Siege of Lightning

CHAPTER FIFTEEN COALITION

Commander Nikolai Aleksandrovich Strakelov switched off the radio after a ten-minute conversation with Baikonur Control, the primary cosmodrome for support of Mir, and the main center for rocket and satellite research and development. To his right was Flight Engineer Valentina Tereshkova. She looked at him and frowned. Things had not really been going well since their arrival at the space complex two months ago. First had been the problem with their heat shields flaring out of the space module during disengagement from the booster section while approaching Mir; then Progress VI had mysteriously blown up after reaching orbit, and now the standing order from Moscow meant another week-long postponement of a carefully planned schedule of experiments for their eight-month stay at Mir. Strakelov exhaled. They didn’t have a choice. Their American comrades were in trouble and needed help.

He motioned to Tereshkova to follow him into the Kvant-2 module. The Mir complex was made up of modules that had been launched into space one at a time over a period of two years to achieve their current T-shape configuration. In the center was the original Mir module, which had a multiple docking unit on one end and a single docking unit at the other. Two modules were connected to Mir’s multiple docking end at 180-degree angles from one another. They were known as Kvant-1 and Kristall. Kvant-2 was docked at the single end of Mir. The Soyuz TM-15 spacecraft was docked at the other end of Kvant-2. The main living quarters were in Mir. The other modules contained a variety of laboratories and space observation gear. There was a temporary module also connected to Mir’s multiple docking unit: a cargo spacecraft, Progress VII, that had arrived two weeks ago, carrying water, food, air supplies, reading material, film, fuel, and new experiments for Mir’s crew. Strakelov and Tereshkova had nearly completed the long and tedious process of unloading Progress VII’s cargo, and were ready to use up the last of Progress VII’s fuel to push the Mir complex into a higher, safer orbit before jettisoning away the empty module to burn up upon Earth re-entry. Now Moscow had given them new instructions: Progress VII’s remaining fuel would be used for another purpose.

Strakelov went through the docking tunnel and floated into Kvant-2. He turned and faced Tereshkova.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I don’t think Moscow realizes how dangerous it is for Mir to go to such a low orbit, Nikolai Aleksandrovich. It will take a great deal of propellant to bring the complex back up to a safe orbit.”

“I know Moscow doesn’t realize the implications. Our job is to comply with the order and then generate the request for another cargo ship loaded with fuel. But that will come later. For now we must comply.”

“I understand.”

Strakelov smiled. He had a lot of respect for the tall Frontal Aviation pilot. She had joined the cosmonaut training program only five years ago in spite of knowing that the odds were against her. The Cosmonaut Training Center was highly selective in the students it chose. The fact that she had not only been accepted, but had also managed to graduate, told Strakelov plenty. Only the very best were accepted for cosmonaut training, and unlike in the West, it took more than just top-notch flying to earn the right to become a cosmonaut. Or so he had been told by his superiors. Strakelov found it hard to believe in his heart that a great country like the United States would allow men without many years of education and training to pilot sophisticated reusable space vehicles. Strakelov loved the Rodina. He had loved it even during the days of communism, when he’d had specific concerns about some of the people that were in charge of key governmental positions. One of them had been the head of the Soviet space agency, someone whom Strakelov had not had a lot of respect for after the unfortunate accident that had nearly ended his cosmonaut career ten years earlier.

After graduating with honors from the Polbin Higher Military Aviation School in Orenburg, Strakelov was posted to the Baltic Sea, where he served as a Navy pilot until 1979. That year a representative of the Cosmonaut Training Center had visited Strakelov’s unit to actively recruit young pilots for cosmonaut training. Strakelov was among the few selected, and was immediately sent on to a test pilot’s training course, where he mastered several different types of aircraft and was awarded the qualification of test pilot second class. He had everything going for him until the day of the unfortunate freak accident, during an exercise in an isolation chamber. He flipped a timer switch in the chamber that had somehow come into direct contact with an electrical line carrying 220 volts. Strakelov burned both hands badly and lost consciousness, also injuring his head in the ensuing fall. And the doctors monitoring the exercise were slow to come to his aid, assuming he had simply collapsed as a result of the exhausting exercise.

The head of the space agency tried to have Strakelov dismissed from cosmonaut training because of his injuries, but Strakelov persevered, and through numerous medical checkups, fought his way back to the cosmonaut ranks. A year later he went on his first Soyuz mission.

Strakelov and Tereshkova floated back into Mir and sat on the flight seats facing the complex’s control station.

“Baikonur’s intercept solution has been fed to the computer system, Nikolai Aleksandrovich,” said Tereshkova as she read the information displayed on the screen to her right.

“Time to fire?”

“Ten minutes, thirty seconds,” she reported as fast as she typed the commands on the computer keyboard. Tereshkova had been responsible for the writing and debugging of the thousands of lines of code that were written as part of Mir’s shift to full automation, something Strakelov found amazing. Each new cargo ship brought along a new computerized piece of equipment that replaced old manually driven hardware. The old equipment was stowed away in the ferry and destroyed during re-entry. Tereshkova was in charge of installing the new equipment and updating the central computer program to incorporate each piece of new equipment as part of the total control system on board.

Strakelov nodded. Tereshkova was a very talented and mature young woman. After graduating first in her class at the Moscow Physical-Engineering Institute in three years instead of the usual four, she went through a two-year pilot training course at the Higher Air Force College in Chernigov. She served for three years as a MiG-29 pilot with the Frontovaya Aviatsiya, Russia’s tactical air force, before she managed to get accepted at the Cosmonaut Training Center. Soyuz TM-15 was her first mission.

“Let’s secure the modules, Valentina. I’ll handle Kristall, Kvant-1, and Mir. You go back to Kvant-2 and Soyuz. We only have ten minutes.”

Tereshkova headed aft as Strakelov gently pushed himself toward the multiple docking station. He reached the massive steel ball capable of docking up to five modules. Only three docking units were being used. He moved to the one on the right, Kristall, the state-of-the-art module containing a micro-gravity factory capable of producing a variety of semiconductor crystals. Kristall was also equipped with a pair of new docking units for use with the Russian space shuttle Buran.

He floated in the fairly spacious compartment of Kristall and eyed the ongoing crystal-growth experiments. He checked the timer on the equipment. The last experiment had ended an hour ago. A new experiment had automatically started. Strakelov hesitated for a moment or two before aborting the experiment and setting the machine in standby mode, to prevent the computer system from starting a new experiment. He was concerned that the sudden deceleration necessary to achieve the lower orbit might create an imperfect batch of crystals.

He eyed the rest of the compartment. Everything appeared in order. Nothing floated loose around the ship. Satisfied, he turned and headed back to the multiple docking ball. He went through it straight into the opposite side, where Kvant-1 was docked. Unlike Kristall, Kvant-1 had a mix of older hardware and new computer-controlled equipment. Essentially, the module was also another laboratory to conduct experiments. Kvant-2, though, was dramatically different from its predecessor, since it was not only a workshop, but also the air lock to be used for the new Ikar space bicycle, similar in shape and functionality to NASA’s Manned Maneuvering Unit. Kvant-2 also had the largest of the Mir complex’s existing hatches. At one meter in diameter, it had quickly become the permanent “front door” for all cosmonaut space walks.

Strakelov turned around, satisfied that all was secured in the module. He reached the multiple docking unit, went left, and floated back into the Mir module. Tereshkova was already there waiting for him, strapped into her seat. Her short black hair floated over her head, exposing her ears. Strakelov noticed she wore small diamond earrings, something that was not viewed favorably by Baikonur Control, but Strakelov did not mind. Tereshkova was one of the best flight engineers he’d seen. She should be allowed a few indulgences. A young and attractive Slavic woman having to spend months in space? No, Strakelov didn’t mind at all. She deserved that and more for her many contributions to the Rodina in such a short period of time.

“The Ikar bicycles and Orlon suits are secured, Valentina?”

“Yes, Nikolai Aleksandrovich. I did a visual on each of the suits. They were properly strapped. The external electromagnets show nominal readings.”

Strakelov nodded. The space bicycles were kept outside for storage reasons. In order to ensure they were safely strapped to Kvant-2’s external walls, Strakelov himself had designed an electromagnetic locking method for ease of usage and to avoid wasting precious EVA time — along with limited oxygen supply — on strapping and unstrapping the bicycles to Kvant-2’s exterior walls.

“Good. Time to fire?”

Tereshkova went to work on the keyboard. “Three minutes, ten seconds.”

Strakelov secured himself to his seat and reached for the radio.

“Baikonur Control, Mir complex.”

“Go ahead, Nikolai. You are coming through clear.”

“Less than three minutes to ignition. Using vernier rockets to rotate complex one hundred eighty degrees.”

“Rotation confirmed, Nikolai.”

Strakelov used Mir’s small vernier rockets to rotate the complex gently so that Progress VII’s engine faced forward. The original intent of Progress VII’s engine was to boost Mir into a higher, more stable orbit, but due to the change of plans, the same engine was going to be used to get the space station down to a lower orbit.

Strakelov completed the maneuver and fired the verniers in the opposite direction to stop the rotation.

“Rotation complete. One minute to ignition. Current orbit three hundred thirty kilometers. Target orbit two hundred thirty-three kilometers. One-minute burn for initial slow-down. Seven hours, twenty minutes for second ignition. Estimated five ignitions for a total of three minutes. Thirty-five seconds to ignition of Progress VII’s main engine.”

“Acknowledged, Nikolai.”

Strakelov turned to Tereshkova. She kept her pressurized pen hanging off the side of her mouth as she quickly typed commands for a last-second check prior to ignition. She placed the keyboard onto the Velcro patch on the console in front of her, removed the pen from her mouth, placed it in a sidearm pocket, and then shifted her gaze toward Strakelov.

“All systems nominal.”

Strakelov nodded. “Ten seconds to ignition, six… five… four… three… two…” He reached for the ignitions button. “Ignition started!”

Progress VII’s engine kicked to life, providing nearly thirty thousand pounds of thrust, rapidly decelerating Mir. Since they faced the front of the complex, both jerked forward against their restraining harness as their bodies were exposed to a force of two Gs.

“Twenty seconds. Speed reduced to thirty-three thousand one hundred kilometers per hour. Orbital altitude three hundred eighteen kilometers,” Tereshkova read from the computer display.

Strakelov kept his eyes on the digital counter in front of him while his finger lightly pressed the engine shut-off button.

“One minute burn completed. All systems nominal. Speed thirty-one thousand. Will achieve stable orbit of two hundred eighty-nine kilometers in seven hours. Second burn in seven hours, eighteen minutes.”

“Excellent, Nikolai. The spirit of the Rodinalives in your flying and that of your flight engineer.”

Strakelov smiled and looked at Tereshkova. She was smiling, too. The smile quickly vanished from her face as his own face hardened at the thought of Lightning’s crew slowly asphyxiating in their vessel. Up here there are no countries, Strakelov reflected. It didn’t matter whether one was called an astronaut or a cosmonaut; in Strakelov’s mind they were all human beings living in outer space. They belonged to the same race, the human race. National boundaries were insignificant, or at least so it seemed while Strakelov cruised at thousands of kilometers per hour over a fragile-looking Earth. Earth was simply Earth, and not a conglomerate of countries trying to coexist. Strakelov had a new mission. A rescue mission. He was determined to succeed, but then again, he thought, he had never failed at anything he had attempted to do in his life.

The paratrooper door of the C-141 StarLifter opened and the sound that followed was intimidating. The powerful thunder of the four Pratt & Whitney turbofans, unleashing nearly twenty thousand pounds of thrust each, rumbled through the cargo area, deafening Ortiz and the rest of Mambo. As soon as the paratrooper door opened, the rear cargo door lowered. Each man now kept his right hand firmly gripping one of numerous handholds built in on the side walls. Ortiz was second in line right behind Zimmer.

He squinted as the setting sun made its way past the huge opening in the aft fuselage under the tail section. He could feel the vibrations induced by the increased drag from the lowered cargo door. It made the aluminum-framed floor tremble.

Ortiz felt the adrenaline kick in as he stared at the red light over the paratrooper door. Although he had over one hundred jumps to his credit, it never got any easier. The risk of a tangled parachute was always present. He placed his hand over the reserve chute strapped to his stomach, his only insurance should the main canopy fail to deploy.

As before every jump, memories from his first jump vividly flashed in front of Ortiz’s eyes. That first jump had come after spending two weeks performing simulated jumps from a seventy-foot-high tower. After getting the essentials down, the real thing came. Ortiz and a group of rookies jumped from an altitude of nine hundred feet. Their parachutes were automatically opened by a static line fixed to the aircraft. That first jump had not been as terrifying as his second. After that initial jump, Ortiz knew exactly what he was going to experience, including urine-drenched fatigues by the time he reached the ground. It took a lot of nerve and almost a kick to the rear for him to jump again after that terrorizing first time. After that it got a little easier, Ortiz thought as the light above the door turned yellow.

“All right. It’s time!” Ortiz heard Siegel scream over the noise from the wind and the engines.

With time Ortiz’s confidence had slowly built up until he joined the ranks of the free-fall parachutist, a separate tribe within the Special Forces.

Zimmer turned around and smiled. “See ya down there, Tito!” Ortiz put on the goggles that hung loose from his neck. He was ready.

The light turned green.

“Go, go, go!”

Ortiz watched Zimmer rush out through the door. He inhaled, made the sign of the cross as his feet left the aluminum floor, and jumped into the abyss.

He felt the initial windblast as he extended his arms and legs in classic free-falling position. His Colt Commando submachine gun was safely strapped along the left side. Zimmer, roughly twenty feet ahead of him, moved toward The Bundle — the five-hundred-pound supply container that had slid off the rear cargo door. They would get close to The Bundle, but not too close. An aerodynamically unpredictable beast, The Bundle could easily make a U-turn and rush back at them across the sky. Ortiz moved his right arm inward while keeping his left extended. That had the effect of slowly moving him to the right. He eyed the small altimeter mounted over the reserve chute.

Thirteen thousand feet.

He checked the chronometer on his watch. Eleven seconds had elapsed since he’d jumped off the StarLifter. He had dropped two thousand feet in eleven seconds. Right on the money, Ortiz thought, as he plummeted at a rate of 125 miles per hour, or 183 feet per second.

Zimmer got within a hundred or so feet of The Bundle and arched his upper body to stop his momentum and maintain the safe distance. Ortiz continued his right-hand turn until he had maneuvered himself thirty feet from Zimmer and also about a hundred feet from The Bundle.

Eight thousand feet. Thirty-eight seconds.

He watched the rest of the platoon assume their position around The Bundle. Almost like clockwork, Ortiz decided, as the altimeter scurried below six thousand feet and the chronometer showed fifty seconds had elapsed.

He waited. Two thousand feet. Seventy seconds. Mark. He had fallen a total of thirteen thousand feet in seventy seconds.

He pulled the ripcord handle and waited as he continued to fall. The pilot chute, or extractor, rushed clear of the fifty-pound Bergen rucksack. It had a brindle cord attached to it, which pulled the main canopy. The sudden jerk told him the main parachute had safely deployed.

A soft wind suddenly caressed his face. The sun had all but vanished below the horizon. He scanned the sky around him and spotted the parachutes in a circle around The Bundle’s dual parachutes.

The dark green Earth came up to greet him. It looked majestic, serene, almost peaceful. He approached it slowly, with control. He followed Zimmer’s lead toward the large clearing that Pruett had shown them on the map. It was a few miles north of Kourou. Far enough to avoid detection, yet close enough to reach their objective in two hours. Two hours, hardly enough time to hide their chutes, get the rest of their gear from The Bundle, and reach their objective. But they were Mambo. The elite fighting force. Mambo could do it.

Ortiz’s thoughts quickly faded away as he landed hard on the clearing. He fell on his side and rolled twice, letting the roll absorb most of the impact. He got up and started pulling the canopy toward him.

Aboard the StarLifter, Cameron got a visual on the platoon. It had taken them exactly three minutes to reach the landing zone. He turned to Pruett.

“Looks like they know what they’re doing, Tom. I couldn’t have done better even at my peak.”

Pruett smiled and headed for the cabin. He opened the door and briefly examined the interior. The pilot and copilot were in their seats. To Pruett’s immediate right was the navigator. To Pruett’s left the flight engineer was handling most communications.

“Yes, sir?” the navigator said, turning his head toward them. He was a kid no older than twenty-five, Pruett estimated. Blond with blue eyes, medium build.

“I need you to hook the phone up back there. Got to make some hot calls.”

The young navigator smiled. “No problem, sir.”

The flight engineer turned around. “Sir?”

Pruett shifted his gaze to the left. “Yes?”

“Just got confirmation from Mambo. All is well.”

“Good. Keep me posted if something else comes up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pruett and Cameron headed back to the relatively small aft cabin, where Marie quietly stared at the clouds through a small circular window. There was a phone on the wall. Pruett picked it up and dialed a White House number he had committed to memory. He had hoped he would hear the President’s calm voice answering, but instead Stice came on the line. Pruett frowned.

“Yes?” said Stice.

“The team is on the ground, sir. Two hours to target.”

“Time to launch?”

Pruett checked his watch. “Just under three hours.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Of course.”

“Good-bye, Tom.”

“Good-bye, sir.” He hung up the phone and stared at Cameron.

“It’s gonna be real close, Tom. Real close.”

Pruett massaged his chest and inhaled deeply. He reached for the pack of antacids and popped two in his mouth.

Ortiz finished stowing away the canopy under a large fallen log, one end of which dipped into the waters of a swamp. The area was filled with them.

“This is just fuckin’ great, Tito,” Ortiz heard Zimmer say as he approached him. “The word from Siegel’s that most of the terrain we gotta cover’s swamp. We’re gonna be up to our necks in shit, man.”

Ortiz smiled.

“What’s so funny? You enjoy having mud bugs crawling up your ass?”

Ortiz slowly shook his head. The smile on his face remained. “No, hermano. It’s just the way you said it that’s funny. Ever thought ‘bout picking up stand-up comedy?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Tito. I’m not in the—”

“All right, people. We ain’t got all day. Move out.” Siegel ordered. “Tito.”

“Sir?”

“Take the lead. Stay thirty feet in front. Tommy, you cover his rear. The rest of you follow single file. Ten feet intervals. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ortiz stood by the edge of the swamp. It extended ahead into the darkness. Somewhere on the other side was the target. Firmly clutching his Cold Commando, Ortiz stepped into the putrid waters. His thick camouflage fatigues were instantly drenched, but somehow it felt refreshing. The black water was cool. As long as his fatigues and sturdy boots kept leeches and other bugs away, Ortiz decided, he would be all right. Ortiz hated bugs, particularly leeches. Just the thought of them made him nauseous. Slimy, shiny creatures! As a kid he used to pour salt on them and watch them shrivel up. But now he didn’t have to worry. The Army had provided him with protective clothing to keep the leeches off and keep his mind on the mission. After all, he was the point man for Mambo. He was its eyes and ears. His unit depended on him.

He looked at the swamp and drew his lips in a tight frown. Fucking leeches!

Lieutenant Commander Kenneth Crowe of the U.S. Navy had just fallen asleep when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Go away! Don’t give a shit who you are!”

It didn’t work. The hand remained on his shoulder. Crowe didn’t move. He was just too comfortable. This was his first real rest period after a two-day rescue exercise with the Venezuelan Navy’s newly acquired Sea Stallion helicopters, to provide quick evacuation support to the region’s offshore oil platforms in case of emergencies.

“Sorry, Commander. The Skipper wants to talk to you.”

“Ahgg, fuck him!”

“Sure, sir. But the Skipper gave me strict orders to get you on the bridge in ten minutes.”

Crowe turned over and sat up. “Dammit! What in the hell’s going on? I’ve just busted my ass for one straight week teaching those damned pilots how to fly those damned helos they just bought. This is my break. My break, and the Skipper knows that! Damn!” Hastily, Crowe got up. He wore only his underpants and a white T-shirt. “Toss me that shirt, would ya?” He picked up the pants off the floor and put them on.

“Here you go, sir.”

Crowe exhaled and grabbed the white shirt. It had his name tag on the right side and several ribbons over the left pocket. A pair of silver wings above them marked him as a naval aviator.

“Have any idea what’s going on?” he asked as he buttoned up the shirt, which was a bit too tight on the arms. His bulging biceps were slightly out of proportion with the rest of his upper body.

“Ah, no, sir. Just that I had to get you to the bridge in—”

“Yes, yes, in ten minutes.”

“Six.”

“Whatever.”

He sat on the bed and put on his shoes. “I love my job, you know,” he continued. “But every man’s got his limitations and mine are close to the edge. I need to sleep. I’m fucking exhausted!”

“Sorry, Commander, but the Skipper gave me—”

“Let’s go.”

Followed by the mate, Crowe headed for the bridge of the nineteen-thousand-pound amphibious command ship. U.S. Navy classification LCC, Blue Ridge performed a variety of surveillance jobs, including monitoring low-flying planes leaving Colombia and Venezuela in a northerly heading. Blue Ridge’s primary job was of detection only — the reason for a variety of communications aerials on the flat upper deck. Blue Ridge was not supposed to try to shoot down the planes; its job was simply to detect them.

There were two helicopters on board — two Sea Stallions, among the Navy’s largest and most powerful helicopters, capable of hauling fifty-five fully equipped troops for just over 250 miles.

There were three pilots on board. Two choppers and three pilots. That way there was always a rotation scheme worked out to prevent pilot fatigue, which was exactly what was occurring with Crowe at that very moment.

Still half asleep, Crowe yawned as he pushed open the metallic door to the bridge. He walked in and spotted the other two pilots standing in front of the Skipper, Captain John Davenport.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “I just got off duty and—”

“I know what’s on your mind, Kenny,” Davenport replied, and then he looked at the mate, who nodded, turned, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Sir,” Crowe persisted. “With all due respect, I am very tired and—”

“I won’t say it again, Kenny. Shut the fuck up! Blue Ridge has been called in to provide support to an ongoing covert operation. We’re supposed to extract a Special Forces team out of French Guiana in exactly one and a half hours. We’re two hundred miles away. That means we barely have time to make it there in a helo. I want to send both Stallions. One as backup.”

Crowe couldn’t believe it. Davenport was dead serious about sending him out without a break.

“Sir, please listen to me for the sake of the mission. I’m in no shape to—”

“No, dammit! No! You listen to me! See these two guys here?” He pointed to the two pilots nervously standing at attention next to Crowe. “They ain’t got shit for experience! You understand that? They’re good pilots but they’re both rookies right out of flight school. I want a veteran out there. This is the real thing, for crying out loud. I want someone out there who can make good split-second calls, and flight training doesn’t teach that. Experience teaches that. Kenny, you got the experience, and I need you out there in one of those birds. Got that?”

Crowe gave the two young pilots a quick look and took a deep breath, trying to come to terms with the simple fact that Davenport was right on the money. This was a rescue mission. He had the experience. Real experience, that is, picking up grunts from hot landing zones all over Southeast Asia, something he’d become quite good at. He nodded and stared into Davenport’s eyes. “Sir, two hundred miles each way. Our range is not—”

“We’ll refuel you in midair before you get there, Kenny. A KC-97’s on the way from Howard. You’ll intercept fifty miles off the coast. Besides, we’re steaming full speed ahead toward the Guiana coast. We should be able to cut that distance to one hundred twenty miles by the time you’re ready to come back.”

Crowe frowned. The Sea Stallion’s range was only 257 miles. That meant that unless they got refueled before they went in, his craft would have no more than fifteen to twenty minutes of fuel after the pickup. “That tanker better show up, Skipper, otherwise we’re going in the drink.”

Davenport smiled. “Don’t worry. It will be there. Just make sure you’re there to meet it.”

“All right. Exactly where do we need to be… and by the way, where is the nearest coffeepot? Looks like I’m gonna be in for a long night.”

“Lightning, Houston. Wake-up call.”

Kessler rubbed his eyes as he heard Hunter’s voice coming through on the intercom system.

“We’re still here, Houston.”

“Oxygen content?”

“Still on the nominal side, but just by a dash. Looks like our original estimates were a bit optimistic. Status on Atlantis?”

“We just finished rolling it up to the launchpad. Thirty hours to launch, but you’ll get help before that.”

Kessler pulled himself out of the horizontal sleeping station and briefly checked on Jones. He was still unconscious, peacefully snoring. ‘What do you mean, Houston?”

“Our Russian friends are on the way. They should be there much faster than us. You will transfer to their space station until Atlantis gets there and we provide Lightningwith enough juice to close the doors and patch up the tile problem. What’s Jones’s situation?”

“Stable, but he’s still unconscious. Any news from the spooks?”

“Ah, no. Nothing yet.”

“What are we telling the public about this? How much do they know?”

“We’re telling them the mission’s proceeding as normal and that all systems are nominal.”

“What about the fact that Atlantis is on the way?”

“A joint shuttle mission to practice emergency rescues.”

“And they’re buying that?”

“So far.”

Kessler smiled at Hunter’s response as he floated toward the food galley, where a variety of meals packed in different forms were carefully stored. He was starving.

“Well, Houston. Doesn’t sound like there’s much I can do up here but wait, so I think I’m gonna grab a bite.” He opened the food galley and roamed through the selection of dehydrated, freeze-dried foods in easily identifiable plastic containers. All he had to do was add water and heat it up. He recognized scrambled eggs, and chicken and noodles.

“Go for it, Lightning. I’ll keep you posted of any new developments.”

Kessler smiled once more and closed the lid on the freeze-dried foods. Nothing looked appetizing, and since this could be one of his last meals, Kessler decided to make it count. The next container in the galley housed irradiated foods, preserved by exposure to ionizing radiation. He found bread, rolls… and a few rib eyes — brought on board at Jones’s request. Bingo! He grabbed the plastic pouch that contained what looked like the largest of the four steaks, and heated it up by using the galley’s food warming unit, which heated food by thermal conduction using a hot plate enclosed in an aluminum suitcase. As he heated up the steak, Kessler went through the galley’s other compartments and snagged a plastic pouch of dried peaches, a plastic container with ready-to-add-water lemonade, and some chocolate chip cookies, which to Kessler’s relief were sealed in a plastic pouch but had not been dehydrated or irradiated. They had been packed in their natural form and were ready to eat.

Kessler opened the cookie pouch and took a few hearty bites, careful not to let any crumbs float away. The cookies were still fresh. He added water to the pouch containing the dehydrated lemonade, shook it to mix, and put a straw through the opening on top. Because liquids in space did not slide down the edge of a glass, all beverages had to be consumed through straws. He put the straw to his lips and sucked the light-yellow liquid. It tasted relatively good and sweet.

Kessler checked his watch and frowned. Time was running out. The seriousness of the situation began to really sink in. For the first time Kessler felt the fear of dying reaching out from within him. For some reason he had been too busy before to think too much about it, but now with Lightning’s oxygen level slowly dropping, Kessler began to wonder if they were going to make it after all… Stop it, Mike! he told himself. You start thinking that way and you just might as well put a gun to your head and pull the trigger. You are the mission commander, dammit! Act like it!

Kessler briefly closed his eyes and inhaled. He had to fight. There was no other way. If he didn’t want to do it for himself, he had to do it for Jones. Kessler owed him that much. He couldn’t let him down again.

Frederick Vanderhoff looked outside the window and stared at the floodlit Athena V rocket nearly a mile away on the launchpad. All they needed was the right time to enter space at the appropriate window to intercept Lightning. He smiled, walked back to his desk, and grabbed a cigarette from the pack of Camels. He lighted up and took a long draw, exhaling through his nostrils. NASA was doomed. Of that he was certain. As long as the rocket reached its designated target. After that the American news media would handle the rest. By bombarding the American public with “investigative” reports, by giving new life to tales of NASA’s failures, the American news media would drive the nails in NASA’s coffin.

He shifted his gaze back toward the windows as he watched a patrol helicopter take off from the dual helipad between his building and the launchpad. He had ordered an around-the-clock surveillance of the grounds until launch time. Vanderhoff had to assume the worst, that somehow Stone had managed to reach the appropriate authorities and make known the suspicions brought to him by the former Athena scientists, before Chardon’s team silenced them. Vanderhoff was not sure how the U.S. government would react to such aggression. His logical mind told him to expect the worst, whatever that may be.