Chapter 12
Watney slept peacefully in his bunk. He shifted slightly as some pleasant dream put a smile on his face. He’d done three EVAs the previous day, all filled with labor-intensive Hab maintenance. So he slept deeper and better than he had in a long time.
Watney added his voice to a chorus of groans.
“Come on,” Lewis prodded, “no bitching. You got forty minutes more sleep than you would’ve on Earth.”
Martinez was first out of his bunk. An air force man, he could match Lewis’s navy schedule with ease. “Morning, Commander,” he said crisply.
Johanssen sat up, but made no further move toward the harsh world outside her blankets. A career software engineer, mornings were never her forte.
Vogel slowly lumbered from his bunk, checking his watch. He wordlessly pulled on his jumpsuit, smoothing out what wrinkles he could. He sighed inwardly at the grimy feeling of another day without a shower.
Watney turned away, hugging a pillow to his head. “Noisy people, go away,” he mumbled.
“Beck!” Martinez called out, shaking the mission’s doctor. “Rise and shine, bud!”
“Yeah, okay,” Beck said blearily.
Johanssen fell out of her bunk, then remained on the floor.
Pulling the pillow from Watney’s hands, Lewis said, “Let’s move, Watney! Uncle Sam paid a hundred thousand dollars for every second we’ll be here.”
“Bad woman take pillow,” Watney groaned, unwilling to open his eyes.
“Back on Earth, I’ve tipped two-hundred-pound men out of their bunks. Want to see what I can do in 0.4 g?”
“No, not really,” Watney said, sitting up.
Having rousted the troops, Lewis sat at the comm station to check overnight messages from Houston.
Watney shuffled to the ration cupboard and grabbed a breakfast at random.
“Hand me an ‘eggs,’ will ya,” Martinez said.
“You can tell the difference?” Watney said, passing Martinez a pack.
“Not really,” Martinez said.
“Beck, what’ll you have?” Watney continued.
“Don’t care,” Beck said. “Give me whatever.”
Watney tossed a pack to him.
“Vogel, your usual sausages?”
“ Ja , please,” Vogel responded.
“You know you’re a stereotype, right?”
“I am comfortable with that,” Vogel replied, taking the proffered breakfast.
“Hey Sunshine,” Watney called to Johanssen. “Eating breakfast today?”
“Mnrrn,” Johanssen grunted.
“Pretty sure that’s a no,” Watney guessed.
The crew ate in silence. Johanssen eventually trudged to the ration cupboard and got a coffee packet. She clumsily added hot water, then sipped until wakefulness crept in.
“Mission updates from Houston,” Lewis said.
“Satellites show a storm coming, but we can do surface ops before it gets here. Vogel, Martinez, you’ll be with me outside.
Johanssen, you’re stuck tracking weather reports.
Watney, your soil experiments are bumped up to today.
Beck, run the samples from yesterday’s EVA through the spectrometer. ”
“Should you really go out with a storm on the way?” Beck asked.
“Houston authorized it,” Lewis said.
“Seems needlessly dangerous.”
“Coming to Mars was needlessly dangerous,” Lewis said. “What’s your point?”
Beck shrugged. “Just be careful.”
■■■
Three figures looked eastward. Their bulky EVA suits rendered them nearly identical. Only the European Union flag on Vogel’s shoulder distinguished him from Lewis and Martinez, who wore the Stars and Stripes.
The darkness to the east undulated and flickered in the rays of the rising sun.
“The storm,” Vogel said in his accented English, “it is closer than Houston reported.”
“We’ve got time,” Lewis said. “Focus on the task at hand. This EVA’s all about chemical analysis. Vogel, you’re the chemist, so you’re in charge of what we dig up.”
“ Ja ,” Vogel said. “Please dig thirty centimeters and get soil samples. At least one hundred grams each. Very important is thirty centimeters down.”
“Will do,” Lewis said. “Stay within a hundred meters of the Hab,” she added.
“Mm,” Vogel said.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Martinez.
They split up. Greatly improved since the days of Apollo, Ares EVA suits allowed much more freedom of motion. Digging, bending over, and bagging samples were trivial tasks.
After a time, Lewis asked, “How many samples do you need?”
“Seven each, perhaps?”
“That’s fine,” Lewis confirmed. “I’ve got four so far.”
“Five here,” Martinez said. “Of course, we can’t expect the navy to keep up with the air force, now can we?”
“So that’s how you want to play it?” Lewis said.
“Just call ’em as I see ’em, Commander.”
“Johanssen here.” The sysop’s voice came over the radio. “Houston’s upgraded the storm to ‘severe.’ It’s going to be here in fifteen minutes.”
“Back to base,” Lewis said.
■■■
The Hab shook in the roaring wind as the astronauts huddled in the center. All six of them now wore their flight space suits, in case they had to scramble for an emergency takeoff in the MAV. Johanssen watched her laptop while the rest watched her.
“Sustained winds over one hundred kph now,” she said. “Gusting to one twenty-five.”
“Jesus, we’re gonna end up in Oz,” Watney said. “What’s the abort wind speed?”
“Technically one fifty kph,” Martinez said. “Any more than that and the MAV’s in danger of tipping.”
“Any predictions on the storm track?” Lewis asked.
“This is the edge of it,” Johanssen said, staring at her screen. “It’s gonna get worse before it gets better.”
The Hab canvas rippled under the brutal assault as the internal supports bent and shivered with each gust. The cacophony grew louder by the minute.
“All right,” Lewis said. “Prep for abort. We’ll go to the MAV and hope for the best. If the wind gets too high, we’ll launch.”
Leaving the Hab in pairs, they grouped up outside Airlock 1. The driving wind and sand battered them, but they were able to stay on their feet.
“Visibility is almost zero,” Lewis said. “If you get lost, home in on my suit’s telemetry. The wind’s gonna be rougher away from the Hab, so be ready.”
Pressing through the gale, they stumbled toward the MAV, with Lewis and Beck in the lead and Watney and Johanssen bringing up the rear.
“Hey,” Watney panted. “Maybe we could shore up the MAV. Make tipping less likely.”
“How?” Lewis huffed.
“We could use cables from the solar farm as guylines.” He wheezed for a few moments, then continued. “The rovers could be anchors. The trick would be getting the line around the—”
Flying wreckage slammed Watney, carrying him off into the wind.
“Watney!” Johanssen exclaimed.
“What happened?” Lewis said.
“Something hit him!” Johanssen reported.
“Watney, report,” Lewis said.
No reply.
“Watney, report,” Lewis repeated.
Again, she was met with silence.
“He’s offline,” Johanssen reported. “I don’t know where he is!”
“Commander,” Beck said, “before we lost telemetry, his decompression alarm went off!”
“Shit!” Lewis exclaimed. “Johanssen, where did you last see him?”
“He was right in front of me and then he was gone,” she said. “He flew off due west.”
“Okay,” Lewis said. “Martinez, get to the MAV and prep for launch. Everyone else, home in on Johanssen.”
“Dr. Beck,” Vogel said as he stumbled through the storm, “how long can a person survive decompression?”
“Less than a minute,” Beck said, emotion choking his voice.
“I can’t see anything,” Johanssen said as the crew crowded around her.
“Line up and walk west,” Lewis commanded. “Small steps. He’s probably prone; we don’t want to step over him.”
Staying in sight of one another, they trudged through the chaos.
Martinez fell into the MAV airlock and forced it closed against the wind. Once it pressurized, he quickly doffed his suit. Having climbed the ladder to the crew compartment, he slid into the pilot’s couch and booted the system.
Grabbing the emergency launch checklist with one hand, he flicked switches rapidly with the other. One by one, the systems reported flight-ready status. As they came online, he noted one in particular.
“Commander,” he radioed. “The MAV’s got a seven-degree tilt. It’ll tip at 12.3.”
“Copy that,” Lewis said.
“Johanssen,” Beck said, looking at his arm computer, “Watney’s bio-monitor sent something before going offline. My computer just says ‘Bad Packet.’?”
“I have it, too,” Johanssen said. “It didn’t finish transmitting. Some data’s missing, and there’s no checksum. Gimme a sec.”
“Commander,” Martinez said. “Message from Houston. We’re officially scrubbed. The storm’s definitely gonna be too rough.”
“Copy,” Lewis said.
“They sent that four and a half minutes ago,” Martinez continued, “while looking at satellite data from nine minutes ago.”
“Understood,” Lewis said. “Continue prepping for launch.”
“Copy,” Martinez said.
“Beck,” Johanssen said. “I have the raw packet. It’s plaintext: BP0, PR 0, TP 36.2. That’s as far as it got.”
“Copy,” Beck said morosely. “Blood pressure zero, pulse rate zero, temperature normal.”
The channel fell silent for some time. They continued pressing forward, shuffling through the sandstorm, hoping for a miracle.
“Temperature normal?” Lewis said, a hint of hope in her voice.
“It takes a while for the—” Beck stammered. “It takes a while to cool.”
“Commander,” Martinez said. “Tilting at 10.5 degrees now, with gusts pushing it to eleven.”
“Copy,” Lewis said. “Are you at pilot-release?”
“Affirmative,” Martinez replied. “I can launch anytime.”
“If it tips, can you launch before it falls completely over?”
“Uh,” Martinez said, not expecting the question. “Yes, ma’am. I’d take manual control and go full throttle. Then I’d nose up and return to preprogrammed ascent.”
“Copy that,” Lewis said. “Everyone home in on Martinez’s suit. That’ll get you to the MAV airlock. Get in and prep for launch.”
“What about you, Commander?” Beck asked.
“I’m searching a little more. Get moving. And Martinez, if you start to tip, launch.”
“You really think I’ll leave you behind?” Martinez said.
“I just ordered you to,” Lewis replied. “You three, get to the ship.”
They reluctantly obeyed Lewis’s order and made their way toward the MAV. The punishing wind fought them every step of the way.