It seemed to Tatiana that everything Komarov had just said was indeed possible; and that it had been Satomura’s idea made it easier to accept. But she was still angry at Komarov. It had not been his idea. He had brought it up as a last resort. His motivation was still his pride. She was certain of that. But she did feel better about Vladimir flying the lander, although she wanted to think about it some more.
“Well, if Takashi thinks it would be more dangerous not to choose Vladimir, then I think I would have to agree with him.” She fought back an urge to strike Komarov in the face. He was looking at her with a victorious glint in his eyes. “But you’re an asshole, and all of this is still your fault.”
“F
ifteen seconds to primary burn,” Vladimir announced as he scanned the lander’s instrument panel. His mind was elsewhere. The diagnostic error with the computer chip that controlled the reaction-control system had turned out to be a false alarm. The error had been caused by a faulty line of code in the diagnostic program, not by the chip. But it had taken them several days to determine that for certain, and it made Vladimir wonder what other faulty lines might be buried within the programs.
Beyond the portal, the supply ship from which he had launched thirty minutes earlier had dwindled to a point and was impossible to distinguish from the many stars that filled the sky. He felt a jolt as the braking engines fired to commence the descent. Mars appeared momentarily, then disappeared as the ship tipped over backwards and plummeted toward the rocky surface. His body began to shake with the g forces. He dug his fingers into the fabric of his chair. A quick glance at the monitor revealed 3.2 g’s. A red glow appeared outside the portal as the heat shield of the lander grew hotter. An ionized sheath of atmospheric gases enveloped the ship, severing his communications link. He stared at the fiery blaze for a few moments, then returned his attention to the instruments of the flight-control panel.
The initial stages of the descent were controlled by the computer; Vladimir’s role was limited to the red abort button, which would fire the ascent engines and return the lander to low-Mars orbit. But he was determined not to push the abort button, and at one point had even considered dismantling the button altogether. He didn’t do it because he was afraid that they might find out and decide he was unfit to fly the lander. He did not know how close they had come to choosing Carter. They had not consulted him, other than to ask a few questions that were not quite to the point, questions he suspected were intended to assay his competence as a pilot. This concerned him and caused him to question his own abilities, but he had managed to convince himself that his government would not subject itself to such an embarrassment unless it absolutely had to. His performance on
the simulator was quite good, even though it was not as good as it had been. And he no longer suffered from the physical symptoms of alcohol withdrawal, a problem he had kept to himself but suspected might have been apparent to the others.
He looked at the abort button and thought of Tatiana. He still had the dream. He was terrified that she might die and feared that the dream might be prophetic. He knew that if he failed, she would remain stranded on the planet. Their life-support systems would only last for a few months. Their food would go first. They had pills they could take that would end their lives quickly and painlessly. But he tried not to think about that, even though his mind kept going back to it. He thought by saving her that he would be able to restore their relationship. He was hoping that she would see his actions as heroic. Right now he was her only chance. He wanted to be with her, to hold her in his arms, and to show Komarov that he was the better man, at least in Tatiana’s eyes. He had convinced himself that she would never have been unfaithful had they not been separated. And because he himself had been unfaithful, he was able to forgive her. He still suspected that ultimately he was to blame, but he did not possess the courage to tell her about Mariko. His guilt troubled him, and he vaguely hoped that it would not be as great once he had rescued her.
A message indicating the comm link had been reestablished flashed across the screen. Behind Komarov’s image, which filled most of the monitor, Vladimir detected movement he imagined to be Tatiana’s.
Vladimir could feel his weight shifting toward the bottom of his seat as the lander righted itself. At approximately seven kilometers above the surface the computer deployed a drogue to open the parachutes. The drogue pulled the main chute from its housing. Vladimir felt the gentle tug of the drogue . . . but not the expected, more forceful tug of the main chute. He enlarged a window that displayed data from the exterior sensors. The compartment that had housed the parachutes was empty. The chutes had deployed—there was still a chance they would open. He then glanced at his airspeed. It had not decreased.
A recommendation to abort flashed before him. Komarov’s head disappeared from the screen as it fell into his hands and revealed Tatiana grasping for a table. Her skin was pale white. Vladimir realized that this might be his last glimpse of her.
“Abort,” Komarov ordered, lifting his head, blocking Tatiana from Vladimir’s view.
“There seems to be a problem with the communications link,” Vladimir responded. The bastard, he thought, wanting me to abort when he did not do so himself. He pointed a finger at his ear for emphasis.
The computer dropped the likelihood of a successful landing to 66 percent.
“Abort,” Komarov repeated more forcefully.
Vladimir pretended not to hear the command.
“Abort, now!” Komarov shouted.
Vladimir did not point at his ear this time. He tried to put Komarov out of his mind as he considered his options. The chutes, he reasoned, were tangled. The computer had just come to the same conclusion and was flashing the message urgently on the screen. His only hope for reaching the surface was to pray the parachutes might miraculously untangle. Suddenly he was afraid he might die. He glanced at the abort button and tightened his grip on the arms of his chair. He could feel the ship shaking. He watched the digits decrease on the counter that now dominated the screen. It gave the seconds remaining in which the abort sequence could be successfully launched. The number fifteen appeared on the screen, then disappeared. If he delayed the abort past the final second, the lander’s descent would be too unstable for the ascent engines to fire reliably. At ten seconds Komarov abruptly disappeared from the screen and was replaced by Tatiana.
“Save yourself,” she pleaded.
He glanced at the timer. There were seven seconds left. “Vladimir.” Her eyes opened wide with concern as she realized he had not responded to her plea. Reaching out, she touched the screen with the tips of her fingers. “Vladimir,” she repeated with a pained look. A watery mist filled her eyes, and she wiped a tear before it was able to roll down her cheek. “Please.”
He felt her pain, and that more than anything else made him want to be with her. She seemed fragile. He glanced quickly at the timer. Two seconds.
There was one last desperate option available to him. During his preparation for the rescue, he had performed two simulations where the chutes had failed to open. In the first he aborted as the contingency plan dictated and returned to orbit. In the second, however, he chose to continue the descent. The main parachute finally opened seven seconds beyond the point an abort could be safely performed. He managed to land by using a longer burn on the retro-rockets. He had not sent the results of the second simulation to the Russian Space Agency because he knew that they would have disapproved.
“I must try,” he said, pulling his eyes away from Tatiana. He did not know how much time he would have. He figured that it was not much more than seven seconds, since he had barely succeeded with the simulated landing. He punched the override button so the lander would not automatically abort. The event timer was displaying negative seconds. He watched the seconds pass, and when they reached negative seven, he knew that he was going to die. He waited another three seconds before firing the retro-rockets. The ship seemed to lurch backwards, but had only slowed down. He continued the burn until there was no more fuel. The monitor showed that he was still above the veil of dust shrouding the planet. Beads of sweat were rolling down his face and into the collar of his space suit. The ship started to pick up speed again. He looked over at Tatiana. They both knew he had failed.
“Vladimir . . .” she began, then faltered as her words were lost in short gasps for air, and for a moment he thought she was choking. Then she started to cry.
“Forgive me,” he said apologetically, as if he had done something terribly wrong. He touched the screen with his fingers, and she did the same.
The ship began to shake more violently as its speed increased. Tatiana was wiping her cheeks with the back of her hands when her image flickered, then disappeared. The circuitry within the communications antenna had fused together. Seconds later the antenna itself was ripped from the outer hull of the lander. Vladimir was attempting to restore the comm link when the lander’s primary fuel tank exploded. He was dead before his mind had time to register the blinding flash of light produced by the combustion. The few pieces of the lander that struck the surface formed a small crater nine kilometers from the
Gagarin
.
T
he once plump and rosy cheeks of Dr. Cain were pale white and pasty and resembled the damp flesh characteristic of a fresh corpse. He had requisitioned a cot for his office the night before, shortly after the lander had crashed, but had not managed to find the time to sleep. His hands were wrapped tightly around a steaming cup of black coffee. He was seated at the head of a conference room that contained NASA’s elite and was watching the Russians, projected against a wall screen, present their recommendation for a rescue attempt. What bothered Cain was that since the attempt had been Carter’s idea, there was no tactful way to back out.
Wearing the wrinkled remnants of a business suit, Emil Levchenko raised his body from his chair and cleared his throat. His face was dominated by large, dark semicircles that extended past the bridge of his nose. They filled the screen like the swirling coins of a hypnotist. The bodies behind Emil shifted out of focus.
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Carter as he took another bite of his steak and washed it down with a pint of reconstituted skim milk.
“Please,” Endicott admonished.
Nelson walked up behind the two and placed his hands on their shoulders. They were looking up at the monitor on the wall.
“It is my professional and personal opinion,” Levchenko began, “that the rescue plan proposed by Lieutenant Colonel Carter presents an acceptable risk. The backup lander for the
Volnost
was designed to last ten years, in the hope that it might be used in future missions. Four years remain. I recommend that Lieutenant Colonel Carter restore power to the supply ship and run diagnostics on the lander. We are not concerned about the power failure for the simple reason that the lander does not require power when it’s shut down. The decision to launch can be made once the diagnostics are completed.” He paused to observe the reactions of his colleagues. They were nodding in concurrence. Glancing at the monitor, he could see that the Americans did not display the same enthusiasm. “I should probably add that the global dust storm is not a concern. Contrary to several stories that appeared in the press this morning, we are confident that the dust storm had nothing to do with the failure of Vladimir’s attempt.”
“Thank you.” A commanding voice rumbled through the conference room. It belonged to Colonel Leonid Schebalin. He was dressed in a recently pressed uniform, a crisply starched shirt, a tie, also pressed, and a pair of black boots. He was staring fixedly at the camera. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, but they held a determination that said he would not accept anything less than full cooperation from the Americans.
“Dr. Cain,” he said, “the launch window for Earth closes in six days. This gives us more than sufficient time to conduct the rescue. I recommend that we proceed.”
Cain wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He knew that he could not object without good cause. As long as the lander passed diagnostics, it should be capable of the attempt. The reason the lander had been excluded from the backup plan for the joint mission was not the loss of power, but the loss of communications. They could not rely on hardware that they were uncertain about. All the same, Cain was uncomfortable about sending Carter on a lander that had been on ice for six years. It was still dangerous, and everyone knew it, but it seemed he had no other choice. If he did not agree, the three people on the surface would die.
“We here at NASA concur,” Dr. Cain said. He had to clear his throat before continuing. “Lieutenant Colonel Carter, you are authorized to proceed with the rescue. An updated contingency plan and a new set of simulations will be appended to this transmission. Good luck.”
“Good luck, gentlemen,” Schebalin said, and both screens went blank. A message appeared indicating the
Liberty
had received an executable transmission.
Carter turned to face the other two astronauts. He could see that they were looking at him to see how he would react. They appeared uneasy about the decision. This amused him. He was actually excited at the prospect of flying the lander, and having flown many times under circumstances he deemed less favorable, was not all that concerned.
“It looks like we’re on,” Carter said as he patted his pockets for a stick of gum.
“D
ocking maneuver complete,” Colonel Nelson announced from the monitor on the airlock wall. “Initiating airlock-pressure adjustment.”
Carter had always disliked the hardsuit, and his dislike had been significantly reinforced after suffering its discomforts for the past hour. NASA had not allowed him to wear the softsuit because of the loose ice in the supply ship. He released a painful groan as he stretched and banged his limbs against the hard interior of the outfit. He had only managed to get a couple of hours’ sleep. He glanced at the toolbox at his feet. His first task was to isolate the fault and restore power to the Russian supply ship. He had spent only a portion of the evening studying the schematics of the electrical subsystem. The greater portion had been spent familiarizing himself with the operation and flight characteristics of the Russian lander. The light above the airlock portal turned from red to green.