“Then you better get security clearance for Mrs. Armacost’s sister, mister, because—”
Reese looked beseechingly at Jillian. “Please, Mrs. Armacost, could you tell your sister—”
Jillian nodded and tried to stand straight. It was odd; she did not feel the desire to cry—not yet, anyway. She turned to Nan.
“It’ll be okay, Nan,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as possible. “I’ll be okay.”
“You sure?” Nan’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m sure…”
The radio was on in the no-frills government car that carried them through the quiet suburb.
“NASA is now officially confirming that Commander Spencer Armacost and Captain Alex Streck were outside of the space shuttle Victory when there was an explosion on the communication satellite on which they were doing repairs…”
Reese looked worried as the words spilled out of the radio, but the young woman did not appear to be listening to the grim report. Rather, she was engrossed in the world beyond the window of the car. It was a fine Florida summer evening. People were sitting on their lawns, laboring over barbecues, lazing in swimming pools. Kids rode bikes. Life was continuing even as hers might be coming to an end.
3
The fluorescent lights of the bare corridors of NASA headquarters washed any remaining color out of Jillian’s face. The only sound was the clip of their footsteps on the white linoleum and the annoying hum from the lights. Jillian was numb and silent. Sherman Reese was silent as well, reserved and speechless the way people are when they are in the presence of tragedy that does not really concern them, not directly anyway—it was the sort of situation that leads people to say, “I don’t know what to say.”
As they walked the labyrinthine hallways they passed some staff members. Jillian did not know them, but they seemed know who she was—they glanced at her ashen face quickly then looked away just as quickly, as if they were catching a glimpse of a condemned prisoner on her way to the gallows. One or two flashed sympathetic smiles—not at Jillian, but at Reese, none of them envying the grim task of escorting a woman who might or might not have become a widow in just the last few hours or so.
It was with some relief that Sherman Reese delivered his charge to her destination. It was another bare, windowless, fluorescent-lit room, a wide conference table and a set of chairs the only furniture. On the wall was a monitor showing the activity in Mission Control. There was no sound coming from it.
Seated at the table was a lone woman. She was older than Jillian by a number of years— somewhere in her middle forties—and her pale face was lined with grief. Jillian knew her well— it was Natalie Streck—but had she not known her from happier times she probably would not have recognized her now. Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes dark, red-rimmed, and hollow. She looked as if she had aged a decade in a matter of minutes.
Jillian rushed to her and threw her arms around her. “Oh, Jillian, "Natalie cried into Jillian’s shoulder. “Oh God…” Both women gave into their tears and Sherman Reese stood off to one side, his hands thrust into his pockets frying to look as if he wasn’t there.
Natalie pulled out of the embrace and looked into Jillian’s face. “They’re so far away, Jillian,” she said softly, fighting to keep down her tears. “Alex and Spencer, Jillian, they are so far away. And there’s nothing we can do for them.”
Jillian stroked her hair and rocked her in her arms as she might a little child. “Shhh, Natalie, shhhhhh…”
“Oh. Jillian. He’s dead,” Natalie wailed. “I know he’s dead. I know he’s dead. I can feel it.”
Jillian felt herself go cold, as if she had stepped into a freezer. If Alex Streck was dead, then Spencer was dead as well.
“What have they told you?” Jillian asked.
Natalie shot a cold glance at Sherman Reese. “Nothing. They won’t tell me anything.”
Both women turned on Reese. “Why?” Jillian demanded. “Why haven’t we been told anything?”
Reese shrugged and felt useless. “I’m sorry. I have not been authorized to say—”
At that moment, as if on cue, the door to the conference room opened and a man walked in. He was a distinguished-looking white-haired man whom Jillian recognized as the Director, a man she had only met at official functions—a quick handshake, sometimes followed by a photograph, and then the great man passed on.
“Sir,” said Reese deferentially and motioned toward the two women like a headwaiter showing a diner to his table, “these are Mrs. Streck and Mrs.—”
“I know who they are, Sherman,” the Director said imperiously. “Mrs. Streck, Mrs. Armacost… First, let me tell you that your husbands are alive.”
Both women felt as if great weights had been lifted from their shoulders.
“Oh, thank God,” breathed Natalie Streck.
“They’re back on the orbiter now,” the Director continued, “and we’re going to bring the orbiter down just as soon as we get a window.”
“Can we talk to them?” Jillian asked.
The Director shot a look at Reese and then looked back to the two women. He shook his head. “That is not possible, Mrs. Armacost. I am afraid that both Captain Streck and Commander Armacost are unconscious at this time. ”
“Oh my God,” said Natalie Streck. “Are they badly hurt? Are they in pain?”
The Director did not answer the questions directly. He slipped around the questions like a boxer avoiding a punch. “We have an MD on this mission, ma’am, who has done his best to make them comfortable. Furthermore, we-are monitoring all their vital signs from down here at Mission Control. They are both stable but, at this time, they remainunconscious.
Vital signs, thought Jillian. That was NASA-speak for her husband’s life.
“What happened out there?” She heard her own voice ask a question, and was surprised to hear it.
Once again the Director tried to avoid the question. “All the information we have at our disposal at the moment is extremely sketchy, Mrs. Anna-cost—unreliable to say the least. I wouldn’t want to venture an opinion—”
Jillian was in no mood for obfuscation. “What happened out there?” she snapped, cutting the Director off. The man looked at her with hard eyes for a moment. He was not a man who was used to being interrupted by anyone, least of all an astronaut’s wife. Still, there was something in the look on Jillian’s face that told him that she would not stand for any circumlocutions on his part.
“Your husbands were outside the orbiter,” he said slowly. “It was a perfectly routine task. They were engaged in repairs on a satellite. There was an explosion and…” The director looked over at Reese, then back at Natalie and Jillian. “We lost contact with both astronauts…” He shifted uncomfortably and looked down at the floor. “We lost contact with both of them for about two minutes.”
Jillian’s gaze lost none of its intensity. “Two minutes? You lost contact for two minutes?”
The Director continued to look at the floor. Suddenly the buzz from the fluorescent light seemed very loud.
“What do you mean,” said Jillian, “lost contact?” There was no doubt in the tone of her voice that she was going to get a straight answer.
The Director glanced at her and then back down at the floor. “They were off radio and out of visual contact” he said. “After the explosion they drifted behind the shuttle. We had to bring the craft around one hundred and eighty degrees to get them.”
“They were all alone,” said Natalie Streck, her voice shot through with tears! She shivered at the thought of her husband floating alone and hurt in the middle of so much nothingness.