Space in His Heart
Roxanne St. Claire
Space in His Heart
Roxanne St. Claire
Copyright © 2011 by Roxanne St. Claire
Smashwords Edition
ISBN: 978-1-4524-6337-7
Editor: Anne Victory
Proofreader: Amy Eye
Cover Design: Kim Killion
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner and author of this book.
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Dedicated with all my love to my husband...this story and these characters would never have happened without him.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Epilogue
About the author
Prologue
July 8, 2011
Merritt Island, Florida
Normally, a cloudy day in July was blessing in Florida, a reprieve from the relentless sun and oppressive heat. Today, the sheer white film across the summer sky only meant bad news for Jessica Marlowe. She wouldn’t see more than a brief glimpse of the shuttle Atlantis as it took off for the final mission in space.
Disappointment pressed on her heart, real enough to cause a physical ache. Maybe she should have gone to Kennedy and braved the crowds to sit in the VIP section with those she held dear, just to witness the majesty of a space shuttle launch up close one last time. Maybe it would have been worth the risk.
But common sense had prevailed. No doubt she would’ve cried, and she was enough of an emotional wreck without something like the final launch to put her over the edge. The ache in her chest pushed harder, like a weight on her solar plexus, a reminder of what was about to happen, how her world was about to change one more time.
Funny how you make plans… and God has a little chuckle at your expense.
Glancing inside the house, she squinted at the muted TV, a picture of Atlantis on the launch pad, billows of steam and smoke surrounding four and a half million pounds of rocket power. In the corner, the countdown clock ticked to T-minus four minutes. No one had to tell Jess what that meant: the crew would close and lock their visors now.
Though there certainly was a time when she had no idea what T-minus anything meant.
At that thought, she touched her queasy belly. It was the launch, of course. Every takeoff terrified her, ever since the first one she’d seen twelve years earlier. Each time the countdown clock started ticking, she feared for someone’s life, for the loss of a dear friend, a respected colleague or… worse.
So she tried only to think about the miracle of how they got up there, stayed up there, learned and lived up there and then came home.
A miracle that happened almost every time. Almost.
No surprise, the beach outside her second-story balcony was jammed with tourists and space fans gathered at one of the area’s best launch-viewing sites. Her gaze drifted past the crowd to the gunmetal-gray ocean, then north to Kennedy Space Center, a sprawling complex of science and hope, filled with men and women who lived, breathed… and died… for their dream of exploring space.
A roar from the beach crowd pulled her attention back to the TV to check the clock. T-minus thirty seconds. The onboard computers were taking over. More importantly, most every technological glitch had been conquered.
Launch was a go.
The pressure in her stomach suddenly shifted to stabbing pain, sharp enough to make her suck in a shocked breath. Lightheaded, she used the other hand to hold on to the railing.
“Whoa,” she whispered, shocked by the intensity of the pain. Gripping the railing for balance, she looked over her shoulder at the countdown clock. Sixteen seconds. They’d fire up the main engine in ten seconds.
All those lives on board…
A wave of dizziness threatened and she closed her eyes, swamped with memories so vivid she swore she could smell the burn of liquid hydrogen, the pungent stink of fuel and fury that hung in the air after a launch.
The crowd began to chant the numbers, loud and slow and perfectly in unison.
The sound reminded her of another launch, on a crystal-clear day full of promise and possibilities, her hands locked with two people she’d barely known then. But they’d shared a bond, a mutual love of their son. He knows what he’s doing, his father had said. Deke can fly anything.
Ten… nine…
The knife in her belly suddenly slid and cut deeper, making Jess whimper softly. Holy smokes, that hurt.
Eight… seven…
Two stories below, hundreds of people blurred in her vision, the roar of their counting barely getting through the throbbing beat of her pulse in her ears. Another agonizing fist punched low and hard, and her knees nearly buckled.
Six… five…
She backed into the house, momentarily blinded by the pain, grabbing for the metal rim of the sliding glass doors but missing, then stumbling awkwardly to the floor. Think, Jess, think. Where’s the cell phone?
Four… three…
Beads of sweat stung her forehead as she crawled to the table, slapping her hand over the phone. Shaky hands made dialing the number nearly impossible. She pressed the green button, looked for the last call…
Two… One…
Please answer. Please, please answer.
“There it is!” The screams floated up from the beach, the excitement of witnessing a miracle in every voice.
On the second ring, Jess managed to open her eyes and look up at the clouds just as the fiery plume appeared for a brief few seconds, orange and huge and headed for space.
“God speed, Atlantis.” She could barely whisper the send-off as she doubled over with searing pain.
“Jess? Are you watching? Can you see it? A flawless launch!”
She opened her mouth but another wave of pain brought only a grunt.
“Wait, I can’t hear you… there’s so much noise here. Are you watching the launch?”
Her gaze slipped to the TV
screen—the shuttle, well past the bridal veil of clouds, hurtling toward orbit, caught by cameras much closer than she.
“Jess? Jess? Are you okay? Answer me!”
But she couldn’t speak. Her lids heavy, she tried to focus. At the bottom of the television, the familiar NASA insignia burned bright and proud, white and blue, tried and true. That logo… those letters… they’d once meant nothing to her.
Then they changed her life. That symbol even saved someone’s life a long time ago.
“Jessie! Answer me!”
She gave in and closed her eyes, the image of that emblem burning her lids and her memory, only able to whisper one word.
“Deke…”
Chapter One
New York City, 1999
An intruder had taken the place that Jessica Marlowe had worked tirelessly for six years to earn. In the coveted spot next to the president of the world’s largest public relations agency sat a sunny, phony, conspiring interloper who twirled her hair and shared a laugh with Mr. Anthony Palermo. Only Carla Drake called their boss “Tony.” Already. After only two weeks at the agency.
Jeez. It had taken Jessica two years to work up the nerve to call him Tony.
With as much poise and nonchalance as she could muster, Jessica strode to the opposite end of the table and laid her Palm Pilot in front of an empty chair. She wouldn’t muscle or flirt her way next to the boss. She could do so much better than that. She settled into the buttery leather, willing herself to be as cool and calm as her rival.
She would outsmart Carla from California. Right here, right now. At this worldwide meeting of the top brains in Ross & Clayton Communications, Jessica Marlowe would remind Tony Palermo who was his best team player, his most creative vice president, and the most logical choice for general manager of the Boston office. She’d hit a home run and leave Carla choking in her dust.
She just had no earthly idea how.
For a moment, she listened to the buzz of hip and conservative Type A’s, charged with caffeine and the thrill of being part of the elite think-tank session in the international agency’s New York headquarters. An invitation to the forty-ninth floor conference room on the first Monday of the month meant they’d made it to the top, literally and figuratively. Called in from Los Angeles, Seattle, Chicago, Atlanta, and, like Jessica, Boston, they would concentrate on one client’s problem and no one would leave until they’d solved it. Hopefully with a plan that would make the agency beaucoup bucks.
It was bad enough the slinky blonde had blown into the Boston office two weeks earlier and been named “the other” vice president, essentially making her Jessica’s professional equal. The fact that she’d gotten the coveted invitation to the New York meeting really rankled Jessica’s nerves.
It didn’t matter. Carla could be sitting next to God himself, but the better idea won in this room.
Suddenly, a low-pitched rumble drowned out the hum of conversation as electronic room darkeners slid across the massive wall of glass and eliminated the breathtaking view of Manhattan. A young man with thinning hair and black-rimmed glasses stood at the far end of the conference table, wearing Armani head to toe and an expectant expression on his angular face. Until this moment, no one in the room knew what the subject of today’s think tank would be. He tilted his head toward the screen behind him as four white letters slowly emerged out of an azure background.
NASA. Silently, he clicked to the next slide. Jessica read the words with a sinking sensation of dread. National Aeronautics and Space Administration.
Oh, great. Space.
Jessica shifted in her seat and resisted the urge to rub her temples as she stared at the slide. Why couldn’t it be like last month when they came up with a way to get more people on cruise ships in the summer? Or the time she’d masterminded the Free Fry-Day campaign for a fast-food chain?
Jessica looked up just in time to see Carla shoot a cocky smile at the presenter. Had she been in on the space secret?
Burying the thought, Jessica searched her mental files for anything she knew about space travel other than moon landings in the sixties and Clint Eastwood as an astronaut in his sixties.
All she could conjure up was the heart-stopping image of a space shuttle blown to bits against a blue Florida sky. She’d watched the Challenger disaster in high school. She’d learned everything she knew about Apollo from a Tom Hanks movie. That just about exhausted her expertise on the great beyond.
“Houston,” the presenter said quietly. “We have a problem.”
The groan that spread around the table shattered the drama of the moment. The speaker introduced himself as Bill Dugan, a vice president in Ross & Clayton’s Washington office and the head of the NASA account.
“Our client needs your help. Only the best and brightest of Ross & Clayton can solve this problem.” He issued the challenge with a weak smile.
From the corner of her eye, Jessica saw Carla whisper something to Tony, who chuckled in response. Jessica scratched a meaningless note on a pad in front of her.
As though set to music, Bill Dugan began an eloquent situation analysis, taking twenty minutes to describe a problem he could have summed up in four words.
Nobody cared about space.
That was why Congress was threatening budget cuts and NASA had disappeared from the radar screens of most Americans. Shuttle launches amounted to little more than truckloads of junk to the space station. No one was walking on the moon or traveling to Mars. Space exploration had become a yawner.
The challenge: NASA needed to be relevant to America again.
The moment Bill stopped talking, the room exploded with ideas.
“We need a nationwide grassroots support program,” suggested an account supervisor from Chicago.
“Along with a total Internet-based communication plan,” added the general manager of R&C Seattle.
“No, no,” one of New York’s spirited media specialists disagreed. “We have to tie their work into anti-terrorism programs.”
Carla Drake’s throaty voice cut in. “We need a press conference, from space. Live with open questions from every major network.”
The room’s tangible momentum shifted to Carla. A rush of adrenaline surged through Jessica’s veins, fueling her bone-deep desire to come up with the Big Idea.
How could they make space travel matter again? How could they capture the imagination and hearts of America? What could make America tune into the next shuttle launch and care about the countdown? What sells?
And then she knew.
“Why don’t we make NASA sexy?” Jessica’s challenge silenced the room. She waited until every eye in the room was riveted on her, mostly because she wasn’t quite sure what she’d say next. A trickle of perspiration danced between her shoulder blades. She was committed now. “We need to appeal to women.”
“Women?” Bill asked.
“Yes, women. Women are proven to communicate with and influence their Congressmen far more often than men do. Women.” Jessica leaned back and crossed her arms in a display of way more confidence than her bare bones of an idea merited. “What could be more appealing to women than a brave and handsome adventurer willing to climb on top of a billion tons of explosives and propel himself into outer space just for the good of all mankind? What could be more heroic than a death-defying explorer who risks his life so that we may expand our horizons?”
Blank faces stared back at her.
All but one.
Tony Palermo’s dark eyes twinkled and she saw the old familiar smile from her mentor. “Go ahead, Jess. I think you’re on to something.”
She leaned on her elbows and looked directly at him. “Well, I’m thinking about… astronauts.”
Chapter Two
A man’s life depended on Deke Stockard’s ability to find a crack no wider than a hair. He traced the smooth surface with his fingertip, his eyes closed in concentration. He knew the deadly imperfection could be found. If it was there. He moved his hands in an almo
st loving caress, tenderly seeking a break or weakness under his touch.
He didn’t care that he had found nothing in the painstaking two-and-a-half-hour search because he’d stay in the same spot for two and a half weeks if he had to. He adjusted his footing, his body fully immersed in the space shuttle’s main engine nozzle. Holding his breath, he stroked the same square inch of metal for the tenth time and barely heard the voice from below.
“Stockard, come on. That media thing is starting and we should be there. Give it up for ten minutes.”
Deke released the coolant tube, memorizing its precise location before responding to Major Jeff Clark. Deke would have barked at anybody else for breaking his concentration but didn’t have the heart to give his closest friend a hard time.
“What media thing?”
“You know damn well what media thing. The Public Affairs presentation that Colonel Price invited us to.” Jeff stepped closer to the orbiter and peered up to where Deke leaned against the massive tangles of wires and metal. “You find anything yet?”
“Not a thing. But if something’s here, I’ll catch it.”
“We have legions of engineers who are paid to do that,” Jeff reminded him.
“Paid to fill out paperwork,” Deke mumbled, climbing out of the engine casing. He swung his legs over the metal scaffolding and easily made the two-foot drop to the ground. “You think that was an invitation or an order from Price? I’d really like to skip it.”
“No difference when it comes from the Colonel, pal.” Jeff’s usual smart-ass grin spread slowly as he poked Deke’s chest. “He’s expecting a full house.”
Deke sighed and squinted back at Endeavour, studying the scarred and nicked orbiter, its massive cargo bay wide open like a dissected animal. A few other technicians scurried around, looking more at their clipboards than the shuttle in front of them. And now he had to go to a media presentation?
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