Chapter Five
Launch Control Center
Storming to the exit of the firing floor on level 3, Nicole Hunter slid her badge through the reader and gained access to the LCC’s outer corridor. She ran up to the mezzanine observation deck and burst in on where Senator Boorman continued to speak to his cadre of reporters.
His aides and several other VIP attendees watched their boss’s soapboxing with varying expressions. One aide had brought a copy of the Wall Street Journal and casually skimmed the listing of stock prices.
“Excuse me, Senator,” Nicole said breathlessly, trying to keep a sweet sound in her voice. “Could I have a word with you in private?”
Boorman looked shocked, but he quickly composed himself. He followed Nicole, smiling pleasantly back at the reporters. “Certainly, Ms. Hunter. Yes, indeed.”
Holding his elbow, she eased him away from the reporters. When they were alone out in the hall, she said in an exaggerated relieved tone, “I hope I caught you in time to save you from potential embarrassment. About these investigations—”
He held up one of his big hands, cutting her off. “I know what you’re going to say, Ms. Hunter. But as a United States senator I have every right to look into the spending records of the space program, including its personnel. Even astronauts must be held accountable—if I find any misbehavior.”
“I quite agree, Senator,” Nicole said, fighting to keep her tone neutral. In her earlier days with the astronaut corps, she would have just knocked him to the floor with a punch in the gut—but here she had to calm herself, use her wits. Negotiate. “Nevertheless, I believe you were about to gravely misspeak yourself in front of those reporters. You should reprimand your staff for providing you with faulty information.” She nodded at the senator’s aides, who plainly couldn’t hear her.
Boorman’s look hardened. “Faulty information? What are you talking about? My staff isn’t known to make mistakes. “
“They should have told you that the tax and financial records of these crew members have already been investigated and cleared. Any questions raised were dealt with in follow-up interviews. NASA certainly doesn’t want any embarrassing financial misdeeds either, Senator.”
“I wasn’t aware of any such prior investigation.”
“It’s part of their security clearances and fitness-for-duty reviews. Full documentation is easily available from the NASA press office. Any redundant investigation—especially one without prior evidence of wrongdoing on the astronauts’ part—would merely waste the taxpayers’ money, at best … or look like a vindictive witch hunt, at worst.” She blinked at him calmly, helpfully.
Feigning an interruption, Nicole snatched the pager at her waist and looked at it with a furrowed brow, though she had not felt it vibrate. It provided a good pretext to escape from the VIP area, now that she had said her piece. “If you’ll excuse me, Senator, launch day is very busy for all of us. Thank you for your time. If there’s anything else I can do to help, please feel free to let me know.”
She walked back into the VIP observation area, toward one of the phones, covering a half-restrained sigh. All this politicking gave her a different kind of thrill than the astronaut training procedures, flying aircraft, pushing her reflexes to the red edges. More of an intellectual rush. Here, acting as Launch Director, Nicole had to fight with dialogue instead of controls, using people instead of subsystems to accomplish what she needed done.
Out of the astronaut corps for only eight months, Nicole Hunter had become NASA’s new golden girl. After winning her MBA, she had been hustled into important positions, receiving the “Sally Ride,” as one of her colleagues said. Nicole already knew the procedures, knew the stations, knew the personnel, and knew the astronauts themselves. After working back at Houston for three launches as CAPCOM, she now faced the morning as Launch Director for Atlantis.
The sour smell of coffee simmering too long on the burners caught her attention, and she gestured to one of the KSC runners. “Make a new pot, would you? When it’s done, see that I get a cup. Two sugars, no cream. I’ve been up since one a.m., and I need all the caffeine I can get.” The runner nodded eagerly and disappeared.
A large man heaved himself out of his chair and came over to her as Boorman huddled with his aides, seemingly chewing them out. Florid-faced and with non-distinctive brown hair cropped into a crewcut, Ambassador Andrei Trovkin, the cosmonaut liaison from Russia, waved a wide hand to catch her attention.
Blinking his dark eyes behind black-rimmed government-issue glasses, Ambassador Trovkin lowered his voice into a comical stage whisper “Bravo, Miss Hunter! Even in Russia we have foolish politicians. I am sure you ‘let him have it,’ as you say.”
Nicole stood straight and touched her short golden-brown hair, smoothing it in place just behind her ears. “Why, I never meant to imply the senator was foolish, Ambassador Trovkin. He’s chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, a very important man. It’s up to him to decide on the new treaty for future cooperation in U.S.-Russian space missions.”
“He seems to be ‘tough customer.’ Not friend to space programs of my country or yours.”
Nicole looked at him seriously. “Senator Boorman is a powerful man, but he has never been a particular threat to us before. Depending on how he votes, he could be a threat. That’s why we have to be nice.” Her lips curved in a broad, sweet smile that almost looked sincere.
“He needs to be convinced this treaty is best for both of our countries,” Trovkin said.
The KSC aide came up to her with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Here, Ms. Hunter,” he said. “Found a fresh pot down on the firing floor.”
She took a sniff, thanked him, then sipped the hot liquid. Nothing worked better than coffee to wash away headaches, and this morning she had already encountered plenty. She drew a deep breath, then turned back to Trovkin, who grinned broadly at the NASA Select television monitor, showing a gap between his front teeth.
Garbed in their orange pressure suits and carrying their helmets, the Atlantis astronauts filed aboard the camper-van that would take them out to the launchpad.
Traffic inside the Kennedy Space Center had been cleared along the Crew Transfer Vehicle’s path. Imagine the embarrassment of delaying a countdown because the astronauts got caught in a traffic jam on their way to the gantry—and with all the spectators hanging around for every launch, a traffic jam wasn’t such a ridiculous possibility.
The Belorussian cosmonaut, Alexandra Koslovsky, stepped up to the camper-van and glanced directly into the camera. Her strawberry blonde hair hung behind her in a neat braid. She wore sunglasses, which she would no doubt leave in the van before the team climbed out onto the gantry elevator that would take them up to the shuttle’s crew access hatch.
“Ah, look at her.” Trovkin said, his dark eyes fixed on the image, the lenses of his glasses glinting in the fluorescent lights. “See the sinuous way she moves? The strength of her character? She is magnificent!”
Nicole glanced at the ambassador. “Yes, she is beautiful.”
“That much is obvious, my friend,” Trovkin said, his eyes sparkling. “Wait until she walks in space. Then you will see true grace.”
Nicole had heard rumors of the two of them; Trovkin and Koslovsky didn’t keep their relationship terribly secret. The pair had much in common. Trovkin himself had gone through cosmonaut training, but had been forced to step out of the program due to a heart murmur. He seemed not to resent the fact that Alexandra would spacewalk from the American shuttle. Instead, he seemed enthusiastic about the opportunity she had.
When the astronauts had boarded the van and the news cameras backed off to watch the CTV lumber into motion, Trovkin finally managed to tear his attention away. Nicole studied the man, broad shouldered, square jawed—a stereotypical hero type, she thought.
“So, Launch Director Hunter,” Trovkin said, “has your friend Colonel Friese come to observe launch? This was to have been his mission.”
“I’m afraid not, Ambassador Trovkin,” she said simply.
“A pity,” he said, “I had looked forward to meeting famous ‘Iceberg.’”
“Yeah, well,” Nicole said, looking away and fumbling for some excuse. “I think he had other training to do. With his qualifications, he’s naturally expected to be assigned to a different crew and—”
Trovkin chuckled. “Of course I understand. I would never have wanted to be on display, poignant reminder of how fragile we all are, hobbling about with foot in cast. He is more Russian than American—unflappable.”
“Oh, is that what he is?” Nicole said, raising her eyebrows. “I suppose unflappable is as good a word as any … but I must get back to my duties, Ambassador. Please enjoy the launch.”
“I intend to, my friend.”
Carrying her coffee carefully to keep from sloshing on her white silk blouse, Nicole started to leave the VIP observation deck, when the reporter from Channel 7 caught her arm. “Could I get a statement, Ms. Hunter?”
“Sure.”
As she waited for the cameras to come on, she understood fully why Iceberg didn’t want to be here for the launch, for all the reasons Gator Green and Andrei Trovkin had stated—but also the big showoff probably felt intimidated to be with his old flame in a place where she was clearly in command.
Though they had their differences, they’d also had marvelously strong ties to each other, and now Nicole felt true disappointment for him. Iceberg had lost his chance to command the mission because of his crazy stunt for the cameras.
Supposedly in quarantine, taking care of himself, making sure he didn’t get exposed to any cold virus—Iceberg had been jogging along the beach to the hoots and catcalls of reporters from a local television station. Iceberg had then proceeded to do the quick, resilient backflip that had become his trademark performance. Iceberg had competed as an All-American gymnast in college; he had done the trick hundreds of times—but here, in front of the cameras, his own damned showboating had done him in. He had landed wrong and broken his left foot.
And now, on launch day, replacement commander Dr. Marc Franklin sat in the Atlantis’s left-hand command seat.
Nicole didn’t dare express how sorry she was. Iceberg’s ego was already as big as a refrigerator, and it might serve him good to be taken down a notch. If Iceberg couldn’t sit at the head of the table, he didn’t want to come to breakfast. That was just his character.
But today, while he could sleep in and ignore the countdown chaos, Nicole had a thousand important duties to attend to. As the light above the TV camera winked red, the phones in the main firing floor continued ringing. The numbers on the countdown clock decreased steadily.
Step by step, the shuttle prepared for launch.