pressurization.”
“Initiating MPS cycle, roger.”
This ancient tub. Funny how that thought just came to him. Opening his eyes again, Parnell gazes around the narrow passenger compartment. He can remember when the first Atlas-C was delivered by ocean barge from the North American Rockwell plant in Palmdale, California: brand-new, high-tech, seemingly the last word in astronautical engineering. Now, looking at it with fresh eyes, Constellation ’s interior looks as antique as that of a B-52 bomber. The multipaned Plexiglas of the portal next to him is friction-scarred, the view of the blue sky overhead dimmed with age. The riveted seams of the beige-painted steel show the first signs of rust; the fabric of the acceleration couch is shiny with age, with a corner of his seat beginning to fray, white tufts of lining peeking out from between the stretched threads. There’s a small square patch almost directly above his head, not old but not very recent either, where a nameless hangar worker once replaced a section that had suffered metal fatigue, and the bolt-holes around the service panels below the ladder are scratched and eroded from hundreds of business meetings with torqueless screwdrivers.
Parnell feels a cold shiver run down his spine. He remembers what he told Judith just last night, that Constellation is a reliable old bird. Now he’s not quite so certain. The seats of the first Atlas-A orbiters had been equipped with evacuation capsules, much like enclosed ejection seats; if there was an emergency during launch, in theory the passengers could hit a couple of switches that would close the capsules and jettison them from the craft. But there were so many problems with the capsules—including a misfire that had killed a crewman—that they were removed from the ferries.
No one talks about it, but the Atlas-C’s are flying coffins during the first three minutes of flight. If something goes during launch, the only possible recourse is for the pilot to fire the third-stage rocket and attempt an abort-to-ground landing. At least, that was the theory; he’d hate to be aboard the first spacecraft to actually attempt such a high-speed maneuver.
“Ground crew signals secure and all clear.”
“Roger. Go for lock-down of main hatch …”
He hears the sound of the belly hatch slamming shut. Trombly unbuckles himself from his couch and quickly climbs down the ladder to dog it tight from the inside. Although he can’t see the access arm from his porthole because of the starboard wing, Parnell knows that the bridge must be swinging away from the hull. The pad should be vacant now, save for a handful of technicians double-timing it to a waiting van; cabin lights flicker for a moment, a clue that Constellation has switched to internal power.
Placing his palms on the armrests, Parnell can feel the vibration of the ferry’s fuel tanks pressurizing to maximum capacity. He doesn’t have to look at the chronometer to know that the stately minuet of clocks and computers is entering its final movement.
“Abort advisory check satisfactory.”
“Check, AAC is satisfactory. Channel two is clear.”
“Roger, Launch Control, channel two is clear. Cabin pressurization is nominal, proceeding with hydraulic pressure check …”
And so it goes, on down the checklist, until in the final sixty seconds of countdown, somewhere between the closure of the first-stage vents and auxiliary power unit shutdown, Parnell finds himself murmuring a prayer under his breath. He has never considered himself a particularly religious man, especially not when it comes to leaving the ground. A bird is a bird, regardless of whether it’s his Beechcraft or a three-stage rocket, and intellectually he knows that his fate rests more in the eyes, ears, and hands of the distant launch controllers and the thousands of people who prepped Constellation for flight than those of a mythic deity whose very existence he has always doubted.
God doesn’t work
“Initiating MPS cycle, roger.”
This ancient tub. Funny how that thought just came to him. Opening his eyes again, Parnell gazes around the narrow passenger compartment. He can remember when the first Atlas-C was delivered by ocean barge from the North American Rockwell plant in Palmdale, California: brand-new, high-tech, seemingly the last word in astronautical engineering. Now, looking at it with fresh eyes, Constellation ’s interior looks as antique as that of a B-52 bomber. The multipaned Plexiglas of the portal next to him is friction-scarred, the view of the blue sky overhead dimmed with age. The riveted seams of the beige-painted steel show the first signs of rust; the fabric of the acceleration couch is shiny with age, with a corner of his seat beginning to fray, white tufts of lining peeking out from between the stretched threads. There’s a small square patch almost directly above his head, not old but not very recent either, where a nameless hangar worker once replaced a section that had suffered metal fatigue, and the bolt-holes around the service panels below the ladder are scratched and eroded from hundreds of business meetings with torqueless screwdrivers.
Parnell feels a cold shiver run down his spine. He remembers what he told Judith just last night, that Constellation is a reliable old bird. Now he’s not quite so certain. The seats of the first Atlas-A orbiters had been equipped with evacuation capsules, much like enclosed ejection seats; if there was an emergency during launch, in theory the passengers could hit a couple of switches that would close the capsules and jettison them from the craft. But there were so many problems with the capsules—including a misfire that had killed a crewman—that they were removed from the ferries.
No one talks about it, but the Atlas-C’s are flying coffins during the first three minutes of flight. If something goes during launch, the only possible recourse is for the pilot to fire the third-stage rocket and attempt an abort-to-ground landing. At least, that was the theory; he’d hate to be aboard the first spacecraft to actually attempt such a high-speed maneuver.
“Ground crew signals secure and all clear.”
“Roger. Go for lock-down of main hatch …”
He hears the sound of the belly hatch slamming shut. Trombly unbuckles himself from his couch and quickly climbs down the ladder to dog it tight from the inside. Although he can’t see the access arm from his porthole because of the starboard wing, Parnell knows that the bridge must be swinging away from the hull. The pad should be vacant now, save for a handful of technicians double-timing it to a waiting van; cabin lights flicker for a moment, a clue that Constellation has switched to internal power.
Placing his palms on the armrests, Parnell can feel the vibration of the ferry’s fuel tanks pressurizing to maximum capacity. He doesn’t have to look at the chronometer to know that the stately minuet of clocks and computers is entering its final movement.
“Abort advisory check satisfactory.”
“Check, AAC is satisfactory. Channel two is clear.”
“Roger, Launch Control, channel two is clear. Cabin pressurization is nominal, proceeding with hydraulic pressure check …”
And so it goes, on down the checklist, until in the final sixty seconds of countdown, somewhere between the closure of the first-stage vents and auxiliary power unit shutdown, Parnell finds himself murmuring a prayer under his breath. He has never considered himself a particularly religious man, especially not when it comes to leaving the ground. A bird is a bird, regardless of whether it’s his Beechcraft or a three-stage rocket, and intellectually he knows that his fate rests more in the eyes, ears, and hands of the distant launch controllers and the thousands of people who prepped Constellation for flight than those of a mythic deity whose very existence he has always doubted.
God doesn’t work
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