The structure convulses, buffeted by the solid rockets’ exhaust as they heave Atlantis off the pad. It’s deafening. Judd once heard that if you looked at the source of a loud noise it would protect your hearing. Judd’s certain if he looked at the source of this loud noise he’d lose his sight. The exhaust is brighter than the sun.
The shuttle lumbers into the sky and a wave of superheated air sweeps over him, makes the noise seem like a frivolous concern. The White Room affords him some protection, but the air bakes the skin on his face and hands. Then it’s gone, just like that, along with the air pressure that pins him against the underside of the White Room.
He swings back down. His skin feels like he fell asleep on the beach in the middle of summer but he’s alive, for now at least. He looks down at the flame trench below, tries to divine a way out of this.
**
Severson watches Atlantis clear the tower and one part of him wishes he’d let it explode. At least then it’d be over. But now, well, this is just the beginning, isn’t it? This will just go on and on as they search for the shuttle and try to retrieve the hostages and apprehend the hijackers. It’ll be one long reminder that he was the guy who let it fly.
Severson exhales. Maybe Atlantis will break up all on its own because the Frenchman doesn’t know what he’s doing. He turns to Wexford. ‘How’s it looking?’
The technician studies the monitor before him. ‘All systems nominal. Perfect so far.’
Of course it is. Now what does he do? He’s worked too long and hard to let his career end like this. He thumbs his comms box, speaks into his headset: ‘Okay, we track it. I want to know where it is every second. Alert everyone.’
**
Judd’s not sure how much longer he can hold on to this service truss. He needs to get himself into the White Room. There are just two impediments. No, three. First, he can’t think of a way to do it. Second, even if he did his arms don’t seem to have much strength left and third, he can hear footsteps above him. Are Tango in Berlin and his buddy still up there?
A high-pitched whine and a low chunter echo across Launch Pad 39B. Judd looks up and sees a blue Jet Ranger helicopter thump through the cloud of steam and exhaust and hover to a position above the Service Structure. A rope ladder dangles from its open doorway just beyond the edge of the White Room. Yes, Tango and his buddies are still up there because they’re about to be picked up.
The rope ladder sways towards Judd. It’s close, but is it close enough? He kicks his legs out, then pulls them back, then kicks them out again, swings back and forth, builds momentum, then launches himself at the ladder.
It lurches out of reach. Someone climbed on above. Judd falls past it, pivots, lunges at it.
The ladder jerks and Cobbin is almost bucked off, halfway to the Jet Ranger above. He holds on tight, doesn’t fall.
Dirk looks down. ‘What the —?’ The German is astonished. The astronaut dangles from the very last rung of the rope ladder, hanging on with one hand.
Dirk aims his pistol at the astronaut as a cloud of steam sweeps in and he can’t get a clear shot. Then he realises he doesn’t need one. He turns and fires at the left side of the ladder in front of him. The rope shatters. He re-aims and fires at the right side. The rope explodes.
He looks down. Through the cloud he can just make out the astronaut as he falls, still holding the severed piece of ladder in one hand.
Back first, Judd plummets through the steam and exhaust towards the launch platform 40 metres below. He doesn’t have time to be scared because he’s trying to figure what his chances of surviving beyond the next ten seconds will be. First, he needs to pass through one of two large rectangular holes in the launch platform that funnel the shuttle’s exhaust into the cement flame trench. Otherwise he’ll land on the launch platform itself and that’ll be curtains. Second, if he can make it through one of the holes there needs to be a few metres of water in the flame trench, remnants from the sound suppression system that haven’t already evaporated from the heat of the shuttle’s exhaust, otherwise he’ll land on cement, which will also mean curtains. He estimates he has a 30 per cent chance of surviving.
**
The Jet Ranger punches through the wall of steam and thunders away from Launch Complex 39B. Big Bird is at the controls. Behind him in the passenger compartment Dirk and Cobbin quickly assemble something. They all wear headset microphones.
Dirk speaks into his: ‘What’s our ETA?’
Big Bird scans the ground below. ‘Five seconds.’
Dirk heaves a FGM-148 rocket launcher to his shoulder and points it out the open door.
He pulls the trigger and the Javelin missile explodes out of the launch tube and slams into a towering vertical antenna that gracefully collapses in a shower of sparks.
‘Reload.’ Cobbin jams another missile in place and Dirk fires. This Javelin slams into a large antenna dish. It keels over and crushes a second dish beside it.
‘One more.’ Cobbin reloads the launcher and Dirk fires again. Another antenna dish explodes in a gigantic ball of fire.
The German takes in what remains of the Merritt Island Spaceflight Tracking & Data Network station. Called MILA, it is one kilometre from where Atlantis just launched and relays all spacecraft communications to Mission Control in Houston. Or it used to. It’s now a burning wreck and won’t be relaying anything to anyone for a very long time.
Dirk speaks into his headset: ‘MILA is clear. Let’s go for extraction.’
‘Roger that.’ Big Bird tips the Jet Ranger into a steep bank and it thunders away.
**
Severson stares out Launch Control’s main window as the giant fireball dissipates into the night sky. ‘What just happened?’
Wexford’s eyes don’t leave the monitor in front of him, his voice reed-thin: ‘MILA is down.’
‘When’s it going to be back up?’
‘No, no, I don’t mean offline. I mean down. Destroyed.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Everything’s gone. Tracking, the shuttle’s vitals. All of it.’
Severson needs a moment to process the information. He finds his seat, sits hard. With MILA gone the tracking system’s orbiting satellites have no way to relay their information to the ground. ‘So we have no way to track Atlantis?’
‘Not that I can see.’
Severson bows his head and studies the cheap grey carpet beneath his shoes. He’s astonished at how well the Frenchman thought this through. The preparation. The organisation. The execution. Intricate. Sophisticated. Flawless.
It’s great news. No one could hold him responsible. The whole thing’s too big, too elaborate, too well planned. He did the best he could under appalling circumstances. Hell, he should be commended.
He raises his head and tries to conceal his grin.
**
Atlantis surges towards the heavens. It’s already 110 kilometres high and travelling at 13000 kilometres an hour.
Henri is jammed into his chair. He weighs triple his usual mass as the ship pulls 3Gs. He focuses on the LCD screen before him. ‘Main engines throttling down.’ It’s a precautionary measure, to pull the engines back to 65 per cent of thrust to avoid unduly stressing the shuttle’s airframe or its occupants.
Even with the foot off the accelerator Atlantis still builds speed through the thinning air, its trajectory now almost horizontal as it trades altitude for velocity.
Henri surveys the screens before him. The five on-board computers have run their assigned programs and the engines have performed as designed.
‘We are go for main engine cut-off.’ The flight computers order the shuttle’s fuel valves to close and the main engines shut down. Instantly the occupants are thrown forward, strain against their harnesses as the 3Gs of pressure is released.
‘We are go for external tank separation.’ Henri feels a light shudder as the explosive bolts that hold the now empty external tank to the shuttle
fire. The tank is released and drops away, begins its long fall to the Atlantic below.
They have reached a height of just over 300 kilometres, travelling at 30000 kilometres an hour. Henri feels himself become weightless and it is wonderful. Finally, after years of planning, they are in orbit.
The Frenchman smiles his Mona Lisa smile but that will be his only celebration. There is much to do.
**
The Jet Ranger settles on the long grass.
Dirk steps out, GPS unit in his hand, torch in the other. He quickly moves into the darkness.
Tam raises his head to a sound, forces his eyes open. ‘Who’s that?’ His words are laboured. He tries his best to focus on the figure that crouches before him.
‘It’s Dirk. What happened?’
Tam’s breathing is shallow. ‘Bitten. Cottonmouth.’
‘Christ.’
‘Least it wasn’t... an American alligator.’ Tam grins to himself.
‘Where’s Gerald?’
‘Dead. In a tree.’ Tam studies the German. ‘Glad you’re here. I need a doc.’
‘I know. I’ll take care of it.’
Relieved, Tam nods and lets his eyes close. ‘Okay. Good.’
‘You did well.’
‘Thanks, man.’
Dirk draws his silenced pistol, points it at Tam’s temple and pulls the trigger. Tam’s head snaps back and he sags to the ground.
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Tam knew it coming in. They all did. There was no time in the schedule for a visit to a doctor and no point anyway. When you got bit by a cottonmouth you stayed bit.
Dirk stands, rests a foot on Tam’s chest and rolls his body into the cement shaft. He waits for it to hit the bottom then turns for the chopper, his expression grim. He’d always liked Tam. He hasn’t felt this bad since he cut down the oak.
**
It all goes away. The stress that has preoccupied Rhonda over the last two years, the by-product of preparing to fly a two-week mission to the International Space Station. It vanishes, like smoke on the wind.
It is replaced by something else, something terrible, an altogether different kind of stress. Not knowing. Why is she here? Why was her life spared when others weren’t? Why did her best friend betray her? What do these hijackers want? And what has happened to Judd?
For the first time she can remember she feels completely powerless, like she’s stuck in knee-deep mud, unable to move. What makes it worse it that she has no idea what to do about it.
**
14
Judd was way off with the 30 per cent estimate.
He falls through the launch platform’s left rectangular hole with plenty of room to spare, then lands in the two metres of water still remaining in the flame trench from the sound suppression system. His back and legs feel numb from the impact and the wound on his hip throbs like a mother but he doesn’t care because he’s alive. Only now, as he floats in the water, does he realise how close, and how often, he came to buying the farm tonight.
The water seeps away and Judd peels himself off the cement. He looks up at the fat arc of white smoke left by the shuttle’s solid rockets, stark against the black sky. He follows it until it disappears into the star field.
Judd’s not a big fan of the men-crying thing. He thinks that you only get three cries in adult life so they had better be worth it. His first was in ‘89 when Kevin Costner played catch with the young version of his Dad at the end of Field Of Dreams. It was a movie during which many a dude shed a tear so Judd wasn’t embarrassed about it. The second time he Costnered was at the Columbia memorial service as he mourned his dead friend. Again, an appropriate response considering the situation. And now, at the thought of never seeing Rhonda again, he’s on the verge of Costnering for a third time. He can feel moisture at the corner of his eyes and it’s not from the flame trench. He breathes deeply, holds the emotion in check. This is not the time for waterworks.
He sets off at pace towards the VAB and pushes Rhonda from his mind by asking himself why someone would want to steal a space shuttle. If he can answer that question then maybe he can understand the hijackers’ plans and work out what he can do to get her back.
Do they think they can ransom Atlantis? If they do they’re in for a rude shock. The US government doesn’t negotiate with hijackers or terrorists. Ever. As pretty well everyone on the planet knows this, it doesn’t seem a likely reason.
Maybe the hijackers want to kidnap the astronauts and ransom their families? But why do it like this? Why not grab them on their way to pick up a carton of milk from the corner store?
Maybe the hijackers plan to sell the shuttle, perhaps to the Chinese, who have a manned space program that Judd expects to be moon-bound within a decade. This one seems like a very long bow. The Chinese space program uses Apollo-style disposable rockets, a system that has little in common with the shuttle. If, for some reason, the Chinese needed a piece of specific, shuttle-related knowledge they would surely employ one of their vast server farms to hack the information online, not physically steal a spacecraft.
Three minutes into his walk to the VAB and no closer to understanding the hijackers’ motivation, he’s splashed by the headlights of the KSC SWAT team’s box-shaped van. The van pulls up and expels a dozen young guys holding serious weaponry, the sort Judd wishes he’d had access to earlier that evening. The team stalk around manfully but seem to have no idea what’s going on. They keep looking up at the sky as if Atlantis might be hanging there, within easy reach. The team leader quickly recognises Judd and is very excited to meet a genuine astronaut. He then notices the wound on Judd’s hip and cannot be dissuaded from radioing an ambulance to transport him to hospital.
**
At Cape Canaveral Hospital Judd spends almost half an hour being treated for his injuries - a bruised back, burned skin and a surprisingly large gash on his hip that requires seven stitches.
While he’s being treated Will Thompkins calls to check that he’s okay and to organise a debrief once Judd’s discharged. It’s a short conversation during which Thompkins sounds both stressed and preoccupied. Straight after the hijack NASA’s Administrator Charlie Cunningham placed Thompkins in charge of the Atlantis recovery mission. It’s a big promotion for the midget Hasselhoff. His career is set - if NASA exists after this.
It’s pushing midnight by the time Judd exits the ER to find Will Thompkins in the foyer, deep in conversation on his BlackBerry. He points Judd to an empty office nearby and takes its only chair, sits on it back to front, and continues the phone call. Judd has always thought back to front was the coolest way to sit on a chair but seeing Thompkins do it makes it feel both try-hard and irritating. He vows never to sit that way again.
A minute later Thompkins finishes the call and Judd can see the strain on his face. ‘Sorry about that. Okay, I haven’t got long. What can you can tell me?’
‘I think I know one of the hijackers.’
Thompkins flinches in surprise. ‘What? You think or you know?’
‘I think I know.’
‘Who?’
‘It’s going to sound crazy. He was a German pop star in the mid-eighties.’
‘A German pop star in his mid-eighties?’
‘No, no, in the mid-eighties. A band called Big Arena, sang a song called ‘Tango in Berlin’. You remember it?’
Thompkins looks at him with an I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about-because-I-only-listen-to-Michael Bublé expression on his face. ‘Not really.’
‘Tango in Berlin, oh I want to tango in Berlin, we’ll drink your daddy’s gin, I’ll kiss your sun-kissed skin, the night we tango in Berlin.’ Judd raises both eyebrows. ‘Sound familiar?’
‘Maybe. Are you sure?’
‘He could be that guy or someone who looks just like him but when I said “Tango in Berlin” he seemed kind of surprised.’
‘Is that it?’
‘There was an
other guy, short, fifty-ish. I thought he was French.’
Thompkins nods. ‘Yeah, we’re aware of him. But not the German. Okay. Leave it with me. A full investigation will come later, but for now the priority is to recover Atlantis and the astronauts safely.’
‘Of course.’
‘I want you on board. Are you up for it?’
‘Whatever you need.’ This is exactly what Judd wants to hear. He wants to be involved.
‘I need you in Central Australia.’
‘What?’ It’s not what he’d expected to hear.
‘The Northern Territory. The Australians are kick-starting one of the old dishes we used during Skylab, to give us some coverage in that part of the Southern Hemisphere.’
Velocity Page 12
