Adrift

by Andrew Barber

“Warning. The following critical systems are inoperative:” said the computer, ticking off its priority list.

    “Auto-pilot.

    Auto-Reentry system.

    Communications systems: Primary, Secondary, Tertiary.

    Data telemetry

    Global and Orbital Positioning System

    Oxygen Cleansing System: Primary

    Parachute Deployment System

    Pilot”

At that item, Jacques Bradley let out a string of curses that drowned out the rest of the list. The other three just looked at him through the smoke, debris, and spent fire suppressant and then at the lifeless body of the Highview Space Tourism, Inc.’s pilot, whose body they had strapped to his couch.

Then the recording began to repeat, “Warning. The following critical systems are inoperative: Auto-pilot….”

“I think we can turn that off,” said Ron McDivitt. It took him a couple of minutes to find the control, as he had to cycle through several touch-screen displays. “I'll just turn down the volume in case something else fails. Sorry if it gets annoying.”

“Stuff will keep failing. When something goes to shit, everything goes to shit,” said Cassiana Kenoma. “It happened on my movie sets all the time. If even three little things went wrong in a row, I always insisted we pack it all in for the day.”

“We're going to pack it in for a lot longer that day if we don't keep our heads and solve the problem,” said Lowanna Nikolau, shooting a sarcastic look at the actor. It was a clear warning to the actor to buck up a little. She had recently retired as the CEO of Australia’s largest telecommunications company and didn’t suffer fools gladly at her level. The flight was the first of what was to be many holiday trips.

“Relax, everyone. I'm a pilot—and a pretty fucking good one, if I do say so myself. I told you I own a vintage fighter jet.” Bradley did not notice the other three roll their eyes upon hearing the same boast for what seemed like the tenth time in three days. No one liked Bradley much. “The manual controls still work. I’m sure I can do this.”

“How do we find the Sputnik?” Lowanna referred to their space hotel, the basic living module, and the large inflatable zero-G bubble that was to be their destination for the next four days. “The ‘Rendezvous and Docking Radar’ is flashing on the board as down.”

“It's right there,” said McDivitt, pointing out a tiny port. “We were pretty close. And the bubble's covered with a gold mylar that makes it reflect well. And blinking lights for the dark side. It's drifting out of sight. Jacques, we're tumbling or something. Can you stabilize us?”

“No problem.” Thankfully, Bradley was good under pressure. Retired pro-football quarterbacks with two Super Bowl Championship rings (another fact Bradley had casually mentioned more than a couple of times) usually were. Of course, this was life or death, but McDivitt suspected that's how the athlete had always treated his games.

It was a long process to undo the pilot's harness and move him to the far rear seat couch. The body was still uncomfortably close to the passengers. Once done, Bradley extended swinging arms tucked against the sides of the pilot’s couch and activated the two hand controllers for manual flying—they were wired for simple Roll, Pitch, Yaw controls, and forward/braking thrusters, with thumb buttons to release small amounts of inert gas. At first, he was unable to activate the Orbital Maneuvering System. He had the other three check the touch panels, and Cassie found an icon marked “Emergency OMS.” After a quick consultation with the others, she activated it. They also found and engaged one marked “Emergency Radio and Data,” but it simply turned red when touched, like so many other systems. They were able to activate a circulation system, and McDivitt suggested dampening a cloth and placing it in front of an intake to start clearing the air.

“We’re going into night,” McDivitt observed. “I don’t like waiting 45 minutes, but you don’t have a good reference to negate the spin.” Bradley grunted a reluctant agreement. A few minutes later, however, McDivitt said, “I can see the Moon through this port. If you can turn our nose this way, you'll have a reference.”

Bradley was, to his credit, a decent pilot. True, his first attempts resulted in 360-degree spins, but by the third revolution past the Moon, he had stabilized the tiny transport capsule.

“I read OMS fuel down to 66%,” said Lowanna. “We’ll need to be more careful.”

"Learning curve's done," Bradley said tersely. “Come daylight, this should be easy. Hmmm, I see we're drifting from the Earth’s horizon centered in my overhead port.”

“Don’t waste more fuel unless the Moon swings a lot from your front window,” said McDivitt. “Our nose always points the same direction in space. If we face the Earth at zero longitude, we’ll face away from it at longitude 180.”

“I haven’t wasted any fuel,” Bradley said, more in annoyance than defensiveness.

“Just pointing out the physics,” McDivitt said. “Good chance you’re not drifting much. At least according to this gyro display.”

“I think we’re coming back into daylight,” said Cassie. Everyone took a quick look to admire the dawn. It might be their last. Then she lamented, “I paid five million dollars to get into this mess. I didn’t even want to go. My agent pushed me into it.”

“We all paid that,” said Lowanna. She wasn’t going to tolerate someone sinking into self-pity.

“Not Ron,” Bradley said with a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “He's just a lucky high school science teacher who won a space vacation lottery.” McDivitt said nothing. Surviving bored teenager's verbal jabs was a prerequisite for the job. He had learned when it was best just to stay silent.

“Look for the hotel,” Bradley said. “We’ve got 45 minutes to get there before dark again.”

“And after we reach the hotel, then what?” Cassie demanded.

McDivitt said, “If we can get in, the thing’s designed to keep people alive for weeks. And there is that AV system for talking to friends—or fans, I guess—back home. They’ll know we’re there. Since the next guests launch in just a week, we wait for them to send that ship up with only a pilot and bring us back home. Jacques, I think I see the station through this port. Aim our nose this way. Yes, good. Good. You’ll see it through the pilot window in a moment.”

Lined up, Bradley looked out. “What I don't know is how far away we are. Well, here we go.” He fired the aft jets once gently. He was patient. He knew how to gauge movement, when to wait, and when to act. After a minute, he gave the thrusters another short blast.

“I think we may be moving farther away,” said Lowanna.

“Hmmm,” said Bradley. “I’ll give us a little more.”

“Now I’m sure we’re moving away,” said Lowanna, stationed at the other forward window.

“I agree,” said McDivitt. He was looking over Bradley’s shoulder, much to the sports star’s annoyance.

The athlete shot the teacher a withering glare. “I’ll slow us down.”

“Now we’re even farther away. I could make out the Sputnik’s solar panels before. I can’t see them now,” Lowanna said.

“Hang on.” Bradley studied his displays. “The screen shows we’re firing the aft thrusters alright.”

“Fuel 56%, Jacques.” Lowanna’s voice had more than a hint of warning.

“Something’s wrong with the capsule,” Bradley stated firmly. He gave the thrusters another blast. “I’ve hired Navy aviators to train with. I can get out of stalls and spins. It’s the capsule. The explosion must have fucked it up.”

“Well, the last blast has us moving away faster, at least I think," Lowanna said accusingly. “Fuel at 51%. Stop until we figure out what’s wrong with the ship.”

Bradley ignored her. His blood was up. He fired again. And again.

“Stop!” Lowanna ordered. “Fuels at 43%.”

“We’re entering night again,” McDivitt told the make-shift pilot. “We have a little time to calm down and take a breath.”

“I am calm,” Bradley growled, not calm.

The capsule passengers sat in icy silence for a time. Cassie began to cry. Finally, she sobbed quietly, “I don't want to die.”

“No one wants to die,” snapped Lowanna. “I don’t know why people always say that. It’s like a kid whining he isn’t getting his bloody chocolate milk and Tim Tams.”

“No one’s going to die,” said McDivitt. Then, remembering too late, he looked at the pilot. At least Lowanna had found her company flag that she had brought along for marketing and covered the dead man’s head and shoulders.

Bradley stared out his pilot’s window, frustrated. Occasionally, he glanced at his displays. Cassie cried softly. Lowanna looked out the window, trying to be stoic. And McDivitt played with two small pieces of debris from the maintenance cover and tank that had exploded. He tapped them this way and that. He gave them spins and counter-spins.

“I think I’ve figured it out,” McDivitt announced.

“Figured what out?” Bradley snapped.

“You're doing things backward.”

“Bullshit. You saw how I checked our tumble. I’m using the controls right.”

“For an airplane, yes,” McDivitt said. “But not for orbital mechanics. You're doing exactly the wrong thing to reach Sputnik.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wait another 15 minutes until daylight again. I’ll tell you what to do.”

“I doubt it. This isn’t some nerdy video game.” Bradley had never liked McDivitt or at least had never respected him.

“Can it!” ordered Lowanna. “If Ron says he's figured it out, let's try. Our situation can’t get much worse.”

There was a sullen quiet as they waited for the sun to rise again. The tiny ship was oriented with its nose pointing away from Earth. They didn’t even have city lights to enjoy, trying to use their shapes to figure out what city might be below them.

As they neared the terminator into daylight, McDivitt looked over Bradley’s shoulder. “OK, Jacques. Please do as I say.” He received a non-committal grunt.

“Are we pointed toward Sputnik? Lowanna, can you see it? Good, still almost straight ahead. We moved a lot farther away in the dark. Jacques, fire the forward jets. Like you want to slow down.”

“What will that do?”

“Everything. Trust me. But we’ll need to use most of the fuel we have left just to get back to square one, where we were at the bigging of this mess.”

“Would you rather do it yourself? Don't blame me when it all goes fucking sideways.”

“It won’t go sideways. Please keep flying. You’re the pilot, as you like to say.” He watched Bradley fire the forward-facing jets and the gas expanding in front of them through the pilot’s window. “OK, stop. We're doing this slowly. I know you’re used to making snap decisions, Jacques. I’m sure that’s why you're a champion. But this time, it's OK to take a whole orbit to get there. Even two or three.”

“We’re just sitting here. Another blast?”

“No. We don’t have the fuel.” McDivitt spoke matter-of-factly, not accusingly, but that fact gave the others a chill. “We wait. We have enough air and battery power for at least another day.”

After ten long minutes, Lowanna said, “I think we’re closer.”

“I agree,” said McDivitt. “Another squirt, Jacques. A small one. We need to be a little slower. Use the forward nozzles.”

Bradley did so without a word. He may not have trusted himself to speak.

“You want less speed to reach the Sputnik?” asked Lowanna.

“I think the term is actually less delta-V. But yes.”

“We're firing the controls backward,” she said.

“Reversed from an airplane,” said McDivitt. “Orbits aren't height. Orbits are speed. Well, velocity.”

“We got that in the briefing.” Lowanna nodded.

“Earlier, Jacques hit the aft rockets. Adding speed raised our altitude. That puts us in a slightly higher orbit than Sputnik. But, our faster-moving ship actually slows relative to the hotel because its orbit covers a shorter distance around the Earth than ours. The only way to get even close to Sputnik is to fire thrusters against our direction of travel. We slow down, dropping into an even lower orbit than the station, and catch up.”

“I think I see,” said Lowanna. The company she’d run had a satellite division. She didn't know orbital mechanics but had to learn a little about commercial orbits. “Ron, you just figured that out, floating here? On your own?”

“No. I teach an A.P. course in astronomy. An orbit ago, I remembered that one of the first space missions had a problem like this. I couldn’t remember any details. But I figured it out from there.”

“Look! We’re definitely closer!” the businesswoman said.

“Fuel?” asked McDivitt.

“Only 13%. Crikey! That’s not bloody much. But we’re slowly moving forward. Or faster. Or slower. I don’t know. Just keep doing it.”

“One more tiny squirt, Jacques?” McDivitt asked. “Then let’s pass the nightside again and see where we are in about half an orbit.”

“Roger.” Bradley may have been pouting a little. It was hard to say. He had a reputation as a very poor loser and a guy who liked to dominate his teammates. But good results were good results.

“Oh, by the way, I don't play video games. I'm as bad with them as I was in high school P.E. Football.” The part about being bad at football may have held a hint of pride in McDivitt’s voice.

The next orbit had them clearly closer. A couple of orbits later, they had adjusted nicely. As they drew closer to the station, McDivitt advised Bradley that as they approached the same orbit, the thruster’s results would become increasingly subtle. And once in the same orbit, he should use the aft thrusters to move forward again. “I don't know where that trade-off is. Just move slowly when you maneuver and hit the jets. Use the ‘light stuff,’ not the ‘right stuff.’”

“We’re at least 90 degrees off the airlock,” said Lowanna. She was worried maneuvering around the station would cost precious fuel.

“Remember, Sputnik’s airlock always orients the same way. It will point toward us in a quarter orbit again, but we’ll be off by the same degree. Jacques, you’ll have to pitch our nose 90 degrees to match. That won’t give you much time to make contact. Can you do it with the last of our fuel?”

Lowanna said, “9%.” She had made fuel measurement her task.

“Yes,” said Bradley.

“Sputnik has the docking clamps. Once we're there, it locks us in place and seals the airlock. Let’s all look for the button to activate it.”

“I think we may have to touch this button to dock with the hotel,” said Cassie, who was in guarded but better spirits.

“Does that station look fully inflated to you?” McDivitt asked Bradley.

“I think so. Why?” asked the champion quarterback.

“No reason. Just checking. I guess you’re right.”

Twenty minutes later, with all fingers crossed, Bradley nosed into the station’s docking collar and ordered Cassie to activate the clamps.

“Contact! We made a good team, Ron. I think I can get you prime seats at the next Super Bowl,” Bradley offered.

“Thanks, Jacques. But we both know I’d just be bored.”

***

Author’s note: The Gemini program was the first where American or Russian spacecraft could change orbits. The first attempt was by James McDivitt on Gemini IV. He could not get closer to the final stage of the Titan that launched them, and they went on to their primary task—Ed White performed the first American spacewalk. In the next attempt, Gemini VI got within a yard of Gemini VII.