Perigee Read Free Page B

hovering around 6,600 knots—almost eight thousand miles per hour.
    Faint, metallic pings rang through the hull as individual molecules of air began to strike outside. The noise became a whistling rush as both pilots began to sense atmosphere and gravity reclaiming them.
    The Austral Clipper had begun its initial re-entry, falling from suborbital space at Mach 10.
    …
     
    Polaris AeroSpace Lines
Denver, Colorado
     
    1302 ENTERING SKIP AT N02.50 W157.30 // SYSTEMS GO // FUEL STATE 78400 // ETA DEN 2308Z…SURFS UP flashed the message on Charlie Grant’s console. He had just been informed that flight 1302, otherwise known as the Austral Clipper , had begun its re-entry skip. A quick glance up at the control center’s map projection confirmed their reported position, just north of Christmas Island.
    Reminiscent of an amphitheater, the room was bathed in the dim glow of computer screens and indirect lighting. Workstations were arranged in semicircular rows; each staffed by flight controllers. The ranks of consoles marched down toward the far wall, itself dominated by a floor-to-ceiling projection of Polaris AeroSpace’s route system: a map of the world, overlaid with graceful curves tracing the route of each Global Clipper spaceplane.
    The control center’s insular nature had led them to label it “The Casino”: once on duty, its controllers were completely absorbed by the flurry of activity within. They likewise became oblivious to whatever time of day it might be outside.
    On the longer flights, like this non-stop from Sydney, the suborbital Clippers would hop across the upper atmosphere like stones skipping across a pond. During the hypersonic descent from space, rapidly increasing air density created a shock wave which the plane’s belly was carefully shaped to ride along. The proper term was “compression lift,” but the pilots simply called it “surfing” and swore they could feel the tide of air building up underneath them.
    Quickly recalculating the flight’s fuel, he also checked weather at potential landing sites along the way before typing out a reply. If they had to land short for any reason, that time would come soon. After bouncing back into space, physics would demand they end up somewhere in the western United States, preferably “home plate” in Denver.
    …
     
    Flight 1302
     
    “Two-hundred-fifty thousand feet,” Ryan reported. “Skin temp one thousand thirty. Dispatch just uplinked weather for Hilo and Oakland, both clear and a million.”
    “Thanks,” Tom answered, eyes fixed on the heads-up display. His right hand still rested on the throttle levers. “Waiting for power.”
    The glowing digits of his altimeter ticked down another ten thousand feet within seconds. Beyond the windshield, tendrils of glowing plasma danced across the plane’s broad nose. There was no need to check the engine gauges; the steady whine reverberating from behind confirmed that all three had stubbornly remained idle.
    “And…we’re still waiting,” Ryan said in dismay, one hand hovering above the autopilot cutoff. “Net thrust is falling off…nothing on the caution and warning panel.”
    “Lovely,” Tom sighed. “Go manual,” he directed while sliding the throttles forward. “Let maintenance control know the auto-throttle’s gone stupid again. I’ll need your callouts on fuel and temps.”
    “All yours, skipper,” Ryan answered as he thumbed the switch and grasped for an electronic chart tablet by his seat. “Might be good to have those diversion airports handy,” he muttered.
    Far ahead, the horizon curved away, a thin rainbow of color punctuated by the silhouettes of towering clouds a thousand miles distant. That’d be the weather waiting for us, he thought dourly . We’ll earn our pay on this leg .
    …
     
    The flight attendant chime was as remorseless as it was poorly timed. “Miss?” called the rotund passenger over in seat 2A. “Miss?” he demanded again, this time waving an