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The new suits had variable pressure settings that allowed an astronaut to move more swiftly into and out of the EVA. These suits operated at a higher internal pressure, lessening the need for a prebreathe protocol.
But still, Jim had to have been waiting inside his suit ready to go, with everything on but his helmet, when Houston made the call.
Jim maneuvered toward the Soviet satellite. He was a white blip against the blackness of space and the colossus he was flying toward. The Soviet satellite easily dwarfed Jim, a monstrosity of aluminum and titanium. Up top, the command module was dark, offline. A crosshatched skirt of aluminum beams created a downward funnel. There was definitely something behind the skirt, something dark and caught in shadow, but they couldn't make it out.
The entire satellite seemed to be adrift.
“Moving beneath the satellite now, Houston,” Jim called. His white blip disappeared beneath the satellite’s skirt. “Ascending slowly.”
Houston was silent, only the washing-machine hum of the ISS and the crackle of the space-to-space radio in Sasha’s ear. Jim’s video was silent as well, his radio and heavy breathing the only soundtrack. Black and white carved up the darkness, the light of his suit’s helmet straining to penetrate. Girders, support structures, and faded Cyrillic Sasha strained to read—
“Holy mother of God,” Jim suddenly said.
“Jim, what is it?” Roxanne was back on the line.
“This bird is shit hot.” Jim swung around, his jets firing, and his camera swept up the long, thick staging of an ICBM. “Anyone want to take a crack at the size of that monster?”
“Looks like it’s between twelve and fourteen feet…” Sarah said, peering at the display. “Jim, what’s your estimate?”
“I’d say about that, yeah. And, by the way, it’s armed. Radiologic readings are off the scale.”
“At that size, the yield could be upward of two to three hundred kilotons,” she said. “Hiroshima was only thirteen kilotons.”
“Well, fuck,” Jim said. “It looks like it’s on some kind of drop harness for release. Giving this my best guess, I’d say the intent was to drop this fucker from orbit, most likely over the good ol’ USA.” He spun, his camera and helmet light trying to cut through the pitch black of space. “And it looks like there are more of these harnesses. Like this isn’t supposed to be the only bomb up here.” Jim’s camera flickered, cut out. Static snowed over the feed. His voice warbled, came back. “It’s unfinished, but this is definitely supposed to be a weapons platform, Hous—”
Jim’s voice fractured into a shout as his suit light flickered and his camera feed tumbled end over end.
* * *
“Jim?”Phillipa had one hand on her earpiece, pressing it against her skull, trying to pick out the faintest sound. “Jim, this is Alpha, respond.”
Nothing.
“Alpha, Houston.” Dan’s voice, at CAPCOM. “Surgeon says he still has Jim’s vitals, but his heart is racing and his B-P is elevated. He might be injured.”
“Independence, I’m not getting anything on the space-to-space radio. We can’t reach him,” Phillipa said.
“Roger, Alpha; Roger, Houston,” Michaela said. “I’m coming in directly under that satellite.”
“Independence,” Roxanne cut in to the radio loop. “Wait. We don’t know what happened yet. Slow it down.”
Michaela ignored her. “BringingIndependencein now. RCS burn for point five seconds, mark.”
Sasha hung back with Joey, watching the video feed asIndependencerolled beneath the skirt of the Soviet satellite.Independencecould fly up inside, but Michaela kept her craft beneath the satellite, hovering in the dead center beneath the bell. Another screen showedIndependence's front camera angle, Michaela’s view staring into the black void of the satellite’s underbelly.
“Floodlights on,” Michaela said. A moment later, xenon light whited out the display.
On the port side of the satellite’s undergirding, a giant ICBM hung in a drop harness just as Jim had described. Sarah crowded close to one of the displays, taking notes.
Mark and Phillipa searched every pixel of the feed. “There,” Mark snapped. “There he is.”
“I see him,” Michaela said.
Jim floated, spinning slowly, two-thirds of the way up the bell of the satellite. His arms and legs were limp and loose in front of him—the pose of unconsciousness, like he was sleeping in his space suit.
“Jim!” Michaela shouted. “Wake up!”
Groaning crackled over the radio.
