Skyfall

GET 33.14

“What do they say about the fuel?” Decosta asked.

“Almost done,” Cooke told him.

“And about time too. This is a very uncomfortable position to lie around in.”

Both pilots were strapped into their seats in the Orbiter flight deck, in normal flying position. But the Orbiter had the dual role of being both space vehicle during takeoff and operation in orbit, then airplane when the time came to land. The two pilots sat in their stations, their seats more like those of an ordinary cockpit than a space vehicle. Perfect for maneuvering and landing, but uncomfortable now since the vehicle was standing on its tail, pointing straight up into the air. Like sitting in a chair that was lying back down on the floor.

“What about the couches?” Decosta said, speaking into the microphone.

“Locking into place now,” the cargo engineer's voice said.

“And the walk-arounds?”

“Stowing them in the airlock….”

“No! Not good enough.” Decosta began pulling at his belt fastening.

“And what do you think you are doing?” Cooke asked.

“Getting the hell down there and putting things right.”

“You're out of your gourd! We've less than twenty minutes to zero, we're into the countdown now. We can't ready for takeoff with you rattling around there.”

“You just might have to. This is not the usual operation.” He was moving as he spoke, climbing about his chair until he hung from the back of it — then dropped the five feet to the rear wall of the aft flight deck, now a floor. “We're not going to have much time up there. I want that gear set up so I can use it instantly without extra farting around.”

He dropped through the interdeck opening into mid deck below.

“If you're not back on time I'm leaving without you,” Cooke called out to his vanishing back.

The bulk of the airlock was like a closet lying on its back next to him. Decosta undogged it and heaved it open. He looked straight down through the airlock and the open outer door beyond at the vast open area of the cargo bay below, its far end a sheer drop of sixty feet. A cherry-picker cage was just beyond the airlock hatch and he stared into the shocked face of the technician there.

“You're not supposed to be here, Captain,” he said.

“Blame my mother, I was premature. Move over.”

Decosta climbed down into the airlock, swung from the edge of the outer hatch — then dropped neatly down in the cage. Trying to ignore the sheer fall beyond. The cage bounced with his sudden weight and they both clutched the rail.

“You're gonna give me a heart attack,” the technician groaned.

“Are these the walk-arounds?” Decosta asked, pointing to the oxygen bottles on the floor of the cage.

“Yes, sir. I was gonna lash them — “

“Forget it, I have a better idea. Drop us down.”

They moved slowly down the length of the bay, between the wide-gaping jaws of the open doors. This great tubular cargo space, sixty feet long and fifteen wide, was usually filled either with cargo or the palletized experiments bolted into place. Or a satellite like the one so recently removed. The only cargo now was a single pallet that was sealed into place just behind the cabin. Four acceleration couches had been roughly welded to it. They were askew, not lined up in a neat row, and the welds were bumpy and uneven. But they were secure and they were in place in time — nothing else counted now.

“Down to the bottom,” Decosta said, pointing. “To the end effector on the end of the manipulator arm.”

The remote manipulator arm ran almost the length of the cargo bay, a jointed tube fifty feet long. It was absurdly thin for its length and the motors in its joints were scarcely able to move its own weight now, because it was designed for operation in space only, in free fall, beyond the reach of gravity. At its far end was a jaw-like mechanism designed to seize the cargo and lift it free. Decosta looked at it, thinking fast, thinking of what the situation would be like in space.

“Hey, Captain,” the technician on the nearby tower wearing earphones and microphone called out. “Major Cooke says you have only fifteen minutes left.”

“I know, I know,” Decosta called back, beginning to sweat now. “Take this thing down to the bottom end of the cargo bay and let's unload the walk-arounds.”

Decosta jumped out onto the circular platform and took the heavy oxygen tanks the technician handed him, placing them in a row at his feet. “Do you have any nylon rope?” he asked.

“Yeah. White and red…”

“Pass me the white.”

As quickly as he could he lashed the walk-arounds side by side to the ring bolts set into the metal. He used a single length of line, weaving it back and forth over the tanks, then securing. A single cut anywhere in the line would free them.

“Knife.”

The technician handed him a heavy pocket knife. He opened the large blade, cut the line — then reached for the end of the red line and passed it quickly through the clasps on each walk-around, tying them together. He climbed back into the cage.

“To the end of the manipulator.”

The cage rose and he let the line reel out behind it.