Modest enough ambition; and from cursory inspection of problem, odds slightly encouraging, given precautions now in works: Shall encase completed volume inside one EMU; place that inside another, stick that inside third. With thermostats turned down all the way, triple insulation should keep paper below magic 451-degree mark.
And EMU sandwich better protect volume; because if gets anywhere near that hot, as probably will, record inherits sole responsibility for passing on warning — Your Obedient Servant will have been parboiled in own juices long since.
(Don’t like to think about that part — but important thing is this record must reach Teacher…!)
Suspect am rambling. Partially deliberate, partially self-indulgent: First, good therapy — trying to reestablish semblance of control over writing hand; reduce shaking to point where penmanship legible to someone besides own (probably, by then, dearly departed) self. And does seem to be working. Somewhat. Spastic scribbles clearing up perceptibly as necessary concentration on task blanks out distraction of surroundings, past horrific events, future possibly worse ones; pothooks starting to look purposeful again.
Self-indulgence therapeutic, too, Fair idea how much time remains before fate determined. Need to keep psyche occupied between now, then. Sure to lose control otherwise. And last thing need up here is screaming, arm-flapping, hysterical crazy. Particularly when crazy is self.
Okay, shaking under control now. Mostly. On with show:
Wakened at 3:30 A. M., morning of launch, by Gayle, obviously trying not to cry. Felt sorry for her; pretended not to notice, engaged her in idle conversation, avoiding The Subject. Took advantage of opportunity for final luxurious hot shower — with Nathan Hale stripped of amenities, would be last opportunity. Very last…
Pushed bleak awareness of impending doom into remote corner of mind; sternly told stay there, shut up; went to breakfast/farewell party. Harris Gilbert, Mission Commander, and Kyril Svetlanov, Russian bomb expert, both there already, together with everyone who could be spared from countdown duties.
My breakfast consisted of medium-rare filet; fluffy scrambled eggs on toast; pancakes with maple syrup; orange juice, milk; huge slab of rich, moist chocolate cake with thick, dark, almost-bitter chocolate icing. Wonderful…!
Not exactly USDA-recommended breakfast menu for 11-year-old girl, granted. But weight-saving considerations precluded taking much in way of food on mission; big last meal important — plus was, symbolically at least, Last Meal in other sense as well, so damn well ate what I wanted.
(Curiously, knowledge of approaching death affects appetite only during first couple days after notification; loses effect thereafter. Had no difficulty stuffing face to repletion.)
But then came farewells from those able to attend. That was difficult. Teacher, emotions under most tenuous control, made short speech; expressed gratitude of entire hominem community; assured us would not be forgotten. He shook men’s hands, embraced briefly. Then hugged me long, hard, our tears mingling; kissed lips gently — left room abruptly.
Others lined up along route to launch complex. Got hugged, cried on en passant by people hadn’t even met yet. Finally found ourselves strapped to seats atop Nathan Hale, beginning crew-participation phase of countdown.
All three wore spacesuits (very latest models; theoretically Van-Allen-radiation-proof [as if mattered!]) to preclude pressure drop imperiling mission — this was one shuttle flight that had to continue, regardless what minor glitches might arise.
Both men wore standard-issue EMUs. But mine product of heroic postproduction reengineering of smallest available size: Had to fit through 9-by-14 detonator access hatch inside bomb, plus still leave room for own four-foot-ten-inch frame. And does. Just.
Rigid aluminum upper-torso frame on which shoulder constant-velocity joints mount leaves precious little room for secondary sexual characteristics. But fortunately (narrowly circumstance-limited usage!) am not stunning example of physically precocious 11-year-old girl; assets compressed, but not uncomfortably so. Likewise with hip/fanny development: Were another half-inch of me, doubt could stuff into corresponding lower-torso/hips CV-joint attachment frame.
My portable life-support-system package not physically mounted on suit’s back as with other two’s suits, and as have been since shuttles’ introduction. AA engineers debated whether easier, more reliable, to reconfigure PLSS components into 8.5 by 13.5 package or detach from suit, couple with lines long enough to allow me to reach detonator while PLSS remains outside; settled on latter.
Helmet solution classic example of back-alley mechanics’ triumph over engineering sophistication: Excised broad strip from spherical one-piece Lexan bubble; rejoined edges by drilling bunch of tiny holes along edges, slipping edges into slots in narrow, bent-H-shaped strap fashioned from titanium. Tightening myriad small bolts compresses H’s legs together, forcing gaskets against Lexan, forming strong joint, positive seal. Resultant helmet normal size laterally; much shallower fore-and-aft: With occipital hair firmly pressed against rear, nose has about one inch clearance at front. Don’t know how they regained circular shape at neck for attachment to upper-torso sealing ring, but did.
Waist sealing ring, on other hand, doesn’t even pretend to be round. Sealing involves assembling, tightening bunches of bolts, washers, wing-nuts; compressing ring halves together. Lots more complicated than other suits.
Well, launch proved every bit as thrilling as advertised. Countdown smooth, no Holds; managed to perform own assignments without irreversible error…
And then LCD clock was flashing last few seconds:
“…main engine start,” I puffed, restrained from bouncing up and down in chair by harness; “…two, one, zero…!”
Half wondered, during training, whether concentration on rapid-fire copilot duties might keep me too busy to experience, enjoy excitement of launch. But not to worry — missed nothing: Adrenaline surged through veins; palms grew damp, breath rapid; heartbeat pounded inside skull until drowned out by wondrous, swelling, all-encompassing roar which took form, grew until pervaded entire universe, seemingly unto my very bones.
And then: “…solid booster ignition — LIFT-OFF…!” I shouted, voice cracking with excitement.
And we did — though disgraced myself by squealing, “Wow…! Wow…! We’re boldly going…!” as gee forces drove me back into seat cushions.
Momentarily wished Terry could be here; would love rush, acceleration, sensation of power throbbing in very air — could almost feel baby brother’s toenails gripping shoulder as bobbed head, yelled approval.
Caught briefest glimpse of Harris’s private superior smile before voice of Ground Control dragged attention back to task at hand: “Nathan Hale, you’re clear of tower. All engines look good.”
“Roger,” I replied, trying to sound as if did this sort of thing every day (not easy while in throes of ultimate fantasy-gratification); “instituting roll.”
My instruments, CRTs, etc., continued to show optimum readings as we reached, exceeded Mach One. Control announced computer-instituted main engine throttle-back (earlier, deeper than usual, due to combination of doubled SRB thrust and to need protect now-vulnerable, easily melted aluminum skin) — redundantly, far as I was concerned: Reduction in gees quite perceptible.
Max-Q arrived on schedule; engines throttled up to 100 percent; I informed Control. SRB separation came about one minute later; gee forces abated slightly. But a few minutes thereafter computer again throttled back main engines to avoid exceeding three gees as fuel load lightened.