Perigee (12 page)

Denver

Penny idly twisted a strand of hair as she hunched over a waist-high chart table with Grant, occasionally tapping at a calculator and looking up at the big screen to check
Austral Clipper’s
orbit against her own rough predictions. Hammond resisted the urge to linger behind and gave them room to work.

They were working out the plane’s orbital elements—how high, how low, and how long they’d be up there, among other things. Hammond had already peppered them with questions:
they’re going to decay back into the atmosphere at some point…when and where? And how long can we make their consumables last, assuming they can even fly a controlled re-entry?

Which was her biggest fear: keep them from burning up only to see everyone die of dehydration or carbon-dioxide poisoning. They had some smart people here, but this required a whole different level of expertise. And the phones would be ringing off the hook soon.
Art’s got to think about public relations, too. We can’t let this get any worse than it already is
.

She glanced back at the system manager’s station, where Grant had brought in one of his senior people to fill in. Grant apparently had the same thought and looked up at the same time to catch her attention.

“Liz, do me a favor?” he asked. “Alert the media relations team and make sure they understand exactly what’s going on. Somebody has to call the families ASAP before they find this out from the local news.”

She was almost embarrassed. “I already did. You guys looked a little busy.”

“Still are,” Penny said, cracking a smile at the understatement. “No sweat, you did the right thing. You mind holding off the phone calls for a while?”

“No problem. But they’re already freaking out over what to tell the press. Any suggestions?”

Penny drew her lips tight and rolled the kinks out of her neck.
That’d mean I have some ideas
. “Your show, Art,” she said to Hammond.

“I’ll handle that,” he answered without hesitation. Someone would no doubt have to jump in front of the cameras soon. “I’ll let Taggart know, if the PR gang didn’t get to him first. Just tell them we’re working on contingency plans. We have
not
given up,” he said, with a firm look at Penny. “Right?”

She nodded. “Number one problem is duration. Consumables…power, water, air. We solve that first. Then we figure out how to get them home.”

22

Austral Clipper

Colin Magrath pushed away from his seat and tumbled toward the ceiling. He managed to steady himself against a handrail just in time to keep from striking his head against the paneling, and suddenly realized that was most certainly why the ceiling and sidewalls were so well-padded.

His legs flailed behind as he clumsily pulled himself along toward the back of the cabin, where that flight attendant and pilot were still talking. Her expression had given way from shock to what he took as grim resolve, which only cemented his idea that something was indeed very wrong. He watched as the pilot whispered in her ear, determined to find out precisely what secrets they might be keeping from him.

“Are you the captain?”

Ryan pirouetted in midair to face him. “No sir. I’m the first officer, Ryan Hunter.”

He’d have preferred to buttonhole the man in charge, but at this point any pilot would do. “You understand that I’m negotiating a lease for one of these, correct?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I don’t make a purchase like that without performing some due diligence myself,” he said, jerking a thumb towards the cockpit. “Can’t just leave everything up to Wade. I’ve become as familiar with this plane as any layman could. Do we understand each other?”

Marcy shot him a nervous glance, and Ryan waved her down. “I think we get it, Mr. Magrath.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that we’re going awfully bloody fast. Care to explain?”

Ryan pursed his lips, apparently considering his options. There was really only one.

“Then you have some idea that we’re not in a normal condition,” he said, and explained what had just transpired. “Our flight controllers and engineers are working out contingency plans right now. For the time being, we’re taking a full inventory of supplies. That includes air, food and water.”

Magrath felt his cheeks flush and fought to remain calm. “We’re in orbit then,” he fumed. Showing displeasure was the easiest way to mask fear, he’d learned long ago. “And between the two of you, no one could figure out a way to keep that from happening?”

That was the end of any quiet. His two traveling companions, a man and woman, scrambled to unbuckle and began chaotically swimming in their direction.

“Orbit…what does that mean?” the woman asked. “We’re going around the Moon or something? Can you even do that?”

“No, of course not...” Ryan tried to explain before she cut him off.

“Is the air going to run out? Is that it?”

“Not before we freeze to death,” the man said.

As Ryan tried to calm them down, Magrath saw the flight attendant reach behind him to push what appeared to be an alarm. There was no sound, but it must have been some kind of panic button. Within seconds, Tom came out of the cockpit, literally flying to meet them in back. He steadied himself between the rows of seats, notably placing his body between the group and the cockpit. Wade followed right behind, clumsily trying to maneuver down the overhead hand rails.

It wasn’t long before they realized there was no one actually flying the plane. “I need everyone to settle down,” Tom said firmly, taking advantage of their surprise.

“Who’s in control, then?” the woman asked. “Wade, what’s going on?”

“It’s best to let him explain that, Whitney. I’m just along for the ride like everybody else.”

“I won’t try to fool you,” Tom said. “We had some malfunctions during boost. The engines wouldn’t shut down until we exhausted our fuel. And we’re light enough that the extra fuel we carried was sufficient to put us into orbit.”

She began shaking. “No no no no…” she stammered as Wade reached out to her. “Stay calm,” he said. “Deep breaths, okay?”

She nodded silently, biting her lip.

“Wade’s right,” Tom said. “We should have several days worth of air and water and a lot of food stored back here.”

“Should have?” Magrath glowered. “And will that be enough?” he spat. “What are our options,
captain?
” He uttered the title with unambiguous cynicism.

Tom gestured for Magrath to follow him back towards the flight deck, leaving Ryan to speak with the other passengers. Before he could begin to pepper him with questions, Tom held a hand up for silence. It didn’t appear he would be easily intimidated.

“We need to understand a few things, Mr. Magrath. First is that we’re all in this together. We’re breathing the same air and drinking the same water. That’s going to become more important as each day passes.”

“Each day?” he said. “How long should we expect to be up here?”

“Our control staff in Denver is working on that. Right now, our job is to take a full inventory of supplies and life support. And we’re checking every system to figure out exactly how much power we have available. We’ll be shutting down more lights and some other things very soon to conserve it.”

“I don’t think so,” Magrath protested. “You’d leave us here to freeze in the dark?”

“That’s precisely what we’re trying to avoid.”

“Let’s get something straight,” he said. “I chartered this plane and therefore have a say in the matter. I’ll not have it turned into some dank meat locker.”

Tom drew a breath. “You’re correct. You have exclusive use of this plane for the purpose intended. I’d say we’re somewhat beyond that now, so here’s your role,” he explained while pointing to the other passengers. “You’re their boss, and they’re here because
you
brought them along. I need you to keep being their boss, so don’t just go around scaring the crap out of them. There’s enough to worry about right now without you trying to intimidate people.” He paused. “And as long as we’re up here,
I’m
in charge of this plane. Are we clear?”

“As crystal,” Magrath grumbled. He considered protesting, but the captain’s glare made it clear that if it came to it, he wouldn’t hesitate to restrain him for however long they were up here.

23

Denver

“Good God, Arthur. You say they’re
stranded
up there?”

“I didn’t say that, Leo,” Hammond replied calmly. “I said they’re in orbit.”

“Your optimism is commendable, but I fail to see the difference,” Leo Taggart said with mild surprise as he fiddled with his cufflinks. Distant city lights glowed faintly beyond his office window. Unlike Hammond, his tie was still meticulously knotted despite the late hour. “But you know the physics better than I.”

“The controllers are still crunching numbers. But without a second burn it’s going to decay and come down sooner, not later.”

“Yes, I should think so…in pieces,” Taggart answered sharply. “But you’re the rocket scientist, Arthur. You’re the best one to explain this to the public. You kept me here because I’m a good bean counter, remember?”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Hammond said. “But I am going to need you to manage affairs and keep the press at bay while I deal with the Feds. FAA and NTSB are already nipping at our heels.” Their predicament was already getting far too much interest from government regulators, and he’d already had one testy exchange with a safety inspector.
This isn’t an accident yet
, he’d nearly shouted.
The damned bird is still up there
.

“Then help me to understand before I throw myself upon their tender mercies. What do you mean by ‘eccentric’?”

“That means it’s elliptical, something other than circular. It ends up being a math problem, with the answer always falling between one and zero. They’re pretty close to one.”

“And that’s bad?”

“Depends,” Hammond said. “Normally, you’d do a second burn at the desired apogee to circularize the orbit.”

“
Normal
doesn’t sound like the operative word here. This is going to be incredibly bad for us, Arthur.”

His mind being with the crew and passengers, Hammond didn’t pick up on Taggart’s less altruistic concerns. “There’s a way that could help them. Flying an ellipse means that each time they reach perigee, they’re exposed to more of the atmosphere. I’m talking really thin, individual molecules. But over time, it will eventually slow them down enough to re-enter.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Isn’t re-entry at orbital speed a lot different from what we normally do?”

“Yes, but we’re not assuming the worst yet. The ship’s mostly empty and we built it with very robust TPS for all that zooming around,” he said, referring to the Thermal Protection System which coated the plane’s most vulnerable surfaces. “Remember, to certify it for carrying passengers it had to be tested to 150 percent of design load.”

Taggart seemed satisfied enough to change the subject. “Are you handling all this all right?” he said, and offered a drink. “You know we’ll have to put our best faces on for the media.”

Hammond stretched and groaned. “Yeah, I’m good. You know how much I look forward to dealing with the press.”

“They’ll be all over us, I’m afraid.”

“Can’t say that I blame them. But I still don’t have to enjoy it. No matter how precise you try to be,” he said, “they still find a way to screw it all up.”

“Don’t worry, Arthur. I’ll take care of them.”

“How do you mean ‘take care’ of them?” he asked with mock suspicion. “Sicilian Mafia style?”

“No, no,” Taggart laughed. “You know I meant the briefings. The spin, all that stuff you hate. Let me run interference while you deal with the Feds and your whiz kids down in flight control.”

Hammond realized he was probably right. “I don’t know how you do it, Leo. Those people drive me nuts.”

Taggart smiled. “It’s actually not that hard once you understand the personalities,” he said. “They tend to be passionate. And passionate men are easily manipulated—you only need to learn how to play to their desires.”

“Point taken,” Hammond said, though the idea left him cold. His engineer’s mind naturally reduced problems to those things which were practical, measurable. “But if this gets as ugly as I expect, we’ll have to discuss that Mafia thing too.”

…

Tucked away in a corner of the control center was a small meeting space, a frosted-glass entry door the only view to the outside world. The controllers called it the War Room.

The company’s emergency command post had been set up to deal with crises like plane crashes or hijackings. In many ways, it was a miniature control center—one side of the room was dominated by a projection screen, before it sat a cluster of workstations identical to those out on the main floor so that complete control of any flight could be transferred here.