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"If there are two of us, I hope they catch the other guy quick before he signs our names to a lot of checks."
"You're Foley, all right."
"What is your status, Dave? Over."
"Are you tracking?"
"All systems have been go except communications and guidance control since you departed the space station."
"Then you know our altitude is 44,000 feet, speed 1,100. We're going to try for a touchdown at Key West Naval Air Station, over.
Foley looked up at Irwin Mitchell, his face strained.
Mitchell nodded and lightly tapped Foley's shoulder. "Let's pull out all the stops and bring those guys home."
"She's a good four hundred miles outside the cross-range," said Foley dejectedly. "We've got a hundred-ton aircraft with a descent rate of 10,000 feet a minute on a glide slope seven times steeper than a commercial airliner's. We'll never do it."
"Never say never," Mitchell replied. "Now tell them we're getting on it. And try to sound cheerful."
"Cheerful?" Foley took a few seconds to brace himself, and then he pressed the Transmit switch.
"Okay, Dave, we're going to work on the problem and get you to Key West. Are you on TAEM?
Over."
"Affirmative. We're pulling every trick in the book to conserve altitude. Our normal pattern approach will have to be deleted to extend our reach, over."
"Understood. All air and sea rescue units in the area are being alerted."
"Might not be a bad idea to let the Navy know we're dropping in for breakfast."
"Will do," Foley said. "Stand by."
He punched in tracking data on the display screen of his console. The Gettysburg was dropping past 39,500 feet, and she still had eighty miles to go.
Mitchell walked over, his eyes staring at the trajectory display on the giant wall screen. He adjusted his headset and called Jurgens.
"Dave, this is Irwin Mitchell. Go back to auto. Do you copy? Over."
"I copy, Irv, but I don't like it."
"Better the computers handle this stage of the approach. You can go back to manual ten miles from touchdown."
"Roger, out."
Foley looked up at Mitchell expectantly. "How close?" was all he asked.
Mitchell took a deep breath. "Paper thin."
"They can do it?"
"If the wind doesn't get temperamental, they stand a hairline chance. But if it veers into a five-knot crosswind, they buy the farm."
There was no fear in the cockpit of the Gettysburg. There was no time for it. Jurgens followed the descent trajectory on the computer display screens very closely. He flexed his fingers like a piano player before a concert,
anxiously awaiting the moment he took over manual control for the final landing maneuvers.
"We've got an escort," said Burkhart.
