Free Titan by Stephen Baxter Page B

huh.”
    “Like hell,” Lamb said dourly. He pulled back on the speed brake handle. That opened flaps on the vertical stabilizer at the back of the orbiter; Benacerraf could feel the increased drag. “Brake indicator shows a hundred percent. Initiating third roll.” He pulled the stick across to the right, and the orbiter tipped again.
    The coastline of America fled beneath the prow of the orbiter, impossibly quickly.
    Bill Angel said, “What a way to visit California.”
    Voices crackled on the air-to-ground loops of the PA.
    There was a ragged cheer from the press stand. The blackout had seemed to last for ever, but here was physical proof that the orbiter was back in the atmosphere, at least.
    Now four big rescue helicopters went flapping over the press stand. They were like metal buzzards, Hadamard thought.
    A couple of people had climbed out of the press stand and had tried to get over closer to the runway. A NASA car was patrolling back and forth, keeping them back.
    Hadamard began to calculate what the fallout would be, depending on how this damn thing worked out.
    There were a number of scenarios: the crew could survive, or not; the orbiter could survive, or not.
    If everything came through more or less intact there would be a lot of bullshit in the press about NASA’s incompetence, and Hadamard would be able to come down hard on whichever contractor had screwed up this time, and the whole thing would be forgotten in a couple of days.
    At the other end of the scale—if he was looking at another Challenger, here—Hadamard expected to be facing some kind of shutdown. There would be inquiries, both internal and external, forced on NASA by the White House and Congress. And Hadamard himself would be thoroughly fucked over in the process, he knew.
    But in between those extremes there were a whole range of other contingencies. If the crew walked away from this, then you were looking at an Apollo 13, not a Challenger. And that could give him a lot of leverage. Hadamard had always thought NASA threw away the bonus of Apollo 13’s world attention and PR, a real gift from the political gods if ever there was one.
    Hadamard wouldn’t waste a similar opportunity, if it was presented to him. He began to calculate, figuring which of his personal goals he might be able to advance on the back of the events here today.
    Someone pointed up towards the zenith.
    Squinting, Hadamard could make out a tiny white spark, trailing contrails. Chase planes closed in on it, streaking across the sky.
    “Flight, Egil. Number one APU is still online. But I can’t give you a prediction of how long for.”
    “All right. What else? Fido?”
    “We’re in good shape for a contingency landing, Flight. We’re well off the runway, but we’re flying down into a lake bed, after all…”
    “Inco?”
    “No problems, Flight.”
    Fahy allowed a seed of hope to germinate. Maybe she could get through this after all, without losing her ship.
    “Fido, Flight. You got a recommendation?”
    The Flight Dynamics Officer—FDO, Fido—had the role of recommending intact abort options. The controller—fat, young, sweating—turned to face Fahy across the FCR. “We ought to egress, Flight. As soon as possible; the orbiter has to hold steady during the egress maneuver, and if that last APU goes down that won’t be possible.”
    Egress. He meant, abandon the orbiter.
    Fahy suddenly felt faint, and her senses seemed to be fading out; she grabbed onto the edge of her workstation, as if holding onto reality.
    Egress. The crux of history. On this moment, on her decision now, she sensed, pivoted her own life, the destiny of the mission, maybe the future of the space program.
    “You’re sure about that, Fido?”
    “Flight, get them out of there.”
    At bottom, Fahy did not want to become the first Flight Director to lose an orbiter since 51-L, Challenger. But she knew Fido was right.
    Hope died.
    “Marcus. You may instruct the crew.”
    Emerging from the