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April 13, 1970
321, 660 km Away From the Face of the Earth

The third attempted lunar landing mission was proceeding apace, the spacecraft rapidly wending its way towards the Moon. Two days into the mission, the three astronauts on board had just completed the first of two live television broadcasts from the spacecraft. Unfortunately, many of the news media now considered the Apollo missions routine and not that interesting, so the broadcast would not be aired. As far as the astronauts knew, however, everything was hunky dory.

Jim Lovell floated near the apex of the Command Module, just outside the tunnel to the lunar module, in the process of stowing the television camera until the next time it would be needed.

“Between Jack’s back taxes and the Fred Haise show,” Lovell said with a chuckle, “I’d say that was a pretty successful broadcast/”

Command Module Pilot Jack Swigert was in the center couch monitoring the myriad instruments that kept the Apollo capsule on course. Unbeknownst to anyone else on board, or even within NASA, Swigert was really just under two hundred years old…born under the name of Gaston Marceau.

“That was an excellent show, Odyssey.” Came the voice of one of the mission controllers.

“Thank you very much, Houston.” Marceau responded, adjusting the Velcro feet of his flightsuit on the strips in the Command Module.

“We’ve got a couple of housekeeping chores for you.” Houston went on. “We need you to roll right to 0-6-0 and null your rates.”

“Copy that…rolling right, 0-6-0.” Gaston turned a dial and flipped two switches on the control console. As a result, the Apollo 13 spacecraft adjusted it’s orientation in relation to the sun, rolling slowly about to equalize the temperature on the ship’s skin…there was a several hundred degree difference between sunlight and shadow where the ship was flying, after all, and the roll helped keep any one part of the spacecraft from overheating or overcooling.

“And if you could give your oxygen tanks a stir.” Was the next request.

“Copy that.” Marceau quickly found the switches that controlled the fans which kept the spacecraft’s supply of liquid oxygen from beginning to freeze.

A low buzz reverberated through the spacecraft’s hull, followed by an audible bang. Almost immediately it felt as if the entire spacecraft had been hit by a speeding tractor trailer. Cabin lights flickered, loosely secured equipment came loose, and the Apollo 13 spacecraft was thrown into a wild tumble. Fred Haise became a ping pong ball being bounced about in the tunnel connecting the Command and Lunar Modules, while Lovell barely managed to keep from splitting his head open in the bulkhead.

As the Master Alarm began blaring, Gaston called out, “Hey, we’ve got a problem here.”

When Lovell and Haise scrambled back into their couches, Marceau was already trying to use the spacecraft’s manual thruster controls to get the ship back on a normal trajectory, with very little success.

“What’d you do?” Lovell asked, surveying the console’s caution and warning lights which were already beginning to fire off a multitude of messages.

“Nothing. I stirred the tanks.” Gaston responded. The stir was a simple procedure, already done half a million times since the mission began…there was no reason for the stir to cause such problems.

“Odyssey, this is Houston…say again, please.” Right after the stir, static filled the radio lines, making it hard to make out what the astronauts were saying.

“Houston, we’ve had a problem.” Lovell’s reply was short and tense. The master alarm went off a second time. The spacecraft was rapidly losing power and experiencing about a hundred other technical malfunctions. This was definitely not good.

***

April 14, 1970
Fringes of the French Quarter
New Orleans, Louisiana

The sun had just come up a short time ago, and the city was just in the beginning stages of coming awake, the world renowned French Quarter preparing for the days rush of tourists, college kids, and general party goers.

Wending its way through the streets was a dark blue sedan with government tags. Pulling up outside a modest townhouse on the edges of the French quarter, two men stepped out. One of them carried a small suitcase as they approached the townhouse. He other man knocked.

When the door is opened, the man introduces himself. “Good morning…I’m Eric Tennyson with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Is a Benjamin Adamson in, by chance? We’re here on behalf of Jack Swigert.”

The young man who answered the door looked surprised to see anyone standing there, as if he had merely opened the door with only the intent of going through it. He had dark thick curls that were beginning to wind into dreads at the end and a full beard, and he stared blankly at Tennyson and his partner through blood-shot blue eyes.

If either of the two NASA men were secretly into Rock and Roll, they might recognized the slightly inebriated figure in front of them as the controversial lead singer of THE DOORS, Jim Morrison.

"What's up with the suits, man?" He looked them up and down, and his giggle ended in a snort. "Have I ******** up recently? Again. Recently."

Unfortunately, Tennyson and his partner are NASA all the way…total rocket scientist nerds with no time for such trivialities. If two of the other astronauts had made this little trip, Morrison might have had better luck.

As it is, Tennyson is not completely without a sense of humor. “I wouldn’t know, sir. However, we did pass two police cruisers about a mile back, which may very well be headed in this direction. You might want to keep an eye out.”

While that sinks in to the inebriated looking rocker, Tennyson’s partner speaks up. “Please…this is rather important. Are you Mr. Adamson?”

At mention of the police cruisers, Jim scrambled back, waving his visitors inside the posh townhouse and closing the door quickly behind them. "Hide, then, brothers," he sputtered. "Screwy pigs are always hassling me. You want Mr. Adamson?" Again the giggle, as if Morrison were enjoying a private joke. "Then you want Doc. C'mon!"

Leaning on a cane, Jim led the way through the foyer, only to be met at the entrance to the living area by a tall slender young man with sharp attractive features and shoulder length black hair. "Jim?" he asked curiously.

"Doc!" Jim cried happily, throwing his arms around the shoulders of the oldest living being on earth. "I'm so happy! They're here for you instead of me for a change!"

Doc gave the suited men a wry smile over Jim Morrison's -- born George Gordon, Earl of Byron -- shoulders. "I'm Ben Adamson. Can I help you?"

Looking slightly bemused, the two NASA men step inside the townhouse.

With Adamson identified, Tennyson steps forward. "Good morning. I'm Eric Tennyson and this is Steve Whitman...we're with NASA's public relations office."

In answer to the question, Whitman takes over. "We're here because you were listed as an emergency contact for astronaut Jack Swigert. We understand he was a bachelor, and he had no immediate family listed, so it took us a while to track you down."

A beat. "Four days ago, the original Command Module Pilot for the Apollo 13 mission, Ken Mattingly, was exposed to another gentleman who had just come down with the measles. Rather than risk Mattingly becoming ill halfway through the mission, he was replaced by the CM Pilot from 13's backup crew...that'd be Swigert."

Setting down his briefcase, Tennyson adds. "Early in the afternoon on the 11th, Jack Swigert launched with astronauts Lovell and Haise from Cape Kennedy on the first leg of the Apollo 13 mission." By the looks on both men's faces, there's quite a bit more to this story.

Benjamin Adamson, who happened to be the Immortal myth known as Methos, looked confused for a moment before things started clicking into place. Jack Swigert. John Swigert Jr. Gaston had dropped him a letter briefly stating his new identity about 5 years ago.

Whitman's words echoed in his head as he pried Byron's arms from around him and steered the poet to the couch. We understand he was a bachelor... "Gentlemen, please sit down," he said, his own voice sounding foreign in his ears. Astronaut?!! "What's happened?"

Both men nodded their thanks as they took the offered seats. Setting the briefcase down beside him, Tennyson begins the explanation. "Early yesterday evening, there was some sort of explosion aboard Apollo 13's Service Module. We haven't been able to determine the cause yet, but the damage is apparently quite severe. Both liquid oxygen tanks used to fuel and power the Command Module throughout the mission have bled dry. Obviously, any lunar landing has been cancelled."

Looking between Tennyson and Adamson, Whitman picks things up. "At the present time, all three astronauts are fine. The Command Module has been powered down to save what little battery power remains for re-entry, which should take place in another three days. The Lunar Module is apparently undamaged, so the astronauts are currently using that as a lifeboat of sorts. The people at mission control are working with the astronauts to speed up 13's return trip and bring the three men home safely."

Tennyson adds. "Right now, we're emphasizing to all the families that while this is a difficult situation for the astronauts, that everyone at Mission Control is confident they'll return home safely, and people should try not to worry."

Morrison began to laugh quietly to himself as Methos stared at the two men. "You're kidding, right?" Methos said, brow furrowed. He ran his hand through shiny black hair. "Three grown men, in a cement mixer, sucking each others' air, and floating around in a vacuum waiting perhaps for another explosion of unknown origin -- and we should try not to worry?"

“As crazy as it may sound, that’s right.” Tennyson responds calmly. After helping break the news of the Apollo 1 deaths to the astronauts’ wives and families, this crisis was relatively easy to deal with. At the moment, the spacecraft is stable…the Command Module was powered down successfully, and the Lunar Module was apparently undamaged by the explosion. For the time being, the astronauts are as safe as they can be under the circumstances.

Whitman continues. “Apollo 13 is scheduled to pass over the dark side of the Moon late this afternoon on a trajectory to slingshot back to Earth. Mission Control in Houston is already planning a series of burns from the LM’s descent stage to speed up their return trip. We’re expecting the safe return of the astronauts in just under three more days.” Assuming nothing else goes wrong, of course, but neither of the NASA men is saying that…

Methos shot a quick glance at Bryron, brow furrowing slightly. I am going to kill Gaston, provided he gets back here in one piece, he thought, more anxious than annoyed. To the two NASA men, he said, "Are you returning to Houston? Is there any way I can come with you?"

Tennyson nods. “I think we can arrange that. Marilyn Lovell, the wife of Mission Commander Jim Lovell, is holding a vigil for the families and close friends of the three astronauts at their home in Houston; her logic being that everyone can be kept informed much more quickly if everyone is in one place.” That had to be a strong woman…likely flipping out about whether or not her husband will return home, yet still keeping her family and house together, and hosting visiting friends and family to boot. “I’m sure you’d be more than welcome to join them.”

Meanwhile, Whitman passes over the small briefcase the two men brought with them. “While you’re getting yourself situated, this is a typical package we give to the families of on mission astronauts. It contains a question and answer packet regarding what exactly the astronauts will be doing, life in space, unclassified specification on the spacecraft and mission profile, things like that. There’s also a radio receiver permanently tuned to the open frequency between Houston and Apollo 13. You won’t be able to speak to the astronauts, but you’ll be able to listen in to any communications between them and Mission Control.”

Methos takes the briefcase without opening it. "Thank you," he said. "I should pack. And I have a few phone calls to make." Again a glance at Morrison, who was looking less bleary and more interested. "How are we traveling?"

Tennyson answers. “Well, we’ve got about a two hour drive from here to Baton Rouge, where we’ve got a small plane waiting to ferry us back to Houston. It only seats six people, but we’ve got room for the both of you, if you’re interested.”

Whitman seems a little dubious about his partner inviting Morrison along, but if this one is close to Swigert as well, it would be wrong not to bring him along.

Byron looked like a dog invited for a car ride, but Methos frowned at him. "Doc?" the poet wheedled.

"No," Methos said firmly. "Jim, I need you to stay here. Ray and John should be back soon, and Robbie will be here tomorrow. I can't deal with you and worry about Jack at the same time."

Byron lurched to his feet, a flash of disappointed anger curling his lip, but sat back slowly at the steel expression in Methos' eyes. "All right, Doc," he sighed, leaning back against the couch and covering his eyes with an upflung arm. "I wanna finish that song, anyway."

Methos patted his knee, then nodded at the two NASA men. "I'll just be a few minutes, gentlemen," he said, then started up the stairs.

Byron's voice whispered up at him from below. "Don't forget to come back, Doc..."

Byron had every reason to worry. He knew more than anyone currently that Methos was always one step away from disappearing into the night. He always had a dufflebag packed with a week's worth of clean clothes and necessities, right down to a built-in sheath big enough to hold his Ivanhoe broadsword.

Slipping the sword into place, he quickly wrote a note for Ray Manzarek explaining only that he'd had a family emergency, leaving it taped to the keyboardist's bedroom mirror, then he was trotting down the stairs with the duffle on his shoulder.

"I'm ready," he announced. "Jim, stay out of trouble, man."

Byron didn't move, merely waving a hand languidly as a way of shooing them all out.

***

April 15, 1970
The Lovell Residence
Houston, Texas

The Lovell Residence had been crowded on July 20, 1969, on the night of the first lunar landing done by the crew of Apollo 11…now, the modest ranch home was an outright madhouse. Family, friends, and several general well wishers of the three beleaguered astronauts had the house near to bursting. Marilyn Lovell, wife of mission commander Jim Lovell, was heroically playing the part of hostess, making introductions, ensuring everyone was comfortable, and generally putting on a strong front for everyone gathered. However, anyone looking closely at the poor frazzled woman could easily see she was on the verge of a complete breakdown worrying about her husband.

Two other men had just been permitted entry (Marilyn had steadfastly refused to allow anyone from the media to come closer than the front sidewalk, angered at the lack of news coverage for the mission before the possible deaths of the astronauts made Apollo 13 ‘newsworthy') and Marilyn escorted them to a nearby sitting room, where an elderly lady sat in a wheelchair.

“Blanche, these nice young men are here to watch the television with you.” Marilyn said, leading the two in. “This is Buzz Aldrin, and this is Neil Armstrong.”

The kindly old woman smiled up to both of them, asking amicably. “Are you boys in the space program too?”

Meanwhile, out in the living room, the continuing news coverage gave up to the minute updates on the status of the Apollo 13 spacecraft and the three men aboard. Moved to sit atop the television was the radio receiver tied into the man comm. Frequency between the Apollo 13 spacecraft and Mission Control. The planetside crew was in the process of sending the astronauts calculations, instructions, and other preparatory details to fire the lunar module’s descent engine to correct Apollo 13’s course and speed up the return trip to Earth. It was going to be a difficult maneuver, considering that the LEM’s engine was never intended to serve in this capacity, and could very well not be able to handle the strain. After the flight surgeon’s nagging about sleep and eating schedules had finally aggravated the astronauts into tearing off their medical sensors, the mission controllers had been taking steps to raise morale aboard the spacecraft.

“Hey Jack,” Came the voice of the capcom, “We just got word back from President Nixon. He’s personally granted you an extension on your tax returns since you are most definitely out of the country.” Swigert had jokingly made mention of his failure to file his taxes in the hectic two days where he’d rushed to prepare for the mission at the last moment in an as yet unaired television broadcast.

Those who would recognize Gaston’s voice could tell the responding snicker was somewhat sardonic. “Copy that Houston, that’s excellent news.”

The trip from New Orleans to Houston was mainly quiet, as Methos was lost in thought with memories of training Gaston, and all the fun and frustration that had been. The NASA men helped him get settled in a local hotel, then drove him out to the Lovell home.

The mob of reporters in the street in front of Jim Lovell's house was an unusual sight for a quiet suburban setting, and the suddenly shy Methos allowed himself to be hustled passed them into the safety of the house with a minimum of flash bulbs catching him.

He stood inside feeling awkwardly out of place among the clean-cut military families gathered there, his long hair and fringed leather jacket saying "hippy" clearer than any words he could have shouted.

Then he heard Gaston's weary voice from the capcom, "Copy that, Houston. That's excellent news," and he smiled.

"Idiot," he muttered.

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the house, Tennyson manages to flag Marilyn down briefly. “Mrs. Lovell? This is a close friend of Jack’s. He’s-“

Marilyn is in the process of coming over to introduce herself and play the gracious hostess until she is distracted by a nine month pregnant woman trying to carry out a large tray of finger foods from the kitchen. “Mary Haise! Get off your feet this instant! What would Fredo say if he were here to see you bustling about and accidentally hurting yourself?” The other, equally nervewracked young woman gives a typical response about the work keeping her mind off her husband’s predicament, which is followed by Marilyn insisting that it will do no one any good if Mrs. Haise puts herself in the hospital.

“Houston, what’s the story on this burn?” Comes the voice of Jim Lovell over the receiver. The controllers volley back and forth with him about setting up the logistics for the coming course correction as Marilyn comes back to Methos and the two NASA men.

“I’m sorry, where were we?” Marilyn forces a warm smile…the impression is that she’d be quite a gracious lady if she weren’t currently scared half to death for her husband.

“Houston, in order to plot our course, we just need to have one fixed point in space as a reference, is that not correct?” Lovell asks.

“That’s affirmative, Aquarius.”

Swigert chimes in. “If we keep the Earth centered in the window, with the target reticle fixed on her terminator, that should have us on the right trajectory.”

As the mission controllers confirm and approve the suggestion, Tennyson tries again. “Marilyn Lovell, this is Benjamin Adamson…a doctor, I recall?” He looks to Methos for confirmation. “He’s a close family friend of Jack’s.”

Marilyn’s eyes study Methos’ hair and attire. She’s not rude enough to say anything out loud, but the slightest of smiles plays at her lips. “I see.” Swigert had quite the reputation as a party animal and womanizer…it seems only fitting that one of his friends dresses thusly. She demurely offers her hand. “Well, welcome.”

Methos smiled slightly at Tennyson's assumption that he's a doctor because Byron called him Doc, but he was currently keeping the books for The Doors so he didn't answer, merely holding out his hand out to Marilyn Lovell. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lovell," he said in his soft British accent. "Thank you for opening your home to all of us. I'm sure this is a very stressful time for you."

At the sympathetic words, Marilyn’s smile wavers ever so slightly, although she manages to maintain control. “The way I see it, it’s much easier for everyone to sit in one place and see what’s going on. We can all be here for each other, and it takes some of the load off us all.”

Meanwhile, the capcom announces. “Aquarius, Houston…you’re go for PC plus 2 burn at anytime.”

“Copy that, Houston. OK, this is gonna take all three of us.” Lovell responds. “I’ll take roll and yaw, Fredo you’ve got the pitch controls, and Jack, we need you on the throttle and to time us. We’re only going to have one shot at this, so let’s make it good.”

As the time for the speedup burn approaches, there’s a flurry activity as people gather around the radio receiver and mute the television to listen in. Marilyn tells Methos. “There’s still a space for you on the couch, if you like.”

The young one, the younger of the two Lovell daughters, smiled brightly in return. She was doing a bit better than she was the previous night when they brought Jim Lovell's mother over from the nursing home. It had nearly brought Marilyn to tears when she witnessed one of her aging mother in law's most lucid moments in months.

"Are you scared?" Blanche had smiled warmly at the softly crying girl. "Don't you worry, honey. If they can get a washing machine to fly, then your Daddy can land it."

The tension in the room increases by several degrees as the time for the burn finally arrives.

Swigert's voice comes through the receiver. "3...2...1...ignition!"

A roar comes over the radio as the noise and interference from the LEM's descent stage vibrates through Apollo 13's hull. The voices of the three astronauts almost seem to merge as they try to keep each other up to speed on everything the defunct computer would normally monitor.

Swigert: "She's burning now!"
Haise: "Oh, yeah..."
Lovell: "It's like flying with a dead elephant on our backs!"
Swigert: "Careful Fredo, we're yawing left..."
Lovell: "We pitched too far, I'm losing the Earth...Fredo, help me get it back!"
Haise: "I CAN'T SEE IT!"
Swigert: "There it is! Roll left, roll left!"
Haise: "OK, got it!"
Lovell: "We gotta hold it, now...hold tight!"
Swigert: "Shutting down in 5...4...3..."
Haise: "Drifting again, Jim, help me!"
Lovell: "It's OK, I've got you...keep her right there!"
Swigert: "...2...1...SHUTDOWN!"

The noise abrutly stops, leaving only the sounds of the three astronauts harried breathing coming through the radio. A the capcom from mission control clicks on. "All right, nice job, guys. Give us a minute to look at the telemetry and we'll see how you're doing."

"Let's hope we don't have to do that again..." Swigert remarks.