Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(55)
CHAPTER 22
WE HAVE CONTACT, DOCKING latches engaged.” General Gunner announces that the Dream Chaser has reached its destination.
On the live video feed, astronauts Anni Girard and Chip Ortiz are unfastening their five-point harnesses. Holding themselves in place with foot loops, they begin taking off their launch-entry suits. Stowing them in overhead netting, they go through their expedited pressure checks.
They’re making sure they’re safely docked, everything a challenge in weightlessness. Out the nearby porthole, sunlight flares off the orbiter’s retracted robotic arm, perched over the research platform like a silver praying mantis.
“Let’s get our astronauts up and talking to us.” General Gunner reaches for the remote control.
As I stare at live video of the blue Earth veiled in clouds, I can’t tell what the orbiter is flying over at the moment. A glimpse of white mountains, possibly the Himalayas, the topography changes constantly as the combination laboratory-habitat speeds around the planet as fast as a bullet.
“They’ll be entering the disabled TO-One momentarily.” The commander of Space Force keeps us updated on what’s happening. “Anni, Chip, how are you reading us?”
“Loud and clear, Chief,” both of them answer on the Dream Chaser’s cockpit cameras, the video live-streaming as big as life on the data walls around us.
“How was your ride?”
“Couldn’t be better, Chief.” Chip gives the commander a thumbs-up.
“We’re going to expedite the usual procedures, to go with a rapid leak check and pressurization protocol.” Anni is busy on her computer display, scrolling through menus.
“We need to get in there quickly,” Chip says, and no doubt they’re holding on to the hope that the crewmates aren’t dead.
“As you were coming in and docking did you notice any damage to the outside of the orbiter?” General Gunner then asks. “Because we didn’t.”
“Negative.” Chip tucks his gloves into the netting.
“Nothing is off-nominal except for the Soyuz not being there.” Anni’s tone has grim shadings as video of the missing crew capsule landing in Kazakhstan replays nonstop on the data walls. “If the solar arrays were torn as claimed,” she adds, “there’s no obvious sign of it.”
“And we have a good visual of the experiment platform, the robotic arm. They appear undamaged, as well,” Chip confirms.
“Based on what your cameras showed us during your approach, I would agree,” the president says. “Suggesting there may not be any damage at all, contrary to what we’ve been told.”
“We know from sensor readings that TO-One hasn’t lost pressurization. The oxygen levels, the life-support systems are nominal, and contrary to what Horton claimed, the solar arrays are generating power,” NASA confirms. “It would seem it’s only the comms, the video cameras and onboard experiment chambers that are offline.”
The good news is that Chip and Anni are able to enter the orbiter without portable life-support systems, which they don’t have with them. The Extravehicular Mobility Unit (EMU), the spacesuits worn during spacewalks, are far too bulky inside a confined area. All one would do is bang into things, damaging sensitive equipment.
The EMUs were left behind at the Space Station since there was no indication they’d be needed. Otherwise the harsh reality is that if the orbiting laboratory’s hull had been penetrated and overtaken by the extreme temperatures and vacuum of space, there would be no point in rescuers showing up.
The orbiter, the bodies inside and the research would be abandoned. Likely, gravity eventually would drag them down into the atmosphere to incinerate like space trash, hardly anyone knowing the whole truth. But the expectation is that the life-support system is up and running fine as the sensors indicate.
Anni and Chip should find the conditions inside the same as onboard the ISS, and they’re dressed accordingly. We watch as they pull on protective clothing over their typical uniforms of khaki pants, polo shirts with mission patches, and socks.
“You’re going to want to double glove.” I begin instructing them without being asked. “And do you have N-ninety-five face masks? Also face shields? Eye protection, masks are a must since we have no idea what might be in the air,” I explain, and mostly I’m concerned about biological hazards.
“Affirmative,” they answer, and it can’t be easy putting on Tyvek in microgravity, the slippery coverall legs and arms floating and flailing. “We’ve also got chest cameras we’re strapping on.”
“I’m going to assume the orbiter has the same basic medical supplies the Space Station does,” I inquire, looking at them on the data walls as if they’re right in front of me.
One would think so, they reply. But they’re bringing a soft-sided medical bag with the basics just in case. They float single file through the hatch leading into the commercial orbiter, their chest cameras showing the ghastly sight awaiting us. The two crewmates are dressed in the diapers and cooling garments worn under spacesuits, the white cotton long johns tinted a dirty dark red.
Their bodies drift facedown, arms and legs gently bent, and fans running 24/7 have created a true forensic nightmare. Flecks of dried blood have blown everywhere, dusting exposed skin a blackish red that has discolored the whites of the dead eyes blearily staring. Their longish hair floats whichever way the air moves, seeming to stand on end.