“Looks like you got it down,” Jones commented.
“Sure hope so. Once we’re in Lightning, if I fuck up the approach I won’t be able to correct with power.”
“Well, so far so good. Runway’s five miles straight ahead. Nine thousand at two-one-five knots. Looking good.”
Kessler nodded then said into the mike, “X-ray Six Eight, STA inbound for 33. Five mile final.”
“STA, X-ray Six Eight, you’re cleared for a straight-in approach Runaway 33. Winds zero four zero at eight. Altimeter two-niner-niner-seven.”
Kessler read back the instructions as the runway grew in the distance.
“Four miles, six thousand feet, holding at two-one-five knots. Not bad for a Navy boy,” Jones said.
Kessler grinned. “Just getting warmed up.”
Kessler’s left hand lightly held the control stick. His fine adjustments in heading and speed kept the Gulfstream on the specified, and also quite steep, glide path.
“One mile, two thousand feet,” Jones said.
Kessler pulled back lightly on the stick. Airspeed decreased to 190 knots.
“Fifteen hundred feet, half mile.”
Kessler lowered the nose landing gear while keeping the speed glued to 190 knots.
The trainer approached the end of the runway. The light crosswind pushed the STA toward the grass to the left of the runway. Kessler nudged the stick to the right. At the same time, he pressed the left rudder pedal to compensate for the crosswind. That had the effect of tilting the wings by a few degrees, giving the impression that the jet was turning into the wind. Kessler let it turn a few degrees before the left rudder forced the Gulfstream in a straight path, bringing the nose in line with the approaching center of the runway and holding it there.
“A little low, Buddy,” Jones said. “Pull up.”
Kessler calmly adjusted the control stick toward him. He eyed the attitude indicator. Twenty-three degrees… twenty-one… twenty. He then checked the altimeter. Two hundred feet. The runway came up to meet him as the jet gracefully glided over the patch of grass at the end of the tarmac. With his concentration now at a climax, Kessler kept his eyes fixed on the center line and continued to make final adjustments.
“Twenty feet… ten feet… five… three… touchdown.”
Kessler felt a slight vibration as the rear wheels came in contact with the runway. He held the stick back and let the nose drop by itself as the airspeed decreased below one hundred knots.
“STA, taxi to the ramp.”
“Roger.”
“Had enough of this?” asked Jones.
Kessler exhaled. “Yep.”
“Good. I’m starving.”
Kessler rolled his eyes. “I guess you have a piece of red meat in mind, huh?”
“Not just any red meat, partner. Sixteen-ounce rib eye medium rare. There’s no substitute.”
That drew a laugh from Kessler. “Whatever you say, pal. It’s your body you’re polluting with all that cholesterol and nicotine.” Jones was also a light smoker.
“And what a happy body it is.”
Kessler shook his head. “Fine. I guess rib eyes it is.”
Jones nodded and headed aft. Kessler smiled. Jones was a true Texan.
Five minutes later they were in the Astrovan and headed for the briefing room. With a press conference scheduled for the day before the launch, NASA administrators wanted to ensure that both astronauts were prepared to respond to questions from reporters.
On the way, the astronauts sat in silence. Through the tinted windows Kessler stared at the octagonally shaped launchpad, which covered roughly a quarter of a square mile.
The actual launchpad section had two major components. The fixed service structure, located on the west side of the hardstand where the space shuttle assembly rested, consisted of an impressive 247-foot-tall tower with connecting arms to the orbiter crew hatch. The rotating service structure pivoted one-third of a circle, from a retracted position well away from the shuttle to the point where its payload change-out room doors met and matched with Lightning’s payload bay doors. Besides being useful for installation and service of the payload, the rotating structure also supported the weather-protection system that shielded Lightning from rain and hail while on the pad.
Kessler inhaled deeply and shifted his gaze toward the beach. The sea. Kessler sighed as he stared at the vivid blue hue that outlined the coast. His thoughts drifted to his years with the Navy, Kessler’s family and home for most of his life. Memories of fellow pilots flashed through his mind: the friendships, the laughter… the supersonic nightmares. Kessler knew they would always be with him filling a special chamber of his soul. He knew he belonged to a special breed: naval aviators. Not Air Force pilots. Navy pilots. Aviators for whom the end of a mission came only after jockeying a thirty-ton jet going two hundred knots onto the heaving flight deck of a carrier. No room for mistakes. No room for exhausted pilots, he thought.
From the day he got his private pilot’s license at seventeen, Kessler had decided to make a career out of flying. Going against his father’s wishes that he become an electrical engineer, Kessler earned an aeronautical engineering degree from Florida Tech while continuing to log hours as a flight instructor. Upon graduation, he applied and was admitted to Primary Flight School (PriFly) at Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida, followed by more training at NAS Corpus Christi in Texas. Then he continued to Advanced Flight Training (AFT) at NAS Kingsville, also in Texas, for fighter training. There, he quickly distinguished himself from the rest of his classmates with his aggressive style of flying.
Kessler never flew slow if he could fly fast. Nobody would ever catch him going for a shallow turn or climb. He always pushed; always took his aircraft to the outer limits of the manufacturer’s specifications. He had a simple logic: Either I push my jet and win the dogfight or the enemy will. If I bank at forty-five degrees and the enemy banks at sixty, I’ll lose. If I fly one-point-five Mach and the enemy flies Mach two, I’ll lose. Kessler knew only two kinds of pilots: “the quick” and “the dead.” Throughout his career he fought hard to make sure he was always “the quick.” His engineering degree gave him knowledge of aerodynamics that enabled him to comprehend the manufacturer’s specifications better than any of his classmates. He knew about so-called safety margins in aircraft designs, like how much additional stress an air surface could really take beyond a specified number of Gs without sustaining structural damage. That allowed Kessler to “safely” push his jet for maximum performance, gaining an edge over his classmates.
After graduation, Lieutenant Kessler got the commission of his dreams: flying F-14 Tomcats from the carrier U.S.S. Constitution, where it didn’t take him long to earn the respect of his fellow pilots during Operation Desert Storm. He shot down two Iraqi MiG-23s using guns and a single Sidewinder a few months after his arrival, during a time when everyone still considered him a “newcomer.” That episode plus several others during his years with the Navy gave him a national visibility that led NASA to recruit him later on.
NASA. Kessler glanced over his left shoulder at the Solid Rocket Booster refurbishment and subassembly facility as the Astrovan continued down Kennedy Parkway North on its way to the KSC’s Industrial Area. The facility could turn SRBs around in under six months from the time of recovery 140 miles off the eastern coast of Florida to the time of integration with an External Tank and an orbiter.