Stephen Coonts - Combat

McGregor shook his head. “I’m Air Force, Diane. I know how these last-minute missions usually go …” He lowered his voice a few decibels. “I mean, we had no dry runs here. No simulation time on this type of approach. We’re banking everything on being able to connect that damned mirror to the RMS arms, and also on being able to control the arms and the shuttle attitude verniers to keep that mirror shielding us. What if something goes wrong? Do you know what that laser can do to the orbiter? And how about that classified Lockheed vehicle we’re carrying? Do you know how to use it? And what’s that special cargo labeled UNSC CLASSIFIED in the lockers of the crew compartment? Do you know?”

Diane shook her head slightly while giving McGregor a slanted glance, pushing out her lower lip in a resigning pout.

“Neither do I.”

“That’s not our concern, Gary. We’ve been given a mission. Those guys have theirs. Period. You served in the military, didn’t you? What we’re doing’s called following orders.”

McGregor frowned. “How do you manage to keep it all straight in your head?”

Diane shrugged and looked away. Her mind had already formulated the answer: California. Many years ago. During a training exercise outside the Marines’ El Toro Air Station, her F/A-18D Hornet had flamed out, sending her jet into an uncontrollable spin. She had managed to eject in time but injured her back when a gust of wind swung her parachute into the side of a hill.

Diane closed her eyes. She remembered the base’s doctor, a petite woman with a heart-shaped face, a pointy nose, and enormous round black eyes wearing a white lab coat and a stethoscope hanging from her neck. She introduced herself as Dr. Lisa Hottle, a physician assigned by the base’s commander to look after her. Dr. Hottle explained to Diane the crippling consequences of her spinal-cord injury and the possibility of walking again but only after undergoing extended physical therapy. The Marine aviator immediately withdrew into the tears. Life had dealt her a cruel hand. For the weeks that followed Diane fell into a state of depression. The Marine Corps sent a battalion of psychiatrists to help her cope with the drastic changes in her life, but nothing helped.

Late one evening, Dr. Hottle came into Diane’s room to check on her condition. Diane, barely acknowledging the doctor, gazed at the stars through the window next to the dresser. Instead of taking Diane’s pulse, Dr. Hottle simply stood at the foot of her bed staring at Diane. So, you’re feeling sorry for yourself? Dr. Hottle asked. Before Diane could reply, the petite doctor unbuttoned her blouse and reached behind her back, lowering her padded brassiere. The sobering revelation struck Diane with the force of a jet on afterburners as she stared at her breastless chest, a pink scar traversing Dr. Hottle’s upper chest from armpit to armpit from a double mastectomy. You simply go on, my dear Diane. You simply just … just fight with all you’ve got and go on with your life.

Diane had not only learned to walk again, but within six months of the accident she was back on a Hornet. A year later she had joined NASA and became a shuttle astronaut.

As the Titan rocket shot high above the clouds, Diane Williams let the memories fade. Although she considered this mission the most important of her life, that experience long ago had given her a new perspective in life.

Diane checked her watch. “Looks like the Titan is going to make orbit, and that means we’re going up, too. See you in a few.”

Diane headed toward the entrance of the firing room, walking by the Space Marines.

“All set, Commander?” asked the senior UNSC officer, a black ex-Army colonel by the name of Frank Ward, his booming voice matching his six-foot-three height and 240 pounds of solid muscle. Ward had been in a bad mood ever since NASA got news of the killings aboard the station. His man aboard the ISS had apparently failed to prevent the terrorist from gaining control of the station. The UNSC had come down hard on Ward, drilling him on every aspect of his operation, questioning his team’s capabilities to carry out the assignment for which the UNSC spent over twenty million dollars per year in equipment and training. Now Ward and his team were under extreme pressure to recover the station and save whatever was left of their reputation.

She grinned at the bald colonel with the powerful chest and equally strong arms and legs. A pair of piercing brown eyes stared back at Diane. “We’re ready, Colonel.”

“Are you certain? This mission is far too important.”

“We’re always ready, Colonel. Are you?”

Ward raised a brow and said, “We’ll be there.”

“Good. See you at the launchpad.”

Fifteen minutes later, Diane peeked inside one of many windowless offices at the KSC’s headquarters. A medium-built man in his late forties sitting behind a desk typed on a computer. He wore a pair of dark slacks, a perfectly starched cotton white shirt, and a maroon tie. The keyboard clicking stopped, and he looked up above the edge of the brown monitor, studying Diane for a few seconds through rimless glasses. Narrow streaks of gray on his otherwise brown hair gave him a touch of elegance.

“May I help you?” he asked, returning his eyes to the screen. The clicking resumed.

Diane walked inside the ten-by-twelve office, closing and locking the door behind her. “As a matter of fact I need lots of help.”

He looked at her again, smiling. “Exactly what kind of help do you seek?”

Diane reached his desk and sat against the edge, her back now toward him. “Well, you see. I’m about to go on this long and dangerous journey, and I feel I need something else besides my training to help me make it through.”

He stood, walked around the desk, and stood in front of her. Standing almost six-foot and weighing 190 pounds, he removed his glasses and, tossing them over the desk, told Diane, “I’m sorry, miss, but I still don’t understand exactly what I can do to assist you on this journey.”

Diane pulled him toward her before throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him on the lips. A moment later she pulled away, staring into the eyes of Jake Cohen, and saying, “That’ll get me from liftoff to Solid Rocket Booster separation. After that I’m afraid I’m gonna run out of motivation.”

Jake smiled, taking her in with a greedy stare. He had always loved to play these little games. The businesslike, forty-eight-year-old veteran astronaut and now Capsule Communicator (CapCom) for the past dozen shuttle flights had a private side that never ceased to amaze Diane Williams. Not only was Jake Cohen a refreshing change in Diane’s otherwise very organized life, but Jake was also one of the very few men Diane had met who was never threatened by her profession. As a matter of fact, Jake once confessed to her that her brilliant mind and different past had attracted him to her just as much as her stunning looks.

“I heard the Titan launch went clean,” Jake said.

Diane nodded while brushing her lipstick off Jake’s face. He intercepted her index finger and sucked it gently. She pulled it away. “Pervert.”

“Can’t seem to control myself around you … speaking of which, most everyone’s out to lunch, and you did lock the door, didn’t you?”

She quickly pushed him away. “You’re nuts, Jake.”

“Hey,” he said, pulling her close. “You only live once.”

“Stop it, Jake. Besides, we got a briefing in twenty minutes.”

“That’s plenty of—”

“No.”

“It’s gonna be a long and lonely week.”

She smiled. “Are you really going to miss me?”

“Yep.”