"Initialize GPC Mode Five — Run," ordered Heitmann.
Townsend hit the correct button. "GPC Mode Five is running."
"Enter OPS one zero one PRO."
Townsend put in the keystrokes. "OPS one zero one PRO entered."
"Control, this is Constellation," said Heitmann. "OPS-One flight plan is entered."
"Roger, Constellation. We copy OPS-One loaded."
The launch was in the computers' hands now.
The shuttle bus screeched to a halt. Classen jumped out and yelled, "Get out of here!" to the driver. The bus jockey needed no prodding; he nearly put the vehicle into a wheelie as he sped away.
Classen looked at his watch and his heart jumped into his throat. It was 4:19 a.m. — eleven minutes until they lit the candle. Frantically, he scanned the exterior of the orange external tank near the hyrdrogen vent coupling. The catwalk, which provided access to the coupling, had been retracted an hour earlier and only the umbilical pipeline remained.
When the liquid hydrogen boiled off in the external tank and expanded into a gas, it had to be vented from the vessel — just like the liquid oxygen. However, gaseous hydrogen is many times more volatile than gaseous oxygen. Therefore, the vapors were vented from the external tank through the "closed system" of the umbilical pipe until the H-two valve was closed. At the moment of lift-off, the umbilical vent cord would automatically disconnect from the tank and fall away against the gantry.
Several precious moments elapsed before Classen finally saw it. There. Just below the coupling. It was hard to see, and from the ground it appeared no larger than a muted, cream-colored dot. But it wasn't orange, like the tank. It didn't belong there. He reached to his belt for his hand-held transceiver to inform Launch Control that the lift-off might have to be aborted, but he came up empty-handed. In the confusion of the locker room, he'd left it by Garvey's body. He wou.d have cursed his own stupidity, but couldn't take the time.
Like a gazelle, Classen bounded across the concrete tarmac and into the gantry elevator. He shoved the hand controller to the up position and the steel cage started skyward. No matter how hard he pressed the controller, the lift rose at a maddeningly slow rate. In frustration, he kicked the side of the cage and yelled, "Move!" But it continued up at its leisurely pace. Classen alternated between praying and cursing — now that he had the time.
When level nine was finally reached, he jumped out and lunged for the instrument panel which controlled the hydrogen vent access arm. He shoved the lever forward, and the catwalk arm started rotating toward the external tank.
A red light twinkled on the pad systems engineering console in Firing Room Two. The engineer who monitored the board blinked his eyes several times in surprise and muttered, "What the…?" The red light indicated the hydrogen vent access arm was not retracted into its proper lift-off position. The engineer looked up at one of the four large television screens which pictured the Constellation on Pad 39A — and gasped. Eschewing his headset, he jumped up from his console and yelled at the launch director: "Chief! Look at the center left screen! The H-two arm is moving!"
Every head in the room bobbed up to look at the screen, and the launch director's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
"What the hell?" he said in a soft voice. Then he barked at his deputy, "I thought Jacob cleared the pad fifteen minutes ago!"
The bald, squat-looking deputy looked like a ghost. "He did," came the croaky reply.
' 'Well, somebody's got to be up there!'' barked the tall, skinny launch director who had two days' growth of beard on his face. "Get Classen on the radio! Photo, give me a zoom on the H-two arm! Pad systems, get that arm retracted and back into place!"
The deputy started talking nervously into his microphone, but Classen was not on the air. The pad manager's little hand-held transceiver was still in the locker room. "I can't raise him," whined the deputy.
The engineer in charge of photography systems fiddled with some control knobs, and the television image of the access arm enlarged until it filled the screen.
The pad systems engineer punched a bunch of buttons, but the H-two catwalk kept moving toward the external tank. "I can't retract the arm. Somebody's controlling the manual override from the gantry."
"There's somebody up there!" yelled the flight surgeon while pointing at the screen. And sure enough, the image of someone in white coveralls appeared, running down the catwalk. It halted at the coupling.
"Give me max zoom!" ordered the skinny launch director.
The image on the screen grew some more, but because of the magnification and the limited illumination of the klieg lights, the shadowy figure was terribly grainy. All that could be discerned was that he wore white coveralls and had an orange hard hat on his head… and only one person on Pad 39A wore an orange hard hat.
"It's Jacob!" exclaimed the deputy.
"What in God's name is he doing up there?" thundered the launch director. He poised his trembling hand over the big red console button marked abort.
When the arm had extended all the way to the tank wall, Classen flew down the catwalk. Upon reaching the coupling, he knelt down and inserted his arm between the edge of the catwalk and the tank. Everything felt cold from the liquid hydrogen as he fingered the platelike device. It was a bomb, of course. It had to be a bomb. That was why Ed Garvey had had to die. He'd found out. Was it rigged to go off if tampered with? Classen didn't know shit from Shinola about bombs, and the tampering question hadn't occurred to him until now. But never mind about that. He still had to try, even though he was afraid. Deathly afraid.
Getting a proper grip from his kneeling position was impossible, so he lay down flat on the catwalk and reached around the superstructure to get a handhold on the rim of the limpet mine. He caught the edge. There. That was it. He pulled. It didn't budge. He pulled again, harder. Rock solid. Oh, Lord, give me strength. Now. He took a deep breath and with every last ounce of grit and muscle he heaved once more, while groaning, "Damn you, damn you, damn you."
"He… he's pulling something off the tank," stammered the deputy.
The launch director was almost dancing now, his lanky frame hopping from one foot to the other. He didn't know what to do. He was the one person at KSC who'd been told the score — the whole score — on the Intrepid. If his launch crew didn't light the candle now, it would be another twenty-four hours before they'd have another chance at a rendezvous with the Intrepid. That would give the Russians another fall day and night to intervene. He looked at the digital clock. Less than four minutes to ignition. Everything was controlled by computers now, but he could shut the launch down by punching the abort button. However, the launch time window was so small on this mission that once the abort button was pushed, they couldn't recover in time and still catch the Intrepid rendezvous on this pass. It was up to him. Go or no-go.
"He's got it!" yelped the squatty deputy. "Whatever it is, he's got it!"