Mulcahey responded with a terse "Yessir" and flipped a switch to shut down the orbiter's auxiliary power units during the launch phase.
"Control," radioed the commander, "this is Intrepid. APUs have been switched to 'inhibit.' Over."
"Roger, we copy, Intrepid. Out."
Mulcahey eyed the launch clock, which showed less than two minutes to ignition of the main engines. He half turned in his chair and said through the intercom, "How're you doing, Jerry? Ready to go?"
Dr. Jerry Rodriquez, mission specialist, smiled and said, "You bet. Everything's A-OK."
The two men laughed at Rodriquez's use of the expression coined during Alan Shepard's first Mercury spaceflight. It was now considered dated and more than a bit hokey, which was precisely why they laughed. The Intrepid'& commander, however, did not join in the levity. His face remained impassive, his expression remote and closed.
"Iceberg." That was the shuttle commander's call sign, and Mulcahey figured it suited the man well; for Col. Julian Kapuscinski always seemed to have more of an affinity for computer chips and flight controls than people. He rarely displayed anger, or warmth, or humor, or any of the other emotions associated with the human condition — in particular, fear. Whatever the commander's faults, Mulcahey thought with admiration, Kapuscinski was utterly fearless. And Christ — what a flyer! On Iceberg's second shuttle mission, this one out of the Cape, the solid rocket boosters (SRBs) had just separated when a light blinked on the control panel indicating a rupture in the liquid hydrogen component of the giant external tank. Iceberg immediately separated the orbiter from the tank and then, using the maneuvering thrusters, pulled the spacecraft into a tight loop. Nothing by the book, but if he'd waited a few seconds longer, the ensuing explosion of the external tank would have obliterated the orbiter. His subsequent landing on the Cape runway was called nothing less than Promethean by columnist George Will.
Needless to say, NASA, the Air Force, several insurance companies, and the government of Indonesia — whose $85 million communications satellite he had saved — heaped praise upon Iceberg by the truckload. There was even a White House ceremony at which the President anointed him as "a latter-day Chuck Yeager." Yet in spite of the publicity, all Kapuscinski would say about his salvation of the orbiter was: "It's just another flight." Which, of course, only served to enhance his reputation.
After the hoopla died down, historical X rays taken of the external tank before liftoff revealed a flaw in its liquid hydrogen component. NASA engineers heaved a sigh of relief that it was the faulty component — and not the tank system — that had broken down.
"Hmmm. That's strange."
The launch director turned his head. "What is it, Doc? Anything the matter?" Launch directors typically were a little skittish at T minus one minute and thirty-seven seconds.
The flight surgeon hesitated because it was a minor aberration, but he decided to tell the director anyway.
"It's Kapuscinski. His heart rate is at one oh six and we still have over a minute to ignition. His pulse has never exceeded eighty-five, even after ignition."
"Iceberg?" The launch director was incredulous. "You're kidding? Must be something he ate. Either that or he's a little tense about the special cargo on board."
The doctor sighed. "You're probably right. It's not something to abort the mission, but it does concern me a little."
"Right, Doc. Let's not abort. Just keep an eye on it, okay?"
A launch director's career was not enhanced by aborts.
"Intrepid, this is Launch Control. SRB APU start is go. Onboard computers engaging now. You are cleared for launch at T minus twenty-three seconds."
"Roger, Control," replied Iceberg. "Intrepid out."
Mulcahey felt the perspiration start to line his palms. There were no switches to be thrown now, no buttons to be pushed. Everything from this point was controlled by electronic impulses racing through silicon wafers.
The capsule communicator, or "Cap Com" in the Launch Control bunker, who handled radio traffic with the crew, ticked off the countdown: "Eight… seven… six…"
Around the pad, six giant nozzles popped up, spewing out horizontal geysers of water at the base of the spacecraft. The engines of the shuttle vehicle generated such tremendous acoustic energy that the pad had to be cushioned with a blanket of water during launch to prevent the sound waves from literally bouncing back from the concrete apron and damaging the orbiter. To provide the sound-absorbing blanket, a gravity-fed system of deluge nozzles released 760,000 gallons of water onto the pad and into the exhaust ducts in a thirty-second period during liftoff.
"… five… four…"
The three main engines on the orbiter fired in sequence within three tenths of a second. The shuttle lurched forward about a meter, and a Twang! reverberated in the cockpit as the "slack" in the brackets holding the orbiter to the external tank was taken up.
"… three… two… one… SRB ignition!"
The computers triggered the two solid-fuel rocket boosters, and their fiery plumes joined those of the orbiter in the exhaust pit. The roar was deafening as an eruption of smoke, mixed with steam, shot high above the launch gantry.
Mulcahey checked the main and SRB engine lights and shouted, "All green!"
For three seconds 6.5 million pounds of thrust — roughly equivalent to one fourth the energy blast that leveled Hiroshima — heaved against the combined weight of orbiter, tank, and boosters, until finally the explosive bolts that held the solid-fuel boosters to the pad blew and the spacecraft began its ascent.
For those in the control room the sight of a live launch, particularly at night, never failed to fire the emotions.
"Intrepid, we have lift-off! You look good. The tower's been cleared and you are go for roll."
"Roger, Control," said the icy voice. "Starting roll maneuver now."
The dialogue was superfluous, for it was the orbiter's computers that commanded the booster engine nozzles to swivel, or "gimbal," rolling the vehicle 120 degrees on its axis into a "heads down" position.
Mulcahey said nothing as he watched the machometer and time-lapse clock. It never ceased to amaze him that something this big could go from zero to Mach 1 in fifty seconds.
"Launch detection, Comrade General!"
"Where?" It was a plaintive demand.
"Vandenbeig. Initial course one-eight-seven degrees. Launch signature analysis coming up now." Mission Commander Malyshev paused, allowing the full report to trickle into his headphones from the Soviet Aerospace Defense Warning Centre. "Confirmed. Infrared signature indicates shuttle vehicle launch profile."
"I want constant updates!" wheezed the general.
"Of course, sir. The plot is coming up on the board now." A short luminescent line, aiming south out of California, appeared on the Mercator map projection.
Lt. Gen. Likady Popov slammed down the receiver and turned to the two civilians in the glassed-in observation deck. "The American shuttle has lifted off at the same time and direction as we anticipated."
"Excellent!" exulted the hulking General Secretary, while his diminutive companion — a chess player who often concealed his emotions across the chessboard — was more circumspect. Nevertheless, it was difficult even for him to contain his elation.
"Yes, yes. This is quite good. Very good indeed," purred the little KGB Chairman. "There are many things to come, but this is the most critical step, is it not?"
Popov did not respond. The harried, stocky, and overweight general in the rumpled uniform was wary in dealing with these two.