“Target destroyed,” ART lets me know, the ruined cone-shaped weapon tumbling by my window.
“One down!” I turn my attention to the satellite-looking spacecraft with its open hatch. “Going eye to eye again,” I point at my eyes, and then at the target, making that gesture again at the same instant a thruster bangs to life, suddenly igniting, reminding me of the darn car alarms and engines gunning.
“CRAP, not again . . . !” I exclaim as I see the Earth speed past my window.
Then it’s back, coming from the opposite direction, faster, and faster, flying by my porthole as I’m pushed toward the wall.
“Turn it off!” I’m yelling at ART the same way I did in the wind tunnel. “We’re in a spin!” as the Earth passes by again and again and again.
“Unable. The thruster is stuck.”
“Why?” and I need to stop yelling because for sure he’ll start yelling back.
“I’m getting an error code for a malfunction,” he almost shouts as I think of what Dick said about glitches.
“Which thruster?” I tone it down as we spiral like a top.
If we don’t do something fast, we’ll burn through our fuel, and gravity will have its way with us.
“Port aft thruster,” ART identifies the culprit.
“Isolate it.”
“Fuel manifold valve for port aft thruster closed,” he tells me because otherwise I wouldn’t know.
The Earth continues zooming past my window every second, and it isn’t easy holding myself in my seat as centrifugal force tries to push me against the side of the spaceship. The only hope of stopping the spin is to counteract it.
“Fire up starboard aft thruster,” as I work the stick, my toes wedged under a foot loop.
Another bang, and the Earth goes by slower . . . and slower . . . and stops.
“Cut thruster. We’ve nullified spin rate. I’m going to hand fly her to target.”
And then I go after the satellite-camouflaged spacecraft with its open port yawning like the maw to hell. Making small corrections with the stick, I change my trajectory just enough to line myself up with the target at the same time, and I realize it’s doing the same thing to me.
It’s sluggishly reorienting, nowhere as nimble as our vessel, and I watch through the glass while keeping a light touch on the stick. Lining up the target in the heads-up weapons display exactly where I want it, I squeeze the trigger. I can’t see or hear the laser beams, but I know they found their mark, sending the spacecraft into a spin it won’t recover from, its scorched solar arrays whirling like a pinwheel.
ART lets me know that we took out the electrical circuitry, frying everything that matters. There are no transmissions detected, no sign of life.
“Targets disabled,” I push the talk button on the stick.
“Objective accomplished,” Carme’s voice startles me through the speakers.
“A little more enthusiasm would be appreciated,” I reply but I’m smiling from ear to ear.
“You find any aliens?”
“Not yet. Just a cheap plastic microwave gun shaped like a traffic cone.”
“I never had a doubt,” and now it’s Mom on the feed.
“That’s my girl,” Dad sounds as pleased as punch.
“A 9 out of 10,” Conn pays me back for what I said about his piloting.
“Why did you take away a point?” I reply, playing his flirty game.
“To give you something to look forward to.”
“Lex is fine,” Mom again. “I knew you’d be wondering. You’re a worrier just like me.”
“Mission accomplished so far,” Dick announces.
“What do you mean, so far?” sliding my toes out of the foot loop, I float out of my seat, flying like a superhero through the MOBE.
“A few housekeeping matters for you to take care of, and then we’re bringing you home,” his voice follows me as I make my way through the hatch, returning to my Chase Plane.
“Such as?” I inquire, and it would be nice if he could say good job or way to go or something.
“Debris management for one thing,” it’s Conn talking again, and I grab a handrail near the galley, thinking now might be a good time for real food.
Almost real food, and I unzip the lid of a white Nomex bag Velcroed and bungee corded to the galley’s ceiling. Inside the fire-retardant storage container are all sorts of things to eat, held in place with netting so they don’t float away. Macaroni and cheese, Italian vegetables, beef stew, fajitas, spicy Cajun rice and sausage.
“. . . Assuming the rogue spacecraft is Neva Rong’s, we need to get detailed images of it and our damaged spy satellite, USA555A . . . ,” Conn is saying.
Deciding on spaghetti, I rehydrate it by inserting the hot water dispenser’s needle into a port at the top of the bag. I ask ART how to open the package, and he directs me to another Nomex container that has blunt-tipped scissors attached to a tether and inside netting.
“. . . We need to capture any data we can before removing the damaged objects from GEO,” Conn goes through my upcoming chores as I place a rubber-lined trash bag inside a white vinyl pouch that I bungee cord to the siding.
“How is it?” Dick asks as I squeeze spaghetti into my mouth.
“How’s what?”
“How’s the food?” and it’s easy to forget there are cameras everywhere.
“Not bad at all,” I reply honestly. “Of course, the spacecraft was Neva’s, that’s if you ask me. The weapon, the microwave gun, is disposable like a 3-D printed pistol, sort of. And I’m guessing it’s single fire, deployed to brain damage a satellite with a microwave punch. Afterward, the plastic cone is space debris that the atomic gases will deteriorate eventually.”
“Enjoy lunch, I’ll be back with you a little later,” Dick signs off, and we’re disconnected.