James Follett Sabre

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The picture in front of Allenby wobbled as Rowe started
moving again. He worked his way under the hull and turned
his head towards Number Two engine as soon as he was
sure of his grip. At first he thought what he was seeing was
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a trick of the light caused by the harsh contrast between
light and shadow in the vacuum of space. He moved his
helmet out of the sun's glare and realised that it was not an
optical illusion: the underside of the port-wing skin between
the fuselage and the inboard engine looked like a sheet of
cardboard that had had a fist driven through it. The once
beautifully machined aluminium was torn open, the ragged
edges throwing long shadows along the wing's underside
like the profile of a rugged mountain range. And where the
skin wasn't torn it had been melted and fused to shapeless
blobs by the intense heat from the fire.
'Is everyone getting this?' Rowe asked.
'We're getting it,' Morgan's unusually subdued voice
answered in his helmet. 'Hold steady a few seconds, Nick,
while we record . . . Okay, left. . . slowly . . . Now right. . .'
'Do you want me to go in closer?'
'Don't take that suit a centimetre nearer that mess,'
Morgan warned.
There was silence for a few seconds while men and
women a hemisphere apart contemplated the terrible
damage that the Sabre had sustained. There was no need for
anyone to spell out what it signified. They all knew that reentry
was out of the question - without the total integrity of
its Super Starlite heat shield, the spaceplane hitting the
earth's atmosphere at 25,000 kilometres per hour would
result in it turning into an incandescent fireball in a matter
of minutes.
'It seems we have a Sierra-Delta-Sierra situation,' said
Nick at length using Sabre-speak for 'serious deep shit'. This
time no one laughed.
'Okay, Nick,' said Morgan. 'You'd better open the service
bay door for an eyeball.'
Rowe acknowledged, gave himself some more lifeline
slack and edged along the underside of the fuselage towards
the two-metre-square cargo loading and service bay door.
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David Morgan had ruled that the main door to the service
bay should be opened first and not the hatch in the flight
deck floor. The explosion and fire would have unleashed a
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whole host of toxic particles which would have to be flushed
out before opening the flight-deck hatch could be risked.
Also the internal damage could be surveyed more effectively
from the big outer door without venturing inside.
Even before Rowe reached the door, Allenby and the
watchers at BASOR could see the evidence of the secondary
explosion that had taken place inside the service bay. There
were several holes in the skin, punched through from inside.
The largest was twenty centimetres across and was doubtless
responsible for Sabre's tumble when escaping air had
geysered out.
Rowe reached the door and saw that it had been dished
outwards by the impact of something inside. He panned his
helmet camera slowly across the damage.
Morgan killed his microphone. 'Oh, fuck - looks like the
latches will be buggered.'
Rowe felt in his belt for the T-handle key and pushed it
against the spring-loaded plunger at the side of the door.
The key went home and engaged on the winding gear spline
but refused to turn. Normally it required twenty turns from
inside or outside to retract the eight massive pins that
secured the door in its frame against its pressure seals. Only
when the pins were fully withdrawn could the door be
opened inwards. It was a simple and safe mechanism, and it
was jammed.
He sweated and strained for two minutes, and even tried
turning the key by a series of quick jerks, but getting a good
purchase was virtually impossible when weightless. His
suit's dehumidifier had trouble keeping up with his exertions,
causing his helmet to mist up.
'Solid,' he panted. 'Can't get as much as a whisker of a
turn.'
'Okay, Nick,' said Morgan. 'Take a breather and return to
the flight-deck . . . Skipper.'
Allenby acknowledged.
'We've got a clearer picture on your consumables. If you
approve, Nick's going to have to go into the service bay
through the flight-deck hatch on this EVA session while the
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flight-deck is depressurised. You can't afford the compressed
air to pressurise and depressurise the flight-deck if it can be
avoided, so let's do it now while the flight-deck's a vacuum.'
Morgan's ruling made sense. The flight deck's atmosphere
had to be bled off into space each time it was depressurised.
'Understood,' said Allenby.
Nick reached the windows. 'Looks like Antarctica coming
up,' he commented, resting. 'Tell you what, skipper, I ought
to get a mention in the Guinness Book of Records -- this is
one hell of an overshoot for Sydney.' He eased himself
through the roof hatch and closed it. He felt better with his [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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