John Nance - Orbit

“Twenty-one miles and closing, sir.”

“So, we’ve got a sudden telemetry reactivation, good pressure, Kip apparently back inside, and the cosmonauts within spitting distance. I’d say his impending demise has been greatly exaggerated.”

The captain glances up at the four-star, wondering if she has permission to chuckle, or the need to give him a charity laugh.

She does neither.

“Bastardized Mark Twain,” Chris explains. “Sorry.”

“He has a chance, sir, provided he doesn’t light off his engine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s coming up to a retrofire point for coming down at Mojave in just six or seven minutes, and if he knows that, and doesn’t know the Russians are coming…”

“And if he’s fixed his engine as effectively as he’s apparently fixed some of the radios…”

“Yes, sir. He might try to deorbit, and he’s not a pilot. I mean, I understand he’s had some glider training toward a license, but that’s it.”

The thought of an untrained, unlicensed pilot trying to guide a spacecraft through a precise series of return maneuvers sends a chill up his spine, and he forms a small prayer that, regardless of Kip’s mechanical prowess, the engine won’t fire.

“ASA is trying frantically to reach him and tell him to just sit tight,” the captain adds.

“But no contact?”

She’s shaking her head. “Nothing yet. The Russian crew is trying to signal him with a low-powered laser. But there’s no response.”

Chris Risen glances at the frozen crawl from Kip Dawson’s laptop.

“And he’s written nothing more.”

“Yes, sir. I noticed that.”

“Which means he’s getting ready to try. Captain, get a line to Baikonaur’s Mission Control and make sure the Soyuz crew is informed what might happen.”

“Yes, sir. See, that’s what I was getting at, General.”

“Sorry?”

“The Soyuz is behind Intrepid, a bit lower but right along his orbital path. If he retrofires at a slight downward angle, he may be thrusting right down the cosmonauts’ throats.”

“Oh, Jesus! Hurry up!”

Kip sits in the command chair staring at the western edge of the planet, wondering why a bright blue light had been sparking intermittently on the horizon line.

But his mind is consumed by a thought that pulls him away from what he’s seeing.

Here he is, ready to die. But what if he doesn’t?

Maybe, he thinks, the CO 2is winning at last. He feels clearheaded, yet his longing to return and have another stab at life—his desire to see his kids again and use the insights he’s gained—seems somehow cheapened. It’s as if his impending death has suddenly been deemed privileged and noble, and an escape back to life anything but. It’s like the narrative he’s been writing for some future reader—the angst of one solitary man—is actually somehow a small contribution to humankind.

This is stupid, he thinks.

But there’s a part of him protesting that to live through this is to cheat himself of a legacy, to be just a mere survivor, not an example.

An example of what? An example of foolishness? Crying in my laptop for days before figuring out what to do?

Yet the feeling is all too real. It astounds and depresses him. As if deorbiting would be a cop-out, a cowardly retreat.

Kip snorts out loud at the irony.

But that’s not it, he realizes, his eyes flaring wide as he sits up a bit straighter with a smile on his face.

No, that’s not it at all!

What it is, is his father again. It’s his dad’s template for life imprinted in his brain like an indelible operating program, looking for a way even in the eleventh hour to impose duty and sacrifice and stoic acceptance of responsibility over any breath of self-determination.

He is, he realizes, being drawn back to that myopic world like a sailor lured by Sirens, believing not what fills his eyes and his consciousness, but what fits his parental rule book yet again: That doing something for himself is wrong. That speaking his truth is wrong.

My God, I’m thinking like a Calvinist! Surviving is wrong if there’s a chance I might enjoy the result. The only thing missing is a hair shirt.

How tired and old and sad his father had seemed toward the end, and suddenly he understands why. No wonder visiting him was like tiptoeing to the edge of a black hole.

My father’s manual for enduring life. But this time I’ve caught you red-handed, Dad! He looks around at Bill’s bagged remains as if the bag also contains the part of his father that he’s never put to rest.

His voice booms through the diminutive interior. “No more, Dad! No more. I’m going to give this my best shot, and if somehow I succeed, I’m going to have a go at really living like you never did. Like you should have. And you know what? I’m going to do it, even if I die trying. I’m bidding you good-bye, Dad, wherever you are. I love you, but I’m not listening to you anymore. And it’s… it’s time for you to go… to the light, whatever that is, or wherever. Just… go.

There is a tear in the corner of his eye he didn’t expect and the feeling of a weight lifting from him. Only his imagination, of course, but he could swear something slipped away from this small enclosure, something dark and sad.

He turns back forward with a renewed spirit, the laptop keyboard beckoning. But there are only four minutes remaining.

For some reason it feels good to speak out loud, after so many days of silent thoughts, at full volume, and now that he’s started, he likes the broken silence.

“So, are we ready?”

He looks at the attitude indicator, noting the target dot nestling snugly where it should be in the “V” for retrofire. Five minutes of rocket thrust at more than three g’s of deceleration will be required to get home. If he’s slow in firing, he’ll drift eastward, away from Mojave.

He pulls the laptop over suddenly, unable to resist.

Okay, I have two more things to say. First, I’ve just been outside and tried to repair this little craft, and I have no idea whether I made any difference, but I’m going to try to fire the engine once more in a few minutes. Second, I have finally realized something that to me is very important: It turns out that I have never been Kip Dawson until now, until I was forced to be honest about my life. But a few minutes ago, in effect, I buried my father and gave him back his book—his operating program. I am electing life on my own terms, and even if I have only a few minutes of it to enjoy, it feels wonderful. I get the point now. Self does matter.

Just under one minute left.

Kip positions his hand on the sidestick controller, fanning his fingers and waiting as he forces from his mind the fatalistic “reality” that the motor will not fire. Of course it’ll fire. He’ll simply will it to fire. All positive thoughts. Mind over matter.

Faith can move mountains, but dynamite works better, someone once said. So he’ll use both—faith and the dynamite of determination. He demands that the friggin’ engine fires, so it damn well has no choice!

So there.

Why do they say T minus? What does the T stand for? He wonders, watching the secondhand crawl below ten seconds, unable to resist the urge to voice his own countdown.

“Nine, eight, seven…”

The words seem to echo in the small cabin, something he hasn’t noticed before. He’s bracing for the thrust in his back.

“Two, one, and we have ignition!"

Kip’s left index finger shoots toward the ignition sequence button and presses hard. He can feel the click of the switch.