Paul Gillebaard: Space Hoax

Peter snapped to attention. “What’s the problem?”

“Galileo sustained some additional damage from the explosion. We believe the landing system was hit by some debris from Iris.”

Frustrated he wasn’t getting the news fast enough, Peter barked, “What’s our specific problem?”

“From the warning lights we’ve been getting, it looks like Galileo may not deploy its drogue parachutes. We are still studying the problem.”

Peter was shocked. After all he and Jesse had been through, they could still be done in by the failure of their chutes. “What are the chances the main chutes will deploy?”

The radio went quiet. Peter waited impatiently. The backup landing system was a redundant number of main chutes. Of the three parachutes, Galileo could survive with just one. But if the smaller drogue chutes didn’t open first to slow their craft down, their speed would be too high to allow for any one of the larger parachutes to fully open. It would be anybody’s guess how fast Iris would be going when it hit the water.

Allen’s tremulous, disembodied voice replied, “Not good. I could sugarcoat it and tell you something different, but I figured you would want the truth.”

Peter appreciated the CEO’s honesty, even though it was heartbreaking to hear. “What are our chances of surviving?”

Again the radio was silent for a few seconds. The response was direct. “Less than 50 percent.”

Peter put his head down. “Roger.”

“Would you like to record a final message for your loved ones before re-entry?”

Peter looked at Jesse. He could see in the man’s eyes he didn’t want to accept this was the end, and neither did he. Peter answered in a firm and decisive voice. “Negative, we plan on seeing them again.” He quickly cut the mic.

Peter looked back out the window wondering if the whole mission had been a waste. Not only did he not save Blake, but it looked like both he and Jesse were goners too. Shit. Peter decided if he survived, this would be his last assignment. He had to, for Anya. He closed his eyes. Dear God, if it is your will to save Jesse and me, I promise to make changes.

Peter wanted to walk on his home planet, to hold his lover once more, but there was only a slim chance that would ever happen again. Mission control had rushed them through the re-entry procedures, cutting out some of the steps. Amazingly their spacecraft hit every milestone perfectly as it flew through the dense atmosphere. Peter hoped the flawless re-entry was a sign everything would work out fine. Of course, that was wishful thinking as they approached the moment of truth. Around 23,000 feet the drogue parachutes were to open. If that didn’t happen, they were doomed.

He shaded his eyes from the bright sunlight as he looked out his window. He fought the continuous g-forces as his ship decelerated toward the massive blue marble below. The majestic Pacific Ocean peeked through the scattered, white clouds below. The large body of water was teasing him. Damn, we’re so close.

Mission control called out, “Galileo 2 approaching 23,400 feet; velocity 420 feet per second.”

If the landing went as planned, he should soon hear a minor bang followed by a slight tug indicating the small drogue chutes were deployed. He closed his eyes as he dedicated all of his senses toward recognizing the jolt. After a few anxious moments, he opened his eyes and registered their altitude was down to 22,500 feet. They had passed the point when the chutes should have been released and they were still flying like a bat out of hell. Shit. He looked over at Jesse, whose eyes were wide open with concern. Peter tried to show strength as he flashed a quick wink before radioing, “We’re at 22,500 feet and no sign of the drogue chutes, over.”

“Roger, Galileo.”

Peter waited, hoping mission control would respond with some miracle solution, but the radio stayed silent. Damn. The main parachutes were set to be released in roughly 30 seconds at approximately 10,000 feet. At the speed they were traveling, the main chutes wouldn’t fully deploy, and he could do nothing to change their dire situation. Though he was positive the main chutes would be released, the question was how much drag would they develop. Galileo’s designed splashdown velocity was 30 feet per second, around 20 miles per hour. If those chutes failed to open properly, their impact speed could be as high as 200 feet per second, sure death for both men. If only they were landing on land like the Chinese ships, at least then, there would be a slim chance of crashing through trees to break up their energy. Landing on water at those speeds would be the same as slamming onto concrete, only after impact the surface would open up and swallow them whole.

The radio crackled. “Galileo, what is your velocity?”

Peter responded in a fierce tone. “355 feet per second, over.”

“Roger.”

A bang confirmed the main parachutes were being deployed. Please, God, let them catch. A combination of light tugs in rapid succession followed by the ship going into a slight spin were signs the parachutes didn’t fully open. Shit. “Failure with main chutes.” Peter’s heart sank when he reported their velocity. “230 feet per second.”

“Roger.”

Peter was still waiting for some plan of attack from mission control. Their lack of response made it obvious they didn’t have one and neither did he. The ship was being tossed around under the struggling chutes. Peter steadied himself as he looked over at his partner. His voice was flat and emotionless. “We’re going to hit hard; brace yourself.”

Jesse’s tone was surprisingly clear and strong. “Roger. Let’s survive this crash.”

Peter liked the young man’s attitude. He took another look at their velocity. He was encouraged to see it dropping, but they were still falling way too fast. He figured they needed to be at less than 150 feet per second to have a shot.

Peter was surprised to hear a new voice squawk over the radio. “Galileo 2, this is the recovery ship. We have a visual; please tell us your splashdown error.”

Splash down error, are you serious? Peter let his emotions get the best of him as he yelled out. “We’re falling at over 100 miles per hour is our God-damn splashdown error, over.”

There was no response.

At the 1,500 foot level, and with only seconds left before impact, Peter took a final look at their velocity. A slight glimmer of hope shot through him seeing it had dropped to 162 feet per second. The one unknown was how much energy the spacecraft would absorb during impact. Even falling at six times faster than their intended splashdown speed, he convinced himself they could survive. Their fate was now in God’s hands. Facing skyward, Peter tightened the straps holding him down in his seat. He was prepared to be smashed painfully hard backward. His life was either over or he would completely change it. Either way, he was convinced this was his last mission. He quickly yelled out. “It was an honor flying with you, Jesse!”

“The honor was all mine, sir!”

ANYA SAT AT the small dining room table in Suzy’s house as the young mother brewed some tea. Anya’s excuse for visiting was to drop off presents for the boys, explaining it was a Russian tradition to give children gifts when their fathers were in space. She said it always seemed like Christmas every time her dad flew.

Anya looked outside the window and admired the boys playing. She settled in with easy conversation. “You have two wonderful boys.”

Suzy seemed unassuming and relaxed as she poured the tea. “Oh, thank you.” As she set the two cups on the table, she looked outside. “They sure are enjoying those presents. Thanks again. Now they’re going to be all excited the next time Blake flies.”