“Yes?”

“Mr. President, General Risen at NORAD. My apologies, sir, but we have a situation in accordance with your directive yesterday on the private spacecraft.”

“Good morning, Chris. I’m just being lazy getting up. What’s up?”

His explanation is crisp and clear, and there’s a long pause from the other end before the commander in chief sighs.

“What do you recommend? And we are on a secure line, right?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. President, with the considerable damage this will do to orbital safety and the tremendous increase in debris… not to mention the loss of life… I recommend we use Longbow.”

“Really? Won’t our buddies across both ponds see what we’re doing?”

“Sir, we have to assume they will. The Russians, Chinese, French, and perhaps the European Space Agency will probably be watching. The National Reconnaissance Office is the better one to answer that.”

“But you think it’s about time they knew our capabilities anyway, right? I mean, it’s been thirty years and five presidents since we made a show of it.”

“Sir, you’re asking me a policy question I’m not qualified to answer.”

“Yeah, Chris, you’re right. That’s unfair of me. Look, I’m glad you brought this straight to me. I know it’s tough to jump the chain even in your position, but I need that direct contact. I realize this was a judgment call and not out of the Defcon procedures.”

“Thank you, sir. I thought it was justified, because of your statements yesterday on television.”

“You say we have six hours left?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s barely any time. Okay. I’ve got some tough questions to ask an array of people.”

“We’ll be here, sir.”

“By the way, I’m told the astronaut up there is a friend of yours.”

How on earth does he know that?Chris wonders, a flash of caution rocketing through his head about the source of the information and whether it was passed to the President honestly or with malicious intent. Was someone in the Pentagon waiting in the weeds for him?

“Yes, sir,” he answers. “Bill Campbell was a NASA astronaut and a fellow Air Force pilot and a friend. But I…”

“That’s what makes us a great nation, Chris. Not that we know everyone, but that we’re sufficiently family to care. That isn’t an object up there, it’s two of us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Gotta go. Hang in there, General. You are appreciated.”

Chris replaces the receiver with a smile. “You are appreciated,” is a signature tag line unique to this chief executive and grossly overreported by the media, but Chris knows the man means it. And despite the fact that his Air Force peers consider it an eye-roller and call it a “warm fuzzy,” the President’s appreciation is, well, appreciated.

And as he stands to go, Chris Risen gives himself just a few seconds to embrace that very human pat on the head from the most powerful office holder in the world.

Diana feels like rubbing her eyes, but with no time to find a mirror and assess or repair the effect a vigorous eye rub would have on her makeup, she stifles the urge, fussing with the microphone clipped to the collar of her blouse instead.

This is the eighth interview so far, she counts, and there will be dozens more since Richard’s refusal to do anymore himself. She gets into the zone mentally, summoning the vocal tone and the mental sharpness she’s going to need, like an actor with the flu taking the stage and forcing away the pain and the weakness for a few hours. The right tone, the right phrases, the right balance will be critical with each interview… not that she isn’t personally torn up and as scared as everyone else over what’s happening. But “torn up and scared” would be the wrong message. What the public must see is strength, control, concern, cautious optimism, and absolute realism. In the public mind, she isthe company, and one misstep on camera could theoretically destroy it.

She only half listens to the correspondent as he begins his report next to her, and shifts her eyes to him only on the cue of the question.

“Ms. Ross, there’s been no radio contact of any sort, correct? How could that happen?”

“It’s not easy for that to happen. A whole host of radios had to have been knocked out, including several backups, but however it happened, we have lost all radio contact, both voice and telemetry. Yet we’re sure, through NASA’s help with their long-range cameras, that the spacecraft is still powered and pressurized, and that someone is at the controls.”

“Some one, versus both of them?”

“I’m not going to speculate beyond that. The spacecraft was obviously damaged. NASA, however, has seen solid evidence of sentient human control of the vehicle. But since we can’t talk to them, we don’t know what their status is. I’d like to add that I think it’s pretty remarkable that, regardless of the radio problem, they were apparently struck by a high speed object and yet the craft remains livable. That’s an accolade to the engineering.”

“But why haven’t they reentered and landed?”

“There could be a variety of reasons, not all of them bad. But again, we just do not know. What we are sure of is that all our carefully planned emergency procedures are in progress, and the entire space community is joining hands to help get them back safely.”

“You can’t fly another of your ships up there and rescue them?”

“We only have one other ship at this time, and that very operation is being considered as we speak, yes.”

“And how long do they have? How much air?”

“Four days at least. They are in no danger right now, but we wouldn’t want to see them stay up there more than a few more days.”

Something catches her eye off camera and Diana glances to her right, spotting Richard, who is peeking around the corner and gesturing to her to finish and follow.

“I hope you’ll excuse me, but I have to go attend to something. We’ll keep you briefed.”

The reporter turns to the camera as Diana unclips the microphone and hands it off, pushing past six other camera crews to hurry from the room.

Her CEO is waiting at the end of the hallway, his expression even more sallow than before, and she wonders how that’s possible.

“What?”

“In here.”

She follows him into an empty office and closes the door.

“Diana, they’ve stayed up there too long.”

“Excuse me, isn’t that a ‘Well, duh!’ statement?”

“No, no… I mean, our orbital debris clearance was only good for half a day. They were never supposed to be in that orbit this long.”

“Richard, you’re trying to tell me something. Stop dancing.”

He sinks into the nearest chair, defeated. “NORAD called. There’s a piece of an old Russian booster in a polar orbit that’s going to take them out inside three hours.”

"What?"

“They said it’s a dead-on collision—they called it a conjunction—from the side at seventeen thousand miles per hour. It won’t be survivable.”

It’s her turn to be staggered, and she leans on the edge of the desk to absorb the news.

“There’s nothing we can do?” she asks.

“Maybe if we could talk to them! Otherwise, they’ll never see it coming.”

“God!”

“I know it.”

“Well… do we have to tell the world? I’d recommend we sit on it for a while at least.”

“Okay.”

“And, Richard, there’s one other thing, though it’s going to make me sound even colder than before.”

“What’s that?”

“Which is better? A catastrophic collision we can’t control instantly ending it, or a spacecraft with two dead people in it circling for a half century?”

“Good God, Diana!”

“Sorry, but think about it. Not that we can do anything.”

He’s on his feet and she can tell it was the wrong thing to throw at him. His frustration and panic have been looking for a target and she just handed him one.