“Wait one,” the Master Chief said. “I’m patching NASA through.”
“This is Flight Control Houston, Tiger. We got you and the approaching pallet on high-resolution radar. You are at three-hundred meters and closing at one-point-four meters-per-second, decreasing. At CPA (that’s Closest Point of Approach for you landlubbers), the pallet will be one hundred meters off your starboard side at ten-point-four degrees above your plane, one-point-two meters-per-second relative velocity.”
“Mother, time of CPA?” I asked.
“Three-minutes-and-fifty-seconds.”
I thought about tethering myself to my pallet, but considering the forces involved, I decided I would be better off on my own under TBH propulsion. After all, 1.4 m/sec was about walking speed. I should be able to catch the pallet just a football
