Back to the Moon by Homer Hickam Page B

knees to close the hatch. Just as he clamped it down, the solids let go. A combined total of five and a half million pounds of thrust kicked the
Columbia
stack off the pad. In a crashing thunder of fire and smoke it all began to rise, not slowly like the lumbering giants of the
Saturn-Apollo
era, but like a white-hot arrow unleashed from a huge bow.
Columbia
leapt for the sky, the jackrabbit of all manned spacecraft, her solid rocket boosters screaming, her main engines erupting in licking thunder. Virgil went howling onto his stomach. Jack was pressed against the middeck firewall. The massive g-forces felt like an elephant standing on his chest.
    NW Florida
    The MEC tractor-trailer crawled out of Cedar Key, turned left up highway 19, heading north. It would be traveling, day and night, along back roads for as long as
Columbia
was in space. Littleton, boss of the MEC ground team, scrolled down her PC screen, and clicked on an icon shaped like a computer monitor. A red light on her modem flared for five seconds and then went off.
Columbia
’s guidance parameters, the code that instructed the shuttle where to aim her nose throughout her ascent into orbit, had just been completely overwritten. She looked up at the monitor tuned to NASA Select closed-circuit television.
Columbia
was batting for the sky. “Go, sweet Jack,” she whispered.
“Go!”
    Columbia
    Jack knew it was critical that someone answer Houston if they called. If Mission Control believed there was no crew on board, it might recommend to Cape Safety that it blow the explosives on the solid boosters and external tank to abort the launch. And that meant death to all on board.
    Virgil was wrapped around the airlock. Cassidy was on the other side, curled into a ball on the aft bulkhead. Jack fought the g-forces, felt them ease a little as the mains cut back to make the roll. The bulkhead rivets still felt like nails being driven into his back. His arm seemed to weigh a ton, but he managed to reach up and plug his headset into the jack located on the back of one of the empty crew seats. Just as he clicked it in, he heard a Houston controller’s callout for the roll maneuver completion. Jack flipped the external comm switch. “Roger, Houston. Roll maneuver complete,” he gasped.
    Then
Columbia
lurched. Her engines boomed in Jack’s ears, rattling the crew compartment. It felt as if she were coming apart.
    SMC, JSC
    Sam saw the capsule communicator mouthing something to her assistant. “Talk to me, CAPCOM,” he boomed. “I need to know what you know!”
    â€œSam, I didn’t recognize who called down the roll maneuver,” the CAPCOM answered, chastened. “It wasn’t Ollie Grant.”
    â€œEngines realigning!” the booster systems engineer yelled. “There they go! Coming back up!”
    â€œFlight, GNC.” GNC was the guidance, navigation, and control systems engineer.
    â€œWhat the hell is going on, GNC?”
    â€œUm, Flight, something caused
Columbia
to change her flight path. It doesn’t match up with the predicted trajectory at all. Whatever course she’s on sure as hell ain’t the one we programmed. We don’t know where she’s going.”
    Sam had trained for this contingency, hoped it would never happen, but now it had. He had a bird out of control. “LCC, this is Flight. Prepare for autodestruct.”
    Columbia
    Jack heard the solids punch off and felt the g-forces abate. He needed to get to the flight deck. He pulled himself to his feet and caught sight, for the first time, of Penny High Eagle. She was riding uphill with her eyes closed, her seat rattling with the thunder of the booming mains. She opened her eyes and saw him. “Who are you?” she asked, gasping.
    Jack shook off his surprise at seeing the famous Dr. Penny High Eagle in the seat. However she had managed to get aboard, he’d deal with her later. He clawed his way past her, got a