The countdown clock had stopped at T-minus twenty-eight.
Other people had noticed and were moving toward the window. Mrs. Lebourgeois caught her husband’s sleeve as he walked past. “Que se passe-t-il?”
“Je ne sais pas. Ce ne fut pas une explosion ou nous aurions senti.” He winced and looked at me. “Dr. York can tell you. An explosion we would have felt, is that not so?”
“Yes. It’s probably just a glitch that they’ll get sorted out soon.” I smiled at his wife. “Honest, we have to stop launches all the time. It might just be the weather.”
Except I’d been on the floor when there was a weather scrub, or a cutoff switch failed, or a system didn’t come online as expected. We had procedures and manuals that were inches thick on what to do in every possible contingency. Everyone stayed aggravated but calm. Whatever was happening down there was not routine.
I leaned closer to the glass, looking for Basira, who was on duty for this launch. She was leaning together with Myrtle. Both women had dropped their pencils and looked shocked.
Behind me, Parker spoke. “All right, everyone. There’s no need to be concerned. Nothing is wrong with the rocket.”
I turned, along with most of the rest of the room. He stood next to one of the couches, holding the viewing room’s phone receiver in one hand. I wouldn’t have called down to bother them, but I guess the first man in space had more privileges than I did.
He hung up the phone as we all leaned forward in anticipation. “It’s just a weather delay. Things are in a holding pattern.”
That was a lie. I knew what a weather hold looked like. If it was weather, you’d see a lot of bored engineers spinning in their chairs. I opened my mouth to challenge him, then shut it again. This wasn’t the time.
Parker caught my eye and gave this weird little nod. Almost like he was thanking me for not interfering. Something was very, very wrong, but I trusted him—which surprised me—to have a compelling reason for wanting the lie to stick.
I turned back to Mrs. Lebourgeois and laughed, shaking my head. “Oh, weather delays are the worst. There’s nothing you can do but wait it out.”
“I am glad that it did not happen when Jean-Paul went up. I should have died from the waiting.”
“Well, the astronauts will probably just take a nap.” I kept having to pull my gaze away from the window. “When Cristiano Zambrano went up, we had a two-hour delay, and I actually heard him snoring.”
Someone approached and I stepped back a little to let them enter our circle of conversation. Stetson Parker stood next to me. He smiled, showing his outrageous dimples. “You wouldn’t expect a person to sleep under these circumstances, but the couches are custom made to fit our bodies. Surprisingly comfortable. Say … Mrs. York, may I borrow you for a moment? Got a question about your Lady Astronaut speaking engagements.”
I met his gaze and smiled as brightly as he was. “Of course, Colonel Parker.”
My first thought was that something had happened to Nathaniel. We stepped a little away, facing the window so that our backs were to the viewing room. My husband was still talking on the phone. Every moment I looked down there, I became more convinced that something terrible had happened. Myrtle had tissues out.
Parker leaned in, voice low. “I’m trusting that you’re not going to scream.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“There’s a bomb.” He glanced from me to where Benkoski was standing by the switch for the speaker. “There’s a man with a sign and explosives, and he’s strapped himself to the gantry. That’s all we know.”
A thousand questions ran through my head. How did he get out there? What kind of bomb? What would happen if it went off? “Copy. What do you need me to do?”
“I want you to get all the wives and children to the cafeteria without scaring them. Keep them away from the press.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Especially Malouf’s and Benkoski’s kids—keep them from hearing anything until the situation is handled.”
Of course. Their fathers were on the rocket, waiting for launch. “Have they told the astronauts?”
“I don’t know.” He grimaced and looked down at Mission Control’s floor. “It looks like that’s what Cleary is doing, though.”
“I’ll tell the wives, discreetly.”
“I wouldn’t.” He shrugged. “Astronauts’ wives already have to live through enough stress and worry for a lifetime. Save them this.”
It was tempting to make a comment about his own absent wife. Later. I could score points later. I spun away from him, clapping my hands. “Ladies? I’m going to suggest that we adjourn to the cafeteria where, I’m told, there is cake. It will be a much more agreeable wait than in here.”
I do not do well when there is a problem that I can’t do anything to solve. The two hours we waited in the cafeteria were awful. I spent the entire time listening for an explosion.
Listening for an explosion, while trying to amuse small children who had been promised a rocket launch and were long past their naptime. Mrs. Lebourgeois’s daughter was an unexpected help, even without knowing what was happening upstairs. She borrowed tinfoil from the chef, and I sat next to one of Mrs. Benkoski’s little boys and helped him smoosh tinfoil into a pointed column. “Good! That can be the body of your rocket.”
While I was chattering with children, I was trying to mask all the questions stampeding through my brain. What was happening upstairs? What could I do? My tactical training consisted of listening to my father and his friends tell war stories.
What would my father have done? Stormed the gantry? No. Sat next to a five-year-old who was making a mess of his fuselage? Maybe. “Oh—Max, that’s very good.”
The cafeteria door opened. All of our heads turned toward it as if we were in a formation drill. Parker entered, followed by Benkoski, Malouf, and Terrazas. Still in their flight suits.
“Daddy!” The little boy next to me abandoned the table and ran across the cafeteria, holding his tinfoil rocket up in the air. “Look what I made!”
His mother was slumped against the table, eyes closed and crossing herself repeatedly. I stood more slowly, letting families reunite. I somehow managed not to scream “What happened?!”
Instead, I tidied tinfoil. That’s right. There had been a bomber threatening the space program, and I spent that time making rockets and cleaning up tinfoil. I turned my back on everyone and began gathering up the supplies we’d been using. Little scraps of foil littered the table where Mrs. Lebourgeois had shredded them while chattering idly about a film she’d seen recently.
Parker swept some of the scraps into a neat pile. “Thank you.”
Stopping, I stared at him. “What happened?”
“The astronauts used the emergency slide. When they were clear, the Air Force moved in.” He glanced over my shoulder to the happy noises of children being adorable.
“That’s it? The Air Force moved in?”
“They shot the bomber.” Parker’s gaze hardened on mine. “He was opposed to ‘abandoning God’s creation on Earth.’ The rocket was ‘a sin and a violation of God’s plan. ’”
I bent my head and shredded a piece of tinfoil, finding satisfaction in tearing the metal. “Well. I’m glad that’s over.”
“Good work, by the way.”
Lifting my head, I stared at Parker. He stood at ease in a well-tailored suit that hinted at the blue of flight suits, though not quite as vivid. His hair was a little mussed, which was unusual for him. “That is, I think, the first compliment you have ever given me.”