Apollo '96

"New Hampshire, We Have A Problem."

By Frank Sikernitsky

Editor-In-Chief

"Oh, God!"
For three weeks in 1996, the country gripped at the edge of its seat as a tiny vessel, the USS GOP, spun free-form and out of control.
The brave officers aboard, Lieutennants Buchanan and Forbes, and their leader, Commander Dole, struggeled to gain control of the failing ship. While America watched helplessly on network TV, the ship was slowly disintegrating.
Lt. Buchanan had pushed that fateful button and sent the ship into a careening, uncontrollable, yaw, making their destination uncertain. For days they were out of control, with network waging opinion on their survival.
Forbes truned fericously to Buchanan.
"It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't stirred the party!"
"Stirred it?! Any one of you would have done that if you were sitting here..."
"You both shut up. We'll just be back in the same place after you're done fighting."
Forbes and Buchanan looked at each other for what seemed to be an eternity; complacent stars streaked by the tinly portholes, and the hum of a guidance alarm could be heard. They both blinked.
"We'll fight ANWYAY!"
Thus, Buchanan started throwing bits of equipment at Forbes, who responded by emptying his urine bag into the cabin, most of which hit Dole. Later, commentators would remark on what a vile contestant Forbes was. Dole hunched out of the way of the urine flows and the flying bits of apropriated Japanese technology, and studied the readouts of the tiny cabin monitor. As he looked closer, the figures became clearer -- he had to jettison some dead weight.
He waited until the two warring men spun weightless into the Landing module, and then reached up and jettisoned the section into cold, dark space.
Pleased with himself for the moment, he returned to the controls when he began to hear a click. It turned into a bang and then a clatter, and he looked back for a moment.
Lietutennant Buchanan was hanging onto the USS GOP, beating on the aft window with all his might. Dole dismissed the noise, and tuned it out as he contemplated his chances.
"My only hope...the USS Powell...I must dock with it..."
Unfortunately, the USS Powell, another capsule travelling the uncharted distance, had decided to turn back months ago, and was now spending some quality time in its living room with a Diet Mountain Dew and "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman".
Now Dole was alone, hurtling through the darkness at untold speeds, control mostly regained. He felt good. He felt right. He felt lucky.
And then he saw it, looming, getting bigger. Impossibly massive, the brilliant white target of all of his effort stood only seconds from him. He was ready to defeat it, and for an instant, he though he might.
"...five...four...three...two...one..."

"Hillary! Something jumped up and bit me in the buttocks!"
There was a long pause.
"Must have been the damn cat. Hillary! We gotta send a condolance note to Bob. He ran a good campaign...too bad he's still stuck on the Hill after all of it."
There was no immediate answer.
"And where's Pizza Hut?"