A beam of light plays across the White Room’s ceiling. The torch is held by Sam ‘the Walrus’ Schulman, leader of the Closeout Crew, the guy who runs the White Room. Sam does look like a walrus, though it’s not his weight that draws the comparison so much as the jowls and grey, drooping mustache.
Sam speaks into his headset’s microphone but can’t raise anyone in the Launch Control Center. Not surprising. The communications relay is powered off the pad and the pad has no power. Sam pulls his headset to his neck and pushes a walkie-talkie to his ear. The subsequent conversation with Launch Control is short and sweet because they don’t know what the problem is either.
Judd realises they could be in for a long night. All power and communications run from the Launch Complex to the Launch Control Center five and a half kilometres away along a series of conduits buried deep underground. If the problem is in one of those conduits they could be waiting here for hours doing sweet FA, then be back tomorrow. On the other hand, if the glitch is localised in the new Firing Room they might be able to locate the problem quickly and get on with it.
‘What’s going on?’ Rhonda’s frustrated voice echoes out of the shuttle’s flight deck, swirls through the open hatch and thumps into the White Room. Inside Atlantis, she’s already strapped in, as are Martie and Dean Steinhower, the second mission specialist. ‘I haven’t even got comms. Sam?’
‘Travelling.’ Sam starts towards the shuttle’s open hatch to update her. He kneels, crawls through the hatch’s narrow circular aperture, head ducked, arse high. Not a dignified look. That’s why the media were never allowed to photograph astronauts doing it. On the pad the White Room covered it and on the runway the Egress Vehicle did the same.
‘It’s getting stuffy in here.’ Rick says it to no one in particular. ‘I’m going to step outside, take a breath.’
Poor old Rick, a world without air-conditioning is a world he can’t tolerate. Judd rolls his eyes. God forbid an emergency forced him to land a shuttle somewhere unseasonable.
Judd pulls down a folding seat attached to the wall and takes a load off. He sits with a sigh that says he has better things to do than wait around. The frustration is, in fact, all studied. Truth is, he likes being here because it means he’s close to the action.
Severson sits on the riser at the front of Firing Room Four in the heart of the Launch Control Center, stares at the monitor in front of him and tries his best to look cool. It’s not working.
He should know how to fix this problem, he’s in charge, after all, but he doesn’t have a clue. The screen in the console gives him nothing, no information about the state of the shuttle or its myriad systems. All power, video and communication with the spacecraft have been cut off, bar Sam’s walkie-talkie.
Severson stands and looks out the two-storey-high windows to the right, tries to appear thoughtful, like he’s working on a solution. Out the towering window he should see the shuttle lit up like Broadway. Instead it appears like an apparition, a ghostly outline courtesy of the pad’s emergency lights.
‘Shit a brick.’ He says it then instinctively checks that the switch on the comms box at his hip, which is attached to his headset and its microphone, is off. It is. ‘Hurry up, you fools.’ The ‘fools’ in question are Jake Asprey and his band of techno-dorks one floor down in the Shuttle Data Center. They’re responsible for transferring information from the shuttle to this Firing Room and are currently searching for a solution. Severson’s sure they’re to blame for this foul-up.
‘Come on, pricks!’ He doesn’t check his comms box this time. He knows it’s off.
Every operator on the floor turns and looks at him. He realises he’s been flicking the comms box switch on and off, a nervous habit, and spoke while his headset’s microphone was momentarily live. He ignores the staring operators, doesn’t let on that he said anything, or that he’s anything but cool.
Severson knows he isn’t as smart as people think he is but he also knows how to work the system and, crucially, he’s blessed with an abundance of charisma. So he has used those abilities to rise through the ranks to become a shuttle pilot and then a launch director. Who knew where it’d end? This was America and he’d been an astronaut. America loved astronauts. Loved them. He could run NASA someday and then what, public office? The world was his oyster. He just has to make sure he’s perfect every step of the way, or, more accurately, he has to make sure he’s seen to be perfect every step of the way. He has to look cool, and make sure his secret never goes public.
Severson flicks the switch on his comms box. ‘Jake, it’s the launch director. How’s it going down there?’
A voice buzzes in his headset. ‘Still working it.’
‘What’s the time frame?’
‘We’ll get back to you.’
What Severson wants to say is: ‘Hurry up, dickhead! You’re making me look bad!’ What he actually says is: ‘Sooner rather than later, please.’ He knows it won’t go down as one of history’s great inspirational radio communiqués, but he also knows that losing his temper never looks cool.
‘Turn the lights back on but don’t show them video yet.’
The words are distant and soft, like they’re tumbling down a long tunnel coated with molasses. Tam finds it relaxing, soothing. His eyes flutter closed and his head nods forward…
‘Tam, Gerald! Do you read?’ The voice again. Louder. Insistent. Familiar. Henri.
Tam’s eyes blink open and his unbitten hand moves across the keyboard, types two letters.
O N
The White Room’s lights blink on.
‘We’re back.’ Judd can hear Severson’s relieved voice over his headset. ‘We don’t have video yet but let’s continue as planned.’
Sam speaks into his headset’s microphone: ‘Roger that.’ He turns to the others. ‘Okay, we haven’t got all night. Let’s get ‘em on board.’ Speaking into the mic again, he says: ‘Rick, we need you back here now.’
There’s no response. Sam breathes out, shakes his head, mumbles something that begins with ‘f’, tries again. ‘Rick? You there?’
No response. He turns to Judd. ‘Find him, please.’
Judd nods and steps through the White Room’s door onto the crew access arm. Judd’s never been a huge fan of 48-year-old Rick Calvin. When he moved to Houston after recruitment, the New Jersey native adopted a southern twang and came over all evangelical to curry favour with a couple of influential people within the program’s hierarchy who leaned that way, faith-wise. It wasn’t so much the shameless act of stunt religiosity that annoyed Judd, but that the strategy had worked so brilliantly. This was Rick’s third flight aboard the shuttle.
‘Come on, Rick, time to work.’
He’s not there. The narrow crew access arm is dark and empty. At the far end, where it connects to the Fixed Service Structure, a shadow moves. Annoyed, Judd pads down the access arm, which is covered overhead but open on both sides from waist height. ‘Tell me, Rick, is your religion the one where Jesus and the Devil are brothers? Or is it the one where everyone used to ride dinosaurs to church?’
There’s no answer.
‘Rick, where are you, buddy?’ Judd turns the corner towards the elevator. It’s open and Rick stands in front of it, right hand covering the left side of his chest like he’s pledging allegiance to the flag. ‘Be — be — be — ‘
Judd stares at him. ‘What are you doing, man?’ Then he sees blood smeared under Rick’s right hand. ‘What the hell —?’