Into the New Millennium: Trailblazing Tales From Analog Science Fiction and Fact, 2000 - 2010 (40 page)

"The LM didn't have a barbecue mode. We had to fire the jets manually to start the ship spinning."

"Noted."

"But the flight is so short, you don't need to worry about overheating. It might be best to just let it coast. It will also be one less thing for the pilot to worry about."

"Yes, sir," Mr. Taylor said. "The cargo pilot has a lock on you."

Mr. Smith looked at the ceiling. "The upper window is blocked. Can't see target."

"That's okay," Mr. Taylor said. "You don't have to line up and dock. The cargo ship is going to match rates and take you into its hold."

"It's big enough for that?" Smith said.

Mr. Taylor smiled. "Yes, sir. It's a fuel tanker."

On the computer screen, I saw the curve of the Moon's horizon below us. "Look at the crescent Earth!" I blurted out in excitement. Mr. Smith ignored me. At least I could verify that this part of the simulation was correct. The Moon I'd seen last night was just past full, and the Earth and Moon were always in opposite phases. I wondered if I'd ever see the Earth from the Moon for real? I hoped so.

As the ship arced around to the far side of the Moon, the Earth sank below the horizon. Long sunrise shadows spread across rough crater floors below us.

"Got you," Mr. Taylor said. The simulation stopped.

"We going into blackout now?" Mr. Smith asked.

"No sir, we have almost continual communications thanks to lunar orbiting relay satellites."

Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow even though Mr. Taylor could not see him.

"It still takes 1.3 seconds for light to travel one way from the Moon, 2.6 seconds roundtrip. But with your help, we'll have the computer programmed to handle most problems."

"Yeah," Mr. Smith agreed. "Pings works pretty good."

I mouthed "Pings?" at Dr. Winkler.

He whispered back, "Sounds like an acronym for the navigation program."

I nodded and mouthed "Thanks" back at him.

"Need to run it again with some failures?" Mr. Smith asked.

"Yes, that would be very helpful," Mr. Taylor said. "But first let's take a break and see what questions the pilot and guidance team have for you."

Dr. Winkler helped Mr. Smith to the sofa on the side of the office, and I sat down too. I don't know which one of us was more dazed. "Can I call my wife now?" Mr. Smith asked. "She'll probably worry."

Dr. Winkler smiled. "She's fine. She's with her mother."

"Oh, right," Mr. Smith said. He looked down at his slippers. "Mother is going to be mad."

It was the strangest afternoon and evening I had ever spent in my life. I stood by Mr. Smith while he flew one simulation after another, with jets failed, with computer problems, with navigation errors, with popped circuit breakers. As I watched, I realized that even with his Alzheimer's, Mr. Smith still knew more about spaceflight than most people alive today. I felt incredibly lucky to have the chance to learn even a tiny bit of what he could teach me.

During breaks we ate snacks and drank decaf coffee and followed the progress of the crew on the Moon. Ms. Phillips had gotten the injured historian strapped into the module.

Dr. Winkler called my mother and asked if I could stay for dinner and into the evening. He said he had recruited me to help with a memory experiment involving one of the patients, and it would mean a lot if I were there until the patient went to bed. He'd get me a cab home. My mother fully supported my activities here, and after verifying with me that I had done my homework in study hall as usual, agreed I could stay as late as ten.

A nurse brought us dinner, and we ate there in Dr. Winkler's office. Mr. Smith fell asleep on the sofa soon afterward. I moved the simulation equipment out to the lounge and connected the big television to the NASA feed. Then I returned to Dr. Winkler' office.

The flight team was discussing possibly changing the rendezvous sequence. Because the batteries in the spacesuits had only a few hours left, the initial decision was to fly something called a direct ascent. But Mr. Smith had advised against it, saying that direct ascent was too risky for
Apollo
. As a result, Flight Director Taylor ordered a special "tiger" team to investigate options and report back.

One of the tiger team members confirmed that direct ascent wasn't used for
Apollo
. "Although that option is the simplest, requiring only a single burn of the ascent engine to put the LM on a path to intercept the target ship a half orbit later," the man reported, "the
Apollo
team felt that the likelihood of variations in the thrust during ascent presented too much risk. The short duration of the approach didn't allow much time for their old computers to calculate, and the crew to execute, the maneuvers to correct the flight path. If those corrections weren't made, the LM would miss the interception point and crash into the lunar surface."

"Couldn't the command module have changed course and rescued the LM?" the flight director asked.

"In some cases," the man replied. "But course changes require fuel, and its fuel was very limited."

"I assume that the computer and fuel issues do not apply in our case?"

"That's correct," the man responded.

"Flight, Lunar Ops," a woman's voice called.

"Go ahead, Lunar Ops," the flight director said.

A short pause ensued. "Thank you, sir. My main concern is time. No offense to the guidance team, but they were still making changes to the software half an hour ago. There's a reasonable chance that we will need Ms. Phillips to take manual control. I understand she has walked through the procedures in the cockpit, but that's no substitute for flight experience—especially with an untested vehicle! She needs time to adjust to the actual vehicle and environment. The coelliptic sequence gives her a whole lunar orbit to do that—and also makes my job as cargo pilot easier if I have to rescue her."
She's the one who will fly the cargo ship remotely! She's probably at the lunar south pole!

"Flight, Surgeon."

"Go ahead, Surgeon."

"Sir, I understand Lunar Ops' concern, but an extra hour trapped in that spacesuit may mean the difference between life and death for the injured historian, Dr. Canterbury. We're also concerned about Ms. Phillips' state of mind. She was severely traumatized by the death of the pilot and is barely able to follow simple directions. The sooner both of them get out of those suits, the better their chances for survival."

Guidance assured the flight director that the new software would support direct ascent, especially after the simulations with Mr. Smith. The flight director decided to stick with direct ascent.

"Flight, Lunar Ops."

"Go ahead, Lunar Ops."

Another short delay followed that I now understood was because of the distance the signal had to travel. "I understand and will do my best to support the direct ascent. But I have a request. No offense to the guidance team, but speaking as a pilot, I'd feel a lot better if we have that
Apollo
astronaut do any flying that's necessary."

"You mean have Mr. Smith input the commands to the autopilot program? I'm not sure he'll be up to it. Doctor Winkler, what do you think?"

"Sir, I'm sorry," Dr. Winkler said. "But I don't know what state he will be in when he wakes up from his rest. I have some medication I can give him that should help, and George and I will do our best to remind him of the circumstances. But I suggest that you go with your original plan to have one of your astronauts run the autopilot and talk Ms. Phillips through any problems."

"Excuse me, Flight," the flight surgeon interjected. "How about if we have Mr. Smith serve as a coach for Ms. Phillips? Being a historian, having an
Apollo
astronaut looking over her shoulder could keep her calm and also give her the confidence she needs."

"That's an excellent idea," Lunar Ops said.

"Doctor Winkler?'

He glanced over at me. "George, you know how he usually behaves after his afternoon naps. Think he can do it?"

I gulped. The fate of two people might depend on my decision. I looked at Mr. Smith sleeping peacefully. Usually, a nap "reset" his memory. But given the right "props," I could probably get him back into his astronaut mindset in time for the launch, now only forty-five minutes away. I took a deep breath and nodded yes. I hoped I wouldn't regret this!

Doctor Winkler and the capcom, who was a current astronaut with lunar experience, agreed to do a voice check and let Mr. Smith talk to Ms. Phillips before the launch. At that time, we'd decide if he could continue on the live loop and be given command authority to the autopilot.

I stood up. "Dr. Winkler, I'm going to get Mr. Smith's shoes—his slippers remind him of his mother."

The doctor nodded in understanding. "While you're up there, see if he has a white shirt. And bring a belt too. People used to dress up back then."

"Roger!" I said, and dashed out for the elevator.

When I returned, the liftoff was only a half hour away. Dr. Winkler was talking on his cell—something about a security team. He disconnected when he saw me and said, "Time to wake our famous moonwalker."

Dr. Winkler set a wind-up alarm clock (no voice controls!) next to Mr. Smith and let it ring. Mr. Smith immediately nabbed it and shut it off. He blinked and stared at Dr. Winkler, who had donned his white lab coat. "Do I know you?" he asked. Dr. Winkler explained that he was a NASA flight surgeon. He regretted waking him, but Mission Control needed Mr. Smith's assistance.

"There's a mission on?" he asked, straightening up.

"Yes, and they're in trouble," Dr. Winkler said as he handed him the white golf shirt I'd brought. The doctor explained what had happened to Ms. Phillips, and that Mission Control wanted him to talk her through a lunar ascent and rendezvous. Mr. Smith looked confused. "We beat the Russians, and quit flying to the Moon," he insisted.

"Yes, we did," the doctor agreed. "But then we went back to the Moon as partners. Ms. Phillips was visiting the Moon when the accident happened."

I cringed. I wish he hadn't used the word "accident." It might evoke memories of Mr. Smith's wife. But Mr. Smith was more focused on the first part of the sentence. "Partners? With the Russians? Like
Apollo-Soyuz?
"

"That's right," Dr. Winkler said. "Like
Apollo-Soyuz
, only on the Moon."

"Okay," Mr. Smith said. "And they got in trouble?"

"Yes," Dr. Winkler repeated. I helped Mr. Smith with his shoes and then his belt. I combed his thin white hair. He suddenly noticed me and stared at my badge. "What kind of badge is that? Are you press? Reporters aren't allowed in here."

"I'm not a reporter, Mr. Smith. I'm George. I'm uh, a member of the guidance team," I said quickly in an attempt to use an appropriate term. I thought of adding that I was in charge of the "manual" system, but stopped myself.

"Then don't call me Mr. Smith," he barked. "Makes me feel old."

"Okay, Bob," I said with a wink.

Dr. Winkler handed him a cup of coffee spiked with some of that pink medicine. Mr. Smith sipped it gratefully. "Ready?" Dr. Winkler asked.

"Where are we going?" Mr. Smith asked.

"To the hotel lobby—we've set up a direct link to Mission Control. We're going to help a young woman take off from the Moon."

"Better call my wife," he said. "She'll be worried."

"She's visiting her mother," Dr. Winkler explained.

"Oh? That's good," he said.

I heard a thumping sound as we approached the double doors at the front of the building. "Whoa," I said. "There's a helicopter in the parking lot!"

"Darn press," mumbled Mr. Smith. His hands curled into fists.

"No, sir, that's Homeland Se—I mean the Air Force," Dr. Winkler said.
So that's who he was talking to on the phone! Wonder what they're doing here.

"Oh, of course," Mr. Smith said, his hands relaxing again.

A man in a black suit with a security bud in his ear was asking Yvonne a question. With her eyes as large as saucers, she pointed in our direction. The man turned toward us. I thought he looked like one of those guys who guard the president.
Maybe he did
. He saluted Mr. Smith as we walked past, and Mr. Smith acknowledged him with a curt nod. Then Mr. Smith blew a kiss at Yvonne, who blushed deeply enough to match the purple of the front desk.

Would she guess who Mr. Smith was now? Even if she did, I realized that I would not be able to confirm her suspicions without breaking my word. I'd always thought of security as keeping bad guys out, not good guys in!

Is that why DHS was here? To make sure no one tried to kidnap Mr. Smith? Age and Alzheimer's had kind of done that already. Or were they here to keep the media out in case someone leaked that one of the original moonwalkers was alive and helping them? Or both?

At the doorway to the lounge, another man in black stopped us. Mr. Smith waited patiently while he asked me to raise my arms and ran a metal detector over me like they do at airports. He confiscated my phone, saying no recordings or photos were allowed. Did I understand?

I didn't know if this was an act for Mr. Smith's benefit or not, but I quickly replied, "Yes sir!" Lakewood did not to allow the taking of photos or videos of the residents by non-family members, anyway. Now I understand just how important that rule was to someone like Mr. Smith.

A nicely dressed middle-aged woman stood up as we shuffled Mr. Smith into the darkened lounge. She pecked Mr. Smith on the cheek. "Good to see you again, Flyboy!" she said. With an exaggerated wink, she added, "Name's Ruth, in case you forgot."

Mr. Smith didn't show any signs of recognizing this woman, but he returned her wink and said, "I never forget a beautiful woman!"

Dr. Winkler explained that Ruth Pressa was the relative who had granted permission to contact Mission Control. She shook my hand warmly and whispered in my ear, "Thank you for being such a good friend to my great-grandfather. It means a lot to our family."