Read Online "Live From Cape Canaveral": Covering the Space Race, From Sputnik to Today by Jay Barbree - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jay Barbree
Tags: United States, General, History, Military, 20th Century, State & Local, Technology & Engineering, 21st Century, Aeronautics & Astronautics
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smoother.”
“Roger,” Slayton said calmly.
It was time to smile.
L ouise Shepard stared at the television, watching the rocket magically lift her husband into space. She tried desperately to hear, but their girls were out of control, wild, cheering, and shrieking at the top of their lungs.
That was their father in that rocket.
This was their moment.
And her moment, too. She smiled, bringing a hand to her lips. “Go, Alan,” she said quietly and only to herself. “Go, sweetheart.”
Mercury Control called out the time hack. “Plus two minutes…”
Alan Shepard was now twenty-five miles up and gaining speed, headed into high flight with the forces of gravity mashing him down into his couch.
Damn it hurt, but it felt terrific. What a ride! He keyed his mike: “All systems are go.”
F reedom Seven ’s flight was prime time for radio and television news coverage, and we were enjoying every moment. The listeners were so many they were not countable, and I was blessed to be on the air with the unflappable Merrill Mueller, a veteran’s veteran. He’d done his newscasts through raging battles in World War II, and he’d been the voice that reported the Japanese surrender in Tokyo Bay in 1945 from the deck of the USS Missouri . Losing his cool was not an option.
We had a thousand things to say about Alan Shepard, his family, the mission, the Redstone, Freedom Seven. But we’d never seen a man disappearing into bright sunlight—a single point of silvery flame leaving Earth.
Merrill was the master, but we had been on the air all morning and we both were running dry on things to say. Our voices fading, Merrill swallowed hard. Then the master found one last masterful thought…
“He looks so lonely up there …”
The sixteen worldwide NBC Radio networks fell silent.
T he rocket’s thrust increased Shepard’s weight sixfold, and he found it difficult to speak. The growing force of gravity squeezed his vocal cords and he drew on experience, on the techniques he had mastered catapulting off carriers in fighter jets. Slayton heard him clearly.
He was struggling, but he was smiling broadly inside his helmet. End of powered flight was near.
Three, two, one, cutoff!
The Redstone stopped burning.
Above Shepard’s head a large solid-propellant rocket fired, spewing thrust from three canted nozzles. These broke connecting links to pull the escape rocket and tower away. They were no longer needed.
Next, more rockets fired, and Freedom Seven separated from its Redstone. A new light flashed on the instrument panel.
“This is Seven . Cap sep is green.”
Shepard and Freedom Seven were on their own, moving through space at more than four thousand miles per hour.
“Roger,” Slayton confirmed.
Mercury Control had its ears on. They wanted to hear what it was like to be up there.
Well, first, only seconds ago Shepard weighed a thousand pounds. Now he weighed less than a thousandth of a pound.
“I’m free!” he shouted.
“Does Louise know?” Deke joked.
Alan laughed and moved within his restraints to feel the freedom of weightlessness. It was…well, hell, it was wonderful and marvelous and a miracle. That’s what it was. Were he not strapped in, he would have floated about in total relaxation. No up, no down, and as John Glenn had posted on the capsule’s instrument panel before Alan entered, “No handball playing in here.” A missing washer and bits of dust drifted before him. He smiled.
No rush of wind crossing the skin of Freedom Seven despite its speed. No friction. No turbulence. Outside, the silence of ghosts reigned.
But inside, his Mercury capsule had its own pressurized atmosphere where ghosts were real. They made their own sounds. Inverters moaned. Gyroscopes whirred. Cooling fans spun. Cameras snapped. Radios hummed. They were the voices of Freedom Seven.
Alan Shepard took to space with fierce pleasure as he felt Freedom Seven slowly turning around, and he realized it was
“Roger,” Slayton said calmly.
It was time to smile.
L ouise Shepard stared at the television, watching the rocket magically lift her husband into space. She tried desperately to hear, but their girls were out of control, wild, cheering, and shrieking at the top of their lungs.
That was their father in that rocket.
This was their moment.
And her moment, too. She smiled, bringing a hand to her lips. “Go, Alan,” she said quietly and only to herself. “Go, sweetheart.”
Mercury Control called out the time hack. “Plus two minutes…”
Alan Shepard was now twenty-five miles up and gaining speed, headed into high flight with the forces of gravity mashing him down into his couch.
Damn it hurt, but it felt terrific. What a ride! He keyed his mike: “All systems are go.”
F reedom Seven ’s flight was prime time for radio and television news coverage, and we were enjoying every moment. The listeners were so many they were not countable, and I was blessed to be on the air with the unflappable Merrill Mueller, a veteran’s veteran. He’d done his newscasts through raging battles in World War II, and he’d been the voice that reported the Japanese surrender in Tokyo Bay in 1945 from the deck of the USS Missouri . Losing his cool was not an option.
We had a thousand things to say about Alan Shepard, his family, the mission, the Redstone, Freedom Seven. But we’d never seen a man disappearing into bright sunlight—a single point of silvery flame leaving Earth.
Merrill was the master, but we had been on the air all morning and we both were running dry on things to say. Our voices fading, Merrill swallowed hard. Then the master found one last masterful thought…
“He looks so lonely up there …”
The sixteen worldwide NBC Radio networks fell silent.
T he rocket’s thrust increased Shepard’s weight sixfold, and he found it difficult to speak. The growing force of gravity squeezed his vocal cords and he drew on experience, on the techniques he had mastered catapulting off carriers in fighter jets. Slayton heard him clearly.
He was struggling, but he was smiling broadly inside his helmet. End of powered flight was near.
Three, two, one, cutoff!
The Redstone stopped burning.
Above Shepard’s head a large solid-propellant rocket fired, spewing thrust from three canted nozzles. These broke connecting links to pull the escape rocket and tower away. They were no longer needed.
Next, more rockets fired, and Freedom Seven separated from its Redstone. A new light flashed on the instrument panel.
“This is Seven . Cap sep is green.”
Shepard and Freedom Seven were on their own, moving through space at more than four thousand miles per hour.
“Roger,” Slayton confirmed.
Mercury Control had its ears on. They wanted to hear what it was like to be up there.
Well, first, only seconds ago Shepard weighed a thousand pounds. Now he weighed less than a thousandth of a pound.
“I’m free!” he shouted.
“Does Louise know?” Deke joked.
Alan laughed and moved within his restraints to feel the freedom of weightlessness. It was…well, hell, it was wonderful and marvelous and a miracle. That’s what it was. Were he not strapped in, he would have floated about in total relaxation. No up, no down, and as John Glenn had posted on the capsule’s instrument panel before Alan entered, “No handball playing in here.” A missing washer and bits of dust drifted before him. He smiled.
No rush of wind crossing the skin of Freedom Seven despite its speed. No friction. No turbulence. Outside, the silence of ghosts reigned.
But inside, his Mercury capsule had its own pressurized atmosphere where ghosts were real. They made their own sounds. Inverters moaned. Gyroscopes whirred. Cooling fans spun. Cameras snapped. Radios hummed. They were the voices of Freedom Seven.
Alan Shepard took to space with fierce pleasure as he felt Freedom Seven slowly turning around, and he realized it was
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