Ann had been hanging in the same place on Enterprise's charred middeck for an hour. Saint-Michael had passed by her several times during his grisly task, twice from the middeck level and a few times from the flight-deck level. A bad cramp had developed in her left thigh. She said nothing. Saint-Michael's job would be tough enough.
Finally she heard the more familiar whine of circulating pumps and electronic equipment, and through the vinyl and canvas surrounding her she could see a few lights wink on. Just the sound of something operating made her hope…
"Jason?"
"Power is back on," he said. "We still have half our air supply left — two weeks' worth. Not as much as I'd hoped for but… plenty of thruster power, except for the nose RCS.
"What about…"
"They're all in the docking module on the station."
"I'm sorry, Jason."
She could imagine the pain in his face. Armstrong Station, Skybolt, the Persian Gulf, Iran — even the earth seemed so very far away. What was left was a burned-out space shuttle. Seven charred bodies—
"I found something," Saint-Michael said after a moment. "There was an extra spacesuit on board that wasn't damaged in the fire. I can still pressurize Enterprise's airlock. You'll be able to change in there."
He carried her into the airlock and soon after that the airlock was pressurized enough so that she could unzip the rescue ball and climb out.
"Now I know what a butterfly feels like getting out of the cocoon."
"I think you've set a record for sitting in a rescue ball."
When he spoke she noticed that his breathing seemed to be a bit heavier, labored. "Matter of fact, I don't think a rescue ball has ever been used for real…"
"Jason, are you all right?"
He seemed not to have heard her. "Hang on, I'm going to disconnect from Armstrong. The automatic system is out, I'll have to do a brute-force disconnect." She felt a shudder and heard a loud metallic popping sound as Enterprise broke free of the docking clamps.
Five minutes later Ann emerged from the airlock in her spacesuit and made her way to the upper flight deck, where she found Saint-Michael strapped into the left-hand commander's seat punching instructions into the digital autopilot. He motioned for her to sit in the right-hand pilot's seat. As she passed the center console and began strapping herself in, she looked out the front cockpit windows and caught a glimpse of Armstrong Station.
"My… God…"
"They did a job on her, that's for sure," Saint-Michael said. "They hit almost everything mounted on the keel — radiators, comm antennas, fuel cells, fuel storage… One of the SBR antennas seems okay. Good, they didn't get everything. But they put holes in all the modules except for the laser module and the MHD reactor. Looks like they got the Skybolt electronics module, too."
"Well, there's a hole in it, but them may not be extensive damage — Jason, are you all right?"
Saint-Michael was shaking his head, blinking his eyes, and licking moisture from his upper lip. "I've got a headache, is all…
"Check your oxygen."
"I did," but he rechecked it. "On and one hundred percent. Good blinker light." He tried not to notice her worried look. "I've got the lifeboat's rescue transponder tuned in but I'm not receiving it yet. We've got to try to contact someone on the ground to arrange a linkup with the lifeboat and send up a rescue craft."
"Okay… just tell me what to do."
"'Switch over to air-to-ground frequency one and keep trying to raise someone. Try both air-to-ground channels. That Soviet missile ripped out most of the antennas on the bottom of the Enterprise, but the ones on top should work. I'll try the satellite network again." The two worked apart for several minutes until a hiss of static and a faint, heavily accented voice made Ann jerk upright. "Jason, I've got someone."
"Which channel?"
"It's… air-to-ground two. I've got it set to UHF."
Saint-Michael quickly reset his comm switches to the same settings. "Any station, any station. This is United States Space Shuttle Enterprise. Repeat, this is United States Space Shuttle Enterprise. Come in. Emergency. Over."
Through waves of squeals and static they heard: "Space Shuttle Enterprise, this is NASA Dakar. Repeat, this is NASA Dakar. We read you. Over."
"Dakar, this is Lieutenant General Saint-Michael. Request a kilo-uniform-band satellite data link with any available network. This is an emergency. Over."
"Copy, Enterprise," came the heavy accent. "Requesting Ku-band data link. Dakar is not Ku-band capable. Stand by."
A few moments later a different controller came on, this one with a definite American accent: "General Saint-Michael, this is Kevin Roberts, GS-17, senior communications officer. Sorry, sir, but we weren't expecting a UHF call from any American spacecraft. We're triangulating your position. We should have a Ku-band link with TDRS East in a few minutes. Can you tell us the nature of your emergency?"
"Yeah… Armstrong Station has been attacked. Nine fatalities, repeat, nine fatalities. Shuttle Enterprise with two on board is damaged and unable to deorbit. Space-station lifeboat with four on board is in orbit. I want to join with the lifeboat and wait for rescue shuttle sortie."
"Copy, Enterprise." The signal was getting stronger. "Enterprise, we have triangulated your position. TDRS link in progress. Stand by."
"Have you heard anything from our lifeboat, Dakar?"
"Negative, Enterprise. We were pretty lucky to hear you in this backwater joint. I'll relay your query to Rota for immediate reply. Understand you want immediate linkup with the lifeboat."
"Affirmative, Dakar. Enterprise standing by."
The wait did not last long. "Enterprise, this is Falcon Control, Colorado Springs, on air-to-ground channel one. How do you hear?"
"Loud and clear, Control." Saint-Michael switched his comm panel over from the direct line-of-sight UHF channel to the main TDRS system, which relayed voice and data through four geosynchronous satellites to a master ground station at White Sands, New Mexico. As if in reply, the computer monitor belonging to the shuttle's general navigation computer began to display several hundred lines of position and navigational update information. For the first time in hours Ann looked hopeful.
"Have you been informed of our situation?" Saint-Michael said.
"Affirmative, Enterprise. Atlantis will be airborne in twenty-four hours to retrieve you."
"Copy." Saint-Michael tried to sit back in his seat, appeared to be exercising his hands and arms inside his spacesuit. "I'm receiving… receiving computer input."
"Jason?" Ann said.
He turned halfway toward her. "I… I feel weak… my head… hurts bad." And then he stopped moving.