“Woah!” exclaimed the Ascent Flight Director. “Flight, we’re getting a large precession!”
“What?” Mitch said as alerts beeped and lights flashed across all the consoles.
“Force on Iris is at 7 G’s,” someone said.
“Intermittent signal loss,” came another voice.
“Ascent, What’s happening here?” Mitch demanded.
“All hell broke loose. It’s spinning on the long axis with a 17 degree precession.”
“How bad?”
“At least 5 rps, and falling off course.”
“Can you get it to orbit?”
“I can’t talk to it at all; signal failures left and right.”
“Comm!” Mitch shot to the Communications Director.
“Workin’ on it, Flight,” came the response. “There’s a problem with the onboard system.”
“Getting some major G’s inside, Flight.”
“Ground telemetry shows it 200 meters low of target path.”
“We’ve lost readings on the probe, Flight.”
Mitch zeroed in on that last comment. “Entirely lost the probe?” Mitch asked.
“Affirm, Flight. Intermittent signal from the ship, but no probe.”
“Shit,” Mitch said. “It shook loose in the bay.”
“It’s dradeling, Flight.”
“Can it limp to orbit?” Mitch said. “Even super-low EO? We might be able to—”
“Loss of signal, Flight.”
“LOS here, too.”
“Same here.”
Other than the alarms, the room fell silent.
After a moment, Mitch said “Reestablish?”
“No luck,” said Comm.
“Ground?” Mitch asked.
“GC,” same the reply, “Vehicle had already left visual range.”
“SatCon?” Mitch asked.
“No satellite acquisition of signal.”
Mitch looked forward to the main screen. It was black now, with large white letters reading “LOS”.
“Flight,” came a voice over the radio, “US Destroyer Stockton reports debris falling from the sky. Source matches last known location of Iris.”
Mitch put his head in his hands. “Roger,” he said.
Then he uttered the words every Flight Director hopes never to say: “GC, Flight. Lock the doors.”
It was the signal to start post-failure procedures.
From the VIP observation room, Teddy watched the despondent Mission Control Center. He took a deep breath, then let it out. He looked forlornly at the blue folder, which contained the cheerful speech praising a perfect launch. Placing it in his briefcase, he then extracted the red folder with the
Venkat sat in his darkened office. He never
His mobile rang. His wife again. No doubt worried about him. He let it go to voice mail. He just couldn’t face her. Or anyone.
A brief chime came from his computer. Glancing over, he saw an email from JPL. A relayed message from Pathfinder:
[16:03] WATNEY: How’d the launch go?
Martinez:
Dr. Shields says I need to write personal messages to each of the crew. She says it’ll keep me tethered to humanity. I think it’s bullshit. But hey, it’s an order.
With you, I can be blunt:
If I die, I need you to check on my parents. They’ll want to hear about our time on Mars first-hand. I’ll need you to do that.
It won’t be easy talking to a couple about their dead son. It’s a lot to ask; that’s why I’m asking you. I’d tell you you’re my best friend and stuff, but it would be gay.
I’m not giving up. Just planning for every outcome. It’s what I do.
Guo Ming, Director of the China National Space Administration, examined the expansive paperwork at his desk. In the old days, when China wanted to launch a rocket, they just launched it. Now, they were compelled by international agreements to warn other nations first.
It was a requirement, Guo Ming noted to himself, that did not apply to the United States. To be fair, the Americans publicly announced their launch schedules well in advance, so it amounted to the same.
He walked a fine line filling out the form: Making the launch date and flight path clear, while doing everything possible to “conceal state secrets.”
He snorted at the last requirement. “Ridiculous,” he mumbled. The
Yet, the State Council insisted all launches be shrouded in secrecy. Even launches with nothing to hide. This way, other nations could not infer from lack of openness which launches contained classified payloads.
A knock at the door interrupted his paperwork.
