Space Station Down, page 16
After connecting the solid-state disc to the laptop, the MCC experts first verified that the patch had arrived uncorrupted, and that no bits had somehow changed while being transmitted to the ISS. Then they walked Kimberly through the installation procedure, carefully going over each control to gain access to the vehicle 1533 system.
Once she’d completed the final step Kimberly floated in front of the PCS laptop. “Nothing’s happened,” she said. “How do we know it worked?”
“Can you rotate the station to re-boost?” the disembodied voice from MCC came over the link. “The patch was inserted covertly below the Linux level. We needed the extra time getting the software to you to ensure that the ISS system wouldn’t reboot while installing and tip the bad guys off. You should now have regained control and have user authority, locking them out.”
Kimberly ran her fingers over the graphical interface. “I’m in!” She tuned out the muted sound of applause that came over the voice link. She pulled up the control functions. Good. It appeared that the terrorists hadn’t put in any physical roadblocks, such as disconnecting any data channels.
Working rapidly, she slowly yawed the ISS, causing it to rotate 180 degrees. She kept the aft thrusters going, turning the station so slowly that she couldn’t detect the motion. The acceleration from the thrusters was only 100 micro-gees; the only way the terrorists would be able to detect the motion would be if they were to look out a hatch and see the Earth moving. Within ten minutes Kimberly rotated the ISS and now, instead of losing altitude, the station was boosting up to a higher orbit.
A thrill ran through her. But she wasn’t finished yet.
Farid had used most of the station’s reserve propellants in his deorbit burn. Kimberly needed to ensure that she’d not only have enough fuel available to raise the ISS to a stable altitude, but have enough of the hypergolic propellants left over for station-keeping: to periodically re-boost the ISS to counter atmospheric drag.
Her time horizon instantly expanded, and now that the station was rising like a Phoenix, she started planning how to keep it alive and kicking for the long haul. Still at her laptop, her fingers flew through various options as she methodically opened a pathway from the docked Soyuz vehicles to the propellant tanks, diverting their propellants for later use by the station.
But although she’d won this match, Kimberly knew she wasn’t out of the woods yet.
She started to switch over to her “intelligence” schematic of nontraditional sensors in the ISS to see if Farid and Bakhet had moved since she’d started the forward thrusters. On a whim, she opened a window on the laptop and accessed the web cameras in Central Post, normally used for private conversations with families back on Earth. She also tied in their microphones.
Her laptop screen showed the ISS command center. The feed was from one of the first sensors that Farid had cut after they’d killed Ivan Vasilev and Al.…
In the webcast’s small window she saw the two terrorists storming around the module, frenziedly attempting to access several of the Russian and Ops laptops all at once. They must have detected the rotation, Kimberly guessed, and her actions had obviously infuriated the Kazakhstanis. It appeared that they were trying every conceivable countermove they could think of to take back control of the station.
His face radiating fury, Farid moved from keyboard to keyboard while Bakhet slammed a hand against the metal frame. The movement sent him flying upward and he twirled slowly to the center of the module, spittle oozing from his mouth.
Kimberly drew back from the laptop and felt a satisfied sense of calm roll over her. For the first time since the two intruders had come aboard, she felt she might finally have a chance to survive. She’d always known she wouldn’t give up without a fight, but there was always the inescapable fear in the back of her mind that things wouldn’t work out. It wasn’t that she doubted herself, but rather it was the knowledge that she knew her limits, and there were always the unknown unknowns that might somehow rear up and defeat her.
That still might happen, she knew, but seeing the two frustrated terrorists flailing helplessly around the Russian module at least gave her a renewed sense of hope.
“Kimberly, CAPCOM,” the voice came over the link. “ADCO reports your altitude has stopped decreasing. What’s your situation?”
Without taking her eyes off the frustrated terrorists, Kimberly replied, “The patch worked. Please forward my thanks to everyone who had a hand in helping.”
“Copy. We’ll be keeping the Ka open as a backup, and in the meantime you should have access to all your down and cross links. And the Kazakhstanis have been locked out of all system control. Once you bring up the video we’ll patch you in to the Administrator. Patricia Simone has some good news for you about the Dragon and its backup.”
“Rog,” Kimberly replied.
Now that the ISS wasn’t losing altitude she thought she should set about reestablishing contact with her other links. But she hesitated and instead resumed watching the two terrorists flailing about the Command Center.
She briefly thought about taunting the bastards, rubbing it in that she’d won, but she realized that such an action would infuriate them even more and make them redouble their efforts to circumvent what she’d done. They certainly had shown what they’re capable of doing; if she hadn’t had immense resources on the ground backing her up, the situation might well have been reversed, and it might well be them watching her fight for her life.
At least everything was in the clear for the moment. CAPCOM had confirmed that she now controlled the ISS systems and the terrorists had been locked out, unable to change the situation. She didn’t have to worry about the terrorists reengaging the thrusters.
But she also knew that within a few days the Dragon would arrive and she’d still have the problem of dealing with Farid and Bakhet face-to-face. And although she controlled the ISS systems now, she was alarmingly low on propellants.
So she’d still have to confront the murderers if she was going to use the robotic arm to pull in the Dragon and then assure that one of the Node 2 berthing ports was available and working.
And once again that meant intelligent preparation of the battlefield.
She knew that if Scott were getting ready for battle the first thing he’d do would be to ensure that he had the upper hand. That implied making certain that the terrorists were in no shape to fight. Which in turn meant wearing them down physically.
She had two days. The easiest way of wearing them down was to take away their air and let the SOBs suffocate. But if she tried to vent the air in the ISS there was nowhere near enough reserve to fill the station back up again. The ISS’s 33,000 cubic feet of pressurized volume would require several resupply flights just to replenish its air; it would overwhelm the Oxygen Generation System’s meager five to twenty pounds produced in a day. The total mass of all the air in the station weighed more than a ton.
Scratch that, Kimberly thought. It would be tough to gain the upper hand by doing something to the ISS that wouldn’t affect her.
Maybe she could do something that would affect them psychologically, mess with their minds.
She called up the master function for the station’s lighting systems. She clicked the boxes next to all the modules except the JPM, then set the control state to OFF. Glancing at the webcast, she saw the view from Central Post had plunged into darkness. Except for the faint glows coming from the laptops in the modules, she saw nothing but blurs crossing the screen as Farid and Bakhet stumbled in the shadows.
They were screaming so loud that she turned the volume down on the audio. She could make out garbled curses, but could barely understand what they were shouting:
… a Middle Eastern whore is stopping us!
… an affront and a dishonor to our culture!
Smiling, Kimberly switched off the monitor and tried to think of what else she could do. She had only two more days to prepare the battlefield before the Dragon arrived.
TWO DAYS LATER
DAY FIVE
KENNEDY SPACE CENTER, CAPE CANAVERAL, FLORIDA
Scott Robinson lay on his back in the acceleration couch of the CST-100 Starliner’s crew module atop NASA’s Space Launch System booster rocket, his booted feet elevated, waiting for the launch.
Unlike his three previous Soyuz flights from the Baikonur launch center in Kazakhstan, where he’d had to wear the Russian-designed Sokol-KV2 spacesuit, he felt quite comfortable in the so-called “Boeing Blue” spacesuit, manufactured exclusively for the Starliner with its touch-screen-sensitive gloves, flexible material, and soft helmet.
Over the continuing chatter from the launch team he could hear the muted sounds of the rocket coming alive: creaking and groaning as the liquid oxygen and hydrogen propellants were pumped into their tanks, the background hum of electrical connections, the pops and sighs of metal expanding and contracting throughout the incredibly sophisticated assembly.
The CST-100 was like a vast, voluminous cavern compared to what Scott had experienced in the cramped Soyuz launches. But to be fair, he told himself, Boeing’s Starliner was the new kid on the block; the Soyuz had direct lineage from the 1960s Cold War days, the brainchild of the Soviet Union’s renowned Korolev Design Bureau.
The Starliner carried no other supplies except enough hypergolic propellants to fill the reserve tankage of the ISS.
Scott had complete faith in both the Dragon launch and his own, despite there being less than nine thousand feet separation between the two rockets. He knew that Mini Mott fretted over the risk that a catastrophe with the Dragon on Pad 39A could very likely engulf the Starliner and make it explode, too. But life was a risk, Scott thought. So he was sitting at the top of a massive Roman candle, 322 feet above the ground, ready to be hurled skyward by 5.5 million pounds of thrust from two solid rocket boosters and four RS-25 liquid fuel engines. And even that was nothing compared to what Kimberly was going through.
He flicked his eyes over the control board’s readouts while half listening to the ongoing countdown for the Falcon 9 booster and its Dragon capsule on the next pad. Those guys have a much tighter launch schedule, and even if they make their ten-second window, they’ll still have nearly four hours of flight time before reaching the ISS and trying to carry out a rescue.
The last he’d heard, while he was suiting up and getting ready to head for the launch pad, was that Kimberly had agreed to stay in the JPM and not get involved in a face-to-face confrontation with the two terrorists.
Right.
He didn’t believe that for a nanosecond.
He just hoped that she hadn’t heard about the massive protests that had broken out when the public learned that the ISS had started coming down. The Heavens-above.com amateur satellite-tracking website had released the government’s latest Spacetrack database just before mysteriously going off-line. Their analysis showed clearly that the space station was descending. Now, without access to more current data, the public didn’t have any confirmation other than NASA’s assurance that the ISS’s orbital elements showed that the station was not descending.
Which hardly anybody believed. Traffic jams started to clog the arteries of New York, Los Angeles, and many cities in between. People were marching in the streets, demanding to know what the government was hiding. Vacations for local police throughout the country were canceled in anticipation of the growing protests, and eleven state governments had called up the National Guard as a precaution.
Scott knew that behind the government’s silence a fierce power struggle between different factions was raging. The military wanted to keep the ISS’s orbital data secret and out of the public’s knowledge, since it would probably be used as targeting information for the Aegis antisatellite weapons. NASA wanted complete transparency, to quell the public’s fears. But the National Security Council and the President had the upper hand and refused to allow the release of more data, because if the ISS started descending again, knowledge of the station’s rate of fall would generate only more panic.
Scott pushed the whole brouhaha out of his mind. He knew that university telescopes and amateur laser enthusiasts were now focusing their instruments on the station and producing their own altitude measurements—and releasing their dubious results to the news media—while the government tried to stuff the proverbial information genie back into its bottle.
Bullshit, he thought. The only thing that counts is getting to the ISS and stopping those two madmen before they destroy the station and kill maybe a couple million people on the ground.
And Kimberly.
He felt a sudden rumble and the CST capsule swayed slightly. They’ve launched the Dragon! he realized. Because of his distance from Pad 39A it took a little over eight seconds for the sound to reach his own launch pad.
The Falcon 9 pad was enveloped in smoke, and a fiery trail of rocket exhaust climbed into the sky. Scott’s capsule quivered with the thunderous vibration of the Falcon’s launch. The rocket appeared to be well on its way.
Scott renewed his focus on the words coming over his headset. His own countdown was continuing on schedule. I’m next up, he knew, as the low sound of “Standing on Higher Ground” came over his headphones; the old Alan Parsons Project song was Kimberly’s favorite, and he’d chosen it for her when mission control had asked him what he’d like to hear in the minutes before launch.
Unconsciously he licked his lips. Okay, he thought, kick the tires and light the fire, igniting the rockets. Half a day from now I’ll join Kimberly and the four-man rescue team with a full load of propellants.
But if the rescue mission wasn’t successful, even if he was present the ISS would deorbit and crash.
With Kimberly aboard.
Scott suddenly realized that he might very well be the last American ever to rocket into space.
JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, BUILDING 2: PUBLIC AFFAIRS FACILITY, HOUSTON, TEXAS
The NASA auditorium was full of reporters and media pundits, anticipating an update on the International Space Station. Standing in the wings just out of sight from the unruly crowd, Sophia Flores smoothed her skirt before entering the room. But her focus was not on waiting press—it was riveted on a TV screen above the entrance to the auditorium that showed live coverage of the protests in New York City.
It looked like the entire population had taken to the streets. People chanted and held signs, accusing NASA of covering up the danger from the space station. One sign linked the ISS to the aliens held in Area 51.
The picture switched to an airborne view high above the city. The camera panned the distance, showing backups on the interstates, parkways, and side streets leading out of the city.
She’d seen enough.
Sophia drew in a deep breath and briskly walked into the main auditorium as if going into battle. She knew her briefing would be carried live over all the networks, the Internet, and foreign channels, so every detail was important: her poise, her explanations, and her diction were needed to quell the rising panic.
The briefing room overflowed with reporters. It was standing room only as people lined the wall. She was nearly overwhelmed by the bright lights and sudden rise in chaotic noise. People clamored for her attention.
Stepping behind a podium, she drew in a breath and smelled the pungent smell of too many bodies packed into an overheated room. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. I’m Sophia Flores—”
“Ms. Flores! Is anyone still alive on the station?”
“How many astronauts are on the Falcon 9? Are there any cosmonauts on board?”
“Why are you launching the CST-100?”
Sophia held up a hand to quiet the crowd. She remained stoic, her face a mask. She wasn’t baited by the questions, no matter how outlandish. Moments passed and Sophia remained stone-faced.
Slowly the volume decreased as the crowd realized that she would not speak until she was given control of the floor. When the noise abated to hoarse whispers Sophia put down her hand and spoke into the microphone.
“I have a short, prepared statement detailing the latest events surrounding the International Space Station—”
“Cut to the chase and just tell us when will it hit New York!”
A reporter standing next to the man gave him an elbow. “Quiet!”
Sophia waited a moment before continuing. “As I was saying, after my statement I will take questions from the audience.” She glanced down at her notes. “NASA has convened a FIT—a Failure Investigation Team—comprised of experts throughout government and industry. They’re going over all details of the incident, and you’ll be hearing from them at a later date.
“However, they wanted me to relay that the height of the Earth’s atmosphere fluctuates by up to thirty kilometers a day, purely due to natural causes such as solar activity and upper atmospheric air currents. Because of this, the air friction slowing the ISS and causing it to drop in altitude also fluctuates, sometimes by as much as a factor of a hundred. This affects both the speed of the station as well as its altitude. Therefore, no one knows with any certainty the trajectory of the ISS and if—or even where—it might enter the lower atmosphere.
“As such, there is an extremely low probability that the ISS will impact the Earth and hit NYC, much less the eastern seaboard—or even the U.S. If the ISS lands anywhere, it will probably splash down harmlessly in the ocean, as water covers seventy-one percent of the earth’s surface. So it is very likely that no one will get hurt.” She looked up. “Are there any questions?”
“Ms. Flores! What about the terrorists steering the station down and hitting New York, like astronauts used to fly the Space Shuttle—”
Sophia tried not to roll her eyes as she patiently began to explain the difference between the old Space Shuttle and the unpowered mass of the ISS.…
JAPANESE MODULE (JPM)
“Kimberly, CAPCOM,” came the disembodied voice over the speaker. It sounded as if Tarantino had returned to the CAPCOM chair. Which made sense to Kimberly: he was NASA’s Chief Astronaut. It had been two long days since he’d last served in that position—and all the while she’d been holed up in the JPM as the tension mounted.
