Martyr's Flight

Mel Cramer's job was to defend the Space Station in case of an enemy attack; still, there wasn't anything in the book to order him on a—
Some of the anguish and bitterness and fear left Walter Stanton's heart as he gazed at the vista from the open landing-lock. It had been almost three months since the core of Space Station One had nudged itself into its silent orbit, but this, the only remaining view unhindered by the bulbous fuel storage tanks, still fascinated him. Now, as the nose of Cargo One crept backward into the blinding sunlight, he pulled himself further along the catwalk. He waved with his free hand at the pilot, Major Torrance, although he knew the Major could hardly be watching during the delicate maneuver. Then, while the massive hatch was still gaping, he looked earthward.
Twenty-five thousand miles away, half of the western hemisphere shone through the murky earth-haze, the other half still in darkness. Through force of habit he oriented himself by looking at the center of the half-darkened sphere; there lay the Galapagos Islands. Then he traced the outline of the West Coast to Baja California and thence to where he knew lay Sandia Base, New Mexico. He glanced at his watch; 7:00 A.M. Mountain Standard Time; Lynne would be making breakfast for Karen, soon to leave for school. He felt a stab of loneliness and a tug of envy for the men in Cargo II. Three skidding entries into the atmosphere; three swinging returns to space, and they would have decelerated enough to spiral to the incredible runway at Sandia. In twelve hours they would be home with their wives.
He watched as Torrance, drifting a hundred yards away, eased the massive nose to a westerly direction and then, with a tiny burst of power, slowed his relative speed enough to fall rapidly out of Space One's orbit. He sighed and swung himself around.
Colonel Mel Cramer was hanging on beside him, grotesquely familiar in the flight gear he used as a Topside Suit. Walter Stanton's earphones crackled.