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Part III
February 11th, 2001
DEEP SPACE
Eric slowly got to his knees and saw that the fallen beam had just missed his head and now partially blocked his exit. The ship's g forces had subsided, so he picked up the man he had been tugging on and carried him, fireman style, out into the corridor where other crew members were trying to assemble and treat the injured. One of them, an officer, yelled at him. "Anyone else in there?"
"No!" Eric shouted.
"Then help me get this door closed! If we vent that room, the fire will suffocate!"
"Yes sir!"
While choking on smoke, the two men got the access door open and took turns turning a crank that closed the double doors leading into the inferno. The heat and the smoke was so fierce that each could only turn the crank one rotation before collapsing. They had to wrap Eric's towel around the crank -- it was too hot for bare hands. As the doors slowly came together, the sound of swooshing air grew louder, and then as the doors made contact, the sound dwindled to a barely audible hiss. Exhausted, the two rolled onto the deck and coughed uncontrollably.
"Gotta get these people outa here!" Eric yelled. "We're too close to the outer hull!"
The officer could only manage to point, indicating that he wanted to move the injured further down the corridor to their right. They signaled to the others to help them carry or drag the victims to the end of the corridor where it was cooler and they could catch their breath. After a few minutes, they realized no help was coming. The only option was to carry the injured to sick bay.
There was chaos everywhere on the ship. While they worked their way down the corridors and hatch ways, towards sick bay, Eric could see crew members running everywhere. Some had fire hoses and were still dousing fires. Others were setting tables and wardrobes upright, trying to look for anyone who was trapped. Amidships, he saw several people laying on the deck, not moving.
Sick bay was overflowing. Some people who were not badly burned or bleeding were sitting on the floor, curled up against the walls. A doctor motioned to Eric to put the person he was carrying on a storage cabinet that had been knocked over and was serving as a makeshift operating table. As he did so, he thought he was going to black out, but managed to grab the table and hold on. He slid down the wall and sat with his back against it. One of the doctors reached into a cabinet and tossed him and others who were coughing a small Oxygen unit. In a few minutes, he and his companions were breathing almost normally.
The officer he had helped crawled along the floor and sat next to Eric. "Thank you," he said. "Geez. Who the hell are you?"
"Eric MacDonald, sir."
"Major Bob Arnold. Logistics officer. I don't recognize your name. Didn't think we had passengers on this trip."
"Long story, " Eric said.
"Later, then."
One of the display units on the wall lit up and showed the bridge. Major Arnold tugged on Eric's sleeve. "I think we have an announcement coming. Listen up."
The Lovell's Captain, U.S.A.F. Colonel Joel Boudreau, with a bandage on his forehead moved into view on the screen. He was a tall, slender man in his 50s with short, silver hair and blue eyes. "This is the Captain." He spoke with a mild French accent. "I'll make this short. At this time it appears that the ship has been attacked by an unknown vehicle. We have maneuvered away from it, and we are currently on a vector oblique from Earth until we can determine if the attacker knows our origin or will attack again. The hull is intact and damaged sections have been isolated. All serious fires are out. We are currently doing damage assessment. Section heads will hold meetings in thirty minutes. That is all."
A medical technician handed Eric a bottle of water and motioned that he should come sit on one of the chairs. Eric waved him off, but the technician touched Eric's head and showed him the blood on his fingers. That was when Eric realized he was in some pain from various burns and cuts on his arms and head and that the technician intended to treat him. As Eric looked around, flinching occasionally from the treatment, he saw that things seemed to be settling down. Soon he was patched up.
It had been twenty minutes since the attack.
Eric wasn't sure what to do next, and Major Arnold had left, so he steadied himself against the wall as he left sick bay and sat down on the deck in the corridor. In seconds he was asleep.
Eric awoke to see a security policeman standing over him him and prodding his shoulder. "Are you Eric MacDonald?" The officer was exceptionally well armed.
"Yes I am."
"Come with me, please."
"Know what? I don't think I can stand up right now. Do you think the brig can wait for a minute?"
"You're not going to the brig. The Executive Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Kelso, wants to see you. ASAP."
"Oh. Help me up, then." Eric reached up and grabbed the SP's arm. "Can I eat first?"
"You a comedian or what?"
As they walked through the ship to get to the XO's office, Eric feared the worst. This crew had been through a bad time, and he didn't expect anything good to happen from this meeting.
Eric sat uncomfortably for a few minutes in the XO's office while the SP stood behind him. He looked at his watch. He'd been asleep for an hour. Suddenly, the hatchway opened abruptly and Lieutenant Colonel Kelso, in a thoroughly black and torn uniform, stormed in briskly. His left arm was in a sling. He walked over to Eric and hovered over him. "So you're my stowaway, Mister MacDonald?"
"Yes sir."
"Major Arnold just told me that your assistance to him was extraordinary."
"I, uh. I did what I could, sir."
"Well, we need more help like that. Are you fit for duty?"
"I think so."
The XO, a sandy haired man in his 40s, rubbed his chin with his right hand and sized Eric up for a moment. "Okay. Consider yourself inducted into the U.S. Air Force Space Command as grade E-1, Airman Basic. We'll do the paperwork later. As of now, you are no longer escorted." He paused. "Everyone on the ship not in sick bay is now on an eighteen hour work schedule. You'll work in the galley oh-six hundred hours to fourteen hundred, then the engine room till twenty-four hundred hours until further notice. Report to the galley in thirty minutes. Look for Chief Mancini. In the engine room, it's Major Forney. If I hear a single complaint about you, you're back in the brig. Or I'll just shoot you on the spot if we're short on time. Have I made myself very clear?"
"Very clear."
"Then get to work."
Eric stood up sharply, too sharply, got dizzy and almost fell over. He steadied himself and saluted. This instant attention to formality only served to irritate the XO who glared at his newest crew member. He turned to the SP. "Get this man a uniform."
The first shift Eric worked in the mess hall was, by the ship's clock, only a three hour shift. It was enjoyable for Eric because he could nibble for three consecutive hours as he first cleaned up the place, then prepared food for the crew. Nibbling was something he hadn't been able to do for a long time. He listened carefully when he could and learned that the scuttlebutt amongst the crew was that the ship could not withstand another attack, and no one knew if another one was coming.
At fourteen hundred, he reported to the engine room. It wasn't a pretty sight. There was still water on the deck, fire hoses snaked everywhere, heavy machinery looking out of place, and many, many crew members working intensely with fork lifts, cutting torches and welding equipment.
"So who the hell are you?" said a young Hispanic woman as she approached him. She was short but slim, had short, curly black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin. She was in overalls and covered with grease. Eric was startled and did not answer her right away, fixated as he was on the mess. "Helllloooo. Anyone in there?" She wiped her hands on a rag, dropped her jaw, cocked her head forward and waited for an answer.
"Um. I'm Eric MacDonald. I was assigned duty here."
"Good. We can use another body around here. I'm Technical Sergeant Theresa Garcia." She held out a greasy hand and waited.
"Pleased to meet you," Eric said as he reluctantly shook her hand. "I'm supposed to report to Major Forney."
"He's real busy right now. I can get you started. Can you operate a fork lift?"
"No."
"Know how to weld?"
"No."
"Ever use a CO2 laser cutting torch?"
"No."
"Operate a computer lathe?"
"Um. I think I can do that."
"Okay. Follow me. I'm going to show you how to operate our lathe. It's not hard if you pay attention to the parts we ask for." Sergeant Garcia led him to the very back of the engine room, as they stepped over fire hoses and debris, and started up the lathe.
"Can I ask you some questions?" Eric said.
"Shoot."
"Were we attacked by an extraterrestrial ship?"
"That's what we assume."
"That's a first ever contact, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Ain't we off to a good start with the critters?"
"Were any crew killed?"
She paused. "Eleven killed in the attack. Four more fighting the fires."
"Is there a list? Of names I mean?"
"In my head. What's it to you?"
"Lieutenant Laurette Harris is a ... friend of mine."
"She's bridge crew. No one there was hurt. 'Cept the XO. Broken arm I think."
"What's happening here? Will we have propulsion again?"
"Dunno. We gotta get the Tokamak repaired. Gonna take a few days. A week. We'll see."
"Are we still in contact with the other ship? Will they attack again?"
"Nope. It's gone. No one knows if they'll attack again. If they do, we're finished though. It's got the crew pretty freaked."
"Did they try to communicate with us?"
"Nope. Their only communication with us was, apparently, directed energy protons. Sliced us up pretty damn good."
"Did we shoot back?" Eric asked.
"That's what I hear. We have one X-ray laser. It wasn't really designed as a close-in self-defense weapon, but I heard we used it. May have scored a hit. Bridge isn't sure."
"How do you know all this?" Eric asked.
"Not that big a ship, really. Got friends on the bridge too. Now pay attention. I'm going to show you how to use this thing."
At that moment, a very, very large black man wearing a Major's insignia approached. He looked like he could have played in the super-NFL. He was at least 2 meters tall and incredibly fit. "Excuse me, Sergeant Garcia." He turned to Eric in a menacing kind of way. "Are you the new kid? MacDonald?"
"Yes sir." Eric, who was 193 cm tall, had to look up, something he was not accustomed to.
"I want you to know I don't like stowaways who go bellyaching behind my back to the XO, looking for favors."
"Not me," Eric said.
"Shut up. You're a weasel. A lot of people worked real hard to get an assignment on this ship. I don't take lightly to whining kids sneaking on board, then running to the XO when things get tough."
"Actually, he conscripted me into the Air Force," Eric said, looking down and away from the fierce eyes of the Major.
"Oh. So you don't want to serve on this ship, eh?"
"Not at all. I'm delighted to help."
"Yeah, sure. Like I said. You're a weasel. Don't you ever talk to the XO again. You will report to me and only me. Got that?" He took a breath as his eyes bored into Eric.
"Of course, sir."
"At least there's one thing good to be said about having you in uniform," Major Forney said as he leaned over and scowled at Eric. "If you screw up, I can arrange a court martial." At that, the Major pivoted and walked away.
Eric waited until the Major was out of sight, then turned to Sergeant Garcia. "What's got into him?"
"Don't worry about the Major. He's under a lot of pressure right now. Just keep your head down, stay out of his way, do what I tell you, and you'll be okay. Now pay attention while I show you this lathe."
Seven days later, with round the clock work, the Tokamak was back on line and the Lovell was underway, heading back to Earth. Every one on the ship was exhausted. Eric very nearly fell asleep standing in the galley, stirring soup.
"Hey! Wake up! You'll spill the soup," Chief Mancini said as he rushed toward Eric, catching him under his arms.
"Huh? Um. Yes, of course. Where do you want this conduit?" Eric held up the ladle and carefully scrutinized it, turning it slowly around and around as soup dripped on the deck. "Geez, That's a strange looking conduit."
"Here, hold on to me." The Chief, a crusty Italian from Sicily, guided Eric to a chair and sat him down. "Gimme that ladle. You awake?"
"Don't know, actually."
"Got some good news for you," the Chief said as he shook Eric's shoulders.
"Really? G'news?" Eric mumbled and drifted off again.
Chief Mancini slapped the young man on the side of the face and shook him again. "You're relieved of duty. Look at me. Damn it, MacDonald!" Eric shook his head was able to focus for a few seconds. "The Captain has changed the work schedule. Twelve on, twelve off. We're on our way home. Are you listening? You don't have to work in here any more."
Eric nodded, and then slumped over in the chair, sound asleep.
A gentle chime woke Eric from a deep sleep, dreams of operating a fork lift, and the computer told him that he had two hours before his shift would start. He sat up in bed and suddenly realized that he didn't remember how he got back to his quarters. After a brief shower, the longest he was allowed, Eric got dressed and sat down at his computer display. He called up the crew schedule and saw that both he and Lieutenant Harris were finally on the same shift. He punched in a video call to her. In a few seconds, her face appeared on the screen.
"Hi there," she said.
"Can I come visit for five minutes?"
"Sure. Five minutes."
This time, when he got to her quarters, he knew how to ring the chime. He smiled as the door opened.
"Hi, Laurette. I've been meaning to come visit you. Been a little busy though."
"Tell me about it," she smiled. But it was only a small, grudging smile. "Come on in."
Eric noted that she was already in uniform and her hair was braided. "I guess you gotta run soon, huh?"
"I'm working thirteen hours. Doing some extra cross-training on the bridge. So. What's up"
"I just wanted to say 'hi'. See how things are going. Thank you again." As he looked around, he noticed an unusual collection of flowers. Apparently artificial. Many more than the last time he was in her quarters. Lieutenant Harris noticed that Eric was staring at the flowers.
"You didn't know, did you? You couldn't have."
"Didn't know what?"
"That my fiancé was killed."
Eric was stunned. He stood frozen, blinking and dumbfounded. "I ... No, I didn't know."
"First Lieutenant Chad Robertson. We were going to be married at Christmas."
"God. I didn't know." Suddenly he wanted to run away. He didn't know why. He started back towards the door. "Maybe I should leave, huh?"
"If you wish," she said and once again managed a small smile. "You don't have to worry about me, you know."
"Is ... Is there anything I can do. I mean ..."
"I'm fine. You take care of yourself," she said and walked with him back towards the door.
Eric stumbled out into the corridor dazed. What did he expect? he asked himself. Why was he even bothering to see this woman? She lived in a different universe. Visiting her was a waste of time. As he shuffled back to his quarters in a daze, he realized that, for the first time since he met the Lieutenant, he felt very empty inside.
The Lovell made it back to Earth two days before Christmas with no more attacks and no more emergencies. As the ship eased into Earth orbit, the dome of the gymnasium which ordinarily displayed simulated sky was changed to show a live view of the blue-white orb of the Earth.
Tables were set up in the gym, and the storage lockers of the ship were raided. All the good things to eat, things that they never had a chance to indulge in on their considerably shortened mission, were brought out. Decorations were put up and drinks poured. It turned into an all-day, all-night party, and the place was jammed with every crew member aboard. Eric danced with every young lady he could find. Eventually, Sergeant Garcia, in very tight black pants and a white turtleneck sweater, homed in on him and managed to dominate his time early in the evening. Eric didn't mind.
That is, until Lieutenant Harris made her entrance. Eric spotted her immediately as she walked in, with her hair let down, wearing black heels, something very silvery, very tight, very short, and very sleeveless. He thought he felt his heart stop. Much later, after all the other officers had their turn, he managed get his turn and dance with her. Eric thought that Harris was well caught up in the euphoria of the moment and even seemed like her former self.
All the time the party was going on, Captain Boudreau refused the Earth shuttles permission to dock claiming that the crew had some adjustments to make and repairs to perform before they could disembark. Eric never thought much about the Captain; he had never met him in person. But after that announcement, he knew he liked him.
As the party continued into the shipboard night, Sergeant Garcia once again found Eric at one of the food tables. He seemed distracted and distant. "Hey, hombre. I've got a lot of packing to do. Wanna come back to my quarters and help?"
"Huh?" Eric continued munching.
"My place. I'm inviting you to my place."
Eric looked up and scanned across the room, hoping for another glimpse of Lieutenant Harris. "Yeah, this is a nice place, isn't it? I like the decorations."
Sergeant Garcia let out her breath in disgust. "Wanna scrape your tongue off the floor?"
"The floor? What's on the floor?" Eric looked right over her head and into the crowd.
She shrugged and walked away. She knew Eric was a lost cause.
When Eric finally returned to his quarters, there was a note on his display to see the Captain. This alarmed him, even if he did think he liked the Captain. Eric left immediately, got directions, and waited anxiously outside the Captain's office. He had never met the Captain of the Lovell and had only seen him once -- during the post attack message to the crew. He was nervous and started to pace back and forth in front of the door. He didn't know what the purpose of this visit was. He imagined, he hoped, that he would be allowed to stay aboard. As luck would have it, his pacing had him in the middle of the doorway, yawning, when it slid open.
The Captain was sitting in a large, red leather high-backed chair with a portfolio of papers on his large metal desk. He motioned to Eric to step in and have a seat across from him. Eric did so and then waited while the Captain perused the papers. In a few seconds, Captain Boudreau looked up and addressed him.
"Airman MacDonald. Every one of this crew is responsible for us making it home alive. You are, of course, one of those. But there were a special few who acted with great heroism and risk to themselves immediately after the attack. Without those actions, we might never have been able to even think about getting home." He cleared his throat. "So. Based on the statements from several of the crew on this ship, I have included you on the list of those to be nominated for the Air Force Medal of Honor."
Eric gasped. "Thank you, sir." He had no more words.
The Captain looked away for a second in thought and then resumed. "In view of the current military situation, I have determined that it is in the best interests of the service that you, despite your accomplishments here, return to Earth, finish your schooling and receive a commission. I will be making arrangements with the Air Force Academy for you to enter an accelerated program at mid-term. In two and a half years, you will be a Second Lieutenant. Does that meet with your approval?"
"Oh, yes. Yes sir. Thank you sir."
"Perhaps, someday, I'll have the pleasure of serving with you again."
"It would be my pleasure, sir."
Eric was dismissed and went back to his quarters to pack feeling just about as giddy as he had ever felt in his entire life.
The view out the shuttle window was magnificent. Eric could see the entire California coast and the shadows of the clouds against the ground and sea. California was a state of brilliant contrasts from the greens near the Salton Sea to the whites of the snow capped Sierras.
He watched intently as they spiraled down in a steep glide, and he could see more and more detail of the land. The joy of the moment was almost more than he could bear. He reached into his travel bag to get a camera he'd bought, and there he found a small, white cardboard box, what seemed to be a present wrapped in a very substantial red ribbon.
With high cirrus clouds streaming past his window and Port Vandenberg now in sight, Eric opened the small box. There, laying in a small piece of cotton, was a gold Saint Christopher's medal on a gold chain. He picked it up and turned it around, inspecting it closely. On the back, he found engraved initials.
He carefully put the medal around his neck, tucked it inside his shirt, and reclined in his seat. As he closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, he smiled.
Copyright 2001 by John
Martellaro, All rights reserved. Quantum Threads banner
artwork by Tracy Haynes.
About the Author
John Martellaro lives in Colorado at 2,800 meters above sea level with a Ph.D. wife and two cats, Nikki and Data. He holds a B.S. in Astrophysics and an M.S. in Physics. His hobbies, include amateur astronomy, downhill skiing, bicycling, and listening to piano solos. His personal Macs are a B&W G3/400 with a flat screen Studio Display and a blueberry iBook.
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