[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

competing dawn light. This would be a good place to establish his base. Endeavour, ready for its own
launch within the next month, stood on the other pad farther in the distance. He flopped down, out of sight
from the launchpad and, more importantly, out of view from the LCC building and the rest of Kennedy
Space Center operations.
His foot throbbed like crazy, but he had managed to keep the cast dry. He rubbed the skin around the
cast just below his knee, annoyed at the deep-seated itch within his bones that he couldn't reach. With a
sigh, he distracted himself by concentrating on the activity around him.
NASA security helicopters flew low over the brush-covered ground as they searched for anyone
attempting an illegal entry such as Iceberg. But now that the sun had splashed over the horizon and added
the warmth of dawn to the swampland, the aircraft had to rely more on sight and less on the sensitive
infrared detectors to detect any people below them.
Effective launch-day sweeps were nearly an impossible task, more difficult than the Coast Guard
searching for a person bobbing in the ocean, because in the ocean people didn't have bushes, sand dunes,
hollows, and trees to hide them. Iceberg had ridden in the NASA security helicopters once during astronaut
training as they had skimmed over the site, searching for imaginary terrorists. They hadn't found any, of
course, but he still remembered the thrill of zipping above the sparse vegetation, popping up over a small
rise, and startling an alligator crawling through the swamp toward the wide, sluggish Banana River.
Iceberg looked over his shoulder as he settled into his private little viewing area. From here, if he stood
above the vegetation level, he could still barely make out the guard shack, though he had taken a circuitous
route across what must have been two miles of swamp.
He glanced at his watch. The shuttle crew would have ridden the Crew Transfer Vehicle out to the pad
by now. His crew.
One morning, more than a month before the scheduled launch date, Iceberg had used his clearance and
his badge to enter the Orbiter Processing Facility, where Atlantis was being outfitted for the mission. In the
hangar-like building, teams of workers combed the giant orbiter, testing every minuscule system, every
connection, every stress point.
The doors yawned open in the back; the shuttle was so tall that a separate notch had been cut above
the doors to allow the tail fin to slip through. Sunlight spilled in from outside, brighter than the garish naked
bulbs shining from catwalks far above. Jump-suited workers passed back and forth, carrying clipboards,
comparing checklists.
Iceberg had stood under Atlantis, admiring the craft, watching technicians test every one of the
specially shaped ceramic heat tiles on the bottom of the hull, replacing those in need of repair, approving the
undamaged pieces. They installed gap fillers between the tiles, designed to keep the searing heat from
reaching the aluminum hull. He had walked around silently staring, watching, feeling like a kid in a toy store.
One of the shift supervisors asked if he needed anything, but Iceberg waved him away, wanting only to look
at the craft, to "kick the tires" before launch.
He had been so confident then.
After Iceberg's injury, NASA had put that straitlaced idiot Marc Franklin in as commander. Besides
being a civilian, Franklin didn't have the right stuff to be a shuttle commander. Sure, the guy had flown a
couple of missions before, and he'd actually done a pretty good EVA on that last flight when they hauled in
the Wake Shield. But there was one hell of a difference between following orders as part of a crew and
running the whole shooting match. It was a matter of mind-set. Why else did the military spend so much
time grooming its people for the particular demands of command?
Iceberg tried to push the sour thoughts out of his mind as he settled in. No changing it now. He had
broken his own foot, and he couldn't blame anyone else for that. His people knew their stuff. They could
pull off the mission, even with Franklin as commander.
He opened his pack and dug out a bottle of buffered aspirin, double strength. He debated for a second,
then dry-swallowed three tablets to cut the pain in his foot. He didn't want to be bothered in case he had to
hightail it back to Salvatore's shack in a hurry.
Iceberg pulled out his binoculars and a TV Walkman. Leaning back, he extended the antenna and tuned
to the launch coverage from channel 7. He saw a picture of Atlantis sitting on the pad, a feed from Amos's
TV relay bunker. On television, though, the shuttle looked brighter, with a high scudding of clouds above.
Iceberg glanced up the sky was absolutely clear. He frowned. That's funny, he thought. Were the TV
cameras picking up something he couldn't see, or was he getting a ghost reflection on the screen?
Iceberg tried to get better reception. The talking head from channel 7 came on and explained that the
launch was in the middle of a built-in hold. He lay prone, setting the miniature TV to the side as he got out
the binoculars. He surveyed the area. Ants marched along the sand, upset at his presence. With a sharp
gust of breath, he blew them away from his face, then focused the binoculars.
Technicians in white bunny suits moved around the launch structure. Nearly a mile in front of him sat
the nearest M-113 Armored Personnel Carrier, ready to roar into action at the launchpad if called. The
seven safety lines the emergency exit system fanned out from the 195-foot level of the Fixed Service
Structure to a safety bunker twelve hundred feet away.
Iceberg was situated perpendicular to the flame trench, part of the flame deflector system that bisected
the hardened launchpad. The trench divided the pad lengthwise, five hundred feet long, sixty wide, forty
deep. Nearby, a water tower stood ready to dump its contents down onto the pad in the first seconds of
launch for cooling and noise suppression. During ignition, flames from the shuttle's main engines and solid
rocket boosters blasted down the trench and out the sides. The deadly orange cloud from the solid rocket
booster's fuel would drift harmlessly out to sea.
But Iceberg figured his position was safe enough.
On the launchpad the final checkout crew was making their last rounds. By now the countdown should
be within T minus twenty minutes.
Iceberg rolled over on the rise and adjusted the volume on the Walk-man. Nicole Hunter's smiling,
professional face took up most of the small TV screen. The words LAUNCH DIRECTOR were set at the
bottom of the screen, but instead of Nicole's voice, the reporter from channel 7 gushed over the audio. "So
do you think your past training as an astronaut gives you more credibility with the crew when you have to
make tough calls?"
"Tough calls? Give me a break," Iceberg snorted at the TV. "She has a checklist, doesn't she?"
"Absolutely," said Nicole. "I even have a checklist. And the astronauts know they have one of their
own calling the shots. Since I've been out there on the pad myself, I know what thoughts are rolling through
their minds right now."
"Yeah," Iceberg muttered. He turned away from the small TV set and looked through his binoculars at
the launchpad. "I bet my crew's thinking 'Let's cut the PR bullshit and light this friggin' candle.' "
Iceberg studied the shuttle as Nicole's interview continued. Her voice brought back the memory of her
being on the training team with them, and the fun they'd had with so many things in common, when she was
part of operations, not management and fluff.
He supposed the world needed those kinds of people the maintenance crews, the launch
infrastructure, even the PR flacks and lobbyists that ran interference before Congress. But Nicole had been [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]