Launch on Need by Daniel Guiteras (small books to read txt) 📗

clock. It was just after seven in the evening, so he figured this to be an early call. Rivas knew the four primary astronauts got their calls first, and then the four backups. Same for every mission.

“I was calling to see if you’d be in town around the end of this month. Avery is going to need a pilot.”

“Flipper is going to be the commander?”

And then Rivas realized he was only NASA’s second call—the second call for astronaut selection on the only rescue mission in the history of manned spaceflight. Adrenaline poured through him like flood waters down a storm drain. He tried to speak, but couldn’t make his muscles work in synergy.

“Rivas, you still there?” Thomassan asked above the rhythmic passing of cars in the background.

“Ah, yes, I’m here,” was all he could manage.

“So will you be in town or…”

“Hell, yes, I’ll be here, yes I want to be the pilot!” he finally exclaimed.

“Well, good. Welcome aboard STS-300, then. The crew will be meeting tonight at nine, at the usual spot.”

“No problem, Greg, I’ll be there.”

“See you then.”

Rivas closed his phone and tipped his head back to look up at the sky, and then let out a howl.

“Hang tight, guys, we’re comin’ to get you,” he said, barely getting the last words out before he choked up with emotion.

He hoped his friends on Columbia could hear him.

He lowered his gaze and found the waning gibbous moon.

Rivas always looked for the moon in the night sky. He did it out of respect, as a humble acknowledgment of how small he was in this great universe.

The magnitude of the call began to take hold, and the tears of joy, of worry, of excitement, of so many emotions, came.

Rivas wiped his eyes in an attempt to focus, then watched his rearview mirror for traffic behind him to clear. He had first gear selected and the clutch pedal buried to the floor. When his opening in the traffic finally came, he revved the engine to three-quarters throttle, dumped the clutch, then stood on the gas. He hollered once more as smoke billowed from both rear wheel wells. He let off the throttle slightly and the tires began to bite, propelling him forward, but not before leaving about 5,000 miles’ worth of rubber on the shoulder.

Chapter 34

The Outpost Tavern

NASA Parkway at Egret Bay

Webster, Texas

NASA CHIEF ASTRONAUT Greg Thomassan sat alone in a booth for six, carefully collecting his thoughts while his index finger nudged a lemon slice back and forth in his schooner of Hefeweizen.

He could not say how many times he’d been to this same place, same booth even. But, regardless of how many times he had welcomed a new group of astronauts, hosted the customary congratulatory meeting for a new shuttle crew, he knew this one was certain to be different.

Never before had he felt compelled to talk a newly selected crew out of their mission.

With all his experience, Thomassan felt ill-prepared somehow, felt that everything was being rushed. He wished he had more time to better explain to the crew of STS-300 what they were agreeing to. He was certain they were ignoring the risks, that they had given no thought at all to the potential outcomes of the mission. He wondered if their calling to fly had been packaged with a set of jumpers that allowed critical circuits in their brains to be bypassed. Maybe, he thought, an important row of synapses deep within their genetic code had been set to zero. Something was keeping the reasoning centers of their brains from firing.

Thomassan smiled as he thought about two of the STS-300 crew in particular: Commander Avery and Pilot Rivas, both former aircraft-carrier pilots. Anyone crazy enough to fly a “tail hook,” Thomassan thought, had obviously skipped the chapters in the flight manual that addressed risks. These two had probably skipped right to the chapter entitled: “What to Do When You’re Five Minutes Out on Final Approach to the Carrier.”

Thomassan knew Avery was the right choice for commander. She had commanded two previous missions and was ready to go. It just so happened Avery was female, which in Thomassan’s mind made absolutely no difference at all; but he had heard the decision gave NASA’s public affairs office yet another marketing tool. A woman heading up the rescue mission. Perfect.

Thomassan was equally certain of Edward Rivas. Rivas and Avery had worked together before and had proven to be a good team. Their combined experience, spirit and sheer talent had figured heavily in their selection for this mission. Their drive for glory would help get NASA’s mission accomplished.

But the order was, in fact, quite tall. Assuming Atlantis could be readied as outlined in the rescue timeline, there were still a million things that could go wrong. Everything was vulnerable; it could be anything from a main engine to a $50 sensor that told them: Sorry, you won’t be flying.

NASA also was going to need a commander and a pilot who were very proficient in close-quarter manual docking and flying techniques. The rendezvous procedures called for Atlantis to be flown manually within tens of feet of Columbia’s open payload bay for eight to nine hours. That was the amount of time Senca’s Tiger Team estimated it would take to transfer the crew of Columbia over to Atlantis. Thomassan knew that if anybody could do it, Avery and Rivas could.

Thomassan did not look up when he heard the burst of noise coming through the front door of the tavern, but he did smile, knowing they had arrived.

Everything happened on cue. The high fives, the big voices, the chants from the astronaut groupies, the pats on the back, and the shouts from several tables, “Go Atlantis” and “Go get ’em guys.” He had seen and heard it countless times before.

When Thomassan finally looked their way, he saw the four of them walking