Free Gravity by Tess Gerritsen Page A

Hilton on a tired old tourist strip. There were no four-star Cocoa Beach. This was as close as you came to luxury digs.
    He ordered a scotch and water and focused on the TV above the bar. It was tuned to the official NASA channel, and the Atlantis was on the screen, aglow with floodlights, ghostly vapor rising around it. Emma’s ride into space. He stared at the image, thinking of the miles of wiring inside that hull, the countless switches and data buses, the screws and joints and O-rings.
    Millions of things that could go wrong. It was a wonder that something did not go wrong, that men, imperfect as they were, could design and build a craft of such reliability that seven people are willing to risk themselves inside.
    Please let this launch be one of the perfect ones, he thought. A launch where everyone has done their job right, and not a screw is loose. It has to be perfect because my Emma will be aboard.
    A woman sat down on the barstool beside him and said, “I wonder what they’re thinking now.” He turned to look at her, his interest momentarily captured by a glimpse of thigh. She was a sleek and sunny blonde, with one of those blandly perfect faces whose features one forgets within an hour of parting. “What who’s thinking?” he asked.
    “The astronauts. I wonder if they’re thinking, Oh, shit, what’d I get myself into?”
    He shrugged and took a sip of scotch. “They’re not thinking anything right now. They’re all asleep.”
    “I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”
    “Their circadian rhythm’s completely readjusted. They probably went to bed two hours ago.”
    “No, I mean, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at all. I’d be Lying awake thinking up ways to get out of it.”
    He laughed. “I guarantee you, if they’re awake, it’s because they can’t wait to climb on board that baby and blast off.”
    She looked at him curiously. “You’re with the program, aren’t you?”
    “Was. Astronaut corps.”
    “Not now?”
    He lifted the drink to his lips, felt the ice cubes clink sharply against his teeth. “I retired.”
    Setting down his empty glass, he got to his feet and saw disappointment flash in the woman’s eyes. He allowed himself a moment’s consideration of how the rest of the evening could go were he to stay and continue the conversation.
    Pleasant company. The promise of more to follow.
    Instead he paid his bar tab and walked out of the Hilton.
    At midnight, standing on the beach at Jetty Park, he gazed across the water toward pad 39B. I’m here, he thought. Even if she don’t know it, I’m with you.
    He sat down on the sand and waited for dawn.

July 24
    “There’s a high-pressure system over the Gulf, which is expected to keep skies clear over Cape Canaveral, so RTLS landing is a go.
    Edwards Air Force Base is seeing intermittent clouds, but that’s expected to clear by launch. TAL site in Zaragoza, Spain, is current and forecast go. TAL site in Moron, Spain, is also and go. Ben Guerir, Morocco, is experiencing high winds and sandstorms, and at this time is not a viable TAL site.” The first weather briefing of the day, broadcast simultaneously to Cape Canaveral, brought satisfactory news, and Flight Director Carpenter was happy. The launch was still a go. The poor landing conditions at Ben Guerir airport was only a minor concern, since the two alternate transatlantic-abort landing sites in Spain were clear.
    It was all backups within backups, anyway, the sites would be needed only in case of a major malfunction.
    He glanced around at the rest of the ascent team to see if there were any new concerns. The nervous tension in the Flight Control Room was palpable and mounting, as it always was prior to a launch, and that was good. The day they weren’t tense was the day they made mistakes.
    Carpenter wanted his people on edge, with all synapses snapping—a level of alertness that, at midnight, an extra dose of adrenaline.
    Carpenter’s nerves were as taut as everyone else’s,