Rachel the Warrior

Part Six

by G. Lawrence

In outer space without a driver's license

Recap: With the terrorist organization Nomad seeking to take control of nuclear missiles, Rachel has volunteered for a hazardous mission to an orbiting space station.

* * * * * *

Chapter Eleven

ORBITAL PLATFORMS

Colonel McKay opened the hatch accessing the platform's lower deck emergency portal. It wasn't a quick process, needing the station's compromised airlock time to acclimate. A voice came through on the intercom.

"Who's there? Who are you?" a woman asked.

"Colonel Jeremiah McKay, U.S. Space Command," McKay replied. "Hi, Linda. How's tricks?"

"We've had no notice of a relief mission," Lt. Colonel Linda Brundage answered, forty years old with short brownish blonde hair and tired green eyes.

"Was General St. Claire supposed to tell Nomad we were coming?" McKay asked.

"No, I guess not. Give us a second, we'll clear the entry," Linda offered.

Rachel and McKay heard activity above them. Instead of electronics operating the equipment, it was being done manually. The hatch rose up.

"I'll go first," McKay said, climbing from the capsule into the access shaft. Rachel saw dim lights above her and several people moving around.

"Hey, Linda. José. Kayla. Where's Alex?" McKay asked.

"He's on the command deck keeping an eye on the computers," Major José Martinez replied. The younger crew members were in their early thirties, looking nervous. Worn out. Each was wearing a different-colored space suit with open faceplates.

"Why are you here? What are your orders?" Captain Kayla Scarborough asked, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail.

"I'm here to help," McKay explained, emerging from the tube.

"We've tried everything, Colonel. Ground control has tried everything," Linda complained. "What do you expect to do?"

"I brought her," McKay replied, reaching down to help his passenger float up to the lower deck.

"What the fuck? It's Rachel Montgomery!" Kayla exclaimed.

"Wow, how did you get her?" Linda asked.

"Can you fix the station?" José wondered.

Rachel wasn't sure what to say. They looked hard-pressed. Scared. Filled with sudden expectations. She almost climbed back down into the capsule, but McKay pulled her out.

"Captain Rachel Harper, reporting for duty," Rachel said with a salute. The movement threw her off-balance. Being weightless was going to take practice.

"Friends, I think we need to give Rachel a breather," McKay recommended. "She's not an old pro like we are. Let's go to the crew module. Unwind a little, then you can give us your status reports."

Rachel was helped from the lower deck to a corridor near the middle of the space station. A hatch resembling a revolving door went into the rotating crew section where modest gravity asserted itself. Rachel was glad to see it had a lavatory. The instructions weren't complicated, but Kayla needed to help her out of the bulky suit.

The crew module had six sleeping chambers, a kitchen, a gym, and a lounge. The fourth crew member, Captain Alex Blanchet, came down from the command deck, Martinez taking his place. They changed into comfortable jumpsuits. Kayla made coffee, though Rachel would have preferred tea.

"I'm under orders from the President," McKay announced. "Rachel will try to regain control of the station, if that's possible. If not, we're to set the self-destruct and evacuate.

"That will be difficult, sir," Alex reported. "The only way we've been able to stop the deployment was to shut down the primary systems. We're at minimal power."

"And we need to stay alert," Linda explained. "Every few hours, they find a way to turn the systems back on. We keep someone at the controls 24/7 to turn them back off."

"The platform has less than twelve hours of life support," Kayla added. "Another three days, if we shelter in the shuttle. After that, we'll lose heat and oxygen. And there's no way to evac. We can't uncouple the shuttle without the orbital's power."

"The six of us aren't going to squeeze into that tiny capsule you came up in," Linda warned.

"Mission Control understands all of that. It's why we asked Rachel for help," McKay answered. "She invented the Level 12 matrix, and she has knowledge of this Level 13 Nomad is using. She might be able to find a solution."

All eyes turned to Rachel, who dropped her head. Her long brown hair covered most of her face. Her hands were clutched in her lap.

"Well?" Linda asked.

"Well what?" Rachel replied.

"What are you going to do about this?" Linda clarified.

"I don't know," Rachel confessed. "Nomad's ground-based mainframe is capable of overwhelming the signal strength produced by your platform. It will give them control once your power systems are restored. But Level 13's foundation is fundamentally compromised. The search functions and layering work against each other. This creates windows of opportunity to insert contradicting formulas. Level 13 will recognize the contradictions and rewrite them, given enough time. I just don't know how much time that will be."

"How much time do you think? A few hours? A few days?" Linda asked.

"Days? Oh, no. A few seconds. Maybe a minute, if we're lucky," Rachel answered.

"Then they'll have control again?" Alex said.

"Not if I keep rewriting the program," Rachel replied.

"You can do that?" Alex said.

"It will be hard," Rachel conceded.

The group grew quiet. Rachel's opinion was not grounds for optimism.

"Need food? A couple hours rest?" Linda asked. "These last forty-eight hours must have been hectic."

"I just got married," Rachel said. "Last night, I was honeymooning with my new husband. He's very handsome. If I could see your status reports, I'll know more in about an hour."

"The crew module is secure, but we're wearing our space suits on the command deck. In case there's an emergency," Kayla said. "Need help?"

"Yes, please. Getting in and out of that thing is such a nuisance," Rachel replied.

The platform's giant outer ring housed equipment, tools, power plants, storage and recycling systems. Designed for a staff of six, the capacity of their shuttlecraft, only four were on assignment. The command deck featured a large window with a spectacular view of Earth and the stars. Chairs bolted to the floor provided stability while they were working at the control panels. Rachel took the center seat, briefly studying the many darkened inputs.

"Main power is here," José explained. "These screens provide status, monitoring, and communications. If we turn the power back on, the countdown on the missiles resumes. It's that clock over there. There are six warbirds."

Rachel took out the tablet she'd brought from Houston, reviewing her notes. Then she looked over the report each crew member provided based on their areas of expertise. The process took several hours.

"Your life support is compromised because you can't channel enough power from the solar collectors to the batteries?" she asked.

"Yes. We've been stretching our resources for the last week," José said.

"We can fix that," Rachel suggested. She took off her gloves, poised her slender fingers over the control panel, and switched the power back on.

"Whoa, what are you doing?" José said in panic.

All of the monitors were suddenly back up, many flashing brightly. One station showed the six missile silos with the launch sequences counting down. Rachel worked quickly, inputting codes, overriding encryptions, and installing new formulas. After thirty seconds, she turned the power back off. The countdowns paused.

"Life Support is up and running," Kayla reported. "Water. Heat. Air. Power on the microwaves."

"I was able to give your batteries an extra eighty-four hours," Rachel said. "The next attempt will be riskier."

"What about the primary systems? The shuttlecraft?" McKay asked.

"There wasn't much I could do there," Rachel admitted. "It will take several minutes to circumvent Level 13's grip on the grid, and it won't take them long to take it back. The margin of error is very narrow."

"How narrow?" McKay pressed.

"Under two minutes," Rachel replied.

"At least you've bought us some time," Linda gratefully said.

"What's the next step?" José asked.

"I don't know. It took me three years to stabilize the Level 12 matrix," Rachel explained. "The U.S. government's Level 13 was never fully stabilized, and Nomad is using a clone cobbled together by hackers. All I know at the moment is that it's very powerful."

"Can you take a break? I think you need it," McKay advised.

"Yes, sir. That would be good," Rachel agreed.

All but José returned to the crew module. Rachel took a deep breath as she got free of the suit. It was growing tiresome. She noticed a galley.

"Who does the cooking?" she asked.

"Mostly prepared meals, but we have a few spices," Kayla said. "Not so good as an aircraft carrier, but better than field rations."

"Mind if I make dinner?" Rachel requested.

* * * * * *

Walsh got home a little after midnight, finding an RV in his driveway. A young black man was sitting in a chair between the vehicle and the garage, watching. Walsh gave Darnell a nod and knocked on the aluminum door.

"Yes, Mr. Harper?" McLane said.

"May I come in?" Walsh requested.

Twenty feet long with three bunks, a kitchen, and stocked with communications gear, the RV acted as a mobile headquarters. Cameras studying the neighborhood were monitoring for threats. It also had a small arsenal. McLane seated Walsh at the table and poured him a cup of coffee. Then waited.

"I owe you an apology. You, and your daughter," Walsh said. "The night you were here with Rachel, I resented it. Strangers parked on my street. Intruders. And the stories I'd heard about Rachel ... I'm just sorry. Very, very sorry. When I saw you walking her down the aisle, I finally got it. I'm not making any excuses."

Walsh reached out his hand. McLane took a long look at the man without reacting.

"Did she scan you?" McLane asked.

"Did she what?"

"Did Rachel stare at you real hard. Enough to take your breath away. Did her eyes seem to change color?"

"How did you know?"

"What did she say?"

"She said I need to grow up."

"Have you grown up?"

"Yes."

McLane shook Walsh's hand, giving it a firm grip.

The house was quiet when Walsh entered. He saw Tom and Virginia on the back porch, looking at the bay. Everyone else had turned in, but he doubted they were getting much sleep. He found a beer and went out on the patio.

"Walsh, you look like hell," Virginia said, jumping up to hug him.

"It's been a long day," he replied.

"Rachel?" Tom asked.

"She gave their life support a boost. Enough to give them extra time," Walsh reported. "I presume we have guests?"

"I asked Pam and her daughter to stay over," Virginia said. "And Rory's girlfriend is here, too."

"Her girlfriend?" Walsh inquired.

"Rory's gay girlfriend," Virginia clarified.

"Is that going to be a problem?" Tom asked.

"No, Son. After this, nothing is ever going to be a problem again."

It didn't take long for Harpers and Bensons to emerge from their rooms. Walsh was introduced to Dr. Ashley Wilkerson, a bit surprised to discover the tall, freckled redhead was a general practitioner working at the USC Medical Center. He gave her a warm hug, welcoming her to his home.

"No one should be worrying," Walsh said once the crowd settled down.

Eric was sitting with Rory and Ashley. Kevin was in the kitchen preparing snacks, giving his mother a break. Walsh saw that his wife and Pamela were growing close, often whispering confidentially.

"Did you talk to her?" Rory asked.

"No, nothing like that," Walsh said. "Nomad still thinks they're up against a bunch of bush-leaguers. If they knew we've recruited Joe DiMaggio, they'd be playing this a lot differently."

"Joe DiMaggio?" Ashley said.

"He was a Hall of Fame baseball player for the New York Yankees," Kevin said.

"Everyone knows who Joe DiMaggio is," Ashley replied. "But Rachel?"

"We're hoping she's a game changer," Walsh explained. "Folks, I've got to be honest. We were out of options. We knew it, and Nomad knew it. It was game over. At least now we have a fighting chance."

"Sounds like you've changed your tune, Dad," Eric smugly observed.

"Son, I may be an idiot, but I'm not stupid," Walsh replied.

"If anyone can make the difference, it will be Rachel," Pamela hoped.

"What's been happening in the real world?" Walsh asked. "We've been so busy at Mission Control, we hardly get a chance to breathe."

"Oh, not much. Just worldwide panic and chaos," Tom said.

Walsh waited for the punchline, but there wasn't one.

"He's not kidding," Virginia said.

"You didn't know?" Tom questioned. "They're evacuating New York, Philadelphia, and Washington D.C."

"London and Berlin are targeted," Rory said. "New Delhi and Tokyo. Millions of people are running for their lives."

"China's scared, too," Eric added. "Nomad says if Premier Xiang betrays them, they'll be on the list."

"Nomad only has one friend," Pamela said. "Russia. And my sources say Nomad is holding back a missile to keep them in line."

"Your sources?" Virginia asked.

"Not to brag, but my cousin is head of the most powerful communications corporation in the world. There's nothing Sheila can't find out if she wants to," Pamela answered.

"Two months ago, that would have made me mad," Walsh said. "Now I'm grateful. Can't WHD's Level 12 do something about this renegade matrix?"

"Our techs say the operating parameters are fundamentally different," Pamela replied. "WHD is an interactive library. Level 13 is command and control. Rachel could have configured Level 12 that way, but she thought it was too dangerous."

"And it was," Kevin concluded.

"Rach is so far ahead of us," Rory said. "Years ahead. I wish the government had listened to her."

"They will the next time, if we get through this," Walsh hoped.

* * * * * *

"That was another great meal, Rachel. Thank you," Alex said. "I didn't know you could make a decent beef stew out of all that junk."

"Just the right ingredients, combined in the proper order, and heated at exactly the right temperature," Rachel said. "It works for baby food, too."

McKay and three of HEO-6's team members were gathered in the crew module comfortably dressed. Two had just woken up, and one was about to turn in. The fourth remained on the bridge, watching the controls.

"You have a baby, don't you?" Kayla inquired.

"He's not really a baby anymore. Danny will be three in September," Rachel replied. "He lives at Canby Place with his half-sister and half-brother. Lisa and Gabe are two and a half now. My new sister-in-law is pregnant, too. Samantha and William haven't even been married a year yet. Canby Place is going to look like a daycare center."

Kayla noticed a special light in Rachel's eyes when talking about her family. It hadn't occurred to her that a celebrity scientist like Rachel would be so centered on her home life.

"We're thankful for your help," Linda said. "If you hadn't arrived when you did, we'd be hunkered down in the shuttle wondering how to shake loose."

"That shuttle isn't shaking loose, Linda," McKay said. "We need to get the platform to drop it." The four of them looked at Rachel.

"I haven't discovered how to do that yet," Rachel said. "Not without releasing the missiles at the same time. But I'm working on it."

"If worse comes to worst, two of you can escape in the capsule. Draw straws or something," McKay offered.

"And who's going to fly it?" Alex asked. "Can't Nomad seize the guidance system the moment you turn it on?"

"Maybe Nomad will be preoccupied with something else?" McKay suggested.

"No. We all go or none," Linda decided. "We're still military. United States military. We don't cut and run on our brothers and sisters."

"Do you know what you're saying?" McKay warned.

"Better than you do, Jeremiah," Linda replied.

"We'll know in the morning," Rachel concluded with a yawn. "When is morning? How can you tell?"

"It's already morning. 0800," Linda said.

"I should get some sleep. Four hours will be enough," Rachel requested, getting up from the kitchen table.

"You've hardly been away from those control boards for two days. Take a few extra hours," Kayla recommended.

"I'll try. It's hard to sleep with so much to do," Rachel said, going into one of the empty compartments and closing the door.

"What do you think?" McKay whispered.

"She's doing everything that can be done, I just don't know if it's enough," Kayla answered. "The way those panels are locked up, whenever we make a move, it's unraveled within seconds. We're lucky they haven't been able to get ahead of us."

"They will eventually," Linda worried. "They have time, the power, and staff to make it happen. All we have is a tired woman and clueless ground teams."

"Nomad can't be that much better than our guys," McKay protested.

"They were the world's greatest hackers, roaming the planet causing trouble. Then they got their own country, and Russia to protect them," Alex said. "They had the first strike advantage, and now they have some nutjob calling the shots who wants to make a new world order. I don't think this is going to end well."

"Don't give up hope," Linda urged.

"I'm not giving up anything. Just saying the obvious," Alex replied.

"Rachel has been developing matrix systems since she was a sophomore at Harvard. Back then, no one even knew what that was," McKay reminded. "If she thinks there's a chance, we should believe her."

"She also has a reputation for a mental disorder," Alex pointed out. "People I know say she's crazy. How do we know if her meds are working?"

"I guess we don't," McKay conceded. "We'll need to have faith."

In the light-gravity bedchamber, Rachel was having trouble sleeping. The solution was increasingly apparent. Not a solution she wanted, but that wasn't up to her. The reports from down below were awful. Jammed highways. Swamped airports. People were getting hurt trying to flee the target areas, and some of them were children. Millions may not escape in time.

Is there something I could have done to prevent this? she wondered. She had the opportunity to destroy the government's Level 13 several years before, but it would have been illegal. She would have gone to prison. Would it have been worth it?

No, she thought. Mother always says that everything that happens in the world isn't my fault. People need to take responsibility for their own actions. Their own decisions. Just like she would need to take responsibility for hers.

The next morning, or afternoon, as the artificial time had it, Rachel donned the heavy silver space suit she'd brought from Houston, keeping the faceplate open. Kayla helped her find the most comfortable fit, having years of experience.

"Are you good?" Kayla asked.

"Yes, Kayla. Thank you," Rachel confirmed. The other crew members were suited, too. Thought to be necessary in the outer ring, where the life support systems were at risk. They left the crew module, transitioning to zero gravity on the command deck.

"This is the day decisions need to be made," McKay announced. "We can't maintain this platform much longer."

"I realize that, sir. I have a plan," Rachel said. "You need to prepare the shuttle. I've discovered a program that will allow it to detach without launching the missiles."

"We can't leave them intact. Nomad will get control, probably within hours," Linda warned.

"I have a plan for that, too," Rachel assured her. "Sequences will be implemented to destroy the platform before Nomad can launch the missiles."

"Are you sure?" José asked.

"Yes, I'm sure," Rachel replied.

"These are high stakes," Alex doubted. "If you're wrong, entire cities will be destroyed."

"I'm not wrong," Rachel said just as firmly.

"Okay. Well, this is why I brought Rachel up here," McKay agreed, seeming relieved. "How does this work?"

"You need to batten down the hatches, or whatever you call it when you secure your equipment," Rachel instructed. "Download all the pertinent data because you won't be coming back."

"Doesn't sound too hard," José said.

"We have permission to destroy the platform, don't we?" Rachel asked. "I've only been in the army a few days. I don't want to get court-martialed."

"No one will court-martial you," Linda promised.

"They'll give you a medal," Kayla insisted.

"I don't need a medal," Rachel responded.

The crew went around the platform, locking down their tools and supplies, while McKay and Kayla prepared the shuttle. They made sure each astronaut had access to emergency life support, and each seat had an ejector mechanism once they were close enough to the ground. José gathered the hard drives while destroying top-secret devices. Rachel said she only needed the controls on the command deck.

With everything ready, Rachel powered the station back up. Lights appeared. Monitors activated. Computers relayed information. The countdown on the missiles resumed. She wasn't wearing her gloves, making it easier to manipulate the inputs, but kept them nearby just in case. After forty seconds, she powered the station down.

"You make that look so easy," José complimented.

"I've been doing this a long time," Rachel replied. "There's only enough leeway to turn the lights on once more. Everyone needs to board the shuttle and be ready. Everything will happen very fast."

Rachel followed them to the lower deck, past the portal where she and McKay had entered a few days before, to the airlock protecting the shuttlecraft. The vehicle was twenty times bigger than the capsule she'd come up in, and probably twenty years newer.

"How does this work?" Linda asked as her crew boarded. "We can't detach with the power off."

"I'll take care of that," Rachel said. "Colonel McKay, you still need to watch out for Nomad's interference. Don't turn on the guidance controls unless you need to."

"I don't need guidance controls. I can land this puppy in my sleep," McKay bragged.

They settled in, leaving the co-pilot seat next to McKay open.

"Aren't you boarding now?" Linda asked.

"I need to turn the power back on," Rachel answered. "It won't take long."

"Maybe I should come with you?" McKay suggested.

"You need to be at your controls, sir. Please, just follow the protocols," Rachel urged.

She backtracked, took a look around the lower deck, and floated back up to the command deck. She saw Earth through the window. The long elliptical loop was bringing the station back into close proximity. Just as Nomad would want. She imagined their techs anticipating victory. She hoped the evacuations had gone well. Regardless of what she'd told Linda, there were no guarantees.

"Rachel, how's it going?" McKay asked over the intercom.

"All according to plan, sir," she replied.

She took a deep breath before turning the power on one last time. The systems jumped to life. All six missiles were prepared to launch. The eighteen warheads they carried were armed, and there was nothing she could do about that.

"Rachel? Rachel?" McKay requested.

"Have a safe flight down, sir," she responded. Then she used the launch station to close the shuttle's hatch and blow the docking clamps, setting the vehicle loose. When it drifted free, the maneuvering jets ignited.

"Rachel? Goddamn it! Rachel! No! No!" McKay yelled. But there was nothing he could do. The platform was moving away at high speed.

Rachel wasn't ready to let Nomad have the missiles. If she could take control of one, even briefly, a warhead might be detonated prematurely. Only harmless space junk would remain. She accessed Nomad's codes and overrode them. They reestablished contact. She sabotaged them again, and they were back again. The battle lasted twenty minutes. Whoever was manipulating Level 13 was good.

The countdown continued in fits and starts, a few seconds at a stretch. Eventually she'd run out of time. She turned her attention to the platform. The battery power was adequate to set off a series of powerful explosives that would rip the launch silos apart, and much of the space station with it. She primed the detonators and began entering the destruct codes. Level 13 interfered. Rachel countermanded the interference and started work on the missiles again.

The Nomad techs were having trouble with Rachel's counterprogramming. She moved from the missiles to the platform and back in rapidly changing sequences. Her codes were complex. Nomad was just as stubborn.

Thousands of miles away, Mission Control was trying to make sense of their readings.

"What's going on?" Taylor demanded.

"Can't be sure, sir. It looks like the shuttle has separated from the platform," Engineering Specialist Friedman replied, a bright young man quick on the controls.

"They're coming back? Without disarming the missiles?" Taylor asked.

"All six Cheetahs are showing active," Friedman responded. "They could launch any time now."

A new message came in. Friedman had it piped over the loudspeakers.

"Houston, this is McKay," a frustrated voice said. "We're positioning for approach to Edwards Air Force Base. Our special package is not aboard. Repeat, special package is not aboard."

"What are they saying?" Walsh asked, monitoring the life science station.

"I don't know. Hopefully not what I'm thinking. Establish contact with McKay. Get me answers," Taylor ordered.

"General, HEO-6 is back online," Friedman said. "We're accessing the command deck."

"Control?" Taylor asked.

"No control. Tracking only," Friedman said.

"One person is still aboard the orbital," Walsh reported, monitoring bioreadings. "Frank? I think it's Rachel."

Rachel was wearing out. She still wanted to deactivate the missiles, or lock the silos, but realized that wasn't likely. She was confident of accessing the platform's self-destruct, as a last resort.

Then there was a new development. Somewhere on the platform, an airlock suddenly opened, sucking the atmosphere into space. It was done so violently that equipment tore loose, bouncing around the deck. Then vents opened. The temperature went from 70 degrees Fahrenheit to minus 450.

Anticipating such a maneuver, Rachel quickly pulled her faceplate closed, donned her gloves, and locked the seals. The suit held sufficient heat and oxygen to last several hours. Though the gloves would limit her dexterity, that couldn't be helped. She tried again to sabotage the missiles, but Level 13 was getting ahead of her.

Equipment began to freeze. The station controls were designed for vacuum, in an emergency. They wouldn't function once they lost power. Rachel saw her margin for error rapidly shrinking.

Secrecy no longer seemed important. She opened a communications channel to let Mission Control know her status. It looked like the antennas had ground contact, but she couldn't hear anything. Could they hear her? Level 13 made another grab for the missiles. Rachel fought back with everything she had.

* * * * * *

Chapter Twelve

NUCLEAR WEAPONS

Mission Control monitored events as best they could. Large screens showed the programming sequences Nomad was using to launch the missiles, and Rachel's counterprogramming to keep the weapons out of reach. Sometimes the progressions moved so fast, they were impossible to comprehend. Taylor looked up to the second-floor gallery, seeing news crews and television cameras.

"Darla, what the hell are they doing here?" Taylor asked.

"The President invited them," Space Command's commanding officer explained. "He thinks the people need to know we're doing everything we can. Maybe it will help ease the panic."

"Do they know who we have on that platform?" Taylor said.

"Rumors are leaking out," St. Claire responded.

Taylor paced the floor. Forty technicians at twenty monitoring stations were correlating data, adjusting antennas, and trying to establish communications. Reports from the orbital platform showed the struggle for control continuing.

"Goddamn it, what's going on?" Taylor grumbled.

"Program and counterprogram. Code and overwrite," Friedman said.

"Explain it to me," Taylor demanded.

"Montgomery is keeping Level 13 at bay, but she's losing ground," Friedman said. "It's like a fast-moving chess game, only Nomad has more pieces."

"They're attacking the platform!" Tech Specialist Rita Vasquez suddenly shouted, a slender young woman in her early thirties. "Nomad is destabilizing HEO-6's life support systems."

"Can you stop them?" Taylor asked.

"No, sir. All attempts ineffective," Vasquez replied, trying every code she knew.

"Walsh?" Taylor inquired.

"Rachel's bioreadings are stable," Walsh reported from the life sciences station. "Her suit is maintaining integrity."

"We're getting a message," Communications Specialist Goro Yamamora reported, a grizzled scientist in his late fifties. "It's coming from the platform."

"Put it over the general com," Taylor ordered.

The control center grew quiet as static burst from the loudspeakers. And then there was a voice. It was soft. Frightened, but steady. Hesitant.

"I'm sorry, General. I can't keep ahead of their coding much longer," Rachel said. "It's just a matter of time now. General? General Taylor? Houston, are you getting my transmission?"

There was a pause. The control room struggled to strengthen the signal.

"We can hear her. She can't hear us," Yamamora informed.

"Break through! Goddamn it, break through!" Taylor demanded. "It can't end like this. Not with her out there all alone."

Houston's signals were boosted, to no avail.

"Sorry, sir. There's nothing more we can do," Yamamora concluded.

"Where's the shuttle?" General St. Claire asked.

"Reentry successful, ma'am," Friedman replied. "Now on final approach. McKay reports all systems go."

"At least that's something," St. Claire said.

"More coming in from HEO-6," Yamamora announced.

"Houston, if we have contact," Rachel transmitted. "I can't override the launch sequences, but I've accessed the platform's self-destruct."

They heard sounds over the com. Disruption. Wreckage. Screens showed Rachel trying to break Nomad's codes, and their Level 13 fighting back just as hard.

"She has battery power on the detonators, sir," Vasquez said. "If she can get through the next series of codes, Nomad won't be able to block her."

"They're not going down easy," Friedman warned. "They have control of the orbital's maintenance systems. Nomad is venting heat and atmosphere."

"Walsh?" Taylor asked.

"Her bio-readings are stable. Rachel's suit is still holding integrity," Walsh advised. "There's about two hours left on her environmental unit."

"And after that?" Taylor pressed.

"Frank, there is no after that. The platform is fatally compromised," Walsh replied.

"Does she know?" Yamamora asked.

"She knows," Walsh confirmed.

"Houston, the self-destruct is downloading," Rachel relayed. "Just another minute."

There was a somber pause, all realizing what it meant. And then something was different. The reporters in the gallery were on their feet. Sound technicians made sure the feed was getting back to their networks.

"What's that?" Taylor asked, hearing a strange humming.

"It's Rachel," Walsh said. "Yamamora, boost that."

The signal strength increased, allowing the softly whispered song to be heard over the loudspeakers.

"Is it a poem?" Yamamora asked.

"It's a ballad. A very old ballad," Friedman replied.

Taylor ordered the volume up, Rachel's voice drifting through the control room like a wistful ghost.

"They say there's a land

Where dreams may come true

A land of fond wishes

Where troubles are few

It's a place where I'm going

Beyond where I've been

On this journey that takes me home."

"It's working. She's holding them off," Friedman reported. "She's accessed the self-destruct."

"Be quiet," Taylor said, hearing Rachel clearly through the speakers.

"Life makes our choices

Not those that we want

The stars make decisions

For battles we've fought

So now I must leave you

Though it's not what I'd choose

On this journey that takes me home."

Taylor wasn't the only one heeding Rachel's farewell. Millions across the country could hear it. At the Harper house, Pamela and Virginia sat on the couch, holding hands. Tom stood at the brick fireplace, head down, his brothers standing close. Rory sat in the corner with Ashley, stoic. Rachel finished the old Scottish hymn just as the activation sequences reached a climax.

"When I am gone

Don't look for me there

Don't fear that I'm lost

Or burdened with cares

I'm bound for a new world

One where I'm loved

On this journey that takes me home."

"That's it. She has lock," Friedman said. "Should we transmit the destruct order?"

"She can't even read us," Taylor replied. "It's her show now. It always has been."

They watched the boards as the codes were entered, each sequence falling into place. Lights flashed warnings of imminent destruction. There was no hesitation on Rachel's part. Taylor envisioned her at the control panel, her brow furrowed in concentration, fighting Level 13's counterprogramming as she sought to override the failsafe protocols.

"General, Nomad is throwing everything they have at her," Vasquez reported. "Their Level 13 is completely occupied."

"Engage full analysis modes," Taylor ordered. "Find every weakness those goddammed sons of bitches have. We'll make them pay for this."

The final sequence appeared. The system asked if a countdown was requested. Rachel signaled No, and then Proceed.

"What happened? Is that it?" Taylor asked, seeing the boards go blank. "Did it blow?"

"I don't know, General. We've got nothing on instrumentation," Friedman replied.

* * * * * *

Rachel was getting frustrated. She'd finally cracked the codes on the self-destruct but knew it would only last a few seconds. She saw a green light. There was no time to think of her son, or Tom, her mom, or anyone. No time. She gritted her teeth and activated the trigger.

Nomad's Level 13 countered her, jamming the communications array. The self-destruct refused to detonate. She wanted to pound the console, angry she hadn't been quick enough. Everything she attempted was being overwhelmed by stronger signals.

Then Rachel realized an opportunity. Nomad's techs had diverted all of their attention to the orbital's primary systems while blocking the self-destruct and venting atmosphere. Had she not been wearing the space suit, the vacuum would have finished her. Their efforts briefly caused the missiles to be bypassed.

She'd have to work fast. The six launch tubes were directly below the command deck, magnetically locked prior to ignition of the rocket boosters. She opened the ports, demagnetized the locks, and coaxed the missiles to drift free of the platform. She saw Cheetah #1 through the observation window, six meters long and a meter in diameter. A big orange cat with sharp claws was painted on the side. Three warheads were enclosed in the nose cone, ready to deploy once they approached their targets.

Rachel dropped all efforts to protect the orbital platform's vital systems, focusing on the missile as it emerged before her. Its control readings appeared on her screen. One code would ignite the rocket engines. Another determined the destination. The third was a maintenance protocol. She had no control over the launch code, or the targeting, but she could access the repair panel. Rachel smiled as she overloaded pressure in the liquid oxygen fuel tank, watching the gauges rise to critical. The container exploded.

She held her breath, waiting for the warheads to detonate. They didn't. Without a power source, they might not be able to. Rachel assumed they'd be lost in deep space, or burn up while reentering the atmosphere. She didn't know and didn't care. They were someone else's problem.

The second missile floated free of its tube, and apparently the Nomad techs weren't catching on. They were busy imploding the orbital's airlocks. Blowing ventilation apertures. Draining power couplings. Though anything loose on the command deck was being sucked out into space, Rachel remained strapped in her bolted chair. She guessed Nomad's techs were envisioning her running back and forth from one crisis to the next, trying to buy a few extra minutes of life.

She repeated the same procedure on Cheetah #2, sabotaging the liquid oxygen tank. A brief flare broke the missile in half, the pieces travelling in different directions. Cheetah #3 was destroyed, then #4, but the process was taking longer than she hoped. She cursed the thick gloves that made inputting more difficult.

There was a violent vibration below her. Someone on the ground had figured out her scheme and tried to launch Cheetah #5, but it was already halfway out of the tube. Readings showed the sudden thrust had twisted the rocket sideways, jamming it. The timer activated. In two hours and twenty-five minutes, the missile would destroy the platform. The detonation wouldn't affect her. She only had ninety minutes left on her life support unit.

The remaining missile was a problem. When she tried to sabotage the fuel tank, her instructions were overridden. Nomad was finally on to her. She tried a different sequence, but they got ahead of her. Then another attempt failed. She worked fast, trying everything she could think of. She did manage to seal the nose cone, preventing the warheads from deploying separately. They could only strike one target now. But she wasn't getting control of the launch sequence, and finally realized she wasn't going to. The signal strength being directed against her was immense, and the platform was nearly dead.

What to do? She reviewed the targeting array, seeing the trajectories that were plotted. The rockets were ready to ignite. None of her codes were effective, so she channeled the platform's remaining energy to the communications array.

"Houston! This is Montgomery," she summoned, struggling for breath. "Houston! Houston! Do we have com?"

There was no response. Rachel knew the orbital was emitting a sufficient wavelength, her receptors just weren't functioning.

"Mission Control, Cheetahs one through four are disabled. Cheetah #5 is hung up in the launch tube and counting down. I've lost control of #6. The specified targets are New York, Philadelphia, and Washington D.C. The warheads are bound. Only one target is achievable. Repeat, only one target is achievable. I don't know which one."

A piece of the platform tore away. Rachel guessed the stress would soon shatter the command deck. She had a good view of the planet. Blue and brown, with streaky gray clouds.

"I'll try to override the missile's programming until the last second," Rachel said. "If I can block Nomad's signals, there might be a chance."

The platform suddenly turned sideways, the crew quarters tearing off. Rachel gripped her chair with one hand, keeping the communication panel open with the other. Huge holes appeared in the walls.

"Houston, the platform is breaking up. Cheetah #6 has launched. I can't see it anymore," Rachel reported. There was a long pause.

"I'm sorry, Houston, I can't afford to expend more energy on communications. All remaining signal strength is being focused on the missile. Danny, Tom, Mom, all of you. I love you so much. I love you forever. Numbers 23:23."

Rachel shut down the com station, resisting an urge to cry. The orbital's power was fading rapidly. Even her attempted interference was feeble, Nomad's ground-based network intensifying. She'd done all she could, gazing out the window as the platform slowly disintegrated.

* * * * * *

Mission Control was quiet, the teams reading their screens with little hope of positive developments. Reporters had been removed from the gallery.

"Nothing, sir. Just debris," Yamamora reported.

"The missile?" Taylor asked.

"Maneuvering for an entry window," Friedman answered.

"Inform NORAD we have one incoming, eastern seaboard," Taylor ordered.

"She reduced eighteen warheads to one, sir," Vasquez said. "That was incredible work."

"And all it cost was her life," Taylor concluded. He glanced at Walsh for his reaction. Rachel's father-in-law was sitting with his head down, hands in his lap, sobbing.

"What was that about numbers?" Taylor asked.

"It's from the Bible, sir. The Fourth Book of Moses," Friedman said. "Surely there is no enchantment against Jacob, neither is there any divination against Israel: according to this time it shall be said of Jacob and Israel, What hath God wrought."

"She did everything she could to protect us," Vasquez concluded.

"I should call my son. Let him know," Walsh said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

"The whole world knows, Mr. Harper," Yamamora said. "Every network in America was broadcasting those final transmissions."

"She deserves the Medal of Honor," Vasquez suggested.

"Rachel wasn't out there for medals," Taylor said. "She was out there for us. For our families. For her family."

"FEMA is reporting the evacuations are on schedule," Friedman informed, accessing an outside feed. "The zones are almost clear."

"Almost clear?" Walsh asked.

"As clear as they're going to be. Thousands are refusing to leave," Friedman said. "They say it's a hoax."

"There's still a chance the missile will overshoot," Vasquez said. "Montgomery was doing everything she could to scramble their programming. Nomad is using full power to circumvent her countermeasures."

"We can only hope," Taylor said, beginning to pace again.

The huge control center was no longer frantic. They had tracking, but interception was NORAD's job. The teams sat at their control stations, monitoring. Few were talking.

"Walsh, you can make that call now," Taylor permitted.

"It's going to be hard," Walsh said.

"All of this has been hard," Taylor replied.

Walsh retired to a quiet alcove, getting an outside line. No cell phones were allowed in the control center. He waited, hearing the phone ring.

"Virginia?" he said.

"Walsh. We're all here," his wife answered.

"No final word, but it's not good."

"We've been listening. She sounded so brave, Walsh."

"Rachel did all she promised, and more. Everyone here is proud of her."

"Do you want to talk to Tommy?"

"I should."

Walsh waited, hearing conversation in the background.

"Dad?" Tom said.

"Yes. I'm still at Mission Control," Walsh answered.

"We're on speaker phone. Rachel's mom and sister are here. Is there any hope?"

"I'm afraid we've lost contact. If it helps, she was fighting to the very end. McKay and his crew landed safely, seventeen of the cities Nomad targeted are safe, and we're hoping to save the last one. That's all because of Rachel. All of it. She saved millions of lives today."

"She would have liked that. Rachel puts it all on the line, and she hates to fail."

"Son, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry you didn't have more time together. She was a wonderful woman."

"Thanks, Dad. When will we know ... Know more about what happened?"

"Can't really say. What's left of the platform is surrounded by a debris field. And we've still got one warbird in motion."

"We'll let you get back to work. I appreciate the call," Tom said, hanging up.

Walsh returned to the control center, seeing heightened activity.

"What's going on?" he asked, taking his usual station.

"Cheetah #6 is coming in high and fast over the Pacific," Friedman asked. "Maybe too high."

"Too high?" Vasquez said, checking her boards.

"I'm getting the bird's readings," Yamamora reported.

"Where's it going?" Taylor asked.

"I can't tell. Something is wrong here," Yamamora replied.

"Very wrong," Friedman said. "Recalibrate that trajectory. Hurry!"

Every team was at their station, correlating data. Course, speed, angle.

"It's overshooting," Vasquez said.

"That's a hell of an overshoot," Yamamora remarked.

"It's not overshooting. She fucked them!" Friedman exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

"Explain," Taylor demanded.

"Montgomery tricked Nomad's Level 13 into locking on the guidance system," Vasquez said. "The missile is following the strongest signal back to its source."

"That's why she was saying all that bull about staying with it to the last minute," Yamamora agreed. "She got Nomad's ground control to boost their coding to its highest frequency. It's overwhelming the missile's original programming."

"It's goddamn brilliant," Friedman said, double-checking his figures.

"Where's it going?" Walsh asked.

"Balakaria," Yamamora replied. "Their coordination complex at Vos'stat."

"Nomad's given up control of our satellites," Vasquez said. "We should be able to get positioning."

"See to it," Taylor instructed.

"Nomad's techs are trying to disengage their Level 13," Friedman reported.

"Good luck with that," Vasquez said. "The matrix systems don't respond kindly to outside manipulation."

"We've learned that the hard way," Walsh said.

"Cheetah #6 is over the Atlantic on a steady arc," Friedman updated. "It's going to clear NATO airspace."

"Russia is standing down their interceptors," Yamamora said. "They don't want the missile changing course toward them."

"Two minutes and counting," Friedman said. "Balakaria is launching last-minute interceptors. No hits yet."

The room waited, watching the clocks wind down. Vasquez found a satellite over the target area and put the image up on the big screen.

"Five, four, three, two, one," Friedman counted.

The giant monitor filled with a flash so bright it hurt their eyes. There was a massive red and yellow plume, followed by a towering black cloud.

"Remember what Rachel said in that final transmission?" Walsh remarked. "Numbers 23:23."

"What hath God wrought," Taylor recalled.

* * * * * *

Rachel promised her mother not to give up. The platform may be moments away from disintegration, but that didn't mean she had to stay there.

The atmosphere, or lack of it, had equalized. She unstrapped herself and floated free of the command chair, using her hands to move along the wall. The suit had flashlights, allowing her to see. Everything was black and gray. Much of the equipment was broken. The spare space suits were gone. There was a void where the crew module used to be, allowing her to see the stars.

She moved down an opening to the lower deck. It was in bad shape, too. If Colonel McKay's space capsule was still intact, maybe she could take the helmet off. The suit was stifling. If not, the capsule would still be a more comfortable place to die than the dreary platform. She crawled toward the emergency airlock, being careful not to exert too much momentum. A careless movement would throw her outside into the debris field.

She found the hatch between the EVA prep area and the equipment depot. The plate looked bent, but when Rachel lifted it up, the cover came free. Much to her relief. The inner hatch seemed okay. She pushed the open switch, but nothing happened. There was no power. There was a hand crank.

Thank God for that dumb training, Rachel thought. At the time, she'd thought it unnecessary. She only wanted to memorize the orbital's control panels. Now she was doing real astronaut stuff, opening the hatch, working her way down the conduit, sealing the hatch behind her, and finding the power switches. The capsule wasn't dead yet, lights coming on and the chamber filling with a reassuring atmosphere. Once the pressure gauge read normal, Rachel opened the faceplate, happier than she thought she should be. The air felt wonderful in her lungs.

She wondered if any of the capsule's systems were still functioning. It looked banged up from all the platform's jostling. She tried activating the communications, but there was no signal. She wondered what happened to the surviving missile. And Colonel McKay. Had they landed safely?

There were lots of controls, but she didn't know what they did. She'd never driven a car, let alone a spaceship. She wondered if it was like on TV. Not that she watched much TV.

The life support systems seemed to work automatically. The temperature was cool but not unpleasant. One less thing to worry about. There were twenty-four hours of oxygen remaining, not that it would help after Cheetah #5's warheads went off. And then it occurred to her. Do I need to stay here? How does this thing get loose?

Rachel began inspecting the control systems. One activated a screen with lots of readings on it. She had no idea what they were saying. The instruction tablet she'd brought from the Johnson Space Center was still in her room on the crew module. Wherever that had gone.

Separation sequence. Separation? Separate from what? She looked at the time. The warhead would detonate in forty minutes. She had no idea what happened when there was a nuclear explosion in space. Had it ever been tested before? Were there ripples? Or waves? Certainly a great deal of heat.

There wasn't much to lose. She put the faceplate back down, made sure the seal was tight, and cautiously activated the separation protocol. There was a mild vibration. Was the capsule moving? She looked out the tiny triangular window to see the platform getting smaller. Something was pushing the craft backward. To where?

Rachel was sure there was a logic to all the strange readings, but there were so many of them. Some were obvious, such as velocity and orientation. The capsule had retrorockets. Which way they went, and why, were a mystery. The capsule seemed to be dropping toward Earth. That wasn't good. Even she knew things caught on fire going through the atmosphere. Somehow astronauts were able to avoid that. How? She had no idea.

She tried communications again, hearing static. There was no evidence the craft was emitting signals. The wavelength monitors were a maze. She took a deep breath and wondered if there were any water bottles aboard. She was thirsty. And feeling hazy. The excitement of escaping a collapsing space station should have kept her adrenaline high, but it wasn't offsetting the stress.

The Earth outside her window disappeared. And then reappeared. And then disappeared. The capsule was spinning, making her sick. She wanted to start pushing buttons. Make the nausea go away. Vibrations began. Was the capsule hitting the atmosphere? She'd heard some objects burn up, but others bounce off the atmosphere into space. What did that mean? Bounce off to where? The moon? Mars?

A screen said, "guidance control." She tapped it with her finger. Hopefully it would tell Houston where she was, though nothing on the screen indicated they knew anything. If the craft was receiving any kind of signals, they weren't apparent. She was feeling dizzy, finding it hard to concentrate. Was the capsule damaged? Losing oxygen? It started growing hot. Very hot. Burning. She wanted to open the faceplate, desperate for a breath of fresh air. A final breath. She thought about her family. And Tom. What a handsome husband she had. There were flames outside her window. Crackling sounds so loud she couldn't hear anything else. And then she passed out.

* * * * * *

"Sections of HEO-6 will be coming down for weeks," Yamamora said. "How should we track the wreckage?"

Mission Control was nearly deserted, the team members finally getting a break. Instruments continued to monitor automatically.

"Record everything," General St. Claire said. "The President needs a full report. The Joint Chiefs and NATO, too."

"The United Nations?" Friedman asked.

"Screw the United Nations," Taylor said. "If they'd taken Nomad seriously, none of this would have happened."

"We'll need to give them something," St. Claire conceded. "Any signs of Captain Harper? Readings from her suit?"

"Her environmental pack expired eight hours ago. If her body is in the debris field, it's not registering," Friedman reported.

"What about the platform?" Taylor asked.

"Most of it will come down eventually. The fragments are burning up in the atmosphere," Yamamora replied.

"Any danger to people on the ground?" Taylor pressed.

"No, it's just bits and pieces," Yamamora confirmed.

"Chart what you can," St. Claire ordered. "We'll want to give her family closure."

"Someone will need to make an official announcement. The White House or the Pentagon," Friedman said. "Everyone will want to know how she died."

"There should be a ceremony. A medal. Something," Vasquez urged.

"We'll work something out," Taylor agreed.

"Where's Dr. Harper?" St. Claire asked, looking around.

"I sent him home," Taylor answered.

"He could help," St. Claire suggested.

"Darla, Frank was assigned to the life science station," Taylor replied. "We have no need for that now."

* * * * * *

It's not looking good for our hero, but the novel still has several chapters to go.