to matter to Senator Kennedy and his running mate, Senator Eugene “Pot-head” McCarthy, that the very reason why America has Space Station One in the first place, and will be sending the first reconnaissance mission to the Moon next December, is its commitment to preserving the ideals of liberty and freedom.
During this past decade, President Nixon has held the public trust by insisting upon a military space program. Conducting scientific research on the Moon is a great idea, but a civilian space agency cannot possibly fulfill the objectives of the U.S. Space Force. As a ranking member of the Senate Armed Forces Committee, Little Bobby must know this … which makes us question why he would propose something as ludicrous as a civilian space program.
Could it be that Senator Kennedy’s fellow travelers have received instructions from the Kremlin to stop Project Luna?
—William F. Loeb,
editor and publisher
SIX
2/16/95 • 1232 GMT
C ONSTELLATION LEFT EARTH ATOP a dense column of fire, the twenty-nine motors in its first-stage booster consuming more than a thousand tons of liquid propellant in less than ninety seconds.
The rocket’s ascent could be seen from hundreds of miles away. On Florida’s Gulf Coast, the vessel was a tapering contrail rising at a sharp angle from the eastern horizon, while on Cocoa Beach the sand itself seemed to vibrate as early-morning beachcombers paused in collecting shells to watch as the enormous rocket ripped upward into the deep blue sky. Within a minute and a half, Constellation had climbed almost twenty-five miles into the sky and was a little more than thirty-one miles downrange from the Cape. Traveling 5,256 miles per hour, it left in its wake a sonic boom that rattled the windows of houses far behind.
At this point, the pilots throttled the engines back to 70 percent. Constellation began to gradually fall, its nose dipping slightly toward the horizon. Left on its own, the rocket would have continued its shallow dive until it finally crashed at hypersonic speed into the Atlantic Ocean, but the throttle-back was only the prelude to its primary staging maneuver.
The first-stage engines expired, its fuel tanks drained, and a couple of moments later explosive bolts at the juncture of the first and second stages ignited. The winged booster cleaved away from the second stage; as it began to fall toward the ocean, a ring-shaped parafoil made of whisker-fine mesh steel blossomed out from beneath the wings, braking its descent until it splashed-down in the Atlantic nearly two hundred miles from the Cape, where it would be recovered by a NASA freighter and towed back to Merritt Island.
Long before this occurred, though, eight engines in the second stage fired at full-throttle as 155 tons of fuel kicked Constellation farther into the upper atmosphere. For two more minutes, the ferry fought its way up the gravity well, penetrating the topmost regions of the atmosphere until, at an altitude of nearly forty miles and more than 330 miles downrange, the second stage was jettisoned, whereupon it followed its mate on a parafoiled glide into the drink.
By now Constellation had lost most of its take-off mass and was accelerating at more than fourteen thousand miles per hour. Behind the orbiter’s delta wings and vertical stabilizer, its single engine throttled up as the spacecraft accelerated to nearly 18,500 miles per hour … until, sixty-three miles above the Atlantic and a little more than seven hundred miles downrange from the Cape, the third-stage engine shut down and the winged craft coasted into low orbit.
Within the ferry, everyone took a deep breath.
Parnell thought he still remembered what it was like to ride a fireball into the heavens; as he raised a trembling hand to lift the visor of his helmet, though, he realized that his memory wasn’t quite as sharp as he’d once believed. If there were four minutes in anyone’s life that were as terrifying or traumatic as being inside
During this past decade, President Nixon has held the public trust by insisting upon a military space program. Conducting scientific research on the Moon is a great idea, but a civilian space agency cannot possibly fulfill the objectives of the U.S. Space Force. As a ranking member of the Senate Armed Forces Committee, Little Bobby must know this … which makes us question why he would propose something as ludicrous as a civilian space program.
Could it be that Senator Kennedy’s fellow travelers have received instructions from the Kremlin to stop Project Luna?
—William F. Loeb,
editor and publisher
SIX
2/16/95 • 1232 GMT
C ONSTELLATION LEFT EARTH ATOP a dense column of fire, the twenty-nine motors in its first-stage booster consuming more than a thousand tons of liquid propellant in less than ninety seconds.
The rocket’s ascent could be seen from hundreds of miles away. On Florida’s Gulf Coast, the vessel was a tapering contrail rising at a sharp angle from the eastern horizon, while on Cocoa Beach the sand itself seemed to vibrate as early-morning beachcombers paused in collecting shells to watch as the enormous rocket ripped upward into the deep blue sky. Within a minute and a half, Constellation had climbed almost twenty-five miles into the sky and was a little more than thirty-one miles downrange from the Cape. Traveling 5,256 miles per hour, it left in its wake a sonic boom that rattled the windows of houses far behind.
At this point, the pilots throttled the engines back to 70 percent. Constellation began to gradually fall, its nose dipping slightly toward the horizon. Left on its own, the rocket would have continued its shallow dive until it finally crashed at hypersonic speed into the Atlantic Ocean, but the throttle-back was only the prelude to its primary staging maneuver.
The first-stage engines expired, its fuel tanks drained, and a couple of moments later explosive bolts at the juncture of the first and second stages ignited. The winged booster cleaved away from the second stage; as it began to fall toward the ocean, a ring-shaped parafoil made of whisker-fine mesh steel blossomed out from beneath the wings, braking its descent until it splashed-down in the Atlantic nearly two hundred miles from the Cape, where it would be recovered by a NASA freighter and towed back to Merritt Island.
Long before this occurred, though, eight engines in the second stage fired at full-throttle as 155 tons of fuel kicked Constellation farther into the upper atmosphere. For two more minutes, the ferry fought its way up the gravity well, penetrating the topmost regions of the atmosphere until, at an altitude of nearly forty miles and more than 330 miles downrange, the second stage was jettisoned, whereupon it followed its mate on a parafoiled glide into the drink.
By now Constellation had lost most of its take-off mass and was accelerating at more than fourteen thousand miles per hour. Behind the orbiter’s delta wings and vertical stabilizer, its single engine throttled up as the spacecraft accelerated to nearly 18,500 miles per hour … until, sixty-three miles above the Atlantic and a little more than seven hundred miles downrange from the Cape, the third-stage engine shut down and the winged craft coasted into low orbit.
Within the ferry, everyone took a deep breath.
Parnell thought he still remembered what it was like to ride a fireball into the heavens; as he raised a trembling hand to lift the visor of his helmet, though, he realized that his memory wasn’t quite as sharp as he’d once believed. If there were four minutes in anyone’s life that were as terrifying or traumatic as being inside
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