Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 03 (10 page)

           
But Jon Masters had always let the
pressure roll off his back. He paid lip service to the concerns of his board of
directors and partners, and treated military experts like Foch and scientists
like Kaddiri as part of his road show. He listened only to those who agreed
with him. Sometimes he seemed too busy having a good time to see the danger in
what he was doing.

           
Colonel Ralph Foch clearly was not
having a good jime. He turned away from Masters and checked the data readouts
being transmitted to Masters’ launch aircraft from the
White
Sands
Missile
Test
Range
; the data was a collection of sensor
readings, meteorological-balloon measurements, and satellite observations about
conditions both in the atmosphere and in the region of space that the four
NIRTSats would travel. Foch checked several screens of data with a checklist
and binders of computer models devised for this launch, then compared the
information with corrective actions being reported by Masters’ launch aircraft
as well as the data from the ALARM booster itself. Since the launch was, in
effect, the ALARM booster’s first stage, the rocket was already “flying” the
mission—issuing corrections to the jet’s flight crew, updating its position,
and continually plotting its new route of flight—while still within the cargo
bay of the converted DC-10.

           
“You’re right on the borderline,
Doctor Masters,” Foch finally said. “But you’re still within the safety margin.
Pending final clearance from White Sands, you’re cleared to launch.” Foch swung
his headset microphone in place and made the radio call to the missile-range
headquarters, recommending clearance to launch. With airborne clearance
received, the ground range safety headquarters made a last- minute sweep of the
range, alerted
Albuquerque
Air
Route
Traffic
Control
Center
to assist in keeping aircraft out of the
area, then issued final range clearance.

           
Masters grinned at Helen. “You’ve
got the con, Helen.” He liked to use nautical terms like “con” although Masters
had never been near a naval vessel. “Initiate launch sequence.”

           
“Crew stand by for launch sequence,”
Kaddiri sighed over interphone as Masters made his way aft with the two launch
technicians. Kaddiri began to read off the fifty-one- item checklist steps,
most of which were simply verifying that the computer was reporting the proper
readings and was progressing smoothly, with no fault reports. The automatic
countdown stopped on step 45, “Final Launch Clearance, Crew Notified,” at T
minus sixty seconds, where the computer initiated an automatic countdown hold
and transferred control back to Kaddiri. “T minus sixty second hold,” she
announced. “Flight controls visually inspected and checked in manual mode.”

           
Jon Masters liked to accomplish this
last check himself instead of sitting up on the launch-control console—it was
his last look at each missile before sending it out into the world, like a
parent dressing the child before sending him off for the first time to kindergarten.

           
Both launch officers and Masters
checked the long, slender scissor wings and vertical and horizontal stabilizers
on the tailplane. When they reported OK, Kaddiri activated the flight-control
self-test system. The scissor wings swiveled out two feet until several inches
of the wingtips were visible, and the rudder and stabilators on the tailplane
jumped back and forth in a pre-programmed test sequence.

           
“Self-test in progress,” Masters
called out.=^X-wing to fifteen-degree position, left wingtip right . . . rudder
right . . . rudder center . . . rudder left . . . left stab up . . . center . .
. down . . . center . . . right stab up . . . center . . . down . . . center.”

           
The test lasted only ten seconds.
Kaddiri canceled the self-test, then manually set the booster to launch
configuration. The wings swiveled back to he along the top of the booster’s
fuselage. “Verifying flight-control settings for launch,” Masters called out.
“X-wing centered. Rudder centered. Stabilators set to trailing-edge down
position.” With the horizontal stabilizers in the trailing-edge down position,
the nose of the ALARM booster would dive down and away from the DC-10 after
launch, minimizing the risk of collision.

           
“T minus sixty countdown hold
checklist complete,”

           
Kaddiri reported. She checked the
navigational readouts. “On course as directed by Roosevelt-One, time remaining
in launch window one, six minutes fourteen seconds.” By then Jon Masters had
walked up beside her and had taken his seat again, taking a big swig from a
squeeze bottle.

           
“Resume the countdown,” Masters
said, watching the TV monitors on the console. As he spoke, the pressure-secure
bay doors on the lower fuselage snapped open, revealing a light-gray cloud deck
a few thousand feet below. Other cameras mounted on the DC-lO’s belly, tail,
and wingtips showed the gaping forty-foot hatch wide open, with the ALARM
booster suspended in the center of the dark rectangle. “Doors open. Thirty
seconds to go . . .”

           
Those thirty seconds seemed to take
hours to pass. Masters was about to call to Helen to ask if there was a problem
when she started counting: “Stand by for launch . . . five . . . four . . .
three . . . two . . . one . . . release!”

           
It was a strange sensation, a
strange sight. The ALARM booster just seemed to shrink in size as it fell out
of the launch chamber—it continued to fly directly underneath the open doors as
if it were frozen in place. The doors stayed open long enough so that Jon could
see the X-wing begin to move slightly to provide a bit of stability as it
cruised along. The DC-lO’s tail heeled upward as the twenty-one-ton rocket
dropped away—it would take a minute for the movable counterweight tank to
rebalance the plane. The crew members in the cargo section held on firmly to
handholds in the ceiling or bulkheads as their bodies were pressed to the
floor.

           
“Rocket away, rocket away,” Helen
called out. Immediately, the DC-10 began a 30-degree bank turn to the left, and
Roosevelt-1 was lost from the bomb-bay camera. Helen switched to a wingtip
camera to monitor the motor firing.

           
“We’re clear from booster’s flight
path,” Kaddiri called out. “Coming up on first-stage ignition . . . ready,
ready . . . now.”

           
Like a giant stick of chalk drawing
a fat white-yellow line across the sky, the first-stage motor of the ALARM
booster ignited, and the rocket leaped ahead of the DC-10 in a blur of motion.
When the rocket was about a mile away, the X-wing scissored out until the wing
was almost perpendicular to the rocket’s fuselage, and the ALARM booster reared
its nose upward and began to climb. Nineteen seconds after launch, the booster
was traveling almost twice the speed of sound and had recrossed its launch
altitude as the wing generated lift. Seconds later, the rocket was lost from
view, traveling too fast for the high-speed cameras to follow.

           
“T plus thirty seconds,
Roosevelt-One on course, all systems normal, passing one-twenty-K altitude,
velocity passing Mach three,” Kaddiri reported.

           
“Launch-chamber doors closed,
chamber repressurized,” one of the techs reported. “Ready to reload.” They were
in no hurry to load Roosevelt-Two into position on this mission, but Masters
liked to practice rapid-fire procedures to demonstrate that a multiple ALARM
launch within a single launch window was possible.

           
“T plus sixty seconds, fifteen
seconds to first-stage bum- out,” Kaddiri reported. “Altitude one-eighty K,
passing Mach six, pitch angle thirty degrees. All systems nominal.”

           
Using the scissor wings to augment
the motor’s thrust with lift, the booster climbed quickly through the
atmosphere. As the air started to thin and less lift was being generated by the
wings, they scissored back closer and closer to the booster’s fuselage until,
just before first-stage motor burnout, the wings were fully retracted back along
the body of the rocket. Seventy-six seconds after ignition, the first- stage
motor burned out and the rear half of the fifty-feet- long booster, carrying
the rear tailplane and the scissor wings, separated from the rest of the
booster. The rocket was at the very edge of space, nearly 250,000 feet above
Earth. Nine seconds later, the second-stage motor ignited, sending the booster
streaking into space.

           
The first-stage section began its
controlled tumble to Earth, and four recovery parachutes opened at sixty
thousand feet above ground. A specially equipped Air Force C-130 cargo plane
would snag the parachute in midair and reel the first-stage booster in
somewhere over the northern section of the
White
Sands
Missile
Test
Range
. This recovery procedure would allow them
to use the ALARM booster system anywhere in the world without hazard to people
on the ground, even near heavily populated areas. The second- and third-stage
motor sections would re-enter the atmosphere from space and bum up.

           
“Good second-stage ignition,”
Kaddiri reported. “Altitude passing three hundred forty K, velocity passing
Mach eleven, on course.” She turned to Foch with a look of concern, then at
Masters. “Second-stage nozzle reports a gim- bal-limit fault, Jon. It might
have overcorrected for winds at altitude and sustained some damage.”

           
Masters had a stopwatch counting
down to the second- stage burnout. “Forty seconds to second-stage burnout,” he
muttered. “Is it still hitting*a stop? Is it correcting its course?”

           
“Continuous faults on the nozzle,”
Kaddiri replied. “It’s maintaining course, but it might slip out of stage-three
tolerance limits.” The third-stage section of the booster was much smaller than
the first two stages, designed only to increase the booster’s velocity to Mach 25
for orbital insertion; it could not perform large course corrections. If the
second-stage motor could not hold the booster within a gradually narrowing
trajectory corridor, the booster could slip into a useless and possibly
dangerous orbit. Numerous “safe” orbits were computed where the NIRTSat
satellites would not interfere with other spacecraft and where they could be
“stored” until it was possible to retrieve them, but it was usually very
difficult to place a malfunctioning booster into a precomputed “safe” orbit. If
it could not be placed in a position where it was not a hazard to other
satellites, it could damage or destroy dozens of other payloads and reenter the
atmosphere over a populated area. Before that could be allowed to happen, they
would destroy it.

           
That was exactly what Foch had in
mind as he opened the plastic-guarded safety cover on the command destruct
panel. Foch, Kaddiri, Masters, and the ground safety officers at the White
Sands range could command the ALARM booster to self-destruct at any time; now
that the booster was flying, Masters had very little authority over its
disposition—he could not override a “Destruct” command. “I told you this might
happen, Doctor Masters,” Foch said. “The booster was obviously shaken off
course by the strong, high- altitude winds, and it sustained some damage and
can’t correct its course enough.”

           
But Masters sat back and, to
everyone’s surprise, put his feet up on the control console. “Ten seconds to
second-stage burnout,” he said, sipping his soda. “Sit back, relax. It’ll stay
in the groove long enough.”

           
“The decision doesn’t rest with you
this time, Masters,” Foch fumed. “The command’ll come from White Sands or the
Air Force Space Tracking Center. White Sands will initiate the destruct
sequence. If their command doesn’t work, I initiate mine.”

           
“Well, well . . .” Masters laughed,
pointing to the computer monitor. Foch turned to look. “Second-stage burnout,
and Roosevelt-One is still on course.” They studied the readouts for a few more
moments. The booster, headed into a polar orbit over
Canada
, was picked up by Alaskan radar sites as it
continued its climb to its orbit altitude. Soon its orbital insertion would be
picked up by space-tracking radars at San Miguel Air Force Station in the
Philippines
, and the NIRTSats would begin their work.

           
After a while, Masters turned to
Foch with a smug expression. “Minor course corrections being made, but it’s
right on course. Expect third-stage ignition in four minutes.” He took another
big sip of soda, then punctuated his victory with a loud burp. “I’d get your
finger away from that destruct button if I were you, Colonel. The Navy wouldn’t
appreciate you blowing up a perfectly good booster.”