“Cute, Geoffrey. Juvenile, but cute. You know I’ll simply walk out the front door, make two calls, and walk back in.”

“Well, go ahead and try. But you’ve been running around behind my back all day against my direct orders, trying to waste a few hundred million of the taxpayers’ hard-earned dollars on a foolish mission I have not and will not authorize.”

“So you hate DiFazio.”

“I spend no time thinking about that huckster.”

“That’s still one of our guys up there. A NASA guy.”

“You mean Bill Campbell? I’m not just concerned about Campbell, I’m worried about the safety of both of those men, but I warned DiFazio very clearly we do not have the resources to mount a rescue if they get in trouble.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Your problem, Kent, is pure insubordination. Either in government or business that’s pretty much enough to justify firing anyone up to and including Jesus.”

“Well, Geoff, you didn’t even have the courtesy to answer my question when we had our little conference this morning. I had no idea you were prohibiting a quick feasibility check. So there was no direct order.”

“I e-mailed you an hour later that you were not to attempt to construct or research a rescue mission unless I gave you direct approval.”

“Sorry. Never got it. You should have called.”

The sound of voices in the background from Houston are already interrupting Kent, and Shear can hear him being apologized to by security.

“Some of our very embarrassed friends from security are here, Geoff, to do your dirty work. Sorry we can’t talk further. Oh, by the way,” Kent adds, his voice steady and a chuckle in his tone. “If, somehow, you make this stick, be sure to watch the Washington Postand ABC’s 20/20in a few weeks. You’ll find it all very interesting. I would strongly suggest early retirement.”

“Time to write your book, Kent.” Shear punches the line off and sits, pulling the receiver to him as he flips through a small notebook for the first of a half dozen congressional leaders he’ll have to call before Kent can get to them. The ranks of the John Kent fan club on the Hill are extensive, and he’ll be forced to rehire the smart-ass astronaut in a day or two. But those two days will make all the difference in derailing any half-assed attempts to light an emotional bonfire and accelerate the launch schedule at the expense of safety, which has to be the prime concern. With only two shuttles left and the entire program hanging in the balance, he cannot be sentimental.

Christopher Risen looks at himself in the mirror of his private bathroom, wondering why his father is staring back. He doesn’t feel more than two thirds of his fifty-two years, but the perfectly shined four stars on his Air Force uniform would never adorn the shoulders of someone in his thirties.

He sighs as he buttons the coat, wondering for the millionth time if he should have tried to get into test pilot school right out of F-15s instead of taking the fast-burner track to the Pentagon, and now CINCNORAD, his official title, Commander in Chief of the North American Aerospace Defense Command. Back then the path to being an astronaut seemed to wind through Houston. Lately, the dawn of private spaceflight had shifted the possibilities, and now this.

The small team of senior officers and one very nerdy captain are waiting with the patience and respect appropriate to being in the presence of four stars, and Risen retakes his seat at the end of the coffee table, mindful that once again his first challenge is to get them sufficiently at ease to talk openly.

He fixes the young captain with a smile and gestures to the papers he’s clutching.

“Sammy, go ahead and tell me what you found.”

“Yes, sir. As you know, we reran the tapes of everything and downloaded NASA’s images to take a close look at the gyrations around the end of Orbit Two. We assumed he had a control problem, but what we’re seeing is all the reaction jets firing in staccato sequence. As the sequence continues and the craft stabilizes, the patterns calm down, as if the pilot is learning.”

“She’s not on automatic, in other words? The astronaut is on the controls manually?”

“Someone is. I mean, we’re not trying to be NRO analysts or anything, sir, but if you want a guess, mine would be that those reaction controls were being manually fired by a person who did not have the training of an astronaut.”

There is silence as Chris Risen glances at the two other officers present, a colonel and a brigadier.

“Bill Campbell is the pilot up there, right?”

“Yes, sir,” the one-star answers.

“And you’re saying that… like listening to a telegraph operator’s patterns in the old days, you can tell that isn’t Bill?”

“Not quite, sir. More like just saying that whoever’s on the controls is an amateur with a very steep learning curve.”

“And… that would be the passenger?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, shit. Which means that Campbell is hurt or worse.”

“You know him, sir?” the colonel asks.

“It’s a small fraternity, our service. Yeah, I know Bill. But what’s important here is not who’s alive up there but that someone is. And here’s our challenge. There’s a renegade rescue going on at NASA now that’s already gotten the chief astronaut fired, but one of the other space programs will probably try to launch and save whoever remains. We’re going to provide full support up to and just short of revealing any classified capabilities. I don’t care whether it’s the Russians, NASA, ASA’s other little ship, or even the Chinese, whoever wants our help in this gets it full bore.”

The chorus of “Yes, sirs” fills the room as they get up to disperse. When the office is empty, Risen pulls out his own cell phone and dials a number in Houston, dispensing with the formalities as the circuit is completed.

“John, I’ve got some bad news about Bill Campbell’s situation.”

Even after three terms in the U.S. Senate and countless visits to the White House, Mitch Lipensky still feels the rush of history and power when he walks into the Oval Office. He supposes it should always be so—never should he become complacent about the responsibility bearing down on anyone in this place.

The greetings and smiles befitting a white-haired committee chairman and member of the President’s own party lubricate his passage through the hallways to the east entrance and the waiting President.

He’s had thoughts of running for this office, dreams of being the leader of the free world and making the tough decisions. But in truth, the fire has never been hot enough in his belly, and the brutality of the campaign and the compromises which stand like huge peaks before any contender are simply beyond him.

He greets the President like the old friend that he is, refusing to call him anything but Mr. President, and they settle onto opposite sides of the coffee table before the fireplace, the Chief of Staff taking a side chair. There are only so many chits even a senior senator can call on for an immediate audience, and this one has been costly but necessary. NASA is his committee’s responsibility, and the disturbing call from a man in Houston he considers an American hero has triggered a telephoned explanation and now this.

He knows Geoff Shear all too well, and sometimes even respects Shear’s iconoclastic invulnerability to even the strongest congressional pressure.

But an order from the President would be a different matter.

“NORAD is telling me the pilot may be hurt or dead, Mitch. Is that what you have?” The voice is distinctive, tinged with the Virginia accent of his youth, and it’s met by the equally familiar warm growl of the senior senator from Texas.