The small black-and-white portable television was out of place in the Berlin cathedral. Alexander, now the senior lector for Father Ilarion, had brought it and set it up in the vestry at the monk’s request. He extended the twin silver aerials, twisting and tilting them until he had a clear picture from the local station. He pushed the small buttons on top while the NASA announcer was talking, setting the volume. Alexander stepped back, and the picture faded. He grunted, readjusted the antennas and stepped back again. The picture held this time.
In truth, Alexander was excited for the chance to see the last Apollo launch, the last of America’s planned manned Moon missions.
He heard the hieromonk coming down the hall and double-checked that the TV picture was still good. He’d positioned two chairs facing the screen.
“Pochti parah?” Father Ilarion asked. Is it almost time?
“Da. Minoot pietnadset.” Yes—about 15 minutes.
The NASA announcer was speaking. “All still going well with the countdown at this time. The astronauts aboard the spacecraft have had a little chance to rest over the last few minutes. In the meantime, we have been performing final checks on the tracking beacons in the Instrument Unit, which is used as the guidance system during the powered phase of flight.”
“Shto skazal?” What’s he saying?
The monk’s grasp of English remained minimal. Alexander translated, summarizing as the NASA public affairs officer spoke. Ilarion leaned towards the small screen when they showed a close-up of the rocket on the pad. He frowned.
“What’s that steam coming out of the ship?”
How should I know? Alexander thought with some exasperation. Why do people think interpreters have knowledge beyond language?
He guessed. “It’s excess fuel as they fill the tanks to the brim.”
Father Ilarion nodded. “What an amazing thing!”
They listened as Houston Mission Control started communications checks with the capsule. Alexander raised his hand, palm open, for silence.
“Apollo 18, this is Houston on VHF and S-band. How do you read? Over.”
They both held their breath to listen for the voice crackling across the thousands of kilometers.
“Houston, Apollo 18. Have you loud and clear.”
A wondering smile spread across Ilarion’s face.
“This is Apollo Saturn Launch Control. We’ve passed the eleven-minute mark, all still GO at this time. The spacecraft is now on the full power of its fuel cells. The Commander has armed his rotational hand controller, and we have now gone to automatic on the Emergency Detection System. We’re aiming for our planned liftoff at thirty-two minutes past the hour.”
The voice echoed tinnily from the multiple small loudspeakers mounted on poles along the Banana River causeway. Cars were parked at all angles, thousands of them jammed together on the narrow strip between the road and the beach. With launch just 10 minutes away, the early-morning lineups at the food trucks and portable toilets had evaporated, and all faces were turning towards the launch pad, seven miles to the north. The morning sun was already hot, glaring down on the deck chairs, blankets and sunglasses of the excited crowd.
Laura sat on the back bumper of a Dodge van, holding a black coffee and rubbing the overnight grit from her eyes. She and three others from the Lunar Receiving Laboratory had made a last-minute decision to road-trip to the Cape for the launch, a monotonous, 15-hour five-state haul across I-10 and down I-75. Their NASA badges had gotten them early access to the causeway the night before, and they’d slept in the van backed right onto the beach, which meant she now had an unimpeded view straight across the water to the Saturn V.
Don Baldwin, his Hawaiian shirt adorned with rockets and clouds, sat next to her. “Got lucky on the weather.”
She looked around at the blue sky and the light skiff of wind on the water, then stared across the water towards the rocket. “I’m glad we made the drive.” She said it partly to convince herself; it had been an uncomfortable sleep. As the announcer called “Mark, T minus ten minutes and counting,” she shook her head to clear it and sat up straighter.
The loudspeakers blared the familiar GO/NO-GO dialogue, STC querying each console in Launch Control for their readiness. Laura felt her gut clench as several of them reported problems, and then relax as they worked through them. She listened for Chad Miller to add his “GO,” and then a different voice came on. “Apollo 18, this is the Launch Operations Manager. The launch team wishes you good luck and Godspeed.”
She glanced at her watch, her heart starting to race. Four minutes to launch. Some of her experiments were inside that beast, and she’d helped to train the crew. She focused her camera lens on the rocketship, squeezed her finger on the shutter button and took the picture. Her thumb found the lever and advanced the film.