He hit the emergency-weight-drop lever and fumbled with the joysticks, directing the sub to ascend. Deep Flight IV lurched forward, metal screeching against rock, and came to an unexpected halt. He was frozen in place, the sub tilted starboard.

He worked at the joysticks, thrusters at full ahead.

No response.

He paused, his heart pounding as he struggled to maintain control over his rising panic. Why wasn’t he moving? Why was the sub not responding?

He forced himself to scan the two digital display units. Battery power intact. AC unit still functioning. Depth reading, six thousand eighty-two meters.

The sediment slowly cleared, and shapes took form in the beam of his port wing light. Peering straight ahead through the dome, saw an alien landscape of jagged black stones and bloodred Riftia worms. He craned his neck sideways to look at his starboard wing.

What he saw sent his stomach into a sickening tumble.

The wing was tightly wedged between two rocks. He could not move forward. Nor could he move backward. I am trapped in a tomb, nineteen thousand feet under the sea.

“…copy? Steve, do you copy?”

He heard his own voice, weak with fear, “Can’t move—starboard wing wedged—”

“…port-side wing flaps. A little yaw might wiggle you loose.”

“I’ve tried it. I’ve tried everything. I’m not moving.” There was dead silence over the earphones. Had he lost them?

Had he been cut off? He thought of the ship far above, the deck gently rolling on the swells. He thought of sunshine. It had been beautiful sunny day on the surface, birds gliding overhead. The sky a bottomless blue. Now a man’s voice came on. It was that of Palmer Gabriel, the man who had financed the expedition, speaking calmly and in control, as always. “We’re starting rescue procedures, Steve. A sub is already being lowered. We’ll get you up to the surface as soon as we can.” There was a pause, then, “Can you see anything? What are your surroundings?”

“I—I’m resting on a shelf just above the vent.”

“How much detail can you make out?”

“What?”

“You’re at six thousand eighty-two meters. Right at the depth we were interested in. What about that shelf you’re on? The rocks?”

I am going to die, and he is asking about the fucking rocks.

“Steve, use the strobe. Tell us what you see.” He forced his gaze to the instrument panel and flicked the strobe switch.

Bright bursts of light flashed in the murk. He stared at the newly revealed landscape flickering before his retinas. Earlier he had focused on the worms. Now his attention shifted to the immense field of debris scattered across the shelf floor. The rocks were coal black, like magnesium nodules, but these had jagged edges, like congealed shards of glass.

Peering to his right, at freshly fractured rocks trapping his wing, he suddenly realized what he was looking at.

“Helen’s right,” he whispered.

“I didn’t copy that.”

“She was right! The iridium source—I have it in clear view—”

“You’re fading out. Recommend you…” Gabriel’s voice broke up into static and went dead.

“I did not copy. Repeat, I did not copy!” said Ahearn.

There was no answer.

He heard the pounding of his heart, the roar of his own breathing.

Slow down, slow down. Using up my oxygen too fast… Beyond the acrylic dome, life drifted past in a delicate dance through poisonous water. As the minutes stretched to hours, he watched the Riftia worms sway, scarlet plumes combing for nutrients. He saw an eyeless crab slowly scuttle across the field stones.

The lights dimmed. The air-conditioning fans abruptly fell silent.

The battery was dying.

He turned off the strobe light. Only the faint beam of the port wing light was shining now. In a few minutes he would begin to feel the heat of that one-hundred-eighty-degree magma-charged water.

It would radiate through the hull, would slowly cook him alive in his own sweat. Already he felt a drop trickle from his scalp and slide down his cheek. He kept his gaze focused on that single crab, delicately prancing its way across the stony shelf.

The wing light flickered.

And went out.

Through the thunder of the solid propellant rocket boosters and the teeth-jarring rattle of the orbiter, the command abort sprang so clearly into Mission Specialist Emma Watson’s mind she might have heard it shouted through her comm unit. None of the crew had, in fact, said the word aloud, but in that instant she the choice had to be made, and quickly. She hadn’t heard the verdict yet from Commander Bob Kittredge or Pilot Jill Hewitt, in the cockpit in front of her. She didn’t need to. They had so long together as a team they could read each other’s minds, and the amber warning lights flashing on the shuttle’s flight console clearly dictated their next actions.

Seconds before, Endeavour had reached Max Q, the point during launch of greatest aerodynamic stress, when the orbiter, thrusting against the resistance of the atmosphere, begins to violently vibrate. Kittredge had briefly throttled back to seventy percent to ease the vibrations. Now the console warning lights told them they’d lost two of their three main engines.

Even with one main engine and two solid rocket boosters still firing, they would make it to orbit.

They had to abort the launch.

“Control, this is Endeavour,” said Kittredge, his voice crisp steady.

Not a hint of apprehension. “Unable to throttle up. Left center MES went out at Max Q. We are stuck in the bucket. Going to RTLS abort.”

“Roger, Endeavour. We confirm two MES out. Proceed to RTLS abort after SRB burnout.” Emma was already rifling through the stack of checklists, and she retrieved the card for

“Return to Launch Site Abort.” The crew knew every step of the procedure by heart, but in the frantic pace of an emergency abort, some vital action might be forgotten. The checklist was their security blanket.

Her heart racing, Emma scanned the appropriate path of action, clearly marked in blue. A two-engine-down RTLS abort was survivable—but only theoretically. A sequence of near miracles had to happen next. First they had to dump fuel and cut off the last main engine before separating from the huge external fuel tank. Then Kittredge would pitch the orbiter around to a heads-up attitude, pointing back toward the launch site. He would have one chance, only one, to guide them to a safe touchdown at Kennedy. A single mistake would send Endeavour plunging into the sea.

Their lives were now in the hands of Commander Kittredge.

His voice, in constant communication with Mission Control, still sounded steady, even a little bored, as they approached the two-minute mark. The next crisis point. The CRT display flashed the Pc<50 signal. The solid rocket boosters were burning out, on schedule.

Emma felt it at once, the startling deceleration as the boosters consumed the last of the fuel. Then a brilliant flash of light in window made her squint as the SRBS exploded away from the tank.

The roar of launch fell ominously silent, the violent shudder calming to a smooth, almost tranquil ride. In the abrupt calm, she was aware of her own pulse accelerating, her heart thudding like fist against her chest restraint.

“Control, this is Endeavour,” said Kittredge, still unnaturally calm.

“We have SRB sep.”

There is a Glossary at the end of this book that contains many of these abbreviations.

“Roger, we see it.”

“Initiating abort.” Kittredge depressed the Abort push button, the rotary switch already positioned at the RTLS option.

Over her comm unit, Emma heard Jill Hewitt call out, “Emma, let’s hear the checklist!”

“I’ve got it.” Emma began to read aloud, and the sound of her own voice was as startlingly calm as Kittredge’s and Hewitt’s.