Gravity. Tess Gerritsen
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‘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 Godspeed.’
‘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. Cocooned and isolated in her suit, she 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 spacecraft straining against the bolts that still harnessed it to the launchpad.
Four. Three. Two…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 arc over 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 barely move them, the vibrations so violent it seemed the orbiter would surely fly apart into pieces. They were at Max Q, the peak of turbulence, and Commander Vance announced he was throttling back the main engines. In less than a minute, he would throttle up again 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, as the shuttle lifted into the sky. He heard the crackling of the solid rocket 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 perfect 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 passed through Max Q? He shielded 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 space.
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.
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 would 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 might as well warn you, Casper is wavering between crucifixion and strangulation.’
The investors. Shit.
Sullivan sat up and clutched his head, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
‘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 on his Harley.
Bridget was waiting for him outside the hangar. She looked like a Bridget, sturdy and redheaded, with a bad temper to match. Sometimes, unfortunately, stereotypes do ring true.
‘They’re about to leave,’ she hissed. ‘Get your butt 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, hell, 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