“Sergeant Kavanagh,” the ground controller said. “You will move to the hatch.”
Working on his suit and chutes had kept him busy. That had kept the nausea at bay. The order triggered it again. Could fear be doing that? He didn’t want to admit such a thing, not even to himself.
Paul began to unbuckle. Try as he might not to, he dry heaved as he did it.
You should have taken the anti-nausea pill. He didn’t like them. They made him feel achy and sleepy. Yet the DIs and other trainers had relentlessly drummed one thing into them. They must listen exactly to the instructions.
Paul recalled the first time they’d told him that. “This is a brand new endeavor, recruit. You’re trying to become a new kind of Marine in the space age. There’s never been an orbital drop before. You live by our rules, or we flush you like an unwanted goldfish. Do you understand?”
How many times had they asked him that? He’d signed forms, etc., etc. They still harped on perfect obedience.
I’m not a dog. I’m a man.
Yeah. They wouldn’t care about that. If he threw up in his pressure suit… they would know he hadn’t taken the anti-nausea pill. He didn’t want them to know, because they might flush Paul Kavanagh out of the program. He couldn’t fail. He had to pass. He had to become a space-dropping specialist so he could pay back the Chinese for making him scared in Oklahoma.
“Sergeant Kavanagh?” the ground controller asked.
He chinned on his communit. “Getting to the hatch now,” he muttered.
“Your pulse rate is higher than normal.”
“What?”
“We’re monitoring your pulse rate. Are you feeling well?”
“I’m feeling super,” he said.
“Sergeant Kavanagh, strict honesty is the policy. If you cannot comply—”
“Your systems must be goofy,” Paul said. “I’ve never felt better.”
“Return to your seat, Sergeant.”
“Negative,” Paul said. “I’m doing this.”
The other four candidates swiveled their visors to watch him.
Paul stood, taking the step to the hatch. He dry heaved once more.
“Did you take your anti-nausea pill?” the ground controller asked.
Paul realized his internal communit was still broadcasting. A trickle of sweat beaded down his forehead. He felt awful. With his chin, he turned off the comm and dry heaved so vomit burned the back of his throat.
Ignore it. Get on with the job.
He couldn’t ignore it. He dry heaved again and feelings of claustrophobia struck. So, he pressed a switch and his visor slid opened. He exhaled, saw the others watching him and closed the visor. Slowly, as the suit re-pressurized, he reached the hatch.
“Sergeant Kavanagh, you must know we have a visual of the capsule. Are you vomiting?”
“It’s no big deal,” he radioed. “A few dry heaves.”
“Did you forget to take the anti-nausea pill?”
“No, I didn’t forget. I just didn’t do it.”
“You disobeyed a direct order?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
“At least he’s being honest,” someone down there said.
“You will sit down—”
“No,” Paul said. “If I’ve just flushed out of the program, I’m at least going to do one drop.”
“No,” the ground controller said. “If you—”
“Let him do it,” another man said. “I’m curious if someone in his condition can do it without a pill.”
Despite the nausea, the next few minutes were amazing. First, Paul decompressed the compartment. It wouldn’t do for him to open the hatch and have the escaping air expel outside before he was ready.
“Are you in position?” the ground controller asked.
“Roger that,” Paul said. He moved a lever, turned a wheel and swung open the hatch. Then he looked outside. The Earth was below in its glorious panorama. He could see the curvature of the planet and marveled once more at its bluish atmosphere. Far down below was the United States of America. He was going to land down there in Montana, if he could summon the guts to leap.
He heard the harsh sound of his breathing. This was awesome, like the highest high dive on the planet. He remembered his youth when he used to cliff dive forty feet or more.
Sergeant Kavanagh laughed as he forgot about being sick.
“Why is he laughing?” someone down there asked.
“This is great,” Paul whispered. Then he pushed off. It was just like cliff diving. He pushed away, and he dropped from the capsule. A rear camera on his helmet let him view the round balloon and the capsule holding his blood brother. In seconds, he lost sight of the balloon.
At that point, it felt as if he just hung in space. He recalled a time surfing, the most serene moment in his life. It had been in Oceanside near Camp Pendleton, the California Marine training base. Winter surfing demanded a wet suit. The gray sky made it impossible to tell, as he lay on his surfboard, to see where the ocean ended and where the sky began. The ocean waves just rolled in. The waves sucked for surfing that day, but they had been perfect for just lying there, serene. It had been the one moment in his life where he went Zen peaceful.
This was like that, floating in the stratosphere. Actually, he dropped, gaining speed as he went. He grinned. That lasted a minute. Slowly, the grin began slipping away as the nausea returned.
“How are you feeling?” the ground controller asked.
“Like I twirled around too many times doing ring-around-the—rosie.”
“You do that often, Sergeant?” the other man asked.
“I did as a kid. What, you never did?”
“Watch your mouth,” the ground controller said. “The general is talking to you.”
Paul might have said he was sorry about that. He wasn’t. Screw them anyway. He was a speck of nothing, picking up speed. Look at the Earth, just look at it. This was crazy. According to the briefing, he’d be going supersonic soon.
As he free fell, Paul wondered why no one had tried inserting Special Forces personnel into China already like this. Maybe they had. Maybe SEALs used exotic equipment, gliding across the Pacific Ocean and quietly dropping into China to commit acts of sabotage. That would be the ultimate. Well… no… being an orbital-dropping Marine was going to be the ultimate.
How was that going to work anyway? The candidates had already gone through grueling tests. They were looking for the best of the best. Paul figured he was one, but was that really true?
He knew one thing. He was the oldest candidate. Talk about working overtime to stay in shape…
Oh wow, he began to notice movement. It was no longer quite so dark around him. He couldn’t see the curvature of the planet, either.
“He’s at four hundred and fifteen miles per hour, sir.”
Paul groaned. He couldn’t help it as his stomach gurgled. Clenching his teeth, he ran a litany in his mind: You will not vomit; you will not vomit. One time, the throat burn before, that’s all you’re allowed.
The struggle took all his concentration. By the time the nausea passed, the world had turned fully normal again.
“Six hundred and seventy-five miles per hour,” the ground controller said in his headphones.
Paul had already assumed the skydiving position. As he reached seven hundred miles per hour, he moved incorrectly, putting his arm in the wrong place. He rolled, tried to correct and only made it worse. Now he began to spin, and it accelerated faster than he could believe.
His trainers had warned him about this. His special pressure suit had all kinds of gauges. Among them was a G-meter that monitored his drop. He also had a drogue deployment button in his right glove. If he held it down for three seconds, it would fire the drogue stabilization chute. That was a special chute to stop whatever evil—destabilizing—was happening. The G-meter flashed red in his helmet. That meant he experienced over 3.5 Gs for a continuous period six seconds or longer.