Project Shakespeare

My response to the prompt to write a locked room mystery.  Rather than a room I chose a spacecraft, with inspiration from David Bowie's Space Oddity - 'planet earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do' with shades of Apollo 13.  The dialogue in italics are flashbacks.

Project Shakespeare

Alex looked out of the small triangular window just in front of him.  Empty blackness everywhere, a small triangle of blue in the corner down below him.  Or was it above him? Which way is up?  Which way is down?  Circling the earth in geostationary orbit was like standing still with the universe spinning around him.  Occasionally the moon traversed across his window, the sun burned like fire several times a day.  No night, no day, no difference.

The rocket boosters as dead as the eternity of space remained silent.  He thumped the ignition buttons again and again.  His supply of de-hydrated food was rapidly running out, did it matter?  He looked up at the hatch above his head; the emergency release handle.   Just reach up, unlock it; float out silently to freedom and oblivion.

Remembering the call to Mission Control’s inner sanctum somewhere on the outskirts of Houston for a Code One briefing.  Sitting outside the chamber room, waiting to be called in.  The solid grey metal door clicked open; Greg Dunbar NASA’s Operations Director beckoned him in.  The chilled, windowless room, dimly lit with modern wood panelled walls, full length red velvet drapes on the end wall. 

‘A directive from the White House, we must have a manned surveillance flight to pinpoint the Russian nuclear installations and see what they’re developing.’

‘OK Chief, where do I fit in?

‘We want you to man the flight, you’re our most experienced astronaut on the Apollo programme, and you’ve already flown the Gemini capsule.’

That first mission with Doug Newsome, a forty eight hour extravaganza; spaceflight was fun in those not so distant days.  Re-entry was something else, glowing white hot, flumes of flame danced outside their tiny windows.  Feeling the heat in the spacesuit.  The ecstasy of splashdown followed by the sudden chill and seasickness, bobbing around in the Pacific Ocean.

‘An unmanned satellite is not sophisticated enough to search numerous locations, interpret the data you identify and come up with a logic for what’s going on at each base.’

No joyful return on this mission; falling to earth so many miles below, burning up in the atmosphere, like an errant meteorite.

‘You’re the only man for the mission.  We can’t utilise an Apollo capsule, they’re all allocated to the lunar landing programme.  We’ve got the spare Gemini capsule, number seven that was never flown, but used for training purposes.’

‘Wonder what Doug is doing now?  Is he still with Stella?  They made a good couple.’

‘She’s currently at Cape Kennedy being modified to fit all the spy gear and multi linear encryption modules.  It needs to be ready for launch in three weeks, and so do you.’

‘If I press all these switches, what the worst that can happen?  There has to be a self-destruct button here somewhere.’

‘This is all top secret stuff, the media will be told it is an unmanned satellite launch.’

Lift off was Sunday 23^rd April 1967, with splashdown in the Pacific scheduled four days later.  Alex was briefed on all his duties and operation of the equipment at Mission Control, before being transported to the launch site two days before lift off.  A trouble free ride on the modified Saturn V rocket, took him into orbit approximately 22,000 miles above the earth. 

‘Debbie, darling Debbie, if only … I could say sorry.  She wouldn’t care; that jerk Roger … an accountant; what a windbag!’

Firing a number of small boosters manoeuvred the spaceship over the Russian steppes and locked on to the co-ordinates of likely nuclear weapons sites. 

‘No one knows I’m here.  No one cares.  I’ve disappeared, a missing person.’

The radio crackled into life, his daily five minute update to Mission Control.

‘Okay Alex, Houston here, do you read?’

A stunning silence, looking out of the window as Earth drifted slowly into view.  The clouds had mostly lifted over South America, he could just about make out Mexico.  Houston was just above that cloud.

‘Alex, Mission Control here, do you read? Over.’

Today Angela was the voice of Houston; he liked Angela.  A couple of years ago they nearly had an affair, but that was another might have been.

‘Angie, I hear you.’

‘How’s it going today Alex?’

‘Shit, basically Angie!’

‘We’re all praying for you here, Alex.’

‘Thanks, I guess that’s about all that’s left.’

‘The guys in R&D are working round the clock with the engineering crew looking for a solution.’

‘You guys have just drifted into view now, I can see the whole of good old Earth.’

‘That’s nice, Alex.’

With a blast of static crackling over the miles, the radio link went down.  Alex groped under his seat and dug out his remaining supplies of food.  Only three dehydrated sachets left, all turkey stew with vegetables.  They all tasted the same anyway, he threw them back under his seat. 

‘Wonder who Angie’s screwing now?  Not Gary, surely; he was always sniffing round her.’

An endless journey, a timeless flight.  Alex mumbled the words to himself, sounded like the words of a song, he wasn’t sure they were.  Maybe he could write something, but then who would be reading it.  Maybe the Russians were listening in to his every move.  Maybe they had a laser trained on his disabled spacecraft and were about to blast him into extinction.  That seemed like the best consequence right now.

His eyes wandered round the inside of his cockpit once more as Earth disappeared from view in the window, leaving the blackness stretching to eternity.  Adjacent to him were protruding wires where they’d modified the spacecraft for all the spy gear.  He grabbed the orange, black and purple wires and tugged them.  They held firm, he pulled harder; still they resisted. 

‘If I can make a spark, it may trigger the oxygen.’

He yanked harder still; they’d been fixed in good.  Exasperated he released his grip and stared at his control panel in front of him.  He tried the booster buttons again, and again in rapid fire succession … still nothing.  Then it struck him.

‘The pill, I’d forgotten about the pill!’

His hands patted the various pockets of his jump suit.  Anti-sickness tablets, no not them.  Diarrhoea tablets, you must be joking!  Valium, why not?  He pulled out a red foil wrapped strip of six tablets, slowly taking them one by one.

‘I really need alcohol now and plenty of it.  An ice cold Bud, a Jack Daniels!’

His brain relaxed for the first time in three days, then he remembered; they were above his head.  A small orange plastic panel with skull and cross bones, concealed a small recess.  Inside a small silver foil strip, only two tablets.  No instructions, nothing.  He pulled open the foil and released one of the tablets; a pinkish colour, oval in shape with grey flecks on the surface.  Rolling it in his fingers, lifted it to his nose.  A faint smell of rotten eggs, possibly hydrogen sulphide he guessed, maybe cyanide.  What did cyanide smell of?  He raised it to his lips, his tongue lightly brushed the surface of the tablet.  It burnt the tip of his tongue, he felt drowsy. 

‘Shall I?’

‘Why?’

‘Why not?’

‘Shall I?’