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than the physical exertion. He used his camouflaged sleeve to brush away the perspiration, then fumbled in
his back for a portable beeper.
Cueball remained vigilant, inspecting the territory they had taken. Mory punched in the Skypage number
and entered a code in the small transmitter. Mr. Phillips needed to be kept apprised of their progress.
Satisfied that the message had been sent, Mory settled back to wait for the show.
8
LAUNCHPAD 39 A
AVY LIEUTENANT COMMANDER "GATOR"
N Green stepped out of the NASA camper-van
that served as the Crew Transfer Vehicle at the base of Atlantis. He felt his heartbeat increase.
This was even better than running onto a lighted football field. This was it two hours before launch
and no more practicing. No more of the endless NASA drills to get him as comfortable as possible with his
first real flight as pilot of the shuttle. He just wished Iceberg were here.
His bird stood on the pad, beautiful and white, blessed by thousands of engineers. Named for the
Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute's research ship in service from 1930 to 1966, OV-104, Atlantis
towered 184 feet from the bottoms of its two solid rocket boosters to the top of the rust-red external tank.
White fumes of liquid oxygen and hydrogen vented from their tanks.
Technicians stopped their work and applauded as Gator and his fellow astronauts stepped from the
Crew Transfer Vehicle. NASA television cameras and flashbulbs lined the walkway; Gator paused as a
dozen hands reached out to pat him on his back. He'd come a long way from when he was a boy growing
up in the Atlanta ghetto. Luckily, the Navy had been open to an ambitious, good-humored black kid with
excellent grades . . . and a kid who kept trying and trying until someone said yes.
A Russian voice spoke behind him, deep but very female. "Are you stopping for portrait painting,
Lieutenant Commander Gator? You are holding up the rest of us."
Gator joked, "Not at all, Comrade. After you." He knew the Russians were sensitive about using the
outdated communist title.
Cosmonaut Alexandra Koslovsky stepped past him, grinning. Since the orange pressure suit hid her lithe
features, she did not look like so much of an athlete, but Alexandra was one of the stars of this flight,
scheduled to perform the first U.S. Russian tandem space walk.
"I didn't expect so many gawkers," said Gator. "They must have shown up to see our Russian friends."
"Then maybe I should stop for portrait instead of you," Alexandra said over her shoulder.
Gator laughed and turned back to the cordon of applauding NASA and contractor personnel. Now, this
is the way it should always be, he thought. He started toward the elevator that would take the crew up
the gantry to the White Room, where they would board the shuttle.
He shook hands with more well-wishers, technicians from KSC's operations contractor, NASA
contractors, even a few high-level managers distinguished from the rest by the ties beneath their work
overalls. The seven astronauts crammed into the elevator, grateful for the relative silence.
"I prefer this sendoff to what Belorus gave us," Alexandra said. "Our press does not get as excited as
yours."
"The difference is our press never even knows of launch," said Orlov, one of Alexandra's fellow
cosmonauts. Gator and the other Americans chuckled politely. Only recently had the Russian press even
been allowed to attend space launches.
The elevator began its rattling climb. Gator said, "It may not seem like a big deal to you Eastern
Europeans, but our press loves 'firsts' like last year's resupply mission to Mir, or this joint U.S.-Russian
space walk. We made such a big deal over Sally Ride, our first female astronaut, although your first female
cosmonaut, Valentina Tereshkova, upstaged her by two decades."
Dr. Marc Franklin, the replacement mission commander, interjected, "You should have seen the sendoff
they gave the guys back in the Apollo years, when we won the moon race."
Open mouth, insert foot, thought Gator. Having to get used to a new shuttle commander in the past
week and a half had been difficult for the crew. It didn't help that Franklin came off as an inflexible,
humorless horse's ass. Franklin's intentions were right on, and the man had a reputation for being a solid
worker. But he was certainly not a leader.
Orlov appeared offended by Franklin's comment, but Alexandra took it with grace, leaning over to
stage-whisper into Gator's ear. "Dr. Franklin has not been given vodka and caviar initiation. We can hold
nothing against him."
Gator covered a snicker. Back at one of their outings during the first months of training with the
cosmonaut crew, Alexandra had reverently brought in a gift she'd carried in her personal possessions, a
small jar of Beluga caviar and an oily gray-green bottle of state-produced vodka from one of the distilleries
in her home city of Minsk. Alexandra had stored the vodka in the freezer, then carefully spread the caviar
like tiny black pearls on crackers, adding chopped white onion. She passed the crackers out to the crew
members like a priest distributing the host.
Gator had looked strangely at the stuff, sniffing. "If it weren't for the onions, it would smell just like fish
eggs. Now at least it smells like fish eggs and raw onions together."
Alexandra nodded, then ate her cracker with obvious delight, as did the other two Russian mission
specialists. The two American specialists, Major Arlan Burns and Frank Purvis, were not so enthusiastic.
Frank Purvis ate his delicately, making polite comments, and Arlan Burns gulped his in one bite, as if taking
medicine.
Gator had looked at Iceberg, both waiting for the other to pop the caviar in his mouth. With unspoken
assent, they bit simultaneously. Luckily, Alexandra's shots of vodka scalded away the taste while bringing
tears to Gator's eyes. He was very glad when they switched back to drinking beer. . .
"I watched news conference before getting in Crew Transfer Vehicle. Your Senator Boorman,"
Alexandra said into the brief, awkward silence. "I am surprised at lack of support a political figure gives
space program in public, especially while at launch center. What do financial records have to do with
astronaut accomplishments?"
Gator made a raspberry sound. "Haven't you heard that astronauts are all private millionaires?"
"In Russia politicians understand importance of space flight, and public's need for heroes," said
Alexandra. "Even with end of Cold War and fragmentation of Soviet Union, we have cooperation among
independent nations for our space program."
Gator said, "Unfortunately in our society, a lot of Neanderthals go into politics."
"Then our countries are actually not so different," Orlov laughed. The elevator bumped to a stop at level
195 and the White Room chamber. Franklin pretended he had never made his clumsy comment, or perhaps
did not even notice. "Okay, kids leave the politics back on Earth. It's time to rock and roll. We've got a
mission to accomplish."
White jump-suited technicians lined the orbiter access arm that led to the White Room connected to the
shuttle. The five-foot-wide, sixty-five-foot-long access arm looked like a gladiator tunnel. The last few
techs applauded as Gator strolled toward the shuttle. Yep, I could get used to this real fast, he thought.
And everybody said I had a big ego when I was just a Navy football player.
He reached the circular hatch on the orbiter's left side, which led directly to the mid-level of the craft.
A tech stood on either side to assist him; another waited just inside the shuttle. "Good luck, Lieutenant
Commander," said one of the techs as she held out a hand to help him through the access way. "My
daughter wants to be an astronaut, just like you."
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