flashed past just above your head, billions of years old, waiting to claw you from the sky. How she longed for that again, the bonds she had forged with the crews, the times they had had, the risks they had run, how she longed for it, how she wanted it, wanted it,
Now they had offered her something: a routine trip to Mercury, ferrying some engineers to some huge tomb of a mine and back again. It was getting back into space, she thought, but not the way she had envisaged. She had an uncomfortable feeling that, once she took this ‘temporary secondment’, it would become permanent, and she would be stuck in Transportation forever, on board space tugs, hauling the huge fuel tankers back and forth across the Solar System until she couldn’t take the boredom any longer.
She felt like she was being sidelined, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Helligan had said not to get excited, and to wait until she received her orders. Knowing Helligan, he probably wanted to make her endure as much waiting as he could contrive, so it could be weeks, or more likely months, before the SAIB would be in touch.
Before long, she would be desperate even to get the chance in Transportation, and that was probably just what Helligan had in mind. She just had to play the game and try to keep her options open.
Behind the tanker, the refuelling was complete.
‘Orbital Five Two Seven, tanks full, breaking contact. Report when clear of the launch area.’
‘Tanker Seven Four, roger,’ Clare’s copilot responded.
The tanker shuddered slightly as the spaceplane broke free of the refuelling boom, and dropped astern. Clare disengaged the autopilot with a flick of her left thumb, and banked the tanker to the left. Her other hand moved the thrust levers forward, to take the tanker quickly out and away, far away from the dwindling patch of sky where the spaceplane was preparing to leave on its climb into orbit.
Clare watched a full minute go past on the mission clock.
‘That should do it,’ she said, checking their distance from the spaceplane on the navigation display.
‘Yeah, we’re clear. Shall I let them know?’
‘No, I’ll do it.’ Clare thumbed the transmit button on her sidestick and spoke into the slender microphone of her headset. Her softer voice was a contrast to the clipped words of the copilot, and the crew of the spaceplane might have paused for a moment in their pre-climb checks, as they tried to place the familiar voice.
‘Tanker Seven Four, clear of launch area. Contact Guam Centre for orbital climb clearance. Goodbye – and Godspeed.’
The huge bulk of the tanker swayed from side to side as it mashed its way through the last few hundred metres of humid air towards the runway at Andersen Base. It tilted its nose slightly at the sky, and then sank onto the runway, spurts of smoke springing from its tyres.
The spoilers deployed, and Clare lowered the nose to the ground. She braked the tanker to a brisk roll and let the runway trundle past, as their allocated taxiway drew towards them.
Keeping a careful lookout, she steered the tanker off the runway, towards the domes and spheres of the fuel storage area. There was another launch tonight, and the fuel tanks needed to be chilled down and reloaded in preparation. The voice of Andersen Ground Control came and went in her headset, directing her through the maze of turns and taxiways towards the fuelling apron.
A ground handler on the tarmac ahead waited for her, and as the tanker approached he motioned with one bat, signalling her to turn. She turned the giant aircraft round and moved it forwards slowly into its assigned position, until the handler made the ‘stop’ sign, and finally signalled to cut the engines.
‘Been a good mission, ma’am,’ her copilot remarked as the whine of the turbofans faded.
‘Yeah – we did a good job,’ Clare muttered, as they ran through the post-flight checklist, returning various switches and controls to the proper settings.
For a moment, she almost believed it. It
A good mission. Only …
Clare felt that soft, grey feeling inside that only those who have tasted success and achievement can know, the little voice inside you that tells you that you aren’t being stretched, that you aren’t learning anything, that you’re sinking into routine. In a few short years you’ll just be looking on it as a job, a means to make money, you’ll never be back up there again, up there where you wanted to be, where—
‘Ma’am?’ The copilot was looking at her.
Clare looked back, blankly.
‘It’s the duty controller on ground control. He wants to speak to you.’
Clare pressed the transmit. ‘This is Captain Foster.’
‘Duty Controller here. I have a message for you from the group commander. You’ve been assigned to Deep Space Transportation with immediate effect. You’re to report to the training centre at zero nine hundred hours tomorrow for a mission briefing. That’s it.’
‘Roger that, sir. Out,’ Clare responded, and pushed her seat back. A half-smile played on her face.
Perhaps today was going to be a better day, after all.
PART II
Mission to Mercury
CHAPTER NINE
Matt Crawford and Clare Foster met for the first time the following morning, in a nondescript lecture room in the training centre at Andersen Base. Matt had arrived early, and he was sitting at one of the desks, sipping coffee and reading some of the posters on the wall.
Events had moved at a whirlwind pace for Matt since the investigation board’s decision last December; it had felt like an endless round of travel, work and meetings, but he had relished the work and the sense of purpose. There had been lengthy discussions to decide detailed priorities for the mission, as well as sombre meetings with the various relatives’ groups and their legal representatives. A good deal of impassioned argument had taken place over the composition of the rest of the team, and the SAIB had had to step in twice to resolve disputes. While all this was going on, detailed technical decisions had to be taken on suitable launch dates and equipment manifests for the mission.
The launch date decision had been taken only two days ago, and Matt barely had enough time to pack before yesterday’s flight out from Los Angeles, ready to start the intensive training programme for the mission. Just twelve weeks away, the launch date left the bare minimum time for preparation, so the pressure was on. Matt hoped he was up to the training – there were plenty of people who would like to see him fail. At that thought, Matt’s resolve hardened. They weren’t going to get rid of him that easily.
The door opened and a slim, blonde woman in her thirties walked in, wearing the dark blue service dress uniform of the Astronautics Corps. The severe, masculine cut of the uniform suited her figure well. Her eyes assessed Matt as she closed the door behind her and came over. She walked with the easy confidence of an experienced pilot, but Matt sensed a faint hesitation beneath the surface, as if she was less sure of herself than she appeared.
‘I guess you’re Captain Foster,’ Matt began, standing up and holding out his hand. ‘I’m Matt Crawford, the representative for the relatives.’
They shook hands briefly. Her hand was cool and slender, and she was tall; her dark blue eyes were on a level with his. She had no makeup on, and there were lines round her eyes, suggesting a broken night’s sleep.
‘Hi. Welcome to Andersen.’ She didn’t smile. ‘You’re early. Didn’t you want to come with the others?’
‘Uh, I was travelling yesterday, and I woke early. I guess they’ll be here in the next few minutes. Do you want some coffee? They’ve just brought some in.’ Matt indicated a table at the back of the room.
