Debra Gilford taxied the NASA T-38 she was piloting up to the runway hold-short line at Ellington airport on the outskirts of Houston and stopped.

It’s been fun, but I don’t see a future for us as a couple. Adam Noonan, the mission specialist who was sitting in the backseat, had said that to her just before they walked out to the jet.

Fun! She had thought after months of working together to train for their mission to the International Space Station he had come to understand and admire her and wanted to be passionate with a like-minded soul. Why had she been so stupid? Noonan had never been married, and it was well known he dated often.

Over the intercom, Noonan said, “Hey… uhh… DT, you okay? We’re… uh… burning fuel we’ll need later.”

Maybe if she had made friends with the women astronauts she might have confided in one of them instead of Noonan that her marriage was over. It was one of the few things she had ever failed.

She sighed. Making friends was something she had always struggled to do. Memorizing a flight manual or figuring out an engineering principle were things that came easily to her. Sharing what was going on in her life with another, or freely giving her thoughts on a subject, were things she had never mastered. Which, she knew, made her seem reserved or even standoffish. Some, she suspected, thought she considered herself better than others. Since she often excelled at tasks given to her, she could understand that logic. But what most didn’t understand was that her accomplishments had come from studying her ass off.

She keyed her microphone. “Tower, NASA seventy-eight ready for takeoff.”

“NASA seventy-eight, clear for takeoff runway three-five left. Winds three three zero at twelve.”

“NASA seventy-eight cleared for takeoff.” Debra mentally gave her head a shake so she could focus. This aircraft’s left engine had a history of its Turbine Internal Temperature (TIT) running hot. She would need to keep an eye on it during the takeoff.

After she lined up on the runway centerline, she held the brakes and advanced the throttles to the MIL setting—maximum power—letting the engines stabilize, then pushed the throttles beyond the detent to engage the afterburner and released the brakes.

She experienced the satisfying shove into her seatback as the aircraft began accelerating down the runway. The left engine’s TIT settled on the redline. If it stayed there, they would be okay.

At 135 knots she began to ease back on the stick. A moment later they were airborne. She retracted the landing gear and flaps so that she did not accelerate past the maximum speed allowed with them extended and continued accelerating to 300 knots.

The left engine’s TIT began to rise above redline accompanied by a vibration.

Debra was pulling that engine out of afterburner when there was an explosion accompanied by a shudder through the airplane.

“What the hell?” Noonan said over the intercom.

A quick scan of the instruments showed the left engine had failed.

She had just completed that split second scan when the right engine’s fire light illuminated.

If only one engine was on fire, she would shut it down, activate the extinguisher, and limp the airplane back to the airport. But since one engine had apparently destroyed itself causing the other one to catch fire, they had only one option.

“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Tower NASA seventy-eight, We’re ejecting,” she radioed. Then over the intercom, “Eject! Eject! Eject!”

The moment she finished that sentence the canopy was jettisoned when Noonan pulled the ring between his legs that started the ejection sequence. A second later, the rocket in both of their seats fired, sending them out of the aircraft.

In her seventeen years as a pilot, first as a Navy F18 pilot, then a test pilot, then at NASA having piloted the space shuttle, this was the first time she had to eject. The sudden acceleration out of the aircraft was as disorienting as she had read.

A few seconds later, her parachute opened and none of the lines were tangled. She took only a second to be thankful for that before searching for Noonan. To her relief, his parachute had opened too.

Then she watched in horror as the T-38 rolled to the right and began descending towards an apartment complex. It crashed into one building and exploded. The wreckage continued into the neighboring building before coming to rest. Both buildings quickly became engulfed in flames.

She didn’t have time to dwell on the fact her actions might have killed people in those apartments as the ground was rushing up. She needed to mentally prepare to fold up her legs and fall to her side when she hit the ground or she might be injured. She would touch down on a school’s soccer field.

A glance over at Noonan put her heart in her throat. He would land on Sam Houston Tollway. The traffic on both sides of the busy highway was racing along it as if oblivious that an astronaut was descending onto them.

A part of her was glad she had become preoccupied with her landing and trying not to get hurt to witness Noonan, when just a few feet off the ground, was smacked head on by a tractor trailer.