Rescue Branch (Kinsella Universe) Page 4

  “The day after I’ll pack my bags, and the day after that I’m off to Taiwan, where I’ll start work on another ship. Not quite like this one, but close enough.”

  “The Taiwanese have nuclear reactors?” Becky asked, going back to what Commander Jacobsen had described as the important thing.

  “No, nor do the Israelis -- who I will actually be working for. They have a very strange design, Becky. I’d say they have a nuclear reactor anyway, but they don’t want to install it on a ship here on Earth.”

  “Oh,” Becky managed.

  “Tomorrow you have the first day of two weeks leave. Then, when that’s over, you go back to Admiral Delgado.”

  “I’m sorry to go, Anna.”

  Anna Sanchez grinned at her. “You go there, I go to Taiwan... I’d have tried to take you with me, but Steph would have had kittens. After three beers I’m open to anything... even to patting you on the bottom and finding out the answers to some questions I’ve been curious about.

  “Except I’m going where I’m going and you’re going where you’re going. I’ve decided to eschew beer altogether, pack early and take a flight out sooner rather than later, tomorrow. For God’s sake, be careful out there, Becky!”

  She waved at the door and Becky knew she’d been dismissed.

  After that it was speeches, and then the final lift of the Ad Astra. It was uneventful; almost humdrum.

  Becky spent a quiet afternoon at the beach -- Hawaii had a lot of beaches -- watching moderate surf roll in. It suited her mood.

  Anna had hit on her in a very gentle sort of fashion. Becky didn’t think she was like that, but such personal attention from someone who clearly was going places was very flattering. Whenever Becky thought about just how far Anna Sanchez might go, it was a lot more sobering than what three beers could overcome.

  Chapter 3 -- More Training

  The next morning Becky presented herself to Admiral Delgado’s office again. To her surprise, this time she got to meet the admiral.

  He was a dark, intense man, full of nervous energy. “Are you sure you want to skip your leave, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I’ve been on active duty less than six months. I don’t want to go negative on leave.”

  He chuckled. “When I graduated from the Academy, they gave me a week’s leave at home. Then I went to Monterey for six months at the Post Grad School. After that, I got a month’s leave before going out to the fleet.

  “Two months after I joined my first ship, our navigator put her on some rocks. He was relieved -- but I got another month’s leave while they decided what to do with me. In less than a year of active duty, I took more than 9 weeks of leave; I was counseled by my next CO on taking too much leave. He wasn’t interested in the fact I’d never been given a choice.”

  “Yes, sir,” Becky said, equally helpless.

  “The question is, it’s a Thursday, Lieutenant. On Monday last a new class of space fundamentals started. If you want, I’ll put you in, starting this coming Monday. Do you think you can make up that week?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said without hesitation.

  “It’s six months of hard work, Lieutenant. Very hard work.”

  She smiled slightly. “I’ve been thinking of myself as a naval vagabond, sir. This won’t help. Soon, I’d like to have a longer assignment.”

  He smiled. “In two months and three weeks and six days one of two things will have happened; Ad Astra will be back, having accomplished her mission. Or we’ll write her off as lost. I’m willing to bet, the last never happens.”

  “I agree, sir.”

  “John Gilly will be back as well -- he’s agreed to head the Rescue Branch then. He wants you; he’s asked for you by name.”

  “I’d like that, sir.”

  “To put it mildly, that’ll be the most dangerous form of duty in the Space Service for the likely future. Space is not forgiving of the smallest mistake.”

  “I want that, sir,” she repeated to him.

  He grunted and turned to his aide, who’d been standing silent a few feet away.

  “Make sure Lieutenant Cooper’s orders are cut -- a pass for the rest of the weekend, then assignment to the Corps of Students... the most recent general spacemanship class.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Becky spent the next couple of days, sitting on beaches, watching the waves roll in. She thought of them as a microcosm of what she’d see in space. They were pretty, they were powerful, and if you ever forgot the latter, you’d get reminded.

  It seemed perverse in her mind that she’d dwell on such, but she couldn’t break the fascination the waves held for her.

  * * *

  Her class was hard. There were seven others in the class and she learned that one man had already quit in the first week. Three of them were Air Force pilots, three were Naval pilots and the last was a Marine pilot. She felt embarrassed, because all of them outranked her, they were pilots and she was just a lowly power engineer.

  She was unprepared for the camaraderie among them -- camaraderie that included her. They worked hard, they studied hard and they played hard. Not one of them was concerned that she was a relatively new junior naval lieutenant -- Becky was a classmate and that was all that counted.

  There was an undercurrent she noted. Camaraderie was one thing, but it was clear that the Air Force pilots treated the Navy and Marine pilots as second-class citizens. Becky wasn’t sure what made her be so forward, but she hit up Commander Townsend, the senior Navy pilot, about it.

  “Sir, I realize I’m a junior officer and am not supposed to play with the big dogs yet, but what’s the problem with the Air Force?”

  “You mean aside from the fact that they believe their shit doesn’t stink?”

  “It’s something deeper than that,” Becky told him.

  His reply was unexpected. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “Aside from friends in high places?” Becky answered, not at all happy about that, no matter how much it was helping her.

  He laughed. “That too. You’re here because you don’t fly -- you’re not a pilot. The Air Force pilots are convinced there is something mystical about flying, giving a person god-like perspective, god-like powers.

  “The only way a Navy pilot gets into the Space Service is by convincing Admiral Delgado or John Gilly that you can teach a monkey how to fly -- that there’s nothing god-like about it all. Yeah, flying is cool. It’s a blast, and it’s about the most fun I’ve had when I’m not with a willing woman. People who jump out of airplanes for fun tell me the same thing about falling ten or twelve thousand feet. Thanks, but no thanks! I like to be in control!

  “I’ll grant you, flying in the atmosphere with winds aloft, air resistance and all the other problems you have, takes care and concentration. Space is completely different. Up there, you need a tiny bit of fuel to get moving in some direction and a tiny bit of fuel to stop; your bird doesn’t suck it continuously. It’s simple to change direction, although it’s much harder to come to the direction you want, because you don’t have aerodynamic forces assisting you. Thus, you have to use a bit of fuel to stop a turn, just like you needed to start one.

  “Still, it’s brain dead simple. Someday flying in the atmosphere will be a two-hour addendum to a month-long course of instruction on piloting. Even before we reached space it was possible to land an aircraft without a person ever touching the controls. In the couple of years since adaptive systems have grown markedly better.

  “All of those things make a hash out of the Air Force way of looking at things. Worse, the number of casualties is telling. In the first year, about 99% of the Space Force casualties were in the Air Force. Of course, that was because 90% of the missions were going to the Air Force. Then the President put the boot into some Air Force backsides and Navy and Marine pilots were put on equal footing with their Air Force counterparts.

  “Imagine the institutional shock at the numbers now. The Air Force contributes
90% of the casualties and the other services 10%. Worse, now the ‘other services’ includes German, British, Canadian, Australian and Japanese pilots. The Air Force is now 40% of the active pilots, and contribute nine of ten casualties.

  “That’s what this class is about. Kinsella is determined to bring everyone’s numbers down -- particularly the Air Force’s. You didn’t hear this from me, but rumor has it that Admiral Delgado has told the Air Force Chief of Staff that the Air Force either becomes more selective in the pilots they send the Space Service -- or they aren’t going to be able to send any. Delgado says he can’t justify the body count to the President.”

  “Oh,” Becky said. “It doesn’t seem like that different of a mind set.”

  “Honestly, it doesn’t, does it? But the fact of the matter is that those pilots have some seriously bad habits that the rest of us don’t have. It’s getting them killed -- and our leaders don’t want to send men to useless deaths. Or women.”

  Two days later, Becky had the experience of her life. Finding a reactor leak was one thing -- that was simple, really. What happened two days later was as different as night and day.

  The first thing different about that day was the number of staff present in the classroom. The second big difference was the intensity of the instructors.

  They first man, a Navy lieutenant, was very blunt.

  “My fondest desire is to see you all back here after this exercise. I’ve come to learn that we don’t always get what we want or expect.

  “I’ve taught this class to a great many people. Nine of ten are still alive; I’m told that is a good thing. I think one of ten would say I didn’t do my job well enough.

  “Your schedule for today is going to be different than what you were expecting. Not, mind you, that you aren’t responsible for the materials that you were supposed to prepare for today.

  “Instead, for the next four hours I’m going to teach you everything you need to know about vacuum suits. Then I’ll spend another hour going over what you can expect to actually experience in space. Then a twenty-minute discussion of a simple set of activities that you will be responsible for. Then, we’ll go out to Hickam AFB and shuttle up to high Earth orbit.

  “There, each of you will perform the simple activities that have been described to you.” He smiled genially. “The activities are simple. Screwing down, not up, hammering nails, and, if we think you’re up to it, a few of you will be asked to move some 4-meter beams. For the purposes of this exercise, they’ll be made of Styrofoam.”

  Becky thought the instructor’s grin turned positively evil. “I mean no disparagement of the brave men and women of the Columbia shuttle crew, but a piece of Styrofoam a quarter of the size you’ll be moving killed the lot of them. You’ll want to be more careful.”

  The instructor did as promised. He was patient, and explained things simply and carefully. He was patient when they donned suits for the first time. He was even more patient the next two times he made them run through the procedure.

  The maneuver packs were simple to operate and Becky had no trouble mastering the controls.

  She’d visited the bathroom before they lifted to orbit. She was quite unprepared when Navy Commander Townsend showed up after she’d spent about ten minutes in the women’s officer’s head.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to be here, Commander.”

  “I’m Navy; the Air Force thinks we’re deficient in target recognition. Besides, I have a wife and three daughters. I know what they are doing after ten minutes in the bathroom -- they’re looking in the mirror, brushing their hair.”

  Becky grimaced. That’s what she’d been doing.

  “I want to tell you two things. One I’m pretty sure you know: the Air Force guys think of you as their nerdy younger sister who tags along, and they let her play with them, sure she hasn’t got a clue what everything is about. You and I both know the truth of that.

  “The second thing is that once you’re outside with that maneuver pack -- you’re flying. You’re a pilot. Yeah, you are only flying yourself -- but think how many stories you’ve read about people who wanted to be ultimately free, to have the least artificial help to fly. You’ll have what amounts to a two-headed lawn sprinkler, that you can control the water flow out either head. Experiment; figure out what you can do. Don’t push, don’t do much more than you’re told -- but realize that if you can make yourself go where you want out there, you’re as much a pilot at the rest of us.”

  He turned and vanished, leaving her speechless.

  A half hour later they lifted in a vehicle like a civilian aircraft, but one that had been designed for space as well as atmospheric flight.

  Becky expected that the flight wouldn’t be that long. First, they were in the less than comfortable space suits, and she had had to go through the not-very-comfortable-at-all catheterization. It was already after lunch, which they’d skipped.

  Instead as soon as they were out of the atmosphere the instructor said, “Rest, relax. Take a nap, if you can.”

  Becky was initially wary, but the acceleration remained constant -- about two gravities she thought. Sleep was, of course, impossible.

  She felt rather than heard the engine noise change a few hours later. It wasn’t much of a change, and the acceleration pressure didn’t change much.

  Then the engines slowed considerably, but not before a few twists and turns.

  “Okay,” the instructor said. “Anyone hazard a guess where we are?”

  The Navy commander grinned. “I know; a man like me would know.”

  The instructor nodded. “Indeed so, Commander. Anyone else willing to risk sinking and swimming?”

  It was something Becky had seen and read about while working for Anna Sanchez. The Space Service was building a “New Age Habitat” called Grissom Station. Gus Grissom had two dubious claims to fame. As an early astronaut his capsule had landed in the ocean, as it was designed to. As it was not designed to, it sank.

  A few years later, he was one of the first three astronauts killed in a training accident, when a fire in their test capsule killed them.

  He had been a Navy commander.

  Becky spoke. “I have a guess.”

  “A guess, Lieutenant? A guess?”

  “An educated guess. Given the distance we’ve traveled, the banter just now -- I think this is the L1 point between the Earth and the Moon where the Space Service is building an experimental habitat.”

  “Ah, educated! That means you and your partner will go first! Lady and gents, secure your faceplates! You are about to go EVA.”

  Becky did as told and then turned to her seatmate, one of the Air Force captains and checked his suit and he checked hers. He gave her a grin and a thumbs up. At least one of the pure Air Force teams was a little slow to get started; not having thought, Becky believed, that they had to check.

  The instructor was blunt. “Outside, we’ll be on Channel 6. Those of you inside will not monitor what goes on outside. We will know if you try to listen -- if you do, you automatically fail.

  “Captain Hightower, Lieutenant Cooper, switch to channel 6 and make your way to the lock. Egress the vehicle.” He smiled nastily. “You’ll not want to drift away... be careful out there. This is for all the marbles.”

  Becky wasn’t sure why he laughed -- not then. A few minutes later she did.

  The view of space was breath taking. There could be no blacker black than that of space. Stars were colored pinpoints, some of them hurt to look at with the unaided eye, until her eyes adjusted.

  The next instructor was brief. “Lieutenant Cooper, you will toss Captain Hightower a line. Captain Hightower, you will secure the line to one of the two rings provided on the belt around your waist and Lieutenant Cooper will draw you to her.”

  Captain Hightower was led about ten feet away, and when he was at the right distance the instructor handed Becky the line.

  She looked at Captain Hightower, who nodded he was ready, and to her etern
al shame, she tossed him the line. Simple. Brain-dead simple. How could she have screwed anything so simple up so badly? How many times had she been told, “Check everything!”

  She wasn’t thinking about that. She just made sure her underhanded lob was accurate. It was -- it hit the captain in the chest. He neatly fielded it, and secured the snap link to the belt on his suit.

  “Reel him in,” the instructor said. Becky didn’t think; how simple could a task be? She pulled gently, aware that she didn’t want to accelerate Captain Hightower too fast -- they could both be hurt if she did.

  She was stunned. The line parted, it simply pulled away from the connector. Captain Hightower had been floating about an centimeter above the hull of the shuttle. He simply lost it when he saw the line float away. He grabbed frantically at the line, missing by many feet. When he’d leaned forward to grab it, his feet had moved further from the hull. When he realized he was drifting away from the shuttle, he panicked.

  Becky didn’t. She still had the line, although sans hook. She reeled it back in as calmly as she could, made a couple of hanks, and tossed them back towards Captain Hightower.

  It was too bad that the captain, now about six feet from the shuttle’s hull, was not only steadily, but very slowly, moving away, but he was totally panicked.

  Becky was upset, but not panicked. “Captain Hightower, grab the line.” When he didn’t react, she repeated herself several times, her voice steadying into a dry monotone. Captain Hightower was providing enough drama for the both of them.

  On her fourth repetition, he saw the line and made a wild grab for it. This added interesting new vectors to his course, but meant he hadn’t come within feet of the line. It didn’t help Becky when he started screaming in fear at the top of his lungs, nor when his thrashing hands, connected with the line and sent it well off his trajectory.