Kessler knew very well what that meant. The OMS engines were not only the primary means Lightning used to change orbits but also to decelerate for atmospheric re-entry. “Any chance of using the four aft PCS primary jets for deorbit burn?” he asked, referring to the Reaction Control System jets usually used only for attitude maneuvers.
“We’ll run some simulations, Lightning. In the meantime get some rest. Start EVAs in four hours.”
“Lightning requests permission to commence EVA right away. We’re pilots, sir. We must know the condition of our bird immediately.”
“Stand by, Lightning.”
Kessler waited.
A minute later, Hunter’s voice crackled through his headphones. “Negative, Lightning. Get your rest first. We’re having enough bad luck as it is. You don’t want to add fuel to the fire by working exhausted. No go get a meal and some sleep. I’ll wake you guys up exactly four hours from now. That’s an order.”
“Roger, Houston. We copy.” Kessler removed his headset and unstrapped his harness.
“Right,” Jones mumbled after also removing his headset. “Like anyone’s going to get any fucking sleep up here.”
Kessler sighed and followed Jones down to the crew compartment.
Tom Pruett walked down the short aisle between the two rows of cubicles in George’s work area. He saw no one there. He checked his watch. Lunchtime.
He raised his eyebrows and stared at the piece of paper in his hands — the short but intriguing message George had left him earlier today, when Pruett was in a meeting. George claimed to have found conflicting information regarding a shooting in Paris involving Cameron Stone. That alone had been reason enough for Pruett to drop everything and head down to his nephew’s office.
He spotted George’s nameplate on the last cubicle to the left, next to a note saying that he would be back at two o’clock. Pruett walked inside the small cubicle and noticed that the system was off, contrary to what the sign taped to the side of the twenty-inch monitor said. His nephew had prohibited anyone from turning off the system, but there it was. Not only off, but Pruett noticed something else. The hard disk was missing. And not only that, but a closer inspection of the system showed that someone had actually torn the disk out of the workstation. He clenched his jaw as he felt his stomach begin to burn. What in the hell is going on here?
He walked up and down the aisle, checking each cubicle. All of the other workstations appeared to be fine. He gave the room one final glance, stepped into the corridor, and walked straight for the security post on that side of the hall.
George, where are you?
At the opposite end of the hall, Higgins peeked around the corner and watched his superior approach the security post. He slowly exhaled through his nostrils. Another close call.
He checked his watch. He had an appointment to keep.
Harold Murphy, Master Sergeant, U.S. Army, Retired, pushed his brand-new lawnmower out of the garage. This was to be the final mowing of the season and Murphy could not be any happier. He detested mowing the lawn, particularly because he lived across from the Pruetts, whose son, George, used a landscaping service to keep his mother’s home looking like one out of House & Garden. That forced Murphy to at least keep his yard in halfway decent shape so he didn’t look like the bum of the neighborhood.
In reality Murphy liked the young Pruett, a good kid who had managed to stay off drugs and had gotten through school while working two jobs after his father had passed away and his mother had become unable to work. From what George’s mother had told him a few days before, George Pruett was doing a magnificent job at the CIA. Good for him, thought Murphy.
A year earlier, George had bought an old Porsche 356 convertible. Murphy, who owned a ten-year-old Porsche 911, had helped George get his new car in proper shape. That was one of the things Murphy missed about never having been married, not having kids of his own. That’s why he always looked for ways to help kids in the neighborhood with their bicycles, motorcycles, or cars. An expert mechanic while in the Army, he now kept a garage loaded with tools and a hydraulic lift. A day never went by without a kid stopping by to fix a flat, grease a bicycle chain, or change the engine oil. Over the years his garage had become the central point for repairs of all sorts of kids’ vehicles in the neighborhood. He’d earned the title of “Mr. Fixit.” Murphy was proud of that.
He eyed George’s 356 convertible parked in front of the house and checked his watch. Lunchtime. Murphy smiled. That was another reason he liked George. The kid had always taken good care of his mother after that unfortunate car accident that put her in a wheelchair for life.
The front door opened and George walked outside and waved at Murphy, who quickly returned the greeting and continued to push the lawn mower along beside the house. As he did so, he noticed a car accelerating down the street. He stopped the lawn mower, and was about to yell at the driver to slow down when he noticed the windows quickly being rolled down and made out what appeared to be a rifle.
Murphy, a fifty-five-year-old veteran, surprised himself with his blazing-fast reactions. His years with the Army had forced him to stay in shape.
“Run for cover, George! Quick!” Murphy screamed at the top of his lungs, as the sedan, a gray Mercedes, came to a screeching halt behind George’s car. Without waiting for a response, Murphy raced for his garage, where he kept a gun cabinet. He pulled on the handle, but it didn’t turn. Locked. He always kept it locked. Kids played in his garage. It was the safe thing to do.
Gunfire!
He heard shots and glanced over his shoulder. George was running up the side of his house. Murphy drove his fist through the thin glass door of the cabinet. He pulled out a Colt 1911 semiautomatic, his favorite .45-caliber pistol. He snatched two magazines, snapped one in place, cycled the slide to chamber a round, and ran back to his driveway.
There were four men. Two had remained with the car and faced the Pruetts’ house. The other two he could only assume had gone after George. Murphy did not take any chances. The Army had taught him that when outnumbered by the enemy, it was wise to fire first and then ask questions. He reached a line of knee-high bushes that ran along the side of his driveway and hid behind them.
He crawled toward the street until he reached the curb. The two men by the car were less than forty feet away. One leaned against the hood, the other against the trunk. Murphy leveled his weapon at the man by the hood and lined him up between the rear and forward sights of the stainless-steel weapon.
“Leave me alone! Get your hands off me, you bastards!”
Murphy shifted his gaze to his left. Two men were dragging George Pruett down the lawn and toward the parked car. Murphy exhaled in relief. He’s still alive.
Murphy made his decision and lined up on the man to the right of George. He fired once. The man flew backward, propelled by the impact of a hollow-point round traveling at nearly two thousand feet per second. Before the second man escorting George had a chance to react, Murphy fired once, twice, aiming at the man’s chest. Another hit. The man arched his back and landed next to the first gunner. George froze, obviously not knowing what to do.