Zero-G (6 page)

“That's it?” Tuck said. “That's the best they can do?”

“Of coorse it iz, 'mander. Nothin' you . . . can dooo.”

Jess's speech indicated a stroke. A new avalanche of despondency crashed on Tuck. Jess could die in the chair with him strapped down and watching.

The cabin was quiet, the ride smooth. Tuck knew that the deeper in the atmosphere they descended, the louder things would become. Right now, he couldn't hear a whisper that would betray their great speed.

“Count usss . . . down, 'mander. I don wan to miss . . . thing . . .”

Tears streaked his face.

“Will do, Jess. Will do.” Tuck's voice betrayed his emotion. “Mach twenty; two hundred eight thousand feet; twelve hundred miles out.

“Mach eighteen; two hundred thousand feet; feeling one G.

“Mach fifteen point four; one-and-a-half Gs.”

Atlantis
began to shudder and wind noise worked its way through the hull.

“Speed brakes deploying. Ten minutes to landing.

“Mach five.”

It was time to deploy the air-data probes, and Tuck reached for the switch, then stopped. The probes were already activated and feeding refined information to the guidance system. Tuck had to remind himself again that he was just a passenger, that he had to keep his hands to himself — something no commander ever had to do.

“You still with me, Jess?”

“Yef. 'Till her.”

“Hang on, kid. Don't leave me. That's an order. You stay with me. Got that?”

“Yef, 'mander.” Her head tilted to the side, her neck no longer able to hold the weight of it.

Let her live, God. Let her live. Husband and kids at
home. Please, let her live.

Wind noise continued to increase as
Atlantis
plunged through the thick atmosphere. It sounded like an outof-control train.

“Mach three point five; one hundred thousand feet.”

The nose of the craft lowered as the speed decreased, improving Tuck's vision.

“I've got the runway in sight. Did you hear that, Jess. We're almost there.”

No response.

“Jess.
Jess
. Talk to me.”

Nothing.

“Mach one point zero; forty-nine thousand feet.”

Atlantis
shivered as shock waves that had been trailing the craft overtook it.

“Two hundred ninety-five knots; eight hundred feet . . . five hundred feet . . . two hundred ninety knots . . . four hundred feet . . . landing gear is down.”
Don't leave
me, Jess. I've lost too many. I can't lose another.

“Fifty feet . . . forty . . . two hundred thirty knots . . . ten feet . . . touch down two hundred knots.”

Tuck could imagine the chute deploying behind them to slow the speeding craft. He removed his glove, reached across the center console, and placed his fingers over Jess's wrist hoping to feel a pulse.

He found none.

Atlantis
's forward movement stopped.

“Wheel stop.”

“Wheel stop.”

“I need help in here. I need it now.”

Tuck released his restraints and moved to Jess. He tried several times to find a pulse but came up empty. He moved to Russ and repeated the action. No pulse there either.

He stepped to Jess again and released her harness, then pulled her from the seat.

In the cramped space of the flight deck, Commander Benjamin Tucker began CPR — praying between every breath forced into Jess's mouth and every compression made on her chest.

“One, two, three, four.”
Please, God . . .

FIVE

ONE YEAR LATER

Tuck banked the Corsair F4U into a sixty-degree left turn rounding the Marine Air Station in San Diego. The WWII bird responded like a dream, the G-forces pressing him in his seat. The Pratt & Whiney R – 2800 engine roared as he goosed the throttle, increasing speed in the turn and aligning the nose of the plane with the center of the runway. Below, thousands of eyes gazed at him as he put the gull-wing fighter through its paces.

At the moment, Tuck gave little thought to the crowd and even less thought to the events of the past year. He was doing the thing he loved most, flying at the edge of the envelope, pushing the sixty-year-old aircraft to its limits.

Applying more power, Tuck pulled the plane into a steep climb, its engine singing with the strain. The Corsair had a distinctive sound. The Japanese called it “Whistling Death.”

The deep blue of the sky replaced the distant hills Tuck had seen a moment before the plane began a steep climb, its propeller clawing at the sky, pulling against thinning air.

Higher. Higher.

Tuck fixed his gaze on the canvas of blue before him and his mind added miles and miles of altitude. If only he could keep climbing, keep stretching until the blue of the sky dissolved to black and the Earth receded into a huge blue ball. If only . . .

But one did not toy with gravity. The powerful pistons pounded out all the energy they could but the plane slowed its climb, reaching its maximum altitude.

“A little more, baby. Just a little more.”

Tuck had no idea of his altitude and he didn't care. Aircraft like these were flown more by feel than instruments. The Corsair began to vibrate with the strain.

“Come on, sweetheart. This is what you were built for. A couple hundred feet more.”

The creators of the Corsair had designed it for speed. During the war, pilots learned a new technique for finishing a dogfight: run. The manual instructed pilots in trouble to apply full power, climb, and head home. Nothing else in the air could catch it.

Then the jet age arrived and craft like the Corsair yielded to a new era. Still they served in World War II with distinction and made themselves known in the Korean Conflict. Now the plane was an oddity, a gull-winged used-to-be that once knew courage, strength, purpose, and glory.

An important used-to-be.

Just like Tuck.

Before the engine stalled, Tuck rolled the plane and started a dive that drew goose bumps over every square inch of his skin. Blue sky was now behind him, Mira-mar Marine Air Station below. He could see the crowds gathered for the annual air show, each a lover of aircraft or related to an enthusiast.

Tuck pulled back on the stick to flatten his descent. He was about to give the audience a sense of what it was like to be the object of a strafing run.

His air speed climbed so quickly that he could use the hands of the altimeter gauge as a fan. It was hyperbole, but the image made Tuck smile. Something he didn't do often anymore.

From the pilot's perspective, the ground rose at shocking speed, but Tuck knew he was the one moving fast.

Fifty feet above the runway, Tuck pulled the Corsair flat and raced the length of the concrete strip. From the corner of his eye, he saw the crowd raise hands and pump fists in the air. He almost wished he could see it himself.

As he reached the end of the runway, he took the plane high again, but this time just enough to allow a safe turnaround.

His part of the show had come to an end and a vague depression — a constant companion over the last thirteen months — invaded him again.

Reality returned.

Tuck despised reality.

He had been warned by the NASA docs — specifically, the NASA shrinks — that depression was likely. They told him of the deep melancholy felt by Apollo astronauts after returning from the Moon. They knew they'd never top the experience. Everything else would be second rate.

Of course Tuck's gloominess didn't stem from a great achievement he could never do again; it came from a massive failure. No matter how many times investigations declared him guiltless, no matter how often the world treated him as a hero — he knew the truth.

He and he alone survived the
Atlantis
mission. The rest of his crew rested in the ground. Dead.

The landing gear lowered smoothly and Tuck brought the blue beast down gently on the runway. His speed reduced quickly and he began the zigzag taxi maneuver every Corsair pilot learned. On the ground, the steep angle of the plane from nose to tail prevented the pilot from seeing forward. The long cowling also limited vision. Tuck moved left then right, left then right, taking sightings out the side of the cockpit.

A Marine stood to the side and guided Tuck to his place on the tarmac with hand signals.

Tuck killed the engine and exited the craft. He did so with a confidence and bearing that fit a fighter pilot/ astronaut. A year ago, that confidence and bearing had been real.

“Spit-shine spectacular, Commander.” The crewman stepped forward and shook Tuck's hand. He looked too young to be a Marine. Of course, they all looked too young to him now. “If you're up to it, there's someone who wants to talk to you.”

“I'm not in the mood, Sergeant. I'd rather catch a cup of coffee.”

“I don't think he's here as part of the audience.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice, even though no one stood close enough to overhear. “It's Ted Roos.”

Tuck blinked. “Am I supposed to know the name?”

“Well, yeah . . . I'm mean, yes, sir. Ted Roos created
The Cube
and
New York Underground.
”

“I don't follow.”

The man looked puzzled. “He's the hottest game designer on the planet.”

“Game? Video games?”

“Exactly, sir.
The Cube
sold a bajillion copies, and
New York Underground
is the best shooter game ever created.”

“Did Mr. Game Fantastic say what he wanted?”

“No, sir. Just so you know. He's mega-rich. Got more money than God.”

“I doubt that. Where is he?”

“He's on the other side of the barrier by the flight line.”

“Thanks. Take care of my baby.” Tuck patted the wing.

“She's in good hands, Commander. Listen. Do you think you can get his autograph for me?”

“No.”

Tuck walked away. .

Tuck didn't know what he expected, but Ted Roos wasn't it. He wore his I-just-crawled-out-of-bed hair proudly, and his chin hadn't seen a razor for several days. He stood five-eight, and bore maybe 165 pounds on a straight frame. His eyes were a blue that looked like they wanted to be green but couldn't pull it off. There was, however, a detectable intelligence behind those eyes.

“You Ted Roos?”

“That's me, Commander.”

Tuck ducked under the nylon ribbon that formed the barricade. He was surprised to find Roos here. It was off-limits to the public. “This area is limited to support personnel, Mr. Roos.”

“I'm not here as a spectator, Commander. I'm here with a proposition.”

“Doesn't explain how you got here.”

“I know people, Commander. I have money. I have connections. No big whoop.”

“No big whoop, eh? What kind of proposition?”

“Business.”

“I already have all the business I need.”

Roos smiled in a way that made Tuck think he was the butt of an unspoken joke.

“Something funny, Mr. Roos?”

He shook his head. “I don't mean to offend, Commander. I just know the business you're in and I don't imagine you find it all that satisfying.”

“I'm not sure you know that much about me.”

Again, a smile. “I've arranged a room where we can talk. Shall we go there?”

Tuck's first inclination was to walk away, but something about Roos hooked him. He was young, maybe early thirties, but he had the confidence of an older, more experienced man. “Lead the way.”

The room Roos mentioned was a conference space with a battered table and chairs in the center. Someone had shut the thick Venetian blinds. Another man rose from his seat when they entered. Roos gave a nod and the man departed. He left a laptop computer on the table.

Tuck and Roos were alone.

“Do you want to sit?” Roos motioned to one of the chairs.

“I prefer to stand.”

To his credit, Roos remained on his feet too. “I take it you're a straight-to-the-point kinda guy.”

“Yup. You said you know my business?”

“No, I said I know the kind of business you're in and that you're probably not satisfied.”

Tuck removed his pilot's gloves. “That's a pretty bold statement.”

“Let's see if I'm right. In the last year, the year since the accident, you've been traveling around the country shilling for NASA, doing air shows, talking to schoolkids. Right so far?”

“Shilling is a harsh word.”

“But accurate. Let me ask a pointed question. When do you plan to go into space again?”

“That's hard to say.”

“No it's not, Commander. It's not hard to say at all. NASA isn't going to put you up again, are they?”

“It would be inappropriate for me to discuss any future missions I might have.”

“Then I'll discuss it for you. You've been grounded. Not formally, of course, but the suits aren't going to put you back in orbit. Too many questions.” He raised a hand. “I know you've been cleared of any wrongdoing or error. In fact, the world thinks you're a hero. They should. I do too; otherwise I wouldn't be here right now.”