Zero-G Read Free

pause. The phrase sounded innocuous enough, but everyone associated with the Space Shuttle knew the reference. On February 1, 2003, Columbia burned up on reentry. The first sign of trouble came when Flight Director Leroy Cain said, “Lock the doors,” meaning that no data was to leave the mission control room. He locked down communications with the outside. Tuck wanted Dieter Huntz, the flight controller, to do the same. The suggestion carried a lot of painful weight.
    A moment later, Rick Van Duren’s voice crept into Tuck’s ear. “Already done, Tuck. Talk to us.”
    â€œFinn is dead. He was floating around the flight deck. I have him in the PS seat now.”
    â€œTuck, this is Surgeon again. Are you certain he is dead?”
    â€œI know dead when I see it, Doc.” Tuck moved to the pilot’s seat on his right. “I’m checking on Jess now.” He put a hand under her chin and lifted. Her face was pale but not cyanotic. He felt for a pulse. Nothing. He started to pull away, then tried again. It was there. Weak and thready, but it was there. “I have a pulse, but she is still unconscious.”
    Tuck let Jess’s head down, easing her chin to her chest. He pulled his hand away and grazed the dermal patch she wore. He stopped. “Wait one, Houston.”
    He pulled closer and stared at the flesh-colored patch. A red line circled it and the skin beneath was swollen.
    Moving to his right, Tuck performed the same finger-to-carotid-artery test on Russ Deaver. Russ was the senior payload specialist. Russ had a pulse, stronger than Jess’s but not what it should be. Tuck didn’t have to look long to see the red ring around the dermal patch.
    â€œHouston, there’s something going on with the SAS patch.” He described the skin anomaly.
    There was a pause. “Remove patch, Commander. Right away.”
    â€œRoger that. What about the others?”
    â€œYes, and bag and stow the patches.”
    Tuck stripped the patches from the necks of Jess and Russ, retrieved one of the many plastic bags used for sealing food and bits of trash, and placed them inside a stowage compartment.
    Next, heart stuttering, Tuck pushed himself to the mission station on the starboard side of the flight deck. Mission Specialist Jodie Law’s arms floated before her, her long brown hair forming a halo. No matter how hard Tuck tried, he could find no pulse.
    Tears trickled from his eyes, broke free of their meager grasp on his face, and floated in air as tiny spheres. Jodie was the youngest of the crew — just thirty-two. In Houston, her five-year-old daughter waited for her mommy. Same brown hair. Same blue eyes. Same infectious smile.
    Tuck began to weep.
    â€œAtlantis, Houston.”
    Tuck pulled himself into a ball. The motion moved him slowly forward and up toward the upper windows. Normally, Earth would fill the panes, but Atlantis’ s unusual position and attitude only allowed a view of deep space, a blackness too profound to comprehend.
    â€œAtlantis, Houston. Talk to me, Tuck.”
    Tuck didn’t want to talk; didn’t want to listen; didn’t want to feel or think or be aware of anything outside the emotional vault he was building.
    â€œCommander Tucker, respond.”
    The spinning thoughts in Tuck’s mind slammed together and crumbled. Vinny. Vincent Pistacchia Jr. Where was Vinny?
    Adrenaline poured into his veins and Tuck snapped his head around so fast it caused his body to spin. He steadied himself.
    â€œMoving to middeck, Houston. Stand by.” Tuck didn’t wait for a response. The long headset line that allowed him to move around the flight deck when in orbit was too short to reach the deck below. It took only a second for Tuck to disconnect it and start for the inter-deck access hatch behind and to the port side of the commander’s seat. Tuck pulled himself down the ladder headfirst like a man swimming to the bottom of a