Page 7 of Lunar Blackout

I stand just as Iolo is about to do the same himself, but as he realises I am standing, he sits back down. I shake my head and mouth the word “What?” at him, but he just looks back down to the cup in front of him. Even from over here I can see it’s empty, but he clearly doesn’t want to head to the tray rack at the same time as me. I place my dirty dishes on the rack, before sending my thanks to the kitchen staff through the hatch, and head down, alone, to the basement. He can follow when he sees fit.

***

“Three, two, one, booster ignition.” Teck calls through the comms system. The Spitfire shakes slightly to imitate the shake of the rocket that will be below us.

“All systems are steady, trajectory is on course,” Iolo says, stern and to the point. I flick the switches I am supposed to flick, fiddle the nobs I’m supposed to fiddle. I must admit I am distracted by whatever is going on between us, but we can’t let it affect our mission. If this rift between us causes any mistakes on the day, we could both end up dead. Or fired. Or both.

“Booster separation in three, two, one” I state as the monitor in front of us shows the four boosters releasing from the rocket below us, the screen stating we are 50 kilometres in the air, despite actually being in a basement in Spitalfields.

“Trajectory still on course for initial low earth orbit, prepare for core stage separation.” He doesn’t even look at me. I once again flick the switches I need to, it doesn’t do much, it’s more to prepare for if something goes wrong rather than to control anything that’s happening to the rocket below us.

There is a slight shudder of the shuttle, “Core stage separation complete, entering low earth orbit now, and preparing for booster burn into our lunar orbit trajectory.” I am a professional, acting like Iolo being a cunt for no apparent reason isn’t affecting me, when it really, really is.

“All right boys, we are skipping ahead, do you want to take five before we run through re-entry?”

“No,” Iolo says bluntly before I can say yes.

“Fine, get ready then boys, we are going through a challenging one today.”

Our screens glitch as the image changes. Now instead of the vastness of space behind us, we see the earth through the windows.

“Beginning alignment manoeuvre to prepare for re-entry.” Iolo controls the switches closest to him, causing the craft to roll until earth is below us rather than above. “Handing over re-entry coordinate control to Winston Smith.”

“Control received,” I say, trying not to sound as happy as I am for him just acknowledging my existence. “We will reach targeted re-entry point in approximately 30 seconds.” The map appears on the screen, showing our targeted trajectory, and the course we’re on, which thankfully line up. Today we are going to pretend to land at the small runway on the Air Force base at Dover.

The shuttle begins to shake as we enter the atmosphere, the glow of heat become visible through the LED screens that act as our windows. Our trajectory is going well, everything is going smoothly, I almost forget that Teck says it’s going to be a difficult one. My hands are on the steering mechanism, the craft is on autopilot, but you have to be prepared for anything.

Our navigation systems show we are just over Reading, going way too fast, but our altitude is where we need to be for Iolo to— “Launching initial parachute now” —there is a slight jerk on the craft and the display shows that we slow down slightly, but are still way too fast to land. “Launching second stage parachutes now.” He flicks his switch, and… nothing. Iolo clears his throat then tries the switch again. And again. And again. Nothing is happening. The parachute has failed.

FIVE

IOLO

I struggle to catch my breath. I can feel the sweat building on my temple, and I can’t hide the shake of my hand as I continually flick the parachute switch.

“Breathe,” Winston says in a calm, reassuring voice. I get this is only a simulation. I get this is very much not real. But the anxiety in me very much is, because that’s how bodies work. If this were real life we’d be on our way to death. So long cruel world, I’m about to die with Winston Smith beside me. At one point that would have been a dream of mine. Not at a young age of course, but to die with him by my side when I’m so old I don’t remember my youth.

I try to think of what I need to do in the situation where the parachutes fail, but all I can think about are the regrets I’d have if I were to die right now.

THIS IS A BLOODY SIMULATION, IOLO. CALM THE FUCK DOWN, IOLO.

‘Taking manual control of the shuttle. Iolo, switch engines to manual.” His velvety and calm voice is a juxtaposition to the panic that comes out of mine as I say “Switching engines to manual.” I flick the necessary switch, hands still shaking. “You now have control.”

“Control, this is Smith, second stage parachute has failed, speed too great to land at Dover safely, alternative landing planned.” He looks over to me as he releases the comms switch. “Trust me?”

Personally, no. Professionally? “With my life.” He smiles at me, giving me his giant grin as he flicks some switches. I can’t tell where he plans on landing us, but what I can tell is that he has a plan.

“This is command, our calculations show that you will indeed crash at Dover, but we don’t see any other feasible way for you to land at this time, we have fire and ambulance services heading to the runway in readiness.”

“Negative, command, our speed is too great, landing at Dover would result in fatalities. I have run calculations, and have planned an alternative landing point. Please put me in communication with air traffic control.”

“Calculations?” My voice is as shaky as my hands. He smiles, nods and taps his temple. The cocky bastard has done the maths in his head.

When a shuttle is to land, all of the airspace around the target base is closed off for a hundred miles or so for safety. I can’t even imagine where he plans on taking us, and why he would need to speak to—

“This is Captain—” Cheeky bastard calling himself that when it is yet to be decided. “—Winston Smith of the UBNSA Spitfire 4, calling England Air Traffic Control, request emergency clearance to land craft at forty-nine degrees twelve minutes and twenty-nine seconds north, zero zero two degrees, eleven minutes and 43 seconds west, over.”

There is a beat of silence, I swear I can hear my own heartbeat. “This is air traffic control, emergency permission granted, evacuation of runway has begun.”