Oxygen masks dropped before the crew, and they fitted them to their faces. There was none for Jane and Jack, where they stood at the back of the cabin. The flight engineer’s mask didn’t fall properly; he had to get out of his seat and pull it down, but when he did so the supply hose just fell to pieces.

“Shoot,” the captain said softly. She disconnected the autopilot, dropped the aircraft’s nose and pulled on the speed brake lever. There was a rumble, and Jane braced herself. The captain was throwing away her precious height, the height which could be traded for speed and distance, which might save all of their lives. But now she had no choice.

The altimeter dropped steadily. But Jane could see that the electrical garbage in the atmosphere outside was playing hell with the instruments. The inertial navigation systems showed random digits and patterns, and the distance measuring equipment was blank altogether. Even communication with Prestwick was disrupted by bursts of static.

The SFO said, “We might have water contamination in the fuel tanks. And in that case—”

“There’s no way the engines will start again. Oh, shoot.” The captain looked ahead steadily. “All right. We’ll head towards Prestwick, and then turn westbound to ditch. You know the drill. Land along the line of the primary or predominant swell, and upwind into the secondary swell, or downwind into the secondary swell…”

“My God,” Jane whispered.

She felt a stab of anger. To have come so close, to have survived so much. And now, even as they were escaping from the blighted country, this.

The wounded plane flew on as the crew worked steadily.

“Five minutes,” Geena told Henry. “Close your helmet.”

Henry pulled down his visor. His breathing was loud.

Geena reported, “We are in the preparation regime. Everything on board is correct. And everything is correct in the control bunker.”

A reply, in Russian and English.

“Shit hot,” Henry said quietly.

“Two minutes,” Geena said evenly.

He looked across at her. “This is one hell of a strange divorce we’re having, Geena,” he said.

She ignored him.

Still there was no countdown.

And a little after that—

There was a rumbling, deep below, beneath his back. It was like an explosion in some remote furnace room.

An analogue clock started ticking on the control panel. It was the mission clock.

Oh Christ, oh Christ. They were serious, after all. They really had fired this thing, with Henry and his ex-wife stuffed in the nose. And now—

“One minute before the turn,” the SFO said.

The aircraft had been without engines for twelve, thirteen minutes, Jane estimated. She had lost count of the number of restart attempts while she’d been up here, and there surely wouldn’t be time to restart now. There were maybe five minutes left before the ditching.