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Need Another Seven Astronauts
She'd read somewhere that the count-down had been invented by the German film-maker, Fritz Lang, as an exciting touch to his film Journey To The Moon. The Challenger wasn't going that far, but it was just as exciting; she felt a strain in her bladder and wished she'd told them that she'd needed to go to the toilet before. She fervently hoped that the stresses of take-off wouldn't cause her to urinate in her suit. From where she was sitting, down the back of the cabin, she could just see the tops of the heads of the other six over the backs of their seats; all of them except Commander Scobee and the pilot, Mike Smith, were turned to the left or right, looking out of the windows. Scobee and Smith were busy with the pre-launch checks. She could hear a crackly voice over the radio, the Mission Control Commentator who was describing the launch to the crowd of spectators, her family among them. The rumbling of the engines suddenly jumped several steps in volume, and the voice was saying: "We have main engine start, four, three, two, one," (the rumbling became a throaty roar), "and, lift-off. Lift off of the twenty-fifth space shuttle mission," (they were moving! there was a definite jolt as the rocket left the ground), "And it has cleared the tower." She heard pilot Mike Smith say, "Roll program," his voice was only just audible over the roar of the engines, but the radio repeated it back so that she could hear him. "Roger, roll Challenger." She was lying in the seat with her head facing forward, so she couldn't look outside and see the outside world turning, but she could feel the ship leaning over as it rose, rising on an angle. Ordinarily, it would have been unsettling; this experience, however, was exhilarating. She was leaving the planet. "Roll program confirmed. Challenger now heading down range. The engines are throttling down at ninety-four percent," (if they were, she couldn't tell - they sounded just as loud as before), "Normal throttle for most of the flight is one oh four percent. We'll throttle down to sixty-five percent shortly," (which was just as well, because the acceleration strain was pressing down on her bladder very painfully now), "Engines are at sixty-five percent. Three engines running normally. Three good fuel cells," (for a moment, this conjured up a silly image in her head -three fuel cells sitting up and begging), "three good APUs, velocity twenty-two thousand, fifty-seven feet per second, altitude four point three nautical miles, downrange distance three nautical miles. Engines throttling up, three engines now one oh four percent." The engine's roar grew louder again, almost to the point of being painful. The cabin was vibrating and it was hard for her to focus her eyes on details. She heard the radio crackle again; "Challenger, go at throttle up." Smith replied, "Roger, go at throttle up." The shaking settled for a fraction of a second; her eyes focused on an LED display near the front of the cabin, which showed the number 73 in digits about an inch tall. Just then, she heard Smith say, "Uh oh", and her exhilaration evaporated. There was a sound like a cannon-shot, except longer, drawn-out, a tearing concussion that struck her from behind, threw her up against the straps of the seat, then tore the seat loose from its moorings and hurled it forward into the back of Onizuka's couch, crushing her between them. She lay there briefly, one arm poking out, eyes wide and uncomprehending as the shuttle whirled around her. Huge rents appeared along the side walls and white- hot flames burst forth, not just balls of flame, but a continuous stream, as if someone had lined the ship with blow-torches. It stripped her hair from her head, filled the cabin with writhing, flickering light, licked skin from the exposed parts of her body. The pain hit suddenly, searing her eyes - everything in the cabin seemed to be dancing around her, clip-boards, parts of seats, a forearm with a gold watch strapped to the wrist turning lazily before her and cooking in the flame -sandwiched between the two seats, only her right arm was free to drum frantically against the console, beating a tattoo that no-one could hear in the chaos, the only expression of her unbearable agony available to her. Similarly, her screams were indistinguishable from the shrieking and groaning of the shuttle as it slowly tore apart. Their brief, punishing acceleration gone, the ship was falling, turning slowly end-over-end. Held safely between the couches, her head fixed in one position, facing left, she could see an alternating blue and white blur outside, her eyeball seared, the smell of burning skin and hair acrid in her nostrils. The skewed cabin gave another lurch, crushing the seats together and grinding her ribs against each other. Amidst the other sources of pain vying for dominance, she felt something pierce her stomach and relieve her bladder. There was a moment of relative quiet, broken only by hisses and creaks as one part or another fell away from the falling ship. She blinked a couple of times, tears blurring her sight which cleared briefly and allowed a view out of the side of the cabin as it dropped towards the water. The last thing she saw was the sunlight reflecting off the tops of the waves. Then, driven in by the impact, the window broke out of its frame and smashed her flat. actually, I thought it was a shame |
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