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initial indications point toward pilot error, according to an inside source. NASA sources say that debris is being recovered at a rapid pace, and request all coastal residents of the Gulf to be on the lookout for possible wreckage washing ashore. In the event you find such important evidence, please contact… "
    Crash mentally tuned out the rest of the broadcast. Shit , he thought, staring at the ceiling, that was one hell of a major leak. We don't even have quite half the orbiter recovered yet. Dammit, the bureaucrats are gonna try to pin it on Jet, I can see it already. Doesn't look like a malfunction, I'll admit--so far . He clicked off the television in disgust, tossing the remote aside. But I know Jet. No way he did something as stupid as this would have to be. It's almost as extreme as if the flight crew had a suicide pact. But that would've shown up in the psych profiles… wouldn't it? He ran a tired hand over his face, considering. Three pilot-certified astronauts on board--Jet, the pilot, and the MS-2--and nobody in the lot could figure out how to bleed off enough velocity?! How to correct the descent angle? I don't think so. There's gotta be something I'm missing…
    Crash picked up the phone again and dialed room service, ordered a club sandwich and coffee, then pulled out the stack of log books and prepared for a late night read.
    * * * *
    The next morning, bright and early, they were all back at the high bay. More chunks of debris had come in overnight, and the night shift had been busy assembling them into a telling whole. It was becoming obvious that Atlantis had simply nosed in, fast and steep, and had overloaded the heat dissipating capacity of the tiles that protected her. At that point, the underlying alloys had begun to soften and melt, and Atlantis had lost her structural integrity, outer parts ablating and shedding along the final miles of her trajectory. Impact with the water of the Gulf of Mexico at the high Mach speed she had been traveling had, quite efficiently, finished the job. Approximately seventy-five percent of the orbiter had been recovered so far: The parts clustered around the point of impact in the Gulf. But Crash remembered the blazing fireball that night, and knew that not all would be recovered; in addition to souvenir hunters on the beaches, some of the orbiter had ceased to exist.
    One of those non-existent parts, however, was not the flight ops recorder. Crash watched with Mitch and a seemingly omnipresent Lisa as an olive drab Army cargo helicopter, rotors beating the air, brought it suspended in a crate to the Redstone Arsenal airfield, and technicians loaded it onto a flatbed to carry it to the high bay for analysis.
    "Well, finally," Lisa remarked, her voice shrill with impatience. "Now maybe we can find out something."
    "Yeah," Mitch remarked in full agreement. "You gonna handle it, Crash, or they callin' somebody else in from Houston?"
    "Well, at least for now, I guess I'll handle it, see what it tells me about the re-entry trajectory and guidance systems. If I need help, I'll give JSC a call."
    "Want a hand, Crash?" Lisa murmured, with a sidelong emerald glance. Mitch, behind her, rolled his eyes.
    "…No. I'll do just fine on my own, thanks," Murphy replied curtly, just before leaving.

Chapter 4

    When Anders let himself into the spacious, warm, inviting flat, Doctor Cayleigh Monteith, tall, statuesque blonde and future Director of the soon to be constructed Sydney Planetarium of the Australian Museum, stood waiting, clad in a turquoise silk negligée. Anders stopped dead, staring. Dear Lord, she's gorgeous. Her ivory brow was furrowed with worry, and as soon as he got well in the door, she came to him.
    "Mike! Where have you been?" she pressed, grasping his hands. "I've been worried half sick."
    Anders shook himself out of his ardent reverie, flushing in embarrassment. "Oh, damn. I should've called, love," he murmured penitently. "I'm sorry. I ran out of petrol on my way