Strakelov worked in the aft section of the underside, Tereshkova on the front. Without a reliable backpack system, Kessler felt a bit like a fifth wheel. It didn’t mean that he hadn’t contributed to Lightning’s rehabilitation. He had just spent the past thirty minutes stowing the Ku-band antenna and working inside Lightning’s cargo bay disengaging the actuator motors that controlled the opening and closing of the sixty-foot-long doors.
He approached Tereshkova, who had just finished stuffing several thermal insulation sheets into a six-by-six-inch hole. She had cut the thin insulation layers with a set of sheet-metal cutters in squares roughly the size of the tiles. She had then stacked the sheets four inches thick into the hole, and was now filling in the last inch with the epoxy foam from Lightning’s tile repair kit, trimming the excess so that the epoxy did not alter Lightning’s aerodynamics.
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked through his voice-activated headset.
Tereshkova turned her head and slowly shook it. “Nyet, Mikhail. We’re almost finished here. Are the actuator motors disengaged?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Have you talked to your people?”
“Yes. They weren’t too happy with the idea, but went along with it under the circumstances. We need to get CJ back down right away.”
“There!” she said triumphantly as she squeezed the last of the epoxy foam over the last “Russian-made” tile.
“That’s it?”
“There were only thirteen tiles missing. Once we figured out the best way to repair them, it didn’t take long.” She pointed at Strakelov, who floated in their direction. “See?” Nikolai Aleksandrovich is finished, too.”
Strakelov approached them and pointed to his watch and then to the open payload bay doors. Lightning had less than an hour left before it would pass over the specific point in space where the primary RCS thrusters had to be used to slow the orbiter down to re-enter the atmosphere in order to reach Edwards safely.
Kessler held on to Tereshkova’s Ikar as she propelled herself up Lightning’s side. Kessler floated into the payload bay, where he strapped himself to one side and grabbed the woven line that was connected to the edge of the opposite side’s door. With the actuator motors disengaged, there was nothing that prevented the sixteen-hundred-pound doors from swinging freely on their shear hinges. He pulled on the woven line as hard as he could, and managed to move the large open door toward him by a few feet. He kept the tension and watched as Strakelov and Tereshkova positioned themselves over the doors, clipped lines to the edge, and slowly thrust themselves away to put tension on the lines. Kessler heard Strakelov’s voice. Although Kessler’s Russian was severely limited, he knew enough to realize Strakelov was counting down. He readied himself to pull even harder.
“Pyaht… chetyret… tree… dvah… odin… tepyer!”
As Kessler pulled on the woven line, both Strakelov and Tereshkova fired their thrusters. The large door slowly pivoted on its hinges, came down toward Kessler, and stopped as it met Lightning’s fuselage.
“Good job! One down, guys,” he reported.
Five minutes later the second door was also closed, leaving Kessler inside the payload bay. He then floated toward the air lock. He reached it a minute later, closed the hatch behind him, pressurized the compartment, and quickly eased himself out of the bulky suit. He opened the crew compartment and briefly checked on Jones, who was safely strapped to the horizontal sleeping station and was breathing from a Russian portable oxygen unit. Tereshkova had brought in two oxygen cylinders in addition to the unit Jones was using. She had used the first cylinder to bring the oxygen level inside Lightning into the normal range. The second cylinder was backup.
Kessler floated toward the flight deck, where he spotted Tereshkova and Strakelov through the front windowpanes. He reached for the radio. “I’m not sure how to say thanks, my friends.”
“It is spasibo, Mikhail.”
Kessler smiled. “Spasibo, Valentina and Nikolai Aleksandrovich.”
“Get down safely and send us a postcard from California,” Valentina responded as she waved. Nikolai waved as well. Then they turned around and jettisoned toward their station. Kessler floated toward the aft crew section and stared through the upper panes at his new friends. With all his military and NASA training he’d never expected something like this to happen. It was a shame that the world might never learn of what had gone on up here. Only a handful of people would know that on that day both countries had made history. They had crossed self-imposed political and cultural barriers to achieve a common goal.
Kessler verified the payload bay doors’ automatic latching mechanism had engaged and secured the doors. Talk-back lights on the control panel confirmed proper engagement. He activated the second oxygen supply cylinder and eyed the oxygen level. It was barely nominal. He thought about grabbing the small portable oxygen canister in the aft section, but decided against it. The second cylinder should keep the oxygen level out of the critical zone.
He strapped himself into the flight seat and switched frequencies.
“Houston? Lightning. Do you read?”
“Loud and clear, Lightning. Jesus, Michael! What took you so long? You had us worried,” Hunter’s voice said through the overhead speakers.
“Payload bay doors closed and secured. Missing tiles repaired as best we could. I’m coming in.”
“Ah, roger, Lightning.We have worked out a new course for you. It’s gonna take you a little longer to deorbit, but you’ll cut down the heat by twenty percent.”
“How much is a little longer, Houston? I’m not sure how long Jones is going to last.”
“Just ten or fifteen minutes extra, Lightning. Besides, since you’re using the RCS engines to deorbit instead of the OMS engines, your burn time just went up from two minutes to five.”
“Roger. I can live with that.”
“Deorbit burn in three minutes, Lightning.”
“Roger. Changing profile.” Kessler fired the side verniers for two seconds. The small thrusters came alive providing twenty-five pounds of thrust each. It was enough to turn Lightning slowly tail-first. He fired the opposite verniers the moment he’d achieved a 180-degree turn. Then he fired the nose and tail verniers and turned Lightning upside down.
“Two minutes to deorbit burn.”
“Roger, Lightning. Looking good.”
Kessler forced himself to relax. He glanced at the Mission Timer digital display on the instrument panel. One minute, thirty seconds.
“Lightning, Houston.”
“Go ahead, Houston.”
“This is gonna sound crazy but there appears to be an object moving in your direction. Same orbit, relative speed three hundred feet per second.”
Kessler frowned. “What are you guys talking about?’