Space Station Down, page 25
Kimberly felt her stomach turning over. The two warheads were maneuvering, heading for the station’s new position. She had mere seconds to live.
Suddenly the fourth and fifth warheads’ color blinked green. The approach radar showed that they were no longer accelerating. But even with the station’s new orbit, the ASATs had already made their final course correction and were still arcing toward the ISS’s new, future location.
Unless she could once more change the station’s orbit.
She glanced at the clock. Less than fifteen seconds to impact. She’d have to wait until absolutely the last moment, giving the station enough time to rise above the orbit that the three ballistic ASATs were aiming for, and then cut off the flow of fuel, so the station was no longer rising. With any luck the station wouldn’t reach the spot calculated by the more advanced, fourth and fifth warheads; the change might be too much, too sudden for them to counter.…
Kimberly’s chest was aching as she counted down the final seconds. It would be close, terrifyingly close, but she couldn’t afford to keep increasing the station’s altitude. She just hoped that the fourth and fifth warheads had been programmed to impact the station along its main axis, so they’d have a chance to miss.
At the seven-second mark she cut the fuel. The clock continued to count down as the station settled in its new, higher orbit—but not as high as it had been thrusting toward for the last twenty seconds. Would the warheads miss by only twenty meters?
The clock hit zero and Kimberly felt a shudder run through the ISS.
She heard no sounds of explosive decompression, no tearing of metal or whooshing of escaping air. The station was intact!
She slapped at the graphical interface and pulled up an outside view of the station. The aft array of solar panels had a gaping hole ripped through its middle, looking as though the ASATs had torn through the thin Kapton without exploding. Kimberly realized the warheads were the “hit-to-kill” type, relying on their massive kinetic energy of impact to destroy their targets.
She glanced at the crude feed from the ground, still showing the warheads as they shot past the ISS. Three of them appeared to have flown under the station, while the other two had barely sailed above the main body. Their control systems must have homed in on the broad radar-reflecting cross section of the solar panels.
“I did it!” she shouted. She’d threaded the needle and survived.
Kimberly’s whole body felt as if it were glowing from within. She wanted to turn summersaults in midair. She felt an indescribable elation of relief as she pulled in deep breaths of oxygen.
But the rational part of her mind quickly resumed control. Glancing at the fuel indicator, she saw that she was almost at bingo fuel. At least Scott would be showing up in the Starliner with the extra fuel supply. For the first time in days Kimberly felt that the station would survive. With her in it.
She called up the MCC link and was immediately switched to CAPCOM. Chief Astronaut Tarantino looked as if he’d aged five years in the past few minutes, but a huge grin split his face.
“You did it, Kimberly!” he praised. “Thank God!”
She replied, “I’m ready for Scott to bring in the Starliner. Then we’ll have plenty of fuel to boost back up to altitude, even if the fuel line is still crimped.” She glanced at the clock. “His ETA is still twenty minutes?”
“Yes … but you’ve got to hurry.”
“Hurry? Why?”
Tarantino’s look of exaltation clouded over. “Patricia’s learned that the State Department’s engaged China to use their own antisatellite system as a backup, in case our ASATs failed.”
Kimberly stared at the laptop screen. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“I wish I were. The Chinese are preparing to launch their Dong Neng-3 ASAT at you on your next pass. You’ve got ninety minutes. Maybe less.”
“What the hell is going on down there?” Kimberly yelled at the screen. “Our own military didn’t stand down and now China’s jumping into the fray? They don’t even have a dog in this fight: the ISS is a U.S. and Russian asset, not Chinese.”
“After China lost their first station when their Tiangong-1 went down, it’s not clear how long they intend to keep the new Tiangong on orbit. I guess that’s precisely why they’re so anxious to help us get rid of ours.”
“I need that kind of help like I need a bullet in my brain,” Kimberly growled. “I’ve still got to de-crimp that line so we’ll have enough fuel to boost to a higher altitude.”
She tried to rein in her emotions, still not fully recuperated from her session with the bends. Now this. At least she’d been pre-breathing pure oxygen now, she thought, but that’s been to help recover from the decompression symptoms, not to prepare for another EVA.
Tarantino’s expression turned stony. “Whatever their motive, State is desperately trying to wave the Chinese off. Defense is working on the issue as well, as well as the President’s National Security Advisor. We’re also trying to get to them through our NASA channels, but the Chinese National Space Administration is giving us the runaround. You’ve got to kick the station as high as you can after you unload Scott’s fuel, so we can convince our own government to step in at the highest level and stop this insanity. But you can’t assume they’ll stop the Chinese from launching.”
“Copy,” Kimberly said sullenly, afraid that if she tried to say more she’d explode. Without another word, she turned her back on the laptop’s screen and kicked off for the Joint Airlock. Scott might not arrive for another twenty minutes, but she couldn’t afford to waste any more time. As much as she still ached from the bends, she needed to prepare for another EVA, this time to finish the job by completely de-crimping the fuel line.
Before she did that, though, she’d have to transfer fuel from Scott’s capsule after he’d docked to the Node 3 IDA. Nothing was turning out to be simple on this flight.
At least Scott was a big boy; once he docked he could start boosting the station as soon as she de-crimped the line. So she had to suit up.
She kicked off for the Joint Airlock and glided to the SAFER unit secured to its wall. The nitrogen-propelled Simplified Aid for EVA Rescue backpack fit onto the outside of her EVA suit and provided a safer, albeit much smaller and less powerful way of moving through space than the old Manned Maneuvering Unit. With time running out, she’d need all the help she could get de-crimping the line.
The SAFER unit had twenty-four small thrusters, each capable of less than a foot-pound of force. They weren’t able to be throttled; instead the units were controlled by a hand switch. She’d have only thirteen seconds of nitrogen propulsion available, but at the rate she was squandering time, that might not give her enough leeway to de-crimp the line and re-boost the station.
It was tough enough just putting on the suit by herself, but installing the SAFER unit would make donning the suit an order of magnitude harder; usually a partner astronaut assisted with the task. So, reluctantly, Kimberly chose to forego the propulsion unit.
Her body still sullenly aching, Kimberly started to pull on the EVA suit’s lower and upper torso units. She glanced at the time.
They had less than a full orbit until the Chinese ASATs would appear, no more than ninety minutes. Boy, was Scott in for a surprise when he arrived.
INTERNATIONAL DOCKING ADAPTER, NODE 3
Outfitted in her EVA suit and tethered outside the station, Kimberly held on to a handhold on top of Node 3; with her other hand she held a long, 1½-inch-thick fuel transfer hose that floated behind her. Myriads of stars hung around. Despite the close proximity of the shredded solar panel and debris slowly tumbling from the ASATs’ near miss, Kimberly felt as if she were staring into a spangled infinity.
As she waited, Scott’s Boeing CST-100 Starliner crept into view, gradually growing from a barely visible point of light to a fully three-dimensional spacecraft. Slowly it approached the ISS through the debris.
Kimberly felt a sense of relief, almost gratitude, flood through her. Scott’s here, she thought. I’m not alone now. But she kept her emotions in check. With Scott’s capsule and his load of fuel she’d soon be able to transfer his fuel to boost the ISS far above the approaching ASAT ceiling and at last put this long nightmare behind her.
Within minutes the Starliner floated outside the Node 3 IDA port, barely a meter away from the station, but didn’t approach any closer.
Kimberly waited a few moments, but the CST-100 capsule still didn’t move relative to the station; stars crawled behind them as the ISS and capsule continued their orbit. That’s odd. The Starliner had routinely mated with the International Docking Adapter before, resupplying the station. The only difference this time was that a person was on board—and that shouldn’t have made any difference.…
Kimberly spoke into her hot mike. “Starliner, Station. You’re cleared for docking.”
The comm clicked and Scott’s clipped voice came over the link. “Station, Starliner. Ah, slight problem here.”
Frowning, Kimberly said, “Go ahead, Starliner.”
“The radars are FUBAR,” he said, using the astronauts’ expression for Fouled Up Beyond All Repair. “So are the backups. Might be affected by all this debris floating around.”
Straining to keep her voice as neutral as Scott’s, she answered, “Copy, Starliner. It looks like you’re lined up with the IDA. Can you proceed?” But she knew the answer before she’d even asked.…
“Negative, Station. Unsure of alignment.” Which meant that if he tried to dock manually, the capsule might end up damaging the ISS. “We’ll have to wait until mission control shoots us a work around.”
“Negative,” Kimberly said. “There’s already been too much excitement up here. And the bad news is there’s more to come. We may have some Chinese ASATs up here in about an hour.”
Scott responded with two quick clicks of his mike. “Then what do you suggest. The clock is ticking.”
She realized she didn’t know how long it had been since she’d even seen a mechanical clock that ticked. Scott’s attempt to remind her of the time squeeze merely caused her to focus on fixing the problem, and not getting into a useless argument with her ex-husband.
With barely fifty-five minutes until the Chinese ASATs arrived, she couldn’t afford to go down any blind alleys. She was running out of time and she still had to bring Scott’s capsule in, de-crimp the fuel line, pump the Starliner’s load of fuel into the station’s tanks, and then boost the ISS’s altitude.
She briefly thought about trying to connect the fuel transfer hose to Scott’s capsule as it floated freely outside the ISS, but that effort might impart momentum to the Starliner and make it float away—or worse, collide with the station; she couldn’t even use the robotic arm, as the CST-100 didn’t have a grapple fixture. So if the Starliner couldn’t dock, the capsule couldn’t provide the fuel to boost the station to a higher altitude.
So she had to bring it in. That left only one thing to do.
“Going to plan B,” Kimberly said. She secured the fuel transfer hose with a safety lanyard, and locked her tether’s auto-retract; it snaked out behind her as she used the handrails to move hand over hand toward the end of Node 3. She carefully pulled herself along across the module’s metal surface, making her way hand over hand, unwilling to risk losing her grip and flying out into space, despite the safety line. She didn’t want to waste time hauling herself back in with the tether, and she knew that she needed to conserve her strength for bringing the massive Starliner into its berthing port.
“Plan B?” Scott’s voice took on an edge. “Say again?”
“I’ll be pulling you in.”
“Wait, Station. What’re you going to do—”
His voice trailed off as Kimberly reached the edge of the module, overlooking the International Docking Adaptor port. There was nothing Scott could do to help, and she wasn’t about to let him try to talk her out of what she had to do. The logic was clear in her mind. The Starliner couldn’t dock on its own, and since his radar wasn’t functioning, she had to pull the capsule in, using her muscular strength to close the meter-wide gap. It was as simple as that. There was no other way.
If she’d had more time, she’d ask MCC to shoot up a work around. But with more warheads on the way, and the Chinese in the equation, she couldn’t afford to wait. She was at bingo fuel and she couldn’t move the station an inch higher in altitude unless she had access to the fuel on Scott’s Starliner.
It was going to be incredibly tough to pull the massive Boeing capsule to the IDA docking port, but she had to try. There was no other way. Although the Starliner was weightless, its mass endowed it with plenty of inertia, nearly ten tons that she’d have to move a little more than three feet. Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, Kimberly remembered tugging her father’s sailboat into its lakeside dock. It was essentially weightless on the water, but it took every ounce of her strength to budge it even a little. Her father had to get out of the boat and splash over to the dock to help her.
Opening her eyes, she looked down at Scott’s capsule, saw what she had to do: hang on to the station with one hand next to the IDA port, and grab the Starliner with her other hand, then pull the flat-nosed cargo vessel in. She’d heard about astronauts doing similar dockings during the Shuttle era, so she knew it wasn’t impossible. Just incredibly tough.
Scott’s voice sounded tired. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Can you bring the capsule closer? I’m going to manually guide you into the IDA.” To herself, she added, I hope.
A long moment passed. “Negative. This is as close as I can safely get.”
“Then just sit tight,” she said.
“Copy. Maintaining radio silence.” A hesitation, then, “Good luck.”
Thank goodness Scott volunteered to leave her alone, she thought. She didn’t need his encouragement right now, or anything else that would interrupt her concentration. She’d want his assistance soon enough, when she’d need him to help guide the vessel the last few centimeters into the international docking adapter.
She realized she was breathing too rapidly: All she could hear in her helmet was her own panting breath. She tried to force herself to calm down, slow her heart rate. She knew she was pressed for time, but she couldn’t afford to make a mistake in her haste to dock the capsule, transfer the fuel, and then de-crimp the fuel line. Any error at this point was nonrecoverable. And now there was Scott’s life on the line as well as her own.
She started working her way down to the IDA, her back to the capsule. The ripped Kevlar of the Bigelow inflatable was to her right; the module retained its voluminous shape despite the rip she’d slashed into its white siding, which was clearly visible with Farid’s unmoving body behind it.
Reaching the IDA, she turned. Waiting patiently a meter from the Node 3 International Docking Adapter floated Scott’s white Boeing CST-100 capsule. Resembling an overgrown Apollo module, its curved, forward aero-shell had been ejected, showing a flat nose that angled out to a cylinder serving as its base; rectangular viewports were set around the capsule’s diameter, midway between the nose and the base.
Puffing, she stopped momentarily to glance inside Scott’s capsule. She caught a glimpse of him squinting through the thick viewport windows, looking as if he was trying to spot her. She knew that without any lights on her she was nearly impossible to see, especially against the black background of space. Once she moved closer he’d probably be able to make her out, but Scott was basically helpless inside the supply vessel, unable to come outside and join her in an EVA, not even able to assist her by moving the capsule closer to the station.
Holding firmly to one of the station’s handrails with one hand, Kimberly engaged the tether’s auto-retract as she positioned herself next to the Node 3 IDA. She didn’t need her safety line getting in her way. The International Docking Adapter’s opening was a large target, but she’d still have to make sure that whatever momentum she imparted to Scott’s massive capsule would be perpendicular to the module; otherwise she might cause the CST-100 to drift into the side of the IDA and perhaps recoil backward—or even damage the station.
Still holding tight to the handrail, she slowly swung out and grasped a handle on the Starliner’s flat nose. The distance looked short, but once she started pulling, Kimberly wished it was only three microns instead of three feet.
She spoke into her hot mike. “Starliner, Station. I’m in position. On my count I’ll start pulling you in. Keep me apprised of your motion.”
“Copy, Station. On your count.”
She stared straight ahead and drew in a breath. “Ready … ready … engage!” With one hand on the station’s handrail and the other on the capsule, she grunted, closing her eyes as she tried to bring her hands together like a weight lifter. She pulled her arms inward in the heaviest dumbbell fly she’d tried in her life. Her triceps and biceps felt as though they would pop.
Sweat broke out on her brow and her whole body started to tremble. Grunting with exertion, she felt incredibly warm, roasting, despite the water-cooling filaments in her suit gurgling away like a babbling brook. Her chest and arms flared with red-hot pain.
Still she kept on pulling, tugging, while counting to twenty under her breath. She drew in deep lungfuls of oxygen, gasping. She couldn’t tell if she’d made any progress at all.
Scott’s voice came over the link, high with enthusiasm. “We have motion, Station! Estimated approach velocity is … not quite a centimeter per second. And that’s a guess.”
Kimberly gasped, “How’s … the alignment?”
“Can’t tell yet. But at this rate Starliner should contact the alignment guides on the IDA in about two minutes.”
“Copy.” Kimberly drew in a deep, painful breath. “I’ll maintain position until you’re berthed, in case I need to make any alignment changes.”
