Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning (29 page)

She began to focus on the console and all its gaggle of gauges. What once had been electro-mechanical gauges and indicator lights were now all electronic, computer generated displays. Michael sat beside her in the right seat, and they would have to lay there almost an hour for the ground to get through its system checks. If there were any delays, the discomfort of the suit would transform into downright agony. She hoped they would launch on time as she pulled out her nine-page checklist. The list at Mission Control was a little more complex, 254 pages to be exact, but there were at least a hundred people taking care of that. Her pre-launch sequence was relatively simple and well rehearsed.

The clock counted down to the standard, built in hold. Christina had completed her checks and could do nothing but wait. This was the hardest part. She liked it better when her mind was engaged with preflight activity. “Switch-over” procedures were tested, and she could hear all twenty-five program managers being polled for status. They all answered in the affirmative, “GO!”
Each GO
injected adrenalin as her heart ramped up to a rabbit’s pace.

“We are GO for launch,” the words of Mike Udahl rang in her headset
. Thank God,
she thought,
let’s get it on
.
The left side of her back was aching as she watched the mission clock resume its countdown.

The clock stopped once again at T-minus-nine, the last built in hold. There was a long silence, and she started to get nervous.
What’s wrong,
dammit?
Something’s wrong.
I smell a rat.

Udahl finally came on the headset, “Commander we’ve got a flickering red on valve two, that’s on the main engine, what are you showing?”

She knew a quick decision would have to be made, and the Vice President of the United States would be sitting by the Flight Coordinator ready to make it. The T-9 hold was a maximum of four minutes. Any longer and the mission would be scrubbed. On the other hand, if there was a real problem with the engine nozzle, it would be curtains. It would also mean the end of a once proud space program.

Christina was getting impatient, and her back was hurting when she said, “C’mon ground. We’re ready to go up here; all lights are green.” She decided to borrow a line from one of the most famous originals, Alan Sheperd. She lowered her voice trying to sound like a man and said, “Why in hell don’t you fix your little problem down there and light this candle?”

“Roger that,” Udahl replied. “The anomaly appears to be on our end. Resuming countdown.”

The intercom reported a final GO from the Range Operations Officer and the Weather Officer. She checked her helmet and surged with excitement as the clock resumed.

“Commander, you’re GO to start your APUs.”

“Roger.” She watched as Michael reached for the console throwing a bank of toggle switches. The auxiliary power units activated the hydraulics for the orbiter’s ailerons and elevator as well as the gimbals for the main engine. She could feel the monstrous gimbals flex their muscles a hundred-and-fifty feet below. She looked at her checklist, “All four APUs A-okay.” She grabbed the shuttle flight stick and waggled the controls. Indicators on the instrument panel showed normal movement. “Flight surfaces and gimbals all green. Ready to fly.”

The Ground Launch Sequencer “handed off” control of the countdown to the orbiter.
On our own now
, she thought.
Only the onboard computers can stop the launch.
Her heart began to race. She gave the instrument panel one last scan, all green. She closed and locked her visor and listened to the sounds of her own breathing. Her back ached, but she tried to ignore it.
No matter the aircraft,
she thought,
every pilot knows the feeling just before shoving the throttle to the firewall.
But lying on top of the massive boosters in the grandest spaceship ever designed, the normal level of elation was multiplied by a thousand.
Elation. . .or stinkin’ terror?
she wondered.
Come to Jesus time.

The main engines ignited, and the initial vibrations built to a crescendo, boom, boom-boom, Boom
.
They were still bolted to the pad.

“Engines throttling,” she reported.

Orbiter computers screamed through all the last second checks. Lights were flashing all over her console, all normal. The STS structure rocked back several feet, a phenomenon called “twang,” until the gimbals balanced the forces, and it came back to vertical.
Good thing I felt it before
, she thought.

First a bang, then a rumble, then a roar as the SRBs ignited and the explosive bolts fired. She felt the Gs, and they were on their way. The stack moaned and howled as four-million pounds of electronics, metal, rocket fuel and humans leaped off the launch pad like a bottle rocket. The sudden jolt almost knocked the breath out of her.
Feels like a train wreck
, she thought.

The countdown clock switched to MET--Mission Elapsed Time--and started counting up. The forces of acceleration built pressure on her chest and breaths came in short gasps. Peaking at three Gs, it felt as though a Sumo wrestler had squatted on her tummy, but she managed to push all the necessary buttons and throw critical switches. Each one was like a moving target, and the thick gloves made it difficult. Glancing out the window they burst through a cloud layer in a flash. Christina was amazed that they were already going that fast.

Watching the clock, she knew they were approaching Max-Q, peak dynamic pressure on the structure at the sound barrier, where the atmosphere put up a thick wall of resistance. Maximum stress on the stack had to be relieved in the throttle setting. She eased it back and reported, “Throttle down.”

Some fifteen seconds later, Udahl squawked, “Clear for throttle up, Commander.”

“Roger, throttle up.” Reversing the procedure, she could feel the additional push pile on more Gs. “Wow,” she shouted, “we’re hauling ass!” The sound barrier was like a speed bump in the parking lot, and the shuttle eased through it at 85%, then throttled ahead to 104%. The engines were capable of 109%, but NASA settled on 104% to maintain a 5% safety margin.

“Roger, confirmed throttle up. You got it babe, looking good,” Udahl replied.

“One powerful bird,” she said. “I’ll call you from space.”

+2 minutes MET

There was a blinding flash, and she instinctively jerked in reaction. It crossed her mind how the simulators could be improved. The billion dollar systems did a good job showing flight controls and anomalies, but they lacked in sensory stimulation. She thought how simple it would be to add lights, sounds and vibrations that would better prepare prospective astronauts.
Or maybe it’ll scare the crap out of ‘em;
she had second thoughts.

She felt a thud and saw the indicators on the console showing the solid rocket boosters had cleared the stack.

“Bolts fired on schedule, SRBs clear,” she reported. The acceleration weighed heavy on her breathing, and she found it hard to talk but did her best to sound clear and confident.

“Roger, we see it, clean separation,” Udahl said, “and, by the way, your tiles look undamaged.”

Now it was just a matter of riding out the Gs for seven more minutes. Sounds and vibrations were decreasing to a light rumble as the MET counted upward. When the altimeter indicated they had climbed through 50 miles, both Michael and Christina gave the backseaters the traditional thumbs up as a form of congratulations. At that point newbies were officially christened “Astronauts.”

“Yeah, baby, what a ride!” from the back.

+
8 minutes MET

“We have
MECO!”
Christina shouted with exhilaration. The main engines cut off right on schedule. They were going 22,000 miles an hour, just the right velocity for the planned orbit. All of a sudden the rumble of noise and violent shaking went dead calm. Her hands started floating upward as she relaxed.
Dang
, she thought
, incredible how such a violent process can produce such a calming result.
They were safely in orbit, and the near reaches of space yielded zero Gs.

+
45 minutes MET

Halfway around the world, the external tank supplying fuel to the main engine was jettisoned, and Christina activated the OMS--orbital maneuvering system. The computer fired its thrusters to move the shuttle into a perfectly round orbit at the precise altitude of 153 miles, the same orbit as Soyuz 23. The New Hope rested on its back, and the view was spectacular. Earth was even more beautiful than she had remembered, a brilliant tapestry of water, land and weather.

“Isn’t it something, Michael?” She pointed out the window.

“Awesome! By the way, nice work Commander. You didn’t screw the pooch.”

Chapter Eighteen

Christina called Udahl, “NASA ground, would you confirm our position with respect to the target. We can’t see it yet. No joy on the radar.”

“Roger that. You’re on the right orbit, Commander, but you’ll have to hustle up to get there. Target is 123 miles directly ahead at your one o’clock. We recommend 75% docking thrusters forward for 45 seconds. That should get you there in about 4.2 minutes.”

“Firing at 75%, counting 45. . .Thrusters off. . .Yawing right ten degrees. . .We’re looking. . .got something. Yep, we have it, seventy miles and closing.”

“Roger Commander, we’d like you to keep a safe distance. Once you come within ten miles, kill the closure and standby.”

“Got it. . .here we go. . .almost there.”

She spent the next forty-five minutes carefully maneuvering the shuttle up to a range of five miles. She rolled slightly to keep a good view of the target. It was a straightforward procedure, one she had done before.
We can’t fail this time,
she thought. “There it is,” she announced, “got a bright dot at twelve o’clock.”

“You’re there, Commander,” Udahl said. “Hold that position and standby for instructions.”

There was no time to waste. Major Chuck Wilson and Colonel John McCormic, the two mission specialists in charge of the DROIDs, got busy. Wilson suited up and worked outside in the cargo bay to free the first DROID. When he was safely back inside, Michael took over and used the shuttle arm to position the DROID at a safe distance facing the target.

“Well, let’s see if she works.” McCormic was all business as he activated the DROID and tested its subsystems. He got on his direct line to ground control, “All phases green. Permission to maneuver the pig to the trough?”

The request was relayed to higher command. There was a long pause and finally the answer came, “Permission granted. Proceed to trough, standoff at five meters, activate video telemetry and wait for orders.”

“Roger.” He reported the progression of each step, “Piggy activated, target acquired, maneuvering. Range six clicks and closing. Range two clicks, pig slowing. One click, right on. Seven-hundred meters. . .five hundred. Second stage, slowing. . .one hundred. . .fifty meters. Stage three handover. Target ten meters. Halt command issued. Pig in synchronous orbit at 4.9 meters, thrusters off.”

“Hey, we don’t have a lot of time to fuck around up here. Permission to detonate?” A tone of frustration resonated in McCormic’s voice.

“Hold one. We’d like you to maneuver the shuttle back to ten clicks to avoid debris, then proceed.”