Rising through thickening clouds in the fading light, Discovery commenced the customary lazy roll on its back and then executed a graceful turn to the north. This signaled to the initiated that Discovery and her payload would be put in a highly inclined orbit relative to the equator. The most common trajectory from the Cape, one without the dogleg to the north, put a shuttle in an orbit perfect for launching military and commercial communication satellites into geosynchronous orbit over the earth’s equator at an altitude of 22,300 miles.
The less frequent northerly maneuver signaled a payload destined for low earth orbit, like the electro-optical and radar reconnaissance satellites used by the air force and the CIA to scour the earth’s surface for intelligence data. The final inclination would depend on the magnitude of the turn, and in this case, most observers agreed it was near the maximum permitted, allowing the widest coverage of Russian and Chinese territory by the super-secret payload.
One of the army of white-shirted operators leaned back in his chair like a proud father in the delivery room, grinning from ear to ear.
“Everything looks good, solid rocket-motor burn terminated at T plus one hundred and fifty-four seconds, normal separation, orbiter velocity is right on the money, main engines continuing to burn — looks like we’re going to have a nominal orbital insertion.”
“Well, General, satisfied?” asked the mission director, a look of disgust imprinted on his face.
Thomas, his arms defiantly folded across his chest, ignored the comment. “We’re not there yet; the main engines still have to burn for another five minutes.” The mission director scowled.
At approximately T plus eight minutes, the main engines shut down, propelling Discovery to a picture-perfect entrance into low earth orbit. The sausage-shaped external tank was blown free by explosive bolts and drifted toward earth and a fiery rendezvous within the atmosphere.
“That’s it,” grunted Thomas, a slight smile breaking through his gruff shell for the first time. “Thank you, gentlemen.” He scooped up his things and headed for the exit. Thomas had a plane to catch.
CHAPTER 4
The sleek air force C-21A Learjet touched down at Peterson Air Force Base east of Colorado Springs shortly after ten at night. Its silver fuselage glistened under powerful halogen lamps that lit the runway. In the distance, a dark blue sedan with air force markings idled patiently. Painted on a nearby hangar door was a ten-foot diameter emblem depicting the US Space Command logo. The pilot swung the executive jet from the taxiway, braking to a stop and shutting down the twin turbofan engines. Fifty feet away, a lone air force colonel in a wool overcoat and leather gloves stood rigidly, bathed in the glow from white flood lamps. While the ground crew hurriedly chalked the landing gear, the small cabin door swung open, and Thomas disembarked, raising his overcoat collar against the late-evening cold. The colonel came to life and saluted smartly as Thomas walked toward the waiting sedan.
“Good evening, sir,” he said to Thomas. “Welcome to Peterson. General Morgan is waiting at Space Command headquarters.” The frigid April air helped shake Thomas out of his flight-induced lethargy. He politely returned the greeting.
“I understand it went well,” the colonel said to Thomas as he slipped through the rear door. He looked askance at the Space Command staffer. The long flight from Florida had triggered a much needed reevaluation. Reservations had crept into Thomas’s thoughts.
The sedan pulled away from the hanger and proceeded across the base to the three-story, cinder block and glass building that served as headquarters for the US Space Command and its air force component, the AF Space Command. The driver turned into the wide, circular drive and halted next to the curb. He quickly jumped out, opening Thomas’s door.
The colonel slid from the front seat, standing and adjusting his combination cover. “Please follow me, sir,” he said to Thomas.
Inside the sliding glass doors, a drowsy air policeman leaned on the visitor-control countertop. He snapped to attention after spotting the galaxy of stars rapidly bearing down on his exposed flank. He dispensed with the customary ID check and promptly handed Thomas a visitor no-escort-required badge. Thomas hung the plastic pouch from his pocket as he started off after the colonel.
“General Morgan has been here since 0500,” the colonel said over his shoulder.
Air Force General Anthony Morgan had been Commander in Chief, US Space Command (USCINCSPACE) for over two years. As such, he was responsible for all US military space activities, including the launch and operation of all military satellites. Dual hatted as Commander in Chief, North American Aerospace Defense Command, his men and women manned NORAD’s Cheyenne Mountain complex, nerve center of the nation’s extensive early warning and space-tracking networks. Pundits tagged him as the next Chairman of the Joint Chiefs-space was a hot area these days. Thomas couldn’t argue the point. Morgan was politically connected and had punched all the right tickets.
The colonel escorted Thomas to an out-of-the-way conference room where Morgan was seated alone with a mug of coffee in hand, reading a stack of message traffic. He was a big man, who had lost his hair but not his contagious smile. Too many years of desk duty had added a slight paunch to his once-athletic frame. He stood as they entered, smiling broadly.
“Bob, good to see you,” he greeted, extending his beefy hand. He towered over his average-sized guest. “It’s been quite a while.”
“Good to see you, General,” Thomas replied, receiving a firm shake.
“How was your trip?” Morgan added.
“Fine, sir.” Thomas unbuttoned his blue overcoat and tossed it on the polished oak conference table. “We had a smooth flight.”
“Well, tell me, how’d it go?” asked Morgan, his tone more serious.
Thomas scowled. “We barely made it. Dealing with NASA is a real pain in the ass. We came within a whisker of scrubbing the mission. And the weather for tomorrow is rotten; a storm’s moving in. We could’ve blown the whole laser test.”
Morgan nodded in agreement. The air force detested depending on the on-again, off-again shuttle team. The habitual delays were getting more frequent and played havoc with critical launch schedules. If it were up to Morgan, he’d scrap the entire fleet of flying dinosaurs and put them out to pasture in NASA’s stable of fancy visitor centers with the rest of the early space-years relics.
“How about the reporters?” Morgan asked. “They were pestering me all week. I got the feeling they were damn close, especially that one from the Washington bureau of Aviation Week, a nosy bastard, I forget his name.”
“Don’t think so, sir,” replied Thomas, leaning against a side table. “Just the usual stuff, guessing the payload and the orbital parameters. The consensus seemed to be an operational test of a new radar satellite.”
“Good,” said Morgan. “Want coffee?”
“No, thanks,” said Thomas, holding up his hand. He planned to get some sleep.
The big man walked over to a Formica countertop separating the conference room from a small galley. He grabbed a dingy Pyrex pot and topped off his mug. The strong aroma quickly filled the room, sending a pleasurable jolt through Thomas. Morgan grew serious.