Capcom’s sigh of relief huffed loudly over the loop. “Discovery, welcome back! It’s good to hear your voice! Now you need to deploy your air-data probes.”
“I—I’m trying to find the switches.”
“Your air-data probes,” Capcom repeated.
“I know, I know! I can’t see the panel!” Carpenter felt as if his blood had just frozen in his veins. Dear God, she’s blind. And she’s seated in the commander’s seat. Not her own.
“Discovery, you need to deploy now!” said Capcom. “Panel C-three—”
“I know which panel!” she cried. There was silence. Then the sound of her breath rushing out in a whoosh of pain.
“Probes have been deployed,” said MMACS. “She did it. She found the switch!” Carpenter allowed himself to breathe again. To hope again.
“Fourth S-turn,” said Guidance. “Now at TAEM interface.”
“Discovery, how ya doing?” said Capcom.
One minute, thirty seconds to touchdown. Discovery was now traveling at six hundred miles per hour, at an altitude of eight thousand feet and dropping rapidly. The pilots called it the “flying brick”—heavy, with no engines, gliding in on delta-wing slivers.
There’d be no second chances, no abort and fly around for another try.
It was going to land, one way or the other.
“Discovery?” said Capcom.
Jack could see it glinting in the sky, puffs of smoke trailing yaw jets. It looked like a bright chip of silver as it swept its final turn to line up with the runway.
“Come on, baby. You’re lookin’ good!” whooped Bloomfeld.
His enthusiasm was shared by all three dozen members of the ground crew.
Every shuttle landing is a celebratory event, a so moving it brings tears to the eyes of those who watch from the ground. Every eye was now turned to the sky, every heart pounding as they watched that chip of silver, their baby, gliding toward the runway.
“Gorgeous. God, she’s beautiful!”
“Yee-haw!”
“Linin’ up just fine! Yes sir!” The convoy leader, listening on his earpiece to Houston, suddenly snapped straight, his spine rigid in alarm. “Oh, shit,” he said.
“Landing gear isn’t down!” Jack turned to him. “What?”
“Crew hasn’t deployed the landing gear!” Jack’s head whipped around to stare at the approaching shuttle.
It was barely one hundred feet above the ground, moving at over three hundred miles an hour. He could not see the wheels.
The crowd suddenly went dead silent. Their celebration had just turned into disbelief. Horror.
Get them down. Get those wheels down! Jack wanted to scream.
The shuttle was seventy-five feet above the runway, lined up perfectly.
Ten seconds till touchdown.
Only the flight crew could lower the landing gear. No computer could flip the switch, could perform the task meant for a human hand. No computer could save them.
Fifty feet and still traveling over two hundred miles an hour.
Jack did not want to see the final event, but he could not help himself.
He could not turn away. He saw Discovery’s tail slam down first, spewing up a shower of sparks and shattered heat tiles.
He heard the screams and sobs of the crowd as Discovery’s nose slammed down next. The shuttle began to slide sideways, trailing a maelstrom of debris. A delta wing broke off, went flying like a black scythe through the air.
Discovery slid off the tarmac, onto the desert sand. A tornado of dust flew up, obscuring Jack’s view of the final seconds. His ears rang with the crowd’s screams, but he could not utter a sound. Nor could he move, shock had numbed him so profoundly he felt as if he had left his own body and were hovering, ghostlike, in some nightmare dimension.
Then the cloud of dust began to clear, and he saw the shuttle. Lying like a broken bird, in a terrible landscape of scattered debris.
Suddenly the ground convoy was moving. As engines roared to life, Jack and Bloomfeld jumped in back of the medical vehicle and began the bouncing ride across the desert floor to the crash site.
Even over the roar of the convoy engines, Jack heard another sound, throbbing and ominous.
The choppers were moving in too.
Their vehicle suddenly braked to a halt. Jack and Bloomfeld, both clutching emergency medical kits, jumped to the ground in a cloud of dust. Discovery was still a hundred yards ahead. The choppers had already landed, forming a ring around the shuttle.
Jack began to run toward Discovery, ready to duck his head beneath the whirring rotor blades. He was stopped before he reached the ring of choppers.
“What the hell is going on?” yelled Bloomfeld as uniformed soldiers suddenly poured out of the choppers and formed an armed wall against the NASA ground crew.
“Back off! Back off!” one of the soldiers yelled.
The convoy leader pushed to the front. “My crew needs to get to the orbiter!”
“You people will stay back!”
“You have no authority here! This is a NASA operation!”
“Every one get the fuck back now!” Rifles suddenly came up, barrels pointed at the unarmed ground crew. NASA personnel began to back away, all eyes focused on the guns, on the implied threat of mass slaughter.
Looking past the soldiers, Jack saw that a white plastic tent was rapidly being erected over Discovery’s hatch, closing it off from outside air. A dozen hooded figures, completely clad in bright orange suits, emerged from two of the choppers and approached the orbiter.
“Those are Racal biological space suits,” said Bloomfeld.
The orbiter hatch was now completely hidden by the plastic tent. They could not see the hatch being opened. They could not see those space-suited men enter the middeck.
That’s our flight crew in there, thought Jack. Our people who might be dying in that orbiter. And we can’t reach them. We’ve doctors and nurses standing here, with a truck full of medical equipment, and they won’t let us do our jobs.
He pushed toward the line of soldiers, stepping directly in front of the Army officer who appeared to be in charge. “My medical crew is coming in,” he said.
The officer gave a smirk. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“We’re employees of NASA. We’re doctors, charged with the health and well-being of that flight crew. You can shoot us if you’d like. But then you’d have to kill everyone else here too, because they’d be witnesses. And I don’t think you’re going to do that.” The rifle came up, the barrel pointed directly at Jack’s chest. throat was dry, and his heart was slamming against his ribs, but stepped around the soldier, ducked under the chopper blades, and kept walking.
He didn’t even glance back as the soldier ordered, “Halt, or I’ll shoot!” He walked on, his gaze fixed on the billowing tent ahead of him.
He saw the men in their Racal space suits turn and stare at him in surprise. He saw the wind kick up a puff of dust and send swirling across his path. He was almost at the tent when he heard Bloomfeld yell, “Jack, look out!” The blow caught him right at the base of the skull. He went down on his knees, pain exploding in bright bursts in his head.
Another blow slammed into his flank, and he sprawled forward, tasting sand, hot as ash in his face. He rolled over, onto his back, and saw the soldier looming over him, rifle butt raised to deliver yet another blow.
“That’s enough,” said an oddly muffled voice. “Leave him alone.” The soldier backed away. Now another face loomed into view, staring down at Jack through a clear Racal hood.
“Who are you?” the man said.
“Dr. Jack McCallum.” The words came out in barely a whisper.
He sat up, and his vision suddenly blurred, danced on the edge of darkness. He clutched his head, willing himself to stay conscious, fighting the blackness threatening to drag him down. “Those are my patients in that orbiter,” Jack said. “I demand to see them.”
“That’s not possible.”