Gravity. Part 7

The commander and pilot were seated first. Emma, a.s.signed to middeck, was the last to be a.s.sisted. She settled back into her seat, buckles secured, helmet in place, and gave a thumbs-up.

The hatch swung shut, closing the crew off from the outside.

Emma could hear her own heartbeat. Even through the air-to-ground voice checks chattering over her comm unit, through the gurgles and groans of the awakening shuttle, the thud of her own heart came through in a steady drumbeat. As a middeck pa.s.senger, she had little to do in the next two hours but sit and think, the preflight checks would be conducted by the flight-deck crew. She no view of the outside, nothing to stare at except the stowage and food pantry.

Outside, dawn would soon light the sky, and pelicans would skim the surf at Playalinda Beach.

She took a deep breath and settled back to wait. Jack sat on the beach and watched the sun come up.

He was not alone in Letty Park. The sightseers had been gathering since before midnight, the arriving cars forming an endless of headlights creeping along the Bee Line Expressway, some peeling north toward Merritt Island Wildlife Refuge, the others continuing across the Banana River to the city of Cape Canaveral. The viewing would be good from either location. The crowd around him was in a holiday mood, with beach towels and picnic baskets.

He heard laughter and loud radios and the bawling of sleepy children.

Surrounded by that swirl of celebrants, he was a silent presence, a man alone with his thoughts and fears.

As the sun cleared the horizon, he stared north, toward the launchpad.

She would be aboard Atlantis now, strapped in and waiting. Excited and happy and a little afraid.

He heard a child say, "That's a bad man, Mommy," and he turned to look at the girl. They gazed at each other for a moment, a tiny blond princess locking eyes with an unshaven and very disheveled man. The mother s.n.a.t.c.hed the girl into her arms and quickly moved to a safer spot on the beach.

Jack gave a wry shake of his head and once again turned his gaze northward. Toward Emma.

The Flight Control Room had turned deceptively quiet. It was twenty minutes till launcha"time to confirm it was still a go. All back-room controllers had completed their systems checks, and now the front room was ready to be polled.

In a calm voice, Carpenter went down the list, requesting verbal confirmation from each front-room controller.

"Fido?" asked Carpenter.

"Fido is go," said the flight dynamics officer.

"Guido?"

"Guidance is go."

"Surgeon?"

"Surgeon is go."

"DPS?"

"Data Processing is go." When Carpenter had polled them all and received affirmatives from all, he gave a brisk nod to the room.

"Houston, are you go?" asked the launch director in Cape Canaveral.

"Mission Control is go," affirmed Carpenter.

The launch director's traditional message to the shuttle crew was heard by everyone at Houston's Mission Control.

"Atlantis, you are a go. From all of us at the Cape, good luck and G.o.dspeed."

"Launch Control, this is Atlantis," they heard Commander Vance respond.

"Thanks for gettin' this bird ready to fly." Cape Canaveral Emma closed and locked her visor and turned on her oxygen supply.

Two minutes till liftoff. Coc.o.o.ned and isolated in her suit, had nothing to do but count the seconds. She felt the shudder of the main engines gimballing into launch position.

T minus thirty seconds. The electrical link to ground control was now severed, and the onboard computers took control.

Her heart accelerated, the adrenaline roaring through her veins. As she listened to the countdown, she knew, second by second, what to expect, could see in her mind's eye the sequence of events that were now playing out.

At T minus eight seconds, thousands of gallons of water were dumped beneath the launchpad to suppress the roar of the engines.

At T minus five, the onboard computers opened the valves to allow liquid oxygen and hydrogen to travel into the main engines.

She felt the shuttle jerk sideways as the three main engines ignited, the s.p.a.cecraft straining against the bolts that still harnessed it to the launchpad.

Four. Three. Twoa The point of no return.

She held her breath, hands gripped tight, as the solid rocket boosters ignited. The turbulence was bone-shaking, the roar so painfully loud she could not hear communications through her headset. She had to clamp her jaw shut to stop her teeth from slamming together. Now she felt the shuttle roll into its planned the Atlantic, and her body was shoved back against the seat by the acceleration to three g's. Her limbs were so heavy she could move them, the vibrations so violent it seemed the orbiter would surely fly apart into pieces. They were at Max Sentence, the peak of turbulence, and Commander Vance announced he was throttling back the main engines. In less than a minute, he would throttle up to full thrust.

As the seconds ticked by, as the helmet rattled around her head, and the force of liftoff pressed like an unyielding hand against her chest, she felt a fresh lick of apprehension. This was the point during launch when Challenger had exploded.

Emma closed her eyes and remembered the simulation with Hazel two weeks ago. They were now approaching the point where everything in the sim had started to go wrong, where they'd been forced into an RTLS abort, and then Kittredge had lost control of the orbiter. This was a critical moment in the launch, and there was nothing she could do but lie back and hope that real life was more forgiving than a simulation.

Over the headset she heard Vance say, "Control, this is Atlantis. Throttling up."

"Roger, Atlantis. Throttle up." jack stood with his gaze cast skyward, his heart in his throat, shuttle lifted into the sky. He heard the crackling of the solid boosters as they spewed out twin fountains of fire. The trail of exhaust climbed higher, sketched by the glinting pinpoint of the shuttle. All around him, the crowd burst out in applause. A launch, they all thought.

But Jack knew there were too many things that could still go wrong.

Suddenly he was frantic that he'd lost track of the seconds.

How much time had elapsed? Had they pa.s.sed through Max Sentence? He s.h.i.+elded his eyes against the morning sunlight, straining to see Atlantis, but able to make out only the plume of exhaust.

Already the crowd had started to drift back to their cars.

He remained frozen, waiting in dread. He saw no terrible explosion. No black smoke. No nightmare.

Atlantis had safely escaped the earth and was now hurtling through s.p.a.ce.

He felt tears trickle down his cheeks, but he didn't bother to wipe them away. He let them fall as he continued to gaze at the sky, at the dissipating trail of smoke that marked his wife's ascent into the heavens.

The Station

July 25.

Beatty, Nevada

Sullivan Obie awakened with a groan to the sound of the ringing telephone. His head felt as if cymbals were banging on it, and his mouth tasted like an old ashtray. He reached for the phone and accidentally knocked it off the cradle. The loud thud made him wince with pain. Aw, forget it, he thought, and turned away, burrowing his face into a nest of tangled hair.

A woman?

Squinting against the morning light, he confirmed that there was indeed a woman lying in bed with him. A blonde. Snoring. He closed his eyes, hoping that if he just went back to sleep, she be gone when he woke up again.

But he could not sleep now. Not with the voice yelling from the fallen receiver.

He fished around at the side of the bed and found the phone.

"What, Bridget?" he said. "What?"

"Why aren't you here?" Bridget demanded.

"*Cause I'm in bed."

"It's ten-thirty! Hel-lo? Meeting with the new investors? I as well warn you, Casper is wavering between crucifixion and strangulation." The investors. s.h.i.+t.

Sullivan sat up and clutched his head, waiting for the dizziness to pa.s.s.

"Look, just leave the bimbo and get over here," said Bridget.

"Casper's already walking them over to the hangar."

"Ten minutes," he said. He hung up and stumbled to his feet.

The bimbo didn't stir. He had no idea who she was, but he left her asleep in his bed, figuring he had nothing worth stealing, anyway.

There was no time to shower or shave. He tossed back three aspirins, chased them with a cup of nuked coffee, and roared off his Harley.

Bridget was waiting for him outside the hangar. She looked like a Bridget, st.u.r.dy and redheaded, with a bad temper to match.

Sometimes, unfortunately, stereotypes do ring true.

"They're about to leave," she hissed. "Get your b.u.t.t in there."

"Who are these guys again?"

"A Mr. Lucas and a Mr. Rashad. They represent a consortium of twelve investors. You blow this, Sully, and we're toast." She paused, eyeing him in disgust. "Ah, h.e.l.l, we're already toast. Look at you. Couldn't you at least have shaved?"

"You want me to go back home? I can rent a tuxedo on the way."

"Forget it." She thrust a folded newspaper into his hand.

"What's this?"

"Casper wants it. Give it to him. Now get in there and convince *em to write us a check. A big check." Sighing, he stepped into the hangar.

After the harsh desert glare, the relative darkness was a comfort to his eyes. It took moment to spot the three men, standing by the black thermal barrier tiles of the orbiter Apogee II. The two visitors, both in suits, looked out of place among all the aircraft tools and equipment.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" he called. "Sorry I'm late, but I got hung up on a conference call. You know how things can drag ona" He glimpsed Casper Mulholland's warning look of Don't push it, a.s.shole and swallowed hard. "I'm Sullivan Obie," he said.

"Mr. Mulholland's partner."

"Mr. Obie knows every nut and bolt of this RLV," said Casper.

"He used to work with the old master himself, Bob Truax out in California. In fact, he can explain the system better than I can. Around here, we call him our Obie-Wan." The two visitors merely blinked.

It was not a good sign when the universal language of Star Wars failed to elicit a smile.

Sullivan shook hands, first with Lucas, then with Rashad, grinning broadly even as his hopes sank. Even as he felt a surge resentment toward these two well-dressed gentlemen whose money he and Casper so desperately needed. Apogee Engineering, their baby, the dream they had nurtured for the past thirteen years, about to go under, and only a fresh infusion of cash, from a new of investors, could save it. He and Casper had to make the sales pitch of their lives. If it didn't work, they might as well pack their tools and sell off the orbiter as a carnival ride.

With a flourish, Sullivan waved his arm at Apogee II, which looked less like a rocket plane and more like a fat fireplug with windows.

"I know she may not look like much," he said, "but what we've built here is the most cost-effective and practical reusable launch vehicle now in existence. She uses an a.s.sisted SSTO launch system. After vertical takeoff, upon climbing to twelve kilometers, pressurefed rockets accelerate the vehicle to a Mach four staging point at low-dynamic pressures. This...o...b..ter is fully reusable, and weighs only eight and a half tons. It fulfills the principles we believe are the future of commercial s.p.a.ce travel. Smaller. Faster. Cheaper."

"What sort of lift engine do you use?" asked Rashad.

"Rybinsk RD-38 air-breathing engines imported from Russia."

"Why Russian?"

"Because, Mr. Rashada"between you, me, and the walla"the Russians know more about rocketry than anyone else on earth. They've developed dozens of liquid-fueled rocket motors, using advanced materials which can operate at higher pressures. Our country, I'm sorry to say, has developed only one new liquid-fueled rocket motor since Apollo. This is now an international industry. We believe in choosing the best components for our producta"wherever those components may come from."

"And how does thisa thing land?" asked Mr. Lucas, dubiously at the fireplug orbiter.

"Well, that's the beauty of Apogee II. As you'll notice, she has no wings. She doesn't need a runway. Instead she drops straight down, using parachutes to slow her descent and air bags to cus.h.i.+on touchdown. She can land anywhere, even in the ocean. Again, we have to tip our hats to the Russians, because we've borrowed features from their old Soyuz capsule. It was their reliable for decades."

"You like that old Russki technology, huh?" said Lucas.

Sullivan stiffened. "I like technology that works. Say what you want about the Russians, they knew what they were doing."

"So what you have here," said Lucas, "is something of a hybrid. Soyuz mixed in with s.p.a.ce shuttle."

"A very small s.p.a.ce shuttle. We've spent thirteen years in development and only sixty-five million dollars to get this fara"that's amazingly inexpensive when you compare it to what the shuttle cost. With multiple s.p.a.cecraft, we believe you'll get an annual return on investment of thirty percent, if we launch twelve times a year. Cost per flight would be eighty thousand dollars, price per kilogram would be dirt cheap at two hundred seventy. Smaller, faster, cheaper. That's our mantra."

"How small are we talking about, Mr. Obie? What's your payload capacity?" Sullivan hesitated. This was the point where they might lose them. "We can launch a payload of three hundred kilograms, plus a pilot, to low earth orbit." There was a long silence.

Mr. Rashad said, "That's all?"