The Antiterrorist: A Jake Corby Sci-Fi Thriller (Mysterious Events Book 2) (6 page)

I twisted around to see my watch and pulled a neck muscle.
Ow.

I could only see the first three digits on the watch: eleven-oh-something. I started rubbing my binding up and down against the boiler support. The knots were good, but the rope was not. It was polypropylene, which meant that I could build up enough frictional heat to make it fail. If I had enough time.

Between rubbings, I pulled against the rope until my shoulder sockets screamed at me. Was it stretching? Rub, pull, wiggle, repeat. Over and over. Finally, my wrists slick with sweat, I got just enough slack to wriggle one hand free.

I checked my watch. 11:34. If they bombed the place, it could happen at any second. I didn’t have time to break out. Searching for shelter, I opened a door near the bottom of the boiler and stuck my head in. It was a vertical boiler, shaped like a beer can with rounded ends. Tubes filled the interior, leaving no room for me.

But the tubes were rusty and crumbly. I pulled one, and it popped right out. In five minutes I had a Corby-sized nest carved out with a bed of rust flakes. I stuck my feet in with my hands on the floor as if doing push-ups, then walked my hands back, folded myself inside, and creaked the door closed.

I waited.
Stupid idea?
Maybe someone would come in and say, “Well, what the hell are you doing in there?” If my text hadn’t gotten through, perhaps the thugs would come back and think I’d escaped. But they’d figure it out unless I was vewy, vewy quiet and—

Boom!
It was like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. The boiler flew sideways, crashed onto its side, bounced, and rolled. I was in a snow-globe of rust particles.

After brushing the rust bits off my face, I opened my jaw wide. Banging the wall of my capsule, I heard nothing. Yup, I was deaf. Deaf but alive. With the rush of adrenaline I started shaking. Would there be another explosion? I didn’t care. I wanted out. Plus, I had to pee. I took care of that by opening the coverall and peeing into the rust dust. Too much information?

The boiler was on its side, and the door, my escape hatch, was against the floor. I was in a beer-can coffin. I have a touch of claustrophobia, and the urge to straighten my legs was unbearable. Deep breathing helped. A little.

Of course it was pitch-black in there. I kept hearing the line from
Tommy
: “That deaf, dumb and blind kid, sure plays a mean pinball.” I was no pinball wizard, but all the adjectives fit. Especially “dumb.”

I started rocking the boiler. Had it been on a flat, level surface, that would have worked, but there must have been debris impeding the roll. Back and forth I rocked. Did it go a little further each time?

I took a break and must have fallen asleep. When I checked my watch, it was seven a.m. Back to work.

Rock-a-bye boiler, repeated thirty times, and I was able to kick the door open, hinge side uppermost. The boiler rocked back, and the half-open door propped it up. Could I slither out?

I stuck my head out and froze. What was that noise? A wonderful noise: the barking of a dog. I decided then and there that I loved dogs. Especially rescue dogs. I yelled. Would it be loud enough? Unlikely. I popped my head back into my beer can and, with the light from my watch, found a heavy piece of metal. I banged it against the boiler’s wall. My hearing had come back, and my efforts resulted in healthy, resonant booms.

Eventually the rescuers knocked back from above.
Saved.

After another hour, they dug their way down to the room and I yelled to let them know where I was. They crashed around and then rolled the boiler over and opened the door. They shined their lights on me, and one of them said, “Well, what the hell are you doing in there?”

The rescuers pulled me out, and I hugged them until they told me I wasn’t their type. Rust dust covered every part of me. The rescue dog, a huge German shepherd, was exuberant. I guess I was his reward for the search. I hugged him, too.

They stretchered me onto a Coastguard helicopter. As we lifted off, headed to the hospital (again), I craned my stiff neck to watch the pile of rubble recede. That could have been my grave.

CHAPTER FOUR

December 23, 2011

Hallstrom had received my text, which dovetailed with other intelligence he’d received, and the Air Force blasted the pulp mill to a, well, to a pulp. There wasn’t time for anything less dramatic. I viewed the gun camera footage. How did I survive that?

The strike took out the death-ray device that would have finished off the ISS. It had also killed the terrorists, Broker and McClaren.

Two weeks later, I was the guest of honor in the White House Situation Room. Together with the president, Secretary Clinton, Hallstrom and others, we watched the unfolding of the plan NASA had cobbled together to get the astronauts back to Earth.

It was risky but simple: NASA, together with the SpaceX corporation, would retrieve the astronauts with an unmanned cargo capsule.

SpaceX modified their Dragon automated cargo vehicle, adding seats, handholds, and communications. When Dragon arrived at the ISS, Canadarm, the station’s big mechanical arm, grappled it and pulled it close. The plan was to have the astronauts pop out of the ISS, hop into the Dragon, and zip back home to their loved ones.

I had expected a few hours of reality entertainment, followed by a brief celebratory cocktail party and dinner with Mary at the five-star Bourbon Steak restaurant.

The station’s airlock hatch opened. A fixed camera gave us a great view. The hatch was on the left of the screen, and the Dragon was on the right, ten feet away. The hatch reminded me of the door on my rusty boiler, only larger. Commander Ray Shepard drifted out first, followed by Catherine Pettit. All they had to do was float over to the capsule, unhook their tethers, and hop in. It would have been a cakewalk of a spacewalk, but it wasn’t, because the space station started spinning.

McGraw stiffened. “This is not good.”

Slowly at first, the curved surface of the earth moved down. For a minute the background was black, and then Earth reappeared at the top of the screen.

McGraw pinched the skin at his throat. “As long as the spin doesn’t accelerate, we’ll be okay.”

But it did accelerate.

Houston’s transmission filled the room. “Station, a faulty attitude-control thruster is firing and we can’t shut it down. The spin is going to get worse, so we need you to get to Dragon immediately.”

“Copy, Houston,” Ray said.

Soon Earth and the blackness of space alternated every five seconds, and a wave of queasiness radiated up from my stomach.
Oh, no. Not again.

Catherine missed a handhold near the airlock. Ray tried to grab her, but failed. Centrifugal force threw her out to the limit of her safety tether. She smashed into a radiator assembly on the way.

With the combination of fixed cameras and helmet cams I was right there with them. Catherine was at the end of her tether, like a child on a swing carousel at a carnival. I no longer wanted to grow up to be an astronaut.

Houston said, “Stand by, Catherine, we are moving Dragon toward you now.”

The Canadarm, with Dragon on the end, extended. Ray released his grip on the ISS and was flung out toward Dragon. He hit the capsule hard and held on. Ray and the Dragon were now between the ISS and Catherine, with her tether taut in front of Ray.

He grabbed it and tried to pull her in. Since he had to hold onto Dragon with his other hand, he couldn’t move her in more than a few feet. There was nothing for him to wrap his legs around. The astronauts were weak as kittens after their extended stay in microgravity. Here on Earth, comfortable in a plush chair, I started breathing harder.
What’s it like for them?

Houston continued to extend the Canadarm, and after five minutes, with Ray tugging hard and Catherine pulling herself in hand-over-hand, she grabbed Ray and held on.

The spin rate had increased to one revolution per second. From the fixed camera, the ISS seemed stable while the universe rotated around it. The Canadarm continued extending. Ray released his tether, but Catherine’s was as taut as a bow string.

We had the two astronauts and Dragon connected to the out-of-control ISS via the grappling arm and Catherine’s tether. It made me think of the Olympic hammer throw. The athlete spins around with a heavy ball on the end of a cable and then lets it fly. The ISS was the Olympian, and the astronauts were the ball.

The CAPCOM in Houston sounded stressed for the first time. “Station, the Canadarm can’t handle the centrifugal force. We have to let go. Catherine, release your tether.”

“Negative, Houston,” she said. “I can’t release it. There’s too much tension on the hook. I can open the latch, but I can’t unhook.” She sounded as if she were doing bench presses with a heavy barbell.

“Ray, can you assist her?”

“Negative, Houston, I can’t get to her.”

The words of the CAPCOM tumbled out. “You must get unhooked, Catherine. If we don’t release Dragon, the arm will break off. Part of it will remain attached to Dragon, and you won’t be able to reenter the atmosphere.”

“Understood, Houston, but—”

“Station, we are releasing Dragon in five, four, three—”

“Houston, I—”

The Canadarm broke, and Dragon, with Ray clinging to it, was flung away, just as in the Olympics. Catherine, still tethered to the ISS, was forced to release her grip on Dragon. She had to get untethered and fast, because her taxi home was spinning off into space. With both hands now free, she unsnapped and flew away on her own trajectory.

I put my hands up to the sides of my head, looking like that scream painting.

Mission control came over the speakers. “Houston on two for Catherine. Please say status.”

“No,” Catherine said. “Oh God oh God oh God … stand by … engaging my SAFER.”

McGraw said, his voice low, “SAFER is Catherine’s jet pack.”

So maybe we’d only be able to bring one hero home. Was it sexist of me to think it would have been better if Catherine were the one on Dragon? The one they could save?

The station and its fixed cameras were now spinning so fast we couldn’t decipher the image, but one of the Houston techs grabbed a still frame. Catherine was on one side of the screen and Dragon on the other. Both were blurred due to the spin.

Catherine’s voice returned, more relaxed now. “Houston, I’m moving toward Dragon. It’s about five-hundred meters away.”

“Copy, Catherine. Don’t use your thrusters now. Stand by. Ray, can you point your helmet cam at her and keep it steady?”

“Affirm, Houston. Dragon is rotating.”

“Copy, Ray. We’re working on that. Stay clear of the attitude thrusters down by the trunk.”

“Copy, Houston.”

Houston said, “Okay, Catherine, we confirm you are closing on Dragon. Recommend no course corrections until you are within twenty meters.”

“Copy, Houston. Thank you.” Catherine’s voice sounded professional again despite being alone in space.

“Ray, can you give us eyes on Dragon’s grapple point?”

The helmet cam view shifted from Catherine to Dragon. A section of the arm stood out from the hull, perhaps three feet long.

“Ray, can you move in closer?”

“Affirm, Houston. What are our options?”

“Ah, Ray, we’re working on it, but it looks like we need to just leave it in place and hope for the best.”

McGraw spoke up. “The danger is that it will destabilize the capsule during reentry, causing it to tumble and burn up.”

“Ray, can you give us eyes on Catherine again, please?”

The view shifted. Catherine was closer but still small and spinning slowly.

“Dragon, Houston on two for Ray. We’d like you to open the hatch now.”

“Copy, Houston. We’ve stopped spinning. Standing by for instructions.”

“Ray, we have to rush this, as you’re coming to darkness. Sunset in five minutes. Catherine say status.”

“I’m okay, Houston, but I feel very weak and tired.”

“Understood, Catherine. Hang in there.”

Following instructions, Ray got the hatch open but remained on the exterior of the hull. Dragon passed from day to night, the light disappearing quickly. The craft had green and red navigation lights even though it made no sense to think in terms of starboard or port. It also had white lights that strobed in a triplet pattern.

“Ray, can you see Catherine?”

“Negative, Houston.”

“Catherine is your helmet light switched on?”

“It is, Houston, but … stand by … it’s very dim.”

“Can you see Dragon?”

“Affirmative.”

The centrifugal force had flung them far away from the ISS. It was no longer part of the equation, or so I thought.

Houston said, “Catherine, please point your helmet light directly at Dragon. Ray, can you see her?”

“Negative, Houston.”

“Okay, copy. Dragon, we have another issue to deal with. Your orbit will intercept that of the ISS in forty minutes. So we need to get both of you inside dragon and perform the deorbit burn before that happens.”