The 20 foot screen lit up as the Apollo 22 re-entered the upper atmosphere, displaying the exact number of hours, minutes, and seconds until landing. Colonel Thompson sat at his monitor drumming a steady rhythm on his desk with his fingers, he always got nervous when the shuttles returned. He tried to wipe sweat off his palms onto his pant leg. Staring at the massive screen which sat before four rows of people, green on all systems and no loss of time. Clear skies, no missing components, stable flight path, and its 3 man crew halfway across the world, barreling through the atmosphere at 17,000 mph. Running off what little sleep he had, Thompson tried some shrink recommended breathing techniques. Inhale...hold...hold...exhale. Again. Inhale...hold...hold...exhale. A little better. His carefully iron pressed shirt clung to his back, thick framed glasses hung heavy on his aged wrinkled nose, and a bead of sweat ran down his temple. Yet, he was still. Thompson did not and could not show any sign of anxiety, if he was nervous then everyone was nervous.
"More coffee sir?" The small voice behind him made him jump in his seat. Thompson glanced back, snapped out of his stupor.
A balding mathematician gestured a half full coffee pot towards his boss. "Fresh pot." He said.
"Oh. No thank you Edwards. Still have some left" He reached for his cup and took a sip of cold black brew.
"Didn't mean to scare you sir." said Edwards. "You okay?"
"Oh I'm fine, thank you." replied the Colonel. "Just a little nerves is all. Nothin I can't handle."
Edwards put down his cup, gesturing out to the crowded room. "I think we're all a little nervous." He said turning back to his boss. "Simulations can only do so much. Even simulated emergencies have a layer of coded perfection to them. Anything can happen."
"Hm." A small chuckle escaped the Colonel. "If you're nervous imagine how they feel." He pointed at the pilots onscreen. Thompson turned towards the Flight Dynamics Officer. "Edwards, how many missions have you done?"
Edwards stood up straight. "Four orbital, two lunar sir."
"Did any of them have any slip ups?"
Edwards thought for a second. "The uh, the second global orbit to test flight pathing had a malfunction on the landing gear... Oh and the first Lunar mission I worked with had a loose panel and had to return to base. Why?"
The Colonel eyed the man. "When both missions had to make emergency landings, were you nervous?"
"I was terrified."
"And when the successful orbit and lunar missions had to return home, were you nervous then?"
Edwards shifted on his feet. "Yes sir." He said.
"We all were, but we guided the ships home." Thompsons voice settled in his chest. "Mission Control working as a unit, an extension of the ship, to make sure those astronauts could see their families, so they could touch the ground again, and we're not even the ones flying the shuttle." Thompson took a deep breath and rubbed his clammy hand over his mouth and passed his fingers down his freshly shaven chin. "Whenever I get nervous about these return missions, do you know what I'm thinking?"
"What's that sir?" Edwards asked.
"What does being nervous accomplish? It doesn't make us more efficient, it's not like we all become Einstein cause we're shaking. All of us here are professionals." He looked out over the collective bunch sat at their stations before returning his gaze to Edwards. "We work even if we're scared. Don't let your nerves get the better of you." He reassured him.
A nervous smile crept across Edwards' face. "Sounds like the therapy's made an impact on you sir."
Thompson scoffed. "Like hell it did. I've thought that long before I've ever had to see that quack." Thompson did not like therapy, and especially didn't like therapists. He thought they were all a group of self congratulating pencil pushers that are paid to pretend to care.
Thompson pointed at the display screen. "We have an hour and 13 minutes till that shuttle makes its landing. What do you feel?"
Edwards straightened his back, grabbed his coffee cup off the table and drank it all in one gulp. "Lets get them home." He crushed the paper cup in his hand and gently tossed it in the trash bin next to him.
"Good man. Head to your station, less than half an hour before they break the through line, we need all hands on deck." Said the Colonel. Thompson turned his head back towards his monitor which sat center on an old oak desk. A relic from the days of the original Apollo missions where man first set forward pilots in glorious defiance of Earths bounds. He liked the novelty, and the color.
NASA Mission Control was a freshly pale white room with dark blue carpet reaching from door to door. Smells of stale coffee and hot coils hung in the air. The teeth of chattering keyboards and the insect-like buzzing of the lights bolted to the ceiling mixed with the droning roar of the high output A/C units, and made the heart of NASA a cacophonic technological orchestra. Decades of computational evolution that could only be put to its greatest use by the combined centuries of experience of its tie-wearing masters. Ever since the lunar programs started back up, there had always been a faint electricity of excitement in the air, the kind of pulse that fluttered through veins and nested in the roots of teeth.
Thompson was the first director in decades to have been in command of lunar missions. Each director before him had worked with a half hearted patience for the orders from bureaucrats to go and shoot for the moon. But the days of the Red Scare and the celebrated Space Race had long since passed. The dream of sending people to the moon would grow more faint with each successive administrator until eventually, the dream died with the old pilots who were lucky enough to hold the titles of " Worlds Farthest Rock Kickers."
When Colonel Thompson was brought on to act as the USAs next ambassador to the stars, he did not see the position as a fulfilment of childhood dreams, nor did he sit and hope for exploration of heights unknown; To him it was another desk job, just with higher pay and more red tape. It just so happened that he was in charge when the orders from the White House came through to restart lunar missions. 15 years later, he helmed his fourth lunar mission. A dashed line flashed across the screen, stretching from Earth to shuttle. Its advanced tracking algorithms displayed a carefully predicted 33 minutes and 19 seconds until ground contact.
Eight long pinewood tables sat center in the room in four rows, with two tables per row. Each pair of desks went up two steps to ensure their seated workers had optimal vision. Assigned desks were outfitted with 7 specialists at 7 computers carefully analyzing data and decimal to make sure their information matched with that of the incoming pilots. Even the slightest error in information or communication could mean disaster.
Working here was a vampiric job that took every drop of intellectual output and strained even the most learned graduate. Stress hung heavy on their shoulders, bringing them hunched over a cramped desk to stare at a screen until their eyes burned. Sleeping longer than 6 hours had become a precious commodity. On average, a transfer request came less than a year after working the main room. Those stalwart few who stayed dubbed their work space "The Trench," and its overlord on his solitary computer was their Colonel, whose station always sat five steps above the other desks. The observer of NASAs own panopticon. Steering home a lunar shuttle required exact coordinates, detailed sequencing, perfect weather, years of training and millions of tax payer dollars. Every facet and point of direction needed machinery, communication, and a dozen other variables to be in total harmony. It is a brutal process that has a half hour window of error-free opportunity to ensure both pilots and shuttle remain intact.
As each logician and computer analyst sat watching their monitors, the shuttle breached the 25-mile high barrier. Computer automated flight systems swapped to manual and the responsibility of guiding the ship to its safest landing was now shared by both pilot and ground crew. Their window had opened.
The 9am morning sun washed through the room from ceiling high windows and bleached the walls ivory. 27 minutes to landing. Mission Controls comm system clicked on, and spoke. "Mission Control, this is Apollo-22. Mission Control, this is Apollo-22 do you copy? We are asking what's our trajectory?"
There was a slight pop every time the speaker turned on and off.
Thompson pushed the response button on his headset. "Apollo-22 this is Mission Control. Apollo-22 this is Mission Control. You are coming in loud and clear. You are clocked in at roughly 8,000 kilometers away from landing zone and 122 kilometers above ground. You are clear for upward pivot. I repeat you are clear for upward pivot." He replied.
"Copy that Mission Control. Beginning upward pivot." The commander had a sturdiness present in his voice that reassured everyone present.
Commander Wilkes was a true astronaut. Unwavering, calm, and above all, patient. To be an astronaut required a mental fortitude that would make even the foremost trained pilots crumble to dust. Years are spent training in centrifuge chambers, signing off on mountains of paperwork, weeks dedicated to perfecting flight simulations, and constant sleepless nights; all just to prepare for the first launch into the upper atmosphere. The ones who cross the threshold of history are those few who have succeeded not from luck, but by sheer willpower and durability. Even then, only a choice select few are given the responsibility of making a lunar mission.
The falling shuttle shifted into a 40 degree angle pointed towards the sky as to ensure optimal drag. As the ever increasing air resistance dramatically slammed against the shuttle, the ship began rapidly losing speed as it plunged towards the Earth wrapped in a blanket of flame. A man-made fallen angel. 20 minutes to landing.
The comms clicked on again.
"Mission Control we are standing by for further instruction. How's our speed lookin'?"
Thompson quickly and carefully glanced over the displayed data before saying, "Apollo you have dropped to about 13,000 kilometers per hour. Speed and direction is nominal, you may now begin to bring the nose down for manual steering. How are you feeling?"
The radio popped, "Copy that mission control, beginning to bring the nose down for descent. Smooth flying so far, all of us are ready to come home, Simmons especially."
A continuing smooth descent followed a carefully calculated path. Thompsons heart pounded in his chest as he kept as level a head he could. Re-entry was, at the end of the day, a math problem. One big, flaming, expensive, stressful math problem. The Trench was burning with info and the rapid processing of engineers and mathematicians alike. All sat with a rapid pulse as the final stages of the descent began.13 minutes till landing.
Apollo-22s speed dropped steadily, keeping pace with computer and man alike. Everyone working in The Trench had sat with anticipation as the shuttle continued its burning, glorified fall from the heavens. Aching pains of stress had rooted itself in their backs and shoulders. Once full heads of hair had thinned and bald. Clear eyes had grown dark and sagged with weariness. It was the nerves during the launches and returns that made many in The Trench wonder if they had enough pills.
The trained crew of the Apollo-22 had spent nothing beyond what they wanted to for this mission. Their reasons for great exploration. The shuttles pilot, Langois, wanted to go farther than anyone in her small Georgia town ever thought possible. She spent years applying her finely crafted skills behind the cockpit into space flights and orbital missions. Each time she went above orbit, she wanted to go farther, go faster. Now that she had gone the furthest and the fastest, she faced an obstacle that had, until now, been unfamiliar. As the shuttle began to approach 2,700 mph, the ship was going too fast, and not far enough.
Thompson radioed in. "Apollo-22 your rate of descent has a projected landing of 5 miles off course and you are exceeding necessary speed. Pitch your nose by 3 degrees and proceed with caution." His eyes locked onto the screen. 8 minutes until landing.
"Understood Mission Control. Increasing pitch and gliding. Passing mic over to Langois." Wilkes responded.
From the overhead speaker, a feminine voice replaced Wilkes. "Mission Control this is Pilot Langois, awaiting further instructions."
Thompson responded, "Understood Langois. For now focus on flight stability." He motioned for papers from the Flight Director in the second row. Papers in hand, Clarke rushed over to give the Colonel the necessary calculations. As Thompson read the papers, he relayed the information back to the pilots. "You need to ensure that your speed falls within a 20 kmh margin of difference, and to keep the angle of the ship withing a 4 degree margin of desired direction. Make sure the air brake is deployed at all times."
"Understood Mission Control, returning mic back to Commander Wilkes." she said.
Predicted pathing showed a slight half-mile shift towards the landing strip but the shuttles speed didn't fall enough. Thompsons breath began to shorten. He clicked his headset.
"Apollo-22 you are still over the required speed and under nominal distance. You need to pull up and prepare for a possible emergency landing." He shouted over The Trench. "Ross, get the fire department on standby." Thomspon turned to the Flight Director. "Clarke I need you and Stations 6, 11, and 13, do a quick analysis of their current and projected flight path compared to their most nominal. Afterwards, relay the information to Edwards at Station 19." Thompson looked towards Edwards. "Edwards, use what they have to give me a baseline to get them back on target."
Clark spun around and made for his station as he addressed his small task force. "Station 6 and 11 do a quick rundown of speed and trajectory! 13, you're with me, start looking at predicted descent paths!"
Edwards turned back around to face his computer and began rapidly running calculations in defiance of his body's panic. Public Affairs Officer Ross reached for her desks phoneline, as data began to shift around like chess pieces. Info being shared from computer to computer. Thompson rubbed the back of his head, his palm sliding over sweaty grey hairs.
Wilkes broke through the chatter, "Mission Control we are experiencing heavy air resistance, our speed brake is unresponsive and we are unable to tilt the nose any further upward. I repeat we are unable pitch any further." His voice carried the slightest quiver. The faint tinge of nerves infected those in the control room and the smallest panic rapidly seeped into their mind. 3 minutes until landing.
Thompson returned to his headset. "Understood 22, for now keep your nose high as you can. Deploy your main parachute and aim for the landing strip." Thompson turned to the far end of The Trench and shouted over the crowd. "Edwards! Any update?"
The mousey mathematician scrambled with his papers in hand up the five steps to Thompson. He frantically placed his work next to the monitor. Panicked, he said to Thompson. "The shuttle." He pushed up his wire frame glasses and swallowed a dry throat. "Is moving at a rate exceeding safe speeds. Continuing at this speed, there is high possibility of a collision. But!" He quickly glanced over his papers and grabbed one with his scribbling. He stuttered out. "i-if-if the sh-shuttle."
Thompson placed a firm hand on the officers shoulder. "Breathe."
Edwards took a sharp inhale, and exhaled smoothly. He grabbed his paper, heart thumping in his burning ears. "If the shuttle can drop its speed by 38 percent, they can cut the force of impact by a wide enough margin to safely land somewhere in the vicinity of NASA. The shuttle itself would sustain moderate damage but it's survivable."
Thompson grabbed his headset, "Okay so what do they need to do?"
"If they deploy their reserve parachute and bank starboard at a 7 degree angle, it should be enough of a brake."
Thompson spoke into the mic. "Commander you need to-"
"I heard him! Deploying parachute." Said Wilkes. "Beginning starboard turn." The wall sized screen showed the shuttle losing both altitude and speed as it banked to the right.
As the ground crew sat watching the screen, the tension in the room began to lift as the shuttle began to drop. Having handled previous lunar expeditions, Thompsons anxieties festered. His tie choked him and he pulled at it with his thin finger to breathe. A cruising altitude of 345 mph needed to be reached in order for a lunar shuttle to make its safest and most optimal landing. The screen clocked the ship at 397. 2 minutes to landing.
Clarke was first to speak up. "It's not enough! They need lose more speed!"
"All chutes are deployed Clarke. If they had another way they would have done it by now!" Thompson said. His temper grew shorter as the shuttle got closer.
Almost shouting, Clarke said. "Sir, if they pitch the nose a few more degrees then they could-"
"They dont have any lift Clarke!"
"It's at least something!" Clarke spoke with a familiar frustration. A frustration which was cautiously applied to every mission he worked on since being stationed in The Trench. While his days of flying for the Navy had ended, the moment opportunities were available at NASA, he made sure his name came up first.
Thompson called into the mic, "Apollo-22 you are still moving too fast, I repeat. You are still moving too fast. Aim the shuttle past the landing zone into the swamp. I repeat aim for the swamp!"
Outside the room, the deafening roar of the shuttles flight began to fill the room. The sound growing louder as the flying brick of a ship approached its destination.
Wilkes barked into the mic. "Sir, the shuttle is moving too fast for us to change trajectory! We have to land on the runway as best we can!"
Thompsons knuckles turned white as he gripped both headset and desk, watching the ships path.
"Commander you are still 30 kmh above speed, hold tight and brace for impact! I repeat! Brace for impact!" 5 seconds to landing.
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"Beginning touchdown!" Wilkes responded.
Thompson held his breath. His eyes peeled open watching as the screen displayed the ships contact with the ground. A tremble ran through the room as the Apollo-22 landed, shaking everyone to their knees. It was as if some great heavenly being forced them all to kneel through its sheer presence. A deafening squeal of rubber forced its way into the room, drowning out every voice and machine. Inside mission control everyone brought their hands to their ears in a futile attempt to muffle the scream. Great beasts found in dark corners of myth would have recoiled in fear from the roar of the Apollo-22. 11 seconds it took for the ship to land, yet it would be recounted to have dragged on for minutes before fading.
A silence choked the room, not of sound but of voice. Broken only by the smallest prayers that came from the far sides of the room. Hands held tight, breath held tighter. The workers sat at their desks staring blankly at the screen with a stillness that would fool statues.
The few that had tenured in The Trench knew that sound of a shuttle landing and shuttle crashing were frighteningly similar. Seconds crawled as everyone in the room waited for someone to say something, say anything. A few tried to move to the windows and see, none made it more than a few steps. Outside waited either a miracle or a tragedy, inside, everyone was frozen in shock. Their thoughts raced of what they would have to tell to the press, their bosses, and their families.
A pop ran through the room. "Mission Control, The Angel has landed. I repeat, The Angel has landed!" The sound of Wilkes' voice was the answer to their prayer.
The room erupted in applause and cheer. All around, people were jumping up and down and shouting in joy and embracing each other at what had just happened. No matter what else, this was their miracle. Some raced to the windows, some stayed seated, some prayed to thank their Gods. Among the room, all anxieties had been erased and forgotten, now there was only joy. It was these few moments of pure elation and success that were what made the job worth the stress. Thompson let out a grateful breath and collapsed in his seat. He unclenched his grip and looked down at his hands, surprised at how tightly he gripped the desk. He rubbed his eyes as a wide smile ran from cheek to cheek. His heart slowed to a steady rhythm, goosebumps buzzed up his arms, he could breath again. He picked up the headset.
"Affirmative 22." He struggled to get the words out. "We're all glad to hear your safe. Listen!" He held out the microphone to the crowd. They began whistling and shouting to let the astronauts know their celebration.
Wilkes laughed and said. "We're glad to hear it and glad to be on the ground. You should hear what the other guys are saying!" A slight rustling was heard as he passed his mic around the cockpit.
"First rounds on me when we're out of this thing!" Said a deeper voice.
Langois joked. "I think I wanna put in my two weeks!" Laughter spread through Mission Control.
A fourth voice said. "My wife's never gonna let me live this down!"
Thompson spoke into the mic. "Wilkes I didn't know you were married!"
"I'm not. What do you mean?" Said Wilkes.
"You just told us not to tell your wife. Didn't you?"
"Oh that wasn't me."
Thompson narrowed his eyes in confusion and said to himself. "Didn't he just-? Never mind." He called back to the shuttle. "Alright lets focus on debriefing. Remain in the cockpit until further notice. Gotta let the shuttle cool down. The outsides still running hot. Please remain in your spacesuits to prevent the spread of any possible foreign contaminants."
This time, Langois responded. "Understood mission control. Standing by."
"Any internal damage?"
"Diagnostics scan shows minor compression damage to the shell extending from the front landing gear to the cockpit window. In addition, all internal cameras are disconnected except for camera 1 and camera 3 at the front and port side of the shuttle interior respectively."
"Understood, compression damage falls within expectations of emergency landing, all things considered."
"Copy that Mission Control. Awaiting further instruction." Said Langois. The comms clicked off.
Leaning back in his chair, Thompson held his hand against to his mouth, drumming his finger on his lip. Around him, people were still chattering away about their success, and what comes next. The idea of raises were brought up, possible news interviews and the like. But Thompson sat silent, solitary in his confusion. He wanted to partake in celebration, to shake the hand of each and every one of the Officers present, to thank them for their work. Yet he could not ignore the persistent feeling of wrongness. An instinctual itch buried in his head. He focused himself, deciding to piece together this impromptu puzzle.
Glancing around the room, he called over to the second row for the Communications Officer. "Hawley?"
"Yes sir?" She perked her head up from her desk to see over the crowd.
"Do you have the transcripts of the landing flight?"
"Yes sir."
"Pull them up for me please." He said, walking towards her desk with purpose.
He held the attached headset up to one ear and listened. "Skip to the last minute for me please."
Hawley clicked to the corresponding time stamps. Thompson stared unfocused through the world, he was fixed solely on the audio. He flicked a half-second glance up at the screen on the wall. He craned his head forward to face the screen, staring at the three faces displayed.
"Rewind it 20 seconds for me please." Thompson asked, this time he never took his eyes off the astronauts. Without turning his head, he handed the headset over to Hawley. "Put this on and listen."
She put the headset over her ears, "What am I listening for?"
Thompson reached to her keyboard and rewound the conversation. "Pay attention to the voices."
"'You should hear what the other guys are saying!'
'First rounds on me when we're out of this thing!"
'I think I wanna put in my two weeks.'
'My wife's never gonna let me live this down'
'Wilkes I didn't know you were married'
'I'm not. What do you mean?' "
Thompson stopped the recording and looked at Hawley. "How many people were sent on the mission?"
"Three." She had a slight look of confusion, wondering what her boss wanted her to notice.
"How many voices did you hear?"
"Just you and the crew sir. Am I missing something?"
"No no no, not who did you hear. How many?" He clarified.
Hawley looke towards the monitor. "Wilkes spoke first, then he passed the mic to Simmons, Then Simmons gave it to Langois, and she..." Her eyes widened with realization. She looked back to Thompson, and followed his gaze to the screen. "That . . . that can't be possible."
"Doesn't matter what's possible." Thompson looked towards the Public Affairs Officer. "Ross contact the National Guard and tell them to get here ASAP!"
Ross hurried over to the emergency lines as Thompson returned to his desk.
"Is something wrong sir?" Asked Ross.
Thompson looked at her and held his gaze as he tried to think of an explanation. He could only tell the truth.
"I don't know."
He grabbed his desk headset but hesitated. If there was an invader onboard the shuttle he didn't want to risk letting on their suspicion and panic. If it's human, they might contact their homeland. If it's something else, something unfamiliar, who knows what it could be capable of. Especially when it's cornered. Wiping the sweat on his palms onto his pant leg, he looked back over to Ross.
Before Thompson could ask, she said to him. "ETA 7 minutes."
"Thank you." Thompson said. He looked towards Hawley. She sat looking at him with bated breath, waiting to see what he would do or say to those on the shuttle. Her hands were clasped around each other in a twisted prayer held tight to the chest. Thompson gave a slight nod for her to stay seated, and to stay alert, as he called into the shuttle with half an idea, the weight of possibly unleashing hell was wrapped around his mind.
"Apollo-22 this Mission Control, we noticed some slight damage on the landing gear and the exit ports. You're gonna have to stay put a little longer for a damage assessment. Shouldn't be any longer than 20 minutes."
Wilkes answered back. "Understood Mission Control. Standing by for further instruction."
The room grew quiet as the officers listened in to Thompsons sudden change in plans. They began milling around to and from the windows trying to see the Colonels observation. A few returned to their desks for post landing paperwork. Most stood around trying to figure out why the Colonel called the national guard. The small voice of Edwards broke through the crowd.
"Um, sir? There's no damage to the exit ports." He called to the Colonel up at his desk.
"I know." He said. Thompson sat unmoving in his office chair, eyes locked to the screen displaying the shuttles status.
"Then...why?" Edwards asked.
Thompson said nothing, leaning back making his chair squeak under with movement. He flicked a glance at Edwards for half a second before quickly returning his gaze to the screen. He refused to remove his focus from the display. The officers scattered around the room all looked to Thompson for an answer. The air was still, machines whirred on, but the living froze, waiting for a response.
The Colonel took a deep breath, and said. "It's not the ship I'm worried about. After listening to the recorded audio of the landing. Comms Officer Hawley and I agree that there are four people on board the Apollo-22. One extra than we sent up."
As Thompson sat back deep in thought, the officers all began clamoring for answers. The collective began looking back and forth between Hawley, Thompson, and each other. A few people closer to Hawley asked her quietly for clarity or if it's some dumb joke. Most everyone there trusted Hawley's analysis, it was not her capability that was in doubt, but the Colonels state of mind. Some questioned Thompsons abilities to remain in his position. Doubts which would normally have been shuttered, were now being shared around the room as easily as breath. Hawley was the only one other than Thompson to remain seated and silent. She shared in his concern of what any of this meant, and more importantly, of what to do next.
Thompson considered all possibilities of this intruder, never holding on a conclusion for more than a moment. He thought of how he could tell the room the specifics of what he and Hawley had discovered but he knew that the audio wouldn't be enough. Not for them. The conviction of audible evidence was something shared by only him and the Comms Officer. Thompson replayed every bit of information in his head. There has to be something. As the seconds ticked by, and the wheels of army trucks miles away spun burning towards the landing strip, Thompson remembered the cameras.
He hunched over his keyboard, shutting out the cluster of confused and demanding voices. He pulled up the camera feeds, flipping through them carefully. After thinking about what the invaders ulterior motive could be, he doubted anything Wilkes and Langois had claimed about internal damage. That maybe it wasn't the impact that broke the cameras. The high strung colonel went through the available connected streams. His pale fingers tapping a paler keyboard. Cameras 1 and 3 were still intact, the others showed the same bold white "CAMERA FEED UNAVAILABLE" text set against a pitch black screen. It took only a few seconds for Thompson to get his confirmation. He placed his hands on the armrests to keep himself upright. There on his monitor, a cruel image that filled his heart and mind with a terror that would drive weaker men to madness.
As he sat among the noise of the crowd, he called out. "May I direct your attention to the screen!" The room went silent, all of them turned to look at the fruition of the Colonel and Hawley's findings.
Thompson sent the camera feed from his computer to the wall. What would normally show simple footage of astronauts working idle in a diode lined room, was now a scene of impossibility. Wilkes sat closest to the camera at the cockpit of the shuttle, Langois was behind him rifling through papers opposite the ships Lunar Module Pilot Simmons, who sat waiting for confirmation to exit the shuttle. And just past them, at the far end of the ship, a fourth suit stood checking the paneling of the ship.
The officers were still. One after another they all began to notice the truth to Thompsons claim, that there at the back of the shuttle, sat an additional astronaut. A mix of fear and curiosity sat under a layer of awe. The fear took first. Only the slightest words were spoken. A hush fell over the room. A gathering of scientists, engineers, and mathematicians, all brought to the forefront of human technology and innovation. Not one of them had an answer. Someone on the edge of the crowd collapsed under their own weight, their legs giving out beneath them. A few helped them into a chair. The rest stayed focused on the footage.
"It's a recording, got to be. Some cheap special effect." Said a voice in the crowd. Thomspon looked around to to see who refused the footage. It was Clarke, among the crowd he stood tall, a head above most, arms crossed in defiance.
"Look at the timestamp, it lines up with ours. It's live." Said another.
Clarke shrugged. "Then it's a good fake." Clarke grew irritated with each passing second. "I'm sure whoever made this put a lot of effort into it, but we're wasting our time. We have work to do, so lets get this over with." He left to go finish up the landing procedures. A few, swayed by his conviction, followed behind.
Thompson stood up. "No, no, no. Stay here. No one leaves until we know what we're dealing with."
Clarke stopped, breathed an impatient sigh and turned around. "What we're dealing with," he shouted, "is a joke in bad taste!" He took a few seconds to calm himself down, running his hands through his blonde hair. Letting his hands drop to the side, he gestured out to the room. "I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we're all extremely tired and stressed out, we just want this day to be over."
Thompson tried to mediate. Keeping a calm, low voice he said. "I understand your frustration Clarke, but if there is the slightest possibility of a foreign invader, be it human or otherwise, we have to follow procedure. Procedures which include staying inside the control room where, as far as we know, it's safe."
"Sir, with all due respect, this is too much, even for you. Every second we spend talking about this dumb prank, those men and women are still inside that shuttle waiting to go home, and our paperwork remains undone. Thats all it is, a dumb, childish prank." Clarke pointed towards the screen. "I don't want to believe the footage either. But I know what's real and what isn't. This entire mission we have flipped through the camera feeds time and again, and not once did anyone spot anything out of the ordinary. If something did hop aboard the shuttle, someone would have seen it by now. Human or otherwise. So can we please get this over with?"
Thompson stared at Clarke, he knew that nothing he could say would stop Clarke from leaving. And Clarke stared back, silent.
"What do we do?" Edwards sheepishly asked.
The room turned their eyes to Thompson. Staring back at the crowd, Thompson declared. "Protocol dictates that in the case of an unidentifiable emergency, that we are to take the safest and most effective actions. I believe that action is to stay put and attempt to get a handle on the situation. We can't go out there until we have clarity."
"Sir, we have our clarity. We know that the ships landed. We know that there's people onboard waiting for us. So if there's something dangerous onboard with them, I'm not just gonna sit back and hope for the best. At least by going out there I'm doing something, protocol be damned."
The Colonel thought of how many times protocol was his failsafe. That no matter what, there had to have been a rule written down somewhere about what to do next. To him, if a rule exists, then that means that he wasn't the first in a given scenario, and he could count on the written guidance of others to steer him through to the otherside.
Doubt still lingered in the air. Thompson, while effective, was being put on a trial where faith and sanity had interlinked. While the idea of extra terrestrial life existing was not entirely abandoned, it was not something anyone in group would have thought would be encountered in their lifetime. To work in NASA was to be a skeptic of the otherworldy, that to work effectively, one need to rely only on facts, and that by proxy, speculation was an unnessecary risk. Even moreso, that faith had to be placed in the hands of higher-ups, that what they ordered was to be taken as fact. It was a balancing act that had to be upheld in order to make the most of space faring technology. Now that the possibility of interstellar contact had harshly intruded, the required instinct of skepticism, and the unshakeable faith in the Directors words had both both become passing glances. From this moment on, what could be seen and what could be heard, were no longer reliable, and could only further drive their paranoia.
Clarke stood at the door. For a while, no words were shared. No one knew what to say, there was nothing to say. All they could do is act. Just then, Thompson received a message. The National Guard had arrived, over a dozen trucks and jeeps had responded, whose Captains and Corporals had more questions than they had men. The sound of screeching tires and doors slamming shut attracted some anxious souls up to the windows.
"It's Army trucks! It's the Army!" Someone shouted. Immediately, heads perked up in excitement.
Clarke pointed outside and said to Thompson. "There, see! Even if there is something in the ship, then the army will take care of it." He turned back around flinging the door open, and left, taking his temper with him. The sleep deprived team followed.
The room began to empty as they rushed outside to meet the soldiers, looking for some semblance of safety behind their bullets. Their feet stomping in adrenaline as they crowded to the doors. Their shoes marched tandem with the boots of the soldiers. In less than a minute the room had emptied, now only Thompson, Hawley, and Edwards remained.
Edwards stood staring at the screen, appearing almost hypnotized watching the four bodies mill around in the shuttlecraft. Hawley and Thompson remained at their desks.
"I don't get it." Said Edwards. He stood for a few more silent seconds. "Maybe it's..." His voice trailed off. His mind in search of answers in a dark forest.
Thompson killed the feed, the screen returning to the simulation of the shuttle with the three names and photos of the astronauts next to it. Their preserved smiles being the only perceivable joy around. The blink of the feed snapped Edwards from his stupor. He seemed almost lost, as if he were a blind man who dropped his cane, stumbling around in search of something to hold onto. Only it wasn't his eyes alone that were blinded.
Hawley stood up from her desk, organizing a few papers around in a desperate attempt at control. Grabbing her lanyard off the desk, she made for the door. As she reached the threshold she turned to look back at her superior and his blind sage. Edwards paced around the room, tucking his arms close to his chest, as if it were the only thing keeping his body from falling apart. She opened her mouth to speak, but she said nothing, she couldn't say anything. She had found herself bereft of words. She turned back around and left the room to join the others outside. Now only Thompson and Edwards remained.
Thompson descended the small steps from his desk, following after Hawley. Turning to Edwards, he said. "Best not to keep them waiting. Lets go." He held the door open for him.
"Right." Edwards said. His head hung low. Staring at his feet, he let his arms drop to his side loosening his self imposed constriction, and shuffled out the door. His walk turning into a jaunt the moment he turned the corner, his quickened footsteps chirping on the tile echoed down the hallway.
As Thompson watched Edwards head outside, he gave a quick glance back to the barren room, the hustle and bustle of clicking keyboards and scribbling pencils had all funneled out. Leaving only the whirs of machines and squeaks of overhead fans. Maybe Clarkes right, thought Thompson. As the lights buzzed with electricity, the Colonel carried his gaze to screen before finally heading out.
His hand hadn't even left the handle before he slammed the door back open to stare wide-eyed in horror and confusion at the wall. It changed. He didn't know how or when. It had to have been right as Edwards was leaving. He thought. I only looked away for a few seconds. A cold fear enveloped his heart, and a shiver ran up his back as he looked at the screen. The displayed photos had changed from three to four smiling astronauts.
"H-how?" His words choked him. Thompson clearly remembers there being three but as he stared at the four floating heads, Thompson made a second terrifying discovery. He realized he could not remember which three they were. He stumbled out of the door back into the hallway, and ran outside to confront whatever being had now made contact with the human race, and his mind.