“Your agency is billions of dollars overbudget on that space station,” he said. “Now, I don’t think the American people expected to sacrifice their defense capabilities just so you can tinker around up there with your nifty lab experiments. This is supposed to be an international effort, isn’t it? Well, far as I can see, we-all are picking up most of the tab. How am I supposed to justify this white elephant to the good folks of South Carolina?”
NASA administrator Cornell responded with a cameraready smile. He was a political animal, the glad-hander whose personal charm and charisma made him a star with the press and in Washington, where he spent most of his time cajoling Congress and the White House for more money, ever more money, to fund the space agency’s perennially insufficient budget. His was the public face of NASA, while Ken Blankenship, the man in charge of day-to-day operations at JSC, was the private face known only to agency insiders. They were the yin and yang of NASA leadership, so completely different in temperament it was hard to imagine how they functioned as a team. The inside joke at NASA was that Leroy Cornell was all style and no substance, and Blankenship was all substance and no style.
Cornell smoothly responded to Senator Parish’s question. “You asked why other countries aren’t contributing. Senator, the answer is, they already have. This truly is an international space station. Yes, the Russians are badly strapped for cash. Yes, we had to make up the difference. But they’re committed to this station. They’ve got a cosmonaut up there now, and they have every reason to help us keep ISS running. As for why we need the station, just look at the research that’s being conducted in biology and medicine. Materials science. Geophysics. We’ll see the benefits of this research in our own lifetimes.”
Another member of the audience stood, and Gordon felt his blood pressure rise. If there was anyone he despised more than Senator Parish, it was Montana congressman Joe Bellingham, whose Marlboro Man good looks couldn’t disguise the fact he was a scientific moron. During his last campaign, he’d demanded that public schools teach Creationism. Throw out the biology books and open the Bible instead. He probably thinks rockets are powered by angels.
“What about all that sharing of technology with the Russians and Japanese?” said Bellingham. “I’m concerned that we’re giving away high-tech secrets for free. This international cooperation sounds high-minded and all, but what’s to stop them from turning right around and using the knowledge against us? Why should we trust the Russians?”
Fear and paranoia. Ignorance and superstition. There was too much of it in the country, and Gordon grew depressed just listening to Bellingham. He turned away in disgust.
That’s when he noticed a somber-faced Hank Millar step into the auditorium. Millar was head of the Astronaut Office. He looked straight at Gordon, who understood at once that a problem was brewing.
Quietly Gordon left the stage, and the two men stepped out into the hallway. “What’s going on?”
“There’s been an accident. It’s Bill Haning’s wife. We hear it doesn’t look good.”
“Jesus.”
“Bob Kittredge and Woody Ellis are waiting over in Public Affairs. We all need to talk.”
Gordon nodded. He glanced through the auditorium door at Congressman Bellingham, who was still blathering on about the dangers of sharing technology with the Commies. Grimly he followed Hank out the auditorium exit and across the courtyard, to the next building.
They met in a back office. Kittredge, the shuttle commander for STS 162, was flushed and agitated. Woody Ellis, flight director for the International Space Station, appeared far calmer, but then, Gordon had never seen Ellis look upset, even in the midst of crisis.
“How serious was the accident?” Gordon asked.
“Mrs. Haning’s car was in a giant pileup on I-45,” said Hank. “The ambulance brought her over to Miles Memorial. Jack McCallum saw her in the ER.”
Gordon nodded. They all knew Jack well. Although he was no longer in the astronaut corps, Jack was still on NASA’s active flight surgeon roster. A year ago, he had pulled back from most of his NASA duties, to work as an ER physician in the private sector.
“Jack’s the one who called our office about Debbie,” said Hank.
“Did he say anything about her condition?”
“Severe head injury. She’s in ICU, in a coma.”
“Prognosis?”
“He couldn’t answer that question.” There was a silence as they all considered what this tragedy meant to NASA. Hank sighed. “We’re going to have to tell Bill. We can’t keep this news from him. The problem is . . .” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to; they all understood the problem.
Bill Haning was now in orbit aboard ISS, only a month into his scheduled four-month stay. This news would devastate him. Of all the factors that made prolonged habitation in space difficult, it was the emotional toll that NASA worried about most. A depressed astronaut could wreak havoc on a mission. Years before, on Mir, a similar situation had occurred when Cosmonaut Volodya Dezhurov was informed of his mother’s death. For days, he’d shut himself away in one of Mir’s modules and refused to speak to Mission Control Moscow. His grief had disrupted the work of everyone aboard Mir.
“They have a very close marriage,” said Hank. “I can tell you now, Bill’s not going to handle this well.”
“You’re recommending we replace him?” asked Gordon.
“At the next scheduled shuttle flight. He’ll have a tough enough time being stuck up there for the next two weeks. We can’t ask him to serve out his full four months.” Hank added quietly, “They have two young kids, you know.”
“His backup for ISS is Emma Watson,” said Woody Ellis. “We could send her up on STS 160. With Vance’s crew.”
At the mention of Emma’s name, Gordon was careful not to reveal any sign of special interest. Any emotion whatsoever. “What do you think about Watson? Is she ready to go up three months early?”
“She’s slated to relieve Bill. She’s already up to speed on most of the onboard experiments. So I think that option is viable.”
“Well, I’m not happy about it,” said Bob Kittredge.
Gordon gave a tired sigh and turned to the shuttle commander. “I didn’t think you would be.”
“Watson’s an integral part of my crew. We’ve crystallized as a team. I hate to break it up.”
“Your team’s three months away from launch. You have time to make adjustments.”
“You’re making my job hard.”
“Are you saying you can’t get a new team crystallized in that time?”
Kittredge’s mouth tightened. “All I’m saying is, my crew is already a working unit. We’re not going to be happy about losing Watson.”
Gordon looked at Hank. “What about the STS 160 crew? Vance and his team?”
“No problem from their end. Watson would just be another passenger on middeck. They’d deliver her to ISS like any other payload.”
Gordon thought it over. They were still talking about options, not certainties. Perhaps Debbie Haning would wake up fine and Bill could stay on ISS as scheduled. But like everyone else at NASA, Gordon had taught himself to plan for every contingency, to carry in his head a mental flow chart of what actions to follow should a, b, or c occur.
He looked at Woody Ellis for final confirmation. Woody gave a nod.
“Okay,” said Gordon. “Find me Emma Watson.”
She spotted him at the far end of the hospital hallway. He was talking to Hank Millar, and though his back was turned to her and he was wearing standard green surgical scrubs, Emma knew it was Jack. Seven years of marriage had left ties of familiarity that went beyond the mere recognition of his face.
This was, in fact, the same view she’d had of Jack McCallum the first time they’d met, when they’d both been ER residents in San Francisco General Hospital. He had been standing at the nurses’ station, writing in a chart, his broad shoulders sloping from fatigue, his hair ruffled as though he’d just rolled out of b
ed. In fact, he had; it was the morning after a hectic night on call, and though he was unshaven and bleary-eyed, when he’d turned and looked at her for the first time, the attraction between them had been instantaneous.
Now Jack was ten years older, his dark hair was threaded with gray, and fatigue was once again weighing down on his shoulders. She had not seen him in three weeks, had spoken to him only briefly on the phone a few days ago, a conversation that had deteriorated into yet another noisy disagreement. These days they could not seem to be reasonable with each other, could not carry on a civilized conversation, however brief.
So it was with apprehension that she continued down the hall in his direction.
Hank Millar spotted her first, and his face instantly tensed, as though he knew a battle was imminent, and he wanted to get the hell out of there before the shooting started. Jack must have seen the change in Hank’s expression as well, because he turned to see what had inspired it.
At his first glimpse of Emma, he seemed to freeze, a spontaneous smile of greeting half-formed on his face. It was almost, but not quite, a look of both surprise and gladness to see her. Then something else took control, and his smile vanished, replaced by a look that was neither friendly nor unfriendly, merely neutral. The face of a stranger, she thought, and that was somehow more painful than if he had greeted her with outright hostility. At least then there would’ve been some emotion left, some remnant, however tattered, of a marriage that had once been happy.
She found herself responding to his flat look with an expression that was every bit as neutral. When she spoke, she addressed both men at the same time, favoring neither.
“Gordon told me about Debbie,” she said. “How is she doing?”
Hank glanced at Jack, waiting for him to answer first. Finally Hank said, “She’s still unconscious. We’re sort of holding a vigil in the waiting room. If you want to join us.”
“Yes. Of course.” She started toward the visitors’ waiting room.
“Emma,” Jack called out. “Can we talk?”
“I’ll see you both later,” said Hank, and he made a hasty retreat down the hall. They waited for him to disappear around the corner, then looked at each other.
“Debbie’s not doing well,” said Jack.
“What happened?”
“She had an epidural bleed. Came in conscious and talking. In a matter of minutes, she went straight downhill. I was busy with another patient. I didn’t realize it in time. Didn’t drill the burr hole until . . .” He paused and looked away. “She’s on a ventilator.”
Emma reached out to touch him, then stopped herself, knowing that he would only shake her off. It had been so long since he’d accepted any words of comfort from her. No matter what she said, how sincerely she meant it, he would regard it as pity. And that he despised.
“It’s a hard diagnosis to make, Jack,” was all she could say.
“I should have made it sooner.”
“You said she went downhill fast. Don’t second-guess yourself.”
“That doesn’t make me feel a hell of a lot better.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel better!” she said in exasperation. “I’m just pointing out the simple fact that you did make the right diagnosis. And you acted on it. For once, can’t you cut yourself some slack?”
“Look, this isn’t about me, okay?” he shot back. “It’s about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Debbie won’t be leaving the hospital anytime soon. And that means Bill…”
“I know. Gordon Obie gave me the heads-up.”
Jack paused. “It’s been decided?”
She nodded. “Bill’s coming home. I’ll replace him on the next flight.” Her gaze drifted toward the ICU. “They have two kids,” she said softly. “He can’t stay up there. Not for another three months.”
“You’re not ready. You haven’t had time—”
“I’ll be ready.” She turned.
“Emma.” He reached out to stop her, and the touch of his hand took her by surprise. She looked back at him. At once he released her.
“When are you leaving for Kennedy?” he asked.
“A week. Quarantine.”
He looked stunned. He said nothing, still trying to absorb the news.
“That reminds me,” she said. “Could you take care of Humphrey while I’m gone?”
“Why not a kennel?”
“It’s cruel to keep a cat penned up for three months.”
“Has the little monster been declawed yet?”
“Come on, Jack. He only shreds things when he’s feeling ignored. Pay attention to him, and he’ll leave your furniture alone.”
Jack glanced up as a page was announced over the address system: “Dr. McCallum to ER. Dr. McCallum to ER.”
“I guess you have to go,” she said, already turning away.
“Wait. This is happening so fast. We haven’t had time to talk.”
“If it’s about the divorce, my lawyer can answer any questions while I’m gone.”
“No.” He startled her with his sharp note of anger. “No, I don’t want to talk to your lawyer!”
“Then what do you need to tell me?”
He stared at her for a moment, as though hunting for words. “It’s about this mission,” he finally said. “It’s too rushed. It doesn’t feel right to me.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re a last-minute replacement. You’re going up with a different crew.”
“Vance runs a tight ship. I’m perfectly comfortable with this launch.”
“What about on the station? This could stretch your stay to six months in orbit.”
“I can deal with it.”
“But it wasn’t planned. It’s been thrown together at the last minute.”
“What are you saying I should do, Jack? Wimp out?”
“I don’t know!” He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know.”
They stood in silence for a moment, neither one of them quite sure what to say, yet neither one ready to end the conversation. Seven years of marriage, she thought, and this is what it’s come to. Two people who can’t stay together, yet can’t walk away from each other. And now there’s no time left to work things out between us.
A new page came over the address system: “Dr. McCallum stat to ER.”
Jack looked at her, his expression torn. “Emma—”
“Go, Jack,” she urged him. “They need you.”
He gave a groan of frustration and took off at a run for the ER.
And she turned and walked the other way.
FOUR
July 12
Aboard ISS
From the observation windows of the Node 1 cupola, Dr. William Haning could see clouds swirling over the Atlantic Ocean two hundred twenty miles below. He touched the glass, his fingers skimming the barrier that protected him from the vacuum of space. It was one more obstacle that separated him from home. From his wife. He watched the earth turn beneath him, saw the Atlantic Ocean slip away as North Africa and then the Indian Ocean slowly spun by, the darkness of night approaching. Though his body was weightless and floating, the burden of grief seemed to squeeze down on his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe.
At that moment, in a Houston hospital, his wife was fighting for her life, and he could do nothing to help her. For the next two weeks he would be trapped here, able to gaze down at the very city where Debbie might be dying, yet unable to reach her, touch her. The best he could do was close his eyes and try to imagine he was at her side, that their fingers were entwined.
You have to hang on. You have to fight. I’m coming home to you.
“Bill? Are you okay?”
He turned and saw Diana Estes float from the U.S. lab module into the node. He was surprised she was the one inquiring as to his well-being. Even after a month of living together in close quarters, he had not warmed up to the Englishwoman. She was too cool, too clinical. Desp
ite her icy blond good looks, she was not a woman he’d ever feel attracted to, and she had certainly never favored him with the least hint of interest. But then, her attention was usually focused on Michael Griggs. The fact that Griggs had a wife waiting for him down on earth seemed irrelevant to them both. Up here on ISS, Diana and Griggs were like the two halves of a double star, orbiting each other, linked by some powerful gravitational pull.
This was one of the unfortunate realities of being one of six human beings from four different countries trapped in close quarters. There were always shifting alliances and schisms, a changing sense of us versus them. The stress of living so long in confinement had affected each of them in different ways. Russian Nicholai Rudenko, who had been living aboard ISS the longest, had lately turned sullen and irritable. Kenichi Hirai, from Japan’s NASDA, was so frustrated by his poor command of English, he often lapsed into uneasy silence. Only Luther Ames had remained everyone’s friend. When Houston broke the bad news about Debbie, Luther was the one who had known instinctively what to say to Bill, the one who had spoken from his heart, from the human part of him. Luther was the Alabama-born son of a well-loved black minister, and he had inherited his father’s gift for bestowing comfort.
“There’s no question about it, Bill,” Luther had said. “You gotta go home to your wife. You tell Houston they’d better send the limo to get you, or they’ll have to deal with me.”
How different from the way Diana had reacted. Ever logical, she had calmly pointed out that there was nothing Bill could do to speed his wife’s recovery. Debbie was comatose; she wouldn’t even know he was there. As cold and brittle as the crystals she grows in her lab, was what Bill thought of Diana.
That’s why he was puzzled that she was now asking about him. She hung back in the node, as remote as always. Her long blond hair waved about her face like drifting sea grass.
He turned to look out the window again. “I’m waiting for Houston to come into view,” he said.
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