T-minus 52 minutes . . .
“What’s going on with our rogue object?” I ask Dick.
“It did a series of burns to rendezvous with USA555A, and is closing in on it,” he says.
“It’s too soon for that unless it has a prop system on a par with ours or close,” I protest.
“You’ve got 4 hours to get to GEO, to find whatever this predatory spacecraft is and take it out,” he says as I think, Who are you kidding?
If all goes well, he adds, it should take eight and a half minutes for me to reach Low Earth Orbit (LEO), some 1,931 kilometers (1,200 miles) away. From there, it’s about two hours to get to GEO, he says.
“Leaving you some wiggle room to locate the problem,” he explains. “If possible.”
“Your idea of wiggle room isn’t exactly mine,” I reply, and lit up on the flat-screen is the massive Vehicle Assembly Building with its huge American flag and NASA meatball painted on it.
Our ride together is coming to an end, and Dick clamps his hands on his knees, leaning forward in his seat, locking eyes with me.
“You’re going to do fine,” he promises what he truly can’t. “Your entire life has been about this moment, Calli. You’re more prepared than you know, and are going to find out soon enough,” as the van comes to a stop.
Dick takes off his shoulder harness. He gets up from his seat.
“This is where I leave you. My car’s behind us, and I’ll be in Mission Control. After launch when you’re passed off to Houston, I’ll be linked to them.”
He slides open the door, and I don’t care if he doesn’t like it, I get up awkwardly, giving him a hug.
“Godspeed, Calli,” he kisses the top of my head as if I’m a child again, and then the door slides shut, and he’s gone.
The van moves on, and in the flat-screen I watch the Suburban’s headlights turning off toward the 4-story Launch Control Center where Dick will be sitting inside Mission Control. Cameras track my journey as we turn off on the road that will take us to the pad. Running parallel to us is the Crawlerway, two lanes of crushed Tennessee River rocks that the 3,000-ton crawler-transporter follows when carrying the mobile launcher and its precious cargo.
I’ve seen it many times before but never get used to it. The sight seems to defy the laws of physics, a platform the size of an Olympic swimming pool riding on 8 tractor belts while carrying an upright rocket. Moving at the blistering speed of 1.6 kilometers per hour (1 mph), and I ask ART if he’s up.
“What can I help you with?” in my earpiece.
“Just making sure you’re still here.”
“Affirmative,” he replies as I feel us slowing down.
Turning south toward the water, I can see our destination on the flat-screen and also in my SPIES. The towering steel scaffolding of the mobile launcher is bright in floodlights, the rocket and its solid-fuel boosters pristine white. Nearby is the water tower that seconds before ignition will flood the pad with a 450,000-gallon deluge to dampen the noise and vibration.
There’s one parked car in sight as we stop in front of the 5,000-ton mobile launcher with its multiple platforms, my awaiting vehicle held in place by pyro bolts that explode on blastoff. Clouds of condensation are from the liquid oxygen, the rocket off-gassing and hissing like an awaiting dragon.
Climbing out of the van with nobody to greet me, I walk alone to the mobile launcher’s steel elevator door. It slowly slides open, the inside lined with quilting, and buttons on the control panel designate the altitude of each platform. If I’m headed to various service structure areas, I might choose 36.5 meters (120 feet) or 45.7 meters (150 feet). For Space Shuttle launches back in the day, it was 59.5 meters (195 feet).
To catch my ride, I select the button for 70 meters (230 feet), and it’s a slow boat to China, as impatient as I am by now, my adrenaline going, my heart at a good clip. It would be nice if my fancy built-in gizmos did something to help out more than they are, and that unpleasantly reminds me of what Dick said about glitches.
I can expect them. Likely there will be problems no one has anticipated, and that reminds me of what Mr. Owl did to Ranger the PONG.
“Okay, it’s now or never, and I’m not talking to you, ART,” taking a deep breath, I walk off the elevator into an open area of scaffolding on the top of the world.
41
I PAUSE by the railing, taking in the view, looking the rocket up and down, moved close to tears by its enormity.
Only the tip of its nose and the lightning-protection masts are higher than I am right now, the flame trench and fuel tanks illuminated 23 stories below. The night is clear enough that I can make out Cocoa Beach’s string of lights, the ocean heaving and glinting, the surf lacy white on the dark shore.
“You can do this,” under my breath.
“I’m sorry,” ART in my ear. “What do you need me to do?”
“Wasn’t meant for you,” and off to my right is the walkway, a metal covered bridge, and I keep hearing my sister in my head.
Now or never . . . Now or never . . .
Big yellow chevrons painted on the mesh metal flooring point the opposite direction I’m going, offering an escape route for getting the hell-o out of Dodge in an emergency. The Yellow Brick Road (as it’s called) reminds astronauts which way to run as they make a mad dash for the zip line and its attached blaze-orange chair at the opening of the covered metal bridge I’m about to traverse.
A steel cable runs from here to the ground well beyond the pad, and from there you’re supposed to flee into a bunker, and good luck with all that while wearing a spacesuit, blue or otherwise. But if push came to shove, I wouldn’t hesitate. It’s not so different from the good ole days when Carme and I would streak through the air from the barn to the dock, and as a last resort I’d be on that zip line in a flash.
But it’s a choice I won’t have to make because it’s not possible in this situation. The PEQUOD and its attached MOBE are closed up inside the rocket’s clamshell fairing like a bug in a Venus flytrap. If there’s a fire or imminent explosion, I can’t be jettisoned to safely land the spaceplane like a glider on a runway.
Escaping on foot isn’t an option. I’d never make it back through the two hatches in time to try the zip line. And I guess that’s the price you pay for making sure no one sees that what we’re launching isn’t a weather satellite, it enters my mind as the metal bridge I’m crossing terminates in a set of saloon-type steel doors.
I push my way into the white room, a clean bright staging area that, like a surgical tent, encloses and protects the rocket’s open hatch. Stella has on her headset, swathed from head to toe in white like an awaiting angel.
“Hands on the wall and spread ’em,” she’s not being funny, and I do as I’m told.
She pulls off my disposable booties one at a time, a difficult task while standing up in a spacesuit, especially if you’re still getting used to it.
“I don’t want you tracking in dirt,” she informs me. “You don’t want to be breathing recycled particulates.”
“I certainly don’t.”
“You’re all set to crawl in, and I’ll be right behind you,” she means that literally, and I get down on my hands and knees.
The steel ramp she’s laid down like a plank connects the hatch in front of us to one on top of the PEQUOD. A port at the back of the spaceplane is attached to the MOBE, the entire vehicle bolted upright inside the fairing. As I inch along in my spacesuit, I’m aware of the drop-off on either side of me and wouldn’t want to lose my balance, toppling overboard.
I might not fall very far but there’s a good chance I’d get wedged between unforgiving metal structures that would severely damage my pride if nothing else. I might be stuck for hours and suffocate. For that matter, I d
on’t know how anyone would rescue me when it requires being this close to a fully fueled rocket.
Well, what I’m not going to do is die of embarrassment, I decide, and safely across, I shimmy through the second hatch into the glass cockpit of my Chase Plane. The avionics are up and running, a single carbon fiber seat liner facing multiple displays and fail-safe switches.
“Be careful not to bang your head,” Stella’s right behind me. “Use only the designated hand- and footholds to pull yourself in position,” and this is going to take some getting used to.
When I work in simulators, I’m usually sitting upright like a normal person. But inside a rocket, the orientation shifts 90 degrees. I’m standing on a wall, then crawling along the floor to climb into my seat, and it isn’t pretty.
“Grab that handhold overhead,” Stella says. “Do a pull-up and I’ll help lift your feet into position.”
I pull myself up, and it’s not easy in the spacesuit. Then I’m lying on my back with the control stick between my legs, my bright-blue space boots elevated above my head.
“I’m not being fresh,” Stella roots around for the crotch strap. “Here we go. Can you reach the lap belt on your side? I’ve got the one over here.”
“Here it is,” I slide the metal tongue into the buckle with a reassuring click.
“Crank it tight. Tighter than you think is needed or comfortable.”
“Got it,” I pull the belt tight.
“Tighter. You’ll thank me later.”
“Copy,” sucking in my gut, and ouch that’s snug.
“I can reach your shoulder straps . . . hang on . . . got both of them,” and she fastens them. “Now you need to really crank down on them, Calli. You’re gonna want them really snug . . .”
I tighten them some more.
“Let me help,” and she gives them quite the yank before connecting my oxygen hose to the port on my thigh.
We zip on my gloves, my helmet, and she shows me netting on the side of my seat. More of it is along the wall, and it will be handy for stowing my spacesuit and other items so they don’t float away in weightlessness. I study the displays, the toggle switches overhead.
“Everything’s computerized,” Stella connects the push-to-talk button on my shoulder harness.
“Seems a little low tech,” I point out.
“Unless you’re on a spacewalk, I don’t think you want Mission Control hearing your every comment,” she replies. “You can go into a voice-activated mode if you like. Or push the button on your stick.”
“What about when I’m not in my seat?”
“Speakerphone or in your earpiece. Just like on the ground, and you’ll get more familiarized as you go along with the obvious assistance,” she says, and she must mean ART. “This thing’s built to fly autonomously, and you won’t be flipping switches unless it’s a really bad day at the ranch. Same with the control stick. It’s there if you have to manually override. Or if for some reason you want to hand control whatever it is you’re doing, and from what I hear, you’ve got plenty of stick time and even more hours in the simulators.”
She has me open and shut my smart visor, conducting oxygen and pressure tests, and I see the life-support data in the clear plastic shielding covering my face, and also in my SPIES and the Chase Plane’s heads-up display. She pressurizes my suit again, reminding me unpleasantly how difficult it is to move my arms and hands into natural positions.
Then the purge valve again, and I hear all the air rushing out as my BS deflates. Finally, we begin the communications check, and I imagine Dick listening in.
00:00:00:00:0
“CALLI, how do you read us?” Kennedy’s launch control talking to me personally sends a chill up my body unless it’s my skinsuit doing it.
“Loud and clear,” I make my first radio call from a rocket.
“T-minus 20 minutes and counting. The weather’s looking great, skies are clear.”
“Copy, ready to go in here,” I reply, and Stella gives me a thumbs-up.
“You’re all set, and it’s time for me to fly like the wind,” she says now that I’m all strapped in, not going anywhere no matter what. “May I shake your hand, Captain Chase?”
I awkwardly hold out a gloved one, thanking her for trussing me up like Houdini, and she makes her way back through the hatch. I hear it shutting as I see it in my lenses, and there must be small cameras all over creation. I imagine her crawling along the narrow metal ramp, and the sound of it clanging and scraping when she drags it into the white room.
In a few minutes, she’ll close the rocket’s hatch, and from that point on I’m committed. She’ll hurry down the elevator, dashing into her car, the rocket off-gassing and hissing as if it’s getting violently impatient. She’ll speed away to safety, and I’m either going into outer space or nowhere ever again.
“It looks like it’s just you and me now,” I say to ART. “If the worst happens, you’ll still be around but I won’t. Take care of Carme and everyone. And know I appreciate you. I’m sorry I wasn’t all that nice at first. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings even if you don’t have them,” and darn it’s hard to say.
“Enabling control stick circuitry,” his obtuse voice in my ear, and so much for sentimentality. “You now have the capability of manual operations should a critical auto-function fail,” and I recall Stella’s and my conversation about hand controlling if I want or need to take over.
Then Mission Control is in my other ear, instructing me to lower my visor, to initiate the flow of oxygen as I watch the countdown clock in my displays. At T-minus 5 minutes I’m given the official GO for the launch, and I can’t believe I’m doing this. Watching the clock, 4 minutes, 3, 2 . . .
“One minute, Calli,” Kennedy’s launch controller, and maybe I’m reading into things, but he seems friendly. “Be prepared for the shake of your life . . . 30 seconds . . . 20 . . . 10 . . . main engine start . . .”
The twin BE-4s roar to life as ART tells me in my ear that they’re at 100 percent as the countdown continues . . .
“. . . 3, 2, 1 . . . ,” and next the solid rocket boosters ignite, and now I’m being shaken like a margarita.
It’s as if we’re having a seizure as we’re shoved up through the atmosphere, and all I can do is hold on, strapped in on my back until 80 seconds into the flight when things begin to simmer down.
“We’ve just passed max q,” Houston lets me know the worst of the structural loading is over, and our vehicle probably isn’t going to break apart in the atmosphere.
The boosters begin to burn out, then the 6 muffled booms when the pyrotechnic fasteners explode, jettisoning away the huge metal tubes.
“Mach 13,” mission control has been switched to Houston, and my ride is considerably smoother, and I can raise my visor. “One minute into the flight,” and I’m watching the speed and other data on my displays.
Suddenly, I’m shoved forward hard against my restraints, the BE-4 engines drained of fuel and suddenly quitting. More pyros blow, and the first stage jettisons away. Then the second stage’s single engine ignites, slamming me back in my seat, and I understand better why Stella wanted me to tighten my harness.
Next the clamshell fairing blows off, and I can hear and feel that bang big-time because it’s right over my head. My arms are starting to feel heavier as I use the control stick, switching to the systems page, grateful I’m not seeing any red warning indicators that might suggest death is imminent. The engine isn’t about to fail or explode. My oxygen is good.
“How’s our trajectory?” I ask ART, remembering he’s my copilot, and he switches me to that page in my heads-up display.
“Trajectory is normal,” he says. “Engines and all systems, normal.”
“Mach 17 . . . ,” Houston over the ra
dio.
I’m informed that the g-forces are up to 2.8, as I would expect. Now I’m really feeling it in my arms, and I cross them at my chest, tucking my hands under the straps of the harness.
“. . . 3 Gs . . . Mach 21 . . . Mach 25 . . .”
At 5 Gs, I’m feeling the pain. No training or simulator has quite prepared me for this. It’s as if a big dog is sitting on me, my skinsuit compressing my abdomen and legs to minimize the forces. But there’s no smart fabric that would help my lungs expand, and it’s getting scary hard to breathe. Eight and a half minutes into my wild ride, the engine stops. The g-forces ease. And then my arms float up.
“Welcome to space, Captain Chase,” and it’s Dick’s voice in my earpiece. “There are a lot of relieved people down here on the ground.”
“I’m kind of relieved myself,” I begin unzipping my gloves as Dick lets me know that we’re on a secure radio feed.
Our conversation won’t be overheard by mission controllers or anyone, he says, not that I believe him. Off comes my helmet while he explains that in a little less than two hours, I should reach GEO and rendezvous with the satellite I’m there to protect.
Digging my CUFF out of a pocket in my spacesuit pants, I unzip the pants from the torso. Taking off everything, I begin stowing my disassembled BS in the netting.
“The rogue object we’re tracking is staying the course,” Dick informs me. “It’s fitting the description of some type of satellite as you know, but obviously that’s not what it is. Hopefully we’ll know more when you get there.”
“We can see it, but can it see us?” I can’t stop worrying about it the same way I’m unconvinced my SIN can’t be detected.
Spin (Captain Chase) Page 34
