quickly move aft to balance the plane. It took much longer for the booster to make its way aft, but it was finally wheeled into position in the chamber and the heavy steel hatch closed. Once in place, retractable clamps held the booster in place over the bomb-bay doors. “Roosevelt One in position, ” Kaddiri called out as she peered through the observation ports in the chamber. “Flight deck, confirm lateral and longitudinal trim.”
“Aircraft trim nominal, ” the flight engineer reported a few seconds later. “Standing by.”
“Roger. Confirm hatch closed and locked.” Masters checked the console readouts. “Launch-chamber hatch closed, locked, green lights on.”
“Engineer cross-check good, green lights on, ” the flight engineer reported after checking his readouts from the flight deck. Kaddiri reached into a green canvas bag slung over her shoulder into a portable oxygen pack and withdrew an oxygen mask, checked the hose and regulator, and then clicked the mask’s built-in wireless microphone on. Her assistants in the aft end of the DC-10 did the same; Masters and Foch had already donned their masks. “Oxygen On and Normal, ” she said. She got thumbs-up from her assistants after they checked their masks, then said, “Ready to depressurize launch chamber.” Masters got a thumbs-up from Foch, then replied, “Oxygen On and Normal at the control console.” He called up the cargosection pressurization readout and displayed it in big numerals on a monitor screen so both he and Foch could read them easily-two sets of eyes were always better than one. “Launch chamber depressurizing-now.” For all that cross-checking and preparation, it was quite unspectacular. In two minutes the launch chamber was depressurized and the cargo-bay pressure was stable. After monitoring it for another minute to check for slow leaks, Masters removed his mask and radioed, “Cargo-section pressure checks good, launch chamber fully depressurized, no leaks.” The computer would continue to monitor the cabin pressure and warn the crew of any changes. Masters and everyone else kept their masks dangling from their necks . . . just in case. “Data-link check.” Masters checked to be sure that the booster was still exchanging information with the launch computers. The check was all automatic, but it still took several long moments. Finally: “Data connection nominal. Two min utes to launch window.” Masters turned to Colonel Foch. “We need final range clearance, Colonel.” Foch was staring intently at one of the screens on the console, which was displaying atmospheric data relayed from the White Sands Missile Range headquarters through their extensive sensor network. “I show the winds at the maximum Q limits, Doctor Masters, ” he said. “We should abort.” “Roosevelt says he’s a go, ” Masters replied, ignoring the warning and checking the readouts again. “Let’s proceed.”Jon looked at Kaddiri as he hit the intercom button. “Helen?” She removed her oxygen mask as she walked back to the command console. “It’s pretty risky, Jon.”
“Helen, ‘pretty risky’ is not a ‘no.” Unless I hear a definite no, I’d say we proceed.” Foch cleared his throat. “Doctor, it seems to me you’re taking a big chance here.” He glanced at Kaddiri, expecting a bit more support from someone who obviously wasn’t sure of what Masters was doing, but he got nothing but a blank, noncommittal expression. “You’re wasting one of your boosters just to prove something. This isn’t a wartime scenario. “Colonel, this might not be a war we’re fighting, but to me it’s nothing less than an all-out battle, ” Masters said. “I have to prove to my customers, my stockholders, my board of directors, and to the rest of the country that the ALARM system can deliver its payload on time, on target.” He turned to Foch, and Kaddiri could see a very uncharacteristic hardness in Masters’ young face. “I programmed these boosters with reliability in mindreliability to deliver as promised, and reliability to do the mission in conditions such as this.” Foch leaned forward and spoke directly at Masters in a low voice. “You don’t have to tell me all this, Doctor. I know what you want. You get paid if this thing gets launched. My flight parameters insure both safety for ground personnel and reliability of the launch itself. Yours only covers the launch. My question is, do you really care what happens after that? I think you care more about your business than the results of this mission.” Masters glared at him. He whipped off his baseball cap and stabbed at Foch, punctuating each sentence: “Listen, Ralph, that’s my name on that booster, my name on those satellites, my name all over this project. If it doesn’t launch, I take the heat. If it doesn’t fly, I take the heat. If it doesn’t deliver four healthy satellites in their proper orbits, I take the heat. “Now you might think you know my contracts, Ralph. You’re right-I do get paid if Roosevelt-One is launched. I get paid if we bring it back without launching it, too. I’ve already gotten deposits for the next six launches, and I’ve already received progress payments for the next ten boosters. But you don’t know shit about my business, buddy. I’ve got a dozen ways to fail, and each one can put me out of business faster than you can take a pee. I do care about that. And still I say, we launch. Now if you have any objections, say it and we’ll abort. Otherwise issue range clearance, sit back, and watch the fireworks.” Helen Kaddiri was surprised. She’d never seen Jon so wound up. He was right about the pressure on him and the company-there were more than a dozen ways to fail. Friendly and unfriendly suitors were waiting to snap up the company. The aerospace sector had fared very poorly in the recent U.S. economic mini-recession, and it was worsened by the declining outlook on all defense-industry stocks with the advent of glasnost, perestroika, the opening of Eastern Europe, the unification of Germany. Sky Masters, Inc., had to indeed prove itself on each flight. But Jon Masters had always let the pressure roll off his back. He paid lip service to the concerns of his board of directors and partners, and treated military experts like Foch and scientists like Kaddiri as part of his road show. He listened only to those who agreed with him. Sometimes he seemed too busy having a good time to see the danger in what he was doing. Colonel Ralph Foch clearly was not having a good time. He turned away from Masters and checked the data readouts being transmitted to Masters’ launch aircraft from the White Sands Missile Test Range; the data was a collection of sensor readings, meteorological-balloon measurements, and satellite observations about conditions both in the atmosphere and in the region of space that the four NIRTSats would travel. Foch checked several screens of data with a checklist and binders of computer models devised for this launch, then compared the information with corrective actions being reported by Masters’ launch aircraft as well as the data from the ALARM booster itself. Since the launch was, in effect, the ALARM booster’s first stage, the rocket was already “flying” the mission-issuing corrections to the jet’s flight crew, updating its position, and continually plotting its new route of flight-while still within the cargo bay of the converted DC-10. “You’re right on the borderline, Doctor Masters, ” Foch finally said. “But you’re still within the safety margin. Pending final clearance from White Sands, you’re cleared to launch.” Foch swung his headset microphone in place and made the radio call to the missile-range headquarters, recommending clearance to launch. With airborne clearance received, the ground range safety headquarters made a last-minute sweep of the range, alerted Albuquerque Air Route Traffic Control Center to assist in keeping aircraft out of the area, then issued final range clearance. Masters grinned at Helen. “You’ve got the con, Helen.” He liked to use nautical terms like “con” although Masters had never been near a naval vessel. “Initiate launch sequence. “Crew stand by for launch sequence, ” Kaddiri sighed over interphone as Masters made his way aft with the two launch technicians. Kaddiri began to read off the fifty-one-item checklist steps, most of which were simply verifying that the computer was reporting the proper readings and was progressing smoothly, with no fault reports. The automatic countdown stopped on step 45, “Final Launch Clearance, Crew Notified, ” at T minus sixty seconds, where the computer initiated an automatic countdown hold and transferred control back to Kaddiri. “T minus sixty second hold, ” she announced. “Flight controls visually inspected and checked in manual mode.” Jon Masters liked to accomplish this last check himself instead of sitting up on the launch-control console-it was his last look at each missile before sending it out into the world, like a parent dressing the child before sending him off for the first time to kindergarten. Both launch officers and Masters checked the long, slender scissor wings and vertical and horizontal stabilizers on the tailplane. When they reported OK, Kaddiri activated the flight-control self-test system. The scissor wings swiveled out two feet until several inches of the wingtips were visible, and the rudder and stabilators on the tailplane jumped back and forth in a pre-programmed test sequence. “Self-test in progress, ” Masters called out. “X-wing to fifteen-degree position, left wingtip right. . . rudder right. rudder center . . . rudder left . . . left stab up . . . center . . . down . . . center . . . right stab up . . . center . down . . . center.” The test lasted only ten seconds. Kaddiri canceled the selftest, then manually set the booster to launch configuration. The wings swiveled back to lie along the top of the booster’s fuselage. “Verifying flight-control settings for launch, ” Masters called out. “X-wing centered. Rudder centered. Stabilators set to trailing-edge down position.” With the horizontal stabilizers in the trailing-edge down position, the nose of the ALARM booster would dive down and away from the DC-10 after launch, minimizing the risk of collision. “T minus sixty countdown hold checklist complete, ” Kaddiri reported. She checked the navigational readouts. “On course as directed by Roosevelt-One, time remaining in launch window one, six minutes fourteen seconds.” By then Jon Masters had walked up beside her and had taken his seat again, taking a big swig from a squeeze bottle. “Resume the countdown, ” Masters said, watching the TV monitors on the console. As he spoke, the pressure-secure bay doors on the lower fuselage snapped open, revealing a lightgray cloud deck a few thousand feet below. Other cameras mounted on the DC-10’s belly, tail, and wingtips showed the gaping forty-foot hatch wide open, with the ALARM booster suspended in the center of the dark rectangle. “Doors open. Thirty seconds to go. . Those thirty seconds seemed to take hours to pass. Masters
