operation in New Mexico, where all the other launches had taken place.
“Dammitall,” he had exploded more than once, “this is a NASA operation, not some tourist excursion. We’re going to launch the crew from the Kennedy Complex.”
The objections were many and intense, including those of the governor of New Mexico and both that state’s senators. The commercial interests that were building their business on space industry and space tourism were apoplectic at the decision.
But Saxby fought all the way to the White House, and after some hard bargaining, President Harper had finally agreed with his NASA chief. The final launch—the big one—would be from the Cape.
Saxby should have felt triumphant, but as he watched the elevator carry the eight crew members to the top of the booster, he found himself worrying.
Every ground launch has been fine—so far, he thought. What if this one goes sour? We’re using exactly the same booster as all the other launches, but what if this one fails? What if we kill those eight people?
He felt a burning pain in his chest. Ignore it, he told himself. You can’t have a heart attack; not here, not now. Tomorrow you can drop dead if you have to. But today you’ve got to see those eight kids safely into their vessel.
Treadway felt a pang in his chest, too, as he stood on the launch platform, forlornly watching the elevator cab take the crew up to their module atop the booster.
He took a deep breath, then turned to face the camera standing a few feet away. “This is as far as I go, physically. But I’ll be with the Mars crew every inch of the way, in three-dimensional virtual reality.”
Craning his neck at the booster’s upper stage, he continued, “For now, though, all I can do is the same as what you millions of viewers are doing: wish those eight brave men and women good luck and godspeed on humankind’s first mission to Mars.”
For the first time since he’d been a child, Treadway felt tears trickling down his cheeks.
April 4, 2035
Earth Departure Minus One Day
18:27 Universal Time
Kennedy Space Flight Center
Rocket launches are always emotional experiences. No matter how many launches a person witnesses, those last few minutes of countdown get to you. Your heart seems to beat in synchrony with the ticking of the countdown clock.
Bart Saxby was perspiring in the afternoon heat as he stood in the top row of the VIP stands, sandwiched between Florida’s senior senator and the White House’s chief of staff, Sarah Fleming. The president had wanted to attend this launch, but a sudden crisis in India forced him to remain in Washington.
Several rows lower, Vicki Connover and her fourteen-year-old son, Thad, were on their feet with everyone else. Thad had his fists clenched, his face set in a grim scowl.
He looks so much like his father, Vicki thought as she struggled to keep from crying.
“THIRTY SECONDS AND COUNTING,” announced the loudspeakers.
Everyone seemed to hold their breath. Out on the launch platform the rocket booster stood tall and alone, waiting, waiting.
“FIVE . . . FOUR . . . THREE . . . TWO . . . ONE . . .”
Flame burst from the rocket’s base, engulfed in a heartbeat by billows of steam, all in utter silence. The launch stand was more than a mile away and no one in the stands made a sound.
The booster rose in elegant grace, breaking clear of the bonds of Earth, lifting into the cloudy sky.
“LIFTOFF! WE HAVE LIFTOFF!”
And then the roar of the rocket engines washed over the visitors’ stands, wave after wave of thunder, shaking the world, rattling the bones, gushing the breath out of the watchers’ lungs.
Vicki burst into tears, whether of joy or fear or desperate longing she didn’t know. Through blurred eyes she saw her son, tall, lean, so very young: he was crying, too.
Bart Saxby kept his eyes dry, barely. The searing pain in his chest eased as he craned his neck to watch the booster tracing an arching line across the
“Dammitall,” he had exploded more than once, “this is a NASA operation, not some tourist excursion. We’re going to launch the crew from the Kennedy Complex.”
The objections were many and intense, including those of the governor of New Mexico and both that state’s senators. The commercial interests that were building their business on space industry and space tourism were apoplectic at the decision.
But Saxby fought all the way to the White House, and after some hard bargaining, President Harper had finally agreed with his NASA chief. The final launch—the big one—would be from the Cape.
Saxby should have felt triumphant, but as he watched the elevator carry the eight crew members to the top of the booster, he found himself worrying.
Every ground launch has been fine—so far, he thought. What if this one goes sour? We’re using exactly the same booster as all the other launches, but what if this one fails? What if we kill those eight people?
He felt a burning pain in his chest. Ignore it, he told himself. You can’t have a heart attack; not here, not now. Tomorrow you can drop dead if you have to. But today you’ve got to see those eight kids safely into their vessel.
Treadway felt a pang in his chest, too, as he stood on the launch platform, forlornly watching the elevator cab take the crew up to their module atop the booster.
He took a deep breath, then turned to face the camera standing a few feet away. “This is as far as I go, physically. But I’ll be with the Mars crew every inch of the way, in three-dimensional virtual reality.”
Craning his neck at the booster’s upper stage, he continued, “For now, though, all I can do is the same as what you millions of viewers are doing: wish those eight brave men and women good luck and godspeed on humankind’s first mission to Mars.”
For the first time since he’d been a child, Treadway felt tears trickling down his cheeks.
April 4, 2035
Earth Departure Minus One Day
18:27 Universal Time
Kennedy Space Flight Center
Rocket launches are always emotional experiences. No matter how many launches a person witnesses, those last few minutes of countdown get to you. Your heart seems to beat in synchrony with the ticking of the countdown clock.
Bart Saxby was perspiring in the afternoon heat as he stood in the top row of the VIP stands, sandwiched between Florida’s senior senator and the White House’s chief of staff, Sarah Fleming. The president had wanted to attend this launch, but a sudden crisis in India forced him to remain in Washington.
Several rows lower, Vicki Connover and her fourteen-year-old son, Thad, were on their feet with everyone else. Thad had his fists clenched, his face set in a grim scowl.
He looks so much like his father, Vicki thought as she struggled to keep from crying.
“THIRTY SECONDS AND COUNTING,” announced the loudspeakers.
Everyone seemed to hold their breath. Out on the launch platform the rocket booster stood tall and alone, waiting, waiting.
“FIVE . . . FOUR . . . THREE . . . TWO . . . ONE . . .”
Flame burst from the rocket’s base, engulfed in a heartbeat by billows of steam, all in utter silence. The launch stand was more than a mile away and no one in the stands made a sound.
The booster rose in elegant grace, breaking clear of the bonds of Earth, lifting into the cloudy sky.
“LIFTOFF! WE HAVE LIFTOFF!”
And then the roar of the rocket engines washed over the visitors’ stands, wave after wave of thunder, shaking the world, rattling the bones, gushing the breath out of the watchers’ lungs.
Vicki burst into tears, whether of joy or fear or desperate longing she didn’t know. Through blurred eyes she saw her son, tall, lean, so very young: he was crying, too.
Bart Saxby kept his eyes dry, barely. The searing pain in his chest eased as he craned his neck to watch the booster tracing an arching line across the
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