tomorrow.”
After Hunter’s gear was stowed in the pilot trainees’ personal quarters, Schweiker scared up a jeep and gave him a quick tour of the immediate base.
The astronaut was a friendly, easygoing sort who insisted that the military formalities be dispensed with. As they rode along, they discussed the shuttle itself and the two-site training—from Florida to Houston—that Hunter would begin shortly. All the while, Schweiker pointed out the training classrooms, the rest facilities, the labs, the launch site, the mess hall and the officers’ club. Most impressive was the monstrosity called the VAB—for Vehicle Assembly Building. This was the place where they put the shuttles together. It was a building so tall that clouds actually formed just below its ceiling.
“Hell of a time to start training,” Schweiker said to him at one point. “With the holiday and all …”
Not that much of a problem, Hunter thought. He’d been spending his holidays on either college campuses and military bases for several years, ever since his parents were lost in a plane crash.
“Lot of guys are stuck here,” Schweiker continued. “That’s why the mess hall puts on a really good holiday feed. And there’s always a big blow-out at the Officers’ Club if you’re interested.”
“That’s good to know,” Hunter told him. He knew there was no better way to get a perspective on a new base than to make that initial prowl through its authorized saloon.
They returned to Building B, their 90-minute tour complete. After making a few phone calls, Schweiker offered to drive Hunter back to his living quarters.
“No, thanks,” the young pilot told him, remembering one spot in the tour that he wanted to revisit. “I’ll hoof it back …”
He thanked Schweiker, left Building B and walked over to a marble and bronze monument they had passed earlier. It was a memorial to the astronauts killed in the Challenger disaster.
Feeling an undeniable attraction in the place, Hunter sat down on the stone bench across from the memorial and stayed there until the Florida sun had nearly set.
It was a long shadow that Hunter cast as he walked back toward the personnel quarters, his body still awash in the near-sanctity he had felt while sitting before the Challenger memorial for the past few hours.
If not for them , he had thought over and over, would I even be here?
Suddenly his body started tingling with a new sensation—this one more immediate and acute. From an early age Hunter knew he had been blessed—or was it cursed —with a gift akin to ESP. As the sensation was ultimately indescribable, he thought of it only as the feeling —a finely tuned, highly reliable intuition that made him what many said was “the best pilot ever.”
But this feeling did not just affect him in flight. In fact, it permeated his entire existence—awake or asleep, walking around, as well as flying.
And now, at this moment, it was telling him that something was wrong somewhere in the cosmos—desperately wrong.
Instinctively, he headed for the center’s communication building …
Hunter expected that most of the CENCOM’s personnel would be gone—either home with families or joining the celebration at the Officers’ Club. But as he approached the white stone building, he saw that it was a hive of activity.
His inner message was confirmed. Something was up.
It was now the height of dusk and every light in the place was on. He walked into the main administration area and it seemed like every telephone was ringing or buzzing at once. Both Air Force and NASA personnel were scrambling around in a dance of controlled confusion—so much so, not a one stopped to question who he was or what he was doing there.
He took a set of stairs two steps at a time and found himself in the CENCOM’s main control room, a facility that held no less than two hundred telephones, plus banks of telex and fax machines. Like downstairs, it seemed as if every one of
After Hunter’s gear was stowed in the pilot trainees’ personal quarters, Schweiker scared up a jeep and gave him a quick tour of the immediate base.
The astronaut was a friendly, easygoing sort who insisted that the military formalities be dispensed with. As they rode along, they discussed the shuttle itself and the two-site training—from Florida to Houston—that Hunter would begin shortly. All the while, Schweiker pointed out the training classrooms, the rest facilities, the labs, the launch site, the mess hall and the officers’ club. Most impressive was the monstrosity called the VAB—for Vehicle Assembly Building. This was the place where they put the shuttles together. It was a building so tall that clouds actually formed just below its ceiling.
“Hell of a time to start training,” Schweiker said to him at one point. “With the holiday and all …”
Not that much of a problem, Hunter thought. He’d been spending his holidays on either college campuses and military bases for several years, ever since his parents were lost in a plane crash.
“Lot of guys are stuck here,” Schweiker continued. “That’s why the mess hall puts on a really good holiday feed. And there’s always a big blow-out at the Officers’ Club if you’re interested.”
“That’s good to know,” Hunter told him. He knew there was no better way to get a perspective on a new base than to make that initial prowl through its authorized saloon.
They returned to Building B, their 90-minute tour complete. After making a few phone calls, Schweiker offered to drive Hunter back to his living quarters.
“No, thanks,” the young pilot told him, remembering one spot in the tour that he wanted to revisit. “I’ll hoof it back …”
He thanked Schweiker, left Building B and walked over to a marble and bronze monument they had passed earlier. It was a memorial to the astronauts killed in the Challenger disaster.
Feeling an undeniable attraction in the place, Hunter sat down on the stone bench across from the memorial and stayed there until the Florida sun had nearly set.
It was a long shadow that Hunter cast as he walked back toward the personnel quarters, his body still awash in the near-sanctity he had felt while sitting before the Challenger memorial for the past few hours.
If not for them , he had thought over and over, would I even be here?
Suddenly his body started tingling with a new sensation—this one more immediate and acute. From an early age Hunter knew he had been blessed—or was it cursed —with a gift akin to ESP. As the sensation was ultimately indescribable, he thought of it only as the feeling —a finely tuned, highly reliable intuition that made him what many said was “the best pilot ever.”
But this feeling did not just affect him in flight. In fact, it permeated his entire existence—awake or asleep, walking around, as well as flying.
And now, at this moment, it was telling him that something was wrong somewhere in the cosmos—desperately wrong.
Instinctively, he headed for the center’s communication building …
Hunter expected that most of the CENCOM’s personnel would be gone—either home with families or joining the celebration at the Officers’ Club. But as he approached the white stone building, he saw that it was a hive of activity.
His inner message was confirmed. Something was up.
It was now the height of dusk and every light in the place was on. He walked into the main administration area and it seemed like every telephone was ringing or buzzing at once. Both Air Force and NASA personnel were scrambling around in a dance of controlled confusion—so much so, not a one stopped to question who he was or what he was doing there.
He took a set of stairs two steps at a time and found himself in the CENCOM’s main control room, a facility that held no less than two hundred telephones, plus banks of telex and fax machines. Like downstairs, it seemed as if every one of
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