CHAPTER SIX

On Al's one-month anniversary at the Cape, he went into the Lunar Excursion Module Simulator for the first time. Accompanying him was Lieutenant Taggert, who had a degree in geology, and would be as likely as anyone to be sent on the landing. Al was present in the capacity of pilot.

It was the end of a long and strenuous week of crisis testing, as Elsa had called it. Al knew he had done admirably—make that excellently. He had more experience with sleep deprivation than most men, even by military standards. The VC loved to leave you raving like a lunatic—and after they were done with you and finally let you sleep, nine times out of ten you couldn't remember what you had said to buy the luxury of slumber.

The pressure was on: in ten days' time the crew roster for Apollo 19 would be released. This was the last simulation for Al before he would be allowed to check out and head home for two days of glorious freedom—days that he was going to spend alternately in the tub and in bed.

Taggert grinned at him as the technicians sealed the hatch. "You ready?" he asked.

Al grinned enormously "You betcha," he said. With any luck, he'd be landing one of these things on the moon in five months.

There were a couple of glitches—there were always glitches—but overall the descent went smoothly. Then the two astronauts had a half-hour wait while the computers outside were being set for the return trip. Taggert sat back in his seat, flexing his fingers and yawning.

"Damn, it's been a long week," he said.

"Tell me about it," Al muttered, scrubbing his eyes with his hands. God, it was hot in here.

Elsa Orsós was out there on the board. Al wondered wryly what she'd thought of his "performance" this week. He knew he'd done well, buthe couldn't blame her if she was disposed to be uncommonly critical. Their altercation in the cafeteria was already becoming a part of NASA legend, and both of them were finding it difficult to live down. It wasn't so bad once you got used to the cracks about the two of them being madly in love. Most of the astronauts had had some kind of encounter with Elsa, and Al's was simply the most dramatic. One distinct downside was that the females on staff who fell into the women's lib faction were giving him a very wide berth now. As for Elsa, he had exchanged the bare minimum of strictly work-related words with her since the incident. She was definitely not worth the trouble, however incredibly gorgeous she was...

It was too hot in here. Al found he was having trouble breathing, and he undid the tether keeping him in his seat, hoping that would relieve the pressure on his lungs. Taggert looked to be catching a quick catnap, which was only fair, since the guy had been up for almost thirty hours straight. Al wished he could get up and pace around a little, but wandering the LEMS was strictly prohibited. The walls were no thicker than tin foil in places, and while there wouldn't be a problem when they were weightless, now there was always a risk of denting the simulator. In and out, the rest of the time sit still. Those were the rules.

It was such a tiny space, much smaller than the capsule. Al thought about the men on Apollo 13, who had spent three days living in this thing after shutting down the command module to conserve power and oxygen for re-entry. Three men living constantly in a space meant to carry two for a couple-hour descent. He couldn't imagine it.

Oh, wait, he could. He knew exactly what it must have been like, and that was the problem. A chill ran up his spine at the thought of the tiny hooch at Mai Choi that he'd shared with Fred Giocanni and young Jeff Townsend. They'd been grateful for the close quarters during the winter nights—sometimes the temperatures were way down in the thirties, and there they were in a shoddily chinked bamboo shelter, barefoot and dressed in thin, threadbare prison fatigues. The enforced huddling hadn't been such a torment then: they would have been like that anyway. When the spring came with its oppressive heat, however, the discomfort of three perspiring bodies in a five-by-five hut had been intolerable. You couldn't stretch out, you couldn't breathe properly, you could hardly move without ramming someone with your knee or your elbow or your aching, abused shoulder. It had almost been a relief to be dragged out to the tiger cage just to get a little fresh air, and Al knew the other men had been glad to see him go. Not that they wanted him to roast in the sun, unable to stand or sit, poked and prodded and tormented, put on half-rations and deprived of water, but those inches freed up when he wasn't in the hovel were precious. Wonderful thing, enduring that kind of torture knowing your compatriots would be sorry when it was over. That was the whole idea, of course. Divide, demoralize, and conquer.

Al tried to remind himself that this was different. No one was touching him. All he could smell was the faint metallic odor of the consoles. It wasn't that hot in here…

Except it was. It was that hot in here, and he couldn't even undo the zipper on his flight suit. Trying to distract himself he set about memorizing the switches in front of him, struggling not to think of the tiny black isolation cells that seemed to press in on you, the walls getting closer and closer, the space you were already crammed into getting narrower and narrower, the roof falling with excruciating slowness…

"LEMS, stand by for takeoff," Cap Com said. Al fumbled with his harness. He didn't want to tie himself back down: he couldn't breathe properly as it was. He did it anyway, though, and then blinked the sweat out of his eyes and switched on his microphone.

"LEMS here, acknowledge Cap Com. Standing by." The ropes, too. They would bind you up so tightly that you felt like you were encased in a casket of hemp. Then they'd leave you in the dark. You couldn't move, and with broken ribs you couldn't breathe.

"LEMS, this is Apollo," Simmons' voice cut in. It was starting. "Capsule on trajectory. You are clear to ascend."

Al nodded, trying to stay focused on the moment. "We read you, Apollo.

"Engaging thrusters," Taggert said. "Ignition."

"Lift-off in five," Al said. "Four. Three. Two. We are airborne, Apollo, repeat, we are airborne."

"I read you, LEMS," Simmons said. "Cap Com confirm docking trajectories."

"Confirming," Cap Com complied. The simulator began to hum and shudder.

"I'm getting a red light," Taggert said calmly. "Repeat: red light on starboard thrusters."

"Cap Com, confirm a red light on starboard thrusters?"

Al craned his neck to see the red light beyond Taggert. What was it? Which one was it? It was hard to think when you couldn't breathe. God, it was hot in here. There wasn't enough room to breathe in here, not in this heat.

"Confirm red light, Apollo," Cap Com intoned in a factual voice. "Lunar excursion module drifting two degrees to port. Three degrees."

"LEMS, you've got drift," Simmons said.

Drift. The word hit home. It was the pilot's job to compensate for drift. Al reached for the control stick. "Attempting to compensate," he rasped, his voice catching on the back of his throat.

Taggert looked at him and cupped a hand over his microphone. "You okay, Calavicci?" he mouthed.

"Fine," Al said tersely. "Keep an eye on those lights." He tried to swallow, but his larynx was full of mucus. He couldn't swallow and he couldn't breathe. Oh, God…

He closed his eyes and tried to get a sense of the movement of the ship. They were drifting to port, so he had to bank to starboard… but how far? The module wasn't actually going anywhere. He couldn't feel it. All he could feel was the pressure on the back of his neck, where the tin-foil-thin walls were pressing in on him…

"Starboard thrusters firing too fast, LEMS," Cap Com said in an exasperated voice.

"Compensating," Taggert said. "Calavicci! Help me compensate!"

"Compensating," Al echoed hoarsely. He drew in a shallow, gasping breath. There was no air in here. He was suffocating. Drowning.

"That's a no, LEMS," Cap Com said. "Compensation ineffective. Recommend you attempt to shut down the thrusters."

"We shut them down, we won't be able to light them up again, Cap Com," Taggert was saying warily.

"You don't shut them down and you're going to miss the capsule entirely."

Al had to get out of here. He had to. He couldn't breath. He was going to die. There wasn't enough space in here. He had to get out. He had to get out.

Another voice in the back of his mind protested that he had to focus on the mission. He had to dock with Apollo. If he didn't, they were going to shoot off into space. They would float forever and ever, until they ran out of air.

Ran out of air… they were running out of air! He tried to breathe faster, to suck in as much oxygen as he could before it was gone, but the walls were pressing in all around him, constricting his limbs and crushing his chest. Just like the tiger cage. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. It was so hot in here!

The blood was pounding in his eyes, and his eyes were full of black spots. He was dimly aware of someone yelling, "Abort the mission! Abort!". There was a siren sounding. Then the lights went out.

"No!" he screamed, thrashing and struggling against the ever-shrinking confinement. "NO!"

There was a hiss: air moving! Someone was yanking on his restraints. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. His knee struck something hard and pain-rendering. They were pulling on his arms, his mangled arms. Couldn't they leave him alone? Couldn't they pull him out of this cage? Didn't they realize he was suffocating?

His lungs burned and his stomach spasmed as he drew sharp, panicked wheezes of the painfully hot air. The walls… the walls…

"Let go and give him some room!" An imperious voice cut through his alarm and confusion. It was a strange voice, too deep for a woman's, too high for a man's, and oddly accented. "Back off, leave him alone! Doctor Vaughner!"

"What the hell…"

"He's clawing at his neck…"

"Flight suit too tight?"

"Calavicci, settle down. Come on, deep breath," a deep, vaguely familiar voice intoned.

Al heard the words, and knew what he had to do to follow through, but his efforts to stave off the paroxysms of alarm that were wracking his chest only worsened his painful gasps.

"Calavicci!" the voice repeated. "Calavicci! It's all right! Settle down!"

Al couldn't. He couldn't. The walls were closing in. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. His shoulders heaved spastically.

"Stop this! Stop it!" the strong voice commanded. Someone was pulling on his arm, forcing him to sit up. Al tried to struggle, but he was too busy fighting for air. Then his head cracked to the side as an open palm struck his cheek. He drew in a deep, startled gasp, and was astounded to find that his lungs filled with cool air. He exhaled as quickly as he could and drew in another enormous, frantic breath.

"Slow down, sailor; easy does it," the first voice said. A strong hand settled on Al's back. "Here, help me with this."

Al clutched his stomach and forced his breathing to level out. A sharp-nailed hand was fumbling with the zipper on his flight suit. Suddenly the garment was opened to his waist, and now he really could breathe. After a couple inhalations his vision began to clear.

"Like that?" Elsa Orsós said. She was kneeling in front of him.

Al realized with a pang of mortification that he was on the floor, in the middle of the hangar, with a dozen people standing around staring at him like he'd had a seizure. He tried to remember what had happened. That tiny little module… His heart was still hammering against his chest. Doctor Wagner, the flight surgeon who had been monitoring their vitals, was crouched next to him, groping on his neck for a pulse.

"Come on, Calavicci," Simmons said, stepping forward to help the physician drag the shaking Naval officer to his feet. Al stumbled to the vacant chair at Elsa's station, clutching to the edge of the console. He tried to tell himself that there was nothing to panic about.

He buried his face in his hands. God, what had just happened?

"What the hell was that?" the supervising Captain demanded. "Calavicci? Calavicci, are you all right?"

"Aye-aye, sir," Al mumbled. He tried to sit up straighter. His dog tags flapped against his sternum. He instinctively tried to pull the two halves of his flight suit together over his bare chest. Doctor Wagner had his bag and was taking out his stethoscope.

"Perspiration, panic, hyperventilation," the physician said, probing at Al's chest with the cold metal disk. "You're heartrate must be well over a hundred. Somebody get a glass of water! Any history of spells like this?"

Al shook his head. He was nauseated with humiliation. He could tell by the alarm on the faces around him that whatever had just happened, it had been quite the spectacle.

"Here, drink this," Wagner said, holding a glass to his lips. Al raised a trembling hand to take it. He wasn't an invalid. He could drink a lousy cup of water.

He spilled some onto his chest and hissed, but managed to get most of the liquid into his mouth. He coughed. "I'm fine," he said tersely. "We've got to finish the simulation."

"Not until I give you a full check-up," Wagner said as he pushed up one of Al's eyelids and squinted at his pupil.

"Nothing wrong with me," Al protested. "I've got two separate fit-for-duty certifications."

Wagner frowned. "I know you do, and I didn't say there was anything wrong physically," he said. "Looks to me like you had a panic attack."

Al felt his cheeks burning. He couldn't deny it: that was certainly what it had felt like. He knew a thing or two about panic, but he'd never had anything quite like that before. "I couldn't breathe," he whispered.

Wagner nodded. "Pressure on your lungs?"

"Yeah…"

"Walls clo—"

"Shouldn't you do this in the sickbay?" Elsa demanded abruptly. "I can't reset the simulator with this piece of sea surplus in my chair!"

Wagner looked around at the assembled audience. "Right. Come on, Calavicci." He got to his feet and held out a hand for Al to take. He didn't. With an enormous effort he rose on his own.

"Need a hand?" Taggert asked, his eyebrows furrowed in genuine concern.

"Hell, no," Al said, putting on a false smile. "Under control."

He squared his shoulders and raised his head, refusing to give in to the humiliation that was threatening to swallow him. He followed Wagner out of the hangar and down towards the infirmary.