Back at Mission Control, planners, engineers, and politicians were locked in an intense debate over how to handle the "Disaster Zone Ramon Situation," as it was now officially being called.
Senator Johnson, a guest at Mission Control and a member of the NASA oversight committee, leaned in to McDavid. "You realize NASA's funding will be cut in half after this fiasco!"
"Yes, sir. Accidents do happen."
"Accidents?! The President is fuming over this!"
"I spoke to the President myself, sir. I think we're overlooking something."
"And what might that be, McDavid?"
WHITE HOUSE PRESS BRIEFING
Journalist: “Mr. President, are you considering shooting down the illegal Mexican crossing the border between the Earth and the Moon?”
President: “You’re fake news. Next question.”
2nd Journalist: “Mr. President, given the unprecedented nature of the current situation involving a civilian of Mexican descent, one not formally authorized to engage in space operations, does your administration retain any active contingency plans to intercept the Ganymede craft? Specifically, would you consider the use of force to neutralize a perceived threat, notwithstanding its, shall we say, more symbolic or humanitarian implications?”
President: “I like the syllables you work with. Big vocabulary. Here’s what we’re gonna do: total rebrand. Ramon? I’m not condoning Mexican space theft, which is very illegal, but he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to NASA’s public image. Tremendous for the base. He’s like Rocky Balboa—if Rocky stole Apollo Creed’s spacecraft.
3rd Journalist: “Are you saying you would pardon Disaster Zone Ramon, Mr. President?”
President: If he comes back alive, we’ll have to reconsider the whole enchilada. It’s not rocket science. Actually, it is rocket science, which makes this even worse.
In the following hours, as NASA's best minds plotted and Ramon made himself at home among the stars, the world watched and waited. Petitions went viral; "Bring Ramon Home" became a global rallying cry.
Behind closed doors near Mission Control at NASA’s Johnson Space Center, as plans were finalized to bring Ramon back to Earth, a new chapter quietly began for the agency and, perhaps, for all of humanity.
“Who leaked this?”
“How were we supposed to keep it quiet?”
“The world is watching … if we can’t bring him home …!”
The crisis room was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the weary faces of NASA’s top officials. At the front, a large monitor displayed the arcing trajectory of the Ganymede—a sleek, experimental vessel built for deep space exploration, now commandeered by an untrained janitor-turned-accidental astronaut. Its unscripted voyage had cast a heavy pall over the room, thick with tension, uncertainty, and the dawning realization that history was unfolding far beyond anyone’s control.
"Twelve hours," muttered Ted McDavid, the chief engineer at Mission Control, "For twelve hours, Ramon Hernandez has been alone in that spacecraft with no clue how to operate it."
“He may have compromised vital systems," snapped Dr. Felicia Garvey, Head of Operations. "The safety protocols on the Ganymede aren't designed for... accidents like this."
“Ganymede," began Dr. Lawrence Green, the Chief Engineer, “is designed for deep space exploration, not joyrides. If its systems aren't operated correctly, the consequences could be dire. It may be impossible to bring him back."
The room was filled with hushed conversations, speculations, and strategies. Occasionally, someone would glance at the screen, tracking the progress of the fugitive spacecraft.
Suddenly, the doors burst open. A technician, out of breath, strode in, clutching a tablet.
"Excuse the interruption, everyone; I have some bad news," he panted, "we've got an even bigger problem on our hands!"
All eyes were on him.
“This morning at dawn, a disturbance of solar flares was detected on the sun. They're heading towards our space station. The flares will be powerful enough to damage systems and compromise the safety of our astronauts."
Murmurs erupted.
McDavid slammed his hand on the table. "People! We need to focus and prioritize! How do we address this?"
Dr. Green looked thoughtful. "The space station is equipped with solar shields. They could protect it from the flares. But the shields may not deploy to their full capacity with the energy drain from normal operations.”
Everyone stared at the trajectory of the Ganymede, connecting dots in their minds.
McDavid took a deep breath. "What if... what if the Ganymede docks with the space station and transfers some of its power to boost the shields?"
The room erupted in laughter.
"You can't be serious!" exclaimed one of the officials. "An untrained maintenance worker docking a spacecraft? It's suicide!"
McDavid raised a hand, silencing the room. “Okay, how about this? How about everyone aboard both the space station and Ganymede dies? Who’s in favor—raise their hands! Anyone?”
No one said a word.
“I didn’t think so. Because that’s what we’re looking at. Like it or not, we have only one option. We've trained astronauts for complex maneuvers before. It’s not impossible. Humans have an uncanny ability to rise to the occasion. And right now, this … Ramon person, well, he’s not just a human, he’s a Mexican maintenance superhuman with an American can-do spirit! And I’m staking my reputation on him."
Dr. Garvey nodded. "I'll get a team to guide him through the docking procedures."
“Let’s get to work," murmured McDavid.
Outside the glass walls of the crisis room, the low hum of computers and telemetry feeds filled the air, while engineers sprang into motion with the tense choreography of a pit crew during a thunderstorm. Within moments, McDavid had returned to his console, headset in place, eyes fixed on the live feed from the Ganymede’s cockpit.
He keyed the mic.
"Ramon, do you read? This is Ted McDavid, Mission Control. Captain Hernandez, this is Houston. Do you read?"
A moment of silence passed before a voice crackled through the comm, half-asleep and fully unconcerned.
"I'm taking a siesta, amigo! This weightlessness is better than my hammock in the backyard!"
McDavid winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ramon, it's Chief Engineer McDavid. We have an emergency here, and we need your help."
Ramon yawned audibly. "Emergency? Look, I don’t want to alarm you, but this spaceship? It's moving slower than my Tío Luis’s donkey after it’s had three tortillas and a beer. I mean—can this thing go any faster?”
“I think that’s about as fast as it can go.”
“What about the speed of light, yo?”
"Look, Ramon, can you give me your attention? We have a matter of some urgency to discuss. We have some NASA technicians who will guide you through an emergency operation."
"Am I getting overtime for this?"
"Ramon, we'll have to dock with the space station. The lives of NASA personnel are in danger due to a rise in solar flare activity."
“Wow. This is like a Bruce Willis movie, man! And I'm like the hero, eh?"
"That's right, Ramon, now listen carefully …!"
Hours felt like minutes. NASA’s best-trained technicians communicated with Ramon, guiding and instructing him. Despite his inexperience, Ramon's courage and determination shone through.
The moment of truth had arrived, and Mission Control was abuzz. Technicians and engineers surrounded McDavid, standing in front of multiple large screens displaying data and visuals from Ganymede's instruments and cameras.
"Alright, Ramon, listen carefully. We're initiating Operation Solar Flare Shield," McDavid began. "The first thing you will do is initiate the RCS thrusters to align your approach vector to the ISS docking port. You'll find the RCS toggle on your main control panel."
"Roger that, Ese! Right here, these thrusters, baby, love them! RCS thrusters, approach vector, got it. Let's see... Ah, here it is," Ramon's voice crackled over the comm, filled with focus but a touch of his usual irreverence.
A tense few moments passed. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the telemetry data streaming in, confirming that the thruster burns were successful and that Ganymede was aligning with the ISS docking port.
"Good, you're aligned. Now engage the KURS automated docking system," instructed Sarah, the lead engineer for spacecraft systems.
"You want me to engage the what now?"
"The KURS, Ramon. A big button should be labeled 'AUTO DOCK' on your control panel. Press it and let it do its thing. It will communicate with the ISS's navigation system and guide you."
A slight pause, then, "Okay, AUTO DOCK engaged. I see the distance counters decreasing."
"As you approach the ISS, you'll see the Docking Target Indicator light up. This is a good sign. It means the KURS system has established a lock," Sarah continued.
"Check. The indicator is green," Ramon reported.
"We're getting a telemetry handshake between Ganymede and the ISS. That's good. Now, Ramon, switch to manual docking override, but don't touch anything yet. It's a safety precaution," McDavid instructed.
"Manual docking override is now on standby, Houston."
"Prepare to engage the Soft Capture Ring once you're within 20 meters of the docking port. This will enable the initial mechanical connection between Ganymede and the ISS," interjected Stuart, the docking systems specialist.
"Soft Capture Ring? Sounds cozy," Ramon joked nervously. "Okay, engaging now."
A collective holding of breath filled the room at Mission Control. The screen showed Ganymede inching closer and closer to the ISS. Finally, the data confirmed that the Soft Capture Ring had engaged successfully.
"We have Soft Capture," Stuart announced, breathing a sigh of relief.
"Now, Ramon, engage the Hard Capture system. This will ensure a stable and secure docking by retracting and locking the docking hooks," he continued.
"Hard Capture system engaged," Ramon confirmed after a tense few seconds.
Cheers erupted across Mission Control—brief, restrained, hopeful. McDavid allowed himself a tight exhale, nodding to the room.
"Excellent, Ramon. Now, begin power transfer to the ISS solar shielding system. Engage the CrossFeed Control Unit."
Ramon’s voice came back quickly. "Copy that, switching over now. CrossFeed Control Unit... activated. I think."
Suddenly, the room's telemetry screens flickered. A sharp, oscillating alarm blared from one of the systems consoles.
“Wait! I’m seeing instability in the current loop!” Ellen, the flight dynamics officer, shouted. “The power’s not transferring—it’s reversing. It’s pulling power from the ISS!”
"Abort power transfer!" McDavid barked.
"Abort sequence initiated!" Ramon called, fumbling at the controls—but then, sparks flared on his monitor. A panel crackled. “Uh, Houston—we've got a crispy situation here. Something just fried. The controls are locked.”
In Mission Control, a secondary monitor lit up with a warning: ISS Power Systems Overload: 80%… 92%… 97%
"Ramon, the interface relay’s fused! You're feeding raw power into the ISS's critical systems—it's going to burn out their shielding!" McDavid’s voice rose with urgency. “We’ll lose the entire crew!"
"Jesus," Sarah whispered. "They’ve only got minutes before the flare hits."
The power feedback surged higher. Onboard the Ganymede, red lights danced across Ramon's console. He stared at the mess, then his eyes landed on a small maintenance hatch labeled Auxiliary Bypass Manual Access.
“Standby,” Ramon muttered. “I think I’ve got an idea…”
"Ramon—what are you doing?!" McDavid demanded.
"Gotta improvise, man. Disaster Zone Ramon to the rescue, ese!"
He grabbed his multi-tool—one he’d snuck aboard in his back pocket—and popped the panel open. Inside, a tangle of wires glowed ominously. Ramon yanked off his belt, removed a copper keyring from his pocket, and bent it expertly.
“Gonna reroute the junction manually. Kinda like fixing a toaster with a coat hanger, just with more explosions,” he said.
Ramon jammed the keyring between two contacts and bridged a bypass circuit using a stripped cable and a paperclip from the Ganymede’s emergency manual.
Mission Control watched, horrified.
"Power’s stabilizing!" Ellen yelled. “He’s reversing the flow—he’s actually doing it!”
“Hold—holding…” Ramon grunted as he secured the patch with duct tape. “There. She’s rerouted.”
On the screens, the readings dipped into green. The overload dropped. The ISS solar shield batteries surged to full charge just as a tremor of solar radiation hit.
The ISS held.
Applause erupted in Mission Control. Sarah leaned back, hands over her face. McDavid sat in stunned silence before whispering, “He MacGyvered a billion-dollar interface with a belt loop and a paperclip.”
Ramon’s voice came over the comm, breathless but victorious. “Hey, Houston—remind me to put ‘space electrician’ on my résumé.”
"You just saved the station, Ramon," McDavid said, his voice trembling. "You saved them all."
"Damn right I did," Ramon replied. “Now, do I get frequent flyer miles for this, or what?”
Through an unbelievable twist of fate, Ramon Hernandez, the accidental astronaut, had become an unlikely but undeniable hero.
As the docking clamps fully engaged and the airlock hissed open, Ramon unfastened his seatbelt. He floated from the cockpit of the Ganymede to the space station, where a handful of astronauts awaited him, clapping and floating in joyous disbelief.
"Welcome aboard, accidental astronaut," Commander Jackson said, shaking Ramon's hand firmly as he entered the station.
"Happy to be here and happier that you all still are alive," Ramon responded, the weight of the moment settling in. Lives had been on the line, yet everyone was safe against all odds.
Within hours, they boarded a shuttle, leaving behind the Ganymede, its onboard systems shut down and its mission complete, if unorthodox. As they soared back to Earth, NASA's administrators weighed the cost of the lost spacecraft against the lives saved. The consensus was unanimous: the sacrifice was well worth it. Instead of an interstellar space exploration craft, the Ganymede had become an improbable chariot of salvation.
Back on Earth, Ramon was swarmed by friends, family, and fierce media, all clamoring to know the details of his daring escapade. Overnight, he became a national hero, though which nation could claim him became a subject of international debate.
“Madam Presidente, it's an honor to speak with you," the President of the United States greeted his Mexican counterpart over a secure line.
"The honor is mine," the President of Mexico responded. "However, we find ourselves in an interesting dilemma. Although a naturalized U.S. citizen, Ramon Hernandez, the hero of the hour, was born in Mexico. Our country believes he should be recognized as having flown for Mexico, not just for the United States."
A tense silence stretched over the line before the U.S. President replied, "Well, considering the international composition of the space station crew he saved and the collaborative nature of space exploration, I propose we share the honor. Ramon can be celebrated as a hero for both nations and, indeed, for all of humanity."
After another pause, the Mexican President chuckled, "I can agree. Like his Primo Segundo before him, Ramon has already shown us that borders vanish when viewed from the stars."
"Well, I wouldn't go that far."
"After all, who better than a Mexican maintenance man to get things done in a pinch?!"
"Okay, got it!"
"Maybe you won't deport so many of our people next time! Right? Give us your tired masses and your huddled poor!”
"Hey, hey, that's enough!” The U.S. President said before abruptly hanging up.
Though he had never trained to be an astronaut, Ramon Hernandez had navigated the most challenging domains of space and international diplomacy, and he had done it all by flying by the seat of his pants. But as he often said afterward, during the countless interviews and ceremonies in his honor, "Teamwork makes the dream work."
Ramon Hernandez stood as a symbol of universal courage and ingenuity, transcending national boundaries. The governments agreed to celebrate his heroism as a triumph of international cooperation in the face of cosmic adversity. Ramon was just grateful to be home, overwhelmed by the gravity of his actions.
His story, that of Disaster Zone Ramon, NASA's maintenance man turned accidental astronaut, has become an inspirational tale for the ages. Once the butt of workplace jokes and known more for mops than mission logs, Ramon Hernandez now stands as a symbol of what can happen when the least likely person is given the most unlikely chance—and rises to meet it with duct tape, daring, and an unshakable spirit.
© Michael Arturo, 2025
Michael Arturo is a playwright, screenwriter, and fiction author who also writes random essays on social and political issues. He was born and raised in New York City. His plays have been produced in New York, London, Boston, and LA. He also created the Double Espresso Web Series from 2010 to 2014.
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