“I’m up to five psi. Pausing for integrity check.”

“If you come in, you’ll be exposing yourself!”

“Going to full repress.”

“Luther, I’ve already been exposed! I got splashed in the eyes.”

She took a deep breath. It came out in a sob. “You’re the only one left. The only one with any chance of surviving.” There was a long silence.

“Jesus, Emma,” he murmured.

“Okay. Okay, listen to me.” She paused to calm herself. To think logically. “Luther, I want you to move into the equipment lock. It should still be relatively clean in there, and you can take off your helmet. Then turn off your personal comm assembly.”

“What?”

“Do it. I’m heading for Node One. I’ll be right on the other side of the hatch, talking to you.”

Now Todd broke in, “Emma? Emma, do not break off air-to-ground loop—”

“Sorry, Surgeon,” she murmured, and turned off her comm assembly.

A moment later, she heard Luther say, over the station’s hardline intercom system, “I’m in the equipment lock.” They were talking in private now, their conversation no longer monitored by Mission Control.

“There’s one option left for you,” said Emma. “The one you’ve been pushing for all along. I can’t take it, but you can. You’re clean. You won’t bring the disease home.”

“We already agreed on this. No one stays behind.”

“You’ve got three hours left of uncontaminated air in your EMU. If you keep your helmet on in the CRV and go straight to deorbit, you could make it down in time.”

“You’ll be stranded.”

“I’m stranded here anyway!” She took another deep breath, and spoke more calmly. “Look, we both know this goes against orders. It could be a very bad idea. How they’ll respond is anyone’s guess—that’s the gamble. But, Luther, it’s your choice to make.

“There’ll be no way for you to evac.”

“Take me out of the equation. Don’t even think of me.” She added, softly, “I’m already dead.”

“Emma, no—”

“What do you want to do? Answer that. Think only about yourself.”

She heard him take a deep breath. “I want to go home.”

So do I, she thought, blinking away tears. Oh, God, so do I. “Put on your helmet,” she said. “I’ll open the hatch.”

Jack ran up the stairs to Building 30, flashed his badge at Security, and headed straight to Special Vehicle Operations.

Gordon Obie intercepted him just outside the control room.

“Jack, wait. You go in there and raise hell, they’ll toss you out. Take a minute to cool down, or you won’t be any help to her.”

“I want my wife home now.”

“Every one wants them home! We’re trying the best we can, but the situation has changed. The whole station is now contaminated. The filter system’s off. The EVA crew never had a chance to complete the gimbal repairs, so they remain in power down. And they’re not talking to us.”

“What?”

“Emma and Luther have cut off communications. We don’t know what’s going on up there. That’s why they rushed you back—to help us get through to them.” Jack stared through the open doorway, into the Special Vehicle Operations Room. He saw men and women at their consoles, performing their duties as always. It suddenly enraged him that flight controllers could remain so calm and efficient. That the deaths of two more astronauts did not seem to alter their cold professionalism. The cool demeanor of everyone in the room only magnified his own grief, his own terror.

He walked into the control room. Two uniformed Air Force officers stood beside Flight Director Woody Ellis, monitoring the comm loops. They were a disturbing reminder that the room was not under NASA’s control. As Jack moved along the back row, toward the surgeon’s console, several controllers shot him sympathetic looks. He said nothing, but sank into the chair next to Todd Cutler. He was acutely aware that just behind him, in the viewing gallery, other Air Force officers from U.S. Space Command were watching the room.

“You’ve heard the latest?” said Todd softly.

Jack nodded. There was no longer any EKG tracing on the monitor, Diana was dead. So was Griggs.

“Half the station’s still in power down. And now they’ve got eggs floating in the air.” And blood as well. Jack could picture what it must be like aboard the station. The lights dimmed. The stench of death. splattering the walls, clogging the HEPA filters. An orbiting of horrors.

“We need you to talk to her, Jack. Get her to tell us what’s happening up there.”

“Why aren’t they talking?”

“We don’t know. Maybe they’re pissed at us. They have a right to be. Maybe they’re too traumatized.”

“No, they must have a reason.” Jack looked at the front screen, showing the station’s orbital path above the earth. What are you thinking, Emma?

He slipped on the headset and said, “Capcom, this is Jack McCallum. I’m ready.”

“Roger, Surgeon. Stand by, and we’ll try them again.” They waited. ISS did not respond.

At the third row of consoles, two of the controllers suddenly glanced back over their shoulders, at Flight Director Ellis. Jack heard nothing over the comm loop, but he saw the Odin controller, the controller in charge of onboard data networks, rise from his chair and lean forward to whisper across his console to the secondrow controllers.

Now the OPS controller, in the third row, took off his headset, stood up, and stretched. He started up the side aisle, walking casually, as though headed for a bathroom break. As he passed by surgeon’s console, he dropped a piece of paper in Todd Cutler’s and continued out of the room.

Todd unfolded the note and shot Jack a stunned look. “The station’s reconfigured their computers to ASCR mode,” he whispered.

“The crew’s already started CRV sep sequence.” Jack stared back in disbelief. ASCR, or assured safe crew return, was the computer config meant to support crew evacuation. He glanced quickly around the room.

None of the controllers was saying a word about this over the loop. All Jack saw were rows of squared shoulders, everyone’s gaze focused tightly on their consoles. He glanced sideways at Woody Ellis. Ellis stood motionless. The body language said it all. He knows what’s going on. And he’s not saying a thing, either.

Jack broke out in a sweat. This was why the crew wasn’t talking.

They had made their own decision, and they were forging ahead with it.

The Air Force would not be in the dark for long.

Through their Space Surveillance Network of radar and optical sensors, they could monitor objects as small as a baseball in low earth orbit. As soon as the CRV separated, as soon as it became independent orbital object, it would come to the attention of Command’s control center in Cheyenne Mountain Air Station. The million-dollar question was, How would they respond?

I hope to God you know what you’re doing, Emma.

After CRV sep, it would take twenty-five minutes for the evac vehicle to bring up guidance and landing targets, another fifteen minutes to set up the deorbit burn. Another hour to land. U.S. Space Command would have them identified and tracked long before the CRV could touch down.

In the second row, the OSO flight controller raised his hand in a casual thumbs-up. With that gesture, he’d silently announced news, The CRV had separated. For better or worse, the crew was on its way home.

Now the game begins.

The tension in the room coiled tighter. Jack hazarded a glance at the two Air Force officers, but the men seemed oblivious to the situation, one of them kept looking at the clock, as though to be elsewhere.

The minutes ticked past, the room strangely quiet. Jack leaned forward, his heart hammering, sweat soaking his shirt. By now CRV would be drifting outside the station’s envelope. Their target would be identified, their guidance system locked onto GPS satellites.

Come on, come on, thought Jack. Go to deorbit now!