Robert Zubrin - First Landing

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s

Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

http://www.penguinputnam.com

For my daughters,

Rachel and Sarah,

explorers of the new world

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to acknowledge the assstance of many people who helped in the creation of this

book. These include: Jonathan Vos Post, who contributed many valuable ideas to the initial development

of the story; Greg Benford and James Cameron, who provided useful advice for the refinement of the

plot; Brian Frankie, who provided input on the rock-climbing scenes; and Laurie Fox, Susan Allison, and

Kevin Anderson, all of whom helped the author sharpen the final manuscript for publication.

Most of all, I would like to express my thanks to my wife, Maggie, without whose loving support the

writing of this novel would have been impossible.

CHAPTER 1

THEBEAGLEWHIRLEDsilently through the void. Round and round she looped, suspended by

centrifugal force at the end of a mile-long tether from her long-expended propulsion stage. Lit by the sun

on one side, and an eerie red Marsglow on the other, she looked more like a big tuna can riding on an

oversized plate than a daring ship of exploration. But brave explorer she was, and the plate her shield and

only protection against the incandescent blast of her imminent Mach 30 entry into Mars’ atmosphere. A

technological marvel, her inner workings included over ten thousand mission-critical electronic circuits.

As she approached her trial by fire, all but one were working perfectly.

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ABOARD THEBEAGLE , APPROACHING MARS

OCT. 26, 2011 14:22 CST

“Oh, Houstonnn, we’ve got a problemmm,” Luke Johnson drawled in a Texas accent with a singsong

pitch.

Beneath theBeagle ’s primary electronics console, Major Guenevere Llewellyn overheard the comment

and set her mouth in a grim line. He could say that again. She rubbed her hands on her grease-stained

NASA flight suit and stared up at a world of wires and fuses, circuit breakers, capacitors, switches,

voltages, currents, resistances, temperature readouts on pyro bolts—and a clock with twenty-seven

minutes left on it.

As she tinkered furiously, Gwen muttered half to herself and half to her anxious crewmates. “It doesn’t

make any sense. Why aren’t the pyros firing? We’ve got plenty of power, and three redundant circuits

for delivering the ignition spark.”

Shortly after launch the better part of a year ago, when Mission Commander Townsend had separated

the spacecraft from the upper stage, the burnt-out booster rocket had remained connected to theBeagle

by a mile-long tether, dangling like a long counterweight on a string. After firing a small rocket engine on

the Hab module, Townsend had set the craft spinning; at the end of its tether, the whirling upper stage

produced enough centrifugal force to provide the crew with sufficient artificial gravity for their long

journey to Mars.

But if Gwen couldn’t disconnect the tether in time, theBeagle ’s Mach 30 aeroentry would be

uncontrollable, and the ship would be burned to a crisp.

Stumped, she tried to think of any malfunction that could have caused the breakdown. “The pyros are a

new type, designed to prevent inadvertent ignition by static discharge. Maybe this close to Mars they got

too cold, chilled below their ignition temperature. If I shunt over some extra power from the life-support

system, that might warm them enough to light.”

“Worth a try, but better hurry,” Colonel Townsend said. “Do it.”

Gwen swiftly threw some relays, switching the surplus LSS power into the pyro prewarmers. In

seconds, however, it was obvious that the move would be ineffectual.

The flight mechanic crawled out from beneath the control panel and faced the mission commander. He

wasn’t going to like what she had to say. “Colonel, there’s no choice. I’ve got to go EVA and pull the

manual release.”

“Major, no one is going EVA around here until I give the order. That’s a last resort. Now try shunting

the backup power from the RCS actuators to the pyro ignition system.”

Gwen sat down at her control station. She knew it wouldn’t work, but arguing with the

bomber-jacket-clad ex-fighter jockey would waste precious time. If she made quick work of it, there

would still be time for the EVA. Barely.

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“Aye, aye, sir.” Gwen sat down at her control station.

Townsend gave her a grin and a thumbs up.That’s not going to do it, Colonel. Townsend flipped the

switch to desafe her board. “Okay, fire on five. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . Do it!”

On Townsend’s order, Gwen hit the firing switches. There was no response. Townsend cracked his

knuckles in an unconscious admission of stress. She could see he didn’t want to let her go EVA, but he’d

have to, and soon.

“Colonel, I’ve got to suit up.” Gwen started to rise, but the colonel’s hand shoved her back down into

her seat.

“At my mark. . .” Townsend said, “fire again.” She could see the sweat on his creased forehead.

Gwen hit the switch. “No go, sir” she reported. Twenty-four minutes.

“All right, shuntall the life-support power to the igniters. Switch to batteries for the lights.”

The last alternative to EVA. Gwen’s fingers flew over the power regulator controls. “Aye, aye.”

The internal lights of the habitation module dimmed. Ruddy Marsshine illuminated the cabin interior.

“Fire!”

Gwen stabbed down on both power switches. No response.

“Try again . . . Fire!. . . . Fire! . . . Goddammit!”

The colonel is losing it,Gwen thought, startled by his uncharacteristic language.Twenty-three minutes

left. “ Colonel. This isn’t going to work.” She turned to him, trying to keep her own professional cool.

“The only solution is for me to get out on the roof of the Hab module and release the tether manually.

Now.”

“There isn’t time.”

“Luke’s got a Marsuit all ready. It’s the only way.”

Townsend drummed his fingers on the control panel while his chief engineer felt precious seconds ticking

away. “All right then, Major. There’s no time to verify with Houston, and I won’t waste time arguing

about who’s best for the job. It’s my prerogative as commander to approve your suggestion. Go for it.”

“Yes, sir.” Gwen leapt across the cabin toward the spacesuit locker. Big Luke, the mission geologist,

had her Marsuit waiting. Marked with her old army helo unit insignia, it was thinner, more flexible, and

much easier to don than a standard spacesuit. Designed for field work on the Martian surface, Marsuits

were not rated for space. But despite the qualms of the NASA safety mafia, everyone who had ever

worked with them knew they were the best choice for fast EVA work as well.

“Don’t try to play hero,” Townsend warned. “Just stay cool.”

Gwen took it on faith that Luke had checked out the suit correctly; there wasn’t time to do it herself.

Twenty-one minutes.

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It took her seconds to strip off the NASA flight suit, revealing an athletic body clad in an Atlanta Braves

T-shirt and cutoff blue jeans. The geologist helped her wriggle into the EVA gear, then strapped on an

auxiliary cold gas jet pack.

The Marsuit fit like a second skin. “If my pants were as tight as this suit, they’d never let me into church

back home,” she commented wryly. Luke chuckled as she took the transparent globular helmet from him.

“Okay, folks, I think I’ll take a little stroll outside.”

“By the book, Major,” Townsend said.

As she crossed the cabin, Gwen could hear Townsend giving instructions to Luke and Rebecca

Sherman, the excessively sophisticated ship’s doctor and chief scientist. “I’m going to start programming

in emergency maneuvers. You two, take your emergency stations at consoles two and three. As soon as

Gwen goes outside, you watch with the multi-cams. If you see anything that looks even the slightest bit

odd, I want you to scream. Is that clear?”

Professor McGee, the other egghead on board, was nowhere in sight. Probably off somewhere dictating

to his journal. As mission historian, there wasn’t much else he could do.We’ll all burn up in a little

while if I don’t get this done, Gwen thought.Not much of an ending to his story.

“Okay, Major, it’s your play. Good luck.”

With a practiced hand, Gwen crossed her two red braids behind her neck, removed her Atlanta Braves

cap, and clamped the helmet down to seal the Marsuit. Then she entered the airlock, closing the hatch

behind her. Through the viewport she could see Dr. Sherman making double-sure it was dogged shut.

Gwen checked the airlock readouts. Praise the Lord, at least this system was in working order. “All

secure in here. Commence pumpdown.”

Twenty minutes.

“Pumpdown initiated.” Townsend’s voice was muffled inside Gwen’s helmet. The lock began to hiss.

Because theBeagle ’s cabin atmospheric pressure was kept at a modest five pounds per square inch, no

prebreathing was necessary, and the depressurization operation proceeded swiftly. As the pressure

dropped, the Marsuit began to stiffen.

Gwen looked out the window into space as the hiss and throb of the evacuation pumps grew fainter. As

she stared open-mouthed at the wild profusion of stars, with nothing to do but wait, a poignant memory

of a long-ago clear night in rural North Carolina briefly possessed her.

She was twelve, looking out her bedroom window on a cricket-haunted night, the full moon hanging

peacefully above her apricot tree. Pebbles rattled against her window. “Gwennie, let’s go,” whispered

the boys from the neighboring farm. She climbed down the vine and crawled past the kitchen window,

where she could hear her parents talking about her: “I don’t know how Gwen’s ever gonna get herself a

boy if she keeps acting like one. Did you hear how she beat the tar out of the Nichols boy in the

schoolyard last week?”

The kids had listened for a bit, giggled conspiratorially, then sneaked off into the barn, where they

jumped out of the loft onto haystacks, yelling “Geronimo!” When it was Gwen’s turn to leap, it seemed

as if she hung in the air for minutes, her heart pounding, while the moon and stars spun around her.

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It had been her first taste of weightlessness, of space . . . .

Finally, the hatch opened, and the last bits of air puffed out of the airlock, sparkling with instantly frozen

specks of water vapor. They looked like gold dust in the harsh sunlight of outer space.Time to stop

holding your breath, girl. Only eighteen minutes left. Gwen gingerly edged out onto the exterior

white-painted skin of the habitat module, her magnetic boots clanging hollowly.

Up the ladder. Gwen made her way to the tether-deployment unit, slowly unreeling the umbilical safety

line that would keep her attached if her magnetic boots slipped off the hull.There’s the windlass, just a

few more steps. Uh-oh. The umbilical is too short.

Sixteen minutes left.

There was only one thing to do and no time to argue about it.Better not even tell Townsend. Gwen

detached the safety umbilical from her suit.Okay, now take it easy.

She grabbed the handholds onto the roof of the Hab. The unobstructed view of Mars from the slowly

rotating spacecraft was spectacular, but it made her dizzy. Feeling like an ant crawling across the outside

of a yo-yo, she paused, feeling nauseous.

Townsend’s voice practically shouted inside her helmet, scratchy with static. “How’s it going, Major?”

“Almost there, Colonel.”

“Well, get to it. We’ve only got fourteen minutes before aeroentry.”

Gwen scrambled forward and grabbed the windlass.Made it. “Ready to initiate manual release.”

“Proceed, Major.”

Gwen put her hands on the lever, braced her boots under the windlass baseplate, and pushed down

hard. No give.Dammit, is the stupid thing vacuum-welded?

She tried again, but the manual still wouldn’t budge. She considered trying to cut the cable, but

discarded the idea. The spectra tether was over three inches thick. With her sheath knife as her only

cutting tool, hacking the cable would take far too long. A secondary set of pyro bolts held the windlass to

its baseplate. The bolts had refused to fire—but maybe they could be detached entirely.

Gwen took a wrench from her tool belt and hesitantly placed it on the bolt’s hex.If that bolt fires when

I twist it, I’m fried. But if we don’t get loose, we’re all fried. She put both hands on the wrench

handle and braced her feet on the windlass. “Okay, stand by me, Jesus.” Then she pulled with all her

might.

The brittle bolt broke with a snap but no explosion. The force of the push hurled Gwen away from the

windlass, but she caught a handhold and swung herself back to the Hab roof.Okay. Now for the other

three bolts.

“What’s going on up there, Major?”

“The manual release won’t move, so I’m snapping off the pyro bolts.”

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“You’re what?”

“Snapping the bolts. One down, three to go.”

“Major, Gwen, try something else. If those bolts should fire—”

“No time, sir.” She continued with her work.

“Major, this is an order—”

Gwen cut him off.Okay, number two . She braced, pulled, and got another snap. Catching her

handhold, she swung back onto the roof. Ten minutes left. Better hurry.

The third bolt broke free with eight minutes remaining. Then, confident, Gwen placed the wrench head

around the final hex and pulled. But this time the bolt wouldn’t give.

“Come on, break, damn you!” She had one trick left. Fully braced, she kicked down on the wrench

handle with all the force she could muster.

Everything changed in a blink. The bolt snapped, the whole windlass tore free of the Hab module—and

Gwen lost her footing. She grabbed for a handhold, but theBeagle was now separating from her at a

velocity of fifty meters a second. She tumbled off into space.

Watching the ship recede into the distance, Gwen whispered “Geronimo,” her voice echoing strangely

inside her helmet. Then she fired her cold gas jets to negate her spin. For a moment, she hung weightless

with the entire panorama of Mars, the diminishing ship, and a vast, star-studded sky surrounding her.

The spell lasted only a second before she realized that Townsend would feel obligated to maneuver the

ship and come after her. With only six minutes left, the risk was too great. She switched on her suit radio.

“You’re home free, Colonel; suggest you prepare for aerocapture.”

“Major, where the hell have you been? Where the hell are you?”

“I’ve separated from the ship, sir.”

Townsend’s voice was hard and no-nonsense. “What’s your bearing?”

Gwen looked at the ship, then in the opposite direction. “You’ll find me in Pegasus, sir, but there’s no

time.”

“Pegasus? Gotcha. Hang in there, Major, we’re coming for you.”

Gwen knew it was useless to argue. That colonel was a damn fool; he’d lose the mission to try to save

her. She saw a retro flare on the speck representing the retreating ship, and felt a tear forming in the

corner of her eye.

He’d never make it. Still, it was good to have friends.

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CHAPTER 2

“ONE HUNDRED NINETYseconds to atmospheric contact,” Luke announced. Tension sharpened his

normally slow, relaxed voice.

The computer chanted softly, counting down the numbers.

Colonel Andrew Townsend’s computer screen flashed one dreadful message after another:

ATMOSPHERIC ENTRY ANGLE INCORRECT FOR AEROCAPTURE .

SHIP ROTATION INCORRECT FOR AEROCAPTURE.

FLIGHT PATH ANGLE INCORRECT FOR AEROCAPTURE.AERODYNAMIC ANGLE OF

ATTACK INCORRECT .

PITCH INCORRECT.

YAW INCORRECT.

ROLL INCORRECT.

THRUSTER ORIENTATION INCORRECT FOR AEROCAPTURE.

Townsend grimaced: This was going to be a real mess. Gwen’s voice crackled on the intercom. “Give it

up, Colonel. You don’t have time for this. Bring the ship around and save the mission.”

No doubt about it, Gwen was a gutsy kid, but this self-sacrifice stuff was getting irritating. One hundred

seventy seconds. Plenty of time—maybe. But now she was less than fifty meters to starboard, still

chattering. “Colonel, you only have two minutes left. You’ve got to—”

He’d had enough. “Don’t tell me what I’ve got to do, Major. I’ll save youand the mission, so we’ll do it

my way, if you please.”

Easy does it. Twenty meters away.Better rotate the airlock toward her; there won’t be time for

climbing around. “Come on, Major, use your gas jets. We’re close enough now.”

The computer screen flashed,AERO ENTRY IMMINENT .FLIGHT VECTOR ELEMENTS ALL

OUTSIDE SPECIFIED LIMITS .CONDITION RED .CONDITION RED .

Alarm klaxons began shrieking, shockingly loud in the Hab cabin.

“Colonel!” Luke barked from his temporary position as co-pilot in Gwen’s absence. “We’re going in

too steep! The aeroshield’s off-center. We’re going to burn!”

The man was obviously hysterical, but he had a point. The Martian atmosphere was only six-tenths of

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one percent as thick as Earth’s, but at theBeagle ’s tremendous velocity, a too-steep angle of entry

would burn them to ashes once their heat-resistant aeroshield gave way. “Calm down, Luke. We still

have forty-five seconds.”

“Colonel, Gwen’s moving in toward the starboard lock,” Dr. Sherman said, keeping her voice level. “If

you can hold this orientation just a few more seconds, I think she can make it.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Townsend made a mental note.Dr. Sherman. She has a cool head on her

shoulders, that one.

The ship creaked and shuddered with vibrations as they encountered the first wisps of Mars’ upper

ionosphere. Where was Gwen?

“Only fifteen seconds left! Colonel, you’ve got to—”

“Shut up, Luke,” Sherman interrupted. “She’s almost—Oh no, now she’s being pushed back by the

wind.”

No time left. Townsend stabbed the port retro, shoving the ship one last time in Gwen’s direction. There

was a substantial thump.Gwen, I sure hope you didn’t bounce.

“She’s in the lock.”

Townsend smiled, but only for a second. The klaxons were deafening, and every light on the control

panel glared red. The vessel shuddered with the impact of substantial atmospheric entry. He grabbed the

aero-control stick, and pulled back hard.

“All right crew, fasten your seat belts, we’re coming about. Time to do some real flying.”

A sudden lurch told Townsend that he’d been a second too late. All hell broke loose in the cabin as the

Beagle convulsed into a wild spin. Townsend caught a momentary glance of several crew members

tossed about like rag dolls; then they were gone from his peripheral vision. All that existed for Townsend

now were some retros, a stick, and data readouts.

He fought madly with the controls, but the aeroshield’s angle of attack was all wrong, and theBeagle

tumbled in the thickening air.

Gasping inside the starboard lock, Gwen managed to close the outer door before the riotous spin

started. The rotation slammed her back and forth within the lock until she wedged herself between the

narrow walls.Christ, we’re out of control!

If they were going to get out of this alive, theBeagle needed two sets of hands at the controls.

Somehow, she had to make it back to the command console. She hit the emergency pressure

equalization button and heard thewhoosh as cabin air flooded the lock compartment. As her suit flattened

with subpressurization, she undogged the inner lock door and pushed her way into the cabin.

What a mess! Debris was scattered everywhere; one computer monitor had been smashed by a flying

object. Dr. Sherman clutched the back of her chair, swinging about as it spun in place, struggling in vain

to pull herself into the seat. Luke Johnson sprawled on the floor, holding tight to one of the legs of the

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galley table. As Gwen watched, a badly bruised Professor McGee staggered into the cabin and bounced

off the wall, caromed off a set of science consoles, then crashed fortuitously into his own chair, buckling

himself in not ten feet from her, as if that had been his plan all along.

If that lubber can make it to his station, then so can I.

Gwen muttered a brief prayer, then scrambled across the deck, only to be hurled back to her starting

point by a sudden 3-g force. For a moment the force varied in direction, then settled down to a

near-constant vector, directly contrary to her intended path.

Well, at least Townsend seems to be limiting the tumble—that constant g-force means he’s finally

gotten the shield around.

But that left her with the problem of climbing across the deck inclined against 3 g’s worth of pull. She set

her boot magnetos on maximum and tried trudging forward again—no use, not enough traction. She

stared across the deck at her control station, impossibly close, impossibly far.

Now something strange was going on. That idiot egghead McGee began climbing out of his chair,

locking eyes with her.Is he crazy ? Gwen thought.He’s gone down on the deck, holding the base of

his chair. I don’t get it. Jesus, he’s stretching himself across the deck towards me! He’s making

himself into a rope ladder. Well, I’ll be! “Okay, Professor!” Gwen shouted through the chaos. “Here I

come.”

She shoved off the airlock outer door, feeling as if she were rolling heavy boulders uphill, and grabbed

McGee’s feet and hauled herself forward. She reached an arm up and grabbed his knee, then his belt. As

she climbed, Gwen felt a surge of admiration. The man was holding two human bodies steeply sloped

against 3 g’s. It had to hurt like hell. “Now don’t let go,” she gasped in a whisper. “If you do, you’ll crush

us both when we hit the wall.”Just a few more seconds. Hold on.

Gwen’s arm reached the shaft of McGee’s chair, and she pulled herself up. “Well done, Professor!” She

shot him a smile, then pushed away from his chair to reach her own. She flung herself into her seat and

buckled in. Tossing off her helmet, she could smell burnt insulation in the cabin air. “Status, Colonel?”

“Glad to see you back at your post, Major. We’re under control, but seem to be a bit deeper into the

atmosphere than called for in the nominal flight profile.”

Gwen glanced at the altimeter and recoiled in horror. Twelve kilometers! Way too deep within the

atmosphere for aerocapture into a stable orbit. One way or another the ship was going down, and soon.

“ABORT TO SURFACE, ABORT TO SURFACE,” the navigation computer bleated metallically.

Gwen checked the local navigation readouts: two thousand kilometers from the primary landing site. She

was ready when Townsend hit her with the expected question: “Do we have enough airspeed to make it

to the return vehicle?”

Their ride home, the Earth Return Vehicle, had been launched from Earth a full year and a half before the

Beagle lifted off. The ERV had landed in a carefully chosen spot, sitting on its site automatically

processing oxygen, water, and rocket fuel from Martian resources. Everything had been carefully planned

for the habitation module to touch down nearby, for the crew to go find the nice welcome mat.

But plans made in comfortable conference rooms didn’t always turn out as expected.

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“Way too much,” Gwen answered quickly. “The only way to slow down in time is to fly low through the

canyon and thread the needle. Risky with all this irregular ground, and flying that low won’t give us

enough altitude for the chute to land us. Might be safer to abort to the south and hope that the backup

ERV can be retargeted for a rescue mission.”

“That’ll be the day,” replied Townsend. “Hold on tight, we’re going in.”

Oh brother, here we go,thought Gwen, wincing.Where do they find guys like this? She watched the

nav readouts as Townsend did everything he could to control altitude. Looking out the window, she

could see the blinding light of the trail of ionized gas as the ship streaked like a fireball across the Martian

sky. Their target was the landing radar transponder aboard the ERV near the north edge of the Valles

Marineris—the greatest canyon in the solar system, deeper than the Grand Canyon and as long as the

entire United States. If they didn’t make it there, the crew would be hopelessly stranded.

Then the blazing plasma trail was gone. Gwen stared at the unearthly landscape rising on both sides as

the ship streaked between mountains and through the canyon.

“SEA LEVEL,” the computer announced neutrally—an odd phrase for a desert planet that had lost its

lakes and rivers many millions of years ago. “ONE KILOMETER BELOW SEA LEVEL. TWO

KILOMETERS BELOW SEA LEVEL.”

Gwen’s heart pounded with growing hope. “You’re in the groove, Colonel. We’re way below the

surrounding terrain, right in the axis of the canyon. You’ve got one chance to pull out of this dive, sir, so

make it good.”

“Roger that.” Townsend pulled the stick back into a climb.

Suddenly, in the rapidly approaching distance, Gwen spotted the tiny ERV glinting silver-red in the

sunlight, the only man-made object on the alien surface. “Target in sight.”

Townsend steered toward it, but he had sacrificed too much velocity just to fly the ship. Gwen waited

for the inevitable order. “Pop the chutes.”

She slapped her hand down on the control, releasing the drogue and main parachutes in sequence.

When the main opened, a sudden shock slammed her against her seat; then all was strangely quiet except

for a rocking motion as the ship swayed at the end of the chute’s risers.

“Release aeroshield.”

Gwen obeyed without comment, knowing they were about to discover the answer to a key question: Do

we have enough altitude to land, or do we smash? She regarded the control readout. “Too low,” she

whispered. Townsend nodded grimly.

Momentarily possessed by a bit of black humor, Gwen activated the ship’s annunciator. “Attention all

passengers. Prepare for crash landing. Free champagne if we make it down alive. Thank you for flying

Beagle Airlines.”

“Thank you, stewardess.” Townsend laughed.

Gwen looked at the altimeter, all business again. “Time to cast off the main chute.”

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Robert Zubrin - First Landing

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