning fragments of the ship tore by.

They were into the atmosphere. Just moments left.

Gregor took one second to snap his safety line to the ship. He must be steady now, and would need both hands. The plastic tubing was stiff but bent as he applied pressure, rolling it upon itself, compacting it into a ball he could clasp between his hands, heavy, twenty-five kilos or more. He was aware that he was dead now in more ways than one, that the radiation of the U-235 increased as the mass of metal was brought closer and closer. But not to critical mass, there wasn't enough of it for that. The hydrogen would have to moderate the reaction for that, slow down and trap the particles so that it went critical, became an atomic bomb.

“Yes,” he said, “now is the time.”

Holding the heavy sphere of uranium before him he moved to the engine, looked in. The sun was behind him now, shining into the chamber.

It was breathtaking. The hydrogen had been pumped in steadily for some minutes now. At first it had turned to gas, but in doing so it had chilled down the quartz chamber walls. As more and more hydrogen had poured in it had stopped vaporizing. The chamber was now filled and brimming over with the pale, transparent fluid, two hundred and fifty degrees below zero. As still more was pumped in globules formed at the open end and drifted away, touching Gregor's faceplate and puffing away as gas.

For a long instant he stared into that cold pool — then plunged in the uranium ball. It was heavy and he had to push to accelerate it and it moved firmly from his hand, down the length of the engine. Surrounded by a constantly renewed cloud of gas as the hydrogen boiled when it came near the warm metal. A gas cloud that prevented the liquid hydrogen from coming close enough to moderate the fast particles emerging from the uranium, prevented the chain reaction from starting.

This did not last very long. The metal cooled and the liquid collapsed onto it and touched it.

Strapped down, her body pressing out against the restraint, Coretta saw the shining form of Prometheus grow smaller, shrinking, framed between the gap of the closing doors, visible for one last instant. Then vanished as the doors slammed shut.

“We are at least forty miles from Prometheus,” Cooke said, his voice sounding in all their helmets. “Lifting up and — God…” He was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “We're facing away. Thank God. You all right back there? A light, an explosion, I have never seen a light like that. It went up. It did. It's not going to impact after all. They're safe back on Earth.”

It was black inside the unlit cargo bay, as dark for Coretta as it was for the blinded pilots.

“Goodbye, Gregor,” she said softly, into the darkness.