“Control, IMU alignment complete.” Crawford looked at the Inertial Measurement Unit and continued. “We show two-eight degrees, three-six minutes, three-zero point three-two seconds north, by eight-zero degrees, three-six minutes one-four point eight-eight seconds west. Over.”
“Concur, Columbia.”
“Houston, commander’s voice check.”
“Copy,” replied the distant voice.
“Pilot voice check,” Doherty reported.
“Roger, Hank.”
Five minutes passed as the flight plan was loaded into the computers. The flight deck CRTs would now indicate any guidance navigation or control system faults, along with the launch trajectory.
Mission Control performed a mandatory check at T-minus fifteen minutes,
“Columbia, we are conducting the abort check, over.”
Crawford glanced at the blinking annunciator lights, then looked at Doherty. The pilot acknowledged the abort signal as Crawford keyed his microphone.
“Looks good, Houston.”
Crawford then copied the latest landing weather data for a return to launch site abort, or abort down range.
At the same time, three Marine Cobra gunship helicopters lifted off the shuttle runway. The trio made two sweeps down the beach and then settled into a racetrack pattern around the orbiter.
“Houston, Columbia. Event timer started.”
“Roger.”
“Columbia, initiate APU pre-start.”
“Roger, Houston,” Crawford replied. “Powering up APUs.”
“Columbia, you are on internal power.”
“Copy internal,” Crawford read back, checking the movement of the flight control surfaces and exercising the hydraulic systems.
At T-minus three minutes the orbiter’s main engines swiveled to their launch positions.
“Columbia, main engine gimbal complete.”
“Copy, Houston.”
“Columbia, H-two tank pressurization okay. You are go for launch at this time.”
“Go for launch,” Crawford responded, adrenaline pumping more rapidly in his veins.
At T-minus twenty-five seconds the shuttle countdown switched over to onboard computers.
“Fifteen seconds and counting,” Houston reported in a calm, relaxed voice.
There was no reply from the shuttle crew.
“Five, four — we have main engine start — two, one, zero. SRB ignition, lift off! We have lift off!”
At T-plus 2.64 seconds the shuttle’s solid rocket boosters ignited.
“The tower has been cleared. All engines look good,” Houston informed the orbiter crew.
“Roger, Houston. Lookin’ good here.”
“Instituting roll maneuver,” Houston reported to Crawford.
“Roger, rolling,” Crawford responded, closely watching his attitude direction indicator (ADI).
The mammoth shuttle, belching clouds of billowing white smoke, thundering like a thousand jets, began a slow 120-degree roll to a “heads down” crew position. The ground shook for miles in every direction.
The circling helicopter gunships spread out and descended to two hundred feet.
“Roll completed, Columbia. You’re looking good.”
Approximately forty-five seconds into the flight, at the speed of sound (Mach One), the main engines throttled down from 100 percent to 65 percent.
“Houston, main engines at sixty-five percent.”
“Copy, Columbia.”
Twenty-eight seconds elapsed before the shuttle reached maximum dynamic pressure.
“Houston, Max Q,” Crawford radioed in a tense voice.
“Throttle up to one hundred percent.”
Everyone in Mission Control crossed their fingers, remembering this point in the Challenger disaster.
Crawford, breathing easier, looked over at Hank Doherty.
The orbiter pilot replied with a thumbs up gesture. “So far, so good, boss.”
“Houston, we have SRB burnout.”
“Roger, Columbia,” the relieved voice responded.
“Stand by for separation
The solid rocket boosters exploded off the shuttle, falling smoothly in a graceful arc.
“Houston, we have separation,” Crawford reported.
“We can see that. Looks good, Columbia.”
“Columbia, you are negative return. Copy?”
“Roger, negative return,” Crawford replied, realizing the cape could not be used for an emergency return.
Crawford, aware of the tension in his voice, checked with each crewman over the intercom system.
“Drew, you okay down there?”
“My ass is so puckered, you couldn’t drive a knittin’ needle up it!”
“Next mission, Drew,” Crawford said with chuckle, “we’ll place a stick down there so you can help drive.”
“Thanks, boss,” the Marine pilot replied. “You figure the news people are awake yet?”
Laughter filled the flight deck while Crawford checked his instrument panel. They could reach orbit even if two main engines failed. “Houston, we are single engine press to MECO.”
“Roger, Columbia. Press to MECO.”
The main engines began to throttle down to keep acceleration below 3-G.
“Columbia, main engine throttle down.”
“Copy, Houston,” Crawford responded, intently watching the instrument panel.
Another minute passed before Mission Control talked with Crawford. “Columbia, go for main engine cut-off.”
“Roger, main engine cut-off on schedule,” Crawford replied in a more relaxed voice.
“Columbia, go for external tank separation.”
The huge orange tank fell away, tumbling to its destruction in the ocean far below.
“We have separation; looks clean,” Crawford radioed.
The shuttle rapidly approached orbital insertion.
“Columbia, you are go for OMS-one burn.”
“Roger, cleared for orbital maneuvering system burn number one.”
The APUs were shut down and the external tank umbilical doors were closed.
“Columbia, coming up on OMS-two.”
“Roger, Houston.”
Less than a minute passed before Crawford spoke to Mission Control.
“OMS-two cut-off. We have achieved orbit, Houston.”
“Congratulations, Columbia. Time to go to work.”
Dimitri stared, frozen in horror, at the Volga’s blood-splattered windshield.
“WIPE OFF MY WINDOW!” The American agent was shouting above the roar of the engine. His right arm was hanging limp, blood coursing down his sleeve.
Dimitri used his forearm to clear a section of the windshield, losing his balance as the car skidded through a corner and bounced off a curb.
“Return their fire. NOW, GODDAMNIT!” The CIA agent’s face was ashen white.
Dimitri, shaking from shock, glanced out the rear window. The glass was completely gone, save a few shards sticking out of the lower molding.
“Shoot at the grill!” Wickham ordered, knowing Dimitri would probably yank on the trigger, causing the round to go high, and, hopefully, hit the driver.
Dimitri fumbled for his Beretta. As he turned in his seat, knees drawn up, the Volga bounced through an intersection, throwing Dimitri against the passenger door.
BOOM!!
Dimitri accidently pulled the trigger, sending a round into the seat next to the CIA agent.
“GODDAMN! SHOOT THEM, NOT ME, FOR CHRISSAKE!”
Dimitri, shaking violently, placed the Beretta over the front seat, staring at the black KGB car seventy meters in trail.
“Grab it with both hands, like you were taught! Rest the weapon on top of the seat and aim for the grill.” Wickham was yelling over the screaming engine.