“Reissue directional commands,” Hansen called out tersely.
“No effect,” the controller said.
“Reboot command program.”
“Reboot initiated . . . Stand by.”
Gowdy descended the stairs to Hansen’s level and held his position. He was sweating now, his hands trembling, his fingers on the key he hoped never to use.
How could it all be going wrong now? A decade of research and three years in space. How could the effort possibly be failing here at the end?
“Twenty-one degrees south,” the guidance controller said. “Altitude still nine-one thousand, speed dropping to four thousand.”
“What’s happening?” Gowdy shouted to Hansen, no longer bothering with the intercom or the pretense of calm.
“We’ve lost control.”
“I can see that,” Gowdy replied. “Why?”
“Impossible to tell,” Hansen said. “It seems to be a constant right turn. There may be damage to the wing or vertical stabilizer. But that wouldn’t explain the telemetry problems or the delay on the command repeat.”
Gowdy fumbled with the key in his pocket, turning it over and over in his hand. It was his responsibility to terminate the mission if it became too dangerous; his call. To act early before all hope was gone would be a mistake, but to act too late . . . could be disastrous.
He stepped forward, barging into Hansen’s personal space. “Get this damned thing back on track.”
Hansen pushed past him, all but shoving Gowdy into a seat. The two men had never liked each other. Hansen felt Gowdy didn’t know enough about physics and astronautics to be attached to the program, and Gowdy considered the Air Force Colonel to be arrogant and condescending to his authority. The higher-ups had ordered them to get along; it had worked for a while, but not now.
“Transponder data intermittent,” the telemetry controller said. “We’re losing the signal.”
“Reboot the transponder,” Hansen called out. “If the transponder goes out, we’ll lose track of the vehicle. It’s not in primary radar coverage.”
Gowdy sat, immobile. His body went numb and he listened to the desperate exchange as if in a trance. It wouldn’t matter if they were in radar coverage, the Nighthawk was designed with a complete stealth covering. Unlike other spacecraft, it was black in color, invisible to telescopes. It was covered with the most advanced radar-absorbent material ever developed.
He looked up. The vehicle was now streaking toward the coast of South America at thirty-five hundred miles per hour. Its turn was moderating, its speed continuing to drop. Its maximum glide path, marked by a shaded orange circle on the map, was shrinking with each second and moving south. It no longer reached the United States.
Gowdy knew what he had to do. There was no more reason to wait.
He pulled the red key out of his pocket and inserted it into a slot on the panel in front of him. A turn of the key opened a compartment just above it and a small pedestal rose up and locked in place. The pedestal was marked with yellow and black chevrons. In the center loomed a red button protected by raised metal bars that prevented it from being pressed by accident.
Gowdy looked up at the screen. They were now getting erroneous position data indicating the Nighthawk was in several different places at the same time. Returns blinked on and off, but the main line continued to head south, heading straight for the Galápagos Islands and the coast of Ecuador beyond.
“Guidance reboot completed,” the controller said.
“And?!” Hansen asked.
“No response.”
“That’s it,” Gowdy whispered. He turned the key to the right and the red button lit up.
“Self-destruct, armed,” a computer voice called out.
L
etting go of the key, Gowdy reached for the button.
A firm hand intercepted him, grabbing his wrist and yanking it away.
Hansen had appeared at his side. “Are you insane?” the Air Force Colonel growled.