To catch my ride, I select the button for 70 meters (230 feet), and it’s a slow boat to China, as impatient as I am by now, my adrenaline going, my heart at a good clip. It would be nice if my fancy built-in gizmos did something to help out more than they are, and that unpleasantly reminds me of what Dick said about glitches.
I can expect them. Likely there will be problems no one has anticipated, and that reminds me of what Mr. Owl did to Ranger the PONG.
“Okay, it’s now or never, and I’m not talking to you, ART,” taking a deep breath, I walk off the elevator into an open area of scaffolding on the top of the world.
41
I PAUSE by the railing, taking in the view, looking the rocket up and down, moved close to tears by its enormity.
Only the tip of its nose and the lightning-protection masts are higher than I am right now, the flame trench and fuel tanks illuminated 23 stories below. The night is clear enough that I can make out Cocoa Beach’s string of lights, the ocean heaving and glinting, the surf lacy white on the dark shore.
“You can do this,” under my breath.
“I’m sorry,” ART in my ear. “What do you need me to do?”
“Wasn’t meant for you,” and off to my right is the walkway, a metal covered bridge, and I keep hearing my sister in my head.
Now or never . . . Now or never . . .
Big yellow chevrons painted on the mesh metal flooring point the opposite direction I’m going, offering an escape route for getting the hell-o out of Dodge in an emergency. The Yellow Brick Road (as it’s called) reminds astronauts which way to run as they make a mad dash for the zip line and its attached blaze-orange chair at the opening of the covered metal bridge I’m about to traverse.
A steel cable runs from here to the ground well beyond the pad, and from there you’re supposed to flee into a bunker, and good luck with all that while wearing a spacesuit, blue or otherwise. But if push came to shove, I wouldn’t hesitate. It’s not so different from the good ole days when Carme and I would streak through the air from the barn to the dock, and as a last resort I’d be on that zip line in a flash.
But it’s a choice I won’t have to make because it’s not possible in this situation. The PEQUOD and its attached MOBE are closed up inside the rocket’s clamshell fairing like a bug in a Venus flytrap. If there’s a fire or imminent explosion, I can’t be jettisoned to safely land the spaceplane like a glider on a runway.
Escaping on foot isn’t an option. I’d never make it back through the two hatches in time to try the zip line. And I guess that’s the price you pay for making sure no one sees that what we’re launching isn’t a weather satellite, it enters my mind as the metal bridge I’m crossing terminates in a set of saloon-type steel doors.
I push my way into the white room, a clean bright staging area that, like a surgical tent, encloses and protects the rocket’s open hatch. Stella has on her headset, swathed from head to toe in white like an awaiting angel.
“Hands on the wall and spread ’em,” she’s not being funny, and I do as I’m told.
She pulls off my disposable booties one at a time, a difficult task while standing up in a spacesuit, especially if you’re still getting used to it.
“I don’t want you tracking in dirt,” she informs me. “You don’t want to be breathing recycled particulates.”
“I certainly don’t.”
“You’re all set to crawl in, and I’ll be right behind you,” she means that literally, and I get down on my hands and knees.
The steel ramp she’s laid down like a plank connects the hatch in front of us to one on top of the PEQUOD. A port at the back of the spaceplane is attached to the MOBE, the entire vehicle bolted upright inside the fairing. As I inch along in my spacesuit, I’m aware of the drop-off on either side of me and wouldn’t want to lose my balance, toppling overboard.
I might not fall very far but there’s a good chance I’d get wedged between unforgiving metal structures that would severely damage my pride if nothing else. I might be stuck for hours and suffocate. For that matter, I don’t know how anyone would rescue me when it requires being this close to a fully fueled rocket.
Well, what I’m not going to do is die of embarrassment, I decide, and safely across, I shimmy through the second hatch into the glass cockpit of my Chase Plane. The avionics are up and running, a single carbon fiber seat liner facing multiple displays and fail-safe switches.
“Be careful not to bang your head,” Stella’s right behind me. “Use only the designated hand- and footholds to pull yourself in position,” and this is going to take some getting used to.
When I work in simulators, I’m usually sitting upright like a normal person. But inside a rocket, the orientation shifts 90 degrees. I’m standing on a wall, then crawling along the floor to climb into my seat, and it isn’t pretty.
“Grab that handhold overhead,” Stella says. “Do a pull-up and I’ll help lift your feet into position.”
I pull myself up, and it’s not easy in the spacesuit. Then I’m lying on my back with the control stick between my legs, my bright-blue space boots elevated above my head.
“I’m not being fresh,” Stella roots around for the crotch strap. “Here we go. Can you reach the lap belt on your side? I’ve got the one over here.”
“Here it is,” I slide the metal tongue into the buckle with a reassuring click.
“Crank it tight. Tighter than you think is needed or comfortable.”
“Got it,” I pull the belt tight.
“Tighter. You’ll thank me later.”
“Copy,” sucking in my gut, and ouch that’s snug.
“I can reach your shoulder straps . . . hang on . . . got both of them,” and she fastens them. “Now you need to really crank down on them, Calli. You’re gonna want them really snug . . .”
I tighten them some more.
“Let me help,” and she gives them quite the yank before connecting my oxygen hose to the port on my thigh.