The Founder Effect, page 32
“Beaver Two, I copy, Victoria. Awaiting orders.”
“Beaver Six here, Victoria, please stop asking us stupid questions. I’m in.”
“Beaver Three, my schedule is free for this afternoon. Let’s do it.”
“Beaver Lead here. Beaver Flight is ready and accounted for. Victoria, please send us the adjusted burn plans.”
“We’ll have the new plans for the de-orbit burn in a few minutes. We are sending the information on new attachment points now so that you can reposition in preparation for the burn.”
Glancing over the data from Victoria, French confirmed that the basics of his plan had not been changed and began snapping out orders. “Beavers Three and Six, you’re going to enter the San Salvador and get the fuel and oxidizer lines rerouted. Once you’re done with that, I’ll need you for another task. When you are out of your tugs and clear I will push them free of the lander. Beavers One and Two, you take position at the rear of the lander for the repositioning burn. Four and Five will take position at the head of the lander in preparation for the de-orbit burn.”
A chorus of assents and confirmations answered French’s orders.
“Victoria, once we are underway, I plan on ejecting my fuel tanks and wedging my pilot module inside of the breach in San Salvador’s side. This should put me inside safe from the air stream once we hit atmosphere. That will let me take care of the excess fuel.”
“Uh, we’re not following you on that, Beaver Lead, can you unpack it a bit?”
“Without the de-orbit burn, San Salvador’s going to have too much fuel on board. If we have a rough landing this amount of fuel is beyond what was designed to be left in the tanks and we risk a rupture of the tanks. Another explosion would be a bad thing.”
“We copy you so far, Beaver Lead.”
“We can’t vent it in orbit as it might mix with the oxidizer leak and we don’t want to vent in atmo as it will combust and cause its own problems there. Once touchdown is about to occur, we eject the fuel tank, which will throw the fuel tank, along with the excess fuel, clear. There should be enough in the pumps and fuel lines to finish the landing. San Salvador said their remote ejection capabilities are out, but I can get to the manual fuel tank ejection controls.”
“San Salvador here,” the lander interjected. “You know that the manual fuel tank ejection controls are between the fuel tank and the outer hull it will be launched through, right?”
“That’s correct, San Salvador. I’ll just do a reverse Slim Pickens.”
“Maybe we can get the remote ejection controls working again, over,” the San Salvador suggested.
“And penguins might fly. We need to plan for the situation we have now,” French radioed, cutting off that line of objection. Forcing a change in topic, French called, “Beaver Flight, check in with status.”
“Beaver One, in position.”
“Beaver Two, good to go.”
“Beaver Three here. I am out of my tug and making entry into San Salvador.”
“Beaver Four, just adjusting attachment. Will be ready in twenty seconds.”
“Beaver Five, secure and ready for burn.”
“This is Beaver Six. I am clear of my tug and am making my way across the lander hull to the nearest airlock.”
“Beaver Lead here, copy Three and Six. I am moving to cast off your tugs.”
“This is Victoria. We have the updated burn plans and are transmitting them now. Repositioning burn begins in ninety-seven, that is nine seven seconds from mark.” After a short pause, the radio resumed, “Mark.”
“Memorial Square reports that the engines are warmed up and that all checks are green,” a technician called out.
“Sounds good. Alright, everyone, so far everything is going well. Let’s keep it up,” the supervisor said to the control room.
“Shutdown repositioning burn in three, two, one, mark,” the Victoria transmitted.
“Beaver One confirming shutdown.”
“Beaver Two is at zero thrust.”
“Time to reposition for the next burn. Be quick, but careful,” French sent as he continued to remove debris from the explosion site to make room for his tug’s pilot module.
“Copy,” Beaver One and Two answered.
“San Salvador, check fuel line status,” Beaver Three radioed. “You should now have fuel rerouted to engine two.”
“Checking now, Beaver Three,” the San Salvador answered. “That’s affirmative, we now have fuel feeding to engine two. Thank you.”
“Not a problem, San Salvador. Beaver Six is dealing with the last of the oxidizer valves and I am moving to assist Beaver Lead. Beaver Three, clear.”
“Beaver One here. I am at my new attachment point and prepared for de-orbit burn.”
“Thirty-five seconds, three five seconds until de-orbit burn needs to begin,” the Victoria sent.
“Beaver Two copies. I was having a little trouble attaching but should be good to go before that.”
As the time ticked down, French finally transmitted, “Beaver Lead to Beaver Two, ten seconds until burn time. Are you good to go?”
“Securing now, hold one,” Beaver Two responded then paused. “Beaver Two is attached and good to go for burn.”
With both tension and relief evident in her voice, Victoria came on the air, “De-orbit burn start in four, three, two, one, mark.”
“I’m a go on burn,” Beaver One answered.
“Engines on and running smooth,” Beaver Two responded.
“Burn is good,” Beaver Four answered.
“On profile and in the green,” Beaver Five said.
“San Salvador, this is Beaver Six. Please check your oxidizer lines to engine two.”
“Just confirmed and everything is looking good, Beaver Six,” San Salvador answered. “Engine two is back online and we are good to go for the landing burn. Thank you.”
“Glad to be of service, San Salvador. Now moving to assist Beaver Three and Beaver Lead.”
“I’ve always wondered what the Beaver Flight members said to each other on their private frequency,” the assistant supervisor said.
“We’ll never know because none of the tug black boxes were recovered. Based on their broadcasts that were recorded on the San Salvador’s and Victoria’s black boxes, I suspect they were highly professional, though,” the supervisor responded.
“. . . DODGAMNEDPIECEOFCARP!!!” French yelled as his mostly coherent, nearly profane tirade finished as he slammed the sledgehammer into the hull plate, nearly dislodging himself with recoil from the position he had wedged himself into to use the hammer.
French, Beaver Three, and Beaver Six had been struggling to clear enough debris from the explosion to fit French’s pilot module from his tug into the hole, then to adjust the remaining hull plates so that when entering atmosphere French’s module wouldn’t be torn apart by atmospheric friction. It was going to be a hot ride down as heated air from their passage filled the space around the module. French didn’t need a piece of hull plating catching and directing additional airflow to where his module was now wedged in.
“I think that did it, boss,” Beaver Six radioed, checking the new position of the hull piece.
“We need to shag ass, or we are all going to fry in here,” Beaver Three chimed in.
“She’s right. Time to get loaded in,” Beaver Six agreed.
“If some idiot hadn’t screwed up his job, we wouldn’t be having to save their asses,” French griped as he dropped the sledgehammer and started climbing into his pilot module.
“Well, we didn’t have to volunteer for this,” Beaver Five said.
“And it was your plan, boss,” Beaver Six said, moving over so he could check the seals on French’s module once it was closed.
“Ha! No way I am letting those jackasses make us look bad by letting a lander go splat on our watch,” French retorted.
“That’s what we love about you, boss: your sunny disposition and focus on the important things in life,” Beaver Six quipped. More seriously, he continued, “Exterior seals look good. I think you are good to go.”
“Copy. Everything looks good in here as well,” French answered. “Time to check in with everyone else.”
Toggling over to the general frequency from the private Beaver Flight frequency, French radioed, “San Salvador, this is Beaver Lead. I am in place and ready for the ride down.”
“We hear you, Beaver Lead. You’re just in time. We are starting to see the first hints of heating due to atmospheric friction. We thought we had a few more minutes before we’d see that.”
“Copy, San Salvador,” French answered, keeping the annoyance out of his voice that something else was going wrong.
“Break. Beavers One, Two, Four, and Five, how are you doing with the heating? Are you going to be able to finish the burn safely? We have”—French paused to check his data feeds—“thirty-seven seconds left.”
“Beaver Four here. Main concern is expansion of fuel and oxidizer due to heating, but with how much fuel we’ve burned, the pressure increase in the tanks should stay well below max levels. I think we are going to cook before we risk blowing up.”
“Understood, Beaver Four. Continue with plan.”
Switching back to the private Beaver Flight channel, French started transmitting again, “Alright, everyone. We’ve done all we can up to this point. Once the burn is done everyone make sure to get clear of the lander. We don’t want a piece of tug to smack into them and break something. We’ll let everyone else handle the screwups, right?
“Three, Six, get out of here before we get into the atmosphere and you can’t get out. You don’t want to go out via being cooked,” French said, looking at the two people standing outside of his pilot module.
“We’re going, boss,” Beaver Six said, nodding gravely to French, then gesturing for Beaver Three to follow him. Beaver Three wordlessly just raised a hand in goodbye, then followed Beaver Six to the exterior of the lander.
“Victoria here, shutdown de-orbit burn in three, two, one, mark,” the colony ship sent.
“Beaver One is shut down and preparing to detach.”
“Beaver Two is the same.”
“Beaver Four, here. Engines off and releasing.”
“Beaver Five, I am cold and letting go.”
“San Salvador here,” the lander pilot called, his voice nearly breaking. “Thank you, everyone. Thank you.”
“Beaver Six, here. I am with Beaver Three on the hull by the explosion site. We are starting to get heating from friction here. We’ve gotten everything taken care of and are departing the lander. Good luck, San Salvador. Beaver Six signing off this net, out.”
“Beaver Three here. I am signing off this net as well.”
Closing his eyes for a second, French reopened them, checked his data feeds and saw the bio signals for Beaver Three and Six flash wildly yellow, then orange, and finally turn a steady red.
“Beavers One, Two, Four, and Five, status on getting clear from the San Salvador,” French queried the remaining members of his flight on the general channel.
“Beaver Four here. I have accelerated clear of the lander and am opening the distance. We’ve dropped low enough that heating from the atmosphere is still increasing. I’m outta here.”
“This is Beaver Two. I’m clear of the lander, nearly bingo on fuel, and it’s starting to get hot. Safe travels, San Salvador. I am signing off the net. Beaver Two, out.”
“Beaver One. I’m clear and am signing off the net.”
“Clear of the San Salvador and heating up as well. This is Beaver Five signing off. Good luck, everyone.”
“That leaves just me, I guess. This is Beaver Four. I am signing off as well. God bless.”
Shortly after Beaver Four signed off, just as they had for Beavers Three and Six, the bio signals for Beavers One, Two, Four, and Five started to flash wildly yellow, then orange, and finally a steady red.
Forcing his voice to remain calm, French closed his eyes and toggled his radio. “This is Beaver Lead. Beavers One through Six are clear of the lander. I am in place for the descent.”
After a long pause there was finally a response. “Beaver Lead, San Salvador. We confirm your transmission.”
“Victoria here. About one minute to estimated radio loss during descent.”
“Victoria, San Salvador. We’ll see you on the other side.”
French laid his head back against his headrest and waited. He just had to make it through the heat and fire of the descent, then he’d have his task to do that would let him rejoin his flight.
“Alright, everyone, we’re in the break during reentry. Good job so far,” the supervisor said to the control room.
The reflected glow from the plasma streaming past the lander seemed to be fading in intensity. Previously it had been bright enough that both the tug pilot module’s viewport and his helmet faceplate had dimmed in response. The pilot module had overheated and shorted out partway through the descent, leaving only his suit helmet to save his vision. The glow finally dropped off enough that French’s faceplate was no longer polarized but he had to switch on his helmet lights to be able to see.
“–an Sa–dor, thi– Victor–. Pl–ss come in. –ver,” crackled the message in French’s radio.
“San Salvador, this is the Victoria. Please come in.” The message repeated with only a background crackle.
“Victoria, San Salvador here. We’ve made it through the plasma zone and are reading you clearly.”
“Beaver Lead, this is Victoria. Are you still with us?”
Toggling his suit radio to transmit since his tug systems were now useless, French tried to respond, but could only produce a parched croak.
“This is San Salvador, we’re getting a carrier wave, but couldn’t copy any transmission. Beaver Lead, are you still there?”
Taking a sip from his helmet’s water tube, his mouth absorbed all the hot water that was dispensed, without leaving anything to swallow. In just the time it had taken to plunge through into the thicker atmosphere, it had gotten so hot in his pod that he had dehydrated from sweating heavily.
“Beaver Lead, here,” French croaked out.
“It’s good to hear your voice, Beaver Lead,” San Salvador’s pilot said with a catch clear in his voice.
“Time until landing burn?” French was able to ask after a slight pause to suck down more hot water from his helmet tube.
“Seven seconds,” responded the lander pilot.
“Copy. I will begin moving to the main fuel tank once we are leveled out.”
“Understood. We’ll keep you in the loop.”
French laid back and continued to suck down water from the tube. The more rehydrated he could get, the easier it would be to accomplish his next task.
His radio crackled again with a countdown: “Three, two, one. Ignition on engines one and two.” As the message finished, the front engines of the lander roared to life.
Following the vibration from the engines came the sense that everything was starting to tilt. The lead engines caused the nose of the lander to start pitching up out of its nose-down position. As the tilt increased, the sensation of pressure from below started, as if being in a slowing elevator.
“Starting engines three and four in three, two, one, mark.” French’s radio crackled once more.
Knowing that it wouldn’t be too long before they were level, French started unstrapping himself from his seat. It was almost time for him to make his way to the main fuel tank.
“Engines five and six in three, two, one, mark,” San Salvador’s pilot announced.
With the last of the engines burning, the slowing sensation was undeniable as the ship was now fully out of freefall. Waiting a few more seconds for the lander to fully level off, French hit the release and began his trek to the main fuel tank.
The speakers crackled once more in the silence as the final recorded messages played, “Beaver Lead, are you there yet? Only fifteen seconds left until touchdown and it looks like it might be a rough one.”
“San Salvador, this is Beaver Lead. I have made it to the controls and am preparing to eject fuel tank. Godspeed and safe landing, San Salvador. Beaver Flight is cl—”
The broadcast ended except for a brief burst of static. The silence went on for a minute before the Civil Defense supervisor cleared his throat, toggled his mic live and spoke slowly and clearly, “Beaver One, Mark Cramer.” As soon as he finished with the name, the engine control technician ignited the first of the engines that had been salvaged from the lander and were now permanently mounted in Memorial Square.
Receiving a thumbs-up indicating proper engine ignition, the supervisor continued to the next name. “Beaver Two, Brian Johnson.” Once again, an engine came to life.
“Beaver Three, Vanessa Pearson.” The third engine rumbled into ignition.
“Beaver Four, Jack ‘One Cajón’ Murray.” The fourth engine fired.
“Beaver Five, Scott Atkins.” The fifth engine fired.
“Beaver Six, James Copley.” The sixth and final engine fired.
“Beaver Lead, Chris French.” With this last name, no more engines were ignited. Instead all six of them were left running at what was essentially idle.
Unlike any other night of the year, Beaverton and all of Paradise had every light extinguished. The residents wouldn’t even let light leak out from inside their homes on this night. The only light was a faint glow from Memorial Square in the center of the city.
After another minute’s pause, the supervisor spoke the final words of the Landing Day Ceremony. “Beaver Flight, this is Beaverton Ground Control. The lander is down with all souls safe. Prepare for Landing Beacon to guide you home on my mark.” Pausing to take a deep breath and to keep from choking up, the supervisor finished the annual message, “Go for beacon, mark.”
At the supervisor’s mark the engine control technician shoved the throttle controls to maximum.
Suddenly the glow surged and was replaced by a pillar of fire which leapt up into the sky.
“Beaver Six here, Victoria, please stop asking us stupid questions. I’m in.”
“Beaver Three, my schedule is free for this afternoon. Let’s do it.”
“Beaver Lead here. Beaver Flight is ready and accounted for. Victoria, please send us the adjusted burn plans.”
“We’ll have the new plans for the de-orbit burn in a few minutes. We are sending the information on new attachment points now so that you can reposition in preparation for the burn.”
Glancing over the data from Victoria, French confirmed that the basics of his plan had not been changed and began snapping out orders. “Beavers Three and Six, you’re going to enter the San Salvador and get the fuel and oxidizer lines rerouted. Once you’re done with that, I’ll need you for another task. When you are out of your tugs and clear I will push them free of the lander. Beavers One and Two, you take position at the rear of the lander for the repositioning burn. Four and Five will take position at the head of the lander in preparation for the de-orbit burn.”
A chorus of assents and confirmations answered French’s orders.
“Victoria, once we are underway, I plan on ejecting my fuel tanks and wedging my pilot module inside of the breach in San Salvador’s side. This should put me inside safe from the air stream once we hit atmosphere. That will let me take care of the excess fuel.”
“Uh, we’re not following you on that, Beaver Lead, can you unpack it a bit?”
“Without the de-orbit burn, San Salvador’s going to have too much fuel on board. If we have a rough landing this amount of fuel is beyond what was designed to be left in the tanks and we risk a rupture of the tanks. Another explosion would be a bad thing.”
“We copy you so far, Beaver Lead.”
“We can’t vent it in orbit as it might mix with the oxidizer leak and we don’t want to vent in atmo as it will combust and cause its own problems there. Once touchdown is about to occur, we eject the fuel tank, which will throw the fuel tank, along with the excess fuel, clear. There should be enough in the pumps and fuel lines to finish the landing. San Salvador said their remote ejection capabilities are out, but I can get to the manual fuel tank ejection controls.”
“San Salvador here,” the lander interjected. “You know that the manual fuel tank ejection controls are between the fuel tank and the outer hull it will be launched through, right?”
“That’s correct, San Salvador. I’ll just do a reverse Slim Pickens.”
“Maybe we can get the remote ejection controls working again, over,” the San Salvador suggested.
“And penguins might fly. We need to plan for the situation we have now,” French radioed, cutting off that line of objection. Forcing a change in topic, French called, “Beaver Flight, check in with status.”
“Beaver One, in position.”
“Beaver Two, good to go.”
“Beaver Three here. I am out of my tug and making entry into San Salvador.”
“Beaver Four, just adjusting attachment. Will be ready in twenty seconds.”
“Beaver Five, secure and ready for burn.”
“This is Beaver Six. I am clear of my tug and am making my way across the lander hull to the nearest airlock.”
“Beaver Lead here, copy Three and Six. I am moving to cast off your tugs.”
“This is Victoria. We have the updated burn plans and are transmitting them now. Repositioning burn begins in ninety-seven, that is nine seven seconds from mark.” After a short pause, the radio resumed, “Mark.”
“Memorial Square reports that the engines are warmed up and that all checks are green,” a technician called out.
“Sounds good. Alright, everyone, so far everything is going well. Let’s keep it up,” the supervisor said to the control room.
“Shutdown repositioning burn in three, two, one, mark,” the Victoria transmitted.
“Beaver One confirming shutdown.”
“Beaver Two is at zero thrust.”
“Time to reposition for the next burn. Be quick, but careful,” French sent as he continued to remove debris from the explosion site to make room for his tug’s pilot module.
“Copy,” Beaver One and Two answered.
“San Salvador, check fuel line status,” Beaver Three radioed. “You should now have fuel rerouted to engine two.”
“Checking now, Beaver Three,” the San Salvador answered. “That’s affirmative, we now have fuel feeding to engine two. Thank you.”
“Not a problem, San Salvador. Beaver Six is dealing with the last of the oxidizer valves and I am moving to assist Beaver Lead. Beaver Three, clear.”
“Beaver One here. I am at my new attachment point and prepared for de-orbit burn.”
“Thirty-five seconds, three five seconds until de-orbit burn needs to begin,” the Victoria sent.
“Beaver Two copies. I was having a little trouble attaching but should be good to go before that.”
As the time ticked down, French finally transmitted, “Beaver Lead to Beaver Two, ten seconds until burn time. Are you good to go?”
“Securing now, hold one,” Beaver Two responded then paused. “Beaver Two is attached and good to go for burn.”
With both tension and relief evident in her voice, Victoria came on the air, “De-orbit burn start in four, three, two, one, mark.”
“I’m a go on burn,” Beaver One answered.
“Engines on and running smooth,” Beaver Two responded.
“Burn is good,” Beaver Four answered.
“On profile and in the green,” Beaver Five said.
“San Salvador, this is Beaver Six. Please check your oxidizer lines to engine two.”
“Just confirmed and everything is looking good, Beaver Six,” San Salvador answered. “Engine two is back online and we are good to go for the landing burn. Thank you.”
“Glad to be of service, San Salvador. Now moving to assist Beaver Three and Beaver Lead.”
“I’ve always wondered what the Beaver Flight members said to each other on their private frequency,” the assistant supervisor said.
“We’ll never know because none of the tug black boxes were recovered. Based on their broadcasts that were recorded on the San Salvador’s and Victoria’s black boxes, I suspect they were highly professional, though,” the supervisor responded.
“. . . DODGAMNEDPIECEOFCARP!!!” French yelled as his mostly coherent, nearly profane tirade finished as he slammed the sledgehammer into the hull plate, nearly dislodging himself with recoil from the position he had wedged himself into to use the hammer.
French, Beaver Three, and Beaver Six had been struggling to clear enough debris from the explosion to fit French’s pilot module from his tug into the hole, then to adjust the remaining hull plates so that when entering atmosphere French’s module wouldn’t be torn apart by atmospheric friction. It was going to be a hot ride down as heated air from their passage filled the space around the module. French didn’t need a piece of hull plating catching and directing additional airflow to where his module was now wedged in.
“I think that did it, boss,” Beaver Six radioed, checking the new position of the hull piece.
“We need to shag ass, or we are all going to fry in here,” Beaver Three chimed in.
“She’s right. Time to get loaded in,” Beaver Six agreed.
“If some idiot hadn’t screwed up his job, we wouldn’t be having to save their asses,” French griped as he dropped the sledgehammer and started climbing into his pilot module.
“Well, we didn’t have to volunteer for this,” Beaver Five said.
“And it was your plan, boss,” Beaver Six said, moving over so he could check the seals on French’s module once it was closed.
“Ha! No way I am letting those jackasses make us look bad by letting a lander go splat on our watch,” French retorted.
“That’s what we love about you, boss: your sunny disposition and focus on the important things in life,” Beaver Six quipped. More seriously, he continued, “Exterior seals look good. I think you are good to go.”
“Copy. Everything looks good in here as well,” French answered. “Time to check in with everyone else.”
Toggling over to the general frequency from the private Beaver Flight frequency, French radioed, “San Salvador, this is Beaver Lead. I am in place and ready for the ride down.”
“We hear you, Beaver Lead. You’re just in time. We are starting to see the first hints of heating due to atmospheric friction. We thought we had a few more minutes before we’d see that.”
“Copy, San Salvador,” French answered, keeping the annoyance out of his voice that something else was going wrong.
“Break. Beavers One, Two, Four, and Five, how are you doing with the heating? Are you going to be able to finish the burn safely? We have”—French paused to check his data feeds—“thirty-seven seconds left.”
“Beaver Four here. Main concern is expansion of fuel and oxidizer due to heating, but with how much fuel we’ve burned, the pressure increase in the tanks should stay well below max levels. I think we are going to cook before we risk blowing up.”
“Understood, Beaver Four. Continue with plan.”
Switching back to the private Beaver Flight channel, French started transmitting again, “Alright, everyone. We’ve done all we can up to this point. Once the burn is done everyone make sure to get clear of the lander. We don’t want a piece of tug to smack into them and break something. We’ll let everyone else handle the screwups, right?
“Three, Six, get out of here before we get into the atmosphere and you can’t get out. You don’t want to go out via being cooked,” French said, looking at the two people standing outside of his pilot module.
“We’re going, boss,” Beaver Six said, nodding gravely to French, then gesturing for Beaver Three to follow him. Beaver Three wordlessly just raised a hand in goodbye, then followed Beaver Six to the exterior of the lander.
“Victoria here, shutdown de-orbit burn in three, two, one, mark,” the colony ship sent.
“Beaver One is shut down and preparing to detach.”
“Beaver Two is the same.”
“Beaver Four, here. Engines off and releasing.”
“Beaver Five, I am cold and letting go.”
“San Salvador here,” the lander pilot called, his voice nearly breaking. “Thank you, everyone. Thank you.”
“Beaver Six, here. I am with Beaver Three on the hull by the explosion site. We are starting to get heating from friction here. We’ve gotten everything taken care of and are departing the lander. Good luck, San Salvador. Beaver Six signing off this net, out.”
“Beaver Three here. I am signing off this net as well.”
Closing his eyes for a second, French reopened them, checked his data feeds and saw the bio signals for Beaver Three and Six flash wildly yellow, then orange, and finally turn a steady red.
“Beavers One, Two, Four, and Five, status on getting clear from the San Salvador,” French queried the remaining members of his flight on the general channel.
“Beaver Four here. I have accelerated clear of the lander and am opening the distance. We’ve dropped low enough that heating from the atmosphere is still increasing. I’m outta here.”
“This is Beaver Two. I’m clear of the lander, nearly bingo on fuel, and it’s starting to get hot. Safe travels, San Salvador. I am signing off the net. Beaver Two, out.”
“Beaver One. I’m clear and am signing off the net.”
“Clear of the San Salvador and heating up as well. This is Beaver Five signing off. Good luck, everyone.”
“That leaves just me, I guess. This is Beaver Four. I am signing off as well. God bless.”
Shortly after Beaver Four signed off, just as they had for Beavers Three and Six, the bio signals for Beavers One, Two, Four, and Five started to flash wildly yellow, then orange, and finally a steady red.
Forcing his voice to remain calm, French closed his eyes and toggled his radio. “This is Beaver Lead. Beavers One through Six are clear of the lander. I am in place for the descent.”
After a long pause there was finally a response. “Beaver Lead, San Salvador. We confirm your transmission.”
“Victoria here. About one minute to estimated radio loss during descent.”
“Victoria, San Salvador. We’ll see you on the other side.”
French laid his head back against his headrest and waited. He just had to make it through the heat and fire of the descent, then he’d have his task to do that would let him rejoin his flight.
“Alright, everyone, we’re in the break during reentry. Good job so far,” the supervisor said to the control room.
The reflected glow from the plasma streaming past the lander seemed to be fading in intensity. Previously it had been bright enough that both the tug pilot module’s viewport and his helmet faceplate had dimmed in response. The pilot module had overheated and shorted out partway through the descent, leaving only his suit helmet to save his vision. The glow finally dropped off enough that French’s faceplate was no longer polarized but he had to switch on his helmet lights to be able to see.
“–an Sa–dor, thi– Victor–. Pl–ss come in. –ver,” crackled the message in French’s radio.
“San Salvador, this is the Victoria. Please come in.” The message repeated with only a background crackle.
“Victoria, San Salvador here. We’ve made it through the plasma zone and are reading you clearly.”
“Beaver Lead, this is Victoria. Are you still with us?”
Toggling his suit radio to transmit since his tug systems were now useless, French tried to respond, but could only produce a parched croak.
“This is San Salvador, we’re getting a carrier wave, but couldn’t copy any transmission. Beaver Lead, are you still there?”
Taking a sip from his helmet’s water tube, his mouth absorbed all the hot water that was dispensed, without leaving anything to swallow. In just the time it had taken to plunge through into the thicker atmosphere, it had gotten so hot in his pod that he had dehydrated from sweating heavily.
“Beaver Lead, here,” French croaked out.
“It’s good to hear your voice, Beaver Lead,” San Salvador’s pilot said with a catch clear in his voice.
“Time until landing burn?” French was able to ask after a slight pause to suck down more hot water from his helmet tube.
“Seven seconds,” responded the lander pilot.
“Copy. I will begin moving to the main fuel tank once we are leveled out.”
“Understood. We’ll keep you in the loop.”
French laid back and continued to suck down water from the tube. The more rehydrated he could get, the easier it would be to accomplish his next task.
His radio crackled again with a countdown: “Three, two, one. Ignition on engines one and two.” As the message finished, the front engines of the lander roared to life.
Following the vibration from the engines came the sense that everything was starting to tilt. The lead engines caused the nose of the lander to start pitching up out of its nose-down position. As the tilt increased, the sensation of pressure from below started, as if being in a slowing elevator.
“Starting engines three and four in three, two, one, mark.” French’s radio crackled once more.
Knowing that it wouldn’t be too long before they were level, French started unstrapping himself from his seat. It was almost time for him to make his way to the main fuel tank.
“Engines five and six in three, two, one, mark,” San Salvador’s pilot announced.
With the last of the engines burning, the slowing sensation was undeniable as the ship was now fully out of freefall. Waiting a few more seconds for the lander to fully level off, French hit the release and began his trek to the main fuel tank.
The speakers crackled once more in the silence as the final recorded messages played, “Beaver Lead, are you there yet? Only fifteen seconds left until touchdown and it looks like it might be a rough one.”
“San Salvador, this is Beaver Lead. I have made it to the controls and am preparing to eject fuel tank. Godspeed and safe landing, San Salvador. Beaver Flight is cl—”
The broadcast ended except for a brief burst of static. The silence went on for a minute before the Civil Defense supervisor cleared his throat, toggled his mic live and spoke slowly and clearly, “Beaver One, Mark Cramer.” As soon as he finished with the name, the engine control technician ignited the first of the engines that had been salvaged from the lander and were now permanently mounted in Memorial Square.
Receiving a thumbs-up indicating proper engine ignition, the supervisor continued to the next name. “Beaver Two, Brian Johnson.” Once again, an engine came to life.
“Beaver Three, Vanessa Pearson.” The third engine rumbled into ignition.
“Beaver Four, Jack ‘One Cajón’ Murray.” The fourth engine fired.
“Beaver Five, Scott Atkins.” The fifth engine fired.
“Beaver Six, James Copley.” The sixth and final engine fired.
“Beaver Lead, Chris French.” With this last name, no more engines were ignited. Instead all six of them were left running at what was essentially idle.
Unlike any other night of the year, Beaverton and all of Paradise had every light extinguished. The residents wouldn’t even let light leak out from inside their homes on this night. The only light was a faint glow from Memorial Square in the center of the city.
After another minute’s pause, the supervisor spoke the final words of the Landing Day Ceremony. “Beaver Flight, this is Beaverton Ground Control. The lander is down with all souls safe. Prepare for Landing Beacon to guide you home on my mark.” Pausing to take a deep breath and to keep from choking up, the supervisor finished the annual message, “Go for beacon, mark.”
At the supervisor’s mark the engine control technician shoved the throttle controls to maximum.
Suddenly the glow surged and was replaced by a pillar of fire which leapt up into the sky.
