A Fall Through the Atmosphere

News filtered through around 3 a.m. on the Mess Hall radio in garbled fragments, though between thick static and the lashing of the rain on deck above, much had been lost. The few words clear enough to discern pointed towards some disaster overhead.

‘Malfunction…disintegration…explosion…falling debris…lives lost.’

Half the eight-man crew of Sheena’s Dream were in bed, sound asleep given the gruelling work. The weather was overcast when the trawler left Machiasport, but the forecast was fair for Maine in February. They’d sailed for a day and a half when the rain came, showers first, then a steady downpour which sapped early optimism. Freezing fog rolled in as the rain worsened. An unending deluge coupled with a poor haul soured the mood further, communication limited only to safety and returning to shore.

As the first light of dawn struggled to break through the North Atlantic gloom only William - a fledgling deckhand and Jackie the veteran cook - stood on deck sharing a cigarette, staring out into the blanket of grey stretching across the waves.

Jackie took a final drag and tossed the butt over the rust-covered handrail before heading inside. William watched as it fell towards the murky water below, catching in the breeze and swirling towards the mist before gently falling and resting on the surface of the water…no. On a piece of dull, jagged metal, roiling on the waves.

He gripped the rail tightly, leaning over the edge to peer downwards. This part of the ocean was barren, the odds of anything floating on the surface astronomical. But it wasn’t just one piece of metal; it was a field of debris.

William made to shout but before a sound escaped something caught his eye. A small black notebook, sealed in a see-through plastic bag nudged the side of the boat. Without thinking he grabbed the small net tethered to the wall and fished it out. He held it in his hands, unbelieving at the sheer impossibility. There looked to be no water damage, but where had it come from? A shipwreck? He had heard no SOS. Surely they would have been aware of sailors in distress.

Hearing a noise from within the crew’s quarters, William quickly tucked the notebook inside his wax-coated jacket. He called for Captain Ray.

After that, things moved quickly. The alarm was raised immediately, and as the crew of Sheena’s Dream waited for the Coast Guard, there was inevitable discussion about what happened. Captain Ray told them the little he knew, that it wasn’t a shipwreck, based on reports and tidal data, they were drifting among the remnants of a failed shuttle-launch that exploded miles above them the previous night. The atmosphere grew excited. Tense.

'There’s hundreds of floating pieces’, argued Jackie, ‘what harm would taking a few bits do?’ Other voices agreed, discussing the astronomical prices such curiosities and morbid mementos might sell for.

Captain Ray raised his hand.

‘Each piece of that wreckage is precious, therein might lay the cause of this disaster. Some lost to the depths, but there is a chance that the answer lies in these twisted scraps to avert another catastrophe, to save lives!’

William felt a cold sweat trickle down his back, the black notebook like a lead weight tucked inside his jacket pocket.

There was whispered dissent, but the crew obeyed, waiting restlessly until the storm of helicopters and large vessels broke through the fog carrying teams of investigators, scientists, soldiers.

Their trawler was seized after fierce remonstrations from Captain Ray, who assured each man they would be well-compensated. A man in a dark suit advised them not to publicly discuss the incident, before leading them onto a speedboat and across to a larger vessel with waiting helicopter.

It was only when they reached land that the enormity of what happened became clear. That garbled transmission, unheard on the Mess Hall radio, had carried news of a shuttle disaster. Reports were varied but agreed some accidental malfunction had caused disintegration while leaving the upper atmosphere, igniting over the North Atlantic.

They landed in Lubec, a half-hour from Machiasport. The crew hadn’t minded, there was a bar there, and each knew he could live off this story for weeks, charging a shot or two for the privilege of hearing their tale first-hand. Jackie insisted William join them, but all he wanted was to get home and feast on the secrets of the notebook.

As William made it through his door fatigue hit him, though he was determined to examine the treasure spirited from the wreckage. It was as if this book was meant to find him, fated to float into his grasp after falling through the atmosphere from unimaginable height. Sitting on his bed, he opened the notebook, finding neat, precise script.

Rachel, my love, I’ve finished induction and met the crew, all so accomplished and inspiring. I’m writing in the beautiful notebook you gave me at Christmas. I know…we talk on the phone every other day, but I want to keep this as a diary of things I forget to say. Command forbids personal items but I’ll take it up with me in secret and give it to you when I’m back on Earth.

Eight months is a long time, but if distance makes the heart grow fonder the way absence does, we’ll be fine. When you look up at the night sky, know I’ll be there. I love you.

William placed the notebook on the bed, almost reverently, wiping tears he hadn’t realised had come. Sleep took him.

When he woke news was filled with the disaster. Grim-faced space agency representatives spoke sadly of accidental fuel-leakage, photographs showed the crew smiling proudly minutes before launch. Some reports hinted of human error, the media picking over the bones of those brave astronauts, eager for someone or something to blame.

Even grieving families were plastered across the macabre merry-go-round of the 24-hour news cycle.

William found it difficult to think about much else in the following days, yet couldn’t bring himself to read any more of the notebook, until he saw an interview with a striking woman in her early thirties, identified as Rachel O’Hare, the widow of a Mission Specialist. Through tears, she spoke lovingly about her husband.

This was her. The woman to whom the notebook was written. Reading on felt almost perverse now, but William needed to finish. He’d risked so much taking it, needing to discover its secrets, and now find a way to get it to Rachel, the widow. He was surely guilty of some crime after extracting secret documents from a disaster scene.

He read on. The entries became less frequent, more troubling.

Rachel, sorry I haven’t been able to call. Things are frantic here, low-gravity training, psychological and fitness tests, yet every thought is of you. The last time we spoke you said I sounded different and I brushed it off. Truthfully, I am worried.

I can’t speak about it over the phone, they might be monitoring the calls. We’ve been ordered not to discuss mission-specifics with anyone. I’m having second thoughts, but know how proud you feel, I won’t let you down. All my love.

The next few entries detailed a litany of misgivings. Last minute changes, lack of technical specifications, disagreements over launch-windows and arguments between crewmates. The mood had soured so much that the mission was in jeopardy. Their leader, Commander Monroe, had threatened to leave, convinced the propellant calculations were off, there were questions over the angle of take-off, discussions over corners cut, unacceptable risk. Mission Control imposed a media blackout, complete isolation for the crew a week before launch.

The official narrative was nothing but lies.

He trawled message-boards searching for discussion that subverted the official story, finding little besides wild conspiracies.

William scarcely left his apartment in the past weeks, once stopping for coffee at a small café. Sitting alone, William happened upon a discarded newspaper, one of the local Maine gazettes. He flicked through sports reports, election news, before stumbling on a piece entitled: Shuttle Secrets Suppressed

He scanned the article frantically, the first he had seen differing from the official narrative. The words cover-up, conspiracy, obfuscate leapt out. Pulse racing, his heartbeat filled his ears above the din of the coffee-shop.

Here it was, that final push to share what he had found. It was little more than speculation, conjecture; denied by the agency and the press. But he had proof, first-hand. At the end of the article, a phone-number and short note: Information wanted. Reward payable. Confidential.

William tore the page, shoved the scrap into his pocket and hurried home. There was one entry left to read.

Scrawled in a panic, though undoubtedly from the same hand, deep indents scrawled into the page as the author struggled against unimaginable forces miles above the earth.

Rachel, I love you. I have to believe that somehow this will find its way to you. Let the world know. They have sent us to our deaths. In my final moments I will think of you. The love we shared. I’ll see you in another life my sweetheart.

William fell asleep weeping.

He awoke in a panic, drenched in sweat from the recurring dream that plagued him these past weeks. It began with a cacophony of alarms, the smell of burning, a huge explosion, before endless falling towards a black, watery depth that never came. Were these the final moments of brave Mission Specialist O’Hare? The agency assured the public all aboard would have perished before such horrors due to lack of oxygen, their final moments peaceful as they drifted off to oblivion.

He dug into the pocket of his jeans, found the scrap of paper and dialled the number.

William sat in the empty diner at midnight; the notebook still tucked inside his jacket. His hand moved towards it every few seconds, he had to grip the edge of the table to stop himself. The grainy TV above the counter was on mute, but he saw the familiar reports. Three weeks with little else occupying the headlines, surely the world was waiting on the next disaster.

A woman entered and made her way towards him. She was young, only a few years older than William. He’d expected some grizzled, grey-haired, chain-smoking reporter, yet the woman who slid into the booth opposite him bundled in a thick coat, smiled warmly.

‘Hi William, I’m Amy. Thanks for agreeing to meet. Let’s talk.’

William told his story in a hushed whisper. It was garbled, out of order, at times frenetic. Amy listened attentively, scribbling notes. The words spilled out; the fog, the notebook, the entries of Mission Specialist O’Hare. William’s sleepless nights…the dreams.

After twenty minutes, breathless and sweating he sat back and rubbed his eyes, an immense weight lifted. Amy reached across the table and took his hand.

‘That must have been hard for you William. You’re doing the right thing. The world deserves to know.’

William took a deep breath, ‘I’m not doing this for money…’ he trailed off.

Amy met his gaze, eyes holding no judgement. ‘You’re doing it for the same reason as me, it’s why I became a journalist. Truth.’

William reached into his jacket, hand resting on the small, black notebook.

‘I need to know two things. This never comes back to me. We never met.’

Amy nodded.

‘And that his widow…Rachel, you need to show her first. She deserves to read it in her husband’s own hand, not the morning paper.’

‘You have my word.’ Amy looked solemn.

William retrieved the notebook, and let it rest between them on the table. Amy mirrored his movements, pulling a check from her pocket, and sliding it over to William. $20,000. A chance. A fresh start.

Wordlessly, William rose, carefully folding the check and sliding it into the pocket where the notebook had hung heavy for the past nightmarish, life-changing weeks. He strode through the diner and out into the cold the night, unburdened.