Brandon peered out the porthole, took a sizable step back, closed one eye and stuck up his thumb at arms length, unconsciously mimicking an artist checking for the proper prospective. After a few moments of careful consideration and deliberation, he replied soberly, “If I had to hazard a wild-assed guess, it will reaching the side of the spacecraft’s skirt in just around twenty minutes or less.”
“OK,” Tom thought out loud. “We can’t take any chances on that damn thing being directed by someone other than Houston. Let’s get our helmets and gloves back on, Bran. You and I are going to take care of that monstrosity before it takes care of us.”
*
Back on Earth, Ty enlightened Morgan, “You’d better hope nothing happens to my friends or their ship, or I’m going to be all over you like white on bird shit.” Pointing toward the exit he growled at Stave, “Now get this asshole out of my sight and my thanks to all of you for your assistance in this critically time-sensitive operation. It has been greatly appreciated.”
“Anytime, Commander,” Steve affirmed, reaching out to firmly pump Ty’s hand and clap him on the shoulder in understanding, soldier to soldier.