Deep Fathom

As he drifted, he pictured Jennifer’s body and wondered what it would be like to share a bed out here, with the whole blue Earth looking on. What could be a better honeymoon?

“…six…five…four…”

As he daydreamed he was slow to see the mistake. One of the three locking boom arms, built by General Dynamics, had failed to release completely. From his position, he saw the satellite drift a few degrees to the starboard side. Oh, God! He took one second to confirm the error. It was one second too many.

“…three…two…”

“Stop the launch!” Jack screamed into his com.

“…one…”

He saw the springs release, catapulting the satellite out of the bay. The springs had been engineered to thrust the satellite gently into proper orbital insertion, but instead the releasing mechanism snagged.

In dream-time slow motion, he watched in horror.

The five-ton satellite slammed against the starboard bay doors. One of the satellite’s solar wings smashed into the shuttle’s side. Soundlessly, the bay door bent. Hundreds of ceramic tiles cracked from the shuttle’s surface and spun away, like playing cards cast into the wind.

Spartacus spun out into space, its broken wing flailing. It tumbled toward a higher orbit.

He witnessed a brief explosion on the underside of the satellite as it passed overhead. A small panel blew out as its axial guidance system was overloaded.

Spartacus floated away, dead in space.

Hours later he found himself strapped to a seat in the mid deck, wearing his Advanced Crew Escape Suit. Overhead, in the flight deck, he heard the pilot and shuttle commander conferring with NASA. The bay door had been repaired, but the loss of protective heating tiles made reentry risky.

The plan: get as far through the upper atmosphere as possible—then eject if there was any mishap. But the new emergency evacuation system, installed after the Challenger tragedy, had yet to be tested.

Whispers of prayers echoed over the open comlink.

Jennifer sat beside him, in the mission specialist’s chair. His voice sounded far away as he tried to reassure her. “We’ll make it, Jen. We have a wedding to plan.”

She nodded, offering a weak smile, but she couldn’t speak. This was her first shuttle mission, too. Her face remained pale behind her faceplate.

He glanced to either side. Two other astronauts shared the mid-deck seats, backs tense, fingers clutching the seat arms. Only the commander and pilot were on the flight deck above. The commander insisted all the crew be as near the mid-deck emergency hatch as possible.

At the controls, Colonel Jeff Durham checked one last time with Houston as he began their descent. “Here we go. Pray for us.”

A static-filled reply from Shuttle Mission Control. “God-speed, Atlantis.”

Then they hit the atmosphere hard. Flames chased them. Their ship rocked and bucked. No one spoke, breaths were held.

Sweat pebbled his forehead. The heat grew too rapidly for his suit’s air-conditioning unit to compensate. He checked the cooling bib connection, but it was secure. He glanced at Jennifer. Her faceplate had misted over. He wished he could reach her, hold her.

Then he heard the best words of his life from the pilot. “Approaching sixty thousand feet! Almost home, folks!”

A whoop of joy echoed through all their comlinks.

Before their jubilation died down, the shuttle bucked violently. He saw the Earth spin into view as the ship hoved over on its side. The pilot fought to right the ship but failed.

Only later would he learn that the damaged patch of the shuttle’s exterior surface had overheated and burned through a hydraulic line, igniting the auxiliary oxygen tank. But at that moment all he knew was terror and pain as the orbiter tumbled through the upper atmosphere.

“Fire in the bay!”

He knew it was futile as the pilot continued to wrestle his controls. Another violent quake shook through the bones of the ship.

“Fifty thousand feet!” the pilot yelled.

The commander’s voice came over the intercom. “Prepare for bailout! Depressurize on my count!”

“Forty-five thousand!” the pilot yelled. “Forty thousand!” They were falling fast.

“Close your visors and activate emergency oxygen. Jack, open the pyro vent valve.”

He found himself rising from his seat, his personal parachute assembly strapped to his back. He lumbered across the bucking mid-deck and reached the T-handle box. He tugged the vent handle and twisted it. The valve would slowly depressurize the cabins to match external pressures.

“Get ready!” Colonel Durham ordered. “Switching to autopilot!”

The orbiter bucked more violently and he flew up, striking his head savagely. One of the other astronauts, who had been unbuckling from his seat, struck an overhead support bar. His helmet split and the man fell limp.

He started to cross to the man’s aid, but the second astronaut waved him off. “Man your station!”

“Autopilot’s off line!” the commander screamed. “Gonna have to stay on manual!”

He glanced over his shoulder at Jennifer. She was struggling out of her seat, meaning to assist with the injured crewman. But she was clearly having some trouble. She tugged at something by her left arm.

“Thirty-five thousand!” the pilot announced. The shuttle continued to rock viciously. “I can handle it! I can handle it!” The pilot sounded as if he were arguing with himself, then—“Jesus Christ!”

A litany of swearing erupted from Colonel Durham. “Bailout!” he screamed over their comlinks. “Get your asses out of here!”

He knew they were still too high, but he obeyed the direct order. He twisted the second T-handle. The side hatch blew out. Winds exploded out of the cabin. The depressurization had not been complete. He found himself almost sucked out the hatch, only saving himself by clutching the T-handle in an iron grip.

Screams filled the com system. The shuttle rolled on its back. The floor buckled.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Jennifer slide past him, belly first, her fingers scrabbling for a hold. Her parachute assembly was missing.

Oh, God…

He lunged out, snagging her hand. “Hang on!” he screamed.

A huge explosion sounded from behind him. The mid-deck hatch blew out with a screech of metal. A whirlwind of flames tore into the cabin, burning all the way to the flight deck. He lost sight of the other astronauts. The fires rolled toward him and Jennifer.

“Help!” he yelled into his communication unit. But there was no answer. The shuttle had become a plummeting rock. He began to slip.