How does he fix this?
Severson stares at the monitor and has no idea.
The wunderkind from MIT, Kent Wilson, or ‘Mitson’ as Severson prefers to call him, approaches. The kid started work at Kennedy a year ago, the week after he finished his doctorate in computer science at the ripe old age of twenty-one. ‘May we speak?’
Severson doesn’t like the kid because he doesn’t like anyone predisposed to sweep past him on the fast track, but at this point he must be open to ideas, no matter where they originate. It’s not like he has any of his own. ‘What?’
‘I think I have a way to control the hold-down posts.’
The hold-down posts keep the solid rocket boosters connected to the launch pad so if they were accidentally ignited the shuttle wouldn’t fly.
Severson looks at him. ‘You have my attention.’
Mitson talks quickly: ‘I’ve been studying the launch software, wanted to see if there were any back doors planted in the code when it was originally written in the seventies —’
‘And?’
‘I found one. To the hold-down posts, through the mobile launch platform connection.’
‘Can you open it?’
‘Think so. I can’t imagine they know about it. It took me three months to find. If I can get in then we can control the posts —’
‘And the shuttle won’t be able to launch.’
Mitson nods.
‘Do it.’
Mitson stares at Severson, surprised the launch director didn’t take more convincing.
‘Don’t just stand there.’
Mitson scuttles back to his console, a grin on his face. Severson knows that Mitson’s surprise at having an idea immediately embraced will soon disappear. Within the next year the kid will realise he’s the smartest guy in the room, any room, every room. He will know that his idea will always be the most insightful and perceptive. But that is the future. Right now he’s young, naive and not completely sure of himself. So Severson will use that for all it’s worth. Mitson will either save the shuttle, and by extension Severson’s arse, or become the sacrificial lamb during the postmortem when blame will need to be assigned and arses, specifically Severson’s, will need to be covered.
‘Mr Burke.’ It’s the Frenchman again. ‘I would like you to retract the crew access arm. You have ten seconds.’
What, exactly, is a steely-eyed missile man?
Simply, it’s someone who can quickly devise an ingenious solution to a life-or-death problem while under extreme pressure.
Judd’s current situation presents him with the perfect opportunity to discover whether he is one. Tango has an arm looped around his neck and squeezes for all he’s worth. Judd has a hand under Tango’s arm so, no matter how hard the German squeezes, he can’t choke him. Judd’s other hand has Tango’s other hand pinned to the ground.
Judd can see the pistol out of the corner of his eye. It’s five metres away, near the White Room’s door. He must get to it. He can think of only one way to do that.
He yanks his hand from under Tango’s arm. It instantly goes tight around his throat and he can’t breathe. Middle and index fingers forked, Stooges-style, Judd jabs them at the German’s face. One of them catches him in the left eye and he flinches, momentarily loosens the arm around Judd’s neck.
That’s all it takes. Judd twists free and scrambles towards the pistol. The German follows, hip-checks him and knocks him off course. Judd slams into a wall and jars a helmet from its hanging place. It thumps to the ground.
The German grabs the pistol, swings it towards Judd. The astronaut freezes. He has nowhere to go; his back, literally and figuratively, is against the wall.
The downside of attempting to be steely-eyed is what happens when you fail to devise an ingenious solution to the life-or-death problem. Most often somebody dies — and in this case that somebody is Judd. He waits for the German to pull the trigger.
The White Room lurches as the crew access arm draws it away from the shuttle. Surprised, the German’s eyes momentarily flick to the floor. Judd instantly drops to one knee, swings an arm towards the helmet that was knocked from the wall, snags it with his index finger and releases it in one compact motion.
Tango’s eyes flick back to Judd but the helmet is already on the way. It strikes the German flush on the left temple. He crumples to the floor, out cold.
Judd takes it in. Maybe he is steely-eyed after all, or maybe he’s just lucky. He wrenches the pistol from the German’s hand then moves to the edge of the White Room as it pulls away from Atlantis.
Severson stares at his monitor. It shows a long shot of Launch Complex 39B as the crew access arm and the White Room retract from the shuttle. He trusts that Mitson can do what he says, so he directed Wexford to retract the crew access arm and buy some time.
He’s now having buyer’s remorse. What if the kid can’t do it? His eyes lock on the sacrificial lamb elect. ‘How’s it coming?’
Mitson works his keyboard and stares at his monitor. ‘It’s coming.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘One minute.’
‘You said you could do this.’
‘I can.’
‘Then do it! It’s on your head, boy.’
Mitson nods, works his keyboard.
It’s on your head, boy? It was a touch melodramatic but at least Severson made his point. Everyone in Firing Room Four now knows that Mitson is working on a fix to the current problem. If he finds one and disaster is averted then everyone will think Severson is some kind of genius for delegating so laterally to the kid. If he doesn’t, well, everyone will focus on why dear young Mitson, who was once so full of promise, failed so miserably. It’s not perfect but it’s the only plan Severson has.
Henri studies the bank of shimmering LCD screens before him, flicks a series of switches. ‘Powering APUs.’
Nico types on the MacBook’s keyboard. ‘We’re on internal power.’
The Frenchman and the Italian quickly trade information:
‘Hydraulic check nominal.’
‘Main engine gimbal complete.’
‘O-two vents closed.’
‘APU to inhibit.’
‘H-two tank pressurisation is good.’
‘SRB countdown management switched to on-board computers. APU start is go.’
Nico grins. ‘Sounds like we know what we’re doing.’
Henri has no doubt about it. After a year in a dingy garage using a mock-up of this flight deck they had rehearsed it a thousand times. ‘Are we ready?’
Nico scans the MacBook’s screen again, makes sure everything’s squared away. ‘We’re ready —’
A thud, from the windscreen.
Henri turns, finds a pockmark the size of a thumbnail on the far left panel. He looks beyond it, astonished to see someone with a pistol standing at the end of the White Room. ‘Merde.’
Nico’s concerned. ‘What’s going on?’
Henri looks at him. ‘Light it.’
Nico drops his finger onto the MacBook’s return key.
The rush of hot air rocks Judd back on his heels. He throws out his arms and grabs the end of the White Room to stay balanced. He looks down. Directly below, the shuttle’s three main engines are alight and bellow translucent blue flames. Below the flames the sound suppression system automatically floods the pad with one million litres of water to deaden the engine noise and stop the sound waves reflecting off the cement and shaking the shuttle to pieces. Even with the system at work the launch complex creaks and groans like it is waking from a long sleep.
Judd’s first thought is to go. To leave. To be elsewhere. If the shuttle launches he’s currently standing at the optimum position to be chargrilled by its exhaust. He stays put. Atlantis isn’t going anywhere until the solid rockets ignite.