Тим Пауэрс - Free Stories 2018

The voice of the Eagle ’s commander was sharp with concern. “Houston, Eagle . We’ve got a Program Alarm.”

Houston quickly replied. “It’s looking good to us. Over.”

“It’s a 1202.” A pause, then with more urgency: “Give us a reading on the 1202 Program Alarm.”

“Roger. We got you… We’re go on that 1202 alarm.”

“Are you sure, Houston?”

“We’re still go, Eagle .”

Walt’s hands started quivering. He put them in his lap so the old man couldn’t see them. Just like his legs. Oscar sighed. “That was close. Very close, eh?”

“Yes. Very close.”

Oscar leaned to one side, like he wanted to hear better from the speaker. The static and voices continued.

“Okay, Houston. We’re at five thousand feet. One hundred feet per second descent rate is good. Going to check my attitude control. Attitude control is good.”

“ Eagle , you’re looking great. Coming up nine minutes.”

A pause.

“ Eagle , Houston. You’re go for landing. Over.”

“Roger,” the LM pilot replied “Understand. Go for landing. We’re at three thousand feet.”

“Copy that Eagle .”

Walt took a deep breath. His chest ached. He wondered what it was like, outside that door, with his fellow engineers and technicians, listening in and watching the telemetry. Imagine the excitement he was missing!

“How much longer?” Oscar asked.

“Just a few more minutes, that’s all.” He looked at the old man’s face, try to gauge what was going on behind those filmy eyes, what that ancient brain was thinking, seeing, remembering.

Walt said, “A few more minutes,” he repeated. “Can you believe it?

“You get to be my age, son, you can believe in almost anything.”

Then it was the LM pilot’s turn, voice high-pitched coming out of the speaker. “We’ve got a Program Alarm. It’s a 1201.”

“Roger, that Eagle . A 1201 alarm.” A long, long pause, then the CapCom’s voice, hesitant, shaky: “We’re go on that alarm. Same type. Same type. We’re go.”

“Houston, this is Eagle . What’s going on with those damn alarms?”

“ Eagle , Houston, we’re still a go. Still a go.”

Oscar shook his head, the ebony cane trembling in his old hands. “Don’t like it. God, I don’t like it.”

Walt said the only thing that made sense. “Neither do I.”

And in the next few terrifying minutes, Walt recalled a high school history class, of seeing an old, old black and white movie newsreel, seeing the death of the Hindenburg , how the flames started so very small at the tip of the zeppelin, and then how it all went to ashes, in just a matter of seconds.

The LM pilot started narrating their descent: “Altitude is 700 feet, 21 feet per second down, 33 degrees.” And in reply from the commander, “Damn, that’s a pretty rocky area. Where the hell are we? How’s the fuel?”

“Eight percent.” A few seconds later, the LM pilot said, “One hundred feet, 3 1/2 down, 9 forward. Five percent of fuel remaining. Quantity light is on.”

Houston urgently interrupted. “ Eagle , you’ve got 60 seconds of fuel left.”

A sharper hiss of static, then: “Houston, this is Eagle . Lots of boulders here. Lots. We must have overshot our landing area.”

“ Eagle , we acknowledge,” Houston replied, voice nearing panic “Thirty seconds left for fuel.”

“Too many boulders. Too many! We’re going to abort.”

The LM pilot said: “No, you can do it, Neil, we can…”

“Too late… damn it too…”

A mix of voices, yells, another burst of static.

Silence.

Hissing continued from the speaker.

“ Eagle , this is Houston. Over.”

“ Eagle , this is Houston. Over.”

Walt’s mouth was dry. He had to work to talk. He finally said, “I… I can’t believe it… Oh my God…”

Oscar’s voice was suddenly sharp and crisp, like he was the engineer in charge of old. “Quiet, boy! Let’s hear what’s going on.”

“Ah… obviously a major malfunction of some sort. Eagle , this is Houston, over.”

No reply.

Walt’s eyes were filling with tears. All the planning, all the preparation, all the writing and testing of procedures, over and over again… and to come to this?

He looked to Oscar’s face.

The old man was silently weeping.

Walt wiped at his eyes, bent over, turned down the speaker’s volume. Long minutes passed in silence before the door to the tiny office slammed open. A man came in, followed by a woman. The man was short, plump, with closely-trimmed black hair. His face was sweaty, red, and he wore a zippered light green jumpsuit with Air Force flight patches, even though he was no longer active in the service. The woman next to him was also short and plump, and wore a similar jumpsuit.

Her nametag said P. O’HALLORAN. DataGlasses hung from a strand around her neck. His nametag said N. GIVENS. He swore and said, “That was a shitty sim, Walt.”

Walt said, “It was a perfect sim. You and Pam just couldn’t handle it.”

Givens strolled in further, standing right next to Oscar. He ignored the old man. “What kind of goddamn training program puts us in a simulator with technology more than a half century old? Tell me that!”

The woman slipped on a pair of DataGlasses, blinked a few times, cocked her head, and said, “That sim wasn’t fair! It was too old… Neil and I did our best!”

Walt felt Oscar staring at him and also felt the sudden, unexpected weight of history bear down on his shoulders. He felt a terrible urge to play with his M.I.T. ring and ignored it. “The sim had nothing to do with being fair or unfair.”

Before Neil could reply, Oscar spoke up, voice weak but strong. “Excuse me… excuse me… young man, can you tell me how many flying hours you have?”

For the first time Givens seemed to realize Oscar was there. Face still flushed with anger, arms crossed, he glanced down and said to Walt, “Who the hell is this fossil?”

“He’s a guest of the Director. He worked here years ago… before it became a museum, before the Director bought it.”

Givens grunted and Oscar pressed on. “Please… tell me… how many hours have you had flying?”

There was now pride in Givens’ voice. “Close to four thousand,” he said, voice smug. “More than anybody else out there who signed up for this mission.”

Walt interrupted. “Good for you,” he said. “Armstrong had three thousand, and he didn’t screw the pooch like you did, Neil.”

O’Halloran took off her DataGlasses. “If we had the right technology and support, that landing would have been simple!”

“But it wasn’t a simple landing, was it,” Walt said.

O’Halloran said, “You made us use ancient technology, what do you expect?”

“We expected you to land like the original Eagle ,” Walt said. “Look, with all of your technology and support, where have you flown, Neil?”

“You name it,” he said, voice sharp. “Iraq. Iran. Afghanistan. Nigeria. And you know it.” The Air Force pilot took a breath, went on. “This is goddamn ridiculous. Asking us to prepare for a Moon flight by using a sim and gear from the first landing is like asking me to prep for a Nigerian air support mission by taking up a P-51 Mustang.”

Oscar whispered, “Have you ever done that? Take a Mustang or anything else up in the air? A Piper Cub? A T-6 trainer? Anything?”