Scott pushed the whole brouhaha out of his mind. He knew that university telescopes and amateur laser enthusiasts were now focusing their instruments on the station and producing their own altitude measurements—and releasing their dubious results to the news media—while the government tried to stuff the proverbial information genie back into its bottle.
Bullshit, he thought. The only thing that counts is getting to the ISS and stopping those two madmen before they destroy the station and kill maybe a couple million people on the ground.
And Kimberly.
He felt a sudden rumble and the CST capsule swayed slightly. They’ve launched the Dragon! he realized. Because of his distance from Pad 39A it took a little over eight seconds for the sound to reach his own launch pad.
The Falcon 9 pad was enveloped in smoke, and a fiery trail of rocket exhaust climbed into the sky. Scott’s capsule quivered with the thunderous vibration of the Falcon’s launch. The rocket appeared to be well on its way.
Scott renewed his focus on the words coming over his headset. His own countdown was continuing on schedule. I’m next up, he knew, as the low sound of “Standing on Higher Ground” came over his headphones; the old Alan Parsons Project song was Kimberly’s favorite, and he’d chosen it for her when mission control had asked him what he’d like to hear in the minutes before launch.
Unconsciously he licked his lips. Okay, he thought, kick the tires and light the fire, igniting the rockets. Half a day from now I’ll join Kimberly and the four-man rescue team with a full load of propellants.
But if the rescue mission wasn’t successful, even if he was present the ISS would deorbit and crash.
With Kimberly aboard.
Scott suddenly realized that he might very well be the last American ever to rocket into space.
JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, BUILDING 2: PUBLIC AFFAIRS FACILITY, HOUSTON, TEXAS
The NASA auditorium was full of reporters and media pundits, anticipating an update on the International Space Station. Standing in the wings just out of sight from the unruly crowd, Sophia Flores smoothed her skirt before entering the room. But her focus was not on waiting press—it was riveted on a TV screen above the entrance to the auditorium that showed live coverage of the protests in New York City.
It looked like the entire population had taken to the streets. People chanted and held signs, accusing NASA of covering up the danger from the space station. One sign linked the ISS to the aliens held in Area 51.
The picture switched to an airborne view high above the city. The camera panned the distance, showing backups on the interstates, parkways, and side streets leading out of the city.
She’d seen enough.
Sophia drew in a deep breath and briskly walked into the main auditorium as if going into battle. She knew her briefing would be carried live over all the networks, the Internet, and foreign channels, so every detail was important: her poise, her explanations, and her diction were needed to quell the rising panic.
The briefing room overflowed with reporters. It was standing room only as people lined the wall. She was nearly overwhelmed by the bright lights and sudden rise in chaotic noise. People clamored for her attention.
Stepping behind a podium, she drew in a breath and smelled the pungent smell of too many bodies packed into an overheated room. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. I’m Sophia Flores—”
“Ms. Flores! Is anyone still alive on the station?”
“How many astronauts are on the Falcon 9? Are there any cosmonauts on board?”
“Why are you launching the CST-100?”
Sophia held up a hand to quiet the crowd. She remained stoic, her face a mask. She wasn’t baited by the questions, no matter how outlandish. Moments passed and Sophia remained stone-faced.
Slowly the volume decreased as the crowd realized that she would not speak until she was given control of the floor. When the noise abated to hoarse whispers Sophia put down her hand and spoke into the microphone.
“I have a short, prepared statement detailing the latest events surrounding the International Space Station—”
“Cut to the chase and just tell us when will it hit New York!”
A reporter standing next to the man gave him an elbow. “Quiet!”
Sophia waited a moment before continuing. “As I was saying, after my statement I will take questions from the audience.” She glanced down at her notes. “NASA has convened a FIT—a Failure Investigation Team—comprised of experts throughout government and industry. They’re going over all details of the incident, and you’ll be hearing from them at a later date.
“However, they wanted me to relay that the height of the Earth’s atmosphere fluctuates by up to thirty kilometers a day, purely due to natural causes such as solar activity and upper atmospheric air currents. Because of this, the air friction slowing the ISS and causing it to drop in altitude also fluctuates, sometimes by as much as a factor of a hundred. This affects both the speed of the station as well as its altitude. Therefore, no one knows with any certainty the trajectory of the ISS and if—or even where—it might enter the lower atmosphere.
“As such, there is an extremely low probability that the ISS will impact the Earth and hit NYC, much less the eastern seaboard—or even the U.S. If the ISS lands anywhere, it will probably splash down harmlessly in the ocean, as water covers seventy-one percent of the earth’s surface. So it is very likely that no one will get hurt.” She looked up. “Are there any questions?”
“Ms. Flores! What about the terrorists steering the station down and hitting New York, like astronauts used to fly the Space Shuttle—”
Sophia tried not to roll her eyes as she patiently began to explain the difference between the old Space Shuttle and the unpowered mass of the ISS.…
JAPANESE MODULE (JPM)
“Kimberly, CAPCOM,” came the disembodied voice over the speaker. It sounded as if Tarantino had returned to the CAPCOM chair. Which made sense to Kimberly: he was NASA’s Chief Astronaut. It had been two long days since he’d last served in that position—and all the while she’d been holed up in the JPM as the tension mounted.
Kimberly turned in midair to face the video camera as it focused its lens with a tiny whirring sound. She steeled herself. What now? Bad news or worse?
“Yes?”
“Good news, Kimberly. The Dragon achieved second-stage separation, with an ETA of a little less than three hours. Are you able to monitor the location of the two bandits?”
Kimberly flicked a glance at the laptop where she’d previously put up a schematic of both the electrical activity and the O2/CO2 sensors, so she could get a rough estimate of where Farid and Bakhet were located.
The two had shrouded the webcams she’d been using to visually keep track of what they were doing: they’d figured out that she could watch them using their video feeds. A day earlier Kimberly had taped over all the sensors in the JPM except for the JAXA video cameras in case somehow they were able to turn the tables and spy on her.
“That’s a rog,” she said. “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but it appears they haven’t moved from Central Post.”
“Can you tell what they’re up to?”