And that nonsense about the station’s one million pounds creating more carnage than an atomic bomb: the ISS’s aluminum modules were thin-skinned. They would mostly burn up in the atmosphere, along with the solar panels and other pieces of equipment. Only about 5 percent of the million pounds would survive the burning reentry, resulting in no more than fifty thousand pounds impacting the ground. And even that wouldn’t be all concentrated at one impact point, but rather would be spread across tens of hundreds of miles, just like the plutonium.
But try selling that to the general public. All they’d know is that the sky is falling, and they’d trample their own grandmothers to get away, anywhere, to be safe.
Kimberly felt her cheeks grow warm as she now realized that Farid’s insane plan had a nugget of reality at its heart, and that she had to reprioritize her whole existence to one all-important goal: stop these SOBs.
JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, ISS CONTROL CENTER, HOUSTON, TEXAS
Déjà vu, all over again.
The mission control center erupted into a madness of yelling as the link from the ISS was cut. Monitors at the MCC started showing projected impact points if the station was to really be deorbited in four days, but the error bars on each of the locations spanned half the continent.
Scott felt his chest constricting as he realized what had just happened. The ISS had been overrun for the sole purpose of crashing the station into a populated area—New York or Los Angeles, it didn’t matter, so long as it caused mass hysteria and the wild violence of millions of people seeking survival; and spewing plutonium as it descended was just icing on the cake. A terrorist threat that dwarfed anything ever attempted before.
His headphones clicked as he now heard frantic babble from the White House: Everyone there was just as rattled as everyone here, Scott realized. The phone connection was no longer muted, but he still couldn’t make out any details of the shouting. And with the noise in the control center ratcheting up as well, Scott couldn’t even think.
He stood up and started clapping his hands again, as loudly as he could.
“Again, stop it! Quiet down!”
This time the control center quieted almost instantly. Most everyone looked angry, their faces red with the frustrating knowledge that there was nothing they could do to help. A few people sobbed. Tears filled some faces.
Scott spoke rapidly, knowing that at any moment he might be called to answer questions from the White House. He was thinking out loud, rehearsing what he’d say if—no, when—the questions from Washington started flooding in.
“You all know your jobs and I don’t have to tell you how to do them. We’re going to need to know the precise altitude of the ISS as a function of time, and couple that with the best information we have on the atmosphere, to keep an updated projection on the point of impact and the ground trajectory as it deorbits.”
He made eye contact as he spoke, and he glanced at the placards above each console as the people turned to hear him.
TOPO, who tracks the ISS orbit
ADCO, ISS attitude
ETHOS, life support
RIO, U.S.-Russian activities
SPARTEN, power and solar panels
CRONUS, space communications and video
GC, ground control
BME, biomedical engineer
OSO, mechanical repair
PAO, public affairs officer
Where was the PAO? It hit him that the new female Voice-of-NASA had been the one who had bolted from the room. But he had more important things to worry about now.
Scott drew in a breath. Then, “In addition, we’ll need every idea you can come up with on how to stop those bozos from carrying this out. I don’t care how crazy an idea you might have, everything’s on the table. The White House will be asking Administrator Simone to give them everything we’ve got, so start inventing, people!”
He stopped abruptly and put a hand to his headphones.
“Scott, Patricia Simone. We saw the feed, but did any of it go out to the public?”
Glancing down at his console, Scott saw that the kill switch to the NASA TV still glowed red.
“No, ma’am. CRONUS is keeping the public feed down. JSC and the White House are the only ones who saw the transmission.”
“Finally, some good news.” Simone sighed. “We’re extending the press blackout, and the President has ordered that no one at NASA have any contact with the news media. I know that Johnson traditionally has the PR lead for the ISS, but I can’t emphasize strongly enough how critical it is for Headquarters to be the focal point for interacting with the public. Brief your PAO, ASAP.”
Scott glanced at the empty PAO console; the young Public Affairs Officer was still not at her post. Why had she left the MCC? He looked over his shoulder to the glassed observation balcony, searching out the senior PAO who had been escorting a gaggle of VIPs.
The VIPs were gone. Frowning, he saw the young PAO who had deserted her post directing emergency responders at the back of the balcony. It looked as though they were carting someone away. What the hell was going on? He turned his attention back to the Administrator. “Copy—I’ll let him know.”
“The media is already speculating about the murders,” Simone continued, “and they’re playing what little footage they have over and over again on TV all across the world: talk shows, Internet—it’s saturating the news. They’re reporting that everyone on the ISS must be dead, so let Headquarters handle this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thanks to your quick thinking the public probably isn’t aware yet of the incredible disaster that could happen if the station is deorbited—”
“Excuse me, Madame Administrator. Surely you’re letting the President and his cabinet know how remote the danger to New York actually is. We’ll be lucky if we can project what hemisphere the ISS will hit, much less a specific city—until it’s much too late to do anything.”
“I understand. I’ve explained exactly that to him, and he appreciates the point. But it’s not the impact he’s worried about. It’s the radiation, and the panic and rioting before the station hits. Especially if it gets out that we don’t really have a clue this far in advance about where it could impact—or even what the radioactive debris path will look like. It could affect anyone on Earth.”
“Copy,” Scott said.
She quickly changed the subject. “Now what about our station partners? What kind of feedback are you hearing from other countries?”
Scott felt his face redden. This was going to be tough, especially with what he’d done to Roscosmos, the Russian Federal Space Agency. They’re probably screaming bloody murder at NASA HQ and want his head on a plate. “I made the unilateral decision to cut out all the partners when I killed the feed to NASA TV.”
“You mean Canada, ESA, and Japan?”
“Everyone, ma’am.”
Simone hesitated. “Including Roscosmos?”
“Yes, ma’am. Even the Russians.”
He heard her muffle the phone link with a hand over the speaker, but she quickly came back. “Okay. So we really are the only ones who heard the terrorists’ transmission. The President will let us know when we can reengage with our station partners, so for now direct all inquiries and interactions no matter where they originate back to Headquarters. Understand?”