A brief new normal now, a momentary calm, as they fell in a 120-mile-per-hour vertical dive, waiting for the final event.
At 11,000 feet a small pressure sensor sent the command to cut the drogue lines and explosively fire three small parachutes; they caught the air and dragged out the big main chutes, which blossomed and filled the sky above their heads with red and white.
Michael raised two gloved fists, relief clear in his voice. “I see three good chutes!”
“Slava Bogu,” Sveltana said quietly. Thank God.
On the top of Pursuit, a small VHF antenna pivoted clear and began transmitting the good news, a triumphant beacon signal for the rescue forces to home in. But the two helicopters were still beyond the horizon, 70 miles away, and missed it.
On the bridge of the Gagarin, the signal came clearly through the loudspeakers. The radio operator had been tracking the re-entry and quickly narrowed in on the exact location: “Bearing 037, Captain, range twelve kilometers.” All heads turned to scan the bright sky, the Captain raising powerful binoculars to his eyes. “Vizhu,” he said with satisfaction. I see it.
He turned back to the radio operator and nodded once. “Let them know.”
The impact with the water was violent; Pursuit’s broad, flat underside made for a resounding belly flop, like squarely driving into a wall at 22 miles per hour.
“Christ!” Michael swore. “What a car crash!”
Pursuit plunged deeply, the salt water curling up around her in an enveloping wave. Then, like a cork, she bobbed immediately back up and tipped, yanked sideways by the parachutes caught in the wind.
The Apollo designers had recognized from the beginning that the capsule could function as a boat, but not very well. Ideally it would float upright, with the crew lying in their seats; they named that orientation Stable One. But in testing they’d also identified that the capsule could easily float inverted. They called that Stable Two.
Pursuit came to rest in the water upside down, swaying in the heavy waves. The crew hung in their straps as checklists fell to the top of the cockpit, banging against the metal of the tunnel hatch.
“Stable Two!” Michael called.
Chad threw the switches to cut the parachute lines. “Yeah, I see that. I’ll get the float bags.” He pushed in several circuit breakers and listened as two small compressors spun into life, pumping air into three inflatable bags attached to the top of Pursuit. They were designed to give the capsule added flotation and flip it upright.
What the engineers hadn’t considered was the relentless effect of truly heavy seas. Waves kept breaking over the exposed flat bottom of Pursuit, flooding the compressor air inlets, overloading the built-in drains. The bags filled too slowly, getting pulled back and forth with each wave, the forces prying them against their mountings.
Perhaps if they’d filled fast enough the design would have worked and popped Pursuit up to Stable One. But the partially filled and still floppy bags were worked mercilessly back and forth by the powerful surges. Stressed to the limit, first the center bag tore, followed within seconds by the other two. The compressors kept running, futilely pumping air into the water next to the flapping remnants of the bags, the stream of bubbles rising around the sloped sides of the ship, popping on the surface between the waves.
Pursuit was going to stay upside down. And her rescue divers were still sitting in their Sea King helicopter, 65 miles away.
——
“Shit! This is taking too long.” Chad’s anger grew as he looked at the timer and then through the dark of the underwater windows, trying to spot the yellow of the filling bags. He double-checked his switches: no mistake.
“Yeah, the bags aren’t working,” Michael said. “And with the ballistic entry, help’s gonna be a while getting here. I’m thinking we should get outside by ourselves.” They were swaying left and right as the capsule rocked in the waves, their heads hanging down and their arms and legs dangling back and forth. After a week of weightlessness, he felt dizzy and disoriented, and had already had a twinge of nausea.
Fuck! Chad thought. I flew this perfectly, and the stupid engineers can’t design three balloons that work? The motion was getting to him as well, and he shook his head to clear it. “Okay, I’m starting into unaided egress. I’ll get the hatch and the raft, and you take care of her.” He disconnected his suit hoses and comm line and twisted around to drag the survival raft kit out of its locker, dropping it down by the hatch. The motion made his head spin, and he blinked hard until things stabilized. He released his harness buckle and immediately flipped down towards the hatch, landing hard on his hands and knees. The air in the cockpit was getting warm and humid, and his visor was fogging, his body banging left and right with the wave motion. As he reached to open the hatch, he felt the first surge of nausea, and swallowed hard. Just as the hatch popped free and water rushed in around its edge seals, Chad vomited. Focused projectile vomiting, filling his visor in front of his face, splashing back into his nose and eyes, the gastric acid blinding him.