was nothing she could do but lie back and hope that real life was more forgiving than a simulation.
Over the headset she heard Vance say, 'Control, this is Atlantis. Throttling up.'
'Roger, Atlantis. Throttle up.' jack stood with his gaze cast skyward, his heart in his throat, shuttle lifted into the sky. He heard the crackling of the solid boosters as they spewed out twin fountains of fire. The trail of exhaust climbed higher, sketched by the glinting pinpoint of the shuttle. All around him, the crowd burst out in applause. A launch, they all thought.
But Jack knew there were too many things that could still go wrong.
Suddenly he was frantic that he'd lost track of the seconds.
How much time had elapsed? Had they passed through Max Sentence? He shielded his eyes against the morning sunlight, straining to see Atlantis, but able to make out only the plume of exhaust.
Already the crowd had started to drift back to their cars.
He remained frozen, waiting in dread. He saw no terrible explosion. No black smoke. No nightmare.
Atlantis had safely escaped the earth and was now hurtling through space.
He felt tears trickle down his cheeks, but he didn't bother to wipe them away. He let them fall as he continued to gaze at the sky, at the dissipating trail of smoke that marked his wife's ascent into the heavens.
The Station
July 25.
Beatty, Nevada
Sullivan Obie awakened with a groan to the sound of the ringing telephone. His head felt as if cymbals were banging on it, and his mouth tasted like an old ashtray. He reached for the phone and accidentally knocked it off the cradle. The loud thud made him wince with pain. Aw, forget it, he thought, and turned away, burrowing his face into a nest of tangled hair.
A woman?
Squinting against the morning light, he confirmed that there was indeed a woman lying in bed with him. A blonde. Snoring. He closed his eyes, hoping that if he just went back to sleep, she be gone when he woke up again.
But he could not sleep now. Not with the voice yelling from the fallen receiver.
He fished around at the side of the bed and found the phone.
'What, Bridget?' he said. 'What?'
'Why aren't you here?' Bridget demanded.
''Cause I'm in bed.'
'It's ten-thirty! Hel-lo? Meeting with the new investors? I as well warn you, Casper is wavering between crucifixion and strangulation.' The investors. Shit.
Sullivan sat up and clutched his head, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
'Look, just leave the bimbo and get over here,' said Bridget.
'Casper's already walking them over to the hangar.'
'Ten minutes,' he said. He hung up and stumbled to his feet.
The bimbo didn't stir. He had no idea who she was, but he left her asleep in his bed, figuring he had nothing worth stealing, anyway.
There was no time to shower or shave. He tossed back three aspirins, chased them with a cup of nuked coffee, and roared off his Harley.
Bridget was waiting for him outside the hangar. She looked like a Bridget, sturdy and redheaded, with a bad temper to match.
Sometimes, unfortunately, stereotypes do ring true.
'They're about to leave,' she hissed. 'Get your butt in there.'
'Who are these guys again?'
'A Mr. Lucas and a Mr. Rashad. They represent a consortium of twelve investors. You blow this, Sully, and we're toast.' She paused, eyeing him in disgust. 'Ah, hell, we're already toast. Look at you. Couldn't you at least have shaved?'
'You want me to go back home? I can rent a tuxedo on the way.'
'Forget it.' She thrust a folded newspaper into his hand.
'What's this?'
'Casper wants it. Give it to him. Now get in there and convince 'em to write us a check. A big check.' Sighing, he stepped into the hangar.
After the harsh desert glare, the relative darkness was a comfort to his eyes. It took moment to spot the three men, standing by the black thermal barrier tiles of the orbiter Apogee II. The two visitors, both in suits, looked out of place among all the aircraft tools and equipment.
'Good morning, gentlemen!' he called. 'Sorry I'm late, but I got hung up on a conference call. You know how things can drag on ... ' He glimpsed Casper Mulholland's warning look of Don't push it, asshole and swallowed hard. 'I'm Sullivan Obie,' he said.
'Mr. Mulholland's partner.'
'Mr. Obie knows every nut and bolt of this RLV,' said Casper.
'He used to work with the old master himself, Bob Truax out in California. In fact, he can explain the system better than I can. Around here, we call him our Obie-Wan.' The two visitors merely blinked.
It was not a good sign when the universal language of Star Wars failed to elicit a smile.
Sullivan shook hands, first with Lucas, then with Rashad, grinning broadly even as his hopes sank. Even as he felt a surge resentment toward these two well-dressed gentlemen whose money he and Casper so desperately needed. Apogee Engineering, their baby, the dream they had nurtured for the past thirteen years, about to go under, and only a fresh infusion of cash, from a new of investors, could save it. He and Casper had to make the sales pitch of their lives. If it didn't work, they might as well pack their tools and sell off the orbiter as a carnival ride.
With a flourish, Sullivan waved his arm at Apogee II, which looked less like a rocket plane and more like a fat fireplug with windows.
'I know she may not look like much,' he said, 'but what we've built here is the most cost-effective and practical reusable launch vehicle now in existence. She uses an assisted SSTO launch system. After vertical takeoff, upon climbing to twelve kilometers, pressurefed rockets accelerate the vehicle to a Mach four staging point at low-dynamic pressures. This orbiter is fully reusable, and weighs only eight and a half tons. It fulfills the principles we believe are the future of commercial space travel. Smaller. Faster. Cheaper.'
'What sort of lift engine do you use?' asked Rashad.
'Rybinsk RD-38 air-breathing engines imported from Russia.'
'Why Russian?'
'Because, Mr. Rashad -- between you, me, and the wall -- the Russians know more about rocketry than anyone else on earth. They've developed dozens of liquid-fueled rocket motors, using advanced materials which can operate at higher pressures. Our country, I'm sorry to say, has developed only one new liquid-fueled rocket motor since Apollo. This is now an international industry. We believe in choosing the best components for our product -- wherever those components may come from.'
'And how does this ... thing land?' asked Mr. Lucas, dubiously at the fireplug orbiter.
'Well, that's the beauty of Apogee II. As you'll notice, she has no wings. She doesn't need a runway. Instead she drops straight down, using parachutes to slow her descent and air bags to cushion touchdown. She can land anywhere, even in the ocean. Again, we have to tip our hats to the Russians, because we've borrowed features from their old Soyuz capsule. It was their reliable for decades.'
'You like that old Russki technology, huh?' said Lucas.
Sullivan stiffened. 'I like technology that works. Say what you want about the Russians, they knew what they were doing.'
'So what you have here,' said Lucas, 'is something of a hybrid. Soyuz mixed in with space shuttle.'
