Chapter Thirteen
Atlantis Flight Deck
Gator Green reached down to the center console on Atlantis’s flight deck and flipped through the laminated checklist resting on his leg. Same as in all the simulations—only this time it was for real. It should have made no difference, no matter that he was decked out in a pressure suit and wore his helmet. He stopped just before touching the switch and read from the checklist. “Orbital maneuvering system pressurization check.”
“Check,” Marc Franklin said in a flat, professional voice. Franklin read from an identical checklist in the mission commander’s chair on the left hand side of the compartment.
Gator flipped both switches marked OMS ENG. “Armed.” He swung his attention to the overhead panel, near Franklin. “Increasing cabin pressure to sixteen point seven psi.”
Franklin watched the results carefully. “Cabin leak check complete.”
Gator clicked his mike. “Control, Atlantis. OMS pressure on, cabin vent check complete.”
“Roger that.”
Atlantis vibrated with internal pumps, relays, and switches groaning under the constant contracting and expansion from the cryogenic fuel in the external tank. The shuttle seemed alive and anxious to go as Gator went methodically through the rest of the checklist.
He completed the voice check as Franklin reached down to close both cabin vent switches. As they completed the sequence, the voice from CAPCOM came over the radio. “Change of plan, Atlantis. We are continuing to extend our hold. Please stand by.”
Gator sighed and clicked his mike. “Copy that.” He wondered how long the delay would be this time.
He looked over at Franklin. Although it was the commander’s fourth space flight, the older man looked as nervous as a rookie, but capped it off with a brittle, forced stoicism that only increased the tension for Gator. On his other flights, Franklin had been a mere mission specialist. It must make one hell of a difference knowing you’re responsible for the entire crew, Gator thought. He wondered if Iceberg ever felt that way.
If this mission had gone off as originally planned, Gator knew that Iceberg would probably have been fast asleep in the commander’s chair during the extended hold, catching a few winks. The man oozed coolness, and his calm attitude infected every member of the crew so that no one had any doubt the mission would be a complete success.
He remembered being with Iceberg and Nicole at a cookout on the patio of his rented bachelor pad in Canaveral City, flipping burgers on a smoking Weber grill, horsing around to show off for Monique, a woman he had ended up dating for only two months. He splashed Tabasco sauce on the burgers as they sizzled over the flames, urging his guests to drink more lemonade. He had gotten it into his head that he wanted to try to make some fresh-squeezed lemonade the way his mother had done it once, and so he spent the afternoon making a godawful mess of his kitchen, massacring a whole bag full of lemons—and, dammit, Iceberg and Nicole were going to drink the stuff, no matter how much sugar they needed to add.
Monique had told him later that night how much she envied the stability apparent in Iceberg and Nicole’s relationship.…
Now, up on the flight deck, he and Franklin had an indefinite amount of time to kill. Gator tried to loosen some of the tension that permeated the cabin. He turned off his mike so that his voice would not be broadcast over the shuttle, much less over the radio. He leaned close to Franklin. “Hey, Marc—once we dock with Mir, it’d be easy to remain connected, let us stay up there awhile. You know, continue glasnost by giving some of their crew a break. We could have a poker game.”
Franklin looked up from studying the flight checklist again. His eyes were red, tired through the helmet. “You must be kidding.”
Gator fought to keep a straight face. Of course I’m kidding. “They might want to take a vacation on board Atlantis while we explore their station. Every nook and cranny. Nobody else needs to know.”
Alexandra Koslovsky leaned forward from her mission specialist seat, situated just behind the pilot and mission commander’s position. Her long straw-colored hair was stuffed inside the fabric Snoopy headgear. “Discussing travel plans, Lieutenant Commander Gator?”
Franklin stiffened. “We’re just going over the post-launch checklist, Cosmonaut Koslovsky.” He didn’t sound convincing.
Gator gave Alexandra a wink. “And to think we could have opened up a new frontier for international relations.”
Franklin snorted, realizing his leg had been pulled. He turned back to the checklist. “You’ve had your fun, Gator. No more, understand?”
“That’s a rog,” said Gator. “Just trying to lighten things up.” He turned to the next item on the checklist: Load flight plan OPS-1 into the computer. He’d have to load the program after the hold. Whenever it ended.
From here on out it was following a set schedule of checklists. It reminded him of preparing for a game at Annapolis, with the play strategy laid out days in advance. All he had to do was to run on the football field, with four thousand midshipmen yelling their heads off, waving their white wheel caps in the air—and execute the plan without errors.
At the back of his mind, as had probably happened with every single astronaut in the past decade, was the image of the Challenger disaster, the shuttle passing through max q with all readouts indicating complete success—until that gut-wrenching moment when it all went wrong. How could anyone sit aboard the shuttle on the launchpad and not think of that while waiting for the countdown to commence?
Gator pushed the image out of his mind. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it. With or without Iceberg as commander, this mission was going to go. Nothing could stop them now.
With Franklin, he ran though the post-launch checklist again, all the time glancing at the mechanical switches, old cathode-ray tubes, LED switches, and computer pads. Gator reached to his right and reattached the checklist to a Velcro pad, then stretched. He glanced at the countdown clock and frowned in concern. “Hey, Marc—we’re pushing up against the hold limit.”
Franklin scanned a row of lighted buttons, double-checked the countdown clock himself. He clicked the microphone. “CAPCOM, Atlantis. You’re keeping mighty quiet out there. What’s going on? Give us some good news.”
It took a disquietingly long moment for Houston to come back. “Atlantis, CAPCOM. We are still in an indefinite hold. Standby one.”
Gator raised his brows and looked at Franklin. “What do you think? Are they looking for an abort? What could it be?” The ground crew had a perfectionist reputation before okaying a launch.
Franklin looked grim, then disgusted. He flicked the comm switch again. “CAPCOM, can you give us details?”
“That’s a negatory. No data at this time, Atlantis.”
Gator clicked his own mike, letting disbelief trickle into his voice. “Come on, you don’t have an indication of the problem? Are we scrubbing the launch?”
“The hold was directed by the Launch Director herself. We’ll feed you more information as we get it from KSC.”
Gator shifted in his seat. Lying on his back staring up into the sky was getting damned uncomfortable. “CAPCOM, put me through to Panther—uh, Ms. Hunter, I mean.”
“Sorry, Atlantis. We’re having comm problems with Launch Control. We’ll keep you updated.”
“Comm problems?” Gator sounded incredulous.
“We’ve got to shut down, Atlantis—we’ll be out of communication with you for a while. Relax while we deadstart the comm link.”
Gator clicked his microphone twice to signify that he understood the directions. He frowned. Deadstart the system? That’s weird. He shrugged. Somebody probably found a hangnail somewhere.
“Not much we can do,” Franklin said. “You heard CAPCOM.”
“How about letting us unbuckle and get some blood back in our feet, Marc? No telling how long these clowns are going to keep us waiting.”
Franklin looked grim. “Our launch window won’t allow more than a half hour hold before we have to reschedule.” He started to unfasten his straps while speaking over the in-board intercom to the rest of the crew. “Okay, let’s take a short break, helmets off—but be ready to strap back in.”
Now unbuckled, Alexandra Koslovsky leaned forward. She grasped the back of his seat to support herself. “What do you think the problem is, Lieutenant Commander Gator?”
Gator twisted and looked at the pretty Russian cosmonaut. He gave her a disarming grin. “Who knows—gremlins, probably. No launch ever goes without some kind of hitch.”