‘Scheisse.’ Dirk’s so busy being relieved he takes too long to pull the trigger. He re-aims, but the astronaut swings his foot again. It has more power this time and kicks the weapon clean out of Dirk’s hand. The Glock loops across the room and hits carpet a metre from the door.
Dirk sprints for it but the astronaut swings his foot again, trips him. Dirk thumps to the ground. He clambers to his feet but the astronaut lands top of him, knees first, and drives him into the ground. Pain shoots across Dirk’s back. He ignores it and looks up. The pistol’s five metres away.
He swings a fist up and back, hits the astronaut in the face, momentarily stuns him. Dirk pivots, loops an arm around his neck, wrenches it tight.
**
How does he fix this?
Severson stares at the monitor and has no idea.
The wunderkind from MIT, Kent Wilson, or ‘Mitson’ as Severson prefers to call him, approaches. The kid started work at Kennedy a year ago, the week after he finished his doctorate in computer science at the ripe old age of twenty-one. ‘May we speak?’
Severson doesn’t like the kid because he doesn’t like anyone predisposed to sweep past him on the fast track, but at this point he must be open to ideas, no matter where they originate. It’s not like he has any of his own. ‘What?’
‘I think I have a way to control the hold-down posts.’
The hold-down posts keep the solid rocket boosters connected to the launch pad so if they were accidentally ignited the shuttle wouldn’t fly.
Severson looks at him. ‘You have my attention.’
Mitson talks quickly: ‘I’ve been studying the launch software, wanted to see if there were any back doors planted in the code when it was originally written in the seventies —’
‘And?’
‘I found one. To the hold-down posts, through the mobile launch platform connection.’
‘Can you open it?’
‘Think so. I can’t imagine they know about it. It took me three months to find. If I can get in then we can control the posts —’
‘And the shuttle won’t be able to launch.’
Mitson nods.
‘Do it.’
Mitson stares at Severson, surprised the launch director didn’t take more convincing.
‘Don’t just stand there.’
Mitson scuttles back to his console, a grin on his face. Severson knows that Mitson’s surprise at having an idea immediately embraced will soon disappear. Within the next year the kid will realise he’s the smartest guy in the room, any room, every room. He will know that his idea will always be the most insightful and perceptive. But that is the future. Right now he’s young, naive and not completely sure of himself. So Severson will use that for all it’s worth. Mitson will either save the shuttle, and by extension Severson’s arse, or become the sacrificial lamb during the postmortem when blame will need to be assigned and arses, specifically Severson’s, will need to be covered.
‘Mr Burke.’ It’s the Frenchman again. ‘I would like you to retract the crew access arm. You have ten seconds.’
**
What, exactly, is a steely-eyed missile man?
Simply, it’s someone who can quickly devise an ingenious solution to a life-or-death problem while under extreme pressure.
Judd’s current situation presents him with the perfect opportunity to discover whether
he
is one. Tango has an arm looped around his neck and squeezes for all he’s worth. Judd has a hand under Tango’s arm so, no matter how hard the German squeezes, he can’t choke him. Judd’s other hand has Tango’s other hand pinned to the ground.
Judd can see the pistol out of the corner of his eye. It’s five metres away, near the White Room’s door. He must get to it. He can think of only one way to do that.
He yanks his hand from under Tango’s arm. It instantly goes tight around his throat and he can’t breathe. Middle and index fingers forked, Stooges-style, Judd jabs them at the German’s face. One of them catches him in the left eye and he flinches, momentarily loosens the arm around Judd’s neck.
That’s all it takes. Judd twists free and scrambles towards the pistol. The German follows, hip-checks him and knocks him off course. Judd slams into a wall and jars a helmet from its hanging place. It thumps to the ground.
The German grabs the pistol, swings it towards Judd. The astronaut freezes. He has nowhere to go; his back, literally and figuratively, is against the wall.
The downside of attempting to be steely-eyed is what happens when you
fail to
devise an ingenious solution to the life-or-death problem. Most often somebody dies - and in this case that somebody is Judd. He waits for the German to pull the trigger.
The White Room lurches as the crew access arm draws it away from the shuttle. Surprised, the German’s eyes momentarily flick to the floor. Judd instantly drops to one knee, swings an arm towards the helmet that was knocked from the wall, snags it with his index finger and releases it in one compact motion.
Tango’s eyes flick back to Judd but the helmet is already on the way. It strikes the German flush on the left temple. He crumples to the floor, out cold.
Judd takes it in. Maybe he is steely-eyed after all, or maybe he’s just lucky. He wrenches the pistol from the German’s hand then moves to the edge of the White Room as it pulls away from
Atlantis.
**
Severson stares at his monitor. It shows a long shot of Launch Complex 39B as the crew access arm and the White Room retract from the shuttle. He trusts that Mitson can do what he says, so he directed Wexford to retract the crew access arm and buy some time.
He’s now having buyer’s remorse. What if the kid can’t do it? His eyes lock on the sacrificial lamb elect. ‘How’s it coming?’
Mitson works his keyboard and stares at his monitor. ‘It’s coming.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘One minute.’
‘You said you could do this.’
‘I can.’
‘Then do it! It’s on your head, boy.’
Mitson nods, works his keyboard.
It’s on your head, boy?
It was a touch melodramatic but at least Severson made his point. Everyone in Firing Room Four now knows that Mitson is working on a fix to the current problem. If he finds one and disaster is averted then everyone will think Severson is some kind of genius for delegating so laterally to the kid. If he doesn’t, well, everyone will focus on why dear young Mitson, who was once so full of promise, failed so miserably. It’s not perfect but it’s the only plan Severson has.
**
Henri studies the bank of shimmering LCD screens before him, flicks a series of switches. ‘Powering APUs.’
Nico types on the MacBook’s keyboard. ‘We’re on internal power.’
The Frenchman and the Italian quickly trade information:
‘Hydraulic check nominal.’
‘Main engine gimbal complete.’
‘O-two vents closed.’
‘APU to inhibit.’
‘H-two tank pressurisation is good.’
‘SRB countdown management switched to on-board computers. APU start is go.’
Nico grins. ‘Sounds like we know what we’re doing.’
Henri has no doubt about it. After a year in a dingy garage using a mock-up of this flight deck they had rehearsed it a thousand times. ‘Are we ready?’
Nico scans the MacBook’s screen again, makes sure everything’s squared away. ‘We’re ready —’
A thud, from the windscreen.
Henri turns, finds a pockmark the size of a thumbnail on the far left panel. He looks beyond it, astonished to see someone with a pistol standing at the end of the White Room.
‘Merde.’
Nico’s concerned. ‘What’s going on?’
Henri looks at him. ‘Light it.’
Nico drops his finger onto the MacBook’s return key.
**
The rush of hot air rocks Judd back on his heels. He throws out his arms and grabs the end of the White Room to stay balanced. He looks down. Directly below, the shuttle’s three main engines are alight and bellow translucent blue flames. Below the flames the sound suppression system automatically floods the pad with one million litres of water to deaden the engine noise and stop the sound waves reflecting off the cement and shaking the shuttle to pieces. Even with the system at work the launch complex creaks and groans like it is waking from a long sleep.
Judd’s first thought is to go. To leave. To be
elsewhere.
If the shuttle launches he’s currently standing at the optimum position to be chargrilled by its exhaust. He stays put.
Atlantis
isn’t going anywhere until the solid rockets ignite.
It’s a long shot but he thinks that if the hijackers see one of the windscreen’s glass panels is cracked they won’t launch. Unfortunately the first bullet he fired did nothing but leave a pockmark - a ‘bruise’ in NASA speak. The fused silica glass used in the panels is designed to take one hell of a beating, from birdstrikes at launch to micrometeor strikes during orbit so for anything to happen he’ll need to hit the same spot again and hope for the best. He aims the pistol at the left-side windscreen panel again and squeezes the trigger.
Rhonda appears behind the glass panel. He sees her too late. The bullet slams into her face - but the glass doesn’t implode or shatter or even crack. The bullet just leaves a second pockmark and drops away. The one thing he needs to fail on the shuttle works flawlessly.
Rhonda’s face is both impassive and grim, then Tango’s buddy, the French guy with the face Photoshop was invented for, appears beside her. He pushes a pistol against her temple then gestures to Judd with his free hand. The directive is condescending, dismissive and absolutely clear. He wants him to drop the pistol.
Judd has no choice. He releases the weapon and it falls to floor. The Frenchman smiles, shakes his head, and makes another gesture. Judd does as he’s told and kicks the gun over the edge of the White Room, watches it disappear into the fog of steam and exhaust that billows up from the sound suppression system. He looks back at the shuttle but it vanishes behind the rising cloud.
Judd is stricken. He has no idea of what to do next. He turns, sees a tall guy enter the far end of the White Room. The guy pulls off a black ski mask, helps the groggy German to his feet then passes him a pistol. Together they stride towards Judd.
‘Oh shit.’ Judd looks around. Directly behind him is a 60-metre drop to the howling engines below. He’s got nowhere to go and no time to get there.
**
Severson looks across at Mitson. The kid’s fingers move lightly across the keyboard, his eyes locked on the monitor before him. He shows no sign of stress. Severson, on the other hand, is a ball of nerves. ‘How long?’
Mitson pays Severson no mind, keeps working.
‘How
long?’
Mitson lifts his hands from the keyboard, turns to Severson and grins.
**
Henri braces himself. Years of planning have come down to this moment. ‘Light the solid rockets.’
Nico hits enter on the MacBook’s keyboard.
Nothing happens.
Baffled, Nico studies the MacBook’s screen. ‘I can’t.’
‘What?’
Nico turns to the Frenchman. ‘The hold-down posts will not release.’
Henri speaks into his headset: ‘Mr Burke, release the solid rockets’ hold-down posts now.’
‘Or what?’ Henri can hear the smug tone in Severson’s voice.
‘Or I will destroy this ship.’ Henri nods to Nico. ‘Throttle up.’
**
Dirk and Cobbin stride towards Judd Bell. The astronaut stands at the end of the White Room, enveloped by clouds of steam and exhaust.
Cobbin shouts at the German over the shuttle’s roaring engines. ‘Get on with it. I don’t want to be anywhere near this thing when it flies.’ Dirk doesn’t care what Cobbin wants. What Dirk wants is to make sure this astronaut dies.
They walk on, just three metres away now. ‘Come on, shoot the prick.’ Cobbin’s really starting to get on Dirk’s nerves. The German ignores him, raises his pistol and aims it at the astronaut’s chest.
The astronaut steps backwards and drops over the edge.
Dirk runs forward, looks over. The guy is gone, lost in the steam and exhaust. The German’s surprised and disappointed. Surprised the astronaut took the easy way out after putting up such a valiant fight earlier, disappointed he couldn’t finish the job personally.
Dirk nods to Cobbin. ‘Okay, let’s take cover.’
**
‘I’m waiting, Mr Burke.’
Let it fly or watch ‘em die.
Severson stares out the window, the only light on the horizon the glare of the shuttle’s engines, reflected and magnified by billowing clouds of exhaust and steam.
Wexford turns to Severson. ‘He’s throttling the main engines. One hundred and two per cent of rated thrust, 103. We have no way to circumvent it. If it passes 109 we’re —’
‘Screwed.’ Royally. The shuttle has three main engines. Each has three turbopumps which are the heart of the machine. If the engines are throttled past 109 per cent, chances are at least one of the turbopumps will fail. They weren’t designed to work beyond that speed. Once a turbopump fails it will start a chain reaction that will destroy the engine. That will in turn trigger an explosion that will ignite the fuel in the external tank and the solid rockets, which will cause a
Challenger
-esque detonation that will atomise the ship and the pad and leave a crater twenty times the size of Ground Zero. The shuttle’s on-board computers would usually shut down the engines long before they reached that point of self-destruction but the Frenchman had bypassed that safety net.