Atmosphere(50)

She’d been looking forward to that.

She scoffs to think of how much she’d been looking forward to this entire mission. How she’d protested against being “only” a mission specialist. How she’d begged for the chance to be a pilot.

But, of course, it had been Steve who had told her she’d deserved the chance to fly the shuttle someday. Steve who’d lobbied for her. Who’d told her he would keep at it until Antonio understood.

She moves on to the centerline latches. Thankfully, the first four close easily. She continues to the next four.

Steve had cheated on his wife ten years ago. It was one time. He’d been drunk. He never forgave himself for it, even though, after he confessed to Helene, she gave him a chance to make it up to her. And he did. Make it up to her.

Vanessa didn’t quite understand either side of it—the betrayal of someone or the forgiveness possible. But Steve had said that over time, she would understand both. Once she’d loved someone long enough, she’d understand that anything is possible, that she was capable of worse and greater acts than she knew.

He’d taught her that, too.

She closes the last latch in the gang. Twenty-four down. Eight to go. If she can get all eight done, it is reasonable to assume that the shuttle can withstand the issue with the forward bulkhead as its only weak point. She moves on to the next set of four, the centerline latches up by the forward bulkhead.

Quickly, she can see that the gearbox has cracked, hit by the debris.

“Houston, how many latches can we lose?” Vanessa asks. “The shuttle was designed to withstand what level of failure?”

She looks down the line to the final set of four latches, all the way at the forward bulkhead. She can see, for the second time, that the door is bent.

“Navigator, we believe it is possible that, even with the forward bulkhead latches not lying flat, the orbiter may be able to withstand some unpredictability with the centerline latches.”

“How much? I may have eight latches that do not connect at all, in addition to the gap in the door.”

“Roger that, Navigator. We are calculating.”

Vanessa already knows the answer is not The Shuttle can withstand reentry with eight latches open and a one-centimeter gap at the forward bulkhead. But if she can get this gearbox to turn and close this gang of four latches, it might pull the payload bay doors tight enough on the aft bulkhead end. Which means that even if she can’t get the rest of the latches closed, they still have a chance of making it.

She does her best to get a good grip on the ratchet wrench and applies it to the gearbox. But it doesn’t move. She twists as hard as she can, but the harder she tries, the more microgravity pushes her away from the latch, so that she has to brace herself with one arm and one foot against the payload bay door, using her own body as counterforce to keep her leverage. She bears down as hard as she can, pushing against the door with every muscle in her body. She can feel it through her limbs and into her back and abdomen. She tenses her jaw so hard she thinks she might crack a tooth.

It’s not budging.

“Navigator, we believe four latches on the centerline could go unlatched and we would be okay.”

That’s not enough—she’s got eight to go, plus the warped door. She has to get this group of four. Or none of them will survive.

Vanessa tries to leverage the tool in again. Nothing.

She tries again. The same thing.

Again.

And again.

And again.

“Goddammit!” She stops pressing against the door and loses her footing. She has to pull herself back into position. Fuck.

“Ford, we believe you should move on. Confirm, please.”

Vanessa can’t speak. She will scream.

“Navigator, please confirm you will move on.”

She wants to throw the fucking wrench across the payload bay and take off her helmet and wail. But she needs that tool to get home, if she so much as unlocks her helmet she will die within seconds, and even if she could scream, no one would hear her up here. The sound won’t go anywhere.

“None of these four will close! If I move on, it means I have to secure all the rest, which appear, from here, to be busted. Are you sure I should move on to the last four?”

“Given the time constraints, we believe it is best.”

“Roger that, Houston,” Vanessa says. She closes her eyes and exhales.

She moves to the last group of four, down by the aft bulkhead.

But she’s right. Not only has the door warped in this spot, too, but the torque shaft is damaged.

She fits the ratchet wrench onto the gearbox, but it won’t turn the latches. She grabs the three-point latch tool and tries to secure each latch individually, but none of them will zip closed. She breathes in and focuses on the first latch of the four. She back-drives the three-point latch tool into the active latch and tries to turn it.

Finally, it turns one millimeter toward her. Her whole body lights up. She pulls harder and harder. Her arm is killing her. Her back aches. She has to keep going.

It turns another millimeter. And then, just as it seems like she might get the latch to catch, the torque shaft cracks further. She closes her eyes.

She just needs the payload bay doors to stay closed upon reentry. Is that so fucking much to ask?

Donna once told her that if one of them had to die, between her and Hank, she hoped it would be her. Vanessa didn’t believe her, but Donna insisted. “And it’s not for some stupid-ass reason like I can’t live without him,” Donna said. “I can. I did for thirty years before I met the son of a bitch. It’s because he’s the better parent. He loves our baby more. I know you can’t compare love, but I love her so much and he loves her even more, Vanessa.”