Rescue Mode - eARC (13 page)

And then he realized,
Even if I didn’t, at least I’d be dead, too. I’d be with them.

When he finally came out of the comm shack and walked into the galley, the whole crew was standing there, somber, subdued. All of them staring at him, waiting for him to come apart at the seams.

Bee put a hand on his shoulder. “Ted, we’re all so sorry about the accident. Thad was a great kid and I know you were very proud of him.”

Ted looked into Bee’s eyes and saw genuine sorrow there. He looked past Benson to the others, all tense with grief.

“I appreciate your support,” he heard himself mouth the words. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. It was just a simple, stupid traffic accident and now they’re dead.” Suddenly the enormity of it hit him. The finality. The utter, implacable finality of it.

“They’re dead,” he repeated. “Oh my God, Vicki’s dead!” He broke into racking sobs and buried his face in his hands.

Instantly, every eye in the room went teary. Amanda and Catherine pushed past Bee and wrapped their arms around Ted, sobbing openly.

Benson pawed at his own eyes and fought down the ache in his gut.
Straighten up, mister,
he growled to himself.
You’re the commander here, you can’t go to pieces like the rest of them.
Yet he was proud of his crew, his little family, and how they were showing their concern and compassion for one of their own.

And beyond that, he was also considering how this tragedy might affect the success or failure of their mission. Would it bring them all closer together, or would it drive a wedge between Ted and the rest of them?

Should we abort the mission and return home? If Ted becomes dysfunctional, maybe that’s what we’ll have to do.

Bee blinked his eyes dry and headed for the control center, leaving the others to commiserate with Ted.

We’re seventy-three days into the trip,
he was thinking.
A sizeable distance from Earth.
Aborts early in the mission, seven to fifteen days out, were the easiest. But as they moved further out the Earth continued on its march around the Sun—and so did Mars. The orbital mechanics would allow an abort up to ninety days out—another two weeks, plus.
I’ve got sixteen days to make the decision,
Benson knew.

The return flight won’t be very quick. It’ll take the better part of a year before we’re back on terra firma. But that’s faster than going on to Mars and certainly less risky. We need Ted. We need him fully functional. Getting
home in a year is a lot better than the mission’s planned two-year duration, especially if Ted’s in an emotional crisis and cracks up the landing on Mars.

Home in a year,
Benson thought as he stepped into the command center.
But that will mean we’ve failed. The whole mission would be a complete bust.

He’d have to talk over the options with Nate Brice and the rest of the mission control team. But not now. Later.
Now’s the time for the crew to help Ted, to be his surrogate family, to see him past this crisis if we can.

Benson sat there, surrounded by the dials and screens of the control panel, their soft hums and beeps somehow soothing him. He wanted to cry, for once in his life to let it all out and show Ted that he cared.

But he couldn’t do it.

June 12, 2035

Earth Departure Plus 59 Days

23:00 Universal Time

New York City

Looking properly somber, Steven Treadway stood in front of a computer-generated image of the
Arrow
against a background of stars.

“Today a personal tragedy unfolded aboard the Mars-bound spaceship
Arrow
, now millions of miles from the crew’s homes and families.

“The ship’s pilot, American astronaut Ted Connover, learned that his wife and only son were killed in an automobile accident near their home in Clear Lake, Texas.

“
Arrow
’s crew is now the most remote group of humans in the history of the human race, and there is absolutely nothing that can be done to help this grieving father to deal with the reality that his wife and son are dead and will have been dead for nearly two years before he returns from Mars.

“Ted Connover’s crewmates are supporting him as best they can, of course, and messages of support are pouring in to the Johnson Space Center from all around the globe, including personal condolences from President Harper and heads of state as diverse as the prime minister of Japan and the president of the Maldives.”

Looking toward the image of the
Arrow
, Treadway pronounced solemnly, “Ted, the world grieves with you. Though you are millions of miles away from home, you are not alone.

“Steven Treadway, reporting.”

June 14, 2035

Earth Departure plus 61 Days

17:22 Universal Time

The Galley

Her eyes wide with disbelief, Amanda Lynn watched the whole thing happening. She and Taki Nomura were sitting at a table in the galley enjoying one of those rare moments when people open up, really
open up
, about their families, their lives, their personal joys and sorrows. Taki was talking about her parents, both deceased, and how their passion for education drove her early life and her decision to become a physician. They were so engaged in the conversation that they might have missed what was going on at the table across the way if Mikhail Prokhorov hadn’t raised his voice so brazenly.

The Russian had been sitting with Ted Connover, their heads bent together over a pair of sodas as they talked together quietly.

But then Prokhorov’s voice rose. “As you Americans say, shit happens. You’re not the only one with troubles. Get over it.”

Connover straightened up as if someone had slapped him in the face.

“I knew a man in Magnitogorsk,” Prokhorov went on, “who was hit by a train on a country road one night. He’d been out drinking and for some stupid reason he stopped his car on the railroad tracks and passed out. He never knew what hit him. Wham! He was gone. Three weeks later I saw his wife out on a date with a guy she’d met at the funeral.”

Through gritted teeth, Ted asked, “What’s your point, Mikhail?”

“Shit happens, my friend. I know you loved your wife and it won’t be easy for you, but at least we have a few good-looking women here you can match up with.”

Connover stood up so suddenly his chair toppled over backwards. “This conversation is over!”

Prokhorov got to his feet, too. “You think you’re the only one with troubles? My wife’s left me! You don’t see me moping about it. Be a man, Ted.”

Amanda forgot her conversation with Taki. She felt her pulse thumping in her ears. She’d met insensitive jerks like Prokhorov before, but she never expected the Russian to be so blatant about it.
How’d he ever get selected for this mission? He’s a trainwreck himself.

As Ted stormed out of the galley, leaving Prokhorov standing at the table, she called to him:

“Hey, Mikhail, what rock did you crawl out from under? You think any of the women on this ship would hook up with an asshole like you? Ted’s wife’s been gone less than a week and you’re acting Attila the Hun. Why don’t you just shut up and show some sensitivity? If you can’t do that, just shut up.”

Prokhorov stared at her for a moment, then broke into a smile that showed no trace of guilt. “I love you too, dark lady,” he said, with a gracious little bow.

Then he sauntered out of the galley, leaving the two unfinished sodas on the table instead of putting them in the recycler.

Amanda stared after him, then turned back to Nomura. “How in hell did he get through the psychological tests? Somebody that obnoxious must have showed signs of it during the training period.”

Nomura hesitated before replying, “He has his own problems, Mandy. He was fine during training, but then his wife left him. I think that’s hit him a lot harder than he’s willing to admit.”

“We ought to stuff him out an airlock,” Amanda growled.

“I’ll talk to Bee about it. Maybe he needs some advice from a man.”

“I’m sure going to stay as far away from him as I can.”

With a wry smile, Taki said, “Aboard this ship? That won’t be very far, will it?”

“Not far enough,” said Amanda.

June 15, 2035

Earth Departure Plus 62 Days

03:17 Universal Time

Communications Center

Ted Connover realized he was spending most of his free time in the comm shack, sending messages to his dead wife.

He woke up with the vague memory of a dream that had racked his troubled sleep: he’d been back in college, trying to find the classroom where he was supposed to be taking a final exam. He awoke still looking for it.

Wearing only his shorts and a sleeveless undershirt, Ted tiptoed through the sleeping area, barely aware of the light snores and mumbles of his crew mates. He slipped into the comm shack, sat in its only chair, and turned on the audio recorder.

Keeping his voice low, he began, “Vicki, I miss you. There are so many things I want to tell you about the trip, about how much I love you, how much I miss you, and now I can’t. I don’t even know why I’m recording this. You’ll never hear it and I know I’ll never play it back, but for some reason I’ve got to send you one more message.”

He hesitated, thinking, Maybe this is therapy. Maybe this is how I’m trying to work my way through this.

Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, he continued.

“Did it hurt? God, I hope you didn’t suffer. And Thad. Poor Thad. I so wanted to be there when he graduated from college, when he got married, when he . . . when he . . . gave us a grandchild.”

He was on the verge of breaking into tears again, he knew. Sucking in a deep breath, Ted fought for self control. At last he resumed: “Did I ever tell you that one of the reasons I accepted this slot, going to Mars I mean, I accepted it not just because I’ve always dreamed of going to Mars but because it was going to be that start of something big. Something bigger than you and me. Bigger even than our country. It’s the start of our species finally growing up and leaving the cradle. And I wanted to be a part of it so I could share it with my wife, my son, dear God, with my grandchildren. And now? What’s the point? What’s the goddamned point?”

Forcing back the tears that welled in his eyes, Ted went on, “Enough. Enough of my selfishness. I’m starting to cry because I miss you.
I miss you
. You’re wherever you are and I’d like to think that a part of you is here with me now. But I don’t think I can believe that. But, Vicki, I want to believe it!
I miss you so much!
”

June 24, 2035

Earth Departure Plus 71 Days

16:48 Universal Time

The Capitol, Washington D.C.

“What’s this all about, Billy?” asked Senator Martin Yañez.

Hiding a pang of distaste at being addressed so familiarly by such a junior member of the subcommittee, Senator William Donaldson replied, “What else? I want your vote.”

The two men were alone in the spacious conference room allotted to the Senate Subcommittee on Space. Part of the Senate’s Committee on Science, Commerce and Transportation, the space panel was one of the many subcommittees that included consumer protection, product safety and insurance; communications, technology and the internet; aviation; the Coast Guard; and transportation, merchant marine infrastructure, safety and security.

During President Harper’s first term, the Congress had formed a select committee for the Mars mission. But once the mission had been launched, the select committee was dissolved and the Mars mission, as far as the United States Senate was concerned, had to compete for attention and funding against airplanes, ships, consumer protection, scientific research, the internet and a host of other concerns.

“My vote?” Senator Yañez asked innocently. “On what?”

Unconsciously glancing over his shoulder before he spoke, Donaldson said, “It’s time to shut down the manned space program.”

Yañez and Donaldson were sitting at one end of the long, gleaming table. Aside from the two of them, the plush dark leather swivel chairs along the table were empty. So were the slightly less sumptuous chairs along the marble walls. Yet they kept their voices low.

They were an odd couple. Donaldson was lean and flinty, a caricature of the New England schoolteacher he had once been. What was left of his once-blond hair had long ago turned dead white. He wore a dark three-piece suit, as always, with his trademark “Don’t Tread on Me” lapel pin. Yañez was stout, almost corpulent, his suit jacket flapping unbuttoned, the front of his shirt straining across his girth. Instead of a tie he wore a silver and onyx bolo.

“Kill the manned space program?” he hissed. “Are you crazy? My constituents would hang me in effigy! And not by my neck, either!”

Donaldson put on a reassuring smile. “Don’t get yourself in an uproar. Killing NASA’s manned space operations will mean
more
business for your state’s private spaceport, not less.”

Yañez’s beefy face showed doubt.

Donaldson explained, “If we get NASA out of the manned space business, where are the corporations that’re working on the space station and the moon base going to go for launch services? To New Mexico!”

“Or California,” Yañez replied guardedly. “Or Texas.”

“You’ll get your share.”

Shaking his head slowly, Yañez objected, “How can you even think of cutting manned space with that crew heading out to Mars?”

Donaldson put on an air of a patient schoolteacher educating a backward Latino.

“They’ll abort the Mars mission, bring those people back home.”

“Abort it?”

“Their pilot’s wife just died in an auto accident. He’s in no emotional shape to fly the crew to the surface of Mars. He’ll kill them all.”

“Ted Connover? He’s solid as a rock.”

“Not from the psych reports I’ve seen,” Donaldson countered. “He’s become moody, keeps to himself. Which is pretty damned hard to do on that floating Winnebago of theirs.”

“They’ve still got more than three months before they reach Mars. Connover will pull out of it by then.”