Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning

Test Pilot’s Daughter

Dead Reckoning

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Steve Ward

Copyright © 2010 by Steve Ward

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Credits: Cover design and layout by T.M. Roy; Space Shuttle photograph courtesy of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA).

Chapter One

It was one of those days,
an emotional roller coaster, highs and lows. As her test pilot dad would say, “From asshole to elbow,” Christina Matthews was bursting with the grandeur of modern science and the pure elation of her own charmed life.
My God,
she thought,
a hundred years ago we were riding horses to town.
She could hardly believe her good fortune.

“STS-732, we have T-minus-one-minute. . .counting,” her headset crackled.

Music to my ears, baby
. . .g
ood as gone.
Stretched supine, the gravitational pressure on her spacesuit was well distributed on a thick layer of foam rubber. She tried to ignore the ache in the small of her back where the A/C connector always dug in.
Who designed this piece of shit?
she wondered.
They clearly never tried it in the shuttle.
Just beneath her were four-thousand tons of hydrogen, oxygen and solid rocket fuel. With a PhD in Physics, Christina knew the implications:
Hiroshima!
She was talking to herself, again. She did that a lot. It helped her relax.
Okay self, get your ass in gear; this thing’s about to blow.

Positioned in the right copilot seat, she had a close up view of the maze of instrumentation. There were literally hundreds of readings to master, but years of training made the display familiar. She scanned in a standard pattern, looking for anomalies, hoping not to find one. She was well aware of the myriad of issues that could arise before launch, some critical, some not so critical. The cabin pressure alarm flickered, but she’d been warned about that one. It was virtually impossible to keep all the thousands of sensors working properly at any one time, but with a minimum of four levels of redundancy, some could be overlooked. The best pilots knew which warnings to acknowledge and which to ignore. Checklists complete, Christina lay in the right seat entombed in dead silence tingling with tension. Space-shuttle Endeavor was a “
Go!”

Be calm, girl, here we go again, it’s come to Jesus time
. She prayed the infamous prayer of the lonely test pilot:
Our Father who art in heaven, please don’t let me fuck up!
She had to laugh; the last time she said that prayer was when she soloed in a Cessna 150.
A hundred horsepower or a million, what’s the difference? Either one can kill you!
Envisioning the monstrous superstructure of the moaning spacecraft, she thought,
This ain’t no Cessna, baby
. Y
ou’ve come a long way.

Christina was confident enough, but her mind raced multitasking.
How in the world did I manage to get ahead of all those other flyers?
She knew the answer, but it was still hard to believe. It all started with a nationally televised dead-stick landing at Miami International when she had rescued her friends from a deserted island, seven years prior.
Come to think of it,
she thought,
every landing in the shuttle is dead-stick.
Of course, her spacecraft robotics work at Georgia Tech played a role, and a new program to get young people involved at NASA opened the door. It was a fantasy come true, an unfulfilled dream of her father, now hers for the taking. Only a few dozen humans had sat in that right, co-pilot seat, only a few hundred launched into orbit.
Some people just get lucky I guess.
Her dad, Lt. Col. Patrick Matthews, one of the best test pilots of all time, would argue, “No such thing as luck, Chrissy. You make your own goddam luck. Work hard enough, girl, and you’ll have all kinds of luck.”

Oh yeah?
she thought.
He worked his ass off, risked his neck every day and never made the space program.
Her dad had lived the legacy of Chuck Yeager, the guy who broke the sound barrier in a rocket-plane but never got a ride in space.
It’s either pure, unadulterated luck or the Big Guy wants me up there. But why?
She didn’t have a clue.
Concentrate girl, back on task.

“T-minus-thirty-seconds.”

She felt a major twinge in the sphincter.
Nerves?
Maybe it’s that Mexican jalapeno breakfast. Now what genius dietician at NASA came up with that idea?
she wondered as her stomach rumbled. She laughed again,
Never a good idea to outgas in your spacesuit
. She had to force herself to ignore the gurgling and relax. It didn’t do any good to worry about it. Under the extreme pressures of a 3G launch, flatulence was practically a sure thing. As a matter of fact it wasn’t uncommon for an astronaut to stink up the old diaper. That’s why they were standard issue. Ever wonder why they don’t show the astronauts during launch? It’s because half of them mess their pants and the others heave their guts out. Launch is a violent affair.

“Okay people stay alert
,
here we go!”
barked Steve Halif, shuttle pilot, call name Cliff. Strapped into the left, Commander’s seat, he was all business, not his usual party-animal nature. On the ground he was known as the biggest drinker and hell-raiser of all the astronauts. He lived life big and had an ego to match. He drove a bright red Corvette and raced it all around the Cape. Most of the local police just looked the other way. With ten missions under his belt, he was often in the news, and his reputation bordered on national hero.

Christina didn’t like Cliff much. The truth was she detested him, the typical older pervert always harassing the young ladies. But she respected his ability. Besides her father, Cliff was the best jet driver in the business.
This guy could make a go-cart fly
. As a matter of fact that’s how he got his handle. In Mesa, Arizona, where he was celebrating with a bunch of flying buddies, he got drunk and drove his rented go-cart right over a cliff. If he had been sober, it probably would’ve killed him, yet somehow he managed to plow right into a giant saguaro cactus that cushioned the blow.
Should’ve called him Splinters,
she chuckled.

Anticipation building like a helium balloon, she was tight as a piano string, but she concentrated on her job, well trained and ready. In the final seconds before her first space flight, her mind raced with possibilities. She couldn’t avoid thinking of the ‘86 Challenger explosion. A cold front had just passed Florida dropping the temperature to 36 degrees, right at NASA minimums.
Seals?
Problems with O-ring seals and external insulation debris had never been completely solved.
Surface ice?
she winced.
Back on task.

Her headset rang out, “Ten, nine. . .Go for main engine start. . .five, four, we have ignition.”

Baaarooom!
The controlled explosion shook the ground for a hundred miles. It was a force like no other on earth, millions of pounds of thrust against the launch pad. The true miracle was that it could be contained and directed. Monstrous gimbals worked in conjunction with huge gyros to keep the massive superstructure pointed where it was supposed to go with incredible precision. It was the majesty of modern science. For those who understood the nature of the energy involved, it was a wonder it didn’t just blow up.

“We have liftoff!
Good luck Commander and God’s speed.”

Christina’s heart lurched at a rabbit’s pace, reveling in the wonderment of launch. After what sounded like a muffled eruption, there was a small vibration, then a big one. The shuttle pitched backward about fifteen feet giving the feeling it would topple, then rocked forward as the gimbals adjusted. She could feel the cockpit waving around one hundred feet above the ground like a treetop in a strong wind. She had been in the simulator a thousand times, but nothing had prepared her for this. In the midst of violent perturbations, seven-million pounds of thrust kicked her in the butt like a cannonball.
Oops,
excuse me,
her bowels roared, and they were off.
Holy thrusters, Batman,
she thought
, how can this thing take it?
She was amazed they were still in one piece as vibrations grew both in frequency and magnitude to a full orchestra crescendo.

“You are Go for throttle up, Commander.”

After backing off just below the sound barrier to reduce stress, Cliff pushed the throttle forward to the standard setting of 104%.

Christina sensed a strange jolt. Not sure why, she suddenly had a bad feeling as if something was amiss.
Fucking insulation strike,
she thought.
Why can’t they get that shit to stay on?
She heard another loud
Bang!
“What was that, Cliff?”

He spoke in vibrato, “Don ya worry none swe-e-etheart. Just h-a-a-ang on ta ya a-a-ass.”

Another jolt distinctly from the left side accompanied a brilliant flash. Now she knew something was wrong. As she reached for the instrument panel, it felt as though someone threw a brick into her ribs.
Not right
, she cringed,
not right at all!

Flashing red warning lights fired all over the cockpit like a Christmas tree in a bad horror movie. She tried to speak but the words jammed in her gullet. Time seemed to stop as her relatively short life flashed through her brain. She was back on that island with Heather and Billy. The hurricane was pounding the beach, and their plane wouldn’t start. She had looked the dark demon of death directly in the eye, but against all odds, she had survived.
The demon’s back!
More flashing lights and a troubling growl. The cabin lit an eerie green.
Too many issues,
she struggled to focus.
Get busy and do something.
She remembered what her old flight instructor, John Furgeson, always said.

When the shit hits the fan, girl, don’t forget to fly the airplane.

“Cliff, you got it? Cliff. . .Cliff, can you hear me?” she screamed in her headset. Panic seized her throat as she wrenched left to look his way. Cliff was limp in his seat, blood spurting inside his helmet.
Shit! Oh my God! The. . .the bastard’s dead!
Gasping for breath in sheer panic mode, she turned back to the instruments. The altimeter shot through 32,000 feet just above Point Bravo. Whether she liked it or not, she had been instantly promoted to pilot-in-command. Life or death was in her hands now, and decisions would have to come rapid fire. It was clear Cliff was a goner,
but what the hell happened?
Training kicked in and her brain began to function. Challenger flashed in her mind. She could envision the inner capsule of that doomed space shuttle. Christa McAuliffe, the first teacher in space, and the rest rode that cramped elevator ten miles down to an instant death at the surface of the ocean. Christina thought,
By God, that’s not gonna happen to me!

There was a strange glow, and she finally noticed a small hole in the left side of the cockpit. Her helmet began to fog.
Gotta move quick or I’ll be flying blind.
It wasn’t in the manual, but there was only one thing to do. She slammed her fist down hard on the large red switch that fired the explosive bolts separating Endeavor from its two boosters and main fuel tank. Shuttle power automatically flamed out with the abort. Another jolt and what remained of the spacecraft was free at 40,000 feet, going straight up at Mach 3. She knew at such speeds it was only a matter of seconds before the hole in the side of the cockpit would rupture the entire shuttle. Easing back on the stick she felt a response.
Thank you Jesus!