Carter coughed.
“You’re eating too fast,” Stone chided him.
Carter’s reply was drowned out by a fit of hacking.
“Hey, maybe he’s choking on something,” Wallace said.
As Stone moved toward him, Carter suddenly grabbed the pilot by the shoulders. Another paroxysm swept through him and he vomited blood up into the air in front of him.
“What the hell!” Stone cried.
His words were cut off as he clutched his chest and began to claw at his jumpsuit. His body felt like it was burning up. When he wiped his face, the back of his hand came away all bloody.
Karol and Wallace watched in horror as their shuttle mates rolled over, their arms and legs kicking out as though in seizure.
“Get up to the flight deck and seal yourself in!” Karol roared.
“But—”
“Do it!” As he shoved Wallace toward the ladder, a voice from mission control came over his headset.
“Discovery, do you have a problem?”
“Damn right we do!” Karol shouted. “Something’s tearing Carter and Stone apart—”
Karol’s body spasmed. “Oh, Jesus!” As he doubled over, a trail of blood swirled away from his eyes and nostrils. Somewhere far away he heard the urgent voice from mission control.
“Discovery, do you copy?”
A reply formed in his mind, but before he could get the words out, a red haze descended across his eyes.
Working inside the air lock on the lower deck, Megan heard the cries and groans over her headset. She jabbed the transmit button on her EMU.
“Frank? Carter? Wallace?”
All she heard now was static. Her communications unit was malfunctioning.
Ignoring the wiring she’d been checking, Megan reached for the lever to open the air lock. To her horror, it refused to budge.
In the Spacelab, Dylan Reed clutched a stopwatch in his gloved hand. The mutated variola was working with frightening speed. He knew that he should measure exactly how fast it was infecting and destroying the crew. Bauer had been adamant that human test subjects were the only way to gauge the lethal capacity of the new smallpox. It was also a way to get rid of any potential witnesses. But to do that would have meant looking at the stopwatch. Dylan Reed would have had to open his eyes, something he didn’t dare do because then he’d surely see the faces behind the screams.
A world away, mission director Harry Landon was in a cubicle down the hall from mission control, catching up on some much-needed sleep. A twenty-year NASA veteran, ten of those years spent in the pressure cooker of the Cape, Landon had learned to rest whenever the opportunity presented itself. He was also able to wake up instantly, alert and ready.
Landon sensed the hand even before he felt it on his shoulder. Rolling over, he found himself gazing into the face of a young technician.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“There’s a problem onboard Discovery,” the tech replied nervously.
Landon swung off the cot, grabbed his glasses off a filing cabinet, and moved for the door. “Mechanical? Flight? What?”
“Human.”
Landon didn’t break stride as he called back over his shoulder. “What do you mean, ‘human’?”
“It’s the crew,” the tech stammered. “Something’s wrong.”
Something was wrong—terribly so. Landon sensed it as soon as he entered mission control. All the techs were huddled over their consoles, talking urgently to Discovery. From the snatches he heard as he passed by, Landon realized that no one onboard the orbiter was responding.
Moving to his command post, he barked, “Get me visual!”
“We can’t, sir,” someone called back. “The video feed must be down on their end.”
“Then get me audio!”
Landon slipped on a headset and tried to keep his voice level. “Discovery, this is the mission director. Come in, please.” Static crackled against his eardrum. “Discovery, I say again, this is the mission director—”
“Mission control, this is Discovery.”
The strangled voice made Landon’s blood run cold. “Wallace, is that you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s going on up there, son?”
Landon had to wait out more static. When Wallace was back, he sounded as if he was choking.
“Wallace, what’s wrong?”
“Control…Control, do you read?”
“Wallace, just tell us—”
“We’re all dying….”
Chapter 24
During the shuttle’s pioneer years, in the early 1980s, procedures were set in place to deal with the inevitable mishap, malfunction, or tragedy. Enumerated in the so-called Black Book, they were first implemented in January 1986, after the disaster that took Challenger 51-L.
Harry Landon had been present in mission control that day. He still remembered the mission director’s expression of horror when the shuttle exploded seventy-three seconds after liftoff. Then he watched as the director, tears streaming down his face, reached for the Book and began making the necessary calls.
Landon’s fingers trembled as he fumbled for the key to unlock the drawer he’d prayed he would never have to open. The Book was a slender three-ring binder. Landon opened it to the first page, reached for the phone, then hesitated.
Getting to his feet, he plugged his headset into the intercom system that connected him to all the headsets used by the staff.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said somberly. “If I can have your attention…Thank you. You all heard the last communication from Discovery. If it’s accurate—and we don’t know that it is—then we are in the middle of a true catastrophe. The best thing we can do for our people up there is to follow procedures and be ready to respond to any request for assistance. Continue to monitor all aspects of the flight and of the shuttle’s condition. If there’s deviation or anything unusual—no matter how insignificant—I want to know about it. I want the data team to review all the tapes, every conversation, every transmission. Whatever happened up there happened quickly. But there had to be a trigger. I want to know what it was.”
Landon paused. “I know what you must be thinking, and going through. I know what I’m asking you to do is difficult. But we cannot lose hope that there may be survivors. That’s whom we’re working for. Whoever’s left, we want to bring them down safely. Nothing else matters.”
He looked around. “Thank you all.”
The silence that had settled over the room began to break up. Landon was relieved that the grim expressions were replaced by ones of resolve and determination. He had always believed that the people he worked with were the best; now they were proving him right.
Landon’s first call went to Rich Warfield, the president’s science adviser. A physicist by training, Warfield was familiar with the shuttle program. He immediately grasped the magnitude of the mishap.
“What can I tell the president, Harry?” he asked. “He’ll want the bottom line, no bullshit.”
“Okay,” Landon replied. “First, there has been no communication with Discovery since Wallace’s last transmission. In it, he indicated that the crew was dying or dead. I’ll have someone play you the actual tape in case the president wants to hear for himself.
“As for the shuttle, it appears stable. There’s been no change in flight path, speed, or trajectory. All onboard systems are green.”
“Give me your educated guess, Harry,” Warfield prompted.
“All air-supply readings are normal,” Landon replied. “That means no toxic contaminants. No smoke, no fire, no gases.”
“What about food poisoning?” Warfield suggested. “Could it be something as mundane as that?”
“The crew would have been having their first meal. But even if all the food were contaminated, I doubt that the poison could have spread so quickly—or virulently.”
“What about the payload?”
“This wasn’t a classified flight. The Spac
elab had the usual menagerie of frogs, insects, and mice to be used for experiments…”
“But what, Harry?”
Landon double-checked the experiments’ schedule. “Megan Olson was slated to begin work on Legionnaires’ disease. That’s the only bug in the program. She never got started on it.”
“Could the bug have filtered out somehow?”
“Chances are ten thousand to one that it did. We have all sorts of sensors to detect a leak in the Biorack. But let’s say it did. Legionnaires’ doesn’t work that fast. Whatever killed the crew did so in a matter of minutes.”
For a moment there was silence.
“I know it’s not my area of expertise,” Warfield said finally. “But if you carve away the other possibilities, it still sounds to me like a bug got loose.”
“Off the record, I’m tempted to agree with you,” Landon replied. “But I wouldn’t go planting that idea in the president’s mind. Right now, we just don’t know.”
“The president will have questions,” Warfield said heavily. “I think you know what the first one will be.”
Landon closed his eyes. “This is the procedure, Rich. During launch, the range safety officer tracks the flight. His finger is never far from the destruct button. If anything goes wrong, well…You remember Challenger? After the external tank blew and the shuttle exploded, the solid rocket boosters kept going. The RSO brought them down.
“The shuttle has a destruct sequence that can be activated by us when it’s on its way down. At that point, it’s still far enough out that if we had to, we could blow it up without any danger to the population below.”
Landon paused. “Rich, when you tell him this, remind him that he’s the one who has to give that order.”
“All right, Harry. Let me pass along what we have so far. Don’t be surprised if he calls you direct.”
“The minute I know more, I’ll let you know,” Landon said.
“Harry, last thing: can we bring the shuttle down on autopilot?”
“Hell, we can bring a seven-forty-seven down that way. The question is, will we want to?”
Landon’s next call went to the range safety officer, who had already been apprised of the emergency. Landon explained as much as he could, then added that the original duration of this mission had been eight days.
“Clearly that’s not the case anymore,” he said. “It’s not a question of if but when we bring her down.”
“And once she’s in range?” the RSO asked quietly.
“Then we’ll see.”
Landon continued down the list, which included calls to General Richardson and Anthony Price. In addition to being the air force chief of staff, Richardson was also codirector of the Space Security Division, which was responsible for identifying and monitoring everything that was either approaching earth or in orbit around it. As head of the National Security Agency, Price was on the list because the shuttle sometimes flew classified missions sponsored by the NSA.
Every time he finished a call, Landon looked around, hoping that one of his people would have some news for him. He recognized this as the gesture of a desperate man; under the circumstances, any conversation he might have been having would have been interrupted if contact with the shuttle had been reestablished.
For the next two hours, Landon continued to work the phones. He was grateful that at least for now, he didn’t have to deal with the media. Many in NASA resented the fact that shuttle flights were now considered so mundane that coverage was not warranted. During the ill-fated Challenger launch, CNN had been the sole network providing live feed. Today, only NASA cameras had recorded Discovery’s liftoff.
“Landon, circuit four!”
Landon didn’t even bother to see who was speaking. He found the channel and heard a faint voice through the crackle of static.
“Mission control, this is Discovery. Do you copy?”
Dylan Reed was still in the Spacelab, in his protective EMU, his boots in the floor restraints that kept him positioned in front of the auxiliary communications panel. The several hours of deliberate incommunicado seemed like an eternity to him. He’d turned off the radio so that he wouldn’t have to listen to the desperate voices floating from mission control. Now, to proceed with the next phase of the operation, he had reestablished contact.
“Mission control, this is Discovery. Do you read?”
“Discovery, this is the mission director. What is your status?”
“Harry, is that you?”
“Dylan?”
“It’s me. Thank God, Harry! I didn’t think I’d ever hear another human voice.”
“Dylan, what happened up there?”
“I don’t know. I’m in the lab. One of the EMUs was showing default. I climbed in to check it out. Then I heard…Jesus, Harry, it sounded like they were being strangled. And the commo gear was down—”
“Dylan, hang on, okay? Try to stay calm. Is there anyone else in the lab?”
“No.”
“And you’ve had no communication with the rest of the crew?”
“No. Harry, listen. What—?”
“We don’t know, Dylan. That’s the long and the short of it. We got a garbled message out of Wallace but he couldn’t tell us what happened. It had to be something fast and extremely lethal. We’re thinking a bug got loose. Do you have anything like that on board?”
Actually what I have is a shuttle that’s one big hot zone.
But what he said was: “Christ, Harry! What are you talking about? Look at the manifest. The worst we’re carrying is Legionnaires’ and that’s still in the biofreezer.”
“Dylan, you have to do this,” Landon said in a measured tone. “You have to go back into the orbiter and see…and tell us what you see.”
“Harry!”
“Dylan, we have to know.”
“What if they’re all dead, Harry? What am I supposed to do for them?”
“Nothing, son. There’s nothing you can do. But we’re going to bring you home. No one leaves their post until you’re back on the ground, safe and sound.”
Landon was about to add “I promise,” but the words couldn’t make it past his lips.
“All right, Harry. I’ll go check out the orbiter. I want to keep the commo link open.”
“We need you to check the video feed. We have no picture.”
That’s because I fixed the cameras.
“Roger that. Leaving the lab now.”
The bulky space suit made his movements awkward, but slowly Reed floated through the connecting tunnel, taking care not to snag any part of his suit. Even the slightest tear would be fatal.
The sight in the mid-deck made him gag. Stone, Karol, and Carter had been reduced to bloated corpses covered in sores, floating freely or snagged to pieces of equipment by an arm or a leg. Trying not to look, Reed maneuvered his way around them to the ladder. Up in the flight deck, he found Wallace strapped to the commander’s chair.
“Mission control, this is Discovery.”
Landon responded instantly. “Go ahead, Dylan.”
“I found everyone except Megan. Jesus, I can’t tell you…”
“We need to know what they look like, Dylan.”
“The bodies are bloated, sores, blood…I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Are there any signs of the contaminant?”
“Negative. But I’m not taking off the EMU.”
“Of course not. Can you tell what they were eating?”
“I’m on the flight deck, with Wallace. Let me go downstairs.”
After a few minutes, Reed was back on the link. In reality, he hadn’t moved. “Looks like whatever was brought onboard. Chicken, peanut butter, shrimp…”
“Okay, we’re checking the source of the food right now. If it was contaminated, the agent might have mutated in microgravity.” Landon paused. “You need to find Megan.”
“I know. I’ll check mid-deck again, the john…If she’s not there, she’ll be on the lower deck.” br />
“Contact me as soon as you find her. Mission director out.”
Thank God!
Although her transmit button was still malfunctioning, Megan had heard every word between Reed and Landon. She slumped forward, her helmet clicking against the air-lock door. Hundreds of questions raced through her mind: How could the rest of the crew be dead? What could have overtaken them? Was it something they had brought onboard? It’d been less than an hour since she’d last seen Carter and the others. Now they were dead?
Megan forced herself to calm down. She glanced at the nest of wires in the open panel above the door. Clearly there was a mix-up in the wiring. Following the instructions printed on the panel door, she had tried to reverse a number of connections but so far hadn’t found the faulty one.
Relax, she told herself. Dylan will be down here in a few minutes. When he doesn’t find me out there, he’ll realize I’m in here. He’ll open the door from his end.
Megan took as much comfort in the thought as she could. She wasn’t prone to claustrophobia, but she could feel the air lock—no bigger than a pair of broom closets set side by side—closing in on her.
If only the damn mike worked! To be heard by another human would be the sweetest thing.
Then fix the mike, she told herself.
Dylan’s voice came over her headset: “Mission director, I’m in the lower deck. No sign of Megan yet. I’ll check the storage holds.”
Even though she knew that sound was baffled in space, Megan raised both hands and began pounding on the door. Maybe somehow Dylan would hear her.
“Mission director, I’ve checked most of the hold. Still nothing.”
Landon’s voice floated through Megan’s headset: “Suggest you try the air lock. Maybe she got in there.”
Yes, try the air lock!
“Roger that, mission director. I’ll cut commo until I reach the air lock.”
As soon as Reed approached the door, he saw Megan’s face behind the porthole. The joy and relief in her eyes speared him. He switched on the intercom mode on his communications set.
“Megan, can you hear me?”
He saw her nod.