But there was also a dark side to possessing exotic equipment like Eardrum. Years ago, in a case similar to that of the Walker spy ring that ravaged the Navy, the deep dark secrets of the old Rhyolite satellite had been compromised by two young ne'er-do-well traitors — Christopher Boyce and Andrew Daulton Lee (also known as the Falcon and the Snowman).
After his first briefing on the Eardrum project, Whittenberg decided that, while he was in charge, nothing about this satellite would have so much as a chance of being compromised. Under his personal supervision, draconian security measures were implemented. Every component of the project was kept tightly compartmentalized, and only a tiny handful of engineers knew the full scope of the satellite's capabilities, which were vastly superior to those of its predecessors. Not even the chairman of the board of TRW or the mission specialists who assembled the components in space knew Eardrum's true powers — nor did Ice-beig when he keyed his microphone switch over the East Siberian Sea.
Lt. Col. Phillip Heitmann banked the Gulfstream III to his left, while watching the instruments on his head-up display. The holographic image allowed him to look through the windshield of the aircraft and scan his flight data at the same time. The readout from the TACAN microwave landing system told him he was 8.6 miles from the runway, while the altimeter indicated the aircraft was 13,428 feet above the ocean. At 7.5 miles from the runway Heitmann pushed the hand controller forward so the GS-III headed down in a 22-degree glide slope — seven times steeper than that of a commercial airliner.
The Gulfstream aircraft had been specially modified to react and behave exactly like the shuttle ort>iter, and Heitmann was taking his usual practice landing approaches prior to launch of the Constellation. Every shuttle landing was a "dead stick" landing with no propulsion whatsoever. You got only one shot at the runway, so it had to be good. This was the second of what would be fifteen practice approaches for himself and Maj. Jack Townsend, his copilot. It had been six months since his last shuttle mission, and the barrel-chested former Marine test pilot was looking forward to his upcoming trip on the Constellation.
The Gulfstream's engines throttled back automatically at prearranged settings to give it the same "feel" as the orbiter on approach. Heitmann watched carefully as the elevation and distance clicked off. At two thousand feet altitude and 350 mph, Townsend said, "Initiate preflare," and Heitmann pulled back on the hand controller. The glide slope was reduced from 22 degrees to 1.5 degrees in a maneuver that consumed about fifteen seconds. "Arming landing gear… Landing gear deployed," relayed Townsend. Heitmann saw he was ninety feet above the ground, with the black tarmac rushing up toward him. Airspeed and altitude continued to decrease, until at 216 mph the Gulfstream was gliding a few feet above the runway.
The aircraft's wheels did not touch down. Because the orbiter was a much bigger flying machine than the Gulfstream, Heitmann kept his aircraft a few feet above the runway to simulate the same perspective he would have from the shuttle's cockpit on landing.
As they neared the end of the runway Townsend turned a switch from auto to manual and said, "Green." The aircraft was now back on manual control and Heitmann shoved the throttles forward. The Rolls-Royce Spey engines responded with twenty thousand pounds of thrust, and the Gulfstream picked up speed. Townsend pushed the appropriate lever to the up position. There was a whirr and a few clunking sounds as the landing gear retracted into the wings and nose.
"Three greens," Townsend said, adding, "Not bad for an old fart."
Heitmann grinned. "I suppose an air crapper like you could do better?"
"You bet your ass, old man." Townsend enjoyed ribbing Heitmann about the gray strands in his rapidly thinning hair.
"Okay, pussy," countered the Marine pilot, "the weather's not too bad today, so we'll let you try the next one."
This time it was Townsend who grinned. The two men were close, and their mutual insults were a reflection of their friendship. The Constellation would be their third mission together, and they were both anxious for lift-off.
Heitmann was watching the altimeter go past five thousand feet when his headset crackled. "GS-Three, this is Control. You are to return to base at once."
The two pilots looked at each other — their curiosity aroused. "Control, this is GS-Three," replied Heitmann. "What's the deal? We just started our approaches."
"Eagle One is flying in from CSOC in Colorado. His ETA is forty-five minutes from now, and he wants to see you both in his office when he gets here."
"Roger, Control. You talked us into it." Heitmann banked the Gulfstream around for a conventional landing.' 'Eagle One" was the call sign for Maj. Gen. Chester McCormack, Commander, SPACECOM Flight Operations. A Nordic-looking dynamo who had elevated the practice of ass-kicking to a fine art. Nobody liked getting on his bad side.
"Got any clue why Eagle wants to see us?" Townsend sounded a little apprehensive.
"Beats me." Heitmann shrugged. Then he turned and leveled his gaze at his partner. "You ain't screwin' the old man's wife, are you?" The slim, unbalding Townsend had a reputation with the ladies.
"Certainly not," said the copilot in mock indignation.
"How about his daughter?" asked Heitmann.
Townsend paused for the full effect.' 'Not for at least a week.''
Both of them burst out laughing.
Jacob Classen chomped on a tuna fish sandwich and poured the first of what would be many cups of coffee. Although a voracious eater, Classen was always skinny as a rail. That was because he ran marathons to relax. And though he was only forty-nine years old, his hair was white. Not gray. White. He was manager of Pad 39A at the Kennedy Space Center, and the tension on his job fluctuated somewhere between oppressive and unbearable. It was now rapidly approaching the unbearable phase. His pad crew was embarking on a "fire drill" maneuver to yank out the Constellation's delicate payload and make the spacecraft ready for a "dry" launch, and he had no idea why. He'd been told not to ask questions and just do it — quickly.
Not one to question his orders, even though he was a civilian working for NASA, Classen had given instructions for the rotating service structure of the gantry to be rolled into place. As he watched from the small service trailer, the enormous superstructure began its long, slow swing that would envelop the orbiter like a closing door. Once in place, environmental seals would be inflated along the side of the orbiter and the closed payload room of the superstructure would be purged with clean air. In this pristine environment, the cargo bay doors of the orbiter would be opened and the payload transferred to the superstructure.
Classen figured unloading the Constellation's payload was going to be a first-class pain in the ass. The Anik communications satellite was pretty standard stuff, but the COSMAX was an X-ray telescope and had to be handled carefully to keep its calibrations in line. Delicate instruments had problems enough with the rigors of a rocket launch, but dropping them during an earth-bound transfer could be a career-limiting experience for a pad manager. Although the launch director was screaming at him to hurry, Classen wasn't about to bobble that $300 million COS-MAX.