“But is he sick enough to warrant any evac?” The question was asked by the mission operations director for the shuttle. He was not happy about any of this. Discovery’s original mission was to retrieve and repair the classified Capricorn spy satellite. Now mission had been usurped by this crisis. “Washington is not happy about postponing the satellite repair. You’ve commandeered their flight so Discovery can play flying ambulance. Is it really necessary? Can’t Hirai recover on the station?”

“We can’t predict it. We don’t know what’s wrong with him,” said Todd.

“You have a physician up there, for God’s sake. Can’t she figure it out?”

Jack tensed. This was an attack on Emma. “She doesn’t have X-ray vision,” he said.

“She’s got just about everything else at her disposal. What’d you call the station, Dr. Cutler? A well-equipped medical facility?

“Astronaut Hirai needs to get home, as expeditiously as possible,” said Todd. “That remains our position. If you want to second guess your flight surgeons, that’s your choice. All I can say is, I’d never presume to second-guess an engineer on propulsion systems.” That effectively ended the argument.

The NSTS deputy director said, “Are there any other concerns?”

“Weather,” said the NASA forecaster. “I just thought I’d mention there’s a storm system developing west of Guadeloupe and moving very slowly westward. It won’t affect the launch. But depending on its path, it could be a problem for Kennedy in the next week or so.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” The deputy director glanced around the room and saw no further questions. “Then launch is still a go for five A.M. CDT. See you all there.”

The Sea of Cortez shimmered like beaten silver in the fading light.

From her table on the outdoor deck of the Las Tres Virgenes cafe, Helen Koenig could see fishing boats heading back to Punta Colorado. This was the time of day she loved best, the evening cool against her sun-flushed skin, her muscles pleasantly weary from an afternoon’s swim. A waiter brought the margarita she’d ordered and set the drink before her.

“Gracias, se?or,” she murmured.

For an instant he met her gaze. She saw a quiet and dignified man with tired eyes and silver-streaked hair, and she felt a prick discomfort.

Yankee guilt, she thought as she watched him walk back to the bar. A feeling she experienced every time she drove down to Baja. She sipped her drink and gazed at the sea, to the whining trumpets of a mariachi band playing somewhere up the beach.

It had been a good day, and she’d spent almost all of it in the sea. A two-tank dive in the morning followed by a shallower dive the afternoon.

And then, just before dinner, a swim in the sunset-gilded waters. The sea was her comfort, her sanctuary. It always been so. Unlike the love of a man, the sea was constant it never disappointed her. It was always ready to embrace her, soothe her, and in moments of crisis she found herself fleeing its waiting arms.

This was why she had come to Baja. To swim in warm waters and to be alone, where no one could reach her. Not even Palmer Gabriel.

Her lips puckered from the tang of the margarita. She drank it down and ordered a second. Already the alcohol made her feel as if she were floating. No matter, she was now a free woman. The project was finished, aborted. The cultures destroyed. Even Palmer was furious with her, she knew she had done the right thing. The safe thing. Tomorrow she would sleep in, order hot chocolate and huevos rancheros for breakfast. Then she’d slip beneath the waters for another dive, another return to her seagreen lover.

A woman’s laughter drew her attention. Helen looked at the bar, where a couple was flirting, the woman slim and tanned, the man with muscles like steel cord. A vacation fling in the making. would probably have dinner together, walk along the beach, hold hands.

Then there would be a kiss, an embrace, all the hormone-charged rituals of mating. Helen watched them with both a scientist’s interest and a woman’s envy. She knew such rituals did apply to her. She was forty-nine years old and she looked it. Her waist was thick, her hair more than half gray, and her face was unremarkable save for the intelligence of her eyes. She was not of woman who attracted looks from sun-bronzed Adonises.

She finished the second margarita. By now the floating sensation had spread to her whole body, and she knew it was time to get some food in her stomach. She opened the menu. “Restaurante de Las Tres Virgenes” it said at the top. The Three Virgins. An appropriate place for her to eat.

She might as well be a virgin.

The waiter came to take her order. She looked up at him and had just requested the grilled dorado when her eyes focused on the TV over the bar, on the image of the space shuttle poised on the launchpad.

“What’s happening?” she said, pointing to the TV. The waiter shrugged.

“Turn up the sound,” she called out to the bartender. “Please! I need to hear it!” He reached for the volume knob, and the broadcast spilled out in English. An American channel. Helen crossed to the bar counter and stared at the television.

“…medical evacuation of astronaut Kenichi Hirai. NASA has not released any further information, but reports indicate their flight surgeons remain baffled by his illness. Based on today’s tests, they felt it was prudent to launch a shuttle rescue. is expected to lift off tomorrow at six A.M. Eastern Daylight Time.”

“Se?ora?” said the waiter.

Helen turned and saw he was still holding his order pad. “Do you wish another drink?”

“No. No, I have to leave.”

“But your food—”

“Cancel my order. Please.” She opened her purse, handed him fifteen dollars, and hurried out of the restaurant.

Back in her hotel room she tried to call Palmer Gabriel in San Diego. It took half a dozen tries to connect with the operator, and when the call finally went through, she got only Palmer’s voice mail.

“They have a sick astronaut on ISS,” she said. “Palmer, this is what I was afraid of. What I warned all of you about. If it’s confirmed, we have to move fast. Before…” She paused, glancing at the clock. To hell with this, she thought, and hung up. I have home to San Diego. I’m the only one who knows how to deal with this. They’ll need me.

She threw her clothes into the suitcase, checked out of the hotel, and climbed into a taxi for the fifteen-mile ride to the airstrip in Buena Vista. A small plane would be waiting for her there to fly her to La Paz, where she could catch a commercial flight to San Diego.

It was a rough taxi ride, the road bumpy and winding, the dust flying in the open windows. But the part of the trip she truly dreaded was the flight coming up. Small planes terrified her. If for her rush to get home, she would have made the long drive up the Baja Peninsula in her own car, which was now safely parked at the resort. She clung to the armrest with sweaty palms, imagining what sort of aviation disaster awaited her.

Then she glimpsed the night sky, clear and velvety black, and she thought of the people aboard the space station. Thought of the risks other, braver human beings took. It was all a matter of perspective. A ride in a small plane is nothing compared to the an astronaut faces.

This was not the time to be a coward. Lives might hang in the balance.

And she was the only one who knew what to do about it.

The spine-rattling ride suddenly smoothed out. They were now on a paved road, thank God, and Buena Vista was just a few miles away.

Sensing the urgency of this journey, her driver accelerated, and the wind whipped through the open windows, stinging her face with dust. She reached down to crank up the glass. Suddenly she felt the taxi swerve left to pass a slow-moving car. She glanced and saw to her horror they were on a curve.