Deep Fathom by James Rollins

It was one second too many.
    â€œâ€¦three…two…”
    â€œStop the launch!” Jack screamed into his com.
    â€œâ€¦one…”
    He saw the springs release, catapulting the satellite out of the bay. The springs had been engineered to thrust the satellite gently into proper orbital insertion, but instead the releasing mechanism snagged.
    In dream-time slow motion, he watched in horror.
    The five-ton satellite slammed against the starboard bay doors. One of the satellite’s solar wings smashed into theshuttle’s side. Soundlessly, the bay door bent. Hundreds of ceramic tiles cracked from the shuttle’s surface and spun away, like playing cards cast into the wind.
    Spartacus spun out into space, its broken wing flailing. It tumbled toward a higher orbit.
    He witnessed a brief explosion on the underside of the satellite as it passed overhead. A small panel blew out as its axial guidance system was overloaded.
    Spartacus floated away, dead in space.
    Hours later he found himself strapped to a seat in the mid deck, wearing his Advanced Crew Escape Suit. Overhead, in the flight deck, he heard the pilot and shuttle commander conferring with NASA. The bay door had been repaired, but the loss of protective heating tiles made reentry risky.
    The plan: get as far through the upper atmosphere as possible—then eject if there was any mishap. But the new emergency evacuation system, installed after the Challenger tragedy, had yet to be tested.
    Whispers of prayers echoed over the open comlink.
    Jennifer sat beside him, in the mission specialist’s chair. His voice sounded far away as he tried to reassure her. “We’ll make it, Jen. We have a wedding to plan.”
    She nodded, offering a weak smile, but she couldn’t speak. This was her first shuttle mission, too. Her face remained pale behind her faceplate.
    He glanced to either side. Two other astronauts shared the mid-deck seats, backs tense, fingers clutching the seat arms. Only the commander and pilot were on the flight deck above. The commander insisted all the crew be as near the mid-deck emergency hatch as possible.
    At the controls, Colonel Jeff Durham checked one last time with Houston as he began their descent. “Here we go. Pray for us.”
    A static-filled reply from Shuttle Mission Control. “God-speed, Atlantis.”
    Then they hit the atmosphere hard. Flames chased them. Their ship rocked and bucked. No one spoke, breaths wereheld.
    Sweat pebbled his forehead. The heat grew too rapidly for his suit’s air-conditioning unit to compensate. He checked the cooling bib connection, but it was secure. He glanced at Jennifer. Her faceplate had misted over. He wished he could reach her, hold her.
    Then he heard the best words of his life from the pilot. “Approaching sixty thousand feet! Almost home, folks!”
    A whoop of joy echoed through all their comlinks.
    Before their jubilation died down, the shuttle bucked violently. He saw the Earth spin into view as the ship hoved over on its side. The pilot fought to right the ship but failed.
    Only later would he learn that the damaged patch of the shuttle’s exterior surface had overheated and burned through a hydraulic line, igniting the auxiliary oxygen tank. But at that moment all he knew was terror and pain as the orbiter tumbled through the upper atmosphere.
    â€œFire in the bay!”
    He knew it was futile as the pilot continued to wrestle his controls. Another violent quake shook through the bones of the ship.
    â€œFifty thousand feet!” the pilot yelled.
    The commander’s voice came over the intercom. “Prepare for bailout! Depressurize on my count!”
    â€œForty-five thousand!” the pilot yelled. “Forty thousand!” They were falling fast.
    â€œClose your visors and activate emergency oxygen. Jack, open the pyro vent valve.”
    He found himself rising from his seat, his personal parachute assembly strapped