"And by listening to them, they will kill my brother and twenty-one other men," Wen said. "Once this ordeal is over, I will call headquarters and tell them our radios were malfunctioning and that we received no incoming calls, nor could we send any outgoing. If that does not work, you have my word: I will take blame for this entire predicament."

The young man nodded reluctantly, much to Wen's relief. Having another person against him would make this situation more difficult than it already was.

"I don't know how much longer we can ignore HQ," the young man said.

"Don't worry, the Americans will get back to us soon and this situation will be resolved quicker than you think," Wen said.

Wen floated to the radio with an open line to the Americans but it was still frustratingly quiet. Instead of waiting in silence, Wen returned to his brother's radio.

"I am back," he said. "I just had to give headquarters an update on our communications with the Americans."

The last thing Ming needed to know now was his country's apathetic feelings toward whether or not he and the other twenty-one men survived.

The wait in American mission-control seemed to take just as long. An unspoken tension hung ominously over Maddox and Kovalchuk; this was the first issue about which the two men ever seriously disagreed. Maddox wanted his Russian counterpart to work with him rather than against him. At least Maddox felt certain that Slava would help him carry out the mission if that was what Armour ordered.

"I am sorry for disagreeing with you," Slava said, noticing the uneasy quiet between them. "But my feelings about issue are not simply because of my country's hatred for China, though that is small reason. Even bigger has to do with concern for our crew. Team Four has no experience in rescue techniques. Without information about what they would face, we will put them and shuttle in great danger."

"I understand your concerns and I don't want our crews risking their lives either, especially if successfully rescuing the Chinese seems unfeasible," Maddox said. "But if we can help yet decide not to, I would have the lives of twenty-two men on my conscience, regardless of their ethnicity. That's not something I can go to my grave with."

Kovalchuk nodded in understanding but still did not agree. The project leader continued to glance at his watch every few seconds. The two men did not speak further but Maddox felt better that their hostility toward one another changed into a dispute of circumstance.

As eagerly as Maddox awaited word from Armour, he knew Wen Chen must be more anxious to hear from him. Maddox fought the urge to get on the radio and explain the situation to his Chinese counterpart; he did not want to speak with him until he had good news. But when Armour came back on the radio, he knew from the tone of the man's voice that the news was not good.

"I just spoke with President Marshall and we agreed that there is enough time to look into the matter more thoroughly before rushing into a rescue attempt," Armour said.

Maddox did not look at Kovalchuk. He knew the Russian's stone-faced expression would not have changed even though Armour and the President sided with him. A small part of Maddox was glad the ultimate decision rested in the hands of somebody else but he refused to accept this news from Armour without voicing his opinion.

"Because we don't know exactly what happened is why we should launch this rescue right away," Maddox said. "If we wait too long and show up as their oxygen supply is about to deplete, our men will be left with no room for error to deal with other problems."

"Your objections are duly noted, Wesley," Armour responded, sympathetic to the project leader's desire to help. "But this is the way we're going to proceed. Our biggest concern comes from the fact that China is vehemently denying any report of an accident."

"If you heard the desperation in this man's voice, you would know his men are in trouble," Maddox argued.

"We prefer to make decisions based upon evidence, not voice tones," Armour said. "A U.S. spy satellite will be passing within range of the Chinese space station in nearly half an hour. At that time, we'll see whether something is wrong. If we find evidence of an accident, your men will be granted clearance to launch their rescue attempt."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX.

SEPTEMBER 10, 2016.

Holding a manila folder full of pictures he took with a spy camera, Marc Hudson suddenly paused when he reached the door. With the choice of whether to spy on Nigel commanding his every waking thought for the last two weeks, he flip-flopped dozens of times on his ultimate decision. Either way he chose, Marc knew his life was about to change.

This is the right thing to do, Marc tried convincing himself. Just take a deep breath, walk through that door and do what you planned.

And that was exactly what he did, with the exception that he knocked first.

"Come in," the voice called.

Marc pushed open the squeaky door and entered the plush room. Inside, he saw a person lying on a nearby bed, a large book covering his face.

"Since when do you knock?" Nigel asked, as he lowered the book and looked surprised. "Oh, it's you. I thought you were Tyler."

"Mr. Huffington, I have something important I need to talk to you about," Marc said quietly, closing the door behind. "I don't think it's something that we need to tell Tyler about."

"Tyler said you might come to me in secret one day," Nigel said, putting his book down and sitting on the edge of his bed.

"He did?" Marc asked.

Marc immediately thought this might be one big test, that Tyler hired the private investigator to see if Marc would prove trustworthy. Or maybe Nigel put the PI up to this. Marc could not think of why either man would do such a thing.

"He did," Nigel said. "Tyler tells me you're a very inquisitive person and you're not satisfied with the lack of information about me or the seacraft. So I will tell you exactly what Tyler told me to: absolutely nothing."

"I am not here for you to tell me anything," Marc said, suddenly angry about his decision. "In fact, it's you who should be listening to me. But if you don't want to know..." Marc waved the manila folder in the air. "...then I will just leave you alone to your reading."

The assistant turned to leave but did not take one step before eliciting a response from Nigel.

"Wait, I'm sorry for being testy," Nigel said. "What do you have to say?"

Marc stopped and turned around.

"The two of us have never really gotten along," he said bluntly. "I know you're a private person but before I begin, I want your word that you're being honest with Tyler and Ainsworth Industries, that you're doing nothing that could be considered nefarious."

"You have my word," Nigel said simply.

Marc was not sure whether to believe him but Nigel promised as asked and did so unblinkingly. Marc handed him the folder. Nigel looked at the three pictures inside. Each showed a long-angled view of a sleazy looking man standing outside the construction facility's gates. Nigel looked long and hard at the face of the man but did not recognize who it was.

"Who is he?" the 'investor' asked the 'assistant.'

"I don't know his name and I don't know who he works for, but I was supposed to meet him tonight at the diner I go to every Saturday night," Marc said.

"What for?" Nigel asked.

"I was supposed to give him as much information about you as possible," he said.

A look of horror appeared on Nigel's face, the first time Marc ever saw fear in the man's eyes. Nigel looked back down at the man's picture for nearly a minute but still did not recognize him.

"And in exchange for that information, he was going to pay me enough money so I could quit Ainsworth Industries and not have to work for a long time," Marc said.

"I knew they were watching me," Nigel said quietly as he stared at the picture. "Did this man say which branch of the government he works for?"

"The government?" Marc asked. "He didn't say who he worked for or if it was the government. Why would you assume that?"

"Let's just say I had a few business associates at one time with close ties to the government," Nigel said. "I've taken a great risk coming to this company and helping with this project, but I can't go into more detail than that."

"These business associates," Marc said, continuing his cross-examination. "Could they, or your past connection with them, prove harmful in any way to Mr. Ainsworth or our underwater cruise line?"

"No," Nigel said bluntly. "In fact, my past associates recently expressed great interest in Tyler finishing this craft. Believe me, nobody wants this craft finished more than me. I would never put its completion in harm. I'd hope the people spying on me are doing it more out of curiosity than the desire to cause me or Tyler harm."

Marc nodded, impressed that Nigel at least cracked the door to his past. While the assistant knew he would feel regretful at some point in his life for turning down that money, he felt like he made the correct decision in keeping his loyalty to the company.

"Good enough," Marc said, turning to leave. "You might want to destroy those pictures. Like I said, this is something we probably should not worry Tyler about. The private investigator has nothing on any of us, so the company should have nothing to worry about."

Marc opened the door to leave but Nigel stopped him to ask one last question.

"Why didn't you go back to the diner tonight?" he asked. "I haven't been the easiest person to deal with and I know you've been jealous that Tyler and I keep secrets from you."

"Loyalty," Marc said. "Ainsworth Industries has been good to me over the years and I feel as though I truly belong here. I also believe we've built something special with this seacraft and there's a lot of money to be made once the underwater cruise line launches."

Marc noticed that when he spoke his last sentence, Nigel turned his lips down in a guilty frown.

"Yes, the underwater cruise line," Nigel said, his voice an octave lower than usual. "Thank you for not selling me out. I won't forget what you've done for me today. One day, I hope to reciprocate your kindness."

Marc simply nodded before walking out of Nigel's room.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN.

Receiving photographic evidence from the U.S. spy satellite took longer than James Armour expected. Every minute after the half-hour deadline seemed to take forever and the pictures did not reach his hands until the forty-five minute mark. Only about seventy minutes remained until the oxygen supply for the stranded Chinese astronauts expired. During the long wait for the pictures, Armour had his workers calculate a quicker route to the Chinese, shaving nearly twelve minutes from the hour that Maddox had figured.

The reason for the delay in getting the satellite pictures was because Armour required thermal images, not just standard photos. The thermal signals from the satellite took the NASSA computers longer to read but gave Armour definitive results required to make his decision. His computer tech explained the findings.

"The lighter blue shapes comprise the pieces of the Chinese space station," the tech explained, showing Armour the mostly dark blue sheet of paper that had shapes of various other colors. "Most of the space station has no power, and thus shows up as a lighter shade of blue against the dark blue background of space. The only part of the station fully powered is that smaller dark orange circle directly in the middle of the station. This dark orange color means the temperature of this area is close to 75 degrees, no doubt where Wen Chen's control room is located."

The only other colorful shape that could be seen was located on the lower left quadrant of the page. Close to the light blue-colored space station was a rectangular shape a much lighter orange than the control room. When Armour looked closer at the rectangle, he saw many small, bright orange dots scattered around.

"The orange shape is the Chinese spacecraft then?" Armour deduced.

"Yes, sir," the tech answered. "From the satellite photos taken at the same time as the thermal images, we've identified Rong Se, which translates to Red Glory. As you can see, their ship is a much lighter shade of orange. If I had to guess, I'd say the ship's temperature has dropped dramatically in the last hour, probably due to a power outage as Wesley Maddox reported. Everything from these findings shows that Wen Chen is telling the truth and the representatives from his country are lying about the accident."

"But what about those smaller dark orange dots?" Armour asked. "If some of the systems aboard have power and are generating heat, does that mean Wen and the Chinese could be bluffing us? Trying to lure our men there for an attack?"

"Highly unlikely," the tech answered. "Those dark orange dots are too small to be any of the craft's important control systems. In fact, I don't think they're systems at all."

"Then what are they?" Armour asked, as he counted nearly twenty dots on the thermal image.

"I believe they're people."

When Armour spoke with the President earlier about the possible accident, Marshall gave him leeway to make the final decision as long as they received enough evidence to justify what must be done. And as the former astronaut stared at the tiny dots on the page that represented human lives, he finally had the evidence he needed.

"Please, Mr. Maddox. Please tell your government to hurry. My men only have 65 minutes of oxygen remaining," Wen Chen pleaded. He tried to wait patiently while the Americans decided their course of action but hearing the rising fear in his twin brother's voice made Wen too anxious to remain silent.

"We're trying, Chen," Maddox answered. "My crew is ready to go and our NASSA astronomers have plotted a course that will take less than fifty minutes to reach you. I promise, we'll be receiving permission to launch any moment now."

The promise was familiar to Wen, who heard the same thing from Maddox five different times in the last half-hour. He wondered why the Americans were cutting this operation so close. If they launched soon after Wen originally sent his distress call, the rescuers would have reached Ming and the others by now.

"Sir, headquarters is still desperately trying to reach us," the communications officer warned as he turned up volume on the third radio.

Headquarters passed the threatening stage and moved to yelling. The Chinese government did not take kindly to being ignored, or even worse, disobeyed. Wen began to wonder whether he was placing the rest of his family at risk by trying to save Ming. From the worried look on the officer's face, the young man feared that harsh punishment would be an inevitability. Whatever the consequences, though, Wen knew Ming would not abandon him had their roles been reversed.

"Turn that off and maintain blackout," Wen yelled at the frightened young man. "I am in charge up here and I demand you listen to me. And if you try to tell headquarters that I made you lie to them, I will find your family members one by one and..."

Wen stopped yelling when he heard one of the remaining radios crackle to life. This time, it was the familiar of voice of Ming, his tone more concerned than before.

"Wen, please tell me the Americans will be arriving shortly," Ming pleaded.

Wen began lying to his brother about the American rescue attempt nearly thirty minutes earlier. Ming sounded so desperate and Wen was so sure the Americans would come that he allowed Ming to believe they were already coming.

"On the way, Ming," Wen said doubtfully. Ming sensed that his twin did not sound persuasive.

"Do you give me your word, Wen?" Ming asked.

Wen hated to lie to his brother but had to say anything to keep Ming's spirits from dipping. The last thing Wen wanted was for any of the stranded men to give up hope.

"You have my word," Wen said, sounding more convincing this time.

"Good, we still have a chance," Ming said. "We've just discovered that the power from our suits has been draining much faster than we thought."

"What do you mean faster?" Wen asked. "You don't still have an hour of oxygen left?"

"No," Ming answered. "The men and I just checked our suits. We have just under forty minutes. But that should be plenty of time if the Americans left thirty minutes ago."

"Forty minutes?" Wen Chen asked, feeling as they he'd been punched in the stomach. "Ming, are you sure that's accurate?"

"No," Ming said quietly into the radio, obviously trying to keep his voice down so his other men could not hear. "I believe forty minutes might be generous. At the rate the suits are losing power, I would guess the actual number is between thirty and thirty-five minutes."

It did not take a math genius to figure out the grim numbers. Although Ming's fate now seemed unavoidable, Wen did not want to give up. If Ming didn't survive, he would have time to mourn later. Now, he still had to keep trying.

"Ming, I will be back. Please remain calm and keep breathing slowly," Wen said. He did not wait for a response before moving to the radio tuned to the American space station.

"Wesley Maddox, I must demand that your men come right away before it's too late," Wen begged, though his tone of voice sounded more like a yell. "My men have miscalculated their amount of oxygen. They now have less than forty minutes before their supply runs out."

"Could you please repeat that?" Wesley Maddox asked, unable to believe what he just heard.

"I said my men have less than forty minutes before their oxygen runs out," Wen said. "You must leave now before it's too late."