ORION
Much later, when it became both his job and obsession to determine what actually happened at the launch pad, he would remember how every little detail had gone just right until everything just went terribly wrong, turning anxiousness and anticipation into horror and disbelief, and forever changing the course of his life. There was James Bond who existed before the disaster, and the James Bond who eventually arose from its ashes. They were two very different men.
The morning's weather broadcast had promised perfect weather for the launch: no wind, moderate temperatures, a clear blue sky with very little cloud and the sun shining brightly on Pad 38C near the coast. James would never forget that beautiful sky; never forget looking out of the Launch Control Tower at the space shuttle.
Indeed, the preparations for Spartan I had gone without a problem from the very start. There had been no false starts, no last minute technical glitches that usually cause the missions to be postponed for a day or two. Everything had seemed just right.
At T minus one hour, thirty-five minutes, James had joined members of the MMT (mission management team) and other NASA officials. He was still surprised by the number of reporters waiting outside the launch area, their microphones covered with those fuzzy wind baffles that looked like oversized insects. There had even been a host from one of the early morning shows, Fred-somebody-or-other, who dragged him in front of the cameras for a comment.
James supposed he should have been prepared for the attention. It wasn't every day that the United States and the British were carrying out a mission together. They were going to put a highly advanced surveillance satellite in orbit to aid the CIA, FBI, MI5 and MI6.
The mission had been long delayed due to budget cuts and funding problems. It was finally being put into orbit, where it would be connected to a base piece that was sent up just two weeks earlier. The mission also had to be on schedule because a nuclear missile was launched from a Russian base in Kazakhstan a week earlier as protest to political movements in Moscow. They had to act quickly before Russia broke out in a civil war.
But such thoughts had a proper time and place, and James' personal trials had been the furthest thing in his mind as he stood outside the restricted access door to Pad 38C. The crew had Britain's finest and most important to him it had his wife, Samantha Bond. He watched his wife lead Spartan I's crew into the shuttle like silver transport vehicle with the blue and white NASA sign on its side. His wife and the four men and women were scheduled to make history. He would be in constant contact from the control room, but nonetheless they felt like his extended family.
He would always remember how Samantha paused before entering the vehicle, her eyes scanning the crowd, seeking out his face amongst the many others turned in her direction, The mission commander, and a fellow graduate of the astronaut class of '86, Samantha was a striking, vigorous woman who seemed to pulsate with confidence... and, at that particular moment, an impatience only another astronaut who'd seen the earth from 250 miles up could fully understand.
"VIP's, first and always," she said, knowing he'd be unable to hear her in the commotion, moving her lips slowly so he could read them without any trouble. Grinning at him, then, pointing her thumb at one of the breast patches on her orange launch suit.
James chuckled. His mind flashed back to when they first met at Oxford where he was taking a Latin seminar and the old motto they'd come up with.
"Terra nos respute," he mouthed in Latin.
Time and space will never come between us.
Samantha's grin widened, her eyes showing good humour. Then she gave him a little salute, turned, and entered the transport.
"Woodpeckers," said Robinson entering the control room. "No good, goddamn woodpeckers!"
"Woodpeckers?" James asked curiously.
"They've found their way into the main shuttle hanger. They've started to peck away at the ship mistaking it for a tree! The next shuttle launch has been postponed because of it."
"Not again," James moaned. "That was supposed to be Samantha's last launch. How much longer before they can fix it?"
"It'll take about a week," said Robinson. "You're anxious to get home, I can tell."
"Four weeks in the blazing sun can do that to you. But based on what I can see, it'll be an "easy" run today," he said.
And he was right. Shortly after making his prediction, James saw the MT's go to their positions and reach for their headsets. He looked up at the big screen across the room which showed the crew getting into their seats. Samantha and her pilot, Lee Hung. Microbiologist Scott Tomas, Mission Viewer Karen Tang and the three remaining crew members were still below deck.
Yes, in his heart, in his mind, he was right there in the cockpit with them.
It was T minus six minutes and counting.
James listened to the voices in his headset.
"- Control, Spartan I here. UPA's heating up," Samantha was saying. "It's HI flying today, over."
"Roger, proceed, over," the controller replied.
"Okay, engines three and four humming away."
James felt his eagerness building. Everything was a go. Soon, the shuttle would be in the air. They were down to the wire.
At T minus two minutes the control tower declared that they were ready for launch, and James felt the tingling that had started in his fingers rush through his entire body.
He would remember checking the countdown clock on his console at T minus six seconds – when Spartan I's engines were supposed to ignite half a second apart which was done by computers.
Instead, things went terribly wrong. Unforgettably wrong.
From the time James picked up the first sign of trouble over his link to the disaster's final moments everything seemed to go wrong with dreadful rapidity.
"Control, I'm seeing a red light for engine number three." The urgent voice belonged to Samantha. A second later James heard something else in the background, the shrill of the master alarm. "We've got an overheated engine... cabin pressure is dropping... there's smoke in the cabin,"
Shock bolted through the control room. The Controller was struggling to remain calm. "We're aborting at once, copy? Evacuate orbiter!"
"Read you," Samantha coughed. "I –we, hard to see."
Come on, James thought. Keeping his gaze on the monitor waiting for the crew to emerge from the spacecraft. Where are you?
Then, suddenly, he thought that he saw several figures appear on the railed platform on the east side of the service structure – the side where the escape baskets were located. But the distance of the video cameras from the pad made it had to be sure.
James watched and waited, his eyes still narrowed on the screen.
He had no sooner grown convinced that he had, in fact, spotted Spartan I's crew, or at least some of its crew members, than the first explosion rocked the service structure with a force that was strong enough to rattle the control room's windows. James seemed to feel rather than hear the sound, feel it as sickening, awful percussion in his bones.
He snapped forward in his seat, mouthing a prayer to any God that would listen, watching the tiny human shapes running to the rescue baskets.
There was silence. And more silence.
James gnawed at his bottom lip.
Finally he heard an excited voice in his headset.
"Control, this is Hung. Second baskets down and I think we're all," he abruptly broke contact.
James sat without moving, his heart slamming in his chest. He didn't know what was going on, didn't even know what he was feeling. The relief he'd experienced upon hearing Hung's voice was gone. Why had he ceased to respond?
Control was hollering at him now. "Hung? Hung, we're reading you, what is it?"
Another unbearable measure of silence. Then Hung again, his voice distraught and panicky. "Oh, God, God... where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's...?"
James would remember little about the moments that followed besides a sense of foundering helplessness, of the world closing in around him, seeming to suck him into an airless, shrinking hole. He could only remember thinking one thing.
Colonel Samantha Bond...
Samantha...
Samantha was gone...
Much later, when it became both his job and obsession to determine what actually happened at the launch pad, he would remember how every little detail had gone just right until everything just went terribly wrong, turning anxiousness and anticipation into horror and disbelief, and forever changing the course of his life. There was James Bond who existed before the disaster, and the James Bond who eventually arose from its ashes. They were two very different men.
The morning's weather broadcast had promised perfect weather for the launch: no wind, moderate temperatures, a clear blue sky with very little cloud and the sun shining brightly on Pad 38C near the coast. James would never forget that beautiful sky; never forget looking out of the Launch Control Tower at the space shuttle.
Indeed, the preparations for Spartan I had gone without a problem from the very start. There had been no false starts, no last minute technical glitches that usually cause the missions to be postponed for a day or two. Everything had seemed just right.
At T minus one hour, thirty-five minutes, James had joined members of the MMT (mission management team) and other NASA officials. He was still surprised by the number of reporters waiting outside the launch area, their microphones covered with those fuzzy wind baffles that looked like oversized insects. There had even been a host from one of the early morning shows, Fred-somebody-or-other, who dragged him in front of the cameras for a comment.
James supposed he should have been prepared for the attention. It wasn't every day that the United States and the British were carrying out a mission together. They were going to put a highly advanced surveillance satellite in orbit to aid the CIA, FBI, MI5 and MI6.
The mission had been long delayed due to budget cuts and funding problems. It was finally being put into orbit, where it would be connected to a base piece that was sent up just two weeks earlier. The mission also had to be on schedule because a nuclear missile was launched from a Russian base in Kazakhstan a week earlier as protest to political movements in Moscow. They had to act quickly before Russia broke out in a civil war.
But such thoughts had a proper time and place, and James' personal trials had been the furthest thing in his mind as he stood outside the restricted access door to Pad 38C. The crew had Britain's finest and most important to him it had his wife, Samantha Bond. He watched his wife lead Spartan I's crew into the shuttle like silver transport vehicle with the blue and white NASA sign on its side. His wife and the four men and women were scheduled to make history. He would be in constant contact from the control room, but nonetheless they felt like his extended family.
He would always remember how Samantha paused before entering the vehicle, her eyes scanning the crowd, seeking out his face amongst the many others turned in her direction, The mission commander, and a fellow graduate of the astronaut class of '86, Samantha was a striking, vigorous woman who seemed to pulsate with confidence... and, at that particular moment, an impatience only another astronaut who'd seen the earth from 250 miles up could fully understand.
"VIP's, first and always," she said, knowing he'd be unable to hear her in the commotion, moving her lips slowly so he could read them without any trouble. Grinning at him, then, pointing her thumb at one of the breast patches on her orange launch suit.
James chuckled. His mind flashed back to when they first met at Oxford where he was taking a Latin seminar and the old motto they'd come up with.
"Terra nos respute," he mouthed in Latin.
Time and space will never come between us.
Samantha's grin widened, her eyes showing good humour. Then she gave him a little salute, turned, and entered the transport.
"Woodpeckers," said Robinson entering the control room. "No good, goddamn woodpeckers!"
"Woodpeckers?" James asked curiously.
"They've found their way into the main shuttle hanger. They've started to peck away at the ship mistaking it for a tree! The next shuttle launch has been postponed because of it."
"Not again," James moaned. "That was supposed to be Samantha's last launch. How much longer before they can fix it?"
"It'll take about a week," said Robinson. "You're anxious to get home, I can tell."
"Four weeks in the blazing sun can do that to you. But based on what I can see, it'll be an "easy" run today," he said.
And he was right. Shortly after making his prediction, James saw the MT's go to their positions and reach for their headsets. He looked up at the big screen across the room which showed the crew getting into their seats. Samantha and her pilot, Lee Hung. Microbiologist Scott Tomas, Mission Viewer Karen Tang and the three remaining crew members were still below deck.
Yes, in his heart, in his mind, he was right there in the cockpit with them.
It was T minus six minutes and counting.
James listened to the voices in his headset.
"- Control, Spartan I here. UPA's heating up," Samantha was saying. "It's HI flying today, over."
"Roger, proceed, over," the controller replied.
"Okay, engines three and four humming away."
James felt his eagerness building. Everything was a go. Soon, the shuttle would be in the air. They were down to the wire.
At T minus two minutes the control tower declared that they were ready for launch, and James felt the tingling that had started in his fingers rush through his entire body.
He would remember checking the countdown clock on his console at T minus six seconds – when Spartan I's engines were supposed to ignite half a second apart which was done by computers.
Instead, things went terribly wrong. Unforgettably wrong.
From the time James picked up the first sign of trouble over his link to the disaster's final moments everything seemed to go wrong with dreadful rapidity.
"Control, I'm seeing a red light for engine number three." The urgent voice belonged to Samantha. A second later James heard something else in the background, the shrill of the master alarm. "We've got an overheated engine... cabin pressure is dropping... there's smoke in the cabin,"
Shock bolted through the control room. The Controller was struggling to remain calm. "We're aborting at once, copy? Evacuate orbiter!"
"Read you," Samantha coughed. "I –we, hard to see."
Come on, James thought. Keeping his gaze on the monitor waiting for the crew to emerge from the spacecraft. Where are you?
Then, suddenly, he thought that he saw several figures appear on the railed platform on the east side of the service structure – the side where the escape baskets were located. But the distance of the video cameras from the pad made it had to be sure.
James watched and waited, his eyes still narrowed on the screen.
He had no sooner grown convinced that he had, in fact, spotted Spartan I's crew, or at least some of its crew members, than the first explosion rocked the service structure with a force that was strong enough to rattle the control room's windows. James seemed to feel rather than hear the sound, feel it as sickening, awful percussion in his bones.
He snapped forward in his seat, mouthing a prayer to any God that would listen, watching the tiny human shapes running to the rescue baskets.
There was silence. And more silence.
James gnawed at his bottom lip.
Finally he heard an excited voice in his headset.
"Control, this is Hung. Second baskets down and I think we're all," he abruptly broke contact.
James sat without moving, his heart slamming in his chest. He didn't know what was going on, didn't even know what he was feeling. The relief he'd experienced upon hearing Hung's voice was gone. Why had he ceased to respond?
Control was hollering at him now. "Hung? Hung, we're reading you, what is it?"
Another unbearable measure of silence. Then Hung again, his voice distraught and panicky. "Oh, God, God... where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's...?"
James would remember little about the moments that followed besides a sense of foundering helplessness, of the world closing in around him, seeming to suck him into an airless, shrinking hole. He could only remember thinking one thing.
Colonel Samantha Bond...
Samantha...
Samantha was gone...