by John Olson
Bob gulped. I can’t believe it. We’re really leaving. If the winds drop a little.
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 11:30 A.M. EST
Valkerie
Valkerie lay on her back with her feet locked into place overhead—waiting. They had been strapped in their seats for over two hours. If Launch Control knew they weren’t going to launch today, why didn’t they just let them go home? The winds were too high.
Valkerie closed her eyes and tried to relax.
The ship vibrated beneath her like a finely tuned automobile. A strange noise made her jump. Kennedy whistling softly under his breath. Bob and Lex began to snicker.
What was so funny? Kennedy’s whistling? Or was it another private joke? Valkerie was sick to death of being left out. Just once she’d like to know what was going on.
“Time for the astro comm checks.” Josh’s voice came in through her earphones. He sounded tired, but at least he could get up and walk around. “MCC to Ares 10, how do you read?”
“CDR, loud and clear,” said Kennedy.
“PLT,” said Lex.
Valkerie hesitated. “MS1.”
“MS2.” Bob sounded calm, confident.
That helped Valkerie a little. If he wasn’t afraid, why should she be?
“Ares 10, this is Launch Control,” said the Launch Director. “Ready for hatch closure. The winds are at one-five-decimal-two and steady. We are at T-minus one hour and forty minutes.”
More than an hour and a half! Valkerie tried to cross her legs, but the molded seat and harness held her legs in place. She had to go bad—and having her feet above her head wasn’t helping matters. If they didn’t scrub the launch soon, she was going to have to ... Oh, so maybe that’s why Kennedy was whistling.
The Launch Director came on again. “Hatch is closed and latched for launch?”
“That’s affirm.” Another voice, probably one of the closeout crew.
Lex started whistling. This time Valkerie joined in the laughter.
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 12:41 P.M. CST
Nate
Nate wiped his forehead and tried to will the wind-speed indicator to drop. The rolling average over the past five minutes was 15.1 mph. One tenth of a lousy mile per hour too high. The instantaneous wind speed was 14.8. If it stayed down for another minute—
“Mr. Harrington, are you going to launch, or aren’t you?” The network rep stood with his hands behind his back, feet spread apart, looking for all the world like a gunslinger.
Nate pointed at the clock. “Let me spell it out for you. Our launch window closes in fourteen minutes. We are at a built-in hold at T-minus seven minutes. If the average wind speed dips below fifteen, then we proceed. Otherwise, no. Any other brilliant questions?”
“Dr. Perez, can’t you talk sense into him?” The network rep jerked his thumb toward Nate. “You have to launch today. We’ve got a lot of money riding on this.”
Perez walked up to the rep and stared at him coldly. “I’ve got four lives riding on this, and that is my only consideration right now. If that’s a problem to you, then walk. We’ve got a mission to run. Or we will as soon as they clear the tower. Until then, Launch Control in Florida runs this launch.”
The average wind speed dropped to 15.0.
Nate switched to the Launch Director’s circuit and keyed his mike. “LD, this is Mission Director Nate Harrington. We are go for launch at MCC-Houston.”
“Roger that,” said the Launch Director. “All technical issues on site are now closed. White Room is deconfigured. We are clear to fly.”
The Launch Director went down the checklist of engineering teams, getting a Go from each. The last was the crew itself.
“CDR?”
“Go!” said Kennedy.
“Count will resume on my mark,” said the Launch Director. “Three ... two ... one ... mark!”
The clock began ticking down from seven minutes. The average wind speed dropped to 14.9.
The network rep put a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “Mr. Harrington, does this mean we’re definitely going to launch today?”
Nate yanked off his headset and spun around to glare at him. “Listen, you imbecile, and listen good. Nothing is definite until the solid boosters ignite at T-minus 1.8 seconds. After that, God himself can’t call back the launch. Now get out of here.”
“I want a definite guarantee that—”
Steven Perez stepped in. “Thank you for stopping by. We have work to do. You will leave now.” He pushed the rep bodily out of the room.
Nate wiped his face again, his eyes riveted to the wind-speed indicator. Don’t you dare change. We cannot afford to miss this launch. We can’t. We just can’t. Stay at 14.9.
Please.
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 1:44 P.M. EST
Bob
“Ares 10, this is Houston,” Josh said. “The clock is ticking again. Good luck, and godspeed!”
The clock resumed its countdown. Bob tightened his grip on the arm of his chair. In fifteen minutes, we’ll be in space.
Or dead.
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 12:49 P.M. CST
Nate
The clock passed T-minus two minutes without incident. Nate’s heart hammered in his rib cage. The instantaneous winds had been fluctuating between fourteen and sixteen for the last five minutes, but the average was below threshold. Two more minutes and we’re home free, baby, and we can start paying our bills again, and—
Nate stared at the indicator. Just a gust. It had to be.
“Flight, this is LD,” the Launch Director’s voice came through Nate’s headset. “We are at threshold. Recommendations?”
The Flight Director down in Mission Control took only an instant to pass that buck on up the ladder. “Nate, this is Flight. What’s your opinion on this?”
Perez was at Nate’s side in an instant. “Is fifteen safe?”
“Technically, yes. It’s marginal.”
“Is it safe?”
“It’s—” Nate tugged at his hair. “Flight, hold the countdown.”
“LD, hold the count,” said Flight.
The clock stopped. Two seconds later the phone rang.
Nate picked it up and slammed it down.
Sixty seconds ticked by. No change in the rolling average. The instantaneous speed bobbed around between fourteen and sixteen.
Perez put a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “It’s not moving up.”
Nate was hyperventilating now. “I see it. Shall we go?”
“If we can do so safely. Your call, Nate.”
Which was a lie, and Nate knew it. They had too much invested in this thing to back down. If it was marginal, they had to go. They had to.
“Flight, this is Harrington,” Nate said. “Recommend we proceed with launch.”
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 1:51 P.M. EST
Valkerie
“Ares 10, this is Josh. Resuming the count.”
Valkerie watched the clock start ticking down again. A minute fifty. A minute forty. This was it. It was really going to happen. Please let us get into orbit safely.
She exhaled slowly. Had Christa McAuliffe been thinking the same thing? If so, what good had it done her?
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 1:52 P.M. EST
Bob
Bob watched the seconds tick off. Average wind speed was holding at 15.0 exactly. T-minus fifty-eight seconds. The launch window would close in three minutes. One more delay, and the launch would be off for today.
This is no way to run a mission.
The Ares 10 had almost ten million parts, each of which had to work for this mission to succeed. Had they checked them all? They must have, a thousand times. There were procedures for everything.
Written by humans. What if there’d been a glitch they hadn’t caught? What if they hadn’t thou
ght of every contingency? What if some terrorist somewhere had a SAM ready to blow them out of the sky? What if?
The instantaneous wind speed dropped to 14.5, then to 14.2.
Bob felt his pulse slowing. Okay, this is it. No more what-ifs. We’re going to Mars, no matter what.
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 12:53 P.M. CST
Nate
Nate was breathing again. Average wind was down to 14.9 and holding steady. T-minus twenty seconds. Come on, baby!
Fifteen point zero. Nate sucked in his breath and held it. T-minus fifteen seconds, and the announcer began the traditional countdown.
“Fifteen ... fourteen ... thirteen ...”
The instantaneous wind gusted to 15.3.
Nate toggled his headset mike. “Flight, recommend you maintain countdown.”
“Roger that, over. LC, recommend you continue the count.”
“Ten ... nine ... eight ...”
The wind speed jumped to 15.5, then to 15.9.
Nate jumped out of his chair. “Flight, that’s just a gust. Rolling average is fine. We are still go for launch. Go, go, go!”
Wind speed 16.4.
“Five ... four ... main engine ignite ... three ... two.”
Nate’s eyes were riveted on the screen. The six solid boosters lit off. No turning back now.
Wind speed 16.9. God have mercy.
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 1:53 P.M. EST
Bob
T-minus zero. Somewhere down below, eight explosive charges severed the ten-inch restraining bolts. The rocket leapt off the pad, pushing Bob deep into his seat. The entire ship lurched and shimmied. He checked the instantaneous wind speed. 17.2. 17.5. Just let us clear the tower.
The rocket shuddered with a deafening metallic groan. Bob checked the altimeter. They had cleared. They were at 100 mph, with a lateral wind speed of 18.2. He could feel the buffeting as the dynamic air pressure climbed rapidly.
“Hang on, people,” Bob yelled into his mike. “We are in for a ride.”
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 12:53 P.M. CST
Nate
A collective gasp hissed around the consoles in Mission Control. Had a stabilizer fin nicked the edge of the tower? Nate couldn’t be sure. A blast of static filled the room. What was causing all that noise?
It was now seven seconds into launch. Deep in the guts of some computer, somewhere, control of the rocket passed from the Launch Center at Cape Canaveral to Mission Control Center in Houston.
Tag, you’re it.
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 12:54 P.M. CST
Valkerie
Valkerie’s monitor rattled and pitched, a cold blue blur that flickered at the edges of her terror. A deafening roar filled her brain, punctuated by pings and ear-piercing groans. Voices shouted in her ear. Something was wrong. She couldn’t hear above the roar. What were they trying to tell her? What was she supposed to do? Something flashed red on her monitor. A purple haze on a field of fuzzy blue.
“I can’t hear you!” Valkerie shouted into her microphones, but she couldn’t hear her own voice. Her arms were made of lead and her tongue was dull as stone.
“I can’t hear you! What do you want us to do?”
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 12:54 P.M. CST
Bob
Something snapped way down in the guts of the ship. Bob twisted his head frantically. Had something broken? They couldn’t bail out now. They were sixty seconds into the launch—about the point that the Challenger had exploded—and traveling 3000 mph. Way too fast for an emergency egress.
The ship vibrated like a paint shaker. And the worst was coming any second now. Max Q, the point of maximum dynamic pressure. If anything was going to blow, it would be here. The ship was shaking so bad, Bob couldn’t see a thing. He narrowed his eyes to slits and tried to watch the clock. The roar of the ship filled his ears.
Valkerie was screaming something. Bob couldn’t understand her. The noise battered his senses. They would hit Max Q at T-plus sixty-four seconds. He watched the clock. Sixty-two. Sixty-three. Sixty-four.
Sixty-five. And they were still alive.
For the time being.
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 12:54 P.M. CST
Nate
The camera inside the ship was shaking like an epileptic. Something had gone terribly wrong. They were in some kind of resonance mode, and the nozzle gimbals couldn’t keep up—they were probably out of phase and causing positive feedback. The screen filled with static.
“Flight, we’ve lost telemetry!” That was TELMU, and he sounded frantic.
“Flight, I’ve lost track of the ship!” GNC jumped out of his chair and hammered on his console.
A babble of voices filled the Flight Director’s channel. Nate switched to the Capcom link reserved for Josh and the crew.
“Ares 10, do you read me? Come in. You have passed through Max Q,” Josh shouted into the microphone.
Nate tightened his grip on the edge of the table. The monitor now showed only the view of Ares 10 from the ground telephoto lens.
“Ares 10, we’ve lost telemetry. Can you hear me?” Josh’s voice had a frantic edge to it.
No response.
“Ares 10, this is Josh. Do you copy?”
Nothing followed but static for a long minute. And then ... Lex’s voice. “Houston, this is PLT. We are ... a little shaken up, but it’s getting better.”
Mission Control erupted in cheers.
“How about the rest of you? Kennedy, you okay?”
No answer.
“Valkerie, are you there?”
“This is Valkerie. What happened? That wasn’t in the sims.”
“We’re checking into that right now, but we’ve lost telemetry. Bob, what can you tell us? We’re going to depend on you until telemetry comes back online.”
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 12:55 P.M. CST
Bob
Bob couldn’t focus on his monitor. This was insanity.
“Bob, this is Josh. Can you hear me?”
No telemetry. A possible hull breach. They were trapped like worms on a hook. They were dead. There was nothing they could do.
“Bob!” Lex’s shout cut through the roar. “Do you have comm?”
“I can hear you. Comm’s okay.”
“Well, check off with Houston.”
“Sorry, Josh.” Bob fought to keep his voice level. “I’m hanging in there.”
“Roger that, Bob. How about you, Kennedy? Are you all right?”
“Kennedy?” Bob could hear Lex’s shout through his helmet.
“Pipe down. I’ve got a ship to fly.” Kennedy’s reply was faint and uneven.
“Just hang on a little longer,” Josh said. “We are at T-plus two minutes even. Solid rockets separating in five seconds ... three ... two ... one ... now! Should be smooth sailing from here on.”
* * *
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 1:01 P.M. CST
Nate
Nate watched the clock as it ticked through the eight-minute mark. The crew was alive and the ship was still in one piece. That was the main thing. Something had gone wrong, but it hadn’t been a catastrophe. No ignition failure, no terrorist missiles, no busted O-rings. Another half minute and they’d make it to Main Engine Cutoff. Then in another thirty minutes, they’d do a short burn to circularize into a parking orbit for a full systems checkout. As long as the boys and girls on console could communicate with the crew, they still had a chance. Hopefully, nothing was damaged. If not ... well, Bob was a cowboy. He could fix it. Or bust an aorta trying.
Eight and a half minutes into launch. Twelve seconds to Main Engine Cutoff.
“Stand by for MECO,” Josh said.
“Standing by.” Lex’s voice crackled through the static.
Nate watched the seconds
flash by. 8:40. 8:41. 8:42. The engines shut down. A spontaneous cheer swept through Mission Control. Ares 10 was in orbit.
Nate wiped his face. That had been the worst fifteen minutes of his life, but they’d made it. The scary part of the mission was done. Now let them sit in a parking orbit for a few hours while they got used to microgravity, checked out all systems, and fixed anything that was broken.
After that, on to Mars.
Chapter Twelve
Saturday, January 25, Year Three, 1:01 P.M.
Valkerie
THE ROAR FADED TO SILENCE, and Valkerie felt herself lift off her seat. Weightless. They were in orbit.
She hung limply in her harness, waiting for the cheering to start.
Lex moaned. Someone was throwing up. Was it Bob?
“Is everyone okay?” Valkerie unbuckled her harness and floated free of her seat. Voices buzzed in her earphones, but she ignored them. She pulled the antinausea medication from the mesh bag at her command station. This was where she finally got to be useful. This was where they’d start appreciating her.
Lex sat in the pilot seat massaging her temples. She seemed to be okay. Valkerie turned to Bob, who was wiping his mouth on the towel attached to his vomit bag. He was a little green, but nothing serious. Kennedy lay still in his harness, arms floating motionless in front of him.