Shattered Legacy (24 page)

McManus grinned. “It could have been worse, Elliot. The company could have slapped logos on our space suits like a NASCAR driver. Now
that
would have been undignified.”

***

The
Naiad
streaked across the terminator that split the planet into day and night. Webs of twinkling lights marked the major world cities as they scrolled through the darkness below.

McManus smiled as he gazed through the port cockpit window. He wished he could stay up here forever, lost above the world. He lifted his eyes to see a backdrop of stars and the shimmering white moon edging over the curved blue horizon. Beyond that was a curtain of glimmering stars, more than could ever be seen from Earth.

“Hey, that’s enough star-gazing,” said his pilot, startling him from his reverie. “It’s time to work.”

Reluctantly, McManus pushed himself from the window, propelling himself backward through the micro-gravity toward his padded seat. He pulled himself into place, strapped himself in, and turned to his controls. The others were already in their seats.

Schwartz jotted a few notes and pressed his clipboard against the Velcro strip on the wall panel.

“ETA with the International Space Station is fifteen minutes,” Schwartz reported, more for the benefit of the media feeds that were monitoring ground-to-space communications than out of courtesy for his commander.

McManus and Schwartz both worked the cockpit controls, programming for the approach vector to the space station that was now three thousand kilometers away and closing. The astronauts went through their computerized checklist, verifying the orbiter data against Ground Control's telemetry feed. They had been following the International Space Station since launch, circling the earth every ninety minutes, matching the station's orbital inclination of 51.6 degrees to the equator.

Three hours ago, they had ignited the
Naiad's
secondary thrusters in order to catch up with the station. Now the ISS appeared over the horizon. As they got closer, the four hundred and fifty ton, one hundred meter long station seemed to grow in size. Home to a six-member international crew, the station was all solar panels and modules, looking like a disjointed insect made of tin cans glued to pipes.

McManus leaned back into his restraints and stretched, his fingertips brushing the padded ceiling. He looked at the photograph of his wife and daughter he had taped above the cockpit window. He hoped they were watching this on television or online.

After docking with the ISS and a quick ceremonial meeting, the
Naiad
team was, at best, looking at six hours of unloading cargo. They would finish the job late in the ISS's 'night'. After some sleep, they would depart the next morning, lap the planet a few times, and land at the Thomas Dorian Space Center. Overall, it was a quick and relatively simple mission.

“International Space Station, this is the T.I.
Naiad
,” he said into his transmitter. “Do you copy? Over.”

The reply came back a few seconds later. “T.I.
Naiad
,” said a cheerful voice with a slight Russian accent. “Good evening! So nice of you to visit us. Over.”

“Docking port and sealant systems nominal,” reported Schwartz.

“Ready to begin docking procedures,” McManus said.

“Confirmed,” came the reply from the space station.

One final check of the computer readouts and Schwartz flipped three switches. Additional retros initiated on a pre-programmed burn. Though nothing felt different, the
Naiad
was gradually slowing its speed and lowering its altitude to match that of the ISS.

It was a slow process; another ten minutes would pass before they reached docking range.

***

On Earth, Noah Gettleman thought the wait would last forever.

He stood by the main platform of the Control Tower, watching his people work with quiet efficiency. Until yesterday, he had been so proud of his organization. Now he was not so sure. After his last meeting with Jack Kroft, Gettleman had spent almost every waking hour in the Tower, watching, waiting and hoping that nothing would go wrong.

With heavy steps, he walked up the stairs to the main command console. He came up behind the center chair and placed a hand on the occupant's shoulder.

“You’re relieved,” he said.

Assistant Flight Director Brian Ebeling held his headset in place with one hand and looked up expectantly. “Sir?”

“I’ll handle the docking sequence.”

“Yes, sir.” Without another word, the younger man gave up his seat.

Gettleman settled into the warm chair and rolled it over to the railing. “Alan, how are we doing?” he asked the Guidance Procedures Officer on the level below.

“No problems,” the GPO replied without looking up. The onboard navigation readouts from his screen were reflected in the oval lenses of his glasses. “Computers have the docking course laid in. The pilot's ready to return to manual.”

“Everything checks out? Nothing out of the ordinary?”

The station chief inclined his head, but still did not look up. “Should there be, sir?”

Gettleman hesitated. “No.” He adjusted his headset and rolled back to his console. “Patch me through, audio only.”

“You’re on.”

“Commander,” Gettleman said into his headset. “How’s the view up there? Over.”

There was a light burst of static. “Noah! Good to hear you!” McManus said with a laugh over the main audio speakers. “I didn’t know you were scheduled for our docking procedure.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Gettleman looked across the room at the main wall monitor. The navigation numbers scrolled, showing the shrinking distance between the orbiter and the International Space Station.

“We have a go for docking from the International Space Station,” McManus reported.

“Confirmed,” Gettleman said, glancing over at his GPO, who returned a thumbs-up sign. “Guidance gives a go for docking.”

“Switching to manual,” McManus reported. “Secondary retro burn initiating in three … two … one.”

***

There was a loud thump as the
Naiad
latched to the docking port of the International Space Station. Lingering vibrations from the impact were felt throughout the orbiter. They would disappear in a few moments as thick springs in the ISS docking ring absorbed the energy of impact. The astronauts glanced around expectantly. Only the muted sound of the air scrubbers filled the cockpit.

“We have capture,” reported McManus.

“
Naiad
, congratulations on a picture-perfect docking,” Gettleman told them.

“Thank you, Control,” replied McManus with a smile. “We’re going to go check and see if anyone’s home. Over and out.”

Quickly the three astronauts unstrapped themselves from their seats, pushed themselves across the cockpit, and floated toward the hatch.

Synchronizing the airlock between the orbiter and the space station took nearly half an hour of checking, rechecking, and radioing reports between the two space vehicles and ground control. Finally, the locks were released. There was a hiss of air as the astronauts pulled open the hatch. Floating in zero gravity, they maneuvered themselves into the service chamber and sealed the hatch behind them. They waited for the indicator light on the second hatch door to change from red to green. There was another hiss of air as the hatch synchronized. A rumble of gears sounded as the door opened. McManus gripped the padded bars and pulled himself 'up' into the space station. Elliot Schwartz and Todd Boynton followed close behind. McManus twisted himself in midair, caught the edge of the hatch, and looked up.

“Welcome to the International Space Station,” said Flight Engineer Vadik Pivovar. He was the Russian cosmonaut that McManus had spoken with earlier. The cosmonaut was dressed in a standard blue jumpsuit. He had bright blue eyes and cropped black hair. Holding himself against the hatch edge, Pivovar stuck out his hand and smiled broadly.

“Permission to come aboard?” McManus asked formally, shaking hands with the floating Russian.

“Permission granted.”

McManus pulled himself in and glanced around at the cluttered walls of the module. He was surprised at how noisy the place was. With the continual rumbling and rattles, it was no wonder the station inhabitants wore earplugs while they slept.

“I was watching your ship on approach,” Pivovar said. “It's a beautiful machine.”

“Thank you,” McManus replied, grasping a handhold and pulling himself out of the way of the others. “It’s her first major flight. If we have time, we can give the station members a tour.”

Pivovar helped the rest of the
Naiad
crew inside. He offered quick introductions and explained that the rest of the station crew was asleep in the habitation modules. “We are ready to help unloading the supplies,” Pivovar told them. “What time will you need to prepare?”

“We can start immediately,” McManus said, floating freely in the cramped passageway. “We can finish in about six hours. Most of the work will be done by grappling arms from within the orbiter, so we won’t need to even suit up.”

The Russian nodded. “Very good. I am on duty in twenty minutes, so I will be your station contact.”

As the
Naiad
crew returned through the hatch to the orbiter, McManus motioned for Pivovar to stay behind. He waited until they were alone in the chamber before he spoke.

“Templar Enterprises sends this to you, with regards.” McManus opened a pouch on his left thigh and removed a small plastic container emblazoned with a Templar logo. He tossed the container to the Russian, who caught the floating object with one hand.

Pivovar shook the sealed container. Its contents sloshed about. “What is this?”

“It's an astronaut's screwdriver.”

“A screwdriver?” The Russian frowned. “This is not a tool.”

McManus grinned. “It's a drink.”

“Oh?”

“A ‘screwdriver’ would be a drink of orange juice and vodka.”

Pivovar's eyes narrowed. “Alcohol is not allowed on the station.”

“That’s why it’s an
astronaut’s
screwdriver – it’s alcohol-free. Actually, it’s orange juice-free, too. Hell, it’s just
Tang
– but the bottle itself is a collectable.” McManus gripped the handhold to begin lowering himself back into the hatch. “Regs
are
regs, after all. You wouldn’t want to get caught with contraband up here.”

Pivovar looked at the bottle wistfully. “Oh, we wouldn’t want that.”

“Maybe next time we’ll bring the real thing.”

Both men chuckled as they moved to seal the hatch.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The new armored black Suburban pulled off the exit to Scarsdale. Heavy traffic on White Plains Road had stretched the trip from the city to nearly forty minutes.

They pulled up to Dorian’s estate, where a guard checked them in and opened the gate. As they drove up the circular driveway, they could see that another car was already parked in front of the house.

“Great,” Tyler muttered, as he saw who it was.

Jacob Jackson and Ramona Vargas were both getting out of Ramona’s silver Acura. The two turned and watched as the Suburban pulled up behind them, tires crunching on gravel.

Tyler and Lynn exited the vehicle and walked over to the others, who were looking more than a little uncomfortable. Jackson seemed particularly nervous as he shifted from one foot to the other, glancing up at the mansion.

Jaw set, Ramona peered at Tyler over her sunglasses. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m visiting a friend,” Tyler replied as he crossed his arms. “What are
you
doing here?”

Ramona looked as if she wanted to say something, but she just worked her jaw.

Lynn remained by the cars while the others walked up the steps together. Ramona rang the doorbell. Almost a minute later, Shannon Kiel swung open the door. After a few words with Ramona, the nurse reluctantly allowed the guests inside.

“How’s he doing?” Tyler asked as Shannon led the group up the main flight of stairs.

“Oh, he’s all right,” she replied in a voice that was just a hint too light. “He’s been resting a lot. He had a relapse of his cold.”

“It’s too bad he can’t make it to New Mexico,” Ramona said. Then she quickly added, “Perhaps he’ll be there for the next launch.”

“Perhaps,” said Shannon.

The door to Dorian's bedroom was open. Inside, the room was silent and dim, the heavy curtains drawn to block the light. Shannon motioned the others to stay put while she went inside and quietly approached the bed. She bent down into the shadows, whispered something to the sleeping figure, and reached down to touch his exposed arm. Dorian awoke with a start. He coughed loudly. Quiet words were exchanged. Then Shannon looked over her shoulder and motioned for the others to enter.

The three visitors took their places beside the bed. Shannon moved to the windows to crack open the curtains. As she pulled on the heavy cord, the curtains parted and daylight streamed into the room. The light beam slowly spread across the bed, revealing Sinclair Dorian inch-by-inch.

The industrialist was lying face-up; his bare spindly arms stuck out from under the heavy covers. His face was chalky and gaunt. He looked no better than he had the last time Tyler had seen him.

Shannon leaned down and whispered, “Sinclair, they’re here.”

Slowly his eyelids fluttered open. He blinked rapidly in the light. For a long moment, he stared straight up at the ceiling. He moved his head from one side to the other. He stared blankly at his visitors. Then his lips turned up in a smile, showing at last some recognition. He swallowed thickly and smacked his lips.

“Hello,” he rasped. With an effort, he swung his arm out toward the nightstand. Shannon anticipated his move, leaned over, and handed him his container, which was sealed with a straw in the top to keep the liquid from spilling. As Dorian lifted his head from the pillow, Shannon helped him get the straw to his lips. He took two small sips, and then slumped back. He took several labored gasps, staring at the ceiling.