Kessler turned and headed for his quarters. He had two more hours of rest before the press conference later on that morning.
A mile away Captain Clayton Jones walked up to the Vehicle Assembly Building, looking for Kessler. The VAB, originally built to assemble the Saturn V moon rocket under the name Vertical Assembly Building, was at the time the largest building in the world, covering eight acres with an enclosed volume of 129 million cubic feet. The structure could withstand winds of up to 125 knots, a necessity to protect the space vehicle properly against the temperamental Florida weather.
The titanic bridge cranes lifted the orbiter Atlantis off the floor. They would hoist 150,000 pounds of orbiter onto the 154-foot-long, unpainted, rust-orange External Tank. Its dirty-looking primer contrasted with the pristine white of the Solid Rocket Boosters and the gleaming orbiter, but NASA had made the decision long ago — to stop painting disposable tanks, thus saving the taxpayers the cost of a fifteen-thousand-dollar paint job, and lightening the tank’s weight by almost six hundred pounds.
The entire shuttle assembly took place over one of the Mobile Launcher Platforms.
Jones stared at the colossal assembly. The high-precision hoisting unit had successfully brought Atlantis—in a vertical profile — within inches of the External Tank. NASA technicians now worked laboriously at connecting the hardpoints on Atlantis’s underside to the steel assembly built onto the side of the External Tank.
The Herculean effort to prepare a shuttle for launch never failed to fascinate him. He’d watched for hours while Lightning was readied. He couldn’t wait to ride her into space.
Inside the small aft lavatory of the Boeing 707, Thomas H. Pruett felt another convulsion and couldn’t hold it any longer. On his knees, Pruett placed his face over the toilet and let it all out. In the past he’d only felt nauseated during the few occasions when a crisis forced him to travel by Air Force fighter to “hot spots,” but as his digestive condition worsened, Pruett found himself unable to tolerate even jetliner flights.
“Let’s go, Tom. Limo’s waiting.”
Chief Europe Roland Higgins banged impatiently on the lavatory door. To Pruett, Higgins seemed all too eager to get back to the office after returning from a South American tour designed to let Higgins get acquainted with most of the Western Hemisphere field houses. Since the early retirement of the previous Chief Western Hemisphere, Pruett had been filling in while searching for a permanent replacement, but after several months without being able to find the right individual, Pruett had decided to give his younger, ambitious, and very confident Chief Europe a shot at managing both divisions.
“Give me a second.”
Their last stop had been French Guiana. Not a very high place on Pruett’s list, but Higgins had insisted on visiting all the field houses. Not because he’d expected any real surprises — after all, Pruett always kept extremely close contact with his people — but because Higgins had argued that a face-to-face meeting was the best way to keep a good working relationship with faraway field offices.
Pruett turned on the faucet over the diminutive sink and splashed cold water on his face. He inhaled deeply and stared at his own image in the mirror. Not a pretty sight, he decided with a frown. The circles under his bloodshot eyes and tousled hair were not in character with a man in his position. Two weeks of nonstop traveling had definitely taken a toll on his fifty-year-old body. Not a young gun anymore, he thought. Ten years ago he would have already been in that limousine headed for the CIA headquarters.
Pruett dried his face with a paper towel, pulled a comb from his pocket, and brushed his thinning brown hair back, making a receding hairline much more obvious and a square wall of forehead a bit more rectangular, but also giving him a somewhat distinguished look. At least that was what his secretary, Tammy, had told him. At his age he was beyond flattering remarks from young members of the opposite sex. He admitted he had kept some of the attractive characteristics of his youth, especially his large frame, which had given him the right to date just about any girl he wished as captain of his school’s wrestling team, and his full lips, which blended into a square jaw — his father’s jaw — gave him a kind of rugged geniality.
He rinsed his mouth several times, straightened up his tie, and rolled down the sleeves of his still-white shirt. He smiled. After a decade of stomach problems, Pruett had gotten good at getting sick without messing up his shirt or tie. Just a few minutes in a private rest room and he would emerge looking like new.
He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and spotted his subordinate closing his briefcase. Higgins was about six feet tall, a couple of inches shorter than Pruett. He looked impeccable, dressed in a double-breasted suit, which went well with his pale complexion and carefully clipped mustache.
“You should see a doctor,” Higgins said as he walked up the aisle toward the forward section of the cabin.
Pruett frowned, snagged his briefcase and coat, and followed him. “Doctors don’t know shit.”
Higgins shook his head as they walked down the stairs toward the limousine waiting to take them to Langley.
CHAPTER FIVE
PERSONAL SACRIFICES
Pruett set his briefcase down on his large desk and walked toward his mini-bar. His secretary always made it a point to keep his small refrigerator stocked with one of Pruett’s favorite items: milk. He drank it by the gallon to help his ailing ulcer. He opened the refrigerator and smiled when he saw two fresh cartons, one of whole milk, one of skim. He snatched the whole milk and eyed the expiration date, just in case. Satisfied, he opened the carton and took two large swigs.
Loosening his tie, he walked back to his desk, and eased himself into his leather swivel chair. The chair had belonged to his previous boss, the former Head of Clandestine Services, killed on the job several years back. Pruett, Chief Western Hemisphere at the time, had been asked by the CIA Director to fill the position until the Agency could find a replacement, but after several successful months, the Director had made Pruett’s temporary assignment permanent.
He noticed a small gift-wrapped box on the right corner of his desk. Pruett eyed the calendar and smiled. He had missed his own birthday. He shrugged and picked up the box. Like a curious youngster, he shook it twice but could not make out its contents. He removed the red wrapping paper and opened the box.
Pruett smiled as his eyes filled. He lifted out a clear paperweight with a three-by-five color photograph inside it, a photo of his brother’s family, Pruett’s only family besides his two kids. All his older relatives were long gone, and his job had never really given him the chance to start another relationship after his wife had left him nearly two decades before. His two kids never got to see much of him anymore. As they’d been raised by their mother and stepfather, Pruett had been pretty much kept out of it. That’s just as well, he reflected as his fingers fumbled with the square piece of Plexiglass. He’d always been on some assignment, and wouldn’t have been able to spend time with them anyway. You’re better off this way, Tom… or are you? It was certainly the price he had paid to get to his current position. He took another sip of milk and wondered if his large personal sacrifice had really made a difference. Did his contributions to the Agency compensate for the fact that his own kids — his flesh and blood — were practically strangers living across the country on the West Coast? Go easy on yourself, Tom. That was a decision made long ago. It’s too late to go back.