Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning (2 page)

A brilliant flash lit up the daytime sky, and every port of the shuttle gleamed bright orange.
Boosters exploded!
Looking up through the front window Earth appeared, then the coastline of Florida. The Endeavor was inverted, but the nose came around as she rolled the aircraft back to horizontal in a “Split-S.”
Airspeed down to Mach Two
.

“Endeavor, how do you read? Endeavor?” her headset came alive.

A chorus of screams flooded the intercom, sheer panic in the crew.

“Shut up back there!” She could hardly hear the radio. “Read you ground. . .hands full.” She tried to summarize the situation as briefly as possible, every second critical. “Ground, Endeavor, free of boosters at 1,160 knots, engine out, gonna have to make an RTLS--return to landing site--at low altitude. Computer shot, but I have control. Pitching down, heading zero-seven-five.”

“He’s dead, goddammit!
Helmut full of blood. Now listen up, I’m flying this roller coaster dead stick, and we have major damage.”

“Holy!” With the calm disposition of a real professional, ready for any contingency, Mike Udahl, flight coordinator, gasped in his microphone then relayed instructions. “Okay Stick, hang in there, kid, you got it. We’ll relay guidance from our computer. Pitch down four-zero degrees and turn to a heading of zero-one-zero.”

All the NASA pilots called Cristina “Stick” because of her proficiency in dead stick landings. She hated the call sign.
Why don’t they call me something cool, like Xena Princess Warrior?
she thought. A
nd
how the hell can I even think of such a stupid thing at a time like this?
She often surprised herself. They were in deep shit and she knew it. Incineration could come at any second.

She hadn’t trained for an RTLS at low altitude, and she was making it up on the fly.
It’s just a plane, girl. Put it on the ground horizontal-like and walk away.
“That’s down forty, heading zero-one-zero.” Although the flight computer had failed, the shuttle carried standard aircraft instruments for just such an emergency, the final fallback of redundancy. “Mike, can you see the structure? Looks like we got a hole, left cockpit. No cabin pressure.” The depressurization would have killed them, but they were in active G-suits.

“Yeah, we see it. Replay looks like you hit something.”

“Hit something my ass! That was no bird-strike. . .how ‘bout a Stinger? Down to twenty-thousand at three-thousand a minute, 720 knots.”

“Hold your angle of descent and turn to three-two-zero.”

“That’s two-three-zero.”

“No, no, Stick. . .listen up, that’s
three-two-zero!”

“Got it, three-two-zero.” Her heart was racing in an orgasm of horror. She felt like it might fly out her chest. She tried to imagine the normal computer display, but the screen was black. Landing the shuttle was not that hard under computer control, but without the computer, it was like flying a dead 737.
More like flying a large boulder,
she thought,
or maybe a school bus.

She knew their chances were slim, but she tried to stay calm. For the moment they were aerodynamic and under control. But all she could see out front was blue sky and, in a matter of minutes, one way or another, there would be an impact. Gravity was the relentless foe. She had no choice but to put her faith in Udahl. “Talk to me, Mike.”

“We’re gonna die!” screamed Helen Lance, mission specialist, from the rear.

“Keep quiet dammit, I’m gonna put this piece of shit on the runway.” Christina noticed her altitude and airspeed dropping fast. “Mike you better turn me to final, this stone is falling.”

“Relax Stick. Turn to one-eight-zero, lower your nose twenty degrees. Let me know when you have the runway.”

She tweaked the control stick forward and forced her head up for a peek. “Got it!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “I’ve got it,” a little quieter this time regaining her cool.
What a beautiful sight,
she thought. She could hardly believe the runway was dead ahead. “Descending at two-thousand a minute, 400 knots and slowing.”

“We got ya Stick. You’re gonna make it. Now lift your nose ten. At 300 knots deploy the gear.”

On second thought, she wasn’t sure they’d make the runway. As the airspeed bled down, she pulled the lever to lower the landing gear, but nothing happened. She had no way of knowing whether the indicator lights lacked power or the gear failed to deploy.

“Listen up kid. You got three miles of runway and tiles that are good for ten-thousand degrees. Just ease her down on her belly and work that rudder.”

Of all the situations in the simulator, NASA had never considered landing without gear, because the vehicle wasn’t built for it, and the chance of survival was nil.
Come to Jesus,
she thought. “All right backseaters, you better hold tight, gonna belly it in.”

“Can you do that? It’s gonna explode!” Vance screamed again.

Christina didn’t have time to deal with her, and she was getting damn tired of hearing her whine. “Suck it up, bitch! Mike, I’ve got the VASI lights. We’re a little low, red over white. Airspeed two-five-zero, easing up the nose.”

“You’re there Stick. Got it made in the shade. You can do it. . .hang tight and keep that nose a comin’.”

In what seemed like an instant the vehicle slammed to the ground short of the runway in a full stall at 190 knots. She stared down the runway as the shuttle skipped over the threshold like a speedboat over a ramp. There was another huge thud as it slammed back hard on concrete. She pumped the rudder trying to maintain the center line. More screams from the rear as the spacecraft shook so hard the instrument panel blurred.
Shit, it’ll never hold!

They were snaking down the long runway at the speed of a racecar. She imagined the blaze of sparks and fire in their wake. Before it ground to a stop, the vehicle spun around 180, rear first. There was an intense smell of scorched metal and burning rubber in the backwash and smoke seeped into the cabin. The horrible roar of grinding tiles suddenly went silent, and they sat in a deadly haze.

“Holy bejesus. . .thank you God!”
another exclamation from Vance. It was impossible to clap in spacesuits, but they went through the motions of high-fives.

Christina slumped in her seat; tension drained like the air out of a blown tire. She could see an entire parade of vehicles racing their way. Bolted in a red, hot container full of oxygen, fuel and fumes, she knew they weren’t out of the woods yet. She cleared her throat and spoke over the intercom, “Better get your straps off and be ready to scram before this shit blows. Keep your helmets on, don’t wanna breathe that smoke. When they open the hatch, get the hell out.”

Like the captain of a sinking ship, she waited in fumes until the crew cleared and Halif’s body was extricated. Sitting in the stillness, she finally had time to think and tears filled stinging eyes. Christina surprised herself as emotions boiled into sobs.
No, I didn’t like the bastard, but he was an astronaut, and he “bought the farm” serving his country. Could’ve just as easily been me.
She squinted through tears of fierce determination.
I don’t know what asshole did this shit, but somebody’s gonna pay!

Twisting off her helmet, she slid through the access into a cool breeze and bright sunshine. Fire trucks were hosing down the scene with foam. As she walked away from the wreckage, another Furgeson pearl came to mind.

Any landing you can walk away from is a good one.

Questioning the wisdom, she turned to survey the shambles of the once proud spacecraft Endeavor, and her mind summed it up:
One good landing, one dead astronaut and a few billion dollars down the rat-hole.

Chapter Two

Three weeks prior to her big day, Christina Matthews envisioned her first space flight, the historic launch of STS-732. She lay on a pristine beach by the Cay Hotel in George Town, Great Exuma and tried to relax. It was hot and she hated the feeling of sand between her toes, but it was nice to get away from the humdrum of astronaut training. Soaking in the sun with her eyes closed, the squawk of a seagull brought back memories. It had been a fateful seven years since she and her friends had been stranded on that piece of sand in the Bahamas, since hurricane Amy. Visions of burying her best friend, Jessica, in a sandy grave never left her, and the image suddenly put a lump in her throat. She swallowed hard and struggled to force her thoughts back to the positive.

What a whirlwind,
she thought.
Can’t believe it was seven years ago.

The hypnotic swoosh of waves on the beach reminded her of Jessica’s treasure map. It seemed only yesterday when Lazer had flown her and Heather to the Exumas to search for the 1733 galleon, El Capitan. Hearing clairvoyant intonations from her dead friend, Christina had managed to find the mother lode. Diving with a salvage company, they located the wreck which yielded some $600 million in gems and precious metals near a small island under only twenty feet of water.
It was Jessica’s dream,
she thought,
why did she have to die for it?
A secret pact had formed an enduring bond between Heather and Christina. They agreed not to disclose their share of the bounty to avoid the obvious burdens of wealth.

Just when she thought nothing could be better than becoming an overnight millionaire, Christina had been called by Charles Winston Scott, the Director of NASA. He had seen the story of her dramatic island rescue on CBN and asked if she would help organize a Future Astronauts of America program. It started out as a PR stunt to get more young people interested in the space program. As a result of her involvement, she was picked as one of four young scholars to enter astronaut training at the age of twenty-one, a mere babe in the aeronautical woods.

With the genes of her test pilot dad, her aircraft designer mom and WASP pilot grandmother, Christina excelled in all aspects of aviation. Her doctorial work at Georgia Tech led to a spacecraft robotics system called DROID--dead-reckoning-optoelectronic-intelligent-docking. After years of trauma from the death of her mother and the bloody murder of Jessica, now it seemed almost everything about her life was charmed. Her dreams of being launched into space were about to come true.

Paid my dues,
she thought as she stretched forward and brushed the sand off her feet.
Time to reap the
rewards: the first young woman in space.

“Shiii-aaat, how’s it doin’ honey?” Lazer waddled up kicking sand with two, dripping Pena Coladas.

Christina laughed to herself,
Looks like Ichabod Crane in a speedo.
“Hey big fella, watch the sand will ya? Thanks for the drink.”

Years of marriage hadn’t dulled their romance. After their adventure in the Exumas, she had married Lazer and both agreed she should keep her last name. It made sense. With all the publicity, it netted some real advantages including a huge opportunity at NASA. Lazer was a great guy, a super pilot and the love of Christina’s life. She had grown accustomed to his “redneck” sound, and he had supported all her endeavors and helped hone her flying skills.

Just behind Lazer came the voluptuous Heather Daniels in a tiny, orange bikini and Billy Rogers, now a man. When they were stranded on the island, he had been just fifteen, but his Eagle Scout skills had saved their bacon more than once. After a string of failed relationships, Heather was dating Billy, six years younger.

Hmmm, twenty-two,
Christina mused
, seems older to me.

“Hey y’all, oooeee this sand is sticky,” Heather lifted her sunglasses and squinted in the sun.

“Heather, did you bring the sun-screen?” Christina stared at her own knees; they were pink and glowing. The afternoon sun was like a blowtorch. She knew better but she loved the feeling of baking in the sun. There was something about the heat, the waves and the ocean that calmed her down. The primordial rhythm of the surf fascinated her.
It’s the rhythm of life.