"Houston, this is Flying Ghost, over."

Static. Static and wind and the faint lapping of gentle waves. An occasional bursting screech, that bright noise that might be interference and might be unheard speech, broke up the soothing mix of white noises.

"Cape, this is Flying Ghost, over."

But Greg heard wind, mostly. The static only came when he turned up the radio, and the ocean had been so slight, so at ease, that its sounds were hardly real. It was a lucky streak, he knew, because one bad thundercloud would throw him halfway back to the moon.

He stared up toward the golden glow of morning sky. Too golden. Glowing too brightly. "Flying Ghost," he muttered, to himself more than the radio, and then he sighed. "More like Floating Wreck."

The dumbest thing, or so he had decided, was that he had no unofficial means for communication. No phone. No satellite MODEM. No internet connection or video chat. Everything, during his so-called space jump, had been routed through some part of mission command. To keep his communications controlled and sanitized. Of course.

And, normally, it wouldn't have mattered. Normally, he would've been picked up within hours of landing. There should've been ships racing to meet him. Reporters buzzing the sky with drones and helicopters and eager cameras.

None of them had come rushing forward.

He was all alone on the open sea.

The sky still stank, and the clouds kept building in the distance. The whole eastern horizon was a wall of dark purpled-red haze. Fire and sulfur.

As far as Greg could tell, the chopper had landed where it was expected. Not far from the Bahamas. Every instrument appeared to be working correctly, and they pinpointed his splashdown at about 450 kilometers east of San Salvador. Far enough from land to be safe, but close enough for an easy pickup.

It seemed impossible that he should see a disturbance at all, let alone something that was apparently centered on the far side of the gulf. How was it spreading?

He wondered. What exactly had happened?

His food was going to run out soon. He wondered what he should do next. It was apparently time to begin planning. It had been easy to imagine some delay, some hiccup in plans, for the first few days. But no hiccup would last nearly two weeks without an iota of communication.

He stared at the dial on the SpaceChopper's dashboard. He thumped it with a finger, as if that kind of thing worked anymore.

Digital dials didn't care about wishful thinking. They didn't jump just enough to give some hope that they were misreading.

He spoke, just vocalizing his thoughts, without knowing if the systems were still recording. How much time did they have for voice? For video? Would there be a full documentary of his time lost at sea?

"Not sure who might hear this anymore. If anyone still hears it. But, I'm still out here. Day, uh, thirteen? After splashdown. Can't say it hasn't been relaxing in its own way. Luckily, the weather's been nice, though I am more than ready to jettison this suit."

He paused. Staring at the too-red sky. "Starting to stink something awful in my own juices. Thinking maybe the system's cleaning gizmos are fed up wiping me down."

Something, suddenly and unexpected, fluttered into view with a flurry of bright motion. A gull landed on the nose of the SpaceChopper.

The creature didn't look well. Its landing had been sloppy, a thump rather than alighting with avian grace.

Greg stared at the bird and glanced back toward the sky. "I am," he began, but then stopped. He was struggling through a sudden rise of confused emotion. "I imagine, if you won't mind an idle thought, that Noah must've felt something like this when he saw one of those damned birds return. Never been more than vaguely religious, but the stories do stick around."

He watched the gull for a long while. In quiet. Waiting to see what might happen. He knew the bird didn't actually mean anything. He had never been superstitious, but it took a moment to reconcile with the presence of other life. Some part of him had fully expected the world to have ended after his fall from the sky. After arriving into a different sort of seclusion.

Plus, a gull meant he might be close to land. His instruments insisted that he was still miles out at sea, but maybe they were off. Or, maybe gulls had a wider range than he knew of.

Whatever its reason for arrival, the bird was breathing too quickly. Didn't seem to be doing more than sitting and trying to catch its breath. Maybe confused. The ash cloud, the unknown disaster, might be playing horrendous tricks on natures' navigation systems.

"Well, I suppose it's time to start paddling."

He would have to figure out what to paddle with, but the decision was enough to give him direction. He needed to do something, and any attempt would be enough to prod him toward progress. The first step is the hardest and all that.

Leaning forward to reach, he released the overhead hatch.

The outside stank worse than before. A scent like rotten eggs was constant, though there were crosswinds that were fresh and briny.

Slowly, fighting through the aching stiffness of sitting in one place, Greg began clambering out of his suit. It was not easy. A team of technicians had bolted him together like some circuit-injected knight. It nearly dislocated his arm to reach some of the straps. Some of the pins.

But, finally, he was in nothing but his Nomex undergarment. The form-fitting suit wasn't all he had to wear. The chopper also had emergency clothing, but he would avoid that until closer to shore. He didn't want to chance ruining the pajama-like jumpsuit, and it would be more presentable than his current clothing. He might need to be presentable on shore.

The thing was, he kept tripping over the continued radio silence. It was so absolute. It honestly freaked him out. It led his mind to form a list of required consumables, supplies, and other necessities he'd need to survive after hitting land. His brain had already decided that life had become a matter of desert-island survival.

He hoped he was wrong, but the looming clouds only amplified his budding paranoia.

The last step, unfortunately, was detaching the suit's health and waste-management systems. He wrinkled his nose while pulling out tubing that stank enough to make his stomach turn. Exhaustion swept over him as he removed his catheter.

He really wished the team had picked him up. They could've put him out when they did all his medical review processing. Pulling out your own urethral catheter had never been on his bucket list.

But, finally free, he climbed atop the SpaceChopper and took a seat. Legs dangling over the edge. It was freeing, and for a moment he almost forgot to worry.

The gull, still sitting, breathing wrong, did little more than scoot further toward the nose of the spacecraft.

"Just you and me, buddy." Greg ran a hand over his beard. "But let's see about changing that."

#

Jumping to Earth without an engine had been a fun idea. A technical feat for both the equipment and the physics involved. And an impressive record for all of history. A never-to-be-copied stunt that would be an eternal marvel.

Greg would've thrown all of that away for even the tiniest outboard motor. Just something, anything, that might putter him along in some discernable direction.

Of course, preferably toward shore.

Though, at least he could see the shore. It was a smudge of dark on the horizon. Under the smudge of still-building cloud cover. He marveled at that. At this rate, the whole world was going to be overcast.

Greg dipped the spacesuit arm back into the water and continued paddling. It was not very efficient, but it was better than nothing. He had spent time trying to detach part of his seat, trying to unfasten panels, but that had proved impossible without a screwdriver.

He found himself grumbling to the gull at times. He was a social creature after all. "I should've insisted on some kind of toolkit. At least a multi-tool of some kind."

The gull wobbled as it moved several inches to the right. As if attempting to avoid the conversation. As if insisting that it really did want to leave, if only it could muster the energy.

Greg nodded. "I'd do the same, myself, if I could. Wish I had your wings." He paddled several times, a motion that was tiring but hopefully helping, while thinking in quiet.

His last messages from the ISS had mentioned the Yucatan Peninsula. That was across the Gulf of Mexico, not more than, maybe, a thousand kilometers? He had memorized a good number of locations, distances, and shipping lanes before the jump. In case the stunt had gone wrong. He could've landed anywhere. Could've ended up crashing into Kansas.

Would've served Kansas right.

But it was important to have a good mental map of the world when in an uncontrollable crash onto the planet.

Yet, surveying his mental map, he had to admit that the situation looked bleak. There weren't a lot of reasons for clouds to spread across the entire gulf, but Greg could make some guesses. An impact event was unlikely because the space nuts would've tracked that. It left volcanism as the likely culprit. He was no scientist, no researcher beyond engines and speed, but he'd picked up bits and pieces over decades of life.

"No," he grumbled to the Gull, "An all-tool wouldn't really fix the bigger problem." Lower, to himself, not the gull, he added, "Though if this is what I think it is? What will?"

He kept paddling.