Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

“As soon as we're in final orbit. How is everything here?”

He bent his arms as he floated to her couch, slowing and stopping. He tested her straps. She nodded and smiled.

“I'm fine now — but what was that shaking around about?”

“The pogoing?”

“If that's what you call it. Like a pogo stick?”

“That's right. As the tank empties pressure waves in the fuel line will sometimes surge backwards and forwards and cause the engines to set up a motion something like” a pogo stick. There are pressurization and systems dampers to stop it.”

“It was shaking the fillings out of my teeth.”

“Everyone else all right?” Patrick asked, looking around.

There was a moment's hesitation, then Gregor spoke slowly.

“I regret the free fall, the shaking, caught me by surprise. I had… my stomach… a small accident.” He was almost blushing. “But there is the plastic bag, it is all right now.”

“Happens to all of us,” Patrick said. “Hazard of the profession. Are you over it?”

“Yes, finished. I am most sorry.”

“Don't be. When we are back on solid ground I'll tell you some real good Air Force whoopsie stories.”

“Spare us now, will you, Patrick.” Ely spoke above the top edge of his book, a novel with a title in French.

“Of course. Here's the situation.” They were listening closely now, even Ely. “We're about a hundred and thirty kilometers high and still climbing. Our boosters are gone but the core vehicle still has fuel. It will fire one more time for orbit insertion before staging. After this, as soon as Mission Control is happy about the orbit, the core vehicle will be detached and we will be on our own. That will be when Ely does his thing.”

“An honest job at last,” Ely said. “I'm tired of being a passenger and look forward to the moment when Dr. Bron and his magic atomic rocket engine have a chance to perform. Though small, and without the kiloton thrust of the monsters we have dropped behind us, it is true-blue and with a heart of gold and will puff and toot and lift us up into the perfect orbit in the ideal position.”

“May it do just that. Any questions? Colonel?”

“When do we eat?”

“A good question. With all the holds we had I'm feeling hungry myself. I'd say break out the food packs now if I thought we had time. You have the tubes there so drink some lemonade if you want to keep the hunger pangs away. As soon as we get into the low orbit we'll eat. Then Ely can get to work on his engine.”

Patrick pulled himself back up into the flight cabin and buckled in once again. “How's our time?” he asked.

“About three minutes to firing,” Nadya said, looking at the GET.

“Good. I'll take it.”

Flipping up the safety lid, Patrick held his finger over the engine firing button. The computer counted down on the GET and, at the precise second, he pressed down just in case the signal from the computer did not activate it precisely.

The pumps whirred, the engine fired.

It worked at full thrust for exactly three seconds. Then it exploded.

GET 00:35

The blast jammed Patrick into his couch, blurring his vision for an instant. He shook his head and when he could see again there were lights, red lights, everywhere before him on the panels. Voices hammered in his ears, from Mission Control and on the intercom; Nadya was calling out to him.

He ignored them all, scarcely aware of the intruding sounds. The instruments. Engine. Automatic shutdown, now manual shutdown. Pumps, fuel, safety interlock. And they were spinning. The Earth swam into the ports ahead then slipped out of sight. He looked at the GET and timed the rotation, lying motionless until it appeared again. Then he threw the switch that cut off the intercom, stilling the voices that cried out to him, calling over to Nadya at the same time.

“Hold the question until I contact Mission Control.” He flipped one more switch. “Mission Control, do you read me?”

“Yes, listen, we have…”

“Condition report follows. We have had a malfunction in the core body engines. No readings at all from number three, may have been an explosion. Others shut down. Fuel flow shut off. Fuel reserves remaining at eleven percent. We are tumbling in orbit, one rotation every twelve seconds. Give me an orbit and status report. Over.”

“Orbit follows, perigee eighty-four point six three miles. Orbiting time eighty-eight minutes. We have an indication for lowered cabin pressure. Do you have a reading?”

“Reading positive, seven point three pounds. You may have an instrumentation failure. Do we cancel tumbling?”

“Negative, repeat negative.” There was emotion in Flax's voice for the first time. “We want to determine extent of damage first.”

Patrick flicked on the intercom. “Did everyone hear that?”

“I heard it, but I didn't understand it,” Coretta said.

“We've had an engine malfunction,” Patrick said. “We don't know the extent of the trouble yet. As you know, the plug nozzle engine of the core body is really four separate quadrants that fire together. One of these is out of action, no readouts from it at all. I'd guess it's had a major malfunction…”

“Do you mean it blew up?” Ely asked.

“Yes, I suppose it might be that. In any case we've three good engines…”

“You think we've three engines.”

“Ely, shut up for a moment. We don't know yet just what we have or don't have. Find out first, panic later. We still have plenty of fuel for maneuvering and we're in orbit. The only problem facing us immediately is that we're tumbling. I'm going to correct that as soon as I've permission from Mission Control.”

“You say we're in orbit,” the Colonel said slowly. “Might I ask what kind of orbit that is?”

Patrick hesitated. “I don't really know. I'll get the data as soon as I can. Roughly though, we're about a hundred and forty kilometers high and orbiting the Earth once every eighty-eight minutes.”

“Eighty-five miles isn't very high,” Ely said.

“Sounds pretty high to me,” Coretta broke in.

“High enough.” Patrick fought to keep the tension from his voice. “Up here we are above most of the atmosphere, ninety-nine percent of it. I'm getting back to Mission Control.”

Five more minutes went by before Mission Control was certain that the computer had digested all the available information. “All right, Prometheus,” Flax said. “Permission to stabilize. Suggest minimum fuel expenditure.”

“I am aware of that necessity, Mission Control. Maneuver begins.”

This bit of flying by the wire was uncalled for in their flight plan. The fuel he was using now would be needed to stabilize the ship in the correct final orbit. But they would never reach that orbit if he didn't stop the tumbling. He would have to use minimum fuel and hope there would be enough left when he needed it. A touch on the controls slowed the rotation. But not enough.

“You will need more,” Nadya said.

“How well I know that.” His face was grim. “Here goes.”

With short blasts on the maneuvering jets the tumbling through space slowed bit by bit until it finally stopped. The Earth, his only reference point, moved slowly into view in the ports ahead, the horizon sensors finally settling it into fixed position bisecting the window.

“Fuel reserves in maneuvering jets at seventy-one percent. That was wonderful, Patrick.”

“And the estimate was that we wouldn't need more than fifty to correct orbit. There's still a ball game.” He turned on the radio. “Hello Mission Control. Tumbling has been canceled and we are stable in orbit. Do you have a condition report on the core body engines yet?”