Red Hammer 1994

The countdown for the shuttle Discovery had been stopped on five separate occasions since first light. As the fading Florida sun coasted toward the horizon, the launch window was slamming shut. The odds now favored that the super-secret mission would be scrubbed. NASA was pushing for a reschedule to early morning, but Space Command was fighting them tooth and nail. Then there was the threatening warm front moving rapidly north from the eastern Caribbean, driven by powerful gale-force winds. Stringy clouds streaked with black were already drifting over Launch Complex 39, casting long shadows over the two imposing support towers and the massive shuttle resting quietly on pad 39A. The only signs of life were wisps of condensed gases vented from the liquid-hydrogen and liquid-oxygen fuel tanks. To further muck up the works, upper atmospheric winds had increased by over five knots in the last two hours, yet another abort criteria according to the NASA liturgy.

“What’s the holdup?” Thomas barked as he stepped into their private conversation. “If there’s a problem, it had better be a showstopper, not some third-order backup system for flushing the toilet.”

The mission director, a tall, walking skeleton, turned purple with rage. He was at the end of his rope.

“General Thomas, we’re working on the flight computer software problem as fast as we can,” he pleaded, both flustered and mad. “Get off our backs,” he added, his voice rising in intensity. His comrades raised their eyebrows in unison at their leader’s unexpected boldness. They correctly predicted disaster and stepped aside, giving the general elbow room, more than happy to throw their hapless companion to the wolves. Thomas planted himself six inches from the mission director’s hawk like nose, staring hard and scowling.

The director became unnerved, backpedaling with Thomas in pursuit. He held his hands up chest high in a gesture of surrender. His voice ratcheted up in pitch.

“The software has been reloaded, and the validation algorithms are being run as we speak. We can’t go any faster,” he offered apologetically. “We have to follow procedures, or I can’t recommend a launch.”

Thomas was unimpressed and moved in for the kill. “If Discovery doesn’t go in the next forty-five minutes, I’m going to have your ass. And stop that ‘we’ crap. The decision is yours and yours alone.” A furious Thomas stomped off. The thin NASA man started to almost dance. “What the hell are they putting up there, anyway? Why hasn’t anyone said anything? I’ve never seen a mission like this!” he said to his friends. The mission director sulked off, disgusted with anyone in a uniform.

Thomas glanced at the clock and shook his head. They couldn’t make it, not now. Time was rapidly slipping through their hands. An adjacent wall-mounted video monitor showed Discovery stuck on the launch pad, with a small digital clock in the lower corner frozen at T minus twelve minutes.

This particular shuttle mission had aroused unbelievable curiosity and attention both at Kennedy and in the press. Security had been the tightest in recent years. A week-old canned press release mentioned a “scientific mission,” but most observers were savvy enough to sense it was an important military payload. Speculation ranged from a new communications or reconnaissance bird to a prototype wide-area surveillance radar satellite developed by DARPA, the DOD research and development folks.

At a computer console, one of the launch operators queried the shuttle-health monitoring system and then flashed a relieved smile. “The flight software checks out OK,” he reported proudly, straightening in his chair.

The mission director was a changed man. His face returned to its normal pasty tone. He exuded a muffled sigh to signal his release from bondage. “Resume the countdown at T minus twelve minutes.”

From that moment, events went without a hitch. The launch of Discovery was picture perfect. At T minus zero, the shuttle’s three main engines roared to life. Powered by liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen stored in the huge orange cylindrical external tank attached to the belly of the shuttle, they were throttled to full power prior to liftoff. Despite producing over one million pounds of thrust, Discovery squatted, clamped to the pad, giving the flight engineers precious seconds to monitor the engines for proper performance. The shuttle’s hydraulic system gimbaled the huge engines in a rote pattern and then quickly returned them to their nominal position. It took less than three seconds.