an impressively large rock off his head in the school yard.
It’s the same scene, the same nightmare he’d left. Bill’s body, the absence of an escape door, the hiss of the air conditioning, the plastic and antiseptic smell of the interior. Everything.
He reaches out tentatively and grasps the back of the command chair, working his body into it again, facing forward. He feels foolish and exhausted. They had explained that the cabin pressure in orbit would be the equivalent of a ten-thousand-foot altitude and that too much physical exertion would net light-headedness. That must have been it.
That’s better than the alternative explanation. No way could he have just fainted.
Kip clicks the seat belt on again and looks at the clock. He’s only been out a short time and nearly eighty minutes remain to the next retrofire point—the end of Orbit 4. He tries to pump himself up with the idea that he can try to fire the engine yet again, but he knows he’s deluding himself. For some reason the Eagles’ “Hotel California” suddenly begins playing in his head, the haunting lyrics and one phrase in particular sending a shiver up his spine.
He lets himself sink into the bizarre images it paints in his mind as he shivers, unwilling to believe he’s hit the wall with no more options, and equally unwilling to delude himself that there are some. His anger returns, but this time there’s no energy left for hitting or throwing or yelling. He sits, doing a slow burn, searching for someone to blame and coming up empty.
And suddenly there is nothing left but reality, and it feels like a black hole in his soul, sucking everything that remains of him into another dimension. He sees movement in one of the side windows and looks, realizing the image is his, startled by the mirrorlike reflection of the fear in his eyes.
And the guilt! The overwhelming, crushing guilt that he’s done exactly what Sharon tried to prevent. He’s killed his children’s father, her husband. He’s walked stupidly into the abyss.
He feels tears again cascading on his face and he buries his head in his hands, eyes closed, body shaking, wishing, praying, begging for deliverance as the silent, anguished cry of “No!” fills his mind. He rocks back and forth in agony until he’s stunned enough and tired enough to escape into the blessed release of a numbed sleep.
Chapter 13
On any normal day the sight of Richard DiFazio walking into ASA’s maintenance office would be routine, but his sudden bursting through Mark Burgess’s office door just now catches everyone by surprise. The director of maintenance turns with a shocked expression as the CEO motions him to a corner office and pulls the door closed behind them.
“We have no choice, Mark. You’ve got to get
The veteran maintenance chief is shaking his head. “Didn’t I make it clear enough on the phone? Richard, the landing gear is damaged and the wing spar is cracked. We could easily lose her and anyone aboard if we tried to fly. Going up and especially coming down.”
“What are the chances of that?”
“Well, hell, I don’t know! All I can be sure of is that she’s dangerously weakened.”
“Percentages, dammit!”
“I don’t know, okay? Maybe a fifty percent chance. Maybe better.”
“Fifty or better of surviving?”
“Yes. Or a fifty percent chance of the wing falling off. No one’s going to be stupid enough to fly her like that.”
“I already have two volunteers.”
“Richard, she can’t fly.”
“This isn’t FAA rules. She’s experimental. This is a cutting-edge space program.”
“The hell it is! This is supposed to be a space
“Yeah, but it was just theoretical then. This is real.”
“She can’t fly, Richard.”
“Bullshit. If I have to, I’ll fire your ass and find someone to get her ready.”
He regrets the words as soon as he’s said them. He knows he’s gone too far, but the frustration is driving him to play the “Damn the torpedoes, full-speed ahead” card.
Mark Burgess, however, is too experienced and principled to be bullied like some green lieutenant. His arms are crossed, his jaw set, his head shaking slowly. “Go ahead. Violate everything you promised.”
“What did I promise?”
“To never, ever attempt to overrule my department’s judgment on flight readiness.
Richard sighs. He’s cornered, and the defeated slump of his shoulders uncrosses Burgess’s arms.
“Look, Richard, I want this as much as you, but I can’t let you compound a disaster. We lose
“How bad is she, really?
“You mean is there any hope of a fast repair?”
Richard nods.
“These are composite materials, laminated sheets with glue. But we’re already reexamining our conclusions. I’ve a team crawling all over her right now.”
“Good.”
“Keep in mind this is not a metal bird. I can’t just rivet a doubler in place like we could with aluminum.”
“Try, Mark. For God’s sake, try something.”
“I’m not planning to just sit here drinking lattes. But you have to accept that the chances she could be ready to fly this week are near zero.”
“Then Bill’s chances are the same.”
“You don’t know that. So he missed a deorbit burn. He may make it on the next one.”
“And if he doesn’t, he has enough air for the two of them for maybe…”
“Three days, tops. Yeah, I know. We build the scrubbers, remember?”
The two of them stare at each other in pain before Richard DiFazio flails the air with his right hand and turns to the door.
“I’m sorry, Mark. Do your best.”
“We will. We are,” Mark says to the back of the departing chairman.
Her instincts are on high alert as the aerospace reporter for the
