Chapter Eight
Launchpad 39A
Navy Lieutenant Commander “Gator” Green stepped out of the NASA camper-van that served as the Crew Transfer Vehicle at the base of Atlantis. He felt his heartbeat increase. This was even better than running onto a lighted football field.
This was it—two hours before launch and no more practicing. No more of the endless NASA drills to get him as comfortable as possible with his first real flight as pilot of the shuttle. He just wished Iceberg was here.
His bird stood on the pad, beautiful and white, blessed by thousands of engineers. Named for the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute’s research ship in service from 1930 to 1966, OV-104, Atlantis towered 184 feet from the bottoms of its two solid rocket boosters to the top of the rust-red external tank. White fumes of liquid oxygen and hydrogen vented from their tanks.
Technicians stopped their work and applauded as Gator and his fellow astronauts stepped from the Crew Transfer Vehicle. NASA television cameras and flashbulbs lined the walkway; Gator paused as a dozen hands reached out to pat him on his back. He’d come a long way from when he was a boy growing up in the Atlanta ghetto. Luckily, the Navy had been open to an ambitious, good-humored black kid with excellent grades … and someone who kept trying and trying until someone said yes.
A Russian voice spoke behind him, deep but very female, “Are you stopping for portrait painting, Lieutenant Commander Gator? You are holding up the rest of us.”
Gator joked, “Not at all, Comrade. After you.” He knew the Russians were sensitive about using the outdated communist title.
Cosmonaut Alexandra Koslovsky stepped past him, grinning. Since the orange pressure suit hid her lithe features, she did not look like so much of an athlete, but Alexandra was one of the stars of this flight, scheduled to perform the first U.S.–Russian tandem spacewalk.
“I didn’t expect so many gawkers,” said Gator. “They must have shown up to see our Russian friends.”
“Then maybe I should stop for portrait instead of you,” Alexandra said over her shoulder.
Gator laughed and turned back to the cordon of applauding NASA and contractor personnel. Now this is the way it should always be, he thought. He started toward the elevator that would take the crew up the gantry to the White Room, where they would board the shuttle.
He shook hands with more well-wishers, technicians from KSC’s operations contractor, NASA contractors, even a few high-level managers distinguished from the rest by their ties beneath the work overalls. The seven astronauts crammed into the elevator, grateful for the relative silence.
“I prefer this sendoff to what Belorus gave us,” Alexandra said. “Our press does not get as excited as yours.”
“The difference is our press never even knows of launch,” said Orlov, one of Alexandra’s fellow cosmonauts. Gator and the other Americans chuckled politely. Only recently had the Russian press even been allowed to attend space launches.
The elevator began its rattling climb. Gator said, “It may not seem like a big deal to you Eastern Europeans, but our press loves ‘firsts’—like last year’s resupply mission to Mir, or this joint U.S.–Russian space walk. We made such a big deal over Sally Ride, our first female astronaut, although your first female cosmonaut, Valentina Tereshkova, upstaged her by two decades.”
Dr. Marc Franklin, the replacement mission commander, interjected, “You should have seen the sendoff they gave the guys back in the Apollo years, when we won the Moon race.”
Open mouth, insert foot, thought Gator. Having to get used to a new shuttle commander in the past week and a half had been difficult for the crew. It didn’t help that Franklin came over as an inflexible, humorless horse’s ass. Franklin’s intentions were right on, and the man had a reputation for being a solid worker. But certainly not a leader.
Orlov appeared offended by Franklin’s comment, but Alexandra took it with grace, leaning over to stage-whisper into Gator’s ear. “Dr. Franklin has not been given vodka and caviar initiation. We can hold nothing against him.”
Gator covered a snicker. Back at one of their outings during the first months of training with the cosmonaut crew, Alexandra had reverently brought in a gift she’d carried in her personal possessions, a small jar of Beluga caviar and an oily gray-green bottle of state-produced vodka from one of the distilleries in her home city of Minsk. Alexandra had stored the vodka in the freezer, then carefully spread the caviar like tiny black pearls on crackers, adding chopped white onion. She passed the crackers out to the crew members like a priest distributing the host.
Gator had looked strangely at the stuff, sniffing. “If it weren’t for the onions, it would smell just like fish eggs. Now at least it smells like fish eggs and raw onions together.”
Alexandra nodded, then ate her cracker with obvious delight, as did the other two Russian mission specialists. The two American specialists, Major Arlan Burns and Frank Purvis, were not so enthusiastic. Frank Purvis ate his delicately, making polite comments, and Arlan Burns gulped his in one bite, as if taking medicine.
Gator had looked at Iceberg, both waiting for the other to pop the caviar in his mouth; with unspoken assent, they bit simultaneously. Luckily, Alexandra’s shots of vodka scalded away the taste while bringing tears to Gator’s eyes. He was very glad when they switched back to drinking beer.…
“I watched news conference before getting in Crew Transfer Vehicle. Your Senator Boorman,” Alexandra said into the brief, awkward silence. “I am surprised at lack of support a political figure gives space program in public, especially while at launch center. What do financial records have to do with astronaut accomplishments?”
Gator made a raspberry sound. “Haven’t you heard that astronauts are all private millionaires?”
“In Russia politicians understand importance of space flight, and public’s need for heroes,” said Alexandra. “Even with end of Cold War and fragmentation of Soviet Union, we have cooperation among independent nations for our space program.”
Gator said, “Unfortunately in our society, a lot of Neanderthals go into politics.”
“Then our countries are actually not so different,” Orlov laughed.
The elevator bumped to a stop at level 195 and the White Room chamber. Franklin pretended he had never made his clumsy comment, or perhaps did not even notice. “Okay, kids—leave the politics back on Earth. It’s time to rock and roll. We’ve got a mission to accomplish.”
White-jumpsuited technicians lined the orbiter access arm that led to the White Room connected to the shuttle. The five foot wide, sixty-five-foot-long access arm looked like a gladiator tunnel. The last few techs applauded as Gator strolled toward the shuttle. Yep, I could get used to this real fast, he thought. And everybody said I had a big ego when I was just a Navy football player.
He reached the circular hatch on the orbiter’s left side, which led directly to the mid-level of the craft. A tech stood on either side to assist him; another waited just inside the shuttle. “Good luck, Lieutenant Commander,” said one of the techs as she held out a hand to help him through the access way. “My daughter wants to be an astronaut, just like you.”
Gator shook the woman’s hand, and saw a lot of his mother in her eyes. His mother had pushed him never to accept the mediocre. “Make sure your daughter goes to Annapolis then,” Gator said, “and not any of those other two dinky schools that try and pass for military academies.”
“I heard that, Gator! Don’t lead that young lady astray.” Major Arlan Burns was the crew’s sole remaining Air Force officer—now that Iceberg had been pulled from the mission.
Gator waved the comment aside with a laugh. Stooping down, he climbed into the shuttle, using the mid-deck wall as the floor. He walked in a low crouch, stepping over hand and foot grips, and made his way to the flight deck. There, the pilot’s seat was on the far right, its back to the floor.
The front section of the flight deck was covered with lighted panels, old screen displays, and switches masked by metal guards—technology straight from the seventies, but it worked, virtually guaranteed not to fail. Gator stepped over the mission specialist’s chair and climbed into his seat on his back in a sitting position.
Commander Franklin followed, and they both strapped into their seats up front. Gator scanned the console, concentrating on focusing his mind on the mission. Just like the simulator. He glanced at the panels—front, left side, next to the commander, center, right, next to the pilot, overhead—and the upgraded flatscreens. All there, no surprises.
They had another few minutes before it was time to unstow the Velcro-backed cue cards from the flight-deck file and attach them to the instrument panel. He put on his headset and plugged into the console. This would be the last time in the two-week mission he had a moment to himself to collect his thoughts.
So here he was, Annapolis’s smallest football player on top of the biggest roman candle in the country. He glanced over at Franklin. The new commander looked over his shoulder at the white-suited techs helping the astronauts climb aboard. Alexandra strapped in directly behind him in the mission specialist’s seat; her Russian comrades were on the mid-deck with Burns and Walker, out of sight. Franklin allowed everyone to spin-up their stations up by themselves.
Even with the well-rehearsed routine, Gator still thought it would be comforting to have Iceberg’s cool hand guiding them. He started to wonder about his friend, but Franklin’s voice came over the intercom. “Voice check, kids. On my count.”
Gator turned his attention back to the flight. A little more than one hour to go. From here on out it was by the book, no surprises.